In the Name of a Killer cad-1

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘No,’ said Danilov. He’d resolved multiple killings where a mother or a father or some other relation had destroyed a family, but nothing within the terms the American had described. He had a vague feeling of inadequacy at not recognizing the phrase ahead of the explanation. He couldn’t believe these were the beginnings of Russia’s first experience of such a crime, but recognized it gave a further cause for all the panic and confusion that Lapinsk and the Federal Prosecutor and the Ministries were showing.

  ‘Serial murders are the worst, detection-wise,’ offered Cowley. ‘Routine rarely works. You can only hope for some scientific break, to lead you in the right direction. Or a mistake by the guy himself, so you catch him red-handed.’

  ‘I’ve already accepted another one is inevitable.’

  ‘What about publicity?’ asked Cowley, following routine that did apply.

  The Russian’s misapprehension was slightly different this time, because of his recollection of General Lapinsk’s preoccupation that morning with a press conference. Danilov said: ‘I understand it has been very extensive, in the West. There’s been quite widespread coverage here, too …’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ Cowley broke in. ‘Suzlev’s killing was obviously maniacal: the girl’s killing is confirmation, if any were needed. So what about public warnings, through the media?’ Again the American conceded the possibility of offence and again was unconcerned.

  Danilov looked down upon his desk for several moments, thinking before he spoke. ‘It was a conscious decision, to withhold the Suzlev killing, because it was obviously the act of someone deranged …’ The Russian smiled, apologetically. ‘… Our press is much freer now but it is still possible to control if there’s sufficient reason. And in this case there was judged to be sufficient reason, to avoid unnecessary alarm …’

  ‘… Unnecessary …!’ Cowley tried to break in, incredulous, but Danilov raised his hand, stopping the interruption.

  ‘… I obviously believed there was a stronger consideration when Ann Harris was killed, clearly by the same person …’

  ‘… Then why not …’ Cowley came in again, determined upon the definite criticism.

  ‘From the moment of identifying Ann Harris I have been constantly reminded of the political delicacy of the case,’ Danilov pointed out, and this time stopped without Cowley’s interruption.

  ‘So?’ demanded the FBI agent.

  ‘Ann Harris was killed after leaving her apartment, where she’d entertained a lover. You’ve read the forensic report on that apartment. There’s no trace — literally not a single fibre of evidence — of any Russian presence whatsoever …’ Danilov halted again, for further emphasis. ‘But missing from it is a knife which conceivably could have been the weapon which killed her. And also killed Vladimir Suzlev.’

  ‘I don’t see …’ began Cowley but then hesitated, because he did. ‘An American! Someone attached to the embassy!’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, at this stage. I just want the doubt eliminated. And until it is — if it is — then it might be better, certainly from the political aspect, not to put out sensational stories about maniac murderers on the streets of Moscow.’

  ‘Politically, perhaps,’ Cowley accepted reluctantly. ‘As a law officer, no. There is a maniac out there somewhere, killing people. In America, there would be a public warning.’

  ‘This isn’t America,’ Danilov pointed out. ‘And are you absolutely sure about there being a public warning in America if there were sufficient political reasons for it being temporarily withheld?’

  Cowley weighed the question. ‘Almost every time,’ he qualified.

  ‘My Director is preparing a press conference, particularly for the Western media but obviously Russian journalists will attend as well,’ disclosed Danilov. ‘I’m prepared to recommend a warning announcement if you’re prepared to go along with it as well. You can decide.’

  Cowley gave another shift of discomfort on the tiny chair, aware, without rancour, how the responsibility had been manoeuvred. ‘Maybe I’d better consult. Set out all the circumstances.’

  ‘I think that might be wise.’

  Cowley was thinking of that morning’s discussion with the ambassador and of the man’s reaction to the slightest suggestion that someone at the embassy might be involved. ‘I feel I should thank you, for the forethought.’

  ‘There’s a lot to come from your embassy, about the sort of girl Ann Harris really was,’ Danilov reminded.

