Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

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.

It was awkward for Cowley to back and turn the car the way he had parked, and there were a lot more photographs before he could regain M Street. Before they reached the traffic lights Johannsen said: ‘What about a drink? We’ve been six hours on the go and missed lunch, for Christ’s sake!’

Johannsen’s hostility had practically disappeared, and Cowley did not want to resurrect it. The decision was made for him as he turned right on to M Street and saw the vacant meter; they crossed back to Nathans before the lights changed.

‘What’ll it be?’ invited Johannsen.

‘Club soda. Lime wedge,’ said Cowley.

Johannsen frowned. ‘You don’t drink?’

‘Wrong metabolism,’ evaded Cowley. There’d been a couple of slips since he’d gone dry, but it was rarely a problem any more. Oddly, it was now. He practically salivated at the thought of the taste, the taste of anything, beer or whisky, whatever would give that hit, that warm, comfortable, relaxing feeling spreading up from his stomach. He moved as far away from the bar as he could, to the ledge fronting out on to the street. The lime soured the soda Johannsen handed to him.

‘You know something that surprised me?’ demanded Johannsen. He was drinking Jack Daniels, straight, over ice: Cowley could smell it further along the ledge.

‘What?’

‘There weren’t any questions from the Russians about it being a hit. Not serious questions. Pavlenko used the word murder and said it was bestial, but he didn’t press when you said you didn’t know why Serov was shot in the mouth. He just let it go.’

‘The mouth wound doesn’t have the significance in Russia that it has here.’

‘They were being told the significance from dawn, on every radio station! And every television station. And every newspaper. Wouldn’t you have expected them to be a damned sight more curious?’

‘Yes,’ conceded Cowley.

Johannsen took a long pull at his drink, and Cowley watched the other man’s throat move as he swallowed. The detective said: ‘I liked the way you fucked him over the photograph.’

‘We’re going to need the best we can get. With Raisa in Moscow, he pretty definitely ate around here somewhere.’