Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘He worries about his job,’ said the woman, not seeming distressed at the apparent neglect. ‘Not like a Russian at all.’

A doctor arrived at the door behind Pavin as Danilov was standing up from protesting knees. Danilov said: ‘We’ve finished, for the moment.’ To the woman he added: ‘We might be back, to see if you’ve thought of anything you’ve forgotten to tell us now.’

Outside in the corridor, Danilov said at once to Pavin: ‘Anything from the passageway itself?’

‘Nothing obvious. There’s been a complete forensic search and I’ve ordered the alley closed, in case you wanted to see. I’ve collected all her clothing for forensic examination, as well. Gone through the items with her husband.’

‘I want to see Hughes,’ said Cowley, quietly.

Danilov turned to the American. ‘Not alone.’

Cowley’s hunched concentration was momentary. He looked up, checking his watch, the merest suggestion of a smile on his face. ‘It’s a quarter of six.’

‘Yes?’ frowned Danilov.

‘Hughes lives outside the embassy compound. I have the address. A street named Pecatnikov.’

‘Within the murder area marked off on the map,’ identified Danilov. He smiled back, understanding the direction in which the other man was leading. ‘At Ann Harris’s apartment it was a Russian entry. How would we explain your being with me?’

‘I can’t stop you carrying out your job as you see it in Moscow: certainly not after this further attack. And the time, at this very moment, means it’s impossible for me to consult with anyone. I appreciate you informing me of your intention. And at least by being with you I ensure an American presence.’

Danilov finally answered the smile. ‘We can drive by Petrovka, to pick up what we might need to confront him with.’

Pavin drove. On the way through streets still not properly awake Danilov added: ‘Let’s enumerate the points.’

Cowley nodded, splaying a hand to count. ‘Let’s start with Pecatnikov: proximity within the area of every attack. We know he was in her apartment the night before she died, from the fingerprints on the glass and in the place itself. The same fingerprints are on the joke matryoshka dolls in her office at the embassy. And on some souvenir Bolshoi ballet tickets: I was told at the embassy, early on, that Hughes is a ballet freak. There’s your positive sighting of them together, at the restaurant. And the telephone conversations and log of the calls. We can’t put it to him yet, but I’ll bet you a turkey dinner that we can get calligraphic proof that it’s his handwriting on those notes about pain. Suzlev’s widow talked to us about a regular embassy customer, who always tried to speak Russian. Again at the embassy I was told that Hughes speaks the language pretty well: likes to practise. And this woman says he smelled of tobacco: Hughes smokes strong French cigarettes. A lot of them.’ He came to a near-breathless halt. ‘Anything left out?’

‘Tuesday,’ said Danilov. ‘Last night was a Tuesday, like all the rest.’

The door of the Pecatnikov apartment was opened quickly and by Hughes, although he was wearing a dressing-gown, the carefully arranged hair disarrayed from getting hurriedly out of bed. He looked at Cowley and Danilov, then at Pavin behind them carrying the evidence bag, and said, flatly: ‘You’re here.’

‘You don’t seem surprised,’ said Cowley.

‘I guessed it would happen.’ Hughes backed into the main room, leaving the door open for them to follow. He had his hands cupped protectively before him in such a way that the deformed index finger was clearly visible on his right hand, bent sideways as if it had been broken and wrongly set. From what was obviously the bedroom a woman called: ‘Paul? What is it?’

The economist looked to the men around him. Cowley said: ‘Your choice.’

‘Something’s come up with the embassy,’ Hughes called back. ‘Leave us, would you?’

‘So you were expecting us?’ said Cowley, not wanting to prompt any more than he had to.

‘I didn’t kill her,’ said the economist. ‘You must believe me. I didn’t kill her.’

‘Which one?’ demanded Danilov, entering the interrogation.

The reaction from the day’s press conference was phenomenal. It had led the three major American television networks and CNN throughout the previous night — with extensive TV coverage in other Western countries as well as in Russia — and newspapers throughout the world maintained the interest with enormous coverage, sometimes occupying entire pages. The more sensational newspapers of America and England used headlines like ‘Moscow Maniac’ and ‘Red Terror’. Unnamed sources allegedly talked of terrified women walking in groups if they went out at all and others insisted on the formation of protective vigilante squads.

A synopsis of the television reports and of the leading American newspaper accounts was telexed and faxed overnight to Burden by his Washington office, for the Senator to digest as soon as he awoke at the Savoy hotel.

He was stirring when the interrogation of Paul Hughes was beginning, less than a mile away.

Paul Hughes stared fixedly at the Russian, mouth slightly agape, throat lumping in small, swallowing movements. There was a bigger swallow as he closed his mouth, but before he could speak Cowley said: ‘She didn’t die tonight, Paul. But your taxi driver did: the taxi driver you always asked for, Vladimir Suzlev. So we’re looking at two. Now we want you to tell us all about it.’

Now the economist went from one to the other and then turned the movement into a positive head shake of bewilderment. ‘What are you saying? I don’t know what you’re saying!’

‘Your speed,’ said Cowley, quietly, almost conversational. ‘Tell us your way, however you like.’

Danilov’s concentration was divided. He was intent upon everything about Hughes but he was also aware of the manner of the FBI man’s questioning, admiring it, unaccustomed to the approach. With the sort of evidence they had the Russian way would have been aggressive, demanding a confession: maybe even making an arrest without any preamble, waiting for the breakdown at the police station after hours or even days of confinement. This was very different. There was no accusing hostility in Cowley’s attitude. The approach was solicitous, friendly even: yet on the way to the hospital to see Lydia Orlenko it had been the American who had shown the anger and later Cowley who’d evolved the ice-thin manoeuvre for a Russian involvement in this interrogation. Should he adjust, put his questions the same way? Or just modify slightly, remain the unknown threatening figure next to Cowley’s kindly consideration?

‘About Ann?’ queried Hughes, cautiously.

‘Sure. About Ann,’ encouraged the other American.

Hughes shrugged, looking away from them at last, vaguely towards his feet. He began fingering the edge of his dressinggown. ‘And so it all comes tumbling down. Job. Wife …’

Danilov moved to speak but there was the smallest, halting gesture from Cowley, so he stopped.

‘… my fault,’ Hughes went on. ‘I know it’s my fault: always has been. But at least Ann knew the score. Enjoyed it.’

‘What was the score, Paul?’ asked Cowley.

The man looked up, smiling hesitatingly. ‘Sex. I liked it. She liked it: it was hardly a secret at the embassy that she liked it. Everyone’s too close together here in Moscow.’

Danilov saw his opening. ‘“I didn’t mean to hurt,”’ he quoted. ‘“Please like it.” Your notes: the ones you wrote to her.’

‘Not me!’ blustered Hughes.

Over his shoulder to Pavin, Danilov said in Russian: ‘Log.’ The telephone records came immediately into his hand from the efficient assistant. Turning back to the American, quoting again, Danilov said: “Just a little. You know it’s good for me …” He looked up. ‘That’s you, three weeks ago. She said: “OK, but not much. Don’t really hurt. It’s not my bag, you know that.” You said: “You do it then: whip if you like. Make me sorry.” She said: “That might be good … I don’t mind head … like it. Greek too, but Christ you hurt me last night. My tits bled, you bastard.” A month ago she said: “You didn’t say you were going to do that when you tied me up. How would you like it with a dildo up your ass …’”