Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

The response was too noncommittal for Cowley to get a guide to whether the Russian had accepted what he’d said at face value. Would he himself have accepted it in the same circumstances? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. ‘How about things from your side of the fence?’

‘Still routine,’ said Danilov. Believing the other man was reneging on their understood arrangement, Danilov felt no reluctance about holding back himself.

‘I have to appear at this joint press conference,’ said Cowley, moving the exchange along. ‘And I’ve been told Senator Burden is personally coming here.’

The reintroduction of beguiling honesty? Answering in kind, Danilov said: ‘I have to appear at the conference as well. Why is Burden coming?’

‘God knows,’ said Cowley. ‘Not our problem.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Could we get through those other things today?’

Professional dedication? Or impatience, to confirm a missed point? Danilov said: ‘I’m sure we can.’ Would he get the guide he wanted, while they were doing it?

It took Danilov a total of six minutes to arrange to visit Natalia Suzlev where she worked, at the offices of a Swedish-Russian joint-venture company selling Russian natural gas to the West. Cowley was back from the evidence room in precisely seven. Far too quick to have properly studied any of the closely typed pages, Danilov assessed. So the interest had to be among the material exhibits. ‘Refreshed your memory?’ he challenged.

‘I think so,’ said Cowley. He had the confirmation he wanted!

The offices of the joint-venture company were on the second floor of a modern, interlinked block of buildings on Leninskii Prospekt, opposite the huge cinema. Natalia Suzlev, who worked there as a telex operator, had obviously warned the rest of the staff that she was expecting an official visit: their arrival caused no surprise but a lot of interest. As she led them to an empty side-room Natalia’s head moved from side to side, to encompass the watching people, and Danilov got the impression she was enjoying the attention.

The side-room contained just a table and four chairs, all of which looked as if they were about to collapse. There was one print upon the wall, of an anonymous dacha, snow-covered in winter. Natalia Suzlev was a slightly built but wiry woman. Her fading brown hair was close-cropped, almost mannish, and her figure was mannish, too: she was quite flat-chested and angularbodied. She wore no make-up. The skirt was stained and the buttoned cardigan badly hand-knitted.

She sat down heavily, regarding Cowley curiously, clearly marking him out as a foreigner. ‘What is it?’ she said, looking from one policeman to the other. ‘Have you got him, the man that killed Vladimir?’

She seemed to have no difficulty talking about the killing. From the murder dossier Danilov knew they had been married for almost thirty years. A marriage from which all had gone but companionship, he guessed. Like so many others: did he regard Olga as a companion? He said: ‘No. We need some more help, so we can get him.’

‘What?’ This time she asked the question of Cowley.

‘Did your husband have any regular clients? People he drove for on a regular basis?’ asked Cowley.

Instead of answering, the woman said: ‘You’re American. I can hear the accent when you speak.’

Cowley nodded, agreeing: ‘Did he?’

‘What’s Vladimir’s death got to do with America?’

‘We don’t know that it has,’ said Danilov. ‘We’re just making inquiries. Did he have any regular clients?’

Natalia thought for a few moments. ‘Not that I can remember him saying. He just drove the streets. He was radio-controlled, of course: he could be directed, if anyone called in.’

‘I’m sorry if it distresses you, but I want to talk about the day he died,’ said Cowley, kindly. ‘He was off duty that night. What about during the day? Had he worked that day?’

‘Of course,’ said the widow. ‘Started early, about seven. Left before I got up. He was home, when I got back. He said Igor — that was one of his friends, Igor Morosov — had found a liquor store selling vodka that day and that he was going across, for a drink. And that I wasn’t to wait up. So I didn’t. In the morning I thought he’d gone straight to work …’ There was the briefest of pauses, still without any emotion. ‘But he hadn’t. He’d been killed.’

‘He kept his taxi at home?’ asked Cowley.

‘Yes.’

‘But he walked to Igor’s place? Did he often do that, walk when he could have driven?’

‘Sometimes. Igor doesn’t live all that far away.’

‘It was winter: freezing.’ Danilov picked up the questioning. ‘Doesn’t that surprise you, that he didn’t take his car?’

The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He just didn’t. He didn’t say what he was going to do, apart from go to Igor’s and that I wasn’t to expect him back early.’

‘Did you ever drive with him?’ asked Danilov. ‘I’ve seen people — wives or girlfriends — with taxi drivers sometimes.’

‘Prostitutes!’ declared Natalia, at once.

‘Not always,’ argued Danilov, patiently. ‘Did you?’

‘A long time ago,’ said the woman, distantly, hinting at Danilov’s earlier thoughts about the marriage. ‘He used to like me going out with him at night sometimes. But not for a long time.’

Cowley put his hand to the outside of his jacket pocket, feeling the outline of the Marlboro cigarette packet: Andrews’s advice had got him a cab within minutes every time he had used it. He took the packet from his pocket now, gesturing with it towards the woman. ‘Did Vladimir stop for these?’

The woman sniggered, finding the question amusing. ‘Of course.’

Cowley seized the chance. ‘You said he just drove the streets, but he wouldn’t have simply done that, would he? He would have driven along particular streets, where he knew people would have these … foreign tourists.’

Natalia looked warily between them. ‘He didn’t do anything wrong … and anyway, he’s dead.’

‘We’re not saying he did anything wrong … not looking into anything like that,’ said Danilov, in eager reassurance, sensing an opening. ‘We’re just trying to find who killed him. Don’t hold anything back that might help us.’

‘I don’t know,’ said the woman, stubbornly, looking away from them.

Guessing the reason, Danilov said: ‘I know why drivers stop for anyone showing Marlboro cigarettes. I’m not interested how many dollars or how much foreign currency Vladimir saved. It’s yours.’

The wary look was still there. ‘Maybe he did,’ she allowed. ‘Drive in certain places, that is.’

‘Tell me the places,’ insisted Cowley.

‘The hotels, mostly,’ said Natalia. ‘He preferred the ones close to the centre. Intourist, the Metropole, the Savoy. Didn’t bother much with the Cosmos: said it wasn’t worthwhile.’

‘Hotels mostly,’ echoed Cowley. ‘What about particular streets? He did have favourite routes, didn’t he?’

The reluctant shrug came again. ‘Maybe.’

‘Come on, Natalia!’ pleaded Danilov.

‘Chaykovskaya,’ said the woman. She identified the street upon which the American embassy was situated quietly, as if she were imparting a secret between the three of them.

‘There it is!’ Cowley spoke quietly, too, but triumphantly and in English.

‘It could still be coincidence,’ warned Danilov, also in English.

The widow said: ‘What was that? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ said Danilov, smiling in the hope of further reassurance. ‘You’ve told us something which might be important. Vladimir drove along Ulitza Chaykovskaya in the hope of picking up Americans, right?’