Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Kosov topped up their vodka glasses and said: ‘There’s quite a fuss, over the Senator?’

‘Yes.’

‘ Is there a cover-up? Something we don’t know about?’

Had he been trapped into this meeting to pass on gossip with which Kosov could impress his doubtful friends? ‘Not at all. There was a line of inquiry that it suited us not to make any announcement about before we did. The Senator likes seeing his own picture on television too much.’

‘What line of inquiry?’

‘It came to nothing.’

There was the slightest of pauses, at the avoidance. ‘It will be awkward if the man really does say something in the American Congress: I heard him threaten it on television.’

‘That’s the concern of politicians,’ said Danilov, wanting to get to the point of their being in the restaurant. ‘Mine is to find the man who’s doing the killing. Or trying to find him. You said you had something?’

Kosov smiled, refusing to be hurried. ‘I have special friends,’ he said.

‘You told me.’

‘This could never be evidence, you understand? They won’t cooperate like that.’

‘Just let me have the guidance.’

‘These friends of mine employ a lot of people. Particularly to drive around Moscow, servicing outlets.’

Danilov knew at once the man was talking about black-market deliveries guaranteed by Kosov against interruption by any curious Militia. Which was precisely what he’d once done for a grateful Eduard Agayans. Could the informant even be Agayans? It was possible: maybe more than possible. ‘Late at night?’ he suggested, wanting to show his awareness.

‘The best time,’ smiled Kosov, enjoying the exchange. ‘That request you made, a few days ago, referred to a particular area?’

‘Yes?’

‘These drivers are talking about someone they see in that area, late at night. Someone who always seems anxious not to be seen. Ducks into doorways or alleys when the lorries or vans get close.’

Danilov held back the sigh. How many people were there likely to be in a city of ten million people unwilling to attract attention at night? ‘A man?’

Kosov nodded. ‘Always the same route, according to my people. Gorky Street …’ He hesitated. ‘Or Tverskaya, if you want to be a strictly accurate policeman after the street renaming. He’s seen a lot on Gercena, which is close to where the American woman was killed, isn’t it? On the ring road, linking the two: my people use the ring road a lot. And Granovskaya.’

My people , picked out Danilov. Who was the more beholden to whom, Kosov to the Mafia or the Mafia to Kosov? Danilov was fairly sure he knew the answer. ‘What’s he look like?’

Kosov shrugged. ‘Average height, apparently. At this time of the year he wears a woollen ski hat. And a padded jacket, against the cold.’

The winter wear of practically every one of those ten million Muscovites, reflected Danilov. Yet the description could tally with the vague account given of her attacker by Lydia Orlenko. He began his cabbage soup: it was as good as Kosov promised. ‘What about facially?’

‘Hides away.’

It didn’t — couldn’t — amount to any more than the dozens of suggestions about mysterious or suspicious people reported from the other Militia stations which had already been examined and rejected by his disgruntled street teams. It would be wrong, however, to be dismissive just because the information had been given inflated importance by a man performing as Kosov was; he’d have Pavin brief the street teams about this one, to be checked out like all the rest. ‘I’ll circulate it,’ he said.

‘Already done, among my people,’ said Kosov, using the phrase again.

‘Militia people? Or your special friends?’ The Beaujolais was as good as the soup.

The assured grin came back. ‘Both,’ said Kosov. ‘If the drivers see him wandering about, I’m going to be told. If they can, they’ll grab him.’

Danilov sat with his wineglass suspended in front of him. ‘I don’t think I like that!’ he protested. ‘What right have they got? That’s vigilante stuff.’

Kosov’s grin became an expression of surprise. ‘What the hell do rights matter? You’re hunting a maniac: giving public warnings to women to keep off the streets! You worry about rights and niceties, trying to find a man like that? All they’ll do is hold him until I get there. Or one of my officers does …’ There was another shrug. ‘If he has got an explanation, then fine. If not, you’ve got your man.’

Just like in the video movies, thought Danilov. He was deeply uncomfortable, positively reluctant, at the idea of unofficial posses made up of black-market delivery men. But they did crisscross the streets of Moscow, covering more ground and seeing more than a lot of Militia or army patrols. And Kosov was correct: he was hunting a maniac. ‘That’s all they’ll do? Hold him until the arrival of the proper Militia?’

Kosov’s smile returned, at the obvious concern. ‘I told you at the beginning, they don’t want to get deeply involved. Can’t get deeply involved. Isn’t this sturgeon magnificent?’

‘Very good,’ agreed Danilov. He couldn’t directly forbid Kosov’s arrangement in any case.

‘When are we going to make an evening together again?’ demanded the other man.

‘Soon,’ said Danilov, unenthusiastically. ‘I’ll get Olga to arrange it.’ Larissa was on the afternoon shift again. He could go straight from lunch to the Druzhba Hotel. But he wasn’t going to, although he guessed Larissa would have been amused by his going to her after lunch with her husband. Certainly she’d be expecting him to contact her.

‘Television fixed yet?’

‘Not yet.’ Danilov’s more pressing concern was the washing machine. If they had a replacement for their own they wouldn’t be reliant any more upon the communal basement facility, which was rarely a facility at all.

‘Don’t forget what I said about introductions to people,’ urged Kosov. ‘You introduced me once: why can’t I do the same for you?’

‘I won’t forget,’ said Danilov. What place did professional integrity have, if he could even think, as he had done only minutes earlier, of going to Kosov’s wife directly after eating with the man? Very little. Wasn’t he posturing and performing, just as much as Kosov? Maybe even worse. At least Kosov was honestly corrupt, if that wasn’t too much of a paradox. The man wasn’t a cheating hypocrite, which was how Danilov was coming to regard himself.

There was small-talk about the Kosovs’ planned foreign holiday, interspersed by the man’s repeated efforts, which Danilov avoided, to learn why the public warning about the maniac killer had been delayed. At the end of the meal Kosov paid from a thick bundle of American dollars, which, if the currency legislation were strictly interpreted, it was illegal for him to possess. They parted with Kosov promising news very soon of the mystery wanderer and Danilov telling the man to be careful, although he was not quite sure what he intended the warning to mean.

Danilov did not drive directly back to Militia headquarters. Instead he took a widely sweeping route that took him part of the way along Vernadskaya and past the Druzhba Hotel where he knew Larissa would be working and probably waiting for him. But still with no intention of stopping. He looped on to Leninskii Prospekt, quite close to the offices where the taxi driver’s widow worked, to go by the premises from which Eduard Agayans controlled the majority of his activities. Danilov slowed, gazing at the once familiar block, and on impulse went into the slip road to stop completely. The block was smeared with street dirt and looked locked and unused. But that was always how it had appeared when he was cooperating with the black marketeer. Behind that boarded, shuttered front Danilov knew there would be foreign-made television sets that didn’t flicker and fade. And laundry machines that spun clothes almost dry, after washing. There would be no question of Agayans forgetting him, any more than he’d forgotten the florid-faced Armenian and the brandy ritual before any meeting. Wasn’t it time to stop being the hypocrite? To become like any other Russian, even Russian policemen? Urgently, annoyed at having made the tempting detour, Danilov re-started the engine, hurrying out into the traffic to get back to his office. Not yet: he wasn’t ready to give in yet.