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

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Do you want me to be there?’ suggested Danilov. It hadn’t taken long for the pressure to begin.

  ‘Novikov is doing the autopsy this morning: I told him to expect you. Stay on the investigation. Did you tell the Americans about the other business?’

  ‘No. Or everything that happened to the girl.’

  ‘I accept you were badly treated. I’ll see that a protest is made, to counter theirs.’

  The Records clerk at the Foreign Ministry said they had been lucky: it was the benefit of the new Western-style computerization. The official registration details of Ann Harris, an American national, for whom a diplomatic visa had been issued in May the year before last, listed her address as Ulitza Pushkinskaya 397. The man, who was obviously a gossip, asked what she’d done wrong. Danilov told him it was nothing, a technical matter.

  ‘Outside the compound!’ Danilov announced triumphantly, to Pavin, keeping the telephone in his hand to summon the waiting forensic scientists.

  ‘The Americans are going to be furious.’

  ‘I’m not exceeding any authority,’ Danilov insisted. ‘The address is not within the official diplomatic residencies.’

  ‘It’s probably still considered diplomatic territory, beyond our jurisdiction.’

  ‘We’ll worry about that later,’ decided Danilov. He paused. Then he demanded, suddenly: ‘Who’s Dick Tracy?’

  Pavin frowned quickly across the car. ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘I’m curious.’

  Over the next three hours the repercussions of Ann Harris’s murder rippled quickly throughout widely differing parts of the world.

  The American Secretary of State was halted by an aide just before taking off for Hyannisport for a sea fishing trip. He decided to cancel.

  On Capitol Hill, in Washington, DC, a polite State Department officer hesitantly entered the Dirksen Building suite of Senator Walter Burden and said: ‘I am afraid, sir, there’s some unpleasant news. The Secretary of State asks you to call. He wishes to tell you personally.’

  At the FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue, at the bottom of Capitol Hill, a priority cable arrived from Moscow and because of Ann Harris’s family connections was hurried immediately to the Director. Although the Director was a judge himself, he convened a conference of the Bureau’s legal department.

  Simultaneously, a matching priority cable was received at the CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia. The Director called his own legal conference before telephoning his counterpart on Pennsylvania Avenue. Both Directors agreed to get separate legal opinion and talk later.

  In Moscow Lieutenant-Colonel Kir Gugin hurried officiously into the Foreign Ministry, irritated there had been no reason for the summons, but curious to see if there could be any benefit for the newly created Agency for Federal Security.

  And senior Militia Colonel Dimitri Danilov, with assistant Major Yuri Pavin, arrived at a third-floor flat on Ulitza Pushkinskaya ahead of any American presence.

  Petr Yakovlevich Yezhov had carried out two known assaults on women. During the second he had completely bitten off the left nipple of a prostitute who in unintended retribution had given him gonorrhoea minutes before the bite.

  For both attacks, mental evidence having been called at each trial, Yezhov served periods of detention in Moscow psychiatric institutions. As a result he had developed an obsessional hatred of incarceration and was determined never to be locked up again.

  Yezhov’s was one of fifty names to emerge during the case history search of the city’s psychiatric clinics and hospitals.

  Chapter Four

  Danilov disliked entering the homes of murder victims. He’d had to do it too many times and always had a sense of awkwardness, feeling he was intruding into the privacy of someone whose privacy had already been too much violated. In the minute entrance hall he said: ‘This isn’t a normal situation. I want everything – and I mean everything – completed now. There won’t be another chance. There must be no damage …’ Nodding towards Pavin, who carried the specimen case, Danilov said: ‘The Major will compile a complete and detailed inventory of anything removed. List it at the moment of collection. I want nothing overlooked, to be complained about later. Understood?’

  There were grunts and nods from the assembled men: as if investing him with the responsibility for what might go wrong, they remained slightly behind as Danilov went further into the apartment.

