In the Name of a Killer (The Cowley and Danilov Thrillers)

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘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.’

  ‘There was only one way.’

  Cowley felt the frustration rise and then dip, as he suppressed it. Staring directly at the diplomat, he said: ‘Why the hell was she like she was? You know what I’m saying.’

  For several moments Baxter gazed blankly across the desk. ‘What in heaven’s name are you saying? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Not that remark? Not “Why the hell was she like she was? You know what I’m saying.”’

  Baxter shook his head, bemused. ‘No!’

  ‘Wasn’t that what you said, maybe the very words you used, when you learned Ann Harris had been murdered?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You absolutely positive about that? That first day here at the embassy, when Danilov came with the photographs and you met him, with Barry Andrews?’

  ‘That what Andrews says? He tell you that’s what I said? It’s not true.’

  ‘Didn’t you say it?’ Cowley sidestepped.

  ‘No!’

  ‘That’s what I hear.’

  ‘It’s not true, I tell you!’

  ‘Why? About what?’

  ‘Me. What I said.’

  ‘What do you think you said?’

  ‘I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters a great deal, Mr Baxter. It seems to indicate something about Ann Harris quite different from what I’m being told by everyone.’

  ‘It’s all a misunderstanding!’

  ‘Clarify it for me!’ demanded Cowley. ‘She was arrogant, wasn’t she? Thought she could do anything – behave however she liked – because of her uncle?’

  ‘She was strong-willed, certainly.’ Baxter fumbled his rimless glasses from his nose to polish them: it was an interrupting, delaying gesture, not a necessary one.

  ‘Arrogant?’ persisted Cowley, pushing the demands to a limit but believing he was guessing correctly. ‘Upset a lot of people quite a lot of the time?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Did she upset you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘“Why the hell was she like she was?”’ quoted Cowley, yet again. ‘That sounds like you were exasperated. Angry. Upset, certainly.’

  ‘Exasperation isn’t anger,’ tried Baxter.

  Cowley snatched at the doubt. ‘But you did say it!’

  ‘I don’t remember, precisely,’ said the diplomat, qualifying further. ‘I resent this inquisition! Won’t have it. You’ve no right.’

  ‘An American embassy is American territory, irrespective of the country it’s in,’ Cowley reminded him. ‘An FBI agent is empowered by federal statute of the United States of America to investigate murder within the territory and jurisdiction of America. That’s the law.’

  ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean … you confused me …’

  ‘Why are you confused, Mr Baxter?’

  ‘I want to help, really. But this is harassment. An inquisition …’

  The diplomat was rocky, Cowley judged: but enough to blurt out something without thought? ‘“You know what I’m saying,”’ he quoted, relentlessly, going on like a dog picking at the last scraps on a bone. ‘What were you saying, Mr Baxter?’

  ‘Just that,’ said Baxter, desperately. ‘That she was arrogant. Exasperating.’

  ‘Sufficiently arrogant and exasperating to be murdered?’

  ‘No! That’s ridiculous! You’re twisting words!’

  ‘Were you her lover, Mr Baxter? Had you been with her that night?’

  ‘No! This is intolerable! I won’t be treated this way!’

  ‘Who was then?’ persisted Cowley. ‘I know, from the scientific examination, that no Russian was in the Pushkinskaya apartment last Tuesday.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Baxter shouted so loudly that his voice cracked, causing the man more disorientation. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, quieter now but still unsettled. ‘You are harassing: not giving anyone time to think.’

  ‘There’s nothing to think about. All I want from this enclosed, insular embassy is to know the name of Ann Harris’s lover, so that I can talk to him. Just a name. That’s all.’

  ‘I don’t have a name,’ said Baxter, stubbornly, face set more firmly. ‘Why has her lover necessarily got to be attached here?’

  Cowley decided the man had pulled himself together; withdrawn behind the barrier of a professional diplomat. Not so rocky after all: the annoyance now was at himself, for allowing the escape, not at the foot-shuffling evasion he believed he had been encountering. ‘So you can’t help me?’

  ‘I’m afraid not: not on this line of inquiry.’

  ‘Or won’t?’

  ‘That’s a contemptible question I will not answer.’

  ‘This isn’t going to go away, Mr Baxter. If there are embarrassments, nothing can stop them coming out.’

  Baxter’s face flinched but became impassive again as he regained control. ‘I don’t choose to comment upon that remark, either.’

  ‘Think upon it then,’ urged Cowley. ‘If you decide there is anything you can help me with, I’d like to hear from you.’

