Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

At the door Pavin strained forward, notebook ready.

‘Nothing,’ said the woman, shortly.

‘No, Lydia Markovina. That won’t do. You must describe him.’

‘Didn’t see. Behind me, at first. Then I was on the ground. I could see trousers but not the top of him. I told you, it was very dark in the passage: completely dark.’

Danilov came forward, anxiously. ‘OK,’ he said, coaxing. ‘The trousers. What were they like?’

‘Just trousers.’

‘Colour?’

‘Dark.’

‘Blue? Grey? Black?’

‘Dark,’ she insisted.

‘Cloth? Or maybe jeans?’

‘Cloth.’

‘You must have seen the shoes.’

‘Not properly. Not that I can think of. I think they were boots. Rubber.’

‘Long? Or short?’

‘Short. The sort that come up to the ankle.’

‘You could see up to his waist?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Was he fat? Thin? Medium?’

‘Don’t know. Medium maybe.’

‘When he grabbed you from behind you said he pressed into you. What about then? Did he feel either fat or thin then?’

‘Quilted coat,’ she reminded. ‘There was the fatness of the quilted coat.’

‘If you could see to his waist, what about a belt? Was he wearing a belt?’ Some belts had distinctive buckles, Danilov thought, hopefully.

‘Not that I could see: can remember.’

Danilov sighed. From his side Cowley whispered, in English again: ‘She said he was leaning down towards her.’

‘When you woke up, on the ground, were you on your face? Or your back?’ resumed Danilov.

‘Twisted. But more on my face.’

‘Then he turned you?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Turned me,’ she repeated, with a hint of indignation.

‘Where did he put his hands? On your shoulders? Around your waist? Did he touch you privately, where he shouldn’t have done?’

There was almost a smile but it didn’t form. ‘Felt a hand on my shoulder. Then on my breast. Squeezed me there.’

Danilov nodded, glancing up to ensure Pavin was making the note, which he was. ‘So he must have been bent close over you? Why didn’t you see his face?’

‘I was on my face then!’ said the woman, close to indignation again. ‘I didn’t know what was happening. I was very frightened: kept my eyes shut. Didn’t want to see.’

‘There must have been an outline: an impression. How tall was he?’ As he asked the question, Danilov stood, gesturing Cowley up beside him. ‘As tall as me? Or as tall as him?’

‘You. Not as tall or as big as him.’

‘What about hair? All right, I know it was dark: you couldn’t see. I’m not asking about colour. But could you see a lot of hair? Or not? Could he have been bald?’ She wouldn’t know yet that she had been cropped, Danilov realized.

‘Nothing like hair. I think there was a cap. But not one with a peak. The type of woollen hats people wear to ski.’

‘The grunt,’ reminded Cowley.

‘You said when you hit him that he grunted?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did you hit him? What part of the body?’

‘The chest, I think. That’s how I felt the quilted jacket.’

‘And it was a grunt? Not a word?’

‘No. And I don’t think I hurt him. I think he was surprised: almost frightened. A frightened cry.’

He would have certainly been both at the sudden eruption of someone he believed dead, accepted Danilov. ‘But you couldn’t recognize any meaning in the grunt or cry?’

‘No.’

‘Did it sound like a Russian voice? Or foreign?’

Her face furrowed, into a frown. ‘Don’t know. It was just a sound.’

‘She felt his hands on her face,’ said Cowley.

‘Tell me everything about the moment he grabbed you: put his hand over your mouth and nose,’ picked up Danilov.

Momentarily forgetting what would happen, Lydia Orlenko shuddered, but was stopped abruptly by the pain. ‘I couldn’t move, from the fright. It was horrible. Smelled. And felt clammy.’

Pavin was forward again, as they all were.

‘What do you mean, clammy?’ demanded Danilov.

‘How his hand felt, against my face. Clammy.’

‘You mean he was sweating?’

‘No, not sweating. Cold actually, but clammy too. Horrible.’

‘Gloves?’ suggested Danilov.

‘They didn’t feel like gloves: certainly not wool. His hands felt very smooth. And clammy. But something hard …’ Warned now, she was careful bringing her hand up, this time to just above her chin. ‘Something hard there. Hurt me.’

With the spot identified, Danilov saw a bruise additional to those on her nose and upper lip. ‘What about the smell?’

‘Tobacco. Definitely tobacco. Very strong.’

‘On his hands? Or on his breath?’

‘Don’t know. It seemed to be all around me.’

‘What about cologne?’ prompted Cowley.

‘Was there any perfumed smell? Scent; something like that?’ asked Danilov.

She frowned. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. Just tobacco really.’

Danilov was silent for a few moments, trying to think of another pathway. Doing so he found questions he had failed to ask Pavin. He hoped the Major had maintained his customary routine. To Lydia Orlenko he said: ‘Didn’t you fight at all? Struggle when he grabbed you?’

‘No. I was stiff; couldn’t move. I just wanted to scream but I couldn’t. And he was strong. Jerked me backwards, suddenly. If I hadn’t been against him I would have fallen earlier, before the burning in my back. What’s happened to me? Am I badly hurt …?’ She blinked, at her own question, and her lip began to shiver. ‘… going to die?’

‘You’re not going to die,’ promised Danilov, urgently. ‘You’ve been stabbed but the doctors have seen to it. You’re going to get better.’ He guessed her more immediate concern was going to be the missing hair: there was no reason to upset her by telling her at this stage. He bent towards her, on the bed, and said: ‘Something else that is very important: and that you must be completely honest about. You won’t get into any trouble, about anything, if you’re honest.’

Cowley saw the frown deepen on the woman’s face and thought Danilov had phrased the question badly, frightening her in advance.

‘What?’ she said, warily.

‘Do you know any Americans? Particularly anyone connected with the embassy here in Moscow. Someone maybe who comes into the hotel regularly: someone you’ve come to recognize?’

The woman remained silent for several moments: briefly she closed her eyes and Danilov was worried she had drifted off under the lingering affects of the anaesthetic. Suddenly her eyes blinked open. ‘Not from the embassy,’ she said. ‘Not that I know of. American tourists come to the hotel, of course. But I don’t get involved in any currency dealing. Honestly. I know that’s against the law. Wouldn’t do it.’

Danilov frowned at the automatic denial from Russians whose work brought them into contact with foreigners. ‘I told you that you wouldn’t get into any trouble, about anything. I know about the dollars in your handbag. I don’t care if you take dollar tips and convert, on the black market. Do you know anyone in particular?’

‘No,’ she said at once. ‘That’s what they were, tips.’

Danilov looked inquiringly sideways to Cowley, who said: ‘A precise time?’

When Danilov relayed the question, the woman said: ‘I left the Intourist at twelve fifteen: I had to log the time on my work sheet, so I know. It takes me thirty minutes to get home. It always does. I was almost there, maybe five minutes away.’ She paused, breathing heavily. Then she demanded: ‘Where’s Boris? Does he know?’

‘He came earlier. He’s gone to work now. He’s coming back.’