Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Back in the bedroom Danilov said to the fingerprint expert: ‘There are a lot of good surfaces in the bathroom. And in the kitchen cabinet there’s a vodka bottle I want checked. Anything so far?’

‘Two different sets on the glasses back in the lounge. On the door here and the dressing-table, too.’

‘I’ll get her elimination prints from the pathologist later today,’ undertook Danilov. To Pavin he said: ‘We’ll take the glasses.’

‘There are a lot of shoes,’ the Major pointed out.

‘Some women like lots of shoes.’

‘They seem important to the killer, too.’

‘Anything we might have missed?’ Danilov asked the man of routine.

Pavin considered the question, looking around the apartment. ‘Not obviously.’

‘That’s the problem,’ said Danilov. ‘Nothing’s obvious.’ He became uncomfortable at the banality. He looked reflectively at the dishevelled bed, then gestured towards it. ‘Apart from that, which looks as if she got up in a hurry, it’s an extremely well kept apartment. There’s virtually no dust, anywhere: everything in the bathroom is highly polished.’

‘Yes?’ agreed Pavin, questioning.

Danilov didn’t respond at once to the curiosity. Instead he said to the technicians: ‘Let’s see what’s on the plastic of the telephone receiver. I particularly want to know if the prints are new.’ Coming back to his assistant, Danilov said: ‘She got up and left urgently: not even covering the bed, which someone as neat as she was would almost automatically have done. Maybe she was called out, in a hurry.’

‘Knowing her killer?’

‘It’s possible.’

Pavin remained frowning. ‘Why call her out?’

‘To make it seem as if she didn’t know who it was.’

Pavin’s doubtful look remained. ‘There would be no way to trace a call, if it was incoming. Some outgoing calls might possibly be registered.’

‘Check the exchange to see what’s available,’ ordered Danilov.

‘ Just the exchange?’ queried Pavin, heavily.

Danilov smiled in understanding. ‘I’ll do it,’ he decided at once. ‘Or try to persuade Lapinsk to make the inquiry. Certainly the Cheka monitored diplomats’ telephones in the past. I’d guess they’re still doing it.’

‘It would mean the Cheka officially admitting they’re continuing to eavesdrop,’ warned Pavin.

‘That could be easily hidden,’ dismissed Danilov.

‘It could be the excuse for the KGB to involve themselves.’

Danilov wondered why the other man used the old, official title for the first time. ‘We still don’t know yet whether they’ll be ordered to take over. They might not even need an excuse.’

‘I would have expected the Americans here by now.’

Danilov looked at the forensic team: the fingerprint expert was already in the bathroom and the other man was delicately folding the sheets and pillows, edges inwards to hold anything trapped inside. As Pavin held the exhibit bags open, Danilov said: ‘Anything?’

‘No blood that’s obvious. Some staining that could be semen. Or might not. What looks like make-up traces, on both pillows. Head hair and some pubic’

The fingerprint specialist emerged from the bathroom at the end of the conversation. ‘The two sets of fingerprints are in there, too.’

‘How much longer?’ asked Danilov.

The men exchanged looks. The technician with the bed linen said: ‘I think we’re pretty well finished.’

Pavin said suddenly, ‘Knives! We didn’t check kitchen knives.’

‘Go on back with what you’ve got,’ Danilov ordered the technicians, anxious to get them and the exhibits away.

Pavin was standing beside a knife rack attached to the wall above the cooker when Danilov reached the kitchen. He pointed, saying nothing. The rack had hollowed-out, grooved positions for seven knives, graduating small to large from left to right. The middle, fourth position was empty.

‘Everywhere you can think of!’ Danilov was annoyed with himself at the oversight: Pavin was invaluable. It took fifteen minutes to search all drawers and possible put-aside places where the knife might have been carelessly discarded by a girl who didn’t, from the condition of the flat, do anything carelessly. They didn’t find it. Danilov said: ‘I’ll go through the rest of the apartment. I want the most precise measurements: length, width, thickness. Don’t try to do it here: take the whole thing as an exhibit.’

Danilov didn’t find the knife anywhere else in the flat. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Pavin had released all the wall screws and was putting the knife rack into the specimen case. It fitted snugly without the apartment-sealing equipment which Pavin removed. Pavin said: ‘The make of the knives printed on the rack isn’t Russian.’

‘It wouldn’t be,’ anticipated Danilov. ‘It says “Kuikut”.’

It took a long time for Pavin to bolt to the outside of the apartment door the fixings for the cross chain for which there was only a Militia key, to criss-cross the further barrier of adhesive tape and to insert the blocks into the existing keyholes, to render them inoperable. Pavin held a cigarette lighter sideways to melt the wax which Danilov positioned to drip on to the ties of the official notice, declaring the apartment secured against unauthorized entry. Danilov was impressing the official seal into the wax when the Americans arrived.

‘What the fuck …!’

Danilov turned to the sports-jacketed man he’d encountered earlier at the embassy and guessed to be FBI. Baxter was slightly behind in the corridor.

The leading American said: ‘Oh Jesus! Oh dear Jesus now the shit’s really going to hit the fan in every which way! Just wait until Washington hears about this!’ He was shaking, either from suppressed rage or nervous energy: maybe a combination of both.

‘What right do you think you’ve got, intruding on to diplomatic property?’ demanded Baxter. ‘I want that seal taken …’

‘… They don’t understand English,’ interrupted the other American. ‘We’ve got to get back to the embassy and bring down some heavy pressure about this. I’m going to have his ass for this! Christ am I going to have his ass!’

‘We can’t just walk away like this!’ Baxter protested. ‘I want to know what they’ve been doing in there!’

‘Don’t you think I want to know the same thing?’ demanded the second American.

‘We’re trying to catch a murderer,’ said Danilov, quietly.

‘I don’t care what you’re trying …’ began Barry before the realization registered.

‘You bastard!’ he said, although quietly as well, someone unable to believe what had just happened. The shaking worsened.

‘“Amateur night”,’ quoted Danilov, verbatim. ‘“Win a balloon and a lollipop if you get past the first clue.” Who’s Dick Tracy? I don’t know who Dick Tracy is.’

Both Americans became momentarily speechless. Stiffly again, Baxter said: ‘I know there has already been a formal protest, about your attitude at the embassy. This time the protest is going to be much stronger: possibly from the ambassador himself. I demand, with the authority of the government of the United States of America, that you unseal these premises and return into the custody of the United States embassy anything you might have removed from Ann Harris’s apartment.’ The heavy moustache quivered.

‘You smart-assed son of a bitch!’ said sports jacket, through tight lips. ‘You just don’t know the league you’re getting into, do you?’

It was quite true, conceded Danilov. He said: ‘As I tried to explain this morning, I am investigating the murder of an American national. This apartment remains sealed. Mr Baxter knows my office number.’ He moved, to walk down the corridor. The first man squared up, blocking the way. He was about the same size as Danilov: there was the aroma of sweet cologne, clashing with tainted breath. Danilov wondered which of them was the most apprehensive of what might develop: he was very nervous but he was glad he wasn’t shaking like the other man. He felt Pavin’s bulky presence close behind and was glad about that, too. Danilov stared directly at the American and said: ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ grateful that his voice remained even.