‘I’m not sure,’ said Hughes, frowning. ‘Maybe Barry Andrews. I know he was there when everything was boxed up by embassy security. I guess you should ask Barry.’
‘Boxed up?’
‘The personal bits and pieces. There wasn’t much. Just one box. Small, too.’
‘Do you have it here?’ demanded Cowley, too hopefully.
Hughes gestured uncertainly, lighting another cigarette. ‘I just took over the official embassy stuff she was working on. Which wasn’t much, fortunately. She really was an efficient girl: job started, job finished. Action-this-day, like Pam said. Again, about the other things, you’d better ask Barry.’
Cowley was suddenly impatient to leave this man, to get back to the resident FBI officer, but held back, knowing it would be a mistake to make an abrupt departure, ‘I’m very grateful, for all your help. And I really do hope I haven’t caused any offence.’
‘Why should you think that?’
‘You seemed tense sometimes.’
‘I’ve never before personally known somebody who was murdered. And in such an appalling way. Nor been questioned by a detective, ever before. Did you really expect me to behave as if I were enjoying it?’ Despite the question there was an amiability about the finance director now, an impression of a man at ease in his surroundings.
‘Perhaps not,’ agreed Cowley. ‘You’ve been very patient.’
‘Poor Ann,’ said Hughes. ‘Poor, dear Ann. She really was a wonderful girl.’
‘So everyone tells me,’ said Cowley. He positively thrust out his hand, forcing the financial director to rise to take it. As they shook, Cowley thought: very productive indeed. He hesitated directly outside the room that Ann Harris had occupied, tempted to enter, but abandoned the idea. There would be nothing left now. Continuing on, he wondered where Pamela Donnelly worked. All the doors were closed, with none of the more lowly occupants designated by name-plates.
Barry Andrews was in the FBI office where Cowley had left him: the only difference from the earlier visit was that Andrews was now wearing his suit jacket. A cigar was smouldering in a bowl near the telephone. Seeing Cowley’s look towards it Andrews said: ‘First today: limit myself to three.’
‘You got something to tell me?’
‘How’s that?’
‘Ann Harris’s office: you helped clear it yesterday, of her personal things. What’s there to tell me? I’d like to see the stuff.’
Andrews picked up the cigar, considering its lighted end. ‘I think we’ve got a slight problem here.’
Cowley experienced a stomach dip. ‘What sort of problem?’
‘There was nothing: hardly anything. Just odds and ends.’
‘I’d still like to go through it myself.’
‘The body was shipped back yesterday. You knew that.’
‘What about the personal things that were in her office?’ persisted Cowley, his temper slipping in anticipation.
‘I asked the ambassador what he wanted me – or security – to do. He said her personal stuff should go back with the body.’
‘You asked the ambassador! About what should be done to articles belonging to a murder victim! What in the name of Christ are you talking about?’ This was work – professionalism – and Andrews had fucked up, so he had every reason for the anger: their personal situation had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
‘I was trying to help!’ protested the local man. ‘There was nothing, I tell you!’
‘You made an inventory?’ Cowley felt cold with fury: at himself, for permitting the first mistake, and at the other FBI agent for perpetuating it. How could the man have been so unprofessional?
Andrews brightened, perceptibly. ‘Sure I made an inventory!’ He fumbled open a drawer to the left of his desk, took out a single sheet of paper and read from it. ‘Three framed photographs. Some Bolshoi Theatre ticket stubs. A map of Moscow. One of those monthly season tickets you can get here for both the metro and the buses. And a set of Gorby dolls …’ The man smiled up, eagerly helpful. ‘Maybe you haven’t seen them yet. They’re tourist things: a set of the traditional matryoshka dolls, a whole family that fit one inside the other. But the Gorby set go back through the Soviet leadership, Gorbachov, Brezhnev, Krushchev, Stalin and Lenin. You can buy them on the Arbat …’
‘… Barry! I don’t want to buy any fucking dolls. I want to know why conceivable evidence has been shipped back, unchecked, without any scientific examination! Nothing!’
