‘Is that when you smelled the tobacco on his breath?’
‘It wasn’t on his breath,’ she contradicted at once.
‘But you said …’ started Danilov, and then stopped, because she hadn’t said: she’d told them of smelling tobacco and he’d assumed it was on the attacker’s breath. ‘How, then?’ he finished.
‘It was an all-over smell, not like it is when it’s on a person’s breath: then it’s sort of directed, isn’t it? Concentrated?’
Danilov nodded, although he was not sure he completely understood. ‘And you’re still sure about the clammy hands?’
Lydia shivered, but halted quickly. ‘That was the worst part, except for the pain. The way his hands were. Unnatural. That and the sound …’
‘What sound?’ This second visit might be as useful as the one to the taxi driver’s widow.
Lydia frowned, slightly turning her head the better to look at him. ‘I told you about the sound.’
‘You said he grunted, when you lashed out at him. Hit him in the chest.’
‘No,’ said the woman, although not positively arguing. ‘There was a hum. Not at first. Like I said, I didn’t hear anything at first. Didn’t know he was behind me. But when I came to on the ground, he was humming.’
‘Humming! Like a tune, you mean?’
‘No,’ insisted Lydia. ‘Not an actual tune. Just a sound, in his throat. The sort of noise people sometimes make without knowing it when they concentrate. That’s how the grunt came about, I suppose. My hitting him just made the hum louder, for a moment.’
Danilov pressed even closer: her breath still smelled badly. ‘Now think, Lydia Markovina! This is extremely important. The hum, the sound, however you like to think of it. Could you detect anything about an accent; anything that might have been a word, even? Was it Russian? Or something else? Think! Think before you answer!’
The frown came again. She considered the question, as he’d demanded. Then she said: ‘I can’t say. It was just a sound, moaning as much as humming. No words. No accent …’ She smiled, shyly, and deep in her throat made a sound which Danilov thought more of a groan than how she’d described it. ‘Something like that,’ she said.
Small things, decided Danilov: small things that might fit into a bigger whole, if ever they got to the man. ‘You said, before, that you couldn’t make out his features when he leaned over you. Is that so? Nothing has come to you since, about how he looked? Anything about his face?’
‘He wasn’t big, not like your friend. Nothing about his face. It was always in the dark.’
Danilov straightened, from bending forward, feeling the strain in his back. ‘We’ll leave it now,’ he said. ‘We might come back again.’
‘The nurse said he was a murderer. That he’s a maniac and that he’s killed other people.’
‘Yes,’ said Danilov.
She gave a pained shudder. ‘So I’m lucky not to be dead too?’
‘But you’re not,’ said Danilov, not wanting her to become fixated on her escape. ‘That’s why I want you to go on thinking of anything that might help me catch him.’
‘Boris said you took all my clothes.’
‘To be examined. There might be evidence.’
‘He will be caught, won’t he?’
‘Yes,’ assured Danilov. But possibly not by me, he thought.
Danilov decided that during the day it wasn’t necessary to take the windscreen wipers off: even at night he felt ridiculous doing it and still sometimes pinched his fingers. There was instant recognition when he named Kosov. A smiling manager escorted him to a room to the right. It was easy to isolate the foreigners — tourists and businessmen and possibly diplomats — but Danilov just as easily picked out the self-favouring Russians proving themselves an elite. Kosov was in the centre of the room, displaying himself more favoured than most by being at a table capable of seating four. Danilov was early and suspected Kosov had arrived even earlier so as to play the considerate, attentive host. Danilov would not have really been surprised if Kosov had worn his uniform, but he hadn’t. The blue-striped suit was well cut and clearly Western-made, the coordinated blue shirt crisp and fresh; without positively thinking of the action, Danilov shrugged his cuffs back beneath the sleeves of his jacket. Kosov stood effusively to shake his hand and remained standing while Danilov seated himself. There was a diminishing bottle of vodka already on the table; unasked Kosov poured Danilov a full measure, raising his own glass in a toast. Danilov responded, self-consciously. Kosov demanded they get the ordering over, insisting that the schi was the best cabbage soup in Moscow and recommending the smoked sturgeon to follow. Danilov agreed to both. Kosov offered the wine list, saying there was a selection of both Californian and French, as well as Georgian. Danilov refused to choose, saying he didn’t mind. Kosov chose a French Beaujolais: 1983 had been a good year, he declared.
