Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

They’d decided to wait, because Yezhov’s mother was sure he would be home within the hour, which he wasn’t. Now they were annoyed. The senior detective, Ivan Truchin, was an ice-hockey fan who had front-row seats for tonight’s game and was anxious about being late. His partner, Anatoli Zuyev, had an appointment of gratitude with a garage owner for whom he’d obtained a consignment of tyres, and wanted to get his money that night. The woman roamed the apartment on Bronnaja Boulevard, arms wrapped around herself, not knowing what she was protecting herself against: they’d refused to tell her what Petr had done, but she was sure it would be bad. She was terrified.

It was almost another hour before he came home. Petr Yezhov knew authority at once and withdrew inside himself. They couldn’t trap him — lock him up — if he didn’t say more than he had to. He confirmed with a nod that he was a labourer at the marshalling yards at Kursk Station. When they asked what he was doing on the night of January 17, his mother hurriedly assured the policemen he had been at home with her: Petr couldn’t remember dates and would have looked guilty of whatever it was. He hadn’t been home on January 17. She said he’d been with her the night Ann Harris had been killed, too. Which was only partially true. He’d gone out for one of his walks around ten o’clock and she had been asleep before he returned. Yezhov told the Militia men he didn’t know anything about any attack, on any women. He was better now: he knew it was wrong to do that any more. He said he didn’t know where Gercena or Granovskaya were. It was getting late for both detectives when they made him open the locked door to his room. They were surprised at its neatness, which they ruined with the quick roughness of their search, rifling and discarding through bedside drawers and cupboards and making him open a cardboard suitcase beneath the bed. It contained photographs of railway engines: Yezhov liked railway engines, which was why he enjoyed working at Kursk Station.

In the car, as they left, Truchin said: ‘Another waste of time, like all the rest.’

‘Thank fuck we finished as quickly as we did,’ said Zuyev.

Back in the apartment, his mother made Yezhov sit directly in front of her, reaching out to hold both his hands, as she had when he had been a child — younger than he was now, certainly — and she’d wanted him to admit doing something wrong. ‘Have you been bad again? If you’ve been bad you’ve got to tell me, Petr Yakovlevich.’

There wasn’t a clean shirt. Olga complained the machine was broken again. She didn’t know when it might be fixed. Until it was, he should take extra care to keep his cuffs and collar clean. Driving to Petrovka in the unmarked car, Danilov was waved down on the corner of Serova by a felt-booted, uniformed Militia man. There was a smell of stale sweat when the officer leaned through the window: Danilov wondered how often he changed his shirt. The man insisted Danilov had been exceeding the speed limit, for which there was a statutory fine if an on-the-spot summons were issued. He supposed it was difficult, keeping to a speed limit in a nice car like this; it had to have cost a lot and be expensive to run. He smiled in contented anticipation of the bribe when Danilov reached into his jacket. He stayed smiling when Danilov produced the Militia identification, shrugging in resignation as he stepped back, his time briefly wasted. Danilov was curious at the amount the officer made during an average week by such extortion.

Pavin was already in the office when Danilov reached Militia headquarters. That morning’s briefing meeting with the Director had been postponed for an hour: Lapinsk had been summoned to the Foreign Ministry. There was nothing from any of the ongoing routine inquiries, but Yevgennie Kosov had called personally, wanting to speak as soon as possible. When Danilov returned the call, Larissa’s husband said it was to do with the murders but he didn’t want to discuss it over the telephone. Why didn’t they meet for lunch: he’d already made a reservation at the hard-currency room at Kropotkinskaya 36. Danilov frowned, both at the prospect and crackle-crackle dialogue: more imported American films on the impressive video, he guessed. He said lunch was a good idea, interested to see what the restaurant would be like: he’d heard about it but never eaten there. He wished he’d had a clean shirt. While he waited for Lapinsk, Danilov made arrangements with the hospital to revisit Lydia Orlenko.

He was kept waiting more than an hour. When he finally entered Lapinsk’s top-floor office Danilov knew from the coughing, like a misfiring engine, that the old man had emerged from a bad meeting at the Ministry.

‘There’s a lot of annoyance at the complaints the Senator has made,’ Lapinsk announced. ‘There were Interior Ministry people at the meeting today, as well as Foreign. Nikolai Smolin, too.’

‘What about the security agency?’

The Director nodded. ‘Gugin attended.’

‘Are they taking over?’ He would have expected Lapinsk to be happier, if that decision had already been reached.

‘Not yet. Gugin made it seem there was already a great deal of cooperation: that it was virtually a joint investigation.’

‘So they’re still trying to avoid it?’ Mixed with Danilov’s satisfaction was the awareness that he was being left in charge by default, not from any expression of confidence.

‘Yes.’

‘But that could change?’ guessed Danilov.

‘We’ve got to make available to Gugin everything we get from America, through our liaison with the FBI.’

‘To prepare them completely if they are ordered to take over?’

‘That’s the obvious surmise.’ There was no reluctance in the admission. Lapinsk’s face relaxed for the first time at the prospect of being spared a problem from which he was eager to escape.

Danilov supposed it was only a matter of time before he was discarded, as a failed investigator, an embarrassment. And unless he could bring about a quick pre-emptive breakthrough — which he already knew he couldn’t, because there wasn’t a single avenue left to follow — then the time would be measured simply by how long the former KGB managed to evade the ultimate, inevitable responsibility. Why the hurt resentment, the anger at Lapinsk for the obvious acquiescence? Pride, he supposed. But what place did pride have for Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov? It certainly hadn’t had much importance when he’d headed a Militia district. And realistically had been little more than an affectation after the transfer to Petrovka, with his attempt to sever his manipulative ties to the past. What, practically, had it achieved? Had it made him a better detective? Made it easier to solve cases? Impressed and influenced his police colleagues? Certainly not the latter. The reverse. His pride — or rather his facile attempt to achieve it, refusing to compromise, refusing to be introduced by others in the initial friendly welcome to the sort of smiling entrepreneurs necessary at every level of Russian life — had marked him as a suspicious oddity, someone to be avoided until higher-echelon common sense prevailed and he was shunted sideways into the obscurity from which he had emerged. The excuse for which could come from the transfer to the Lubyanka of this investigation. Where would he be shunted? He didn’t know of anyone being sent back to a district, from Militia headquarters, although he supposed it must have happened. He doubted, if it had happened, that the move had been to a command position, which he had abandoned to come here. There were other, uniformed divisions, of course. Maybe there’d be a place for him there. Not a relegation quite so ignominious as street duty; but perhaps something within the chain where he could benefit from the kickbacks from smirking Militia men ambushing motorists on street corners. Danilov blocked the self-pity, surprised how easily it had come. In needless justification, he said: ‘We held back from any public warning to make it easier if the killer had been the American!’