‘Keep your people on it: I still think it’s sinister.’
Holmes nodded, not deigning to reply.
Burden looked to each of the three other men, addressing them all. ‘What about when the bastard’s caught? We got the extradition warrants under way? I want him back here, a proper trial for everyone to see. And a proper sentence …’
‘Execution, you mean?’ Ross, the former judge, cut in.
‘That’s exactly what I mean!’
‘You know something we don’t, Senator?’
Burden concentrated again upon the overweight FBI Director. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘You know who did it?’ demanded Ross. ‘That he’s an American? That’s the only chance in hell I could ever see of us being able to demand jurisdiction and extradition, and even then I’m doubtful of the legality. But let’s carry the hypothesis on, to see where it gets us. How do you want him executed? You favour the electric chair? Or lethal injection? Gas chamber, maybe? How do you imagine it’s going to work: some sort of lottery in reverse, getting all the States that still have the death penalty to put in bids for the right to try and pronounce judgement on him? We going to afford this guy a lawyer or have we decided to dispense with that: might slow the process up and I’m not sure you want that, do you?’
Burden was utterly exposed and he knew it, like everyone else in the room. His face was an even deeper red now, the prominent vein that had reacted before to anger jumping again in his forehead, eyes bulging, his hands twitching in frustration. When he spoke it was with difficulty, the words jerky and uneven. ‘I had a very important meeting last night … a meeting at which I received certain undertakings. I don’t believe those undertakings are being fulfilled by people here this morning.’
‘I’m sorry you should feel that way,’ said Hartz, anxiously. ‘I’m not sure what more any of us could have done, at this early stage.’
Burden made an obvious effort at recovery. ‘It seems to me the only way I am going to find out what I want is to go to Moscow myself.’
Pauline Andrews decided that despite there having been nothing in the Christmas cards or the yearly digests Cowley must have remarried. To somebody whom he clearly loved much more deeply than he’d ever cared for her: it still hurt that he hadn’t loved her as much as she’d loved him, which had been absolutely, able for so long to forgive all his mistakes and all his thoughtless disregard. Having remarried was the only explanation she could find for Barry’s insistence that Cowley had stopped drinking. He’d certainly not been able — or not wanted — to stop during all the years when she’d begged and pleaded. She hoped he was happy, with whoever it was. It was going to be strange, seeing him again. She felt ambivalent about it. Sometimes, since learning of his coming to Moscow, she’d wanted to meet him, meaning it when she’d told Barry she was looking forward to the encounter. But other times not, frightened it would all be too hard. But why should it be? The other times hadn’t been difficult, not really. Frosty, maybe: very much arm’s-length. But what else could she expect? She’d once loved him so much. Always felt so secure, so protected. Which was before she’d discovered he was screwing around, practically boring his way through every female in every embassy to which they’d ever been assigned. And before the drinking. Which had come first? She couldn’t decide. Her recollection was that it had seemed to happen at the same time. It would have been good, to feel secure and protected again. Too late, like so much else.
Pauline determined to try particularly hard with the dinner. Boeuf-en-Croute. That had always been his favourite.
She wondered if he would bring a photograph of the new wife. She’d like to see a picture: find out what his new wife looked like. Or would she?
Chapter Fourteen
The American remained absolutely motionless but in an attitude of wariness after Danilov’s announcement, head curiously to one side, as if he imagined he had misheard. ‘When?’ he demanded, finally.
‘A month ago.’
‘Exactly the same?’
‘The head shearing and the shoes. And the hair sprinkled over the face. But buttons weren’t taken off …’ Danilov paused. ‘And the victim was a man.’
‘Jesus.’ It was Cowley’s only lapse from complete control and even then it was muted, a thought spoken aloud to himself. He shifted on the inadequate chair, blinking out of the momentary reverie, jerking his head vaguely towards the outside corridor and the exhibit room beyond. ‘That the Russian-language paperwork, back there?’
‘We’ll get a translation.’
‘I’d like to hear it all from you, in the meantime.’
Danilov didn’t need anything from the dossiers, so well did he know the facts. He recounted the first murder in strict police narrative, date, time, circumstance, family history, medical findings and finally the forensic opinion.
Throughout the account the American remained motionless again and looked away from Danilov in absorbed concentration, making no interruption. When Danilov stopped there were a few moments of silence before Cowley stirred. ‘Check me out on the similarities,’ he demanded. ‘Both killings at night, stab wounds from the rear, running right to left across the body. Hair shorn, shoes placed neatly to the right side of the head. But in the case of Suzlev no buttons taken. Hair scattered over the victim’s face, both times. No obvious robbery, in either case. Anything I’ve left out?’
Danilov thought, briefly. ‘The area. Pavin’s marking it out on the map: both were reasonably close together, so the proximity could be a factor. There’s nasal bruising, in each case. Both killings were on the night of a Tuesday, maybe going over into the early morning of a Wednesday. And the measurements of the knife wounds are the same.’
‘Matching the knife missing from the apartment?’
‘Possibly.’
‘What about forensic at the Suzlev scene? Any separate hair or blood samples, other than Suzlev? Fingernail scrapings?’
‘None.’
There was a silence. Cowley broke it. ‘So we’ve got ourselves a one hundred per cent nut!’
‘Nut?’ It was the first verbal misunderstanding.
‘Maniac,’ corrected Cowley.
‘Unquestionably.’
‘What about records; cases of attacks like this in the past?’
‘We’re running checks. And on psychiatric hospitals, obviously. Nothing, so far. Because the area of both killings is fairly contained, I’m having all the police stations in the district asked about prowlers, suspicious characters, street violence that might connect.’
‘You think Tuesdays are important?’ asked Cowley.
‘It’s a possible connection, that’s all.’
‘We’ve got too much,’ said Cowley, distantly, again in private reflection: any thoughts about operational complications between himself and the Russian detective didn’t seem a factor any more. An already difficult case had been compounded a hundredfold and his only consideration was upon the information with which he had just been presented. Still reflective he went on: ‘Too much and at the same time nothing at all. Just confusion.’
A fresh mind with the same conclusion as himself, thought Danilov, disappointed.
Think! Cowley reasoned: he needed to think, to assemble evidence lists of his own, to put things in what he considered the proper order of importance. ‘Why haven’t you connected the Suzlev case until now with what you’ve given us?’ The demand was openly critical — an unspoken accusation that the Russians were holding back — but Cowley was unconcerned at that moment.
Danilov regarded the other man quizzically. ‘I had one personal meeting at the embassy at which I was treated like a fooclass="underline" denied any cooperation by anyone. The opportunity didn’t even arise to set the situation out. I regard this as the first chance there’s been.’
‘Sorry,’ Cowley apologized at once and sincerely. ‘That was out of order.’ The FBI agent hesitated. ‘You get a lot of serial killing in Russia?’
‘Serial killing?’ queried Danilov, meeting the second misunderstanding.