‘There was no conceivable evidence!’ insisted Andrews. ‘But what are we talking about here? Settling old grudges, maybe? Saying things you’ve wanted to say for a long time?’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid! Possible evidence is all I mean. I don’t confuse grudges with work: and I don’t have a grudge, anyway.’ What then? he asked himself. Was he trying to absolve himself from guilt for not personally checking the girl’s office by heaping the responsibility on to the other man, perhaps? He snatched the list and said: ‘Memorandum! This says there was a memo pad?’
‘Blank!’ insisted Andrews, ‘It was one of those joke things you get for Christmas: some stupid crap written on the top of each page. But the pad itself was clean. I definitely checked.’
‘I want a cable to Washington.’ It would probably only be a minimal recovery – maybe not even that – but it was worth the effort: and he’d phrase the message not to carry the can for what Andrews had done. Or rather hadn’t done. He’d have to cool off, before he wrote anything, though: wrong – unfair – to apportion all the blame.
‘Saying what?’ asked Andrews, cautiously.
‘Everything’s to be tested: which it should have been before it even left here.’ Cowley found the cigar smell distasteful. ‘There could be an item in what’s gone back that’ll connect with something that came out of her apartment.’
‘Maybe I should have checked with you,’ conceded Andrews. Humbled contrition wasn’t easy.
‘It’s too late now,’ dismissed Cowley, impatiently.
‘So how’d it go, with Baxter and Hughes? Get anything to build up your picture?’
‘Some.’
‘Look,’ said Andrews, placating. ‘Personally, we’re in a goddamned strange situation. Which we’ve accepted. So no problem. Now let’s talk professionally. I work here, for Christ’s sake! Know a lot of people, which means I might pick up something if they’re snowing you, like you think the ambassador tried to do. Why not bounce it all off me? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’
Cowley gazed past the other agent. Outside in the courtyard a man in overalls, the handyman Cowley guessed, was moving among the metal poles and their sagged connecting wires. Cowley watched the man individually lift and then drop three separate strands, achieving nothing: it was another foggy day, grey dampness sponging everything. He thought Moscow seemed to be a city with a blanket always pulled over its head. The handyman shrugged and walked out of sight. Cowley came back to Andrews, accepting the logical common sense of the suggestion. ‘Why don’t I do just that?’
Andrews smiled. ‘No reason not to.’
‘I’m going to need all the help I can get,’ admitted Cowley.
‘You got it,’ assured Andrews.
‘So it’s working well?’ said General Lapinsk.
‘It was a satisfactory first meeting,’ Danilov allowed, cautiously. He was disappointed that nothing more had emerged from the routine inquiries. The Records search had so far produced nothing. Neither had the assault or prowler checks throughout the Militia stations in the murder area. He reminded himself to ask Pavin about the psychiatric institutions.
‘You didn’t get any impression of them wanting to take over the investigation?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good,’ said Lapinsk. There was a spluttered cough.
‘I’m letting the American have some of the clothes she was wearing when she was stabbed: there’s a test for blood content of the body he wants to make, in Washington.’
The
Militia General nodded. ‘What did he say about the first one?’
‘That there should be a public warning. Then he took our point about holding back in case there is embarrassment involving the American embassy. Realistically, we’ll have to do something about an announcement soon.’
‘The uncle wants to come,’ Lapinsk disclosed. ‘There’s been a visa application in Washington. It’s going to be granted, of course.’
‘He’ll create a lot of publicity.’
‘Which is something we have to talk about. It’s been decided who is going to take part in the press conference. It’s going to be the Federal Prosecutor, myself …’ The older man hesitated. ‘… And both yourself and the American.’
Danilov was stunned. ‘Me!’
‘It is apparently how major crimes with great public interest are handled in America.’
Copying to conform, thought Danilov. ‘Have the Americans agreed?’
‘It’s been proposed. There’s no reason for them to object.’
