Shortly before her death, Novikov estimated not more than four hours, Ann Harris had eaten a meal. The stomach contents disclosed undigested pork and some apple and grape skin. There was also the presence of acetic acid, consistent with the consumption of wine, in addition to the traces of stronger alcohol, which Danilov took to be the vodka which he knew the girl and her companion had drunk in her flat.
The kitchen at Ulitza Pushkinskaya had been clean, with no indication of any food preparation or cleaning. So where had Ann Harris eaten? And drunk wine? And with whom?
There was another apparent omission when Danilov turned the page, and this time he allowed the anger. He distinctly remembered Novikov saying there was no sign of Ann Harris having fought her killer. Death was practically instantaneous, the man had said. Yet here he had recorded that two nails — on the index and middle finger of her left hand — had been broken. Danilov searched hurriedly but unsuccessfully through the next five or six lines, seeking a measure of how long the woman’s nails had been, and then sat back reflectively. Had she fought after all, despite Novikov’s insistence to the contrary? If she had, sufficiently strongly to break two nails, the possibility was that the killer would be marked, scratched on the face or hands or possibly both. The inconsistency registered immediately. If she had scratched her killer there would have been scrapings of skin or blood or hair from beneath her nails. And he’d specifically asked about that. Nothing, Novikov had said.
Danilov scribbled another reminder to himself before thrusting the report to one side, turning to the forensic account.
There had been two obviously different sets of fingerprints and a small number of indeterminate smudges which were older, from the evidence of surface particle cover. The ridges of Harris’s fingerprints had been whorled. The second set had registered lateral pocket loops. Danilov at once isolated a peculiarity about the second, unidentified prints. Around the empty vodka glass in the living-room there had been a complete set of a right hand and two further full markings of both left and right, one on top of the dressing-table in the bedroom and the third on the sink surround in the bathroom, as if the person had leaned forward on outstretched, supporting hands. Yet they were not complete. Recorded against each was the fact that the index finger on the right only half registered. On what would have been the little finger of the same hand the print was marred by a tiny triangular patch, clean of any loops, which was labelled as scar tissue. Nowhere else in the apartment, where single prints had been located, had the index finger been found complete. The only prints on the vodka bottle belonged to Ann Harris.
Comparative analysis had matched some head and pubic hair recovered from the bedsheet as that of the girl herself but there were also samples from someone else. There had been minimal semen staining, from which a B Rhesus Negative blood grouping had been identified. There was separate staining by spermicidal chemicals forming part of the formula of the contraceptive pessaries recovered from the bedside drawer. Microscopic examination of the bottom sheet, near where a pillow would have been, had revealed a small patch of blood. It was B Positive, the same group as the dead woman. The pillow on the left of the bed was marked, again so minimally that it only showed under a microscope, with traces of anhydrous lanolin and white paraffin. Both were common in skin-care cream or skin cleansers.
Samples of wool, rayon, polyester and silk fibres had been collected throughout the apartment. All the dyes were American. No fibres identifiably Russian had been recovered at all.
Initially disappointed, Danilov put the forensic report alongside that of the pathologist. He’d hoped for something more, without knowing precisely what it might or could have been. So what did he have? Largely confirmation of things he already knew, apart from the oddness of the unidentified fingerprint. It was the only item from the report he’d singled out for separate notation.
He sat quite alone in the empty, mostly darkened building, immersed in thought for several moments. And then, suddenly, he isolated what was possibly the most important disclosure in what he’d read: important for what it did not say.
Sometime during the evening of her death Ann Harris had entertained a lover at Ulitza Pushkinskaya. They had sat together in the living-room, drinking. He had moved about the flat, into the bathroom and the bedroom. In the bedroom he had undressed, taken her to bed and made love to her. From past experience, Danilov knew it would have been practically impossible for something — a thread or a fibre — not to have come from the man’s clothing during that degree of activity. Yet the conclusion of the report was quite emphatic: nowhere in the apartment was there anything forensically identifiable as Russian. Danilov smiled, no longer disappointed. He had a pathway to follow. He wondered where it would lead and thought at once that the last document he had to read might show him.
The telephone monitoring covered the immediately preceding month. The list of outgoing calls was comparatively short and from his earlier study of Ann Harris’s address book Danilov was able to identify most of them. There was one number she had called more than any other.
Definitely a pathway, Danilov decided. There was possibly a very practical benefit from the impending arrival of an FBI officer. Were they referred to as officers or agents? He wasn’t sure.
It was difficult, to control the shaking, the fear vibrating through him, almost causing a physical ache. So close: so incredibly, near-disastrously close. It was a miracle they hadn’t seen the knife, the knife that had actually been moving towards her back, almost touching the thick brown material. It would have slid in so easily: just like silk. That’s how it had to go in, just like silk. Her hair had been wonderful, long and blonde. It would have been good, to have collected blonde hair. And the buttons, of course. There would have been a lot of buttons. So close: close enough to hear her say how sorry she was to be late and see the smile of forgiveness as the man came forward from the shadowed alley off Ulitza Kislovskii to kiss her. Shouldn’t have hurried, wanting too much to do it again. Should have taken more care, to be sure she was alone, not meeting anyone. Not a bad failure: no cause to shake like this. Hadn’t been caught. Do it right next time. Just like silk. More hair. More buttons.
He’d taken her before she was properly awake, hugely aroused, and it had been difficult in her surprise for Pauline to respond fully to his excitement. She hadn’t matched him at the end but she didn’t think he had realized: she knew he was pleased, at how it had been. Afterwards Pauline made breakfast in her housecoat. Andrews was fully and immaculately dressed when he emerged from their bedroom.
‘I’m going out to Sheremet’yevo to meet him tonight,’ Andrews announced.
Pauline poured the coffee as her husband sat down. ‘That’s considerate.’
‘Want me to pass on any message?’
She frowned down at him. ‘Hello, I guess. What else?’
‘How do you feel about seeing him again?’
Pauline replaced the coffee-pot, aware she had to be careful with the answer. ‘I don’t think I feel anything.’