In the Name of a Killer

Chapter Thirty-Three

The book cover was red, with black lettering, and Nadia Revin knew it would stand out, look impressive, among the others on the Uspenskii bookshelves. He’d said it was being made into a film, so she determined to read it before putting it away, trying to visualize from the Hollywood actors and actresses whose names and faces she knew who she imagined would take the parts. It was a game Nadia played a lot in the afternoons and early evenings, waiting for the telephone to ring.

She was glad it had rung that night. It had been the sort of evening Nadia genuinely enjoyed, the way it was going to be all the time when she got to America. He had been an urbanely courteous, considerate, dollar-carrying Englishman who had told her to call him Charles and tried from the moment of the first greeting to please her, before himself. It hadn’t been difficult. Nadia considered the Metropole the best and most luxurious in Moscow since its refurbishment: certainly it was the most expensive. The food had been superb and he’d known a lot about wine, showing her how to sniff what he called a nose and swirling the sample taste around the glass for rivulets, which he called legs, to form. She’d listened attentively, considering it to be the sort of thing she needed to know, an addition to everything else she tried to learn to make her more sophisticated.

Like reading the English-language newspapers so assiduously. When he’d started to talk about the book fair she’d been immediately able to pick up the conversation from the recent, memorized reviews, one of which had turned out to be for the novel that now lay beside her on the passenger seat of the BMW and which he’d said his firm had published. It had been a fulsome review and he’d been clearly and obviously impressed, as she already was by then, with him.

They’d stayed at the hotel, with no suggestion of her apartment, and that had been right, too, because he’d had a suite which merged perfectly into the relaxed indulgence of the evening. Not that he’d wanted to indulge himself with anything unusual or special, apart from asking her to undress very slowly while he watched, which she did not consider unusual at all. In bed he had remained considerate, wanted her to achieve her orgasm as well as himself, the foreplay leisurely and gentle until she urged him to be faster, harder. And she had achieved it, although it meant briefly losing control, which she didn’t ever like to do. She guessed her doing so had made it better for him.

He’d given her $20 more than she’d stipulated, saying it was for a present other than the book, and asked, politely, if he could see her the following night. Nadia had agreed, of course. They’d talked of eating somewhere else — she’d suggested the Atrium or the Stoleshniki Cafe — and she’d thought they’d probably come back to Uspenskii afterwards. She might even suggest it: certainly prepare some champagne in the refrigerator.

They’d also talked about his having her telephone number, so he could contact her during subsequent visits. She’d readily given it to him, because it was business and regular clients were good business, but Nadia doubted she would be in Moscow for Charles’s next trip. The warning card, their established way of early contact, had arrived that morning from the regular client from New York, saying he was arriving three weeks earlier than expected, and Nadia had definitely decided to ask him to sponsor her American entry. She was sure she could phrase it in a way that wouldn’t alarm him into thinking she expected any more than help with her admission. No hassle, she thought, remembering the word. He wouldn’t be frightened. Hadn’t he said, a lot of times, how wonderful it would be if she were set up in Manhattan? Nadia’s mind ran on, building plan upon plan. The new man, Charles, had spoken of visiting New York several times a year. He could see her there, just as easily — maybe more so — as in Moscow. It was all going to work so well, she knew: so very, very well.

Nadia took the car around by the dark gardens, black trees starkly naked against the brief snatch of skyline. There were no people on the bordering roads, not this late. She turned into Uspenskii but went by her apartment, turning left to go beside the block to get to the back. A car as precious as the BMW had to be protected, so it couldn’t be openly parked in the street. The shed on the rear allotments had originally been built for gardening equipment but made a quite satisfactory garage: the cost of renting it was an additional but necessary expense.

She left the engine running while she released the lock, by the illumination of the headlights. The fit was tight, but she was well practised at manoeuvring the vehicle inside. There was instant, thick blackness when she turned off the lights. She picked up the book beside her by feel.

