‘It will grow again,’ assured Danilov.
‘That’s what they say. I don’t know.’ Her bottom lip wobbled. ‘I liked my hair. Don’t want to be ugly. Boris liked my hair.’
‘I want to talk more about that night,’ said Danilov hurriedly, not wanting her to collapse on him. ‘I know there are gaps, when you probably fainted. But tell me about before, when you can remember. Everything you can remember before.’
‘I was walking from the hotel, like I said. At the time I told you. I didn’t know he was behind, not until his arm suddenly came over my shoulder and his hand closed over my mouth.’ Carefully Lydia raised her hand to the round bruise on her chin. ‘… I don’t think his hand closed over my mouth,’ she qualified. ‘It was more a slap, bringing his hand back into my face. That — and the terrible pain — knocked the wind out of me. But I felt his strength, as he pulled me backwards. I remember trying to fight against falling backwards. But I couldn’t.’
‘Is that when you smelled the tobacco on his breath?’
‘It wasn’t on his breath,’ she contradicted at once.
‘But you said …’ started Danilov, and then stopped, because she hadn’t said: she’d told them of smelling tobacco and he’d assumed it was on the attacker’s breath. ‘How, then?’ he finished.
‘It was an all-over smell, not like it is when it’s on a person’s breath: then it’s sort of directed, isn’t it? Concentrated?’
Danilov nodded, although he was not sure he completely understood. ‘And you’re still sure about the clammy hands?’
Lydia shivered, but halted quickly. ‘That was the worst part, except for the pain. The way his hands were. Unnatural. That and the sound …’
‘What sound?’ This second visit might be as useful as the one to the taxi driver’s widow.
Lydia frowned, slightly turning her head the better to look at him. ‘I told you about the sound.’
‘You said he grunted, when you lashed out at him. Hit him in the chest.’
‘No,’ said the woman, although not positively arguing. ‘There was a hum. Not at first. Like I said, I didn’t hear anything at first. Didn’t know he was behind me. But when I came to on the ground, he was humming.’
‘Humming! Like a tune, you mean?’
‘No,’ insisted Lydia. ‘Not an actual tune. Just a sound, in his throat. The sort of noise people sometimes make without knowing it when they concentrate. That’s how the grunt came about, I suppose. My hitting him just made the hum louder, for a moment.’
Danilov pressed even closer: her breath still smelled badly. ‘Now think, Lydia Markovina! This is extremely important. The hum, the sound, however you like to think of it. Could you detect anything about an accent; anything that might have been a word, even? Was it Russian? Or something else? Think! Think before you answer!’
The frown came again. She considered the question, as he’d demanded. Then she said: ‘I can’t say. It was just a sound, moaning as much as humming. No words. No accent …’ She smiled, shyly, and deep in her throat made a sound which Danilov thought more of a groan than how she’d described it. ‘Something like that,’ she said.
Small things, decided Danilov: small things that might fit into a bigger whole, if ever they got to the man. ‘You said, before, that you couldn’t make out his features when he leaned over you. Is that so? Nothing has come to you since, about how he looked? Anything about his face?’
‘He wasn’t big, not like your friend. Nothing about his face. It was always in the dark.’
Danilov straightened, from bending forward, feeling the strain in his back. ‘We’ll leave it now,’ he said. ‘We might come back again.’
‘The nurse said he was a murderer. That he’s a maniac and that he’s killed other people.’
‘Yes,’ said Danilov.
She gave a pained shudder. ‘So I’m lucky not to be dead too?’
‘But you’re not,’ said Danilov, not wanting her to become fixated on her escape. ‘That’s why I want you to go on thinking of anything that might help me catch him.’
‘Boris said you took all my clothes.’
‘To be examined. There might be evidence.’
‘He will be caught, won’t he?’
‘Yes,’ assured Danilov. But possibly not by me, he thought.
Danilov decided that during the day it wasn’t necessary to take the windscreen wipers off: even at night he felt ridiculous doing it and still sometimes pinched his fingers. There was instant recognition when he named Kosov. A smiling manager escorted him to a room to the right. It was easy to isolate the foreigners — tourists and businessmen and possibly diplomats — but Danilov just as easily picked out the self-favouring Russians proving themselves an elite. Kosov was in the centre of the room, displaying himself more favoured than most by being at a table capable of seating four. Danilov was early and suspected Kosov had arrived even earlier so as to play the considerate, attentive host. Danilov would not have really been surprised if Kosov had worn his uniform, but he hadn’t. The blue-striped suit was well cut and clearly Western-made, the coordinated blue shirt crisp and fresh; without positively thinking of the action, Danilov shrugged his cuffs back beneath the sleeves of his jacket. Kosov stood effusively to shake his hand and remained standing while Danilov seated himself. There was a diminishing bottle of vodka already on the table; unasked Kosov poured Danilov a full measure, raising his own glass in a toast. Danilov responded, self-consciously. Kosov demanded they get the ordering over, insisting that the schi was the best cabbage soup in Moscow and recommending the smoked sturgeon to follow. Danilov agreed to both. Kosov offered the wine list, saying there was a selection of both Californian and French, as well as Georgian. Danilov refused to choose, saying he didn’t mind. Kosov chose a French Beaujolais: 1983 had been a good year, he declared.
Kosov topped up their vodka glasses and said: ‘There’s quite a fuss, over the Senator?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there a cover-up? Something we don’t know about?’
Had he been trapped into this meeting to pass on gossip with which Kosov could impress his doubtful friends? ‘Not at all. There was a line of inquiry that it suited us not to make any announcement about before we did. The Senator likes seeing his own picture on television too much.’
‘What line of inquiry?’
‘It came to nothing.’
There was the slightest of pauses, at the avoidance. ‘It will be awkward if the man really does say something in the American Congress: I heard him threaten it on television.’
‘That’s the concern of politicians,’ said Danilov, wanting to get to the point of their being in the restaurant. ‘Mine is to find the man who’s doing the killing. Or trying to find him. You said you had something?’
Kosov smiled, refusing to be hurried. ‘I have special friends,’ he said.
‘You told me.’
‘This could never be evidence, you understand? They won’t cooperate like that.’
‘Just let me have the guidance.’
‘These friends of mine employ a lot of people. Particularly to drive around Moscow, servicing outlets.’
Danilov knew at once the man was talking about black-market deliveries guaranteed by Kosov against interruption by any curious Militia. Which was precisely what he’d once done for a grateful Eduard Agayans. Could the informant even be Agayans? It was possible: maybe more than possible. ‘Late at night?’ he suggested, wanting to show his awareness.
‘The best time,’ smiled Kosov, enjoying the exchange. ‘That request you made, a few days ago, referred to a particular area?’