Possible difficulties shared were definitely difficulties spread sideways and backwards, Danilov supposed. Like manure. ‘Will it be a big conference?’
‘The main assembly hall at the Federal Prosecutor’s building is to be used.’
He would have to ensure Olga got his shirts washed and pressed, Danilov decided. He’d have to talk to her about it that night. Olga always needed time, to get things done.
Chapter Seventeen
Larissa and her husband lived in one of the better apartment blocks just off the inner ring road, the newest-built high-rises for members of the Party. The unthinkable collapse of communism in 1991 had terrified Yevgennie Kosov, who had never conceived its possible demise. He’d graduated into the Party direct from the Komsomol youth organization for the privileges of membership – which included superior living accommodation – not from any political ideology. Kosov’s personal ideology was the enjoyment of life as one of the Moscow élite and he had been initially frightened he might lose it all. He’d resigned and abandoned the Party, of course, like all sensible survivors. But still waited, in those early months, for official retribution. None had come. Now Kosov had completely recovered the shaken confidence, sure that things weren’t really going to change, but ready, at a moment’s notice, to adjust if the need became necessary.
Danilov retained the allocated but unmarked official car, knowing it would please Olga. She twisted back and forth in the front seat the moment he set off from Kirovskaya, swivelling fully after a few minutes to examine the rear seats and then announcing: ‘This is exactly the sort of car I want!’
‘This is a Volga. It’s not the model we’ve ordered. If we try to change we’ll go to the end of the queue.’
She tried to get the telephone off its rest but couldn’t release the clip: Danilov didn’t try to help her. She said: ‘Does this work? Could I speak to someone now, while we’re driving along?’
‘It’s official. All the calls are recorded.’
‘I want to call Larissa! Let her know we’re on our way! How do I pick it up?’
‘There’s no point in doing that.’
‘It could be explained as an official conversation. Yevgennie is a policeman, isn’t he?’
‘It won’t impress anyone: they’ll know it doesn’t belong to us.’
‘I want to!’
Danilov released the telephone and handed it across the car to his wife. She dialled incorrectly on the first attempt and he had to explain the transmission procedure as she dialled. Olga chattered her way through an inconsequential conversation about non-existent traffic delays, talking far more loudly than was necessary, and Danilov felt sorry for her. As she handed the telephone back to him, to be reclipped, she said: ‘Larissa was laughing. Why would she laugh?’
‘Maybe she thought it was funny.’ Danilov was not looking forward to the evening. For a while during the afternoon he’d considered cancelling. Larissa had protested that he shouldn’t, when they’d spoken: ‘I promise to keep my hands off you, even though it won’t be easy,’ she’d said. Perhaps she’d been laughing at the memory of the conversation, not at Olga’s showing off with a car telephone.
He managed to park immediately outside the apartment. Olga waited for him to walk around to let her out, as if she was reluctant to leave the car until the very last moment. He did so and began leading the way into the building, but she said: ‘What about the windscreen wipers! You know they’ll be stolen if you don’t take them off.’
Danilov turned back, irritated at having forgotten a basic rule of Moscow motoring. He returned to the vehicle, unsure how to disconnect the wipers on a model he didn’t know. The spring was too strong on the passenger side, briefly trapping his finger before he unhooked the blade. When he got into the better-lit vestibule he saw his hands were filthy with grease and that his shirt cuff was stained. His finger was bleeding slightly, where the spring had caught him.
‘You’re a mess,’ complained Olga.
‘I shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘It would have been awkward if it rained, on the way home.’
‘They might not have been taken.’
‘They would,’ insisted Olga. She liked to conclude any dispute, no matter how trivial.
Danilov felt foolish entering Larissa’s apartment carrying windscreen wipers. It didn’t help that she giggled at him. He smiled back, not knowing where to put the blades. ‘I need to wash.’
‘You do, don’t you? Why don’t you leave them in the kitchen?’