  The curtains were drawn, but all the lights still burned, showing an apartment luxurious by Russian standards, comfortable by Western. The wallpaper was heavily patterned, unlike any Danilov had seen in Russia, and the furniture was obviously also imported. There was an extensive stereo system along one wall, with records stacked on a shelf above. All the books in a cabinet against a far wall were English-language. Cushions on a couch and an easy chair fronting a small table were crumpled from the pressure of being sat upon. There were two glasses – one still containing some clear liquid – on the table. Delicately he sniffed and then carefully dipped his finger into the liquid. It was vodka.

  Ann Harris’s handbag was on a small occasional table that supported a sidelamp, which was on. The bag was the sort that secured by a snap clasp. The clasp was undone.

  With a wooden medical spatula Danilov opened the handbag fully, so that it gaped, and used long-armed tweezers to lift out the contents, one by one. As he did so, he listed the items for Pavin to record. There was a compact, with a fixture at the side, empty, for a lipstick canister. The billfold was Vuitton: it held American Express and Visa cards, American and Russian driving licences, a plasticized embassy ID card, seventy-five roubles and eighty US dollars. There was one photograph, a studio portrait without any background, of a smiling couple, both grey-haired. Danilov estimated their age at about sixty. The address book was very small, clearly designed for a handbag or a pocket. Danilov flicked through, quickly, seeing both American and Moscow numbers. He offered it sideways to Pavin, who held out a waiting plastic envelope. The diary was a slender one, pocket-sized again, with a line-a-day entry. Danilov looked more intently than he had at the address book, realizing at once it was very much an appointments record, with no personal entries. The line for the previous day was blank. That, too, went into a plastic exhibit envelope. Danilov gestured to the fingerprint man for the handbag to be tested.

  The kitchen was clean, with no indication of a cleared-away evening meal the previous night. The dishwasher – a dinosaur rarity in a Russian home – was empty. Everything in the store cupboards carried American labels, bought from the embassy commissary. The tins were regimented on the shelves, sectioned by their contents, so that selection would only take moments. Even the perishable goods in the refrigerator, like milk and butter and bread, carried American brand names.

  There was an extensive range of alcohol in a cupboard beneath sink level, bourbon and scotch whisky, brandy and gin. The vodka bottle was at the front, half empty. All the labels – even the vodka – showed them to be imported. There were fifteen bottles of wine, a selection of white and red, laid in a rack where the kitchen cabinets ended. All came from California.

  The bedroom was at the end of a corridor. The door was half open: Danilov used the spatula to push it further, so they could enter. The bed was in chaos, most of the covers on the floor, the sheets crumpled into kicked-aside rolls.

  Pavin indicated the pillows and said, needlessly: ‘Both indented.’

  Danilov called back into the lounge for the evidence experts. When they reached him he said: ‘I want this room checked everywhere for prints …’ He nodded to the bed. ‘Search it, now, for fibres or hair. Then take it all to the laboratory. I want any stains checked, for blood, semen, anything.’

  Perfume, skin-care creams and cleansers were ordered along the glass top of the dressing-table. In addition there were three framed photographs. One was of Ann Harris taken in Moscow, against the background of the onion domes of St Basil’s Cathedral. The second was of the couple whose picture had
been in her handbag. The third was of a man standing in such a way that the Capitol in Washington was in the background: the photograph had been taken low, but even without that trick for elevation the man appeared large. The dressing-table drawers held carefully folded underwear, sweaters and scarves, each in allocated places. Danilov sifted through, with the spatula: nothing was concealed between the folds of the clothes. The closets were just as carefully arranged, first suits and then dresses and finally separate skirts. There were twelve pairs of shoes, in a rack at the bottom of the closet. Danilov guessed there were more clothes than Larissa or Olga owned between them. Reminded, he thought he would have to contact Larissa sometime: she’d have to be told how difficult it was going to be for a while. How long, he wondered.

  There was another framed photograph of the large man, this time with Ann Harris beside him on Capitol Hill, on top of a cabinet to the left of the bed. The upper drawer held a blank pad of paper and a pencil, a jar of contraceptive cream, a packet of contraceptive pessaries and Ann Harris’s American passport. The larger cupboard beneath held only a padded silk make-up bag. With some difficulty Danilov eased the zip open with the tweezers. It contained a battery-driven vibrator and a small jar of lubricant jelly. Danilov’s fresh discomfort was neither from surprise nor criticism but once again at the intrusion: this had been her business, her intimate pleasure, something to which she’d had the right of privacy. Invariably there were secrets, he reflected, recalling his mental promise to the dead girl in the alleyway. I’ll go on trying, he promised again.