  The economic section was on the most dispiriting side of the embassy, directly fronting a shabby Moscow apartment block over a tangle of barbed-wire security and almost completely obscuring the beautifully restored town-house of Fedor Chaliapin, the opera singer rehabilitated after years of being banned as a non-person during the reign of Stalin. So depressing was the outlook – and so little of the Chaliapin mansion visible – that the windows were boarded from ceiling to floor, so that lights had to burn permanently to enable the financial staff to work.

  Again the department had been formed by partitioning a huge original room into smaller units. Paul Hughes occupied the largest part of the conversion, befitting his position as controller. The designation was actually spelled out on a door inscrip
tion and again on another name-plate on a large mahogany desk. The entire area to the left of the desk was occupied by two computer terminals, with connected printers, and tape storage facilities. Directly in front were telephones on short leads to attach to the computer modems. There were two large framed photographs on the desk, one of a smiling woman holding her hair from her eyes in an obvious breeze, the other of two children, a boy and a girl, in Sunday-best clothes, posing formally. The girl was smiling but awkwardly, trying to conceal rigidly braced teeth.

  Hughes remained behind the desk. There was no smile of greeting, either. ‘Barry Andrews told me you were coming, but I don’t know what I can do to help you,’ he announced at once.

  There was a pervading smell of tobacco in the room. The man was smoking a cigarette and there were several butts already in an ashtray on the desk. Paul Hughes’s features were striking, thin-faced but with a beaked nose and pure white hair combed forward. The striped blue suit was impeccable, clearly hand-made with a lapelled waistcoat across which a gold watch-chain linked two flapped pockets. Had Hughes chosen straight diplomacy and not economics, Cowley guessed the man would have already been short-listed for an ambassadorship. Cowley said: ‘Ann Harris was a member of your staff: you must have known her well.’

  ‘Reasonably.’

  ‘Did you get on, personally?’

  ‘This is a small department of an embassy in an unusual environment,’ lectured Hughes. ‘It’s essential to be compatible: things would become unworkable otherwise.’

  ‘I’m not completely sure I understand what you’ve just said.’

  ‘It’s necessary to make a conscious effort to get on well with everyone.’

  ‘Did it need a conscious effort to get on with Ann Harris?’

  ‘Not at all. She was a very pleasant girl.’

  ‘How would you describe things between you? Division controller to employee? Or friends?’

  Hughes gazed unspeaking across the desk for several moments, and Cowley was caught by the stillness with which the man held himself. Finally Hughes said: ‘Neither. There was always the proper degree of respect between us but there was not a rigid distancing: as I said, that wouldn’t work here. But I would not go as far as to say we were close friends.’

  ‘I didn’t actually ask if you were close.’

  ‘It was amicable,’ allowed Hughes.

  ‘Did you mix socially?’

  ‘Everyone mixes socially: it’s an enclosed society.’

  ‘Regularly?’

  Hughes shrugged. ‘As and when. There’s usually something organized here at the embassy every week, but people don’t go every time. There’s a fairly active dinner circuit.’

  ‘Ann Harris has dined with you?’

  ‘My wife and I.’

  ‘And you with her, at Pushkinskaya?’

  ‘I think so: yes I’m sure we have.’

  ‘But not recently? If you’d been there recently you would have remembered more easily?’

  There was another unblinking stare. ‘No, not recently.’

  ‘Where do you live, Mr Hughes; you and your wife? In the compound or outside?’

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘Isn’t it difficult to get outside accommodation? I thought it was at a premium.’

  Hughes brought both hands up on the desk, leaning forward to light another cigarette from the butt of the old. They were French, Cowley saw, identifying the packet. Hughes said: ‘Is a conversation about the accommodation problems of Moscow going to help find Ann’s killer?’

  Now it was Cowley who hesitated, looking at the man and the way he was craning forward, ‘I don’t know. At the moment we’re a long way from finding the killer. Where is your apartment?’

  Hughes sighed. ‘Pecatnikov. We were lucky enough to take it over from my predecessor. I really can’t see the point of this conversation.’

  ‘Do you want to help find Ann Harris’s killer?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ said Hughes, indignantly. ‘That’s an absurd question.’

  ‘I’m sorry, if it’s upsetting you.’

  ‘It’s not upsetting me! That’s absurd also! Your questions simply seem obtuse.’

  There was colour to Hughes’s grey face, and Cowley thought that everything he was doing that day was making embassy staff go red. It didn’t seem to be achieving much, though: so far no one had lost their temper sufficiently to make any unguarded remark. ‘I’ll try to be less obscure,’ he promised. ‘Who was Ann Harris’s lover?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t even know she had one.’

  ‘Not in this narrow, enclosed society?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want to reflect on that, Mr Hughes?’