  The American regarded him curiously. ‘You making a special point?’

  ‘At the embassy, when your people didn’t think I could understand what was being said, there was a peculiar remark from Baxter. They were upset, of course. But Baxter said: “Why the hell was she like she was; you know what I’m saying.” I don’t know what he was saying: I’d like to.’

  ‘So would I,’ Cowley agreed. Could it be only the sort of independence that led her to refuse to live in the embassy compound? Or was there something more? The jetlag tiredness was pulling at him now but he was glad it had stayed at bay so long.

  ‘And particular names,’ continued Danilov. ‘In the month prior to her death, Ann Harris made sixteen telephone calls from her flat to Paul Hughes, her department head.’

  ‘Maybe I should clear the embassy inquiries out of the way tomorrow?’ suggested Cowley. If I can, he thought.

  ‘It might produce something,’ Danilov agreed.

  ‘We could always speak by telephone, if there’s the need.’

  Danilov nodded. ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Who’s Dick Tracy?’

  ‘What?’ Cowley was utterly bewildered.

  ‘Dick Tracy? Is he a person?’

  ‘A comic book detective. Always mixed up with a lot of dumb characters.’

  ‘Successful?’

  Cowley shook his head, still bewildered. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Dumb characters,’ reflected Danilov. ‘Quite accurate, really.’

  The FBI Director was considering a cable to Cowley, warning the agent of the possible arrival in Moscow of Senator Burden, when Cowley’s message arrived for him. Cowley had prepared the report with a digest of the important points superseding the fuller account, so Ross very quickly came to the Russian reasoning for not issuing a public media warning connecting the murder of Ann Harris with that of Vladimir Suzlev.

  Without bothering to read on, Ross got into immediate telephone contact with the Secretary of State. ‘We need to meet, as soon as possible. There could be a problem we didn’t ever imagine.’

  ‘Serious?’ asked Hartz, instantly worried.

  ‘If it turns out to be right, about twenty on the Richter scale,’ said the FBI chief. ‘And the Richter scale only goes up to ten.’

  ‘So you are involved?’ queried Pauline, hopefully.

  ‘Handling communications,’ qualified Andrews.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Pauline. ‘If it bothers you, I mean.’

  Andrews smiled across the meal table, ‘I’m not going to let it. I’ll do whatever Washington wants: they’re the people who have got to be impressed with the final outcome. Them and Senator Burden, our future President. This way I’m off the hook, if it stays unsolved. The responsibility will be entirely Bill’s, won’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Pauline, unsurely.

  ‘Bill’s really out on a limb here: I never properly realized it until last night, at the airport. If it goes down the tube, he goes with it.’

  ‘Perhaps it won’t stay unsolved,’ said Pauline, hopeful again.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Andrews.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cowley’s meeting with the ambassador mirrored that of the previous day: the same considerate welcome, the same inquiry after his comfort, the same excellent coffee served by the same broadhipped woman.

  Cowley sat in the oasis of calm diplomatic equanimity, speculating how it would all fall apart if he revealed to the
complacent man the unarguable connection between a murder of a drunken Moscow taxi driver and the killing of Ann Harris. Maybe the State Department would inform Hubert Richards, despite his specific overnight mesages to FBI headquarters that he be allowed to work on the embassy leads before any disclosure or alarm. Cowley supposed there would eventually be a complaint from the ambassador, for not being told. He was satisfied there were good professional reasons for withholding the link at the moment.

  Gently encouraging, Cowley said: ‘I’m curious, sir, if you’ve come up with anything: particularly about any male friend she might have had here at the embassy. That becomes even more important now: forensic examination of the apartment rules out it being a Russian she went to bed with on the night of her murder.’ Was it right, even to approach the ambassador first? It would be, if Richards gave him something positive. The man moved an ornate silver paperweight around the blotter on his desk and Cowley thought the ambassador’s colour was starting to grow.

  ‘Didn’t expect a girl like Ann to sleep with a Russian, did you?’ said Richards, pompously.

