In the Name of a Killer (34 page)

‘Lydia?’ he said, quietly. ‘Lydia Markovina Orlenko?’ Her eyes flickered open, but heavily, without immediate focus. He was stooped low, close to her: her breath stank appallingly, fouled by the anaesthetic. ‘Can you hear me? Understand what I’m saying?’

She grunted, thickly.

‘I’m from the Militia: from Petrovka. I have to know what happened.’

She moved, very slightly, and there was an instant wince of pain. ‘Hurt.’

‘How were you hurt?’

Her eyes cleared, properly registering him at last. ‘Don’t know.’

There was a chair in the room, but Danilov ignored it, kneeling on the floor beside the bed. Cowley did the same, but with more difficulty, because of his size. There was no room at all for Pavin, who remained just inside the door, able to hear everything for his notes. Danilov said: ‘You finished work and left the hotel to walk home, as you usually do. What street were you on, approaching the alley? Granovskaya? Or Semasko?’

‘Semasko. From the hotel. Always.’

‘By yourself?’

‘Yes?’

‘No one with you?’

‘No.’

‘How about behind? Following?’

‘Didn’t see.’

‘Or hear?’

‘No.’

‘What happened at the passage?’

‘Went in. Always do. Dark, but I know it. Hurt me.’ Without warning or any movement of her body, to indicate the breakdown, the woman began to weep, a solitary tear path forming along the side of her nose.

She moved to wipe it away, but whimpered with the pain of the movement. Danilov felt for his own handkerchief and realized he didn’t have one. Cowley passed his along the bed and the Russian gently wiped the wetness away. He said: ‘It’ll hurt more if you cry. You’re safe now. Tell me what happened then.’

‘Someone behind me, very close. Very close and then pressing into me. Hand over my mouth, so I couldn’t breath: squeezing my nose. Hurt me. Pulled me backwards. Then awful pain. Something going into me. Felt like burning. Tried to scream but I couldn’t. Hand too tight across my mouth. Fell down. Awful pain. Then I can’t remember …’

She began to cough, whimpering again each time at the jar to her back. Danilov tried to help her to some water from the glass by the bedside, but she couldn’t drink properly and some spilled on to the pillow. As close as he was he detected the bruising on her upper lip and under her nose and remembered that Ann Harris and Vladimir Suzlev had both been similarly marked, according to the pathology report.

Tentatively Lydia Orlenko moved her head, keeping it on the pillow but looking down to include Cowley. ‘Who are you?’

‘Another policeman, helping me,’ answered Danilov, speaking for the other man. ‘You
can
remember, after falling down. You screamed. A patrolman came.’

‘Can’t remember
falling
down, after the burning in my back. I was just there. Like waking up. Felt him over me. Standing, looking down. Screamed and tried to hit him, to push him away. Did hit him. Heard him grunt when I hit him. Then he was gone. Screamed more then, to keep him away …’ There was a fresh outburst of painful coughing. She shook her head against more water and said: ‘Stop! I want the pain to stop!’

‘You’re doing very well,’ encouraged Danilov. ‘Telling us a lot of important things. You’re sure it was a man?’

She hesitated. ‘He wore trousers. And a jacket.’

‘No topcoat?’

‘Quilted jacket.’

‘Listen carefully,’ ordered Danilov, speaking very precisely. ‘You must tell us what he looked like:
everything
you can remember.’

At the door Pavin strained forward, notebook ready.

‘Nothing,’ said the woman, shortly.

‘No, Lydia Markovina. That won’t do. You must describe him.’

‘Didn’t see. Behind me, at first. Then I was on the ground. I could see trousers but not the top of him. I told you, it was very dark in the passage: completely dark.’

Danilov came forward, anxiously. ‘OK,’ he said, coaxing. ‘The trousers. What were they like?’

‘Just trousers.’

‘Colour?’

‘Dark.’

‘Blue? Grey? Black?’

‘Dark,’ she insisted.

‘Cloth? Or maybe jeans?’

