The interesting, intriguing reference surfaced in a letter dated ten months earlier. At first he missed the beginning of the sequence, because the words were so innocuous. It was only an odd sentence that followed that made Danilov re-read the entire page to pick out what he thought was important. At least it’s better than nothing, Judy Billington had written. Then, after the separation of two unconnected sentences, there was: Idon’t like pain, either. Why not go back to one of the others? There was an entire further unconnected paragraph and then, cynically, They always say they love you: that’s part of the necessary bullshit: I thought you’d know that by now. But be careful with this one.
Danilov broke away from that particular letter, leaning back in his creaking chair to gaze up at the unlit, unreplaced bulb in the overhead socket. He was not shocked by open references to sex and sexuality, any more than he’d been shocked by what he’d found in Ann Harris’s bedroom cabinet. The correspondence with the other American girl was merely a confirmation of what the bedroom contents indicated, a liberated woman behaving and talking as she had every right to do. But with whom? He’d already known, from the verbal report from the pathologist, that Ann Harris had been engaged in a sexual relationship. Now he knew it had existed for ten months. And there seemed to have been others before. But this one included pain. He was sure the word, in the context in which it was used, meant physical discomfort. So how much was he further forward? Maybe a few millimetres. Ann Harris had eased her sexual frustration for ten months, right up until the night of her death, with a man who enjoyed either inflicting or receiving pain. He partially re-read the letter before him. Idon’t like pain, either … More likely receiving what the man inflicted, he decided.
There were ten more letters from Judy Billington and Danilov went through each more slowly than any of the rest, examining the contents word by word, desperate for a clue — the merest hint — to whom Ann Harris’s partner might have been. From one passage Danilov guessed the woman had confessed to some sort of sexual activity in the open, in Moscow’s botanical gardens after a river cruise. Tell him you don’t like it was a repeated piece of Washington advice in another. The second-to-last sheet in the batch said: You were wise about the bondage. Jim was into it; it was pretty damned scary to be trussed up like a chicken, not able to move, not knowing what the hell the kinky bastard was going to do next. I only ever did it once.
Danilov made a note on the pad before him and sectioned off with a paper-clip the letters he considered might have some relevance. The remainder he rebound in their elastic bands, in the order in which the girl had retained them, and stacked them neatly in the stiff-sided evidence container that Pavin had already titled with the girl’s name and accorded an index number.
Sighing, his shoulders cramped from concentration, Danilov pulled the slender, line-a-day-diary towards him. His immediate impression in the apartment appeared correct: it was very much an appointments record. Predictably Ann Harris wrote in precise, complete legible handwriting. Thursdays seemed to be the day for conferences, the participants unlisted. Someone called Paul featured frequently, sometimes on conference days. Most of the American national holidays were noted with embassy receptions. The birthdays of her parents, Burden and Judy Billington were also entered.
And the dates of Tuesdays were often circled, although apart from an occasional embassy notation it seemed to be a day in Ann Harris’s schedule that was usually free. A sharp awareness came to Danilov and he concentrated more intently: it had been Tuesday — or to be strictly accurate the night of Tuesday, running over into Wednesday morning — that she had been murdered. He went back to the beginning of the year and counted, lips moving. Every Tuesday — except for three consecutive Tuesdays, all in January — was picked out with a circle. Another awareness registered and although he was sure, confident of his retentive memory, Danilov went sideways to the Suzlev file. It only took him minutes to confirm that the taxi driver had died on a Tuesday. The Russian wrote the two names, separated by the word Tuesday, and made another of his looped chains. The diary followed the letters into the evidence container.
It was a crowded address book, obviously a continuation of a contact register begun in the United States: it was frequently easy with a naked eye to see the different ink colours — the American faded, the Moscow heavier, more recent — between entries on the same page. Danilov’s immediate concerns were the obvious Moscow numbers. Under E, the main embassy exchange (252-00-11) headed the listing, beneath which was a lengthy series of separate direct-dial numbers, according to the Moscow telephone system. The British and French embassies were also noted. There were reminders of the Bolshoi, Kirov and Pushkin theatres, the numbers of Sheremet’yevo airport and the in-town air terminals. The National and the Ukraina Hotels were also included. Having found the obvious, the diligent Danilov went back to the beginning of the book, searching not the written-down names of the addressees but to the right of each name, for the three-by-two-by-two sequence that would tell him they were Moscow numbers. He found a listing for someone called Hughes, whose initial was P. There was a Janet (Edwards) and a Pam (Donnelly).
A functional, efficient aid, judged Danilov: but then what had he expected? The address book went into the evidence box, leaving him with the notes bundled together, without envelopes. Further aids, he recognized, as he unpeeled the elastic band: scribbled reminders and telephone message slips, some already printed with lines set out to show who the call had come from, the date, the time, their number and whether it was required to call back. Often the spaces had not been completed.
The majority of the slips served as an addition to the already studied diary, appointment reminders or conference queries: he even retrieved the diary for a date-by-date comparison and confirmed the connection for five entries.
And then he came upon the discovery.
It was in handwriting he knew was not Ann Harris’s, on a piece of white paper completely blank apart from the written words, which were in English. The one he came upon first said Ididn’t mean to hurt. There was no date but the paper was dogeared where it had been enclosed in the elastic band and was discoloured, as if it had been retained for some time. The second note, again on unmarked paper, apart from the message, contained just three words: Please like it. The third was the last in the pile. Only one word: Call. On this one there was a date, three days before Ann Harris’s murder. Prompted by the date, Danilov went back to the beginning of the pile. A lot of the messages and reminders were undated but those that had been were in chronological order and Danilov thought it safe to presume she had preserved them in the sequence in which they had come. He fixed the three pieces of paper in a clip, separate from the other notes, as he had the correspondence he believed might help. He was putting the notes back into the evidence folder when Pavin came into the room. He was carrying a large envelope and a notebook.
‘We really do have influence and special privileges,’ announced the burly Major. He was smiling, self-satisfied.
‘Just how much?’ queried Danilov.
‘I put in a request for additional men: I wasn’t happy with what we had for the amount of checks that have to be made at the psychiatric places. We’ve been allocated another squad of ten. I got a car, a Volga, without the slightest obstruction. And it’s new: only six months old. No police markings, although there’s a telephone. I was even asked if we wanted a driver. I said no.’