Kosov topped up their vodka glasses and said: ‘There’s quite a fuss, over the Senator?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there a cover-up? Something we don’t know about?’
Had he been trapped into this meeting to pass on gossip with which Kosov could impress his doubtful friends? ‘Not at all. There was a line of inquiry that it suited us not to make any announcement about before we did. The Senator likes seeing his own picture on television too much.’
‘What line of inquiry?’
‘It came to nothing.’
There was the slightest of pauses, at the avoidance. ‘It will be awkward if the man really does say something in the American Congress: I heard him threaten it on television.’
‘That’s the concern of politicians,’ said Danilov, wanting to get to the point of their being in the restaurant. ‘Mine is to find the man who’s doing the killing. Or trying to find him. You said you had something?’
Kosov smiled, refusing to be hurried. ‘I have special friends,’ he said.
‘You told me.’
‘This could never be evidence, you understand? They won’t cooperate like that.’
‘Just let me have the guidance.’
‘These friends of mine employ a lot of people. Particularly to drive around Moscow, servicing outlets.’
Danilov knew at once the man was talking about black-market deliveries guaranteed by Kosov against interruption by any curious Militia. Which was precisely what he’d once done for a grateful Eduard Agayans. Could the informant even be Agayans? It was possible: maybe more than possible. ‘Late at night?’ he suggested, wanting to show his awareness.
‘The best time,’ smiled Kosov, enjoying the exchange. ‘That request you made, a few days ago, referred to a particular area?’
‘Yes?’
‘These drivers are talking about someone they see in that area, late at night. Someone who always seems anxious not to be seen. Ducks into doorways or alleys when the lorries or vans get close.’
Danilov held back the sigh. How many people were there likely to be in a city of ten million people unwilling to attract attention at night? ‘A man?’
Kosov nodded. ‘Always the same route, according to my people. Gorky Street …’ He hesitated. ‘Or Tverskaya, if you want to be a strictly accurate policeman after the street renaming. He’s seen a lot on Gercena, which is close to where the American woman was killed, isn’t it? On the ring road, linking the two: my people use the ring road a lot. And Granovskaya.’
My people, picked out Danilov. Who was the more beholden to whom, Kosov to the Mafia or the Mafia to Kosov? Danilov was fairly sure he knew the answer. ‘What’s he look like?’
Kosov shrugged. ‘Average height, apparently. At this time of the year he wears a woollen ski hat. And a padded jacket, against the cold.’
The winter wear of practically every one of those ten million Muscovites, reflected Danilov. Yet the description could tally with the vague account given of her attacker by Lydia Orlenko. He began his cabbage soup: it was as good as Kosov promised. ‘What about facially?’
‘Hides
away.’
It didn’t — couldn’t — amount to any more than the dozens of suggestions about mysterious or suspicious people reported from the other Militia stations which had already been examined and rejected by his disgruntled street teams. It would be wrong, however, to be dismissive just because the information had been given inflated importance by a man performing as Kosov was; he’d have Pavin brief the street teams about this one, to be checked out like all the rest. ‘I’ll circulate it,’ he said.
‘Already done, among my people,’ said Kosov, using the phrase again.
‘Militia people? Or your special friends?’ The Beaujolais was as good as the soup.
The assured grin came back. ‘Both,’ said Kosov. ‘If the drivers see him wandering about, I’m going to be told. If they can, they’ll grab him.’
Danilov sat with his wineglass suspended in front of him. ‘I don’t think I like that!’ he protested. ‘What right have they got? That’s vigilante stuff.’
