Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘Perhaps not,’ agreed Cowley. ‘You’ve been very patient.’

‘Poor Ann,’ said Hughes. ‘Poor, dear Ann. She really was a wonderful girl.’

‘So everyone tells me,’ said Cowley. He positively thrust out his hand, forcing the financial director to rise to take it. As they shook, Cowley thought: very productive indeed. He hesitated directly outside the room that Ann Harris had occupied, tempted to enter, but abandoned the idea. There would be nothing left now. Continuing on, he wondered where Pamela Donnelly worked. All the doors were closed, with none of the more lowly occupants designated by name-plates.

Barry Andrews was in the FBI office where Cowley had left him: the only difference from the earlier visit was that Andrews was now wearing his suit jacket. A cigar was smouldering in a bowl near the telephone. Seeing Cowley’s look towards it Andrews said: ‘First today: limit myself to three.’

‘You got something to tell me?’

‘How’s that?’

‘Ann Harris’s office: you helped clear it yesterday, of her personal things. What’s there to tell me? I’d like to see the stuff.’

Andrews picked up the cigar, considering its lighted end. ‘I think we’ve got a slight problem here.’

Cowley experienced a stomach dip. ‘What sort of problem?’

‘There was nothing: hardly anything. Just odds and ends.’

‘I’d still like to go through it myself.’

‘The body was shipped back yesterday. You knew that.’

‘What about the personal things that were in her office?’ persisted Cowley, his temper slipping in anticipation.

‘I asked the ambassador what he wanted me — or security — to do. He said her personal stuff should go back with the body.’

‘You asked the ambassador! About what should be done to articles belonging to a murder victim! What in the name of Christ are you talking about?’ This was work — professionalism — and Andrews had fucked up, so he had every reason for the anger: their personal situation had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

‘I was trying to help!’ protested the local man. ‘There was nothing, I tell you!’

‘You made an inventory?’ Cowley felt cold with fury: at himself, for permitting the first mistake, and at the other FBI agent for perpetuating it. How could the man have been so unprofessional?

Andrews brightened, perceptibly. ‘Sure I made an inventory!’ He fumbled open a drawer to the left of his desk, took out a single sheet of paper and read from it. ‘Three framed photographs. Some Bolshoi Theatre ticket stubs. A map of Moscow. One of those monthly season tickets you can get here for both the metro and the buses. And a set of Gorby dolls …’ The man smiled up, eagerly helpful. ‘Maybe you haven’t seen them yet. They’re tourist things: a set of the traditional matryoshka dolls, a whole family that fit one inside the other. But the Gorby set go back through the Soviet leadership, Gorbachov, Brezhnev, Krushchev, Stalin and Lenin. You can buy them on the Arbat …’

‘… Barry! I don’t want to buy any fucking dolls. I want to know why conceivable evidence has been shipped back, unchecked, without any scientific examination! Nothing!’

‘There was no conceivable evidence!’ insisted Andrews. ‘But what are we talking about here? Settling old grudges, maybe? Saying things you’ve wanted to say for a long time?’

‘Don’t be fucking stupid! Possible evidence is all I mean. I don’t confuse grudges with work: and I don’t have a grudge, anyway.’ What then? he asked himself. Was he trying to absolve himself from guilt for not personally checking the girl’s office by heaping the responsibility on to the other man, perhaps? He snatched the list and said: ‘Memorandum! This says there was a memo pad?’

‘Blank!’ insisted Andrews, ‘It was one of those joke things you get for Christmas: some stupid crap written on the top of each page. But the pad itself was clean. I definitely checked.’

‘I want a cable to Washington.’ It would probably only be a minimal recovery — maybe not even that — but it was worth the effort: and he’d phrase the message not to carry the can for what Andrews had done. Or rather hadn’t done. He’d have to cool off, before he wrote anything, though: wrong — unfair — to apportion all the blame.

‘Saying what?’ asked Andrews, cautiously.

‘Everything’s to be tested: which it should have been before it even left here.’ Cowley found the cigar smell distasteful. ‘There could be an item in what’s gone back that’ll connect with something that came out of her apartment.’

‘Maybe I should have checked with you,’ conceded Andrews. Humbled contrition wasn’t easy.

‘It’s too late now,’ dismissed Cowley, impatiently.

‘So how’d it go, with Baxter and Hughes? Get anything to build up your picture?’

‘Some.’

‘Look,’ said Andrews, placating. ‘Personally, we’re in a goddamned strange situation. Which we’ve accepted. So no problem. Now let’s talk professionally. I work here, for Christ’s sake! Know a lot of people, which means I might pick up something if they’re snowing you, like you think the ambassador tried to do. Why not bounce it all off me? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’

Cowley gazed past the other agent. Outside in the courtyard a man in overalls, the handyman Cowley guessed, was moving among the metal poles and their sagged connecting wires. Cowley watched the man individually lift and then drop three separate strands, achieving nothing: it was another foggy day, grey dampness sponging everything. He thought Moscow seemed to be a city with a blanket always pulled over its head. The handyman shrugged and walked out of sight. Cowley came back to Andrews, accepting the logical common sense of the suggestion. ‘Why don’t I do just that?’

Andrews smiled. ‘No reason not to.’

‘I’m going to need all the help I can get,’ admitted Cowley.

‘You got it,’ assured Andrews.

‘So it’s working well?’ said General Lapinsk.

‘It was a satisfactory first meeting,’ Danilov allowed, cautiously. He was disappointed that nothing more had emerged from the routine inquiries. The Records search had so far produced nothing. Neither had the assault or prowler checks throughout the Militia stations in the murder area. He reminded himself to ask Pavin about the psychiatric institutions.

‘You didn’t get any impression of them wanting to take over the investigation?’

‘No.’

‘That’s good,’ said Lapinsk. There was a spluttered cough.

‘I’m letting the American have some of the clothes she was wearing when she was stabbed: there’s a test for blood content of the body he wants to make, in Washington.’

The Militia General nodded. ‘What did he say about the first one?’

‘That there should be a public warning. Then he took our point about holding back in case there is embarrassment involving the American embassy. Realistically, we’ll have to do something about an announcement soon.’

‘The uncle wants to come,’ Lapinsk disclosed. ‘There’s been a visa application in Washington. It’s going to be granted, of course.’

‘He’ll create a lot of publicity.’

‘Which is something we have to talk about. It’s been decided who is going to take part in the press conference. It’s going to be the Federal Prosecutor, myself …’ The older man hesitated. ‘… And both yourself and the American.’

Danilov was stunned. ‘Me!’

‘It is apparently how major crimes with great public interest are handled in America.’

Copying to conform, thought Danilov. ‘Have the Americans agreed?’

‘It’s been proposed. There’s no reason for them to object.’