Even relaxed, as she was now, Nadia was more alert to everything around her than any of the other women had been. Prostitutes — even those who called themselves by other titles and didn’t work the streets — developed permanent antennae to potential physical danger. She sensed the presence and began to turn before the hand came over her face and the arm locked around her body, so the attack was not completely from behind. She didn’t freeze with terror like the others, either, but instantly tried to struggle, although the grip was strong, almost numbing, so it was impossible properly to fight against. She kept struggling, frenzied when the knife started to go in, snatching backwards for his crotch, the instinctive defence. Her arm and hand twitched and stopped, before it reached him.

There was a lot of hair, more than he’d ever had. A lot of buttons, too. He hummed as he took his souvenirs. Got it right this time. No more mistakes. Perfect.

Because the shed was up a track, off even a paved alley, it was not until the following morning, when it was quite light, that the body of Nadia Revin was discovered, defiled and ugly, like all the others.

Danilov collected Cowley from the embassy compound, as before, and as before there was little conversation on the way to Uspenskii. Viktor Novikov was still conducting his scene-of-the-crime examination when they arrived and became nervous under the blank stare of the critical American. At Cowley’s request, the forensic team collected to be shipped back to Washington duplicate samples of everything they considered relevant. The mournful-faced Pavin, who had arrived ahead of them to supervise the evidence assembly, said there was nothing of any immediate significance, not even footprints on the soft, sometimes muddy allotment ground underfoot: at the time that Nadia Revin had been stabbed, the ground would have been frozen hard. One curious discovery had been an English-language book beneath the body. Her handbag had contained make-up, most of it Western-made, book matches from the Metropole Hotel, $150 in cash, a packet of Western contraceptives from which two condoms were missing, and a dildo. There was also an address book, listing the owner’s name as Nadia Revin and an apartment in the block beneath which they were standing. A possible key to that apartment was on the same ring holding the ignition and other keys to the BMW.

It fitted, when the three of them got to the seventh floor, in advance of the forensic teams which had been left with instructions to follow. Pavin trailed the two senior detectives throughout their examination, evidence sachets ready.

Despite Nadia Revin’s hopes and pretensions, the apartment was a whore’s home. The main room had heavy, red-flocked wallpaper. There was no bright, overhead light but the Tiffany shades over the sidelights were red-glassed, too. There was too much overstuffed furniture crowded in, making the place seem smaller than it was. The prints on the wall were art nouveau, chiffon wisped over female nakedness, but no other decorations, certainly not any personal photographs. There was another address book in a bureau: a number of pages listed only given names against hotels and their numbers. The cupboard beneath held an extensive range of liquor.

The intimate red colouring was continued in the bedroom, where a great effort had been made to heighten the mood of opulent sensuousness. The bed had a pole-supported canopy, into which was set a large mirror to reflect the activity below. There was a selection of bound books of pornography as well as some loose, isolated prints held in folders, in a bedside cupboard. None featured Nadia Revin. There was a comprehensive selection showing cunnilingus and fellatio, some groups homosexual, but none portraying bondage or masochistic deviancy. In a drawer above the cupboard were two dildos, several packets of Western contraceptives, oil, and contraceptive and lubricating creams. The wall prints here were of erotic Greek and Roman brothel bas-reliefs, huge-penised men and suppliant, eager women.

There were two clothes closets, one given over entirely to diaphanous silk or gauzed negliges and night-wear: in a pull-out drawer within the closet was a range of sexual underwear, pants without crotches, bras without tips, for nipples to protrude, and lacy garter belts and suspender belts.

It was behind the drawer, which he fully withdrew to take it free of the closet, that Danilov found the hide-away place, a hollowed rectangular space concealed behind a sliding panel that looked at first like the rigid back to the closet. Inside was Nadia Revin’s birth certificate, passport, $22,000 in cash and a manila envelope containing documents. Danilov briefly flicked through the papers before offering them to Cowley.

‘She wanted to go to America,’ said the Russian, simply.

‘And Ralph Baxter signed the acknowledging letter to her visa application,’ said Cowley, reading more thoroughly.