‘Cloth.’

‘You must have seen the shoes.’

‘Not properly. Not that I can think of. I think they were boots. Rubber.’

‘Long? Or short?’

‘Short. The sort that come up to the ankle.’

‘You could see up to his waist?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Was he fat? Thin? Medium?’

‘Don’t know. Medium maybe.’

‘When he grabbed you from behind you said he pressed into you. What about then? Did he feel either fat or thin then?’

‘Quilted coat,’ she reminded. ‘There was the fatness of the quilted coat.’

‘If you could see to his waist, what about a belt? Was he wearing a belt?’ Some belts had distinctive buckles, Danilov thought, hopefully.

‘Not that I could see: can remember.’

Danilov sighed. From his side Cowley whispered, in English again: ‘She said he was leaning down towards her.’

‘When you woke up, on the ground, were you on your face? Or your back?’ resumed Danilov.

‘Twisted. But more on my face.’

‘Then he turned you?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Turned me,’ she repeated, with a hint of indignation.

‘Where did he put his hands? On your shoulders? Around your waist? Did he touch you privately, where he shouldn’t have done?’

There was almost a smile but it didn’t form. ‘Felt a hand on my shoulder. Then on my breast. Squeezed me there.’

Danilov nodded, glancing up to ensure Pavin was making the note, which he was. ‘So he
must
have been bent close over you? Why didn’t you see his face?’

‘I was on
my
face then!’ said the woman, close to indignation again. ‘I didn’t know what was happening. I was very frightened: kept my eyes shut. Didn’t
want
to see.’

‘There must have been an outline: an impression. How tall was he?’ As he asked the question, Danilov stood, gesturing Cowley up beside him. ‘As tall as me? Or as tall as him?’

‘You. Not as tall or as big as him.’

‘What about hair? All right, I know it was dark: you couldn’t see. I’m not asking about colour. But could you see a lot of hair? Or not? Could he have been bald?’ She wouldn’t know yet that she had been cropped, Danilov realized.

‘Nothing like hair. I think there was a cap. But not one with a peak. The type of woollen hats people wear to ski.’

‘The grunt,’ reminded Cowley.

‘You said when you hit him that he grunted?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did you hit him? What part of the body?’

‘The chest, I think. That’s how I felt the quilted jacket.’

‘And it was a grunt? Not a word?’

‘No. And I don’t think I hurt him. I think he was surprised: almost frightened. A frightened cry.’

He would have certainly been both at the sudden eruption of someone he believed dead, accepted Danilov. ‘But you couldn’t recognize any meaning in the grunt or cry?’

‘No.’

‘Did it sound like a Russian voice? Or foreign?’

Her face furrowed, into a frown. ‘Don’t know. It was just a sound.’

‘She felt his hands on her face,’ said Cowley.

‘Tell me everything about the moment he grabbed you: put his hand over your mouth and nose,’ picked up Danilov.

Momentarily forgetting what would happen, Lydia Orlenko shuddered, but was stopped abruptly by the pain. ‘I couldn’t move, from the fright. It was horrible. Smelled. And felt clammy.’

Pavin was forward again, as they all were.

‘What do you mean, clammy?’ demanded Danilov.

‘How his hand felt, against my face. Clammy.’

‘You mean he was sweating?’

‘No, not sweating. Cold actually, but clammy too. Horrible.’

‘Gloves?’ suggested Danilov.

‘They didn’t feel like gloves: certainly not wool. His hands felt very smooth. And clammy. But something hard …’ Warned now, she was careful bringing her hand up, this time to just above her chin. ‘Something hard there. Hurt me.’

With the spot identified, Danilov saw a bruise additional to those on her nose and upper lip. ‘What about the smell?’

‘Tobacco. Definitely tobacco. Very strong.’

‘On his hands? Or on his breath?’

‘Don’t know. It seemed to be all around me.’

‘What about cologne?’ prompted Cowley.

‘Was there any perfumed smell? Scent; something like that?’ asked Danilov.

