Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Even relaxed, as she was now, Nadia was more alert to everything around her than any of the other women had been. Prostitutes — even those who called themselves by other titles and didn’t work the streets — developed permanent antennae to potential physical danger. She sensed the presence and began to turn before the hand came over her face and the arm locked around her body, so the attack was not completely from behind. She didn’t freeze with terror like the others, either, but instantly tried to struggle, although the grip was strong, almost numbing, so it was impossible properly to fight against. She kept struggling, frenzied when the knife started to go in, snatching backwards for his crotch, the instinctive defence. Her arm and hand twitched and stopped, before it reached him.

There was a lot of hair, more than he’d ever had. A lot of buttons, too. He hummed as he took his souvenirs. Got it right this time. No more mistakes. Perfect.

Because the shed was up a track, off even a paved alley, it was not until the following morning, when it was quite light, that the body of Nadia Revin was discovered, defiled and ugly, like all the others.

Danilov collected Cowley from the embassy compound, as before, and as before there was little conversation on the way to Uspenskii. Viktor Novikov was still conducting his scene-of-the-crime examination when they arrived and became nervous under the blank stare of the critical American. At Cowley’s request, the forensic team collected to be shipped back to Washington duplicate samples of everything they considered relevant. The mournful-faced Pavin, who had arrived ahead of them to supervise the evidence assembly, said there was nothing of any immediate significance, not even footprints on the soft, sometimes muddy allotment ground underfoot: at the time that Nadia Revin had been stabbed, the ground would have been frozen hard. One curious discovery had been an English-language book beneath the body. Her handbag had contained make-up, most of it Western-made, book matches from the Metropole Hotel, $150 in cash, a packet of Western contraceptives from which two condoms were missing, and a dildo. There was also an address book, listing the owner’s name as Nadia Revin and an apartment in the block beneath which they were standing. A possible key to that apartment was on the same ring holding the ignition and other keys to the BMW.

It fitted, when the three of them got to the seventh floor, in advance of the forensic teams which had been left with instructions to follow. Pavin trailed the two senior detectives throughout their examination, evidence sachets ready.

Despite Nadia Revin’s hopes and pretensions, the apartment was a whore’s home. The main room had heavy, red-flocked wallpaper. There was no bright, overhead light but the Tiffany shades over the sidelights were red-glassed, too. There was too much overstuffed furniture crowded in, making the place seem smaller than it was. The prints on the wall were art nouveau, chiffon wisped over female nakedness, but no other decorations, certainly not any personal photographs. There was another address book in a bureau: a number of pages listed only given names against hotels and their numbers. The cupboard beneath held an extensive range of liquor.

The intimate red colouring was continued in the bedroom, where a great effort had been made to heighten the mood of opulent sensuousness. The bed had a pole-supported canopy, into which was set a large mirror to reflect the activity below. There was a selection of bound books of pornography as well as some loose, isolated prints held in folders, in a bedside cupboard. None featured Nadia Revin. There was a comprehensive selection showing cunnilingus and fellatio, some groups homosexual, but none portraying bondage or masochistic deviancy. In a drawer above the cupboard were two dildos, several packets of Western contraceptives, oil, and contraceptive and lubricating creams. The wall prints here were of erotic Greek and Roman brothel bas-reliefs, huge-penised men and suppliant, eager women.

There were two clothes closets, one given over entirely to diaphanous silk or gauzed negliges and night-wear: in a pull-out drawer within the closet was a range of sexual underwear, pants without crotches, bras without tips, for nipples to protrude, and lacy garter belts and suspender belts.

It was behind the drawer, which he fully withdrew to take it free of the closet, that Danilov found the hide-away place, a hollowed rectangular space concealed behind a sliding panel that looked at first like the rigid back to the closet. Inside was Nadia Revin’s birth certificate, passport, $22,000 in cash and a manila envelope containing documents. Danilov briefly flicked through the papers before offering them to Cowley.

‘She wanted to go to America,’ said the Russian, simply.

‘And Ralph Baxter signed the acknowledging letter to her visa application,’ said Cowley, reading more thoroughly.

Everything fitted — the shorn hair, the positioning of the shoes, the severed buttons — yet once more there was no way for them to go forward from the already established pattern. The routine began again, a roundabout making another circle, ending where it began.

Novikov’s early and more careful autopsy report gave the same measurements for the weapon, with the exception of the entry wound. The cut here, by what would have been the sharp edge of the knife, was wider than on any of the other victims, nearly six millimetres. The likeliest explanation was that the woman had tried to turn towards her attacker, driving the knife against her own body to cause herself a greater injury. All her perfectly manicured nails were intact, with no evidence of her having fought. There was no vaginal deposit indicating recent sexual intercourse, despite her profession, but this was consistent with the condoms found in her handbag. Novikov insisted that, following the second American post-mortem on Ann Harris and the Quantico assessment that the buttons indicated a nipple fetish, he had closely examined Nadia Revin’s breasts for injury or abrasions. There had been none.

The English publisher, Charles McCleary, was traced by noon of that first day. The reservation at the Metropole was in the name of the company which had published the book found beneath the body. McCleary, a bachelor, admitted at once and quite openly being Nadia’s client the previous evening: they had arranged to meet that night, too. He’d paid her $100, with a $20 tip, and given her the book. It had been a pleasant evening. She had shown no indication of being worried or frightened. She had not talked of a quick-tempered minder or a ponce, or of any outside pressure. Four members of the hotel staff, including the night receptionist and the night security guard, confirmed that McCleary had not left the hotel, either with or without Nadia Revin.

The single names listed against hotel telephone numbers proved to be those of receptionists, counter staff and concierges who had acted as Nadia’s touts. On the off-chance of finding a connection, however tenuous, Danilov had Vladimir Suzlev’s taxi company checked again to see if Nadia Revin had been a regular customer or whether any of their drivers also acted as customer spotters. The company denied all knowledge of the woman and showed unconvincing indignation at the suggestion that their drivers would ponce for a prostitute.

At the Militia commander’s invitation Cowley went with Danilov to a delayed morning conference with General Lapinsk, at Ulitza Petrovka. The American expected the demand to be made for Danilov to accompany him for a meeting with Ralph Baxter, in return for the concession apparently being advanced to him, but it wasn’t suggested. Danilov recited the preliminary findings to the muted background of Lapinsk’s coughing, and when the investigator finished Lapinsk said: ‘So it’s another random killing, like the others? No obvious, logical way to go?’