In the Name of a Killer cad-1

by Brian Freemantle

Lapinsk sat examining him over a scrupulously clean desk for several moments, as if making a decision. Finally he uttered his bark-bark cough and said: ‘There are to be some changes.’

  So he was being removed. Danilov supposed it was inevitable after the American animosity and the absolute failure of any development, however unreal that expectation might have been. He still felt resentment. It was taking away the support for his fragile integrity, and the inner pride which that integrity had in turn provided. Not once since his untarnished, totally uncompromised transfer to Petrovka headquarters had he been taken off an inquiry. Some — although not many — had never been concluded. Others couldn’t ever be solved, because the criminal proved cleverer than he had been: blows to his pride, although rarely admitted. Whatever, he’d adjusted. So why was this bizarre, inexplicable case, file number M-for-Moscow 175, any different?

  Danilov, near to personal embarrassment, confronted the fact that this time it was more than integrity or pride. Maybe the reverse side of both. He’d wanted this case: ached for the chance thrust upon him. From those very first initial minutes in the wind-swept alley off Ulitza Gercena, Danilov had realized the opportunity. This could have been it. This could have been his unchallenged pathway to succeed Lapinsk: to earn the promotion and salary (with the official car!) and the interrupted privileges. But he’d pushed too hard: offended too many people in his anxiety, because he’d wanted too much. But still in proportion: material benefits, maybe, but the ambition had overwhelmingly been professional.

  Who would take over? Kanayev was the most likely successor, next in seniority: three failed fraud cases in the previous two years and Kanayev drove a gleaming new Volga. Petrukhin was another possibility, although two recent prosecutions had failed through casual evidence assembly, which was suspicious, although it probably wouldn’t affect any selection. Zabotin was an outsider: too eagerly impetuous but he’d won his cases and he didn’t even own a car. It didn’t really matter whoever it was: he’d help as much as he could whichever man was selected. Not that there was a lot to contribute: hardly anything, as he’d already admitted. At least he could spare them the routine of initial evidence assembly. He’d spend a day — perhaps two — handing over what he’d got, careful to avoid passing on his own possibly misleading impressions or guesses or even preconceptions. He smiled, trying to keep the obvious regret from the expression, and said: ‘Who?’

  Lapinsk’s face went beyond a frown, into a grimace. ‘Who?’

  ‘Is being assigned to take over?’

  The coughs came, like an engine reluctant to start. ‘There is to be no reassignment. You are to remain the investigator. But we have had to make political concessions. The decision has been taken, beyond the Foreign Ministry, to accept the American offer of technical and scientific assistance.’

  Danilov sat absolutely unmoving, trying to understand. There had to be more. ‘What else, beyond technical and scientific help?’

  ‘The American FBI have suggested a liaison officer.’

  ‘It becomes a joint Russian and American investigation?’ He hadn’t lost it! But what fresh dangers were being imposed upon him?

  ‘It’s judged necessary, politically,’ Lapinsk insisted. ‘And it’s to our advantage.’

  ‘The entire responsibility is no longer ours?’ anticipated Danilov.

  ‘Exactly!’

  Neither would a successful conviction be entirely his, either. Another balance was quick to settle. Nor would a dismal failure. There was very definitely an advantage, political or otherwise. ‘How is this liaison going to work?’

  Once again Lapinsk stared intently across the intervening desk, using the silence to make a point. ‘Absolutely,’ the Director insisted. ‘I want the attitudes of the past, whatever the causes, forgotten. I am ordering you — because I have been ordered myself to see that it happens — to cooperate completely. Everything shared: nothing withheld.’

  ‘Which includes Suzlev?’

  ‘Of course it includes Suzlev.’

  ‘Nothing like this has ever happened before,’ said Danilov, more to himself than the other man.

  ‘Never,’ agreed Lapinsk. ‘A successful investigation will be the most visible example yet of the bond between ourselves and the United States of America.’

