Free In the Name of a Killer by Brian Freemantle Page B

the strain under which the man believed himself to be.
    ‘You do need to be told to be careful in diplomatic situations. You went too far, entering the apartment. Think more, before you move. Otherwise there’ll be mistakes. And we can’t afford mistakes, any more than what used to be the KGB.’
    ‘I won’t have gone too far, if it helps me find who did it.’
    ‘Don’t argue with me about this, Dimitri Ivanovich! There isn’t going to be any glory in this investigation. Just problems.’
    ‘I’ll try not to offend.’ Danilov could see through the window that it was already dark outside. He tried to remember what Olga had told him she was doing tonight but couldn’t, only that she was going out. So there wouldn’t be any food in the apartment. And he hadn’t eaten at midday.
    ‘You can call upon whatever facilities you want,’ offered the Director. ‘Everything’s got top priority. I want morning and afternoon briefing: I’m going to be getting queries constantly.’ The man paused. ‘I’m frightened there’s going to be another one.’
    ‘There obviously will be, unless we’re lucky. And I don’t really know what I mean by being lucky,’ admitted Danilov, with aching resignation. It wasn’t until he was struggling against the crowd at the metro station that he realized one of the facilities he could probably demand was a permanent police vehicle. He’d have to remember, tomorrow.
    Olga had not left him anything to eat. Danilov poured the Stolichnaya he had denied himself in the long ago early hours of that morning and carried it to the bedroom. He only drank half before falling asleep. His last conscious thought was to hope that Lapinsk was wrong and that there would be a lot of personal glory if he carried out an impeccable investigation and made an arrest.
    The world’s press had a story of a predicted American Presidential candidate – already a well-known politician – connected with a murder in Russia.
    The coverage was staggering.
    The demand for press conferences and interviews and information was overwhelming, bewildering Russian ministries which believed they already understood the needs of the Western news media, but in fact knew them not at all. The sideways shuffle was as automatic as it was instinctive.
    The responding discussion was held at the Foreign Ministry. It was attended by a deputy official of the Interior Ministry and the Federal Prosecutor. General Leonid Lapinsk obviously represented the Militia. The Foreign Ministry delegate lectured on the political importance. The Interior Ministry deputy insisted upon the need for a quick resolution. With weight of authority, both ministries argued that the statement should come from the Federal Prosecutor, a thin, skin-sagged lawyer named Nikolai Smolin. The Prosecutor tried to spread responsibility, summoning Lapinsk the following morning to judge – and for the man to be enmeshed in – the communique. It said the Russian authorities deeply regretted a foul crime. Every effort and every available officer had been assigned to the investigation, for which there was every expectation of a quick conclusion. All information and developments would be made available to the media, as they arose.
    ‘Well?’ demanded Smolin. He had a croaking, dry-throated way of talking.
    ‘It seems to cover what they have been asking,’ said the mediaraw Lapinsk.
    ‘I’m sure it will satisfy them,’ smiled Smolin.
    It didn’t, of course.
    Another one soon. More buttons. More hair. Leave a trail: like a paper-chase. Had to taunt: to dare. Different coloured buttons than the reds and the green and the brown. Had to get this pattern right. Maybe try for red again, after all. Just a different shade. Difficult, of course: dangerous, trying to choose. Always the risk of attracting attention. Never sure what the colours truly were, in the dark, unless you were dangerously close. Had to be very close – risk the danger – to ensure it was a woman. Do