Yevgennie Kosov was in the middle of the living-room, in the process of helping Olga out of her coat: having done so the man felt out, putting his hands around Olga’s waist, and said: ‘What a body: trim as a bird!’ and kissed her. He kept his hands where they were. Olga smiled happily, unoffended at being groped.
Danilov had forgotten Kosov’s tactile need to touch and feeclass="underline" when they shook Kosov enclosed Danilov’s hand in both of his and held on with one while he pummelled and patted Danilov’s shoulder with the other.
‘Too long, too long!’ boomed Kosov, with shouted exuberance. ‘Old friends like us shouldn’t leave it so long!’
Danilov wondered how much the other man had drunk before their arrival. There was a glass and a whisky bottle on a small table: it was Chivas Regal, displayed like a spoil of war.
‘Champagne for the ladies, a man’s drink for us,’ announced Kosov. He was a naturally large man made larger by constant excess, stomach sagging above his trouser belt and hardly disguised beneath a sweater which Danilov guessed he was supposed to admire: it was obviously cashmere. Kosov’s face had an alcohol glow and there were some broken red veins along both sides of his fleshy nose. The champagne was French, not Russian.
Kosov grinned as he passed the drinks around and said: ‘You didn’t have to get all messed up like that. No point in having influence if you don’t use it. I make damned sure the Militia patrols are around this block all the time and the villains know it. Anyone committing crime anywhere near my home knows I’ll have their balls for a necklace!’
‘I should have realized,’ said Danilov, mildly. He wondered how many other innovations Kosov had made.
‘Olga’s had her welcoming kiss! Where’s mine?’ demanded Larissa, in mock protest.
Danilov leaned forward briefly to brush her cheek, not reaching out to hold her: with their bodies shielding the movement, Larissa felt out and quickly squeezed his hand, a taunting gesture. She didn’t let go, however, bringing Danilov’s hand up as he stepped away from her. ‘You’ve cut yourself! It’s bleeding. Come on, I’ve got dressings in the bathroom.’
‘It’s nothing. It’s not necessary,’ Danilov tried to escape.
‘I don’t want you bleeding all over the apartment!’ complained Larissa. ‘Come on! I insist.’ She kept hold of the injured hand to lead him along the corridor to the bathroom, a dazzle of imported fittings. Inside she said: ‘Now you can kiss me properly!’
‘Stop it!’ protested Danilov.
‘Why?’ She had her head to one side, knowing his awkwardness, enjoying being the coquette.
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘Kiss me!’ she ordered.
He did. Larissa immediately put her hands on his buttocks, grinding her crotch into his. Danilov positively parted from her and said: ‘You’ll get blood on your dress.’ It was cashmere, like Kosov’s sweater, a pale blue. Larissa smelled as perfumed and fresh as she always did. Her hair as perfectly brushed, loose for his benefit, and her make-up almost flawless. ‘Your lipstick’s smudged.’
‘And you’re wearing it,’ Larissa agreed. She wiped it from his face and repaired her lipline while he wrapped the offered antiseptic covering around his finger. He saw ingrained into both hands some grease he’d missed in the kitchen and tried again in the bathroom sink. Not all of it came off and he guessed he’d need cleansing spirit to get rid of it completely. She said: ‘It’s good having you here.’
‘How can it be?’
‘I like looking at them and then at you. And thinking what we do, which they don’t know anything about. I get all excited. Do you want to feel?’
‘Stop it, Larissa!’
‘Tomorrow afternoon?’
He’d arranged to go to the mortuary again, with the American this time. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll try. We should get back to the others.’ He wondered what Cowley had achieved at the embassy: there hadn’t been any telephone contact.
‘Sure you don’t want to feel?’
Danilov didn’t reply, walking out of the bathroom ahead of her. Olga and Kosov were sitting side by side on a couch that ran more than half the width of one wall of the apartment. Kosov was holding Olga’s hand, resting on her thigh.
‘Isn’t this the most wonderful flat?’ demanded Olga. ‘I’ve never seen a television that big. And it’s got a video player: they can watch movies, right here in their own home!’
‘Wonderful,’ agreed Danilov, dutifully. He didn’t think he’d ever seen such a large television, either. It was enclosed in a cabinet, with louvred doors that could seal it off. The video equipment was on a lower shelf. There was an extensive stereo display right next to it, close to the chairs that made up the suite. Danilov wondered how much had come from the grateful importer whom he’d introduced to the other man. The wallpaper was hessian and the ceiling-to-floor curtains were a heavy green velvet, shaded to match the thick and slightly darker green wall-to-wall carpeting.
‘Nothing to it if you’ve got the proper friends, is there, Dimitri?’ Kosov gestured towards Danilov. ‘Taught me all I know, on how to operate in a Militia district …’ He leaned forward towards Danilov, solemn-faced, responsibly serious policeman to responsibly serious policeman. ‘We’re looking after that inquiry. Checking out every street incident that could be relevant. And a lot more. I’ve put the word out, among special friends I’ve made since you were here. If there’s a whisper about, I’ll hear it. Don’t you worry.’
To judge from the other man’s dialogue, Danilov thought a lot of the video movies Kosov watched on his cinema-sized television screen had to be American crime thrillers. He was about to question what Kosov had told him when Larissa perched on the arm of his chair. To her husband she said: ‘How are you involved with Dimitri?’
Danilov supposed he should have realized from the geography of the city that his old Militia district would be included in the checks he’d asked Pavin to initiate, but until that moment he hadn’t. He wished Larissa hadn’t sat as she was, so close their legs touched. Before Danilov could find a dismissive reply, not wanting to talk about the murders, Kosov said: ‘The city’s detective force need uniformed officers to help them find a mass murderer.’
‘Two is hardly mass murder, is it?’ said Larissa.
Kosov got up from the couch to refill glasses. ‘It’ll be mass murder when he kills again,’ insisted Kosov, belligerently. ‘A maniac, killing and maiming.’
‘They weren’t maimed!’ contradicted Danilov.
‘Scalped!’ insisted Kosov. ‘Her and the man. That’s the information we’ve been given.’
‘Neither one was scalped!’ rejected Danilov, exasperated. ‘The hair was cut off.’ How could any inquiries throughout the Militia districts be objective if they were going to be interpreted like this? He’d have to go through the phrasing of the check request with Pavin first thing tomorrow.
‘Don’t you think it’s the work of a maniac?’
‘Of course it is,’ said Danilov, still wanting to terminate the conversation. ‘But this is hardly the place or time to talk about it, is it?’
Larissa shuddered and said: ‘Just think. He could be quite close to us now: just a street or two away.’
‘Why hasn’t there been any announcement about it yet?’ said Olga. ‘All I’ve read about is the girl. And it didn’t say anything about cutting off her hair.’
‘There might be, soon. We don’t want to cause any panic,’ said Danilov.
‘I’m glad …’ started Larissa, unthinking, then hurriedly stopped. ‘… that you’ve told us now,’ she finished, badly.
Danilov felt a warmth and hoped he wasn’t colouring at the nearness of Larissa blurting out his earlier hotel bedroom warning. Quickly he said to Kosov: ‘What do you mean, about putting the word out among your special friends?’
‘Just that,’ said the Militia commander. ‘People know who’s in charge of Militia station 19: and when I say I want help they know I mean it. So the word’s out. Any kinky bastard wandering around my streets I’m going to know about it, don’t you worry.’