In the Name of a Killer

Chapter Nine

The pathologist’s office, two-windowed and spacious compared to Danilov’s hutch, was neater than Danilov could recall from any previous, hostile visit and he recognized at once the obvious preparation. We’re all anxious to impress America, he thought: or avoid offence, at least. Was he personally anxious? It would be important, however this unfolded, not to let that dismissive nonsense at the American embassy bother him: he’d won the exchange, after all, belatedly revealing his understanding of the language.

Viktor Novikov wore a subdued check suit and an attempted air of neither an inferior awe nor patronizing superiority at the prospect of an American presence. The effort was too much either way and the man’s demeanour see-sawed awkwardly from one attitude to the other, like the uncertain light on Danilov’s desk.

Danilov was courteously a few minutes ahead of the scheduled appointment. Novikov hovered around the half-circle of chairs, further obvious preparation, so he was ready when the Americans arrived, opening the door for them expansively.

The man accompanying Ralph Baxter was the patrician-featured diplomat in the second photograph Danilov had seen that morning, the person upon whose arm Ann Harris’s hand had been lightly resting. The hair was pure white, combed forward Roman statesman fashion, to hide the fact that it was receding, the face beak-nosed and close to being unnaturally grey, putty-coloured. The man wore a black suit and a completely black tie: a dead man mourning the dead.

Danilov waited, expectantly. It was not until Novikov said: ‘Pazhalsta’ — which in the circumstances was a clumsy welcome — that the pathologist realized a difficulty for which he had not prepared.

‘I’ll translate,’ Danilov offered, first in Russian, then in English. At least, he thought, I’m achieving that long ago ambition.

Baxter nodded acceptance, without speaking. Novikov’s face darkened. Danilov wondered why he had to bother with all this: it was practically a hindrance in trying to catch a mentally deranged killer. Determined on names this time, Danilov thrust out a hand, forcing the unknown American to accept the gesture and by so doing to identify himself. The reluctant hand was soft and moist. The man said: ‘Paul Hughes, senior economist at the embassy.’ He paused before adding: ‘Ann worked in my department.’

An address-book name to which to put a face, thought Danilov. He politely completed the introduction to Novikov and took over the pathologist’s role, offering them seats.

‘We don’t expect this to take long,’ said Baxter, as if he were already late for something else.

‘A necessary formality,’ insisted Danilov.

As Danilov translated the exchange for Novikov’s benefit, the diplomat said, in Russian: ‘I understand the language.’

In English Danilov said: ‘I know. But there won’t be the unfortunate misunderstanding there was yesterday.’

Baxter’s face blazed and the economist looked curiously between the two of them. The ill-feeling came down like a lowered curtain.

‘What is this?’ queried Hughes. He had a clipped way of speaking, shortening the end of his words.

‘Nothing important,’ Baxter dismissed. Returning the other American’s look he said, expectantly: ‘Shouldn’t we get on?’

Hughes took the cue. From his briefcase he extracted a batch of legally bundled documents, secured with pink tape, and extended them towards Danilov. The Russian made no attempt to accept them. Hughes said: ‘These are legal demands for the return to American custody of the body of Ann Harris, the opening and return to American jurisdiction of Ann Harris’s apartment at Ulitza Pushkinskaya 397, and a return to American custody of each and every article taken by the Russian authorities from that apartment.’

Danilov remained with his hands beside him, taking his time to repeat to Novikov what the American had said: towards the end, imagining trouble for Danilov, the pathologist’s face relaxed just short of a smile. To the white-haired man Danilov said: ‘Legal demands under whose law? American or Russian? I am unfamiliar with any Russian legislation that would be open to you.’ This was another hindering distraction. He wouldn’t let himself become involved.

Now it was Hughes who coloured, although not so fully as Baxter. So whey-faced was the man, however, that the effect was more marked, two patches of bright red on either cheek like rouge badly applied. The man said: ‘I would suggest you accept these writs. My authority is as Ann Harris’s superior: head of the section.’

‘And I would suggest you present them to the appropriate legal department of the appropriate Russian ministry,’ replied Danilov. ‘This isn’t a matter for me.’ He thought men with flamboyant face whiskers that wobbled as Baxter’s did shouldn’t get angry.

