In the Name of a Killer (44 page)

‘Me!’ the politician managed at last, ‘It’s me they’re trying to embarrass!’

How easy the man’s arrogance was to manipulate, thought Ross. He said: ‘And they would succeed, wouldn’t they, with any public disclosure?’ He half twisted, including the media organizer in the discussion. ‘The line seems pretty direct to me. An embassy official compromised by Russian intelligence, involved in an aberrant sexual relationship with a woman known to be extremely close to an uncle who is a potential Presidential candidate. Would you like to face a press conference upon all the implications of that, Senator? Perhaps discuss your niece’s sexual inclinations, at the same time?’

The collapse wasn’t like the gradual deflation of a balloon, more of an abrupt pop. Burden buried his head in his hands, so that his voice was muffled. ‘Oh my God!’ he said. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘That’s a matter for you, as it always has been,’ said Ross, briskly. ‘I have told the press outside – whom I understand you
don’t
control – that there will be no statement from the Bureau. Only from you. If you decide to talk further, we would appreciate one of your people advising us. We would consider ourselves no longer restricted, in putting our case as well …’ He allowed the pause, nodding sideways to Fletcher, ‘I understand the President wishes to know the outcome of this meeting. I shall let him have a complete transcript. Is there anything further I can help you with, Senator?’

Burden’s colour had swung through the complete spectrum. When he looked up from his cupped hands, he was finally ashen, eyes stretched in genuine horror. He appeared initially unable to reply to Ross’s question, merely shaking his head, as a boxer shakes his head to clear a flurried attack. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t a reply at all. He said: ‘Do you imagine a long career here in Washington, Mr Director?’

‘No,’ said Ross. ‘I’ve come to dislike the place.’

They had to crest their way through the renewed wave of journalists as they left. This time Ross didn’t even bother verbally to refuse a statement, shouldering his way through towards the car. In the limousine returning down the hill, Fletcher said: ‘That was absolutely awful, wasn’t it?’

‘I thought it went very well,’ answered Ross.

Cowley broke his direct return to Moscow to stop in New York to meet John Harris. For the first time there was some obvious grief, but not as much as Cowley had expected. The meeting produced even less than that with Judy Billington. Reminded of the girl as the taxi pulled into Kennedy airport, he tore up the piece of paper listing her telephone number and discarded it in the waste bin on his way to the check-in desk.

At the moment Cowley’s plane lifted off, five thousand miles away in the direction in which it was heading Dimitri Danilov stretched up from his complete study of the haphazardly made and carelessly recorded interviews with psychiatric patients, past and present, whose history showed any of the tendencies for which they were looking. He should have been angry at the inefficiency, he supposed: it would have even been possible to censure the officers, because their names were on the reports. But he was too tired. And there was no point – and certainly no benefit – in getting angry at the deficiencies of the Moscow Militia.

He’d isolated four cases he immediately considered to be the most obvious for re-examination.

One involved a man named Petr Yakovlevich Yezhov.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Again Barry Andrews was waiting at Sheremet’yevo airport for Cowley’s arrival. This time there was no uncertain hesitancy between them. As Andrews took the embassy car out on to the rutted highway, he said: ‘How did it go?’

‘Could have been better,’ said Cowley. Any different answer would have been a lie obvious to the other man.

‘You didn’t get hauled off the case. So what happened?’

Cowley recounted the concern about Hughes and what was going to happen to the diplomat, considering it the only positive development, although contributing nothing towards finding their killer. He sanitized the critical interview at the CIA complex, not wanting to admit the complaints to the other man. Throughout the account Andrews drove gazing directly ahead, just occasionally shaking his head. When Cowley stopped, the local FBI man said: ‘Jesus! The guy’s been a jerk and you’ve got to despise him, I guess, but I still can’t stop feeling sorry for the poor bastard. Can you imagine what he’s going to go through?’