  He found her correspondence in the cabinet on the other side of the bed. She had kept her letters in their envelopes and held packs together, about ten at a time, with elastic bands. At the back – he couldn’t decide whether they were intentionally hidden or not – was a thicker bundle, different-sized sheets of paper without envelopes.

  ‘Everything,’ decided Danilov. Pavin offered one of the largest exhibit bags.

  The adjoining, American-style bathroom was as well kept as the rest of the apartment. There was an abundance of chrome and glass with more cleaning creams in tight lines. The cabinets contained analgesics and shampoos and hair conditioners, a proprietary brand of American cough linctus and, surprisingly, a small phial of mosquito repellent.

  Back in the bedroom Danilov said to the fingerprint expert: ‘There are a lot of good surfaces in the bathroom. And in the kitchen cabinet there’s a vodka bottle I want checked. Anything so far?’

  ‘Two different sets on the glasses back in the lounge. On the door here and the dressing-table, too.’

  ‘I’ll get her elimination prints from the pathologist later today,’ undertook Danilov. To Pavin he said: ‘We’ll take the glasses.’

  ‘There are a lot of shoes,’ the Major pointed out.

  ‘Some women like lots of shoes.’

  ‘They seem important to the killer, too.’

  ‘Anything we might have missed?’ Danilov asked the man of routine.

  Pavin considered the question, looking around the apartment. ‘Not obviously.’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ said Danilov. ‘Nothing’s obvious.’ He became uncomfortable at the banality. He looked reflectively at the dishevelled bed, then gestured towards it. ‘Apart from that, which looks as if she got up in a hurry, it’s an extremely well kept apartment. There’s virtually no dust, anywhere: everything in the bathroom is highly polished.’

  ‘Yes?’ agreed Pavin, questioning.

  Danilov didn’t respond at once to the curiosity. Instead he said to the technicians: ‘Let’s see what’s on the plastic of the telephone receiver. I particularly want to know if the prints are new.’ Coming back to his assistant, Danilov said: ‘She got up and left urgently: not even covering the bed, which someone as neat as she was would almost automatically have done. Maybe she was called out, in a hurry.’

  ‘Knowing her killer?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Pavin remained frowning. ‘Why call her out?’

  ‘To make it seem as if she didn’t know who it was.’

  Pavin’s doubtful look remained. ‘There would be no way to trace a call, if it was incoming. Some outgoing calls might possibly be registered.’

  ‘Check the exchange to see what’s available,’ ordered Danilov.

  ‘Just the exchange?’ queried Pavin, heavily.

  Danilov smiled in understanding. ‘I’ll do it,’ he decided at once. ‘Or try to persuade Lapinsk to make the inquiry. Certainly the Cheka monitored diplomats’ telephones in the past. I’d guess they’re still doing it.’

  ‘It would mean the Cheka officially admitting they’re continuing to eavesdrop,’ warned Pavin.

  ‘That could be easily hidden,’ dismissed Danilov.

  ‘It could be the excuse for the KGB to involve themselves.’

  Danilov wondered why the other man used the old, official title for the first time. ‘We still don’t know yet whether they’ll be ordered to take over. They might not even need an excuse.’

  ‘I would have expected the Americans here by now.’

  Danilov looked at the forensic team: the fingerprint expert was already in the bathroom and the other man was delicately folding the sheets and pillows, edges inwards to hold anything trapped inside. As Pavin held the exhibit bags open, Danilov said: ‘Anything?’

  ‘No blood that’s obvious. Some staining that could be semen. Or might not. What looks like make-up traces, on both pillows. Head hair and some pubic’

  The fingerprint specialist emerged from the bathroom at the end of the conversation. ‘The two sets of fingerprints are in there, too.’

  ‘How much longer?’ asked Danilov.

  The men exchanged looks. The technician with the bed linen said: ‘I think we’re pretty well finished.’

  Pavin said suddenly, ‘Knives! We didn’t check kitchen knives.’