  Danilov was momentarily silenced by the brutal cynicism. Ann Harris was no longer a pretty girl made ugly, the victim of a maniac. She’d become a political pawn, to be shifted around an international chessboard: roll up, roll up, here’s Ann Harris, snarling-in-death example of Russian/American cooperation. He said: ‘Yes.’ It was all he could manage for the moment.

  ‘It’s our protection,’ insisted the nervously coughing man. ‘I never thought we’d be this lucky.’

  ‘Yes,’ repeated Danilov. Stirring himself, he said: ‘Do we have a name: know who the liaison is going to be?’

  ‘Not yet. Just that he’s coming from Washington.’

  Danilov fully recognized, belatedly, that he has survived. And still had the opportunity to gain all the professional benefits and advantages he’d hoped to achieve. If the investigation trapped a killer. ‘I’ll do nothing to create problems,’ he assured his superior. He probably wouldn’t get a further chance.

  ‘One more problem,’ warned Lapinsk, in immediate confirmation of the unspoken thought. ‘That’s all it will take. One more mistake and it will be taken away from you. Everything. You might be allowed to remain in the department but effectively your career will be over. I won’t protect you any more: couldn’t risk protecting you any more.’

  Danilov decided he was a prepared and trussed sacrifice for any future difficulty or disaster. His mind stayed with one word — trussed — momentarily unable to recall where he had encountered it recently. And then he remembered. It had been the word used by Ann Harris’s economist friend in Washington, to describe what it was like to be the victim of bondage. Danilov decided he didn’t feel quite that helpless, not yet. Close, though.

  Larissa was annoyed and determined to show it, irritably shrugging off his first attempt to kiss her, slumping in the narrow hotel room chair that enclosed her like a protective cast so that the only way he could make any effective contact was to kneel at her feet, which he guessed was what she wanted. When he stretched up to kiss her from the ungainly kneeling position she again turned her head away from him.

  ‘I got here as soon as I could.’ He should really have gone back to his office to study the pathologist’s report. He hoped it would not be incomplete, forcing further contact with the childishly obstructive man.

  ‘I felt like a whore, hanging around the lobby!’

  She would have been in competition with a few other genuine professionals: Danilov had positively isolated three in the reception area, fifteen minutes earlier. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry. I warned you it was going to be a problem for me, these next few weeks.’

  She smiled down at him, with feigned reluctance, the beginning of forgiveness. ‘It’s cut down the time we’ve got together: they want the room back in an hour.’

  Two other hotel receptionists as well as Larissa were involved in affairs and had evolved the system for assignations in a city where there was no such thing as casual accommodation. One used a room awaiting occupation while the others ensured there was no interruption or premature registration by a genuine guest. With Novikov’s material to digest Danilov was glad there was a short time limit. He wondered, idly, who the bona fide occupants would be in an hour’s time. And what their reaction would have been to knowing what the room had been used for, immediately prior. Larissa allowed herself to be kissed properly at last, twisting in the chair to put her arms around his neck to pull him to her. His knees were beginning to hurt.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve missed you, too.’

  ‘How’s Olga?’

  He shrugged. ‘Like she always is.’ Larissa wasn’t neglected and untidy, like his wife. The receptionist’s suit was still crisp, with n
o stains anywhere, and the white shirt didn’t look as if it had been worn all day. She smelt fresh and perfumed and Danilov guessed she had prepared herself for him: her soft red lipstick was fresh and the eye-line was newly applied. On impulse he took one of her hands. The varnish matched the lipstick. He took off one of her shoes. Her toe-nails were painted, too, a slightly harsher colour than Ann Harris had used.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she frowned, artificially.

  ‘Nothing.’ He stayed with her foot cupped in his hand. What reason — what fetish — made the killer put the shoes neatly beside the shorn head?

  ‘I hate Yevgennie!’ she announced, with sudden vehemence. ‘I can’t bear him touching me any more.’

  ‘Does he touch you?’ Danilov felt a vague stir of jealousy, which was ridiculously hypocritical. Yevgennie was her husband: he had the right.