  ‘I don’t know what to expect at the moment,’ said Cowley. ‘I’m extremely anxious to find out who the man was.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said the ambassador, close to childlike shortness.

  ‘No one could give you any indication at all?’

  ‘None,’ insisted the diplomat. ‘Ann was a gregarious girl, well liked socially. But properly so, if you know what I mean. Postings here to Moscow are invariably accompanied, wives stationed with husbands.’

  ‘I do know what you mean,’ assured Cowley. ‘And I told you yesterday I’m not interested in morals or embarrassments.’

  ‘I have asked,’ Richards insisted, ‘I have been told of no one, married or otherwise.’

  The silly old fool was lying, guessed Cowley, angrily. But probably not lying directly. From his previous embassy postings Cowley had learned that diplomats avoided accusations of evasion or deceit by failing to discover unpalatable things: what they didn’t know they couldn’t impart. It was Cowley’s definition of diplomacy. It had been wrong, to bother with the ambassador first. ‘If a relationship within the embassy were to be discovered by the Russians — and if their investigation ended in what we would regard as the worst possible conclusion — any embarrassment would be compounded, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do not need that pointed out to me. Neither do I consider it worthy of a response.’

  ‘An American involvement would be better contained — better handled — by an American,’ Cowley persisted.

  ‘You are repeating yourself! And impertinently!’ said the other American.

  A very definite waste of time, Cowley accepted. It would even be pointless getting annoyed about it. ‘We are discussing a murder. The murder of someone with rather important connections.’

  ‘I will not have impertinence in my embassy, sir!’

  ‘Let’s hope, Mr Ambassador, that you don’t have a murderer, either.’

  Richards’s face was blazing. Through tight lips he said: ‘I have an extremely busy schedule. Is there anything else you feel it’s necessary for us to discuss?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ said Cowley. ‘But if you do hear something you will tell me, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Richards.

  Success of some sort, thought Cowley: he’d trapped a diplomat into telling a direct lie.

  Barry Andrews was at his window with the scrap-yard view when Cowley walked into the FBI office. Cowley’s overnight messages were lying on the man’s desk.

  ‘What the hell have we got here?’ Andrews demanded loudly. ‘You saying she’s the victim of a serial killer?’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘Jesus! The waves this is going to make!’

  ‘I haven’t told the ambassador. I don’t intend to, yet.’

  ‘Sure that’s wise?’

  ‘The bastard is snowing me. I’ve got to talk to people here at the embassy today and I’m going in cold: they can bullshit me all they like and I wouldn’t know it. So what about it, Barry? You tell me about Ann Harris. Someone’s got to.’

  Andrews shrugged, pouring them both coffee from the Cona machine by the window. ‘I told you already. Attractive girl. Knew she had Uncle Walt back home in Washington, playing short stop. Aloof. Nice enough kid, though.’

  ‘Barry, someone was fucking her! And it wasn’t a Russian because there wasn’t a trace of anything Russian in that apartment. So who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe it was somebody from another embassy: there’s fraternization with friendly allies, you know.’

  Cowley sighed. ‘In a letter the Russians took from her apartment, she calls life here a prison. I would have thought relationships would be pretty obvious to everyone.’

  ‘It’s not that enclosed.’

  ‘Tell me about Ralph Baxter,’ Cowley demanded.

  ‘Ralph? What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘I just want to talk to him. About something odd he said. So what about him?’

  Andrews sat with his coffee-cup held before him. ‘He’s OK. Baseball fanatic. High flier: already served a lot in Asia. If he had more friends in Washington, I guess he’d have his ambassadorship by now.’

  ‘He married?’

  Andrews nodded. ‘Nice girl. Jane. Great cook. She and Pauline swop recipes and techniques a lot.’ He smiled. ‘Pauline’s still the Goddess of the kitchen.’

  ‘Would Baxter have been screwing Ann Harris?’

