Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Andrews finished his drink, pushing himself away from the cabinet at last. He smiled and said: ‘Let’s face it, old buddy, now everything’s gone cold you could be here a long time. It might be an idea to get around a bit more among people at the embassy.’

Ryurik Bocharov was a profoundly ugly man, just slightly too tall medically to be described as a dwarf, his domed head completely bald, his efforts to express himself jumbled and confused, so that few could understand. There was a history of violence to women, usually towards prostitutes who refused his custom. After rendering them unconscious he cut off their hair: he always told psychiatrists he wanted to make them as ugly as he was. He never, however, collected buttons. Neither did he show any interest in their shoes. Since his last release from custodial care, he had worked as a porter in an open market near Kujbyseva Ploschard. He was a bachelor, living in utter squalor among a group of other derelicts in one of the occasionally used outbuildings attached to the GUM warehouse, on the side bordering Sapunova Prospekt.

It took Danilov twenty-four hours even to locate the man, and very quickly he wished he hadn’t, because from the very beginning he doubted that Bocharov knew anything about the crime and the engulfing smell was far worse than Novikov’s dissecting room, without the minimal benefit of any disinfectant. Bocharov showed the head-turning, frozen-lipped reticence Danilov recognized from institutionalized people, denying everything but able to account for nothing. The man’s innocence was obvious, however, within minutes: he was left-handed.

Danilov returned distractedly angry to Kirovskaya, the whole day unnecessarily wasted. Each psychiatric team had been specifically instructed that the killer was right-handed. So there was no excuse for the team that had checked the man to have missed the one fact that made it impossible for Bocharov to have been the killer. Unless Bocharov hadn’t been interviewed at all. Which was what Danilov suspected.

Olga was surprised to see him so early in the evening and said so,

Still distracted, Danilov said: ‘An inquiry ended earlier than I expected.’ It would, in fact, have been an ideal opportunity to visit Larissa: he should contact her tomorrow.

‘I haven’t prepared any food. I didn’t expect you.’

Danilov poured himself a Stolichnaya, neat. He didn’t ask about ice, not trusting the small freezer compartment of the refrigerator. He’d forgotten to put any ice-cube trays on the outside balcony, where they would have frozen naturally. ‘I’m not hungry. Is the washing machine fixed?’

‘It goes, but slowly. Nothing looks clean.’

‘But you’ve managed to wash something?’

‘Not yet. There didn’t seem any point if it was going to come out dirty.’

Danilov extended his glass. ‘Do you want something?’

‘To talk. I’m glad you’re home. I want to talk.’

Danilov carried his drink to his lumpy chair, unsure how the packing in the seat and back had become so ridged. The television squatted before him, in baleful mockery: like Bocharov had stood before him, that afternoon, Danilov thought. It was fortunate Cowley hadn’t been with him, to have realized the inefficiency. He wondered what the American would bring back from Washington. Trying to anticipate what Olga was going to say, he loosened a few notches on his integrity and said: ‘I suppose we have to think about a new television. And a washing machine.’

‘What’s wrong with us?’ Olga demanded.

Danilov’s surprise was genuine. ‘What?’

‘You’ve got someone else, haven’t you? Having an affair.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Don’t you be ridiculous. For all your interest I might as well not exist. When was the last time we made love? You can’t think that far back, can you?’

Danilov hadn’t been able to remember that night coming back from the uncomfortable evening with the Kosovs, either. Trying a practised retreat, he said: ‘Maybe I’ve been neglecting you. I’m sorry. But you know the sort of case I’m involved in. The pressures. That’s all it is.’

‘You didn’t give a damn long before this case. Is it Larissa? I think it could be Larissa.’

‘Of course it’s not Larissa. There’s no one. I told you that.’ Illogically — or maybe not illogically at all — he wondered if this was how guilty people felt under interrogation in some dank interview room. Feeling the need to say more, he added: ‘Larissa Kosov is a friend. Of us both. I am not her lover.’ He was immediately unsure if he should have gone on.

‘I don’t believe you.’

Danilov extended his hands, the gesture spoiled because he was holding the vodka glass in one of them. ‘I can’t say any more than I have. That you’re imagining everything.’ Wanting to move, to do something to deflect the attack, Danilov got up and walked towards the kitchen annex to top up a glass that didn’t need refilling. The alcohol burned when he drank it, still in the kitchen.

‘If you want a divorce you can have it. We’ll have to go through the counselling procedure, but that only takes a month or two. Then it’ll all be over.’ The declaration had obviously been rehearsed: towards the end Olga’s voice had begun to waver, denying the bravery.

‘I don’t want to divorce. Please stop this! It’s all nonsense!’ Didn’t he want a divorce? He didn’t know: hadn’t thought about it. He didn’t think he wanted to marry Larissa.

‘I know Larissa is prettier than me. Looks after herself better. Probably better in bed. Is she, Dimitri Ivanovich? Is she better than me in bed?’

Yes, thought Danilov: a hundred times better. He said: ‘I won’t talk like this. About our friend like this: our friend. Iam not having an affair! ’

‘I don’t want to go on like we are now. You’ve created a situation. You’ve got to make a choice.’

Danilov wished he knew what he wanted to do. ‘You’re wrong. So there’s nothing to talk about.’ The denials were beginning to sound empty even to himself.

Olga shook her head, a sad gesture. ‘Make up your mind, Dimitri Ivanovich. Soon.’

Both feigned sleep quickly that night, but neither did, each knowing the other was pretending. Danilov knew Olga expected him to make love to her. It was better not to try at all than to make the effort knowing that he would fail.

Cowley gave in his eagerness to receive, initially holding back only about Paul Hughes. For the evidence collection he was so anxious to get to along the corridor he handed over the critical American autopsy report as well as the Quantico psychological profile — which Danilov received quizzically — and dismissed the meetings with Judy Billington and John Harris as fruitless. In return Danilov, relieved, said hair samples had been retained from Vladimir Suzlev, so the FBI request could be met. Lydia Orlenko, who’d given more details about the attack, was naturally upset about her hair but would probably agree to losing a little more: Pavin could get it. At that moment the Major was interviewing a psychiatric patient whose case history recorded a shoe fetish: he’d personally interviewed one whom he’d eliminated because the man had been left-handed.

Reminded about fetishes, Cowley said: ‘The psychologist who prepared the profile says buttons indicate a nipple complex.’

‘Which Hughes appears to have,’ Danilov pointed out. Could Pavin locate a larger chair to make the American more comfortable? There would be little point in bothering if the Cheka took over, because Cowley wouldn’t be coming here any more. Would the man be allowed at Dzerzhinsky Square? It was an additional complication that didn’t seem to have occurred to anyone.