In the Name of a Killer (49 page)

He’d given her $20 more than she’d stipulated, saying it was for a present other than the book, and asked, politely, if he could see her the following night. Nadia had agreed, of course. They’d talked of eating somewhere else – she’d suggested the Atrium or the Stoleshniki Café – and she’d thought they’d probably come back to Uspenskii afterwards. She might even suggest it: certainly prepare some champagne in the refrigerator.

They’d also talked about his having her telephone number, so he could contact her during subsequent visits. She’d readily given it to him, because it was business and regular clients were good business, but Nadia doubted she would be in Moscow for Charles’s next trip. The warning card, their established way of early contact, had arrived that morning from the regular client from New York, saying he was arriving three weeks earlier than expected, and Nadia had definitely decided to ask him to sponsor her American entry. She was sure she could phrase it in a way that wouldn’t alarm him into thinking she expected any more than help with her admission. No hassle, she thought, remembering the word. He wouldn’t be frightened. Hadn’t he said, a lot of times, how wonderful it would be if she were set up in Manhattan? Nadia’s mind ran on, building plan upon plan. The new man, Charles, had spoken of visiting New York several times a year. He could see her there, just as easily – maybe more so – as in Moscow. It was all going to work so well, she knew: so very, very well.

Nadia took the car around by the dark gardens, black trees starkly naked against the brief snatch of skyline. There were no people on the bordering roads, not this late. She turned into Uspenskii but went by her apartment, turning left to go beside the block to get to the back. A car as precious as the BMW had to be protected, so it couldn’t be openly parked in the street. The shed on the rear allotments had originally been built for gardening equipment but made a quite satisfactory garage: the cost of renting it was an additional but necessary expense.

She left the engine running while she released the lock, by the illumination of the headlights. The fit was tight, but she was well practised at manoeuvring the vehicle inside. There was instant, thick blackness when she turned off the lights. She picked up the book beside her by feel.

Even relaxed, as she was now, Nadia was more alert to everything around her than any of the other women had been. Prostitutes – even those who called themselves by other titles and didn’t work the streets – developed permanent antennae to potential physical danger. She sensed the presence and began to turn before the hand came over her face and the arm locked around her body, so the attack was not completely from behind. She didn’t freeze with terror like the others, either, but instantly tried to struggle, although the grip was strong, almost numbing, so it was impossible properly to fight against. She kept struggling, frenzied when the knife started to go in, snatching backwards for his crotch, the instinctive defence. Her arm and hand twitched and stopped, before it reached him.

There was a lot of hair, more than he’d ever had. A lot of buttons, too. He hummed as he took his souvenirs. Got it right this time. No more mistakes. Perfect.

Because the shed was up a track, off even a paved alley, it was not until the following morning, when it was quite light, that the body of Nadia Revin was discovered, defiled and ugly, like all the others.

Danilov collected Cowley from the embassy compound, as before, and as before there was little conversation on the way to Uspenskii. Viktor Novikov was still conducting his scene-of-the-crime examination when they arrived and became nervous under the blank stare of the critical American. At Cowley’s request, the forensic team collected to be shipped back to Washington duplicate samples of everything they considered relevant. The mournful-faced Pavin, who had arrived ahead of them to supervise the evidence assembly, said there was nothing of any immediate significance, not even footprints on the soft, sometimes muddy allotment ground underfoot: at the time that Nadia Revin had been stabbed, the ground would have been frozen hard. One curious discovery had been an English-language book beneath the body. Her handbag had contained make-up, most of it Western-made, book matches from the Metropole Hotel, $150 in cash, a packet of Western contraceptives from which two condoms were missing, and a dildo. There was also an address book, listing the owner’s name as Nadia Revin and an apartment in the block beneath which they were standing. A possible key to that apartment was on the same ring holding the ignition and other keys to the BMW.