‘It’ll be hell,’ agreed Cowley. He was surprised at Andrews’s sympathy. It wasn’t an attitude the other man had shown in cases in the past. He wondered whom Andrews was going to find for his racquet ball games in the embassy gym. He’d have to find someone: Andrews was as dedicated to physical fitness as he was to every other activity. In London, it had been jogging.

As if aware of Cowley’s reflection, Andrews said: ‘He thought everything was OK. We had a drink together in the club, the night before he flew out. He said to go on keeping Tuesdays free for when he got back.’ There was disbelief in Andrews’s voice. ‘Who’s going to tell Angela?’

The lights of the city began to form, far away to their right. Cowley said: ‘Not our problem. Personnel, I guess.’

Andrews looked quickly across the car. ‘It could be my problem, couldn’t it? We’re talking phone taps somehow getting into the embassy. I could be criticized there.’

‘How could you have prevented it?’ asked Cowley. ‘The embassy is electronically swept. The failure’s technical, not yours.’

‘Hughes was told he was being withdrawn for consultation,’ said Andrews, unconvinced. ‘That’s what I’ve been told.’ He came off Tverskaya, on to the ring road towards the embassy.

‘And that’s what you’re going for,’ assured Cowley. ‘I spoke with the Director, about your relocation.’

Andrews stopped the car outside the new compound but didn’t move to get out. ‘You talked with the Director, about
me
?’

‘Not the way it sounded,’ qualified Cowley. ‘He wants you to go back, for talks, but wondered if it might be awkward with all that is going on here. I said no.’

Andrews smiled, briefly. ‘That was good of you.’

‘You didn’t think I’d hold you back, did you?’

‘You could have done. And for proper professional reasons, nothing else,’ said Andrews, leading the way into the living quarters. ‘I appreciate it, Bill. Really.’

The guest suite smelled stale and musty but it was too cold to open any windows. ‘Any contact from Danilov?’

‘I told him you were coming back tonight. He’s expecting you tomorrow.’ Andrews paused. ‘Anything else from Washington?’

‘The interview with the girlfriend, Judy Billington, didn’t produce anything. Neither did her brother. But I got the psychological profile.’

‘What’s our maniac serial killer look like?’ Andrews went familiarly to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a Scotch without asking if Cowley wanted anything.

‘Like about a million other guys. Neat. Tidy. Knows he’s doing wrong. Maybe making a challenge out of it. But there’s a big question mark. If we assume – as we’ve got to assume now – that our man is Russian then none of it could be any sort of guide.’ Cowley smiled, in resignation. ‘So we get the usual caveat: routine investigation first, profile as an aid, nothing more.’

‘I’ve done the course, heard the Quantico lectures,’ said Andrews. ‘Wouldn’t it be the damnedest thing if Hughes turned out on the polygraph to be the killer after all?’

‘Wouldn’t it, though?’ agreed Cowley. And be a further setback for him, having cleared the man. Pointedly he moved his case further into the small apartment, towards the bedroom. Andrews remained propped against the drinks cabinet, missing the hint.

‘What about the profile? Fit Hughes?’

Cowley tried to assemble a mental comparison. ‘Could do,’ he conceded. He wished it didn’t.

Abruptly Andrews changed the subject. ‘Pauline says hello.’

‘She’s OK?’

‘Fine,’ assured the other man. ‘We’ve got an invitation for you, for a get-together at the club. I put you down for it, to come with Pauline and me. Now I’ll be back home.’

Cowley shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped.’

‘Hey!’ said Andrews, the idea suddenly coming to him. ‘It needn’t make any difference to you and her. Why don’t you go together?’

Cowley frowned. ‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea.’

‘Why not? We’re all friends, aren’t we? Proper friends. So it would be silly not to go. You’d both miss something that might be fun, for no good reason.’

‘I don’t know.’ How would it be, to be by himself with Pauline?

‘Why don’t I talk to Pauline about it? See how she feels?’

‘If you like.’ There was no good reason why he shouldn’t take her, Cowley supposed. He knew already that he’d enjoy it. And there wasn’t any difficulty between himself and Andrews. It was the man’s suggestion that he should take her. It would even be creating a difficult situation that didn’t exist to refuse.

