Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘You never bring me presents!’ she pouted at once. ‘The other girls I work with get presents. I don’t.’

Something else that was true in a day of various truths, conceded Danilov. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Do you think your prick’s bigger than anybody else’s: that it’s enough, by itself?’

It had seemed sufficient until now, reflected Danilov. ‘I had a difficult situation with Olga the other night.’

‘So?’ said Larissa, carelessly.

‘She accused me of having an affair with you. By name.’

‘So?’ said the woman, again. ‘What did you say?’

‘Denied it, of course. Said it was nonsense like I did before when she started talking about you.’

‘So why are we talking about it now?’ He wasn’t behaving as he should, standing there. There should have been more apologies: promises of a gift. She put her hand up, playing with the buttons of the blouse she would soon slowly start to take off.

‘I think it’s time we started to ease off.’

Larissa stopped fingering the blouse opening. ‘What?’

‘Maybe call a halt to the whole thing.’

‘Call a … what the hell are you saying?’

‘I think it’s time we stopped, Larissa.’

‘Stopped! Just like that!’ She snapped her fingers.

‘Yes.’

For the first time her manner wavered. ‘Don’t say that. As if it didn’t matter. As if it was just a fuck: that it didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t like that for you, was it? Tell me it wasn’t like that.’

‘Of course it wasn’t!’ he said, trying to imbue the feeling into his voice. Falling back on cliche, he said: ‘But it isn’t as easy as that. There are other people.’

‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘Olga? Yevgennie? That’s all. They don’t matter. I can divorce Yevgennie: want to divorce Yevgennie. You can divorce Olga. We can be married ! That’s what you want, isn’t it? What you’ve always wanted.’

No, thought Danilov. He’d never wanted that. He wasn’t sure what remained between himself and Olga, but he’d never really contemplated anything permanent with Larissa. So why had he begun and pursued the affair? Reassurance, he supposed, unable to think of another word and deciding it was the right one in any case: he’d wanted the reassurance that he could still impress a beautiful woman if he tried. Which was pitiful: pitiful and selfish and cruel and despicable. Obscene even. He was ashamed of himself, ‘I don’t want it.’ He had to force himself to say the words. When she flinched, as if she had been physically slapped, he said: ‘Not now. Not yet. I have to think … to decide.’

‘When? How long?’ She was pleading now, the confident arrogance all gone.

‘I don’t know … that’s why I think we should ease off … give ourselves time …’

Larissa straightened, regaining control. ‘You’re a bastard. A complete and utter bastard.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Danilov, knowing it was true. A day of truths, he thought again.

The book cover was red, with black lettering, and Nadia Revin knew it would stand out, look impressive, among the others on the Uspenskii bookshelves. He’d said it was being made into a film, so she determined to read it before putting it away, trying to visualize from the Hollywood actors and actresses whose names and faces she knew who she imagined would take the parts. It was a game Nadia played a lot in the afternoons and early evenings, waiting for the telephone to ring.

She was glad it had rung that night. It had been the sort of evening Nadia genuinely enjoyed, the way it was going to be all the time when she got to America. He had been an urbanely courteous, considerate, dollar-carrying Englishman who had told her to call him Charles and tried from the moment of the first greeting to please her, before himself. It hadn’t been difficult. Nadia considered the Metropole the best and most luxurious in Moscow since its refurbishment: certainly it was the most expensive. The food had been superb and he’d known a lot about wine, showing her how to sniff what he called a nose and swirling the sample taste around the glass for rivulets, which he called legs, to form. She’d listened attentively, considering it to be the sort of thing she needed to know, an addition to everything else she tried to learn to make her more sophisticated.

Like reading the English-language newspapers so assiduously. When he’d started to talk about the book fair she’d been immediately able to pick up the conversation from the recent, memorized reviews, one of which had turned out to be for the novel that now lay beside her on the passenger seat of the BMW and which he’d said his firm had published. It had been a fulsome review and he’d been clearly and obviously impressed, as she already was by then, with him.

They’d stayed at the hotel, with no suggestion of her apartment, and that had been right, too, because he’d had a suite which merged perfectly into the relaxed indulgence of the evening. Not that he’d wanted to indulge himself with anything unusual or special, apart from asking her to undress very slowly while he watched, which she did not consider unusual at all. In bed he had remained considerate, wanted her to achieve her orgasm as well as himself, the foreplay leisurely and gentle until she urged him to be faster, harder. And she had achieved it, although it meant briefly losing control, which she didn’t ever like to do. She guessed her doing so had made it better for him.

He’d given her $20 more than she’d stipulated, saying it was for a present other than the book, and asked, politely, if he could see her the following night. Nadia had agreed, of course. They’d talked of eating somewhere else — she’d suggested the Atrium or the Stoleshniki Cafe — and she’d thought they’d probably come back to Uspenskii afterwards. She might even suggest it: certainly prepare some champagne in the refrigerator.

They’d also talked about his having her telephone number, so he could contact her during subsequent visits. She’d readily given it to him, because it was business and regular clients were good business, but Nadia doubted she would be in Moscow for Charles’s next trip. The warning card, their established way of early contact, had arrived that morning from the regular client from New York, saying he was arriving three weeks earlier than expected, and Nadia had definitely decided to ask him to sponsor her American entry. She was sure she could phrase it in a way that wouldn’t alarm him into thinking she expected any more than help with her admission. No hassle, she thought, remembering the word. He wouldn’t be frightened. Hadn’t he said, a lot of times, how wonderful it would be if she were set up in Manhattan? Nadia’s mind ran on, building plan upon plan. The new man, Charles, had spoken of visiting New York several times a year. He could see her there, just as easily — maybe more so — as in Moscow. It was all going to work so well, she knew: so very, very well.

Nadia took the car around by the dark gardens, black trees starkly naked against the brief snatch of skyline. There were no people on the bordering roads, not this late. She turned into Uspenskii but went by her apartment, turning left to go beside the block to get to the back. A car as precious as the BMW had to be protected, so it couldn’t be openly parked in the street. The shed on the rear allotments had originally been built for gardening equipment but made a quite satisfactory garage: the cost of renting it was an additional but necessary expense.

She left the engine running while she released the lock, by the illumination of the headlights. The fit was tight, but she was well practised at manoeuvring the vehicle inside. There was instant, thick blackness when she turned off the lights. She picked up the book beside her by feel.