Danilov looked at the American curiously, pointing towards the one occupied exhibit table. ‘That’s what you want. I’ll be back in my office. Take your time.’
Cowley lowered himself to the table as the Russian left the room but did not move at once to the document files, trying instead to assess the encounter. It barely qualified as preliminary. But was useful nevertheless. Certainly very different from what he might have expected from the warnings from Barry Andrews. So Barry had mishandled it, at the beginning. He wouldn’t completely ignore the warnings, though. He would simply wait, as he’d always intended to wait, to reach his own judgement on the Russian investigator. What was that judgement so far? Ill-dressed and uncomfortable with it, from the frequent shrugging together of his jacket and the fingering of his tie, against his crumpled shirt. But reasonably sure of himself, which was an advantage. In Cowley’s operational past, personal uncertainty of any sort in a partner — and he had to think of the Russian as a partner — had always been a hindrance as well as sometimes a danger in the field. He thought Danilov was clever, too. If there was one conclusion — premature maybe, wrong possibly — that Cowley had reached about Dimitri Danilov it was that the man was definitely not a fool. Which was another advantage. Enough, so early in the acquaintanceship: perhaps more than enough. He leaned forward for the first of the correspondence bundles.
Back along the corridor, Danilov reached the Director at the first attempt on the internal telephone, anxious to cancel the pointless afternoon briefing. The meeting with the American had seemed to go reasonably well, he assured Lapinsk. Cowley was now studying the outstanding documentation. After which they were to talk again. Beyond that, there was nothing to report apart from forensic proof that the notes referring to pain which had been retained by Ann Harris had been written on American paper in American-manufactured ink: the report had been waiting when he’d returned from the morning briefing, which was why he hadn’t mentioned it then.
‘It’s amicable, then?’ demanded the Director, an elderly man needing to be reassured more than once.
‘It seems to be, so far,’ said Danilov.
‘How much does he know?’
‘We’ve only talked about the woman at the moment.’
There was a burst of coughing. ‘Call me at once if any problems arise later. I want to be warned in advance.’
Pavin entered the office as Danilov replaced the receiver. The Major said: ‘How’s it gone?’
‘We’ve agreed on complete openness. He’s looking at the correspondence and the forensic report on the flat. It’s really too early to decide what sort of man he is.’
‘Do you think he’ll keep his word about sharing everything?’
‘I don’t know,’ Danilov admitted. ‘We’ll have to see.’ Did he intend sharing everything? And how could he check on the other man’s honesty? He was going to have to remain very alert.
‘He’s certainly big enough,’ said Pavin, another big man. ‘I was downstairs when he arrived. He came by ordinary taxi. I thought there would have been an embassy car but there wasn’t. Just an ordinary street taxi.’ Pavin appeared surprised.
‘We’re talking again, when he’s completely filled himself in. You’d better be here, to meet him.’
‘How good is his Russian?’
‘Seems all right.’ The two men looked at each other, nothing left to say and with nothing positive left to do. An absolute cul-de-sac, Danilov thought again. He was genuinely anxious now to expand the conversation with the American, to see if a fresh mind would come up with anything new. Only four more days before the next Tuesday, he remembered. ‘What about the case history search of psychiatric clinics?’
‘We’re still assembling lists. It isn’t easy,’ Pavin apologized. ‘I’m having the house-to-house done again, around both scenes. And I’ve got a street map, from the bookstall at the Intourist Hoteclass="underline" I’ve already pinned it up. It’s not as detailed as I would have liked — misses out a lot of the alleys and sideroads, although the street where she was killed is there — but it’s the best I could do: at least we can section off the area where they both happened. Stationery here say they’ve had maps on order for six months. If they get some they’ve promised to let me know.’
‘How many Militia posts cover that area?’ demanded Danilov, suddenly.
‘I’m not sure,’ admitted the Major, doubtfully. ‘Eleven and 122, certainly. Depends how wide you really want to extend the area.’
‘Mark out a radius maybe two or three kilometres beyond where both bodies were found and see if that takes in any other Militia districts,’ ordered Danilov. ‘And have the street patrols from all of them checked. I want every report of prowlers, stalkers, Peeping Toms, any violence that can’t be explained as an ordinary street brawl, where everyone involved has been identified. Go back …’ He paused, seeking a manageable period. ‘… a month before Vladimir Suzlev was killed.’ Guessing the cause of the scepticism on Pavin’s face, Danilov said: ‘We can demand any facility we want. I know it’ll take time but assign extra men.’
Pavin shrugged acceptance. ‘The criticism has already started at the amount of resources we’re utilizing. This will make it worse.’
‘What sort of criticism?’
Pavin shifted, uncomfortably: the smile was apologetic. ‘That the power … the possibility of becoming known internationally … has gone to your head. Affected you.’
Danilov laughed, genuinely amused. ‘What about the risk of failure? Where will the glory be then?’ Lapinsk had warned there would be no glory, he remembered.
‘A lot are expecting you to fail. Making bets.’
‘Any complaints about resources can go direct to General Lapinsk,’ dismissed Danilov, confidently.
‘I don’t imagine any are going to be made officially. Our demands provide a good excuse for failed investigations elsewhere, don’t they? Can actually be useful.’
To add to all the other excuses to shield those receptively open hands, thought Danilov. He said: ‘Keep me in touch, about what’s being said. And by whom.’ It was always useful to know one’s enemies. Was that overly paranoid? No. Just properly selfprotective. He’d need a lot of protection, if he did fail.
Pavin turned first, at the sound at the doorway, ahead of Danilov realizing the presence of William Cowley. The American was big, conceded Danilov, at once: standing as the man was, at the very threshold, he virtually blocked the entrance. Cowley remained where he was, as if waiting for an invitation to re-enter. Danilov provided it by introducing Pavin and identifying the Major as the exhibit officer. Cowley offered his hand first and went through the meeting ritual in Russian, thinking as he did so that if the Major was the exhibit officer he hadn’t really been over-extended assembling what had been set out in the room he’d just left. To Danilov, the American said briskly: ‘Now we can talk.’ He perched himself delicately upon the inadequate chair. ‘How do you want to run it? My impressions to you? Or yours to me?’
Deferring here, too, acknowledged Danilov: providing a way to build bridges between them. ‘No point in lectures, one to the other. Let’s just talk it through, compare points that stick in my mind to those that might have come into yours.’
The Russian had not taken the offer of command. Intentional avoidance, to put them level? Or hadn’t he realized the offer was there in the first place? ‘I’ll follow you.’
‘Why was she out on the street at all?’ began Danilov, rhetorically. ‘You’ll have seen it’s difficult to establish a reliable time of death, precisely because of the cold. Between eleven and one o’clock on the night Ann Harris was killed, the Moscow temperature fluctuated between four and six degrees below zero. She wasn’t dressed for that degree of cold — her topcoat was comparatively thin — so why did she leave a warm bed in a warm apartment to get where she was found?’