Baxter swung sideways to his embassy colleague and said: ‘I told you …’ before jerking to a stop.

‘Identical demands have today been served upon both your Foreign and Interior Ministries,’ said Hughes. The man’s anger made the threat sound slightly too artificial.

‘Then there is no need whatsoever for me to have copies, is there?’ said Danilov, in further rejection. He hesitated, then said: ‘Although I appreciate your courtesy, in making it available to me …’ There was another pause, while he went to his briefcase. ‘… In return for which I need to give you this. It is the complete list of every article and possible piece of evidence removed from Ulitza Pushkinskaya …’ He thrust it towards Baxter, who regarded the list uncertainly, then took it. More rapidly than before, Danilov relayed the complete exchange to the pathologist. ‘You prepared a duplicate of your examination, I hope?’

Novikov was aware of the tension in the room, but despite the complete explanation did not fully understand what it was about. He said: ‘Yes … I … of course. It’s here … fingerprints I promised, too …’ and took several sheets of paper from a folder on his desk.

Danilov reached forward and the pathologist dutifully handed it over. It was not until Danilov was passing it on to the Americans that Novikov realized the policeman had taken from him the opportunity he considered rightfully his. He’d even rehearsed a brief explanation.

Baxter took the offered document. Unthinkingly he began to open it, as if it had to be studied and questioned. Beside him Hughes pulled back the hand holding the legal demands. Baxter said: ‘I will report this obstruction, to the ambassador.’

‘Then please report it accurately,’ said Danilov. ‘In no way and at no time are you being obstructed.’

‘Are you going to release the apartment and the items taken from it?’ demanded Hughes. Without seeking approval from the man whose office it was, he fumbled to light a cigarette, a strongsmelling French Gitane.

‘When I am ordered to do so by my superiors,’ said Danilov.

‘You will be,’ said Baxter, positively.

‘We’re here for a purpose,’ said Danilov, briskly, not wanting another trouble-making argument. ‘Let’s get it over.’

Novikov led along the corridor but stood back, herding them into the elevator ahead of him. They descended unspeaking. The muscles stood out on Baxter’s cheeks, where he was clenching his jaws in determination. Hughes’s grey face had a sheen of perspiration.

Danilov detected the smell before they reached the examination room. When Novikov paused at the door, Hughes said: ‘I don’t have to make the actual identification. I’ll wait out here.’

Baxter frowned at his colleague, denied support, but said nothing. He nodded his readiness to the two Russians. Novikov led again; Danilov was the last to go into the room. The formaldehyde and disinfectant stench was as strong as before, but Danilov was not as upset this time. At their entry an assistant withdrew the coffin-sized drawer from the refrigerated bank in a wall to the left: there were puffs of whiteness from the freezing air inside colliding with the warmer, outside atmosphere. Novikov was careful to pull back the covering only to expose Ann Harris’s face and shorn scalp. The face was grey, like the American economist’s in the corridor outside: the death snarl had almost completely melted away.

‘Oh dear God!’ said Baxter, his familiar phrase. He swayed and then retched, so badly that Danilov thought the man was going to vomit. He put a handkerchief to his mouth, coughed, and then wiped his eyes. He said: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Is this the body of Ann Harris?’ demanded Danilov, formally.

‘Of course it is,’ said Baxter. ‘Oh my God! Poor Ann.’ Weteyed he looked to Danilov for guidance. ‘What must I do now?’

‘Nothing. That’s all,’ said Danilov. He stopped just short of taking the man’s arm, gesturing him instead towards the door. Immediately outside Baxter leaned back against the wall, ignoring Hughes for several minutes. Once he almost retched again, at the last minute turning the distress into a cough, behind his bunched-up handkerchief. Hughes was smoking a fresh cigarette.

‘Awful,’ said Baxter, talking to no one. ‘It was awful.’

Denied translation for a long time, Novikov said: ‘What’s the matter?’

‘He’s not accustomed to dead bodies of people he knows,’ said Danilov. ‘Few are.’

Baxter remained indifferent to an exchange in Russian, still slumped against the wall.