Andrews finished his drink, pushing himself away from the cabinet at last. He smiled and said: ‘Let’s face it, old buddy, now everything’s gone cold you could be here a long time. It might be an idea to get around a bit more among people at the embassy.’

Ryurik Bocharov was a profoundly ugly man, just slightly too tall medically to be described as a dwarf, his domed head completely bald, his efforts to express himself jumbled and confused, so that few could understand. There was a history of violence to women, usually towards prostitutes who refused his custom. After rendering them unconscious he cut off their hair: he always told psychiatrists he wanted to make them as ugly as he was. He never, however, collected buttons. Neither did he show any interest in their shoes. Since his last release from custodial care, he had worked as a porter in an open market near Kujbyseva Ploschard. He was a bachelor, living in utter squalor among a group of other derelicts in one of the occasionally used outbuildings attached to the GUM warehouse, on the side bordering Sapunova Prospekt.

It took Danilov twenty-four hours even to locate the man, and very quickly he wished he hadn’t, because from the very beginning he doubted that Bocharov knew anything about the crime and the engulfing smell was far worse than Novikov’s dissecting room, without the minimal benefit of any disinfectant. Bocharov showed the head-turning, frozen-lipped reticence Danilov recognized from institutionalized people, denying everything but able to account for nothing. The man’s innocence was obvious, however, within minutes: he was left-handed.

Danilov returned distractedly angry to Kirovskaya, the whole day unnecessarily wasted. Each psychiatric team had been specifically instructed that the killer was right-handed. So there was no excuse for the team that had checked the man to have missed the one fact that made it impossible for Bocharov to have been the killer. Unless Bocharov hadn’t been interviewed at all. Which was what Danilov suspected.

Olga was surprised to see him so early in the evening and said so,

Still distracted, Danilov said: ‘An inquiry ended earlier than I expected.’ It would, in fact, have been an ideal opportunity to visit Larissa: he should contact her tomorrow.

‘I haven’t prepared any food. I didn’t expect you.’

Danilov poured himself a Stolichnaya, neat. He didn’t ask about ice, not trusting the small freezer compartment of the refrigerator. He’d forgotten to put any ice-cube trays on the outside balcony, where they would have frozen naturally. ‘I’m not hungry. Is the washing machine fixed?’

‘It goes, but slowly. Nothing looks clean.’

‘But you’ve managed to wash something?’

‘Not yet. There didn’t seem any point if it was going to come out dirty.’

Danilov extended his glass. ‘Do you want something?’

‘To talk. I’m glad you’re home. I want to talk.’

Danilov carried his drink to his lumpy chair, unsure how the packing in the seat and back had become so ridged. The television squatted before him, in baleful mockery: like Bocharov had stood before him, that afternoon, Danilov thought. It was fortunate Cowley hadn’t been with him, to have realized the inefficiency. He wondered what the American would bring back from Washington. Trying to anticipate what Olga was going to say, he loosened a few notches on his integrity and said: ‘I suppose we have to think about a new television. And a washing machine.’

‘What’s wrong with us?’ Olga demanded.

Danilov’s surprise was genuine. ‘What?’

‘You’ve got someone else, haven’t you? Having an affair.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Don’t
you
be ridiculous. For all your interest I might as well not exist. When was the last time we made love? You can’t think that far back, can you?’

Danilov hadn’t been able to remember that night coming back from the uncomfortable evening with the Kosovs, either. Trying a practised retreat, he said: ‘Maybe I’ve been neglecting you. I’m sorry. But you know the sort of case I’m involved in. The pressures. That’s all it is.’

‘You didn’t give a damn long before this case. Is it Larissa? I think it could be Larissa.’

‘Of course it’s not Larissa. There’s no one. I told you that.’ Illogically – or maybe not illogically at all – he wondered if this was how guilty people felt under interrogation in some dank interview room. Feeling the need to say more, he added: ‘Larissa Kosov is a friend. Of us both. I am not her lover.’ He was immediately unsure if he should have gone on.