Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Burden’s colour had swung through the complete spectrum. When he looked up from his cupped hands, he was finally ashen, eyes stretched in genuine horror. He appeared initially unable to reply to Ross’s question, merely shaking his head, as a boxer shakes his head to clear a flurried attack. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t a reply at all. He said: ‘Do you imagine a long career here in Washington, Mr Director?’

‘No,’ said Ross. ‘I’ve come to dislike the place.’

They had to crest their way through the renewed wave of journalists as they left. This time Ross didn’t even bother verbally to refuse a statement, shouldering his way through towards the car. In the limousine returning down the hill, Fletcher said: ‘That was absolutely awful, wasn’t it?’

‘I thought it went very well,’ answered Ross.

Cowley broke his direct return to Moscow to stop in New York to meet John Harris. For the first time there was some obvious grief, but not as much as Cowley had expected. The meeting produced even less than that with Judy Billington. Reminded of the girl as the taxi pulled into Kennedy airport, he tore up the piece of paper listing her telephone number and discarded it in the waste bin on his way to the check-in desk.

At the moment Cowley’s plane lifted off, five thousand miles away in the direction in which it was heading Dimitri Danilov stretched up from his complete study of the haphazardly made and carelessly recorded interviews with psychiatric patients, past and present, whose history showed any of the tendencies for which they were looking. He should have been angry at the inefficiency, he supposed: it would have even been possible to censure the officers, because their names were on the reports. But he was too tired. And there was no point — and certainly no benefit — in getting angry at the deficiencies of the Moscow Militia.

He’d isolated four cases he immediately considered to be the most obvious for re-examination.

One involved a man named Petr Yakovlevich Yezhov.

Again Barry Andrews was waiting at Sheremet’yevo airport for Cowley’s arrival. This time there was no uncertain hesitancy between them. As Andrews took the embassy car out on to the rutted highway, he said: ‘How did it go?’

‘Could have been better,’ said Cowley. Any different answer would have been a lie obvious to the other man.

‘You didn’t get hauled off the case. So what happened?’

Cowley recounted the concern about Hughes and what was going to happen to the diplomat, considering it the only positive development, although contributing nothing towards finding their killer. He sanitized the critical interview at the CIA complex, not wanting to admit the complaints to the other man. Throughout the account Andrews drove gazing directly ahead, just occasionally shaking his head. When Cowley stopped, the local FBI man said: ‘Jesus! The guy’s been a jerk and you’ve got to despise him, I guess, but I still can’t stop feeling sorry for the poor bastard. Can you imagine what he’s going to go through?’

‘It’ll be hell,’ agreed Cowley. He was surprised at Andrews’s sympathy. It wasn’t an attitude the other man had shown in cases in the past. He wondered whom Andrews was going to find for his racquet ball games in the embassy gym. He’d have to find someone: Andrews was as dedicated to physical fitness as he was to every other activity. In London, it had been jogging.

As if aware of Cowley’s reflection, Andrews said: ‘He thought everything was OK. We had a drink together in the club, the night before he flew out. He said to go on keeping Tuesdays free for when he got back.’ There was disbelief in Andrews’s voice. ‘Who’s going to tell Angela?’

The lights of the city began to form, far away to their right. Cowley said: ‘Not our problem. Personnel, I guess.’

Andrews looked quickly across the car. ‘It could be my problem, couldn’t it? We’re talking phone taps somehow getting into the embassy. I could be criticized there.’

‘How could you have prevented it?’ asked Cowley. ‘The embassy is electronically swept. The failure’s technical, not yours.’

‘Hughes was told he was being withdrawn for consultation,’ said Andrews, unconvinced. ‘That’s what I’ve been told.’ He came off Tverskaya, on to the ring road towards the embassy.

‘And that’s what you’re going for,’ assured Cowley. ‘I spoke with the Director, about your relocation.’

Andrews stopped the car outside the new compound but didn’t move to get out. ‘You talked with the Director, about me ?’

‘Not the way it sounded,’ qualified Cowley. ‘He wants you to go back, for talks, but wondered if it might be awkward with all that is going on here. I said no.’

Andrews smiled, briefly. ‘That was good of you.’

‘You didn’t think I’d hold you back, did you?’

‘You could have done. And for proper professional reasons, nothing else,’ said Andrews, leading the way into the living quarters. ‘I appreciate it, Bill. Really.’

The guest suite smelled stale and musty but it was too cold to open any windows. ‘Any contact from Danilov?’

‘I told him you were coming back tonight. He’s expecting you tomorrow.’ Andrews paused. ‘Anything else from Washington?’

‘The interview with the girlfriend, Judy Billington, didn’t produce anything. Neither did her brother. But I got the psychological profile.’

‘What’s our maniac serial killer look like?’ Andrews went familiarly to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a Scotch without asking if Cowley wanted anything.

‘Like about a million other guys. Neat. Tidy. Knows he’s doing wrong. Maybe making a challenge out of it. But there’s a big question mark. If we assume — as we’ve got to assume now — that our man is Russian then none of it could be any sort of guide.’ Cowley smiled, in resignation. ‘So we get the usual caveat: routine investigation first, profile as an aid, nothing more.’

‘I’ve done the course, heard the Quantico lectures,’ said Andrews. ‘Wouldn’t it be the damnedest thing if Hughes turned out on the polygraph to be the killer after all?’

‘Wouldn’t it, though?’ agreed Cowley. And be a further setback for him, having cleared the man. Pointedly he moved his case further into the small apartment, towards the bedroom. Andrews remained propped against the drinks cabinet, missing the hint.

‘What about the profile? Fit Hughes?’

Cowley tried to assemble a mental comparison. ‘Could do,’ he conceded. He wished it didn’t.

Abruptly Andrews changed the subject. ‘Pauline says hello.’

‘She’s OK?’

‘Fine,’ assured the other man. ‘We’ve got an invitation for you, for a get-together at the club. I put you down for it, to come with Pauline and me. Now I’ll be back home.’

Cowley shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped.’

‘Hey!’ said Andrews, the idea suddenly coming to him. ‘It needn’t make any difference to you and her. Why don’t you go together?’

Cowley frowned. ‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea.’

‘Why not? We’re all friends, aren’t we? Proper friends. So it would be silly not to go. You’d both miss something that might be fun, for no good reason.’

‘I don’t know.’ How would it be, to be by himself with Pauline?

‘Why don’t I talk to Pauline about it? See how she feels?’

‘If you like.’ There was no good reason why he shouldn’t take her, Cowley supposed. He knew already that he’d enjoy it. And there wasn’t any difficulty between himself and Andrews. It was the man’s suggestion that he should take her. It would even be creating a difficult situation that didn’t exist to refuse.