Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘Do you want to help find Ann Harris’s killer?’

‘Of course I do!’ said Hughes, indignantly. ‘That’s an absurd question.’

‘I’m sorry, if it’s upsetting you.’

‘It’s not upsetting me! That’s absurd also! Your questions simply seem obtuse.’

There was colour to Hughes’s grey face, and Cowley thought that everything he was doing that day was making embassy staff go red. It didn’t seem to be achieving much, though: so far no one had lost their temper sufficiently to make any unguarded remark. ‘I’ll try to be less obscure,’ he promised. ‘Who was Ann Harris’s lover?’

‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t even know she had one.’

‘Not in this narrow, enclosed society?’

‘No.’

‘You want to reflect on that, Mr Hughes?’

‘What are you saying? Suggesting?’

‘Just that you reflect on what you’re saying.’

Hughes came further forward over his desk. ‘I’ve agreed to help you — I want to help you — but I won’t tolerate this sort of questioning. The inference is obvious and I reject it completely.’ The man’s voice was even, just occasionally snagging on words in his anger. The cigarette was stabbed out, forcefully.

‘What inference is that, Mr Hughes?’

The other man’s hands were clenched in front of him now, some of the knuckles even whitening. ‘That I am being less than honest with you.’

‘But you are, aren’t you? Being honest with me?’

Hughes pushed himself back into his chair. ‘I’ve helped you all I can. I’d appreciate it if you left, right now.’

‘I’d appreciate something else,’ said Cowley, settling further into his chair. ‘I’d appreciate your telling me why, from her apartment in Pushkinskaya in the month prior to her death, Ann Harris made sixteen telephone calls to you.’

There was a twitching movement through the other man’s body, as if he were wincing from a blow, but that was the only reaction, although the knuckles stayed white. ‘How do you know about telephone calls made to me? What , about telephone calls?’

‘You’ve said you want to help me. I’d hoped you’d help me about those, particularly.’

The movement that went through Hughes’s body this time was more of a shudder. ‘She was attached to this department. It is not at all unusual for members of my staff to talk to me on the telephone after normal working hours.’

‘Staff that work for you throughout the day?’

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘Was Ann Harris efficient?’

‘Of course she was. She wouldn’t have been assigned here if she hadn’t been efficient.’

‘You never had cause for complaint about her work?’

‘Never.’

‘Yet during the month before she was killed she remembered sixteen things to talk to you about that she’d forgotten during the day when she was here with you and which couldn’t wait until the next morning.’

‘Is that a question?’

‘If you like. I find it curious, don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Do other members of your staff consult you, after working hours?’

Instead of replying, Hughes depressed a button on a flat keyboard close to his computer complex. Cowley heard the door open behind him. Hughes smiled up and said: ‘Pam. Come in, won’t you?’

The girl who entered Cowley’s view was slight and dark-haired, bobbed short. She wore black-framed glasses which she removed as she approached. The twin-set was fawn, with a knitted-in flower motif which was picked up in the skirt, completing the ensemble. She looked curiously between the two men and Hughes said: ‘Pamela Donnelly, my other senior economist. William Cowley.’

From all the material he had read, Cowley knew Ann Harris had been twenty-eight years old: he guessed Pamela Donnelly to be the same, maybe a year or two older. Not knowing the reason for her summons, Cowley said nothing. Neither did the girl. Both looked at Hughes.

The finance controller said: ‘Cowley’s investigating Ann’s murder. Seems to think there’s something unusual about us talking together after we leave here at night. How often do you and I talk, out of hours?’

The girl gave a shoulder movement of uncertainty, ‘I don’t know. Once or twice a week maybe: sometimes more, if there’s some particular thing going on.’

‘Why?’ Cowley asked the question of the girl but was conscious of the other man smiling, in expectation.

‘The time difference,’ explained the girl. ‘Mr Hughes very often stays on for queries coming in from Washington: if it’s important we speak to each other, if it’s something we’ve been involved with during the day …’ She hesitated, finally smiling back at the financial chief. ‘Mr Hughes likes to keep things up to date: we work an action-this-day system …’ There was another pause. ‘I still can’t believe what happened. Have you found who did it?’

‘Not yet,’ said Cowley.

‘Satisfied about the telephone calls now?’

To the girl Cowley said: ‘Thank you. That was very helpful,’ and remained standing until she left the room. Seated again, Cowley said: ‘What was that all about?’

‘Another question I don’t get.’

‘Why bring her into the conversation?’

‘Corroborative evidence. Isn’t that what you detectives look for, in an inquiry? Corroborative evidence?’ Another cigarette clouded into life.

‘Do you think you need your word corroborated, Mr Hughes?’

‘No, I don’t think I need it at all, Mr Cowley. Do you?’

‘I don’t know: I don’t know very much at all.’ A lie, thought Cowley: he believed it was turning into a very productive day. This whole affair might be resolved very quickly. But with some severe embarrassment.

‘What else can I help you with?’ The man appeared more relaxed, not holding himself so rigidly.

‘Ann Harris’s office,’ declared Cowley. ‘Where was that …’ He hesitated, looking about him. ‘… in relation to this room?’

‘Next door,’ said Hughes. ‘Ann to the right, the secretary to the left. All made a neat, compact unit …’

‘… what happened to it?’ broke in Cowley, suddenly worried.

‘Happened to it?’

‘There are usually some personal things in a private office. Have they been gone through?’

‘Of course,’ said Hughes, impatiently.

‘By whom? Who has it now?’ This was an overdue inquiry: one he should have made the first day. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t done it then and almost at once answered his own doubt. A lapse of proper professionalism, he recognized, critically: he’d been away from active operational work too long and become sloppy. He was made uncomfortable — actually, briefly, disorientated — by the awareness.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Hughes, frowning. ‘Maybe Barry Andrews. I know he was there when everything was boxed up by embassy security. I guess you should ask Barry.’

‘Boxed up?’

‘The personal bits and pieces. There wasn’t much. Just one box. Small, too.’

‘Do you have it here?’ demanded Cowley, too hopefully.

Hughes gestured uncertainly, lighting another cigarette. ‘I just took over the official embassy stuff she was working on. Which wasn’t much, fortunately. She really was an efficient girl: job started, job finished. Action-this-day, like Pam said. Again, about the other things, you’d better ask Barry.’

Cowley was suddenly impatient to leave this man, to get back to the resident FBI officer, but held back, knowing it would be a mistake to make an abrupt departure, ‘I’m very grateful, for all your help. And I really do hope I haven’t caused any offence.’

‘Why should you think that?’

‘You seemed tense sometimes.’

‘I’ve never before personally known somebody who was murdered. And in such an appalling way. Nor been questioned by a detective, ever before. Did you really expect me to behave as if I were enjoying it?’ Despite the question there was an amiability about the finance director now, an impression of a man at ease in his surroundings.