Danilov did so, and managed to get most of the grease off his hands in the sink there. Larissa stood watching, but by the door, as far away from him as possible. He thought she was going to remain there as he tried to get into the main room, forcing him to squeeze by and bring them close together, but at the last minute she came further into the kitchen, unblocking the doorway. As he went by she said quietly: ‘I might break my promise,’ and laughed again.
Yevgennie Kosov was in the middle of the living-room, in the process of helping Olga out of her coat: having done so the man felt out, putting his hands around Olga’s waist, and said: ‘What a body: trim as a bird!’ and kissed her. He kept his hands where they were. Olga smiled happily, unoffended at being groped.
Danilov had forgotten Kosov’s tactile need to touch and feel: when they shook Kosov enclosed Danilov’s hand in both of his and held on with one while he pummelled and patted Danilov’s shoulder with the other.
‘Too long, too long!’ boomed Kosov, with shouted exuberance. ‘Old friends like us shouldn’t leave it so long!’
Danilov wondered how much the other man had drunk before their arrival. There was a glass and a whisky bottle on a small table: it was Chivas Regal, displayed like a spoil of war.
‘Champagne for the ladies, a man’s drink for us,’ announced Kosov. He was a naturally large man made larger by constant excess, stomach sagging above his trouser belt and hardly disguised beneath a sweater which Danilov guessed he was supposed to admire: it was obviously cashmere. Kosov’s face had an alcohol glow and there were some broken red veins along both sides of his fleshy nose. The champagne was French, not Russian.
Kosov grinned as he passed the drinks around and said: ‘You didn’t have to get all messed up like that. No point in having influence if you don’t use it. I make damned sure the Militia patrols are around this block all the time and the villains know it. Anyone committing crime anywhere near my home knows I’ll have their balls for a necklace!’
‘I should have realized,’ said Danilov, mildly. He wondered how many other innovations Kosov had made.
‘Olga’s had her welcoming kiss! Where’s mine?’ demanded Larissa, in mock protest.
Danilov leaned forward briefly to brush her cheek, not reaching out to hold her: with their bodies shielding the movement, Larissa felt out and quickly squeezed his hand, a taunting gesture. She didn’t let go, however, bringing Danilov’s hand up as he stepped away from her. ‘You’ve cut yourself! It
’s bleeding. Come on, I’ve got dressings in the bathroom.’
‘It’s nothing. It’s not necessary,’ Danilov tried to escape.
‘I don’t want you bleeding all over the apartment!’ complained Larissa. ‘Come on! I insist.’ She kept hold of the injured hand to lead him along the corridor to the bathroom, a dazzle of imported fittings. Inside she said: ‘Now you can kiss me properly!’
‘Stop it!’ protested Danilov.
‘Why?’ She had her head to one side, knowing his awkwardness, enjoying being the coquette.
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘Kiss me!’ she ordered.
He did. Larissa immediately put her hands on his buttocks, grinding her crotch into his. Danilov positively parted from her and said: ‘You’ll get blood on your dress.’ It was cashmere, like Kosov’s sweater, a pale blue. Larissa smelled as perfumed and fresh as she always did. Her hair as perfectly brushed, loose for his benefit, and her make-up almost flawless. ‘Your lipstick’s smudged.’
‘And you’re wearing it,’ Larissa agreed. She wiped it from his face and repaired her lipline while he wrapped the offered antiseptic covering around his finger. He saw ingrained into both hands some grease he’d missed in the kitchen and tried again in the bathroom sink. Not all of it came off and he guessed he’d need cleansing spirit to get rid of it completely. She said: ‘It’s good having you here.’
‘How can it be?’
‘I like looking at them and then at you. And thinking what we do, which they don’t know anything about. I get all excited. Do you want to feel?’
‘Stop it, Larissa!’
‘Tomorrow afternoon?’
He’d arranged to go to the mortuary again, with the American this time. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll try. We should get back to the others.’ He wondered what Cowley had achieved at the embassy: there hadn’t been any telephone contact.
In the Name of a Killer Page 17