  ‘Sometimes. He wanted to last night but he was too drunk.’ She came forward on the chair, parting her legs around him as much as the tight skirt would allow. ‘He was boasting about knowing the Dolgoprudnaya, trying to impress me.’

  Organized crime was an unadmitted development of perestroika: the Dolgoprudnaya was the most powerful group, openly referred to as the Mafia family controlling northwest Moscow. There had been nothing like it in Danilov’s Militia days. ‘Your husband’s a greedy fool.’

  ‘You could officially report him, if you wanted to.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ Danilov had introduced Kosov to all his grateful black economy contacts before passing over control of the Militia district: it was the way the system worked. Eduard Agayans, the ebullient Armenian, had been the first. They’d drunk the brandy, as they always did. Agayans had winked and told everyone not to worry: he’d look after the newcomer. Kosov had smiled back, telling Agayans not to worry, either: that he’d continue the care he knew Danilov had shown in the past.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Larissa. You know why not.’

  ‘You could never be incriminated, not after all this time.’

  Danilov couldn’t remember telling her of his activities: he guessed her husband had. He said: ‘Nothing would happen: he’d pay off the investigation.’ It was a valid objection; there were probably more corrupt than honest policemen in Moscow.

  Larissa eased fully off the chair but stood very close to where he knelt, undressing for his enjoyment. ‘It would be so much better for us, if Yevgennie weren’t around.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about Yevgennie,’ said Danilov, thickly. Larissa was naked, her black wedge only inches from his face. She’d oiled herself there, planning what she wanted him to do.

  ‘So much better,’ she repeated, thrusting the scented feast for him to eat, which he did. It was good, which sex always was with Larissa. She made love with complete abandon and in every way, with no inhibitions, anxious to exchange every pleasure, arching beneath him when she finally climaxed in time with him. Danilov grimaced at the pain of her nails driving into his back, fearing she had marked him. He’d have to be careful, later. Danilov moved off her, propping himself on his side. Her look-at-me breasts sprouted proudly upright, demanding approval. Seeing him look Larissa said: ‘They’re yours.’

  Danilov kissed both nipples. ‘We have to go, soon.’

  ‘Your fault for being late that we can’t do it again.’

  Danilov wasn’t sure he could have done it again. Her hair, long and richly brown, was disordered on the pillow, framing her face. Abruptly remembering where she lived, he said: ‘How will you get home?’

  Larissa frowned. ‘Walk, of course. I always do.’

  It would mean her passing completely through the area where Vladimir Suzlev and Ann Harris had been murdered. ‘Don’t,’ he urged. ‘Take the bus. Or the metro. A taxi, even.’

  The woman brought herself up on her arm, to face him. ‘The buses and the metro will be crowded.’

  ‘The murder I’m working on. It’s bad. Quite near your area.’

  She became serious. ‘You mean I should be especially careful?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you.’

  ‘Shouldn’t there be a warning, in the newspapers or something?’

  Maybe he should discuss the matter of a public alert with Lapinsk. ‘Just be careful.’

  ‘You are going to catch him soon, aren’t you?’ demanded Larissa, smiling uncertainly. ‘He’s not going to get away? Roam the streets?’

  At the moment that was probably what he was doing, thought Danilov: roaming the streets, seeking another victim. ‘I’m going to catch him.’ It was a personal promise.

  ‘I’ll take a bus,’ she decided. Quickly, her mind butterflying, she said: ‘When we were at the cinema Olga suggested we all get together soon. Said we hadn’t done it for a long time.’

  This was how the affair with Larissa had grown: two Militia colleagues introducing their wives, dinners reciprocated in each other’s apartment, bribery-equipped flat compared to bribery-equipped flat, bored Larissa flirting, he first surprised, then flattered. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That it would be nice. It would, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danilov. He wasn’t sure that it would be.

  ‘I should clean your room.’ Valentina Yezhov was a big-bodied, domineering woman who had convinced herself her husband had deserted them through his shame at fathering a mentally disturbed son, which was not true. The man had come to detest her, during the marriage.

  ‘I’ve cleaned it myself. It’s all right.’

