Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘Raisa? You got a file on them?’

‘He was a genuine diplomat.’

‘Who’s been killed by the Mafia, like genuine Russian diplomats are killed all the time!’ said Johannsen. ‘Wouldn’t it be good to screw Pavlenko further with a pocket diary among Serov’s stuff, detailing lots of scuttlebutt!’

‘I’d settle for a simple entry and a phone number.’

Johannsen finished his drink and put the empty glass pointedly on the ledge, Cowley had to wait several minutes in the crush at the bar, surrounded by people and glasses and the smells he remembered so well; he felt the perspiration prick out on his face.

When he got back, Cowley said: ‘I think you’re going to be proved right. It’ll be a miracle if anyone heard anything down there: certainly not enough to take them to a window, to look out.’

‘We as good as told you.’

‘Routine to be gone through,’ insisted Cowley.

‘On the subject of which,’ grinned Johannsen, ‘I think it would be a Christian act if I volunteered a little assistance to my regular partner ringing doorbells in one of those apartment blocks over there, don’t you?’

The man might instead tell Rafferty he’d just agreed it was a waste of time and call the door-to-door enquiries off, thought Cowley, but he was anxious to get out of the bar. ‘I guess he’d appreciate it.’

The telephone monitor registered a call when Cowley got into the Bureau car. He returned it without starting the engine.

‘Got something intriguing,’ said Harry Robertson, the scientific co-ordinator. ‘Looks like your Russian was shot dead with a Russian gun! How about that!’

There was no move to humiliate Danilov publicly until the day Leonid Lapinsk officially left. The old Director retired without any ceremony, merely touring the Petrovka building to say individual goodbyes. It was mid-morning when he reached Danilov’s cluttered and over-flowing office, separate from the general squad room because of Danilov’s seniority. Anatoli Metkin, the new Director, was at Lapinsk’s side.

Danilov guessed a lot of the other investigators would be watching from the communal room further down the corridor. There was nothing for him and Lapinsk to say to each other. They shook hands and wished each other luck. Danilov told the other man he deserved his retirement and Lapinsk said he was looking forward to it but knew already he would miss the job. Danilov said he personally would miss the other man and immediately wished he hadn’t when Metkin smiled, a gloating expression. Throughout the farewell, Lapinsk’s nervous cough seemed more pronounced than usual.

Metkin made no attempt to move when Lapinsk backed out into the corridor. The man appeared to be speaking to both of them when he said Danilov’s appointment represented an expansion of the Bureau, but Danilov took it as a confirmation of a larger audience he couldn’t see.

Turning more towards Danilov, Metkin looked around the office in which it was difficult to move for files and folders and reference books and box containers, which made the place look like an animal warren but was in reality Danilov’s own records system. He knew what every bundle and packet contained, and could retrieve material hours ahead of the proper basement archives. Metkin said: ‘This will no longer be your office. Kabalin is senior investigator now.’

Vladimir Nikolaevich Kabalin had been Metkin’s partner, allegedly specialising in organised gang crime, and had been another on Danilov’s now laughable purge list: Danilov wondered if Metkin would remain, with Kabalin, on the payroll of one or more of the gangs they were supposed to have investigated. There was no reason why they couldn’t double or treble their income now; with Kabalin as senior investigator and Metkin in ultimate charge, the rackets could continue uninterrupted and unchallenged.

‘Where will my office be?’ he asked.

‘It’s a problem,’ dismissed Metkin, enjoying himself. ‘We’ll have to find you somewhere. I want you in my office. An hour.’

The bastard was staging the performance to mock Leonid Lapinsk, whose protege he had been, Danilov realised; the outgoing Director stood head bowed in embarrassment, just occasionally looking towards the squad room. Danilov said: ‘So there’s nowhere for me to put my things?’

Metkin almost over-stressed the sneer. ‘Is there anything in this junk heap worth keeping?’

‘Things that are necessary to keep,’ insisted Danilov. How clever was Metkin: how really clever? This was juvenile.

Metkin shrugged. ‘They’ll have to be stored somewhere, until we can find accommodation for you. Don’t forget: an hour.’

As he looked helplessly around the room, Danilov was sure he heard laughter from along the corridor. He got up and started tidying the files to be carried away, but the fury was shaking through him and he did it carelessly, so the fresh piles began toppling and slipping, creating worse chaos. Danilov stopped, forcing control. He could not allow Metkin to reduce him to unthinking, unco-ordinated anger by a few minutes of arrogant, childish pantomime.

He looked up curiously at another noise from outside, not knowing what to expect, then smiled, relieved. Yuri Mikhailovich Pavin had been his partner, whenever Danilov had been able to manipulate the shifts, a plainclothes Militia major whose heavy, slow-moving demeanour belied the astute brain that made him, in Danilov’s opinion, the best scene-of-crime officer in the department.

‘Hear you’ve got to pack up,’ greeted Pavin. ‘Thought you might need help.’

Danilov saw Pavin had several cardboard boxes – a rarity like everything else in Moscow – gathered in a ham-like grip. ‘They can’t have been easy to get?’

‘Someone in stores owed me a favour.’

Pavin had never admitted how he supplemented his Militia salary, and Danilov had never enquired. Pavin moved towards the jumbled files. ‘Any particular order? Things to be kept in sequence?’

‘It’s got to be done by noon: I’ve been called before Metkin then. Just dump them in as they come: I’ll sort it out later.’

‘I’ve still got the key to the store-cupboard we used as the evidence room for the killings last year,’ said Pavin. ‘They’ll be safe there for a while. Not long, though.’

Danilov stopped packing, looking at Pavin in disbelief. ‘You think anyone will bother to upset these things?’

‘Yes,’ said Pavin. ‘You weren’t expected to take the job. They don’t want you here: you’re an intrusive nuisance, so everybody is going to do what they can to make it as uncomfortable as possible. Besides, these boxes are worth having.’

‘I’d be grateful for any warnings in advance,’ said Danilov, tentatively, and quickly added: ‘I don’t want to cause you any difficulty.’

‘I wouldn’t want that either,’ said Pavin honestly. ‘If I can safely help, I will.’

They had packed, although badly, and already carried six boxes to the store-room before Kabalin arrived. It took the man too long to clear his face of the surprise at the empty room and Danilov was glad he’d blocked the doorway, keeping Kabalin outside for the disappointment to be witnessed by the other watching detectives.

‘There’s only one bulb!’ protested Kabalin. The office was an inner one, with no window, so lights had to burn constantly: a wall socket and a desk lamp were empty, putting the room in semi-darkness.

‘You’ll have to get replacements from maintenance,’ advised Danilov. The average waiting time for light bulbs in Militia headquarters was six months, and then they could only be obtained for reciprocal favours. The bulbs hadn’t blown: they were in one of the first packing cases now in the locked closet to which Danilov had the only key. The light sockets wherever he was put would be empty, which made taking those from his old room a practical precaution, though Danilov regretted matching the childishness with which he was being treated.