  ‘Ralph!’ Andrews laughed, aloud. ‘I doubt it. Jane keeps those kitchen knives close to hand: poor little Ralphie is a much oppressed spouse. If Jane suspected he was waving it around, she’d cut his pecker off and put it in the stew.’

  ‘What about Paul Hughes?’

  Andrews put down his coffee-cup, to hold up shielding hands. ‘Let’s ease up a little here, Billie boy. I want to know what’s going on. I need to be filled in on a few things.’

  Cowley didn’t like being called Billie boy, but if he expected Andrews to help, he supposed he had to offer some explanation. ‘There appears to have been a lot of telephone contact between him and the girl.’

  ‘What’s so surprising about that?’ demanded Andrews. ‘She worked for him. Paul Hughes heads the economic unit here. Actually seems to like the place, if you can believe that! Ballet buff. My regular racquet ball partner in the embassy gym; he’s a hell of a player. Always needs to win, every time. Speaks pretty good Russian.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Angela. Their two kids are at school back home but Angela takes a kindergarten class for the young children who are with their folks here. She was a teacher originally, in Seattle.’

  ‘What about Hughes? He a special friend of the dead girl?’

  There was a gap, before Andrews replied. ‘They’d obviously be closer than Baxter: you think he was the guy in her apartment the night she died?’

  Cowley shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Did Ann Harris get involved with the social life of the embassy?’

  ‘She attended some things … national holiday celebrations, stuff like that. But she wasn’t at the club every night. Lived outside, of course: no way of knowing what she did away from the embassy.’

  ‘She never talked about it?’

  ‘Not to me. But then she wouldn’t. I didn’t know her that well.’

  ‘Who did? What about one of the women here? She have a particular friend among them?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘What about the scuttlebutt? Everyone must be talking about her, since the murder. What are they saying?’

  Andrews shrugged. ‘Nothing that helps, I don’t think. Everyone liked her. Can’t understand what she was doing out in the street, at that time of night; street muggings happen in Moscow, but not particularly in that area.’

  ‘What about Russian male friends? You ever hear her linked with a Russian man?’

  Andrews shook his head. �
�It’s not encouraged, for obvious reasons. Wasn’t there any lead, from what the Russians took out of her apartment?’

  ‘Nothing that amounts to a bag of beans,’ dismissed Cowley. ‘You know what I can’t understand? Everyone keeps telling me that she was Mary Poppins’s doppelganger. And I don’t think Ann Harris was that at all. I think Ann Harris could have gone into business designing bedroom ceilings, from looking up at so many.’

  Andrews shook his head again. ‘I still find it difficult to believe she was like that.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ralph Baxter’s office was on the same level as the ambassador’s and Cowley guessed the room had originally been virtually as big, possibly a minor reception chamber or annex. But it was partitioned now by ill-matched plasterboard into a series of smaller working areas, practical-sized suites with no wasted space. Baxter’s had a window, overlooking the ring road. The preventative glazing wasn’t as effective as in Richards’s office: the traffic noise intruded, as a low murmur. The sharply moving diplomat bounded across the room to greet Cowley. The man was in his shirt-sleeves but with the waistcoat of a charcoal-grey suit buttoned completely across a diet-hard body. He smiled openly, offered the predictable coffee, which Cowley declined, and asked what it was he could do to help, insisting if there was anything, anything at all, then he would do it. Cowley decided the man’s moustache was peculiar: it moved up and down when Baxter spoke but seemed strangely out of time with his upper lip, as if it were false and tenuously stuck on. Cowley couldn’t understand why the man wore it at all.

  ‘At least we’ve got the body returned. It’s already gone back,’ announced Baxter, as if declaring a personal achievement.

  ‘I heard it was being released,’ said Cowley. ‘I want to ask you about her. Did you know her well?’

  ‘As well as anyone, I suppose. A wonderful girl. Beautiful. An asset to the embassy. It’s a shocking, horrible thing to have happened.’

  ‘She seems to have impressed everyone the same way.’