Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

Surely the preliminary groundwork had been started, thought Danilov, growing more shocked. ‘What’s the early forensic report say?’

‘We’re still awaiting it,’ said Metkin. ‘We’re searching both river banks, upstream, to find where the body went in.’

‘We haven’t a forensic report after more than forty-eight hours!’ Metkin hadn’t properly organised the investigation! It would explain why he had tried to close him out of any discussion and asked more questions than he’d offered answers: the incompetent fool didn’t have anything to offer!

‘I’ve demanded priority,’ Metkin shrugged and looked with exaggerated apology to Cowley, inviting professional sympathy. ‘Why is it that scientists always complain of overwork?’

‘Has the area where the body was found been dredged?’ pressed Danilov relentlessly.

Metkin’s face was blazing. ‘There was difficulty getting a suitable vessel. It’s beginning today.’

Why had the idiot insisted on getting personally involved, so blatantly exposing his inadequacies! Danilov’s contempt for Metkin had until now been more for his suspected compromises and corruption than for the level of the man’s intelligence. On this showing Metkin didn’t possess either intelligence or cunning. Danilov felt oddly discomfited. Which was odd. Why should he feel any sympathy – discomfiture most of all – for Anatoli Nikolaevich Metkin? Certainly not for Metkin. His feeling was for a department he should have been heading and which, if he had been its director, would not be displaying this sort of ineptitude.

Nodding to the American, but speaking to Metkin, he said: ‘Mr Cowley has to report back to Washington. We don’t have anything official – no scientific assessment apart from the wound sequence – to offer? Is that right?’

Metkin’s colour had not subsided. ‘It is being prepared. It will have to be translated into English, of course.’

Despising himself – although not much – for manipulating the American’s involvement, but determined to gain the maximum advantage over someone he knew would have shown him no mercy, Danilov said to Cowley: ‘Do you want a translation? Or would you prefer the original?’

‘The original,’ replied Cowley, as Danilov knew he would.

‘That should speed things up, shouldn’t it?’ persisted Danilov.

‘I will send as much as possible to the embassy before the end of the day,’ undertook the crumple-faced Metkin.

Speaking to Cowley, and very obviously taking over control of the encounter, Danilov said: ‘I might bring it myself.’

Metkin didn’t object or argue. Instead, appearing anxious to escape, he said: ‘I think we’ve covered everything, up to date.’

There was an almost visible collective relaxation when the three men reached Danilov’s elongated room, further along the corridor. Danilov asked Ludmilla Radsic to find a third chair for Cowley – for a brief moment believing she was going to refuse to leave the room – but didn’t immediately speak when she went out, unsure exactly what to say.

It was Cowley who spoke first. ‘I don’t understand what was going on back there. I don’t want to know, necessarily: it may be none of my business. It only becomes my business if the investigation is endangered.’

‘I hope it won’t be,’ said Danilov, deciding against any further explanation. As the woman re-entered with the chair he reverted to English. ‘If I feel it might, we can discuss it.’

Cowley hesitated. Then, pointedly, he said: ‘The moment it becomes a problem, OK?’

‘My word,’ assured Danilov.

Presciently, looking between the two Russians, Cowley said he guessed they had things to talk about and he had to touch base at the embassy and would stay there until Danilov called. Seeing the opportunity, Danilov insisted he and Pavin would check the American into the Savoy first. Neither tried to get out of the car when they got there, and Cowley didn’t seem to expect it.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ demanded Danilov, when he was finally alone with Pavin. ‘That was a farce in Metkin’s office!’

‘It’s been a farce from the beginning,’ complained Pavin. ‘When Ignatov’s body was found, Metkin summoned everyone to a conference in the squad room. But no decisions were made. He had me give a verbal report of what had come back from America – he’s convinced you’re withholding things, incidentally – but virtually none of the normal procedures for a murder investigation was started. After the conference, Metkin stayed for hours in his office with just Vladimir Kabalin. The first day was lost. There is a rumour in the squad room there was a call from the Interior Ministry, but I don’t know from whom or what was said. But it was only afterwards that any sort of proper investigation began. Kabalin was appointed investigating officer: he’s using Aleksai Raina as his scene-of-crime officer. Nothing has come for me to co-ordinate with what we’ve got from America.’

Danilov snorted, gesturing Pavin to pull in to the side of the road. ‘I still don’t understand why Metkin exposed himself like that. It was ridiculous.’

‘We only had a few hours’ warning that Cowley was coming back with you. That seemed to change everything.’

And could explain a lot more. If he had returned from America by himself, the obvious failings of the investigation could very easily have been manipulated to make him the incompetent. As it was, Metkin had became ensnared in his own trap. ‘He still shouldn’t have risked it.’

‘He’ll have realised that by now. It would have been better left with Kabalin: made him look the fool.’

Danilov twisted in the seat, to face his assistant. ‘You think Metkin could know something about the Serov business? This is where it all begins, here in Moscow. It has to be!’

Pavin considered the question seriously, slowly shaking his head, although not in outright rejection of the idea. ‘I can’t see how. Not with Serov in America. About Ignatov…’ He shrugged. ‘I doubt it would be a personal knowledge of the man himself. About the Ostankino Family, it’s possible. In Moscow anything’s possible, if it’s illegal.’

‘Those rumours in the squad room, about the call from the Interior Ministry? What about a name? Rank even?’

Pavin shook his head again. ‘No ministry name. But it’s generally accepted he’s got special friends outside: the inference is obvious, from the way he and Kabalin specialised before the promotion, that whoever they are, they’re high in some organisation. Again, no names.’

‘Not even a suggestion of a Family?’

‘Not even that it is a Family. My own guess is that it must be, so why not the Ostankino?’

He had to guard against being misdirected by his personal feelings. ‘Maybe I’m looking too hard.’ Accepting it was a task roughly similar to trying to find Paulac’s entry documents if he’d visited Moscow, Danilov nevertheless offered Pavin the single-sheet note Leonid Lapinsk had mailed before blowing his head off. ‘None of these three names have surfaced so far. I don’t know their significance, but they must mean something. Try criminal records first, then government employment registers. Don’t put them into the files: they’re not part of the investigation.’

‘You find them in Washington, too?’

Danilov remained silent. If he disclosed the source and the three were later found to be criminals, a dead Director whom he’d admired would be tainted by association. ‘I just want them checked.’

‘ Did we get copies of everything you sent back to the Ministries from America?’ demanded Pavin.

‘Absolutely,’ insisted Danilov.

‘Why send Serov’s things direct to the Foreign Ministry?’ queried Pavin. ‘I would have thought they would have justified a closer examination back here than it was possible for you to make while you were there.’