  ‘Go on back with what you’ve got,’ Danilov ordered the technicians, anxious to get them and the exhibits away.

  Pavin was standing beside a knife rack attached to the wall above the cooker when Danilov reached the kitchen. He pointed, saying nothing. The rack had hollowed-out, grooved positions for seven knives, graduating small to large from left to right. The middle, fourth position was empty.

  ‘Everywhere you can think of!’ Danilov was annoyed with himself at the oversight: Pavin was invaluable. It took fifteen minutes to search all drawers and possible put-aside places where the knife might have been carelessly discarded by a girl who didn’t, from the condition of the flat, do anything carelessly. They didn’t find it. Danilov said: ‘I’ll go through the rest of the apartment. I want the most precise measurements: length, width, thickness. Don’t try to do it here: take the whole thing as an exhibit.’

  Danilov didn’t find the knife anywhere else in the flat. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Pavin had released all the wall screws and was putting the knife rack into the specimen case. It fitted snugly without the apartment-sealing equipment which Pavin removed. Pavin said: ‘The make of the knives printed on the rack isn’t Russian.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be,’ anticipated Danilov. ‘It says “Kuikut”.’

  It took a long time for Pavin to bolt to the outside of the apartment door the fixings for the cross chain for which there was only a Militia key, to criss-cross the further barrier of adhesive tape and to insert the blocks into the existing keyholes, to render them inoperable. Pavin held a cigarette lighter sideways to melt the wax which Danilov positioned to drip on to the ties of the official notice, declaring the apartment secured against unauthorized entry. Danilov was impressing the official seal into the wax when the Americans arrived.

  ‘What the fuck …!’

  Danilov turned to the sports-jacketed man he’d encountered earlier at the embassy and guessed to be FBI. Baxter was slightly behind in the corridor.

  The leading American said: ‘Oh Jesus! Oh dear Jesus now the shit’s really going to hit the fan in every which way! Just wait until Was
hington hears about this!’ He was shaking, either from suppressed rage or nervous energy: maybe a combination of both.

  ‘What right do you think you’ve got, intruding on to diplomatic property?’ demanded Baxter. ‘I want that seal taken …’

  ‘… They don’t understand English,’ interrupted the other American. ‘We’ve got to get back to the embassy and bring down some heavy pressure about this. I’m going to have his ass for this! Christ am I going to have his ass!’

  ‘We can’t just walk away like this!’ Baxter protested. ‘I want to know what they’ve been doing in there!’

  ‘Don’t you think I want to know the same thing?’ demanded the second American.

  ‘We’re trying to catch a murderer,’ said Danilov, quietly.

  ‘I don’t care what you’re trying …’ began Barry before the realization registered.

  ‘You bastard!’ he said, although quietly as well, someone unable to believe what had just happened. The shaking worsened.

  ‘“Amateur night”,’ quoted Danilov, verbatim. ‘“Win a balloon and a lollipop if you get past the first clue.” Who’s Dick Tracy? I don’t know who Dick Tracy is.’

  Both Americans became momentarily speechless. Stiffly again, Baxter said: ‘I know there has already been a formal protest, about your attitude at the embassy. This time the protest is going to be much stronger: possibly from the ambassador himself. I demand, with the authority of the government of the United States of America, that you unseal these premises and return into the custody of the United States embassy anything you might have removed from Ann Harris’s apartment.’ The heavy moustache quivered.

  ‘You smart-assed son of a bitch!’ said sports jacket, through tight lips. ‘You just don’t know the league you’re getting into, do you?’

  It was quite true, conceded Danilov. He said: ‘As I tried to explain this morning, I am investigating the murder of an American national. This apartment remains sealed. Mr Baxter knows my office number.’ He moved, to walk down the corridor. The first man squared up, blocking the way. He was about the same size as Danilov: there was the aroma of sweet cologne, clashing with tainted breath. Danilov wondered which of them was the most apprehensive of what might develop: he was very nervous but he was glad he wasn’t shaking like the other man. He felt Pavin’s bulky presence close behind and was glad about that, too. Danilov stared directly at the American and said: ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ grateful that his voice remained even.