  ‘What are you saying? Suggesting?’

  ‘Just that you reflect on what you’re saying.’

  Hughes came further forward over his desk. ‘I’ve agreed to help you – I want to help you – but I won’t tolerate this sort of questioning. The inference is obvious and I reject it completely.’ The man’s voice was even, just occasionally snagging on words in his anger. The cigarette was stabbed out, forcefully.

  ‘What inference is that, Mr Hughes?’

  The other man’s hands were clenched in front of him now, some of the knuckles even whitening. ‘That I am being less than honest with you.’

  ‘But you are, aren’t you? Being honest with me?’

  Hughes pushed himself back into his chair. ‘I’ve helped you all I can. I’d appreciate it if you left, right now.’

  ‘I’d appreciate something else,’ said Cowley, settling further into his chair. ‘I’d appreciate your telling me why, from her apartment in Pushkinskaya in the month prior to her death, Ann Harris made sixteen telephone calls to you.’

  There was a twitching movement through the other man’s body, as if he were wincing from a blow, but that was the only reaction, although the knuckles stayed white. ‘How do you know about telephone calls made to me? What, about telephone calls?’

  ‘You’ve said you want to help me. I’d hoped you’d help me about those, particularly.’

  The movement that went through Hughes’s body this time was more of a shudder. ‘She was attached to this department. It is not at all unusual for members of my staff to talk to me on the telephone after normal working hours.’

  ‘Staff that work for you throughout the day?’

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  ‘Was Ann Harris efficient?’

  ‘Of course she was. She wouldn’t have been assigned here if she hadn’t been efficient.’

  ‘You never had cause for complaint about her work?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Yet during the month before she was killed she remembered sixteen things to talk to you about that she’d forgotten during the day when she was here with you and which couldn’t wait until the next morning.’

  ‘Is that a question?’

  ‘If you like. I find it curious, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do other members of your staff consult you, after working hours?’

  Instead of replying, Hughes depressed a button on a flat keyboard close to his computer complex. Cowley heard the door open behind him. Hughes smiled up and said: ‘Pam. Come in, won’t you?’

  The girl who entered Cowley’s view was slight and dark-haired, bobbed short. She wore black-framed glasses which she removed as she approached. The twin-set was fawn, with a knitted-in flower motif which was picked up in the skirt, completing the ensemble. She looked curiously between the two men and Hughes said: ‘Pamela Donnelly, my other senior economist. William Cowley.’

  From all the material he had read, Cowley knew Ann Harris had been twenty-eight years old: he guessed Pamela Donnelly to be the same, maybe a year or two older. Not knowing the reason for her summons, Cowley said nothing. Neither did the girl. Both looked at Hughes.

  The finance controller said: ‘Cowley’s investigating Ann’s murder. Seems to think there’s something unusual about us ta
lking together after we leave here at night. How often do you and I talk, out of hours?’

  The girl gave a shoulder movement of uncertainty, ‘I don’t know. Once or twice a week maybe: sometimes more, if there’s some particular thing going on.’

  ‘Why?’ Cowley asked the question of the girl but was conscious of the other man smiling, in expectation.

  ‘The time difference,’ explained the girl. ‘Mr Hughes very often stays on for queries coming in from Washington: if it’s important we speak to each other, if it’s something we’ve been involved with during the day …’ She hesitated, finally smiling back at the financial chief. ‘Mr Hughes likes to keep things up to date: we work an action-this-day system …’ There was another pause. ‘I still can’t believe what happened. Have you found who did it?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Cowley.

  ‘Satisfied about the telephone calls now?’

  To the girl Cowley said: ‘Thank you. That was very helpful,’ and remained standing until she left the room. Seated again, Cowley said: ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Another question I don’t get.’

  ‘Why bring her into the conversation?’

  ‘Corroborative evidence. Isn’t that what you detectives look for, in an inquiry? Corroborative evidence?’ Another cigarette clouded into life.

  ‘Do you think you need your word corroborated, Mr Hughes?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I need it at all, Mr Cowley. Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know: I don’t know very much at all.’ A lie, thought Cowley: he believed it was turning into a very productive day. This whole affair might be resolved very quickly. But with some severe embarrassment.

  ‘What else can I help you with?’ The man appeared more relaxed, not holding himself so rigidly.

  ‘Ann Harris’s office,’ declared Cowley. ‘Where was that …’ He hesitated, looking about him. ‘… in relation to this room?’

  ‘Next door,’ said Hughes. ‘Ann to the right, the secretary to the left. All made a neat, compact unit …’

  ‘… what happened to it?’ broke in Cowley, suddenly worried.