Kosov’s grin became an expression of surprise. ‘What the hell do rights matter? You’re hunting a maniac: giving public warnings to women to keep off the streets! You worry about rights and niceties, trying to find a man like that? All they’ll do is hold him until I get there. Or one of my officers does …’ There was another shrug. ‘If he has got an explanation, then fine. If not, you’ve got your man.’
Just like in the video movies, thought Danilov. He was deeply uncomfortable, positively reluctant, at the idea of unofficial posses made up of black-market delivery men. But they did crisscross the streets of Moscow, covering more ground and seeing more than a lot of Militia or army patrols. And Kosov was correct: he was hunting a maniac. ‘That’s all they’ll do? Hold him until the arrival of the proper Militia?’
Kosov’s smile returned, at the obvious concern. ‘I told you at the beginning, they don’t want to get deeply involved. Can’t get deeply involved. Isn’t this sturgeon magnificent?’
‘Very good,’ agreed Danilov. He couldn’t directly forbid Kosov’s arrangement in any case.
‘When are we going to make an evening together again?’ demanded the other man.
‘Soon,’ said Danilov, unenthusiastically. ‘I’ll get Olga to arrange it.’ Larissa was on the afternoon shift again. He could go straight from lunch to the Druzhba Hotel. But he wasn’t going to, although he guessed Larissa would have been amused by his going to her after lunch with her husband. Certainly she’d be expecting him to contact her.
‘Television fixed yet?’
‘Not yet.’ Danilov’s more pressing concern was the washing machine. If they had a replacement for their own they wouldn’t be reliant any more upon the communal basement facility, which was rarely a facility at all.
‘Don’t forget what I said about introductions to people,’ urged Kosov. ‘You introduced me once: why can’t I do the same for you?’
‘I won’t forget,’ said Danilov. What place did professional integrity have, if he could even think, as he had done only minutes earlier, of going to Kosov’s wife directly after eating with the man? Very little. Wasn’t he posturing and performing, just as much as Kosov? Maybe even worse. At least Kosov was honestly corrupt, if that wasn’t too much of a paradox. The man wasn’t a cheating hypocrite, which was how Danilov was coming to regard himself.
There was small-talk about the Kosovs’ planned foreign holiday, interspersed by the man’s repeated efforts, which Danilov avoided, to learn why the public warning about the maniac killer had been delayed. At the end of the meal Kosov paid from a thick bundle of American dollars, which, if the currency legislation were strictly interpreted, it was illegal for him to possess. They parted with Kosov promising news very soon of the mystery wanderer and Danilov telling the man to be careful, although he was not quite sure what he intended the warning to mean.
Danilov did not drive directly back to Militia headquarters. Instead he took a widely sweeping route that took him part of the way along Vernadskaya and past the Druzhba Hotel where he knew Larissa would be working and probably waiting for him. But still with no intention of stopping. He looped on to Leninskii Prospekt, quite close to the offices where the taxi driver’s widow worked, to go by the premises from which Eduard Agayans controlled the majority of his activities. Danilov slowed, gazing at the once familiar block, and on impulse went into the slip road to stop completely. The block was smeared with street dirt and looked locked and unused. But that was always how it had appeared when he was cooperating with the black marketeer. Behind that boarded, shuttered front Danilov knew there would be foreign-made television sets that didn’t flicker and fade. And laundry machines that spun clothes almost dry, after washing. There would be no question of Agayans forgetting him, any more than he’d forgotten the florid-faced Armenian and the brandy ritual before any meeting. Wasn’t it time to stop being the hypocrite? To become like any other Russian, even Russian policemen? Urgently, annoyed at having made the tempting detour, Danilov re-started the engine, hurrying out into the traffic to get back to his office. Not yet: he wasn’t ready to give in yet.
At Petrovka he told Pavin of the sighting in Kosov’s district, without disclosing the unofficial detention help that had been proposed. He didn’t tell his assistant about the possibility of losing the investigation to the Cheka, either. Pavin said he was still checking out the query from the press conference. When Pavin said there was nothing worthwhile from any of the psychiatric institution enquiries, Danilov said: ‘Let me see all the discounted reported. I want to go through them personally.’