‘Are there any other formalities?’ demanded the economist.

‘No,’ said Danilov.

‘Let’s go,’ said Hughes, taking control of the other American. Baxter obediently fell into step as the Russians saw them to the elevator. The exit was just one floor up. There was uncertainty at the door: Hughes made as if to offer his hand but then quickly withdrew it. Baxter, making a conscious effort to recover, said in a strained voice: ‘We expect to be hearing from you, very shortly.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Danilov, refusing to rekindle the dispute.

The two Russians watched the other men go towards their embassy car, parked at the kerb with the driver holding the door open. Novikov said: ‘I didn’t need to speak the language to understand. You’ve upset them, haven’t you? They’re annoyed!’

‘Let’s hope your post-mortem report is comprehensive enough not to upset them further,’ said Danilov, irritated by the other man.

The permanently assigned police car was outside, about twenty yards behind where the American vehicle had been. Pavin had remained at the wheel. Danilov opened the passenger door but didn’t get in, leaning through instead. ‘Go back without me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in a couple of hours.’ He could get to the Druzhba Hotel just about the time Larissa finished her shift.

‘You’d better come with me,’ said Pavin, nodding towards the car phone. ‘Lapinsk called. He wants to see you at once. Says it’s urgent.’

Just short of the Militia building Danilov pointed to a street kiosk and said: ‘Stop there. I need to phone.’

Pavin halted, not needing to ask why Danilov didn’t use the car telephone. Calls from the car were recorded and logged.

The Director was taking a stomach pill as Danilov entered. There was a staccato of nervous coughing as Danilov went further into the room. ‘There’ve been more complaints. Official demands for the release of the body and what you took from the flat.’

‘I know. They wanted to serve papers on me at the mortuary: I refused to accept.’

Lapinsk got up from his desk, going to the window to keep his back to the other man. ‘People are beginning to question if you should be allowed to remain on the case.’

‘I don’t think there has been any mistake so far in the investigation.’ At the very moment of speaking Danilov was abruptly seized by the impression that he had missed something that was very important. It was an unsettling, unnerving thought.

‘I think you’ve made enough personal protest, for whatever happened at the embassy. Your independence now is becoming idiotic’ Lapinsk turned back into the room, to look directly at Danilov.

‘I don’t want to continue any antagonism,’ insisted Danilov. Nor bow to it, from the Americans, he thought.

‘Is there any good reason for not releasing the body?’

‘I only got Novikov’s full report an hour ago. I haven’t had time to study it.’

‘The body could be released, once you’re satisfied with the report?’

Danilov decided that the man who had always supported him was anxious for concessions. ‘I suppose so.’

Lapinsk returned to his desk, with the slow walk of a tired man. ‘What about the stuff you took from the flat?’

‘I’ve provided a full list. It’s too early yet for me to know what I may or may not want.’

‘Why does the apartment have to remain sealed?’

‘I might want to examine it again. Something might come up from what I’ve already got. Or from the forensic report.’

Lapinsk released a breath, loudly. ‘Why the hell did you go barging in there in the first place?’

‘I wouldn’t have got in at all, any other way.’

‘I almost wish you hadn’t. It hasn’t achieved anything, has it?’

‘I don’t know, not yet.’ Or did he? He’d learned a lot about Ann Harris and was intrigued by a situation which apparently involved pain. And there was the coincidence — which was as high as he was putting it, enticing though it was to invest it with more importance — of a missing kitchen knife. But realistically he had to acknowledge he had found nothing to help him discover a killer. The only surmise he would allow at the moment was that the killer of Ann Harris and Vladimir Suzlev was the same person.

Lapinsk sighed again. ‘The Americans are insisting upon a progress report. There’s no progress to report, is there?’

‘It’s fatuous to expect it so soon,’ said Danilov, defensively.

‘What leads?’

‘None.’ It sounded pitifully inadequate: there was every reason for irritation and impatience, from everyone.

‘What’s the possibility of something emerging soon?’ demanded Lapinsk, the anxiety becoming desperation.

‘None,’ conceded the investigator again.

‘It’s not very good, is it? Or encouraging?’

‘No.’

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 no 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!’