  ‘What have you got in there?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing,’ insisted Yezhov.

  ‘Why can’t I go in?’

  ‘I don’t want you to.’ In the hospitals nothing had been private, the nurses and the guards opening everything, poking into everything, as the fancy took them.

  ‘What do you do, when you go walking at night?’

  ‘Just walk.’

  ‘I don’t want any more trouble.’

  ‘I’m better.’

  She’d been foolish, not getting a duplicate of his bedroom key before giving it to him. ‘I’d just clean. I wouldn’t pry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Please don’t do anything silly again.’ The little-girl plea sounded odd, from such a big person.

  ‘I said I’m better!’

  Chapter Ten

  Danilov recognized this as continuing the familiar part of an investigation: the part where there was still so much to read and so much to assimilate but from which, hopefully, an inconsistency would suddenly flare up to illuminate a pathway, a brief light in the dark tunnel. At the moment he still felt enclosed in blackness.

  Already waiting for him when he got back to his office were the promised forensic findings and a sealed envelope upon which Pavin had written Telephone Log. There were additional notes from his assistant, reporting that the evidence room had been equipped as requested, all the evidence containers deposited there and every known room key in the building surrendered, to prevent unauthorized entry. The cleaners had also been warned off.

  To the line of documents already set out on the desk Danilov added the pathology report and sat for several moments staring down at it all, unsure where to begin. And then didn’t begin at all, not immediately. Olga responded on the third ring. He said he still had a lot to do and would be late. There was some bortsch she would leave on the stove, for him to heat if she was already in bed. He said he wasn’t hungry but agreed he might be, later. There had been a letter from the supplier, confirming their order for the Jiguli was still on record but there was not yet any date for the car’s delivery. The washing machine in the basement was repaired but two other women in the block were ahead of her: she wasn’t sure if she’d get the shirts done that night, but she was going to try. The film she had seen the previous night with Elena and Larissa had been good. Danilov said he was glad. The union restaurant afterwards had been good, too: she’d have to take him there sometime. Danilov s
aid he’d like that.

  ‘Got the murderer yet?’ The interest in Olga’s voice was about the same as her intonation when she’d discussed the soup she’d leave on the stove for when he got home.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘The taxi was expensive last night: nearly six roubles.’

  ‘I’m still glad you took it.’

  ‘If you used some influence like you did in the district we’d have our own car. Look how easy things seem to be for Yevgennie and Larissa. I’ve arranged an evening with them, by the way.’

  ‘I …’ started Danilov, unthinking. ‘Fine,’ he concluded.

  ‘At their flat. Not here.’

  ‘If you don’t want to do it, say so!’

  ‘I want to do it.’

  ‘I probably will be asleep when you get home.’

  The pathology account first, he decided: the Americans held a copy, so it was the likeliest source of immediate discussion. He had to be prepared. Danilov’s instant impression was that Novikov had rewritten and redrawn the entire report, after the warning the previous day of the victim’s identity. The presentation was faultless, with none of the written-over mistypings with which Novikov was normally prepared to let his documents be distributed. There were margin sub-headings, too, another innovation.

  Danilov was particularly careful to check the details of the wound against Novikov’s verbal account, convinced the man would have checked every note and supposition after learning of the American involvement. The depth of the wound was now given as nineteen and a quarter centimetres and the thickness wad qualified as just under five millimetres at the back of the knife but with minimal evidence of sideways cutting at the other edge, indicating extreme, easily entering sharpness. So as well as being sharply pointed the blade had been honed, as well. There was an abrupt change of opinion, needing another reminder pad notation, about the direction of the entry wound. During their conversation, Novikov had said the knife had entered in a slightly upwards trajectory. Now he stated categorically that having entered between the eighth and ninth rib, the wound graduated upwards to be a whole centimetre higher at the point of contact with the heart from the place of entry into the body. Danilov broke away, scribbling on his pad, noting beside it that Ann Harris had been one point six five metres tall and writing ‘killer height?’ and encircling it.