Pavin nodded. It would probably be a good idea. None of those he’d read himself showed the sort of inquiry that should have been made, the resentment at being assigned the job virtually obvious from every page.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ said Danilov. ‘How did you manage to replace those stolen windscreen wipers as quickly as you did?’
‘Took them off another police car,’ said Pavin. ‘How else?’
‘The only way,’ Danilov agreed. Another Moscow realist, like so many others, he recognized; so many others except himself.
‘What’s going to happen to us?’
Paul Hughes looked impatiently at his wife. ‘The question doesn’t make sense. What can happen to us?’
‘Why are you being recalled?’
‘I told you. For consultations. That’s not surprising, is it? Ann Harris was a member of my staff.’
‘I don’t see why you’ve got to go all the way back to America. Why couldn’t it be done by letter? Or report?’
‘I don’t know either,’ said the man, looking up from his packing. ‘You know the sort of waves someone like Burden can create: it’s got to be something to do with that nonsense at his press conferences.’
‘Were you sleeping with Ann Harris? Doing things to her I won’t let you do to me any more?’
‘Stop it, Angela!’
‘Were you? I want to know!’
‘I’ll get to see the children, before I come back. You want me to tell them anything, from you?’
‘Nothing I haven’t written, every week since we’ve been here. So you were fucking her? Hurting her? Did she like it? Was she braver than me?’
‘I can’t see my being away for much more than three or four days. A week at the most. Anything you want me to bring back?’
‘How do you know it will be a week? How do you know you will be coming back at all?’
‘Don’t be stupid! If I were being permanently recalled you would have been included as well. This is what the message said. Just consultations.’
‘Did you kill her?’
Hughes turned from the bed on which his half-packed suitcase lay, fully to confront his wife. ‘You know damned well I didn’t! What the hell’s wrong with you?’
‘I’m frightened! That’s what the hell’s wrong with me! And I think I’ve got good reason.’
‘I’m not the phantom maniac! If you don’t believe me about Ann Harris, what about the Russian woman? You kno
w for a fact I couldn’t have carried out that attack. So I can’t be involved with any of it.’
She stood regarding him steadily for a long time. Then she said: ‘Perhaps it would be a good idea for me to go back to the States, whatever happens.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You know as well as I do. Maybe better.’
‘This is an accompanied post, for married men.’
‘I think I’m through doing things for your career.’
‘Wait until I get back here. So we can talk about it properly.’
‘We stopped doing things properly years ago.’
‘Please, Angela!’
‘The little-boy-lost plea! That didn’t used to come for a long time yet.’
‘Wait until I get back.’
‘See a lawyer in Washington, as well as seeing the kids. That’s what I’m going to do. I don’t think I’ll have any problem claiming cruelty, do you?’
There were twelve buttons: would have been more if she hadn’t come alive the way she had. Six more at least. And some hair. Wanted more buttons. More hair. Why? Just because, that’s why. Important there should be at least one more to take buttons and hair from to show up what idiots they all were. No mistakes this time, though. No more bad choices. Or ones that came alive. Two mistakes already, one after the other. Too many. Next time would be perfect. Mustn’t get to like it too much. It was difficult, not to like it. Felt powerful. Hugely powerful. Had the power of life and death. But it would mean he was mad, if he liked it too much. That’s what they’d say. What they were saying. Maniac. In all the papers. Wasn’t mad. Not mad at all. The opposite. Clever: cleverer than all the others. So only one more. Maybe two. Definitely no more than two. Didn’t really want to stop. So much power. Wasn’t mad. Wish there was a way they could know. That would be best of all, if there was a way they could know. Show them the power. Wasn’t possible, of course. Pity. Just two more. Or maybe three. Definitely no more than three.
In the Name of a Killer cad-1 Page 30
