Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Both men regarded him impassively. It was Baxter who spoke. ‘Who?’

‘I don’t have names,’ said Cowley. Pointedly he added: ‘Not at the moment. I’m sure I’ll find out, by the end of the inquiry.’ There, he thought: sweat.

Paul Hughes went through four days of unremitting polygraph interrogation by a rotating team of CIA technicians before the machine gave a blip, indicating an inconsistency. The questioning at that stage did not involve the KGB and blackmail: they were still building up a full historical profile, taking Hughes’s movements back to the time when his wife was on home leave and Vladimir Suslev had been killed. Asked specifically if he had been with Pamela Donnelly on January 17, Hughes said he had. And the polygraph needle jumped.

Pamela Donnelly was interviewed the same day, in the more formal and intimidating surroundings of the FBI headquarters in Washington. Pressed repeatedly, the girl said she was sure she and Hughes had been together throughout Angela Hughes’s absence. After three hours she admitted there had been two nights when she and Hughes had been apart. She couldn’t remember if one of those nights had been January 17: in tears she finally conceded it could have been.

‘Hughes could be triggering the machine because he knows the significance of January 17,’ one technician pointed out, during a break.

‘Or he could be a murderer,’ said his more cynical partner.

‘The machine doesn’t react when he’s directly asked if he killed them.’

‘A polygraph isn’t infallible. You know that.’

In his fifth-floor office, Leonard Ross decided against alerting Cowley in Moscow to the apparent inconsistency. There had been too many false starts. He decided, with his legal training, that he needed more and better evidence.

Cowley’s evening with Pauline at the embassy club was less difficult than he thought it might have been. Richards did not attend but Baxter did, and although not openly affable, the man played host like the trained diplomat he was, constantly introducing Cowley to embassy staff, always close at hand to move him on from group to group. There was steak and ribs and salad with the choice of five dressings. Cans of American beer floated in bins of gradually melting ice, alongside a selection of hard liquor and rows of Californian wine. A juke-box claimed to contain the latest American top ten: the attempts at dancing were awkward and quickly abandoned, despite the efforts of the sing-along marine detachment with their once-a-fortnight permitted excuse to get close to secretaries and female researchers and archive staff. One of the marines won the raffle: the prize was a child-sized white bear that growled when it was bent forward. The marines kept doing it. From what he believed he had learned of Ann Harris, Cowley found it easy to understand why the dead woman boycotted the majority of such occasions.

A lot of people had obvious difficulty restraining themselves from asking about the murders or Paul Hughes or both. Some — usually on their way to drunkenness — were not restrained. Cowley blocked every attempt at prolonged talk about either, repeating that he was forbidden to discuss any ongoing investigation or anything about the financial director. He lied that he did not know the reason for the man’s recall. All he allowed was that they were hunting a maniac and that it was a difficult case. He agreed with everyone that Ann Harris had been a wonderful girl. Several times, when the conversation appeared to be getting too persistent, Baxter intervened to suggest that there were other people he had to meet. Cowley didn’t encounter anyone, during the social exchanges, who actually said they liked Moscow. Always stated during any conversation about Moscow in particular and Russia in general was the precise length of time — occasionally detailed in days — their tour still had to run.

He thought Pauline looked very good: beautiful, he’d decided, when he’d collected her from the apartment. Her hair appeared less flecked with grey, making him suspect a home tint, and the tiny lines around her eyes weren’t there any more. She wore dark blue, with a white blouse edged in a matching colour, which he thought suited her better than red. There was no difficulty, either, in their being together, because except for their arrival they rarely were: Pauline made the initial introductions, before Baxter took over, and then she mingled with her friends, only occasionally joining up with him. He noticed she drank Scotch again. He took root beer. They sat at the same benched table to eat, with about eight other people: Cowley just managed half his T-bone. Pauline only bothered with salad and didn’t eat all of that.

Cowley caught her yawning a couple of times around ten o’clock and she agreed to leave the moment he suggested it. It needed another fifteen minutes for Cowley to make his farewells. A lot of people said they’d see him around: Cowley thought they probably would.

She took his arm quite naturally as they circled the embassy block to get to the old, attached compound where she lived: he couldn’t remember their walking like that when they had been married. He liked it. Pauline said: ‘Pretty grim, eh?’

‘People were very nice to me. I enjoyed it.’

‘Another revelation about the new William Cowley,’ said Pauline, lightly. ‘Now the diplomat! It wasn’t too bad, I suppose. I think I enjoyed it too.’

They got to the entrance to the compound. Cowley stood back, for her to enter. She held the door open behind her, so he followed. Inside the apartment she said: ‘It’s not booze, so I guess it’s coffee. Pour me a small Scotch, will you?’

Cowley did so, thinking it was all very relaxed and easy: two people who had grown used to each other over a very long time quite comfortable in each other’s presence, not needing to give any sort of performance to impress or please. Happily married people. He wished it were still so.

He encountered her at the door of the minuscule kitchen, on his way to get ice. Without any exchange of words they swapped drinks, for her to get her own. He chose an easy chair. She sat on a couch, directly opposite, on the far side of the room. Too far away, he thought. And immediately corrected himself. He shouldn’t make any stupid move, to spoil everything. She wasn’t his wife any more.

‘Much pressure about Ann and Paul?’

‘Quite a bit,’ he said. ‘I got very good at dodging.’

‘Me too. People think I’ll know all about it.’

‘Do you?’

She nodded. ‘Barry’s told me some. It was pretty common knowledge that Ann moved about a bit, but I didn’t know she was quite like she was.’ She stopped, then quickly added: ‘I didn’t say anything to anyone, of course. Barry briefed me not to: it was like listening to you, all over again.’

Cowley nodded, knowing she wasn’t lying. Pauline had always been absolutely honest: his deceit when they were married had always been in complete contrast. ‘It’s thrown up a bad security situation at the embassy.’

‘Barry’s worried it might reflect upon him: you know what he’s like, about anything affecting his career.’

‘You looking forward to going back home?’

‘I guess.’

Cowley frowned. ‘You don’t sound sure.’

She shrugged. ‘Course I’m sure.’ Pauline looked briefly into her glass. ‘He’s going to ask to stay in the Russian division. That means you have to agree, doesn’t it?’

Cowley smiled, although sadly. ‘We’ve already talked about it, he and I. Of course I won’t do anything to block him.’

‘Some people in your position would, given the opportunity.’

‘I could be pissed off with that sort of remark.’