Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Possible difficulties shared were definitely difficulties spread sideways and backwards, Danilov supposed. Like manure. ‘Will it be a big conference?’

‘The main assembly hall at the Federal Prosecutor’s building is to be used.’

He would have to ensure Olga got his shirts washed and pressed, Danilov decided. He’d have to talk to her about it that night. Olga always needed time, to get things done.

Larissa and her husband lived in one of the better apartment blocks just off the inner ring road, the newest-built high-rises for members of the Party. The unthinkable collapse of communism in 1991 had terrified Yevgennie Kosov, who had never conceived its possible demise. He’d graduated into the Party direct from the Komsomol youth organization for the privileges of membership — which included superior living accommodation — not from any political ideology. Kosov’s personal ideology was the enjoyment of life as one of the Moscow elite and he had been initially frightened he might lose it all. He’d resigned and abandoned the Party, of course, like all sensible survivors. But still waited, in those early months, for official retribution. None had come. Now Kosov had completely recovered the shaken confidence, sure that things weren’t really going to change, but ready, at a moment’s notice, to adjust if the need became necessary.

Danilov retained the allocated but unmarked official car, knowing it would please Olga. She twisted back and forth in the front seat the moment he set off from Kirovskaya, swivelling fully after a few minutes to examine the rear seats and then announcing: ‘This is exactly the sort of car I want!’

‘This is a Volga. It’s not the model we’ve ordered. If we try to change we’ll go to the end of the queue.’

She tried to get the telephone off its rest but couldn’t release the clip: Danilov didn’t try to help her. She said: ‘Does this work? Could I speak to someone now, while we’re driving along?’

‘It’s official. All the calls are recorded.’

‘I want to call Larissa! Let her know we’re on our way! How do I pick it up?’

‘There’s no point in doing that.’

‘It could be explained as an official conversation. Yevgennie is a policeman, isn’t he?’

‘It won’t impress anyone: they’ll know it doesn’t belong to us.’

‘I want to!’

Danilov released the telephone and handed it across the car to his wife. She dialled incorrectly on the first attempt and he had to explain the transmission procedure as she dialled. Olga chattered her way through an inconsequential conversation about non-existent traffic delays, talking far more loudly than was necessary, and Danilov felt sorry for her. As she handed the telephone back to him, to be reclipped, she said: ‘Larissa was laughing. Why would she laugh?’

‘Maybe she thought it was funny.’ Danilov was not looking forward to the evening. For a while during the afternoon he’d considered cancelling. Larissa had protested that he shouldn’t, when they’d spoken: ‘I promise to keep my hands off you, even though it won’t be easy,’ she’d said. Perhaps she’d been laughing at the memory of the conversation, not at Olga’s showing off with a car telephone.

He managed to park immediately outside the apartment. Olga waited for him to walk around to let her out, as if she was reluctant to leave the car until the very last moment. He did so and began leading the way into the building, but she said: ‘What about the windscreen wipers! You know they’ll be stolen if you don’t take them off.’

Danilov turned back, irritated at having forgotten a basic rule of Moscow motoring. He returned to the vehicle, unsure how to disconnect the wipers on a model he didn’t know. The spring was too strong on the passenger side, briefly trapping his finger before he unhooked the blade. When he got into the better-lit vestibule he saw his hands were filthy with grease and that his shirt cuff was stained. His finger was bleeding slightly, where the spring had caught him.

‘You’re a mess,’ complained Olga.

‘I shouldn’t have bothered.’

‘It would have been awkward if it rained, on the way home.’

‘They might not have been taken.’

‘They would,’ insisted Olga. She liked to conclude any dispute, no matter how trivial.

Danilov felt foolish entering Larissa’s apartment carrying windscreen wipers. It didn’t help that she giggled at him. He smiled back, not knowing where to put the blades. ‘I need to wash.’

‘You do, don’t you? Why don’t you leave them in the kitchen?’

Danilov did so, and managed to get most of the grease off his hands in the sink there. Larissa stood watching, but by the door, as far away from him as possible. He thought she was going to remain there as he tried to get into the main room, forcing him to squeeze by and bring them close together, but at the last minute she came further into the kitchen, unblocking the doorway. As he went by she said quietly: ‘I might break my promise,’ and laughed again.

Yevgennie Kosov was in the middle of the living-room, in the process of helping Olga out of her coat: having done so the man felt out, putting his hands around Olga’s waist, and said: ‘What a body: trim as a bird!’ and kissed her. He kept his hands where they were. Olga smiled happily, unoffended at being groped.

Danilov had forgotten Kosov’s tactile need to touch and feel: when they shook Kosov enclosed Danilov’s hand in both of his and held on with one while he pummelled and patted Danilov’s shoulder with the other.

‘Too long, too long!’ boomed Kosov, with shouted exuberance. ‘Old friends like us shouldn’t leave it so long!’

Danilov wondered how much the other man had drunk before their arrival. There was a glass and a whisky bottle on a small table: it was Chivas Regal, displayed like a spoil of war.

‘Champagne for the ladies, a man’s drink for us,’ announced Kosov. He was a naturally large man made larger by constant excess, stomach sagging above his trouser belt and hardly disguised beneath a sweater which Danilov guessed he was supposed to admire: it was obviously cashmere. Kosov’s face had an alcohol glow and there were some broken red veins along both sides of his fleshy nose. The champagne was French, not Russian.

Kosov grinned as he passed the drinks around and said: ‘You didn’t have to get all messed up like that. No point in having influence if you don’t use it. I make damned sure the Militia patrols are around this block all the time and the villains know it. Anyone committing crime anywhere near my home knows I’ll have their balls for a necklace!’

‘I should have realized,’ said Danilov, mildly. He wondered how many other innovations Kosov had made.

‘Olga’s had her welcoming kiss! Where’s mine?’ demanded Larissa, in mock protest.

Danilov leaned forward briefly to brush her cheek, not reaching out to hold her: with their bodies shielding the movement, Larissa felt out and quickly squeezed his hand, a taunting gesture. She didn’t let go, however, bringing Danilov’s hand up as he stepped away from her. ‘You’ve cut yourself! It’s bleeding. Come on, I’ve got dressings in the bathroom.’

‘It’s nothing. It’s not necessary,’ Danilov tried to escape.

‘I don’t want you bleeding all over the apartment!’ complained Larissa. ‘Come on! I insist.’ She kept hold of the injured hand to lead him along the corridor to the bathroom, a dazzle of imported fittings. Inside she said: ‘Now you can kiss me properly!’

‘Stop it!’ protested Danilov.

‘Why?’ She had her head to one side, knowing his awkwardness, enjoying being the coquette.