Brian Freemantle: No Time for Heroes

‘I do not think so,’ insisted the Russian.

‘Why not?’

‘I was Petr Aleksandrovich’s immediate deputy. The conversations were between the two of us.’

‘He must have spoken to other people as well!’ challenged Johannsen, and Cowley thought he detected the beginning of a policeman’s belligerence at being given the runaround.

‘Not yesterday. There were only secretaries in the office, apart from Petr Aleksandrovich and myself. He would not have talked about any social event with them.’

‘Were you social friends as well as work colleagues?’

Pavlenko hesitated again. ‘Yes.’

‘So you would talk about social things?’ said Johannsen.

‘Not yesterday,’ refuted the Russian.

‘Would you have known if he was on an official engagement?’ The homicide detective was still polite, but only just.

‘There was nothing last night.’ There was the faintest sheen of perspiration on Pavlenko’s face.

Once again Cowley failed to hear all that passed between the two Russians, but he thought he caught Redin say neel’z’ah and wondered what it was Pavlenko had been warned he couldn’t or shouldn’t say.

‘So there is an appointments diary?’ pressed Johannsen. ‘We’d like to see that.’

Pavlenko stopped just before the angry rejection, breathing deeply. ‘It is unthinkable for you to examine official documentation belonging to the Russian embassy. I have told you there was no official function last night.’

‘We would also like to examine the apartment at Massachusetts Avenue,’ bulldozed Johannsen. ‘There could be some indication there of where he went.’

‘That’s equally ridiculous!’ refused Pavlenko.

Delicately, choosing each word, Cowley said: ‘You have Russian staff responsible for the security of your embassy facilities, just as we have marines at our embassy in Moscow. Would it be possible for us to provide a list of questions to which we need answers – like, for instance, any diary entry or note at the Massachusetts Avenue apartment – for your own officials to answer for us?’

Pavlenko hesitated, glancing sideways at the other Russian, but without any muffled conversation said: ‘No. I do not think so.’

‘There are many routine enquiries for us to make,’ said Cowley. ‘Particularly around the Georgetown district in which he was found. It would help if you could supply a reasonably up-to-date photograph to be duplicated and carried by officers conducting street enquiries.’

‘I am not sure any are available,’ said Pavlenko.

Cowley sighed, careless of the frustration showing, no longer concerned at Johannsen’s aggression. Pavlenko was being openly obstructive: standard Russian suspicion, or something more?

‘A photograph was officially supplied for Petr Aleksandrovich’s visa application,’ he said. ‘If there is none more current we will use that.’

Pavlenko’s face twitched at losing the exchange. ‘I will enquire of our personnel division.’

‘There will be need for us to speak again.’

‘Tomorrow,’ insisted Pavlenko, trying to turn the demand against the American. ‘To agree the release of the body and effects.’

‘To discuss further co-operation between us,’ corrected Cowley. The vaguest suggestion of an idea came to him. Just as quickly, he dismissed it. He was letting himself fall into nostalgia.

‘Jesus!’ exploded Johannsen, within seconds of the door closing behind the Russians. ‘If they’re all as awkward as that bastard, maybe we aren’t dealing with a Mafia killing at all. Maybe whoever popped Serov just got fed up waiting for the son-of-a-bitch to say something that made sense! I thought we were all supposed to be on the same side now!’

‘Some don’t believe it as much as others,’ said Cowley. ‘I want you to do something. I’ll get State to run a check on every diplomatic affair the night of the killing…’

‘… So we can check every one to see if Petr Aleksandrovich Serov attended,’ cut in Johannsen, in a groan.

‘Right. And we’ll trawl wider. He was the senior cultural attache: there’d be invitations to all sorts of exhibitions and art events that wouldn’t be on any State Department sheet. They’ll all need to be checked out. According to our files, he enjoyed the party scene.’ He could probably shorten the search by going over the Bureau monitoring log, even though Serov wasn’t on any Watch rota: it was still automatic to flag the attendance of a Russian if one were identified.

‘Why bother!’ demanded Johannsen. ‘Those guys don’t give a shit about catching whoever did it. Why should we bust our asses?’

‘I don’t envy you guys,’ said Brierly.

‘I don’t envy us either,’ said Johannsen, with feeling.

They drove directly from the mortuary to the scene of the murder. As they turned off M Street on to Wisconsin, towards the river, Johannsen began identifying the unmarked cars of the detectives carrying out the house-to-house enquiries.

‘Are they going to be pissed off, having to wait around long into the evening!’

‘I wish there was another way,’ said Cowley, meaning it.

Because the bottom of Wisconsin Avenue was sealed off, he parked against the tape and the stripped trestles. Cowley showed his shield and Johannsen automatically attached his badge to the top pocket of his jacket. There was a hard core of onlookers with a new street entertainment and some waiting-just-in-case journalists and photographers and two television crews. Cowley and Johannsen were through the barriers before they were spotted: they ignored the yells to attract their attention, and the one TV light that flared on.

An area about twelve square yards around where the body had been found was completely enclosed in protective polythene, creating a tent that concealed them from the media, occupied by about ten technicians, either in white or in light blue protective cover-alls. Two were manhandling a huge, generator-powered vacuum machine, sucking everything from the ground behind a squad carrying out an inch by inch visual search ahead of them. After the vacuum, more men were designating the area already scoured with rectangles of tape, like an archaeological dig. Cowley supposed in many ways it was. The chalked outline showing the position in which Serov’s body had been found was unnecessary: a good half of the shape of the torso was marked with thick gouts of blood.

To one technician who appeared temporarily to be doing nothing Cowley said: ‘Anything?’

The man indicated the vacuum. ‘It’ll take days to go through that. But we did find a shell casing, quite early this morning. That’s already back at headquarters; Harry Robertson took it himself. You know him?’

Cowley nodded. ‘Nothing else?’

‘DC forensic retrieved a slug last night, under what was left of the poor bastard’s head. Flat as a dime was the word.’

‘Any tyre marks?’

The man gestured generally. ‘Take your pick. At night this place is a goddamned parking lot. We’ve got more casts than General Motors.’

At the entrance to the makeshift tent Cowley hesitated, looking back to where the body had been, relating it to the nearest buildings. Overhead there was the constant thunder of cars along the freeway. A lot of detectives were going to waste their time long into the night, trying to locate anyone who might have heard anything.

A media reception committee was waiting immediately beyond the barrier. There were flashgun bursts and television lights and a babble of questions, to all of which Cowley and Johannsen shook their heads as they waded through. One reporter said to Cowley: ‘Hey, don’t I recognise you?’ Cowley shook his head to that, as well.