It fitted, when the three of them got to the seventh floor, in advance of the forensic teams which had been left with instructions to follow. Pavin trailed the two senior detectives throughout their examination, evidence sachets ready.

Despite Nadia Revin’s hopes and pretensions, the apartment was a whore’s home. The main room had heavy, red-flocked wallpaper. There was no bright, overhead light but the Tiffany shades over the sidelights were red-glassed, too. There was too much overstuffed furniture crowded in, making the place seem smaller than it was. The prints on the wall were art nouveau, chiffon wisped over female nakedness, but no other decorations, certainly not any personal photographs. There was another address book in a bureau: a number of pages listed only given names against hotels and their numbers. The cupboard beneath held an extensive range of liquor.

The intimate red colouring was continued in the bedroom, where a great effort had been made to heighten the mood of opulent sensuousness. The bed had a pole-supported canopy, into which was set a large mirror to reflect the activity below. There was a selection of bound books of pornography as well as some loose, isolated prints held in folders, in a bedside cupboard. None featured Nadia Revin. There was a comprehensive selection showing cunnilingus and fellatio, some groups homosexual, but none portraying bondage or masochistic deviancy. In a drawer above the cupboard were two dildos, several packets of Western contraceptives, oil, and contraceptive and lubricating creams. The wall prints here were of erotic Greek and Roman brothel bas-reliefs, huge-penised men and suppliant, eager women.

There were two clothes closets, one given over entirely to diaphanous silk or gauzed négligés and night-wear: in a pull-out drawer within the closet was a range of sexual underwear, pants without crotches, bras without tips, for nipples to protrude, and lacy garter belts and suspender belts.

It was behind the drawer, which he fully withdrew to take it free of the closet, that Danilov found the hide-away place, a hollowed rectangular space concealed behind a sliding panel that looked at first like the rigid back to the closet. Inside was Nadia Revin’s birth certificate, passport, $22,000 in cash and a manila envelope containing documents. Danilov briefly flicked through the papers before offering them to Cowley.

‘She wanted to go to America,’ said the Russian, simply.

‘And Ralph Baxter signed the acknowledging letter to her visa application,’ said Cowley, reading more thoroughly.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Everything fitted – the shorn hair, the positioning of the shoes, the severed buttons – yet once more there was no way for them to go forward from the already established pattern. The routine began again, a roundabout making another circle, ending where it began.

Novikov’s early and more careful autopsy report gave the same measurements for the weapon, with the exception of the entry wound. The cut here, by what would have been the sharp edge of the knife, was wider than on any of the other victims, nearly six millimetres. The likeliest explanation was that the woman had tried to turn towards her attacker, driving the knife against her own body to cause herself a greater injury. All her perfectly manicured nails were intact, with no evidence of her having fought. There was no vaginal deposit indicating recent sexual intercourse, despite her profession, but this was consistent with the condoms found in her handbag. Novikov insisted that, following the second American post-mortem on Ann Harris and the Quantico assessment that the buttons indicated a nipple fetish, he had closely examined Nadia Revin’s breasts for injury or abrasions. There had been none.

The English publisher, Charles McCleary, was traced by noon of that first day. The reservation at the Metropole was in the name of the company which had published the book found beneath the body. McCleary, a bachelor, admitted at once and quite openly being Nadia’s client the previous evening: they had arranged to meet that night, too. He’d paid her $100, with a $20 tip, and given her the book. It had been a pleasant evening. She had shown no indication of being worried or frightened. She had not talked of a quick-tempered minder or a ponce, or of any outside pressure. Four members of the hotel staff, including the night receptionist and the night security guard, confirmed that McCleary had not left the hotel, either with or without Nadia Revin.

The single names listed against hotel telephone numbers proved to be those of receptionists, counter staff and concierges who had acted as Nadia’s touts. On the off-chance of finding a connection, however tenuous, Danilov had Vladimir Suzlev’s taxi company checked again to see if Nadia Revin had been a regular customer or whether any of their drivers also acted as customer spotters. The company denied all knowledge of the woman and showed unconvincing indignation at the suggestion that their drivers would ponce for a prostitute.