She frowned. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. Just tobacco really.’

Danilov was silent for a few moments, trying to think of another pathway. Doing so he found questions he had failed to ask Pavin. He hoped the Major had maintained his customary routine. To Lydia Orlenko he said: ‘Didn’t you fight at all? Struggle when he grabbed you?’

‘No. I was stiff; couldn’t move. I just wanted to scream but I couldn’t. And he was strong. Jerked me backwards, suddenly. If I hadn’t been against him I would have fallen earlier, before the burning in my back. What’s happened to me? Am I badly hurt …?’ She blinked, at her own question, and her lip began to shiver. ‘… going to die?’

‘You’re not going to die,’ promised Danilov, urgently. ‘You’ve been stabbed but the doctors have seen to it. You’re going to get better.’ He guessed her more immediate concern was going to be the missing hair: there was no reason to upset her by telling her at this stage. He bent towards her, on the bed, and said: ‘Something else that is very important: and that you must be completely honest about. You won’t get into any trouble, about anything, if you’re honest.’

Cowley saw the frown deepen on the woman’s face and thought Danilov had phrased the question badly, frightening her in advance.

‘What?’ she said, warily.

‘Do you know any Americans? Particularly anyone connected with the embassy here in Moscow. Someone maybe who comes into the hotel regularly: someone you’ve come to recognize?’

The woman remained silent for several moments: briefly she closed her eyes and Danilov was worried she had drifted off under the lingering affects of the anaesthetic. Suddenly her eyes blinked open. ‘Not from the embassy,’ she said. ‘Not that I know of. American tourists come to the hotel, of course. But I don’t get involved in any currency dealing. Honestly. I know that’s against the law. Wouldn’t do it.’

Danilov frowned at the automatic denial from Russians whose work brought them into contact with foreigners. ‘I told you that you wouldn’t get into any trouble, about anything. I know about the dollars in your handbag. I don’t care if you take dollar tips and convert, on the black market.
Do
you know anyone in particular?’

‘No,’ she said at once. ‘That’s what they were, tips.’

Danilov looked inquiringly sideways to Cowley, who said: ‘A precise time?’

When Danilov relayed the question, the woman said: ‘I left the Intourist at twelve fifteen: I had to log the time on my work sheet, so I know. It takes me thirty minutes to get home. It always does. I was almost there, maybe five minutes away.’ She paused, breathing heavily. Then she demanded: ‘Where’s Boris? Does he know?’

‘He came earlier. He’s gone to work now. He’s coming back.’

‘He worries about his job,’ said the woman, not seeming distressed at the apparent neglect. ‘Not like a Russian at all.’

A doctor arrived at the door behind Pavin as Danilov was standing up from protesting knees. Danilov said: ‘We’ve finished, for the moment.’ To the woman he added: ‘We might be back, to see if you’ve thought of anything you’ve forgotten to tell us now.’

Outside in the corridor, Danilov said at once to Pavin: ‘Anything from the passageway itself?’

‘Nothing obvious. There’s been a complete forensic search and I’ve ordered the alley closed, in case you wanted to see. I’ve collected all her clothing for forensic examination, as well. Gone through the items with her husband.’

‘I want to see Hughes,’ said Cowley, quietly.

Danilov turned to the American. ‘Not alone.’

Cowley’s hunched concentration was momentary. He looked up, checking his watch, the merest suggestion of a smile on his face. ‘It’s a quarter of six.’

‘Yes?’ frowned Danilov.

‘Hughes lives
outside
the embassy compound. I have the address. A street named Pecatnikov.’

‘Within the murder area marked off on the map,’ identified Danilov. He smiled back, understanding the direction in which the other man was leading. ‘At Ann Harris’s apartment it was a Russian entry. How would we explain your being with me?’

‘I can’t stop you carrying out your job as you see it in Moscow: certainly not after this further attack. And the time, at this very moment, means it’s impossible for me to consult with anyone. I appreciate you informing me of your intention. And at least by being with you I ensure an American presence.’