Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘There hasn’t been anything official from Washington,’ said Lapinsk. ‘How could there be, for that very reason! It’s only the press and television reaction to what the Senator said. The Foreign Minister is calling in the American ambassador, for consultation. The media are demanding more information: more press conferences and access to the woman who survived.’

‘Are we going to give it? Any of it?’

‘I don’t want to take part in any more conferences. Neither does Smolin.’

‘Does that mean I have to do it?’ asked Danilov, directly.

‘Not by yourself. That way we’d be accepting full accountability for delaying as we did,’ the Militia Director reassured him. ‘You’ll only do it with the American. And only then after it’s made clear to the American ambassador that we no longer see any reason why we shouldn’t disclose why we held back.’

‘That would put Paul Hughes — and the US embassy — under siege,’ predicted Danilov.

‘Which everyone at this morning’s meeting would prefer to us being under siege.’

Danilov recognized that privately the pressure was being neatly shifted back to America, although publicly — having been identified at the first press conference as the joint investigating officer — he would still be connected to the sensation created by the American politician, which really wasn’t a sensation at all. Reminded of the press conference, Danilov recalled the query he’d raised with Pavin and still wanted answered. ‘Maybe Cowley will bring back some guidance, in addition to whatever the ambassador will say.’

Lapinsk shrugged, almost indifferent, and Danilov guessed the old man already considered the irritation removed from him. He certainly didn’t appear greatly interested in the rest of the conversation about the routine inquiries continuing at psychiatric institutions and throughout the Militia districts in the area of the killings and the attack.

Danilov reached the hospital earlier than he expected, ahead of the arranged appointment. Lydia Orlenko was still alone in her closet-sized ward but lying more on her back than before, although still not completely allowing her weight to press down. She was bundled in bandages, made bolster-busted by them. Danilov thought he recognized the stains on the bed linen from his earlier visit. He was glad the American was not with him; bed linen was probably changed every day in American clinics. Danilov perched on the small chair but leaned forward towards her, as he had done before. Lydia smiled in hesitant half-recognition. She still wore the mob-cap, covering her shorn head, and referred to it at once. ‘You didn’t tell me what had happened to my hair. You should have told me.’

‘It will grow again,’ assured Danilov.

‘That’s what they say. I don’t know.’ Her bottom lip wobbled. ‘I liked my hair. Don’t want to be ugly. Boris liked my hair.’

‘I want to talk more about that night,’ said Danilov hurriedly, not wanting her to collapse on him. ‘I know there are gaps, when you probably fainted. But tell me about before, when you can remember. Everything you can remember before.’

‘I was walking from the hotel, like I said. At the time I told you. I didn’t know he was behind, not until his arm suddenly came over my shoulder and his hand closed over my mouth.’ Carefully Lydia raised her hand to the round bruise on her chin. ‘… I don’t think his hand closed over my mouth,’ she qualified. ‘It was more a slap, bringing his hand back into my face. That — and the terrible pain — knocked the wind out of me. But I felt his strength, as he pulled me backwards. I remember trying to fight against falling backwards. But I couldn’t.’

‘Is that when you smelled the tobacco on his breath?’

‘It wasn’t on his breath,’ she contradicted at once.

‘But you said …’ started Danilov, and then stopped, because she hadn’t said: she’d told them of smelling tobacco and he’d assumed it was on the attacker’s breath. ‘How, then?’ he finished.

‘It was an all-over smell, not like it is when it’s on a person’s breath: then it’s sort of directed, isn’t it? Concentrated?’

Danilov nodded, although he was not sure he completely understood. ‘And you’re still sure about the clammy hands?’

Lydia shivered, but halted quickly. ‘That was the worst part, except for the pain. The way his hands were. Unnatural. That and the sound …’

‘What sound?’ This second visit might be as useful as the one to the taxi driver’s widow.

Lydia frowned, slightly turning her head the better to look at him. ‘I told you about the sound.’

‘You said he grunted, when you lashed out at him. Hit him in the chest.’

‘No,’ said the woman, although not positively arguing. ‘There was a hum. Not at first. Like I said, I didn’t hear anything at first. Didn’t know he was behind me. But when I came to on the ground, he was humming.’

‘Humming! Like a tune, you mean?’

‘No,’ insisted Lydia. ‘Not an actual tune. Just a sound, in his throat. The sort of noise people sometimes make without knowing it when they concentrate. That’s how the grunt came about, I suppose. My hitting him just made the hum louder, for a moment.’

Danilov pressed even closer: her breath still smelled badly. ‘Now think, Lydia Markovina! This is extremely important. The hum, the sound, however you like to think of it. Could you detect anything about an accent; anything that might have been a word, even? Was it Russian? Or something else? Think! Think before you answer!’

The frown came again. She considered the question, as he’d demanded. Then she said: ‘I can’t say. It was just a sound, moaning as much as humming. No words. No accent …’ She smiled, shyly, and deep in her throat made a sound which Danilov thought more of a groan than how she’d described it. ‘Something like that,’ she said.

Small things, decided Danilov: small things that might fit into a bigger whole, if ever they got to the man. ‘You said, before, that you couldn’t make out his features when he leaned over you. Is that so? Nothing has come to you since, about how he looked? Anything about his face?’

‘He wasn’t big, not like your friend. Nothing about his face. It was always in the dark.’

Danilov straightened, from bending forward, feeling the strain in his back. ‘We’ll leave it now,’ he said. ‘We might come back again.’

‘The nurse said he was a murderer. That he’s a maniac and that he’s killed other people.’

‘Yes,’ said Danilov.

She gave a pained shudder. ‘So I’m lucky not to be dead too?’

‘But you’re not,’ said Danilov, not wanting her to become fixated on her escape. ‘That’s why I want you to go on thinking of anything that might help me catch him.’

‘Boris said you took all my clothes.’

‘To be examined. There might be evidence.’

‘He will be caught, won’t he?’

‘Yes,’ assured Danilov. But possibly not by me, he thought.

Danilov decided that during the day it wasn’t necessary to take the windscreen wipers off: even at night he felt ridiculous doing it and still sometimes pinched his fingers. There was instant recognition when he named Kosov. A smiling manager escorted him to a room to the right. It was easy to isolate the foreigners — tourists and businessmen and possibly diplomats — but Danilov just as easily picked out the self-favouring Russians proving themselves an elite. Kosov was in the centre of the room, displaying himself more favoured than most by being at a table capable of seating four. Danilov was early and suspected Kosov had arrived even earlier so as to play the considerate, attentive host. Danilov would not have really been surprised if Kosov had worn his uniform, but he hadn’t. The blue-striped suit was well cut and clearly Western-made, the coordinated blue shirt crisp and fresh; without positively thinking of the action, Danilov shrugged his cuffs back beneath the sleeves of his jacket. Kosov stood effusively to shake his hand and remained standing while Danilov seated himself. There was a diminishing bottle of vodka already on the table; unasked Kosov poured Danilov a full measure, raising his own glass in a toast. Danilov responded, self-consciously. Kosov demanded they get the ordering over, insisting that the schi was the best cabbage soup in Moscow and recommending the smoked sturgeon to follow. Danilov agreed to both. Kosov offered the wine list, saying there was a selection of both Californian and French, as well as Georgian. Danilov refused to choose, saying he didn’t mind. Kosov chose a French Beaujolais: 1983 had been a good year, he declared.