At the Militia commander’s invitation Cowley went with Danilov to a delayed morning conference with General Lapinsk, at Ulitza Petrovka. The American expected the demand to be made for Danilov to accompany him for a meeting with Ralph Baxter, in return for the concession apparently being advanced to him, but it wasn’t suggested. Danilov recited the preliminary findings to the muted background of Lapinsk’s coughing, and when the investigator finished Lapinsk said: ‘So it’s another random killing, like the others? No obvious, logical way to go?’

‘That’s how it looks,’ agreed Danilov, unhappily.

‘We’re going to have to make a statement,’ said the General.

He spoke looking at the American, and Danilov realized that Cowley had been invited to the meeting to share the responsibility for any decisions reached there. For several moments Cowley did not respond, surprised at being questioned so directly. Then he said: ‘I think the more sensational reaction to the earlier killings was increased by delaying the first announcements. For which, as I know you are already aware, we in America were grateful.’ There was a lot of purpose in his being allowed into this discussion: Cowley wished he could work out all of what it was. Yet again plenty to discuss with Washington: he was glad Andrews had returned, to ship back all the duplicated material collected from Uspenskii Prospekt. Senator Burden was not going to welcome his niece now being linked to the killing of a Russian hooker.

‘I would expect you to participate in any press conference,’ warned the old man, openly, still speaking directly to Cowley. ‘Do you need to get authority from Washington?’

Cowley wasn’t sure. ‘I’ll ask.’

‘And I think it would be proper for the statement to be issued jointly, both here and in Washington,’ Lapinsk continued, tightening the pressure.

Danilov wondered if all this had been Lapinsk’s idea, on the spur of the moment, or demands prepared well in advance of another possible killing with the Federal Prosecutor or possibly even beyond Nikolai Smolin, involving some even higher official in the Foreign or Interior Ministry. He was surprised at the blatant anxiety to extend the liability.

So was Cowley. ‘A Washington statement about the murder of a Russian national in Russia?’

‘It is a joint investigation,’ Lapinsk insisted. The cough rattled.

Cowley was unsure whether to remind the General that the FBI’s supposed presence was in a support role of scientific liaison. He quickly decided not to: in his eagerness to duck behind every and any barricade, Lapinsk had conceded precisely what the Bureau had wanted to achieve. Which might be an advantage later, ‘I will advise Washington. They will obviously want to know exactly what your statement will be.’

Lapinsk nodded. ‘It would also be best if the statements were issued simultaneously, at an agreed time.’

Definitely
not
Lapinsk’s sole idea, decided Danilov: these staged insistences betrayed a great deal of advance planning and thought.

‘I will advise about that, too,’ promised Cowley.

As they descended the stairs, back to the level of his own office, Danilov said: ‘I suppose I should apologize. I didn’t know it was going to be like that.’

Cowley smiled across at the other man. ‘No need for apologies. It was just like being at home.’ Watching Your Ass Time, Russian style, he thought.

Ralph Baxter leaned attentively over his embassy desk while Cowley outlined the barest details of another murder identical to that of Ann Harris. And then, obediently, stared down at the mortuary block photographs of the shorn Nadia Revin. Forever a man of quick movements, he jerked his head up, frowning incomprehensibly. ‘Why are you showing me these?’ The moustache twitched.

‘Don’t you know her?’

The bespectacled diplomat went back to the photographs. ‘Of course not. Why should I? You said she was a prostitute?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what on earth are you talking about?’ Baxter’s voice rose in his outrage.

Cowley offered a photocopy of the embassy letter signed by the other man that had been in Nadia Revin’s closet hiding-place, saying nothing.

Baxter began to read just as attentively, but then stopped, checked the signature with growing dismissiveness and laughed across the table. ‘It’s a long-term visa application!’