Hughes remained behind the desk. There was no smile of greeting, either. ‘Barry Andrews told me you were coming, but I don’t know what I can do to help you,’ he announced at once.
There was a pervading smell of tobacco in the room. The man was smoking a cigarette and there were several butts already in an ashtray on the desk. Paul Hughes’s features were striking, thin-faced but with a beaked nose and pure white hair combed forward. The striped blue suit was impeccable, clearly hand-made with a lapelled waistcoat across which a gold watch-chain linked two flapped pockets. Had Hughes chosen straight diplomacy and not economics, Cowley guessed the man would have already been short-listed for an ambassadorship. Cowley said: ‘Ann Harris was a member of your staff: you must have known her well.’
‘Reasonably.’
‘Did you get on, personally?’
‘This is a small department of an embassy in an unusual environment,’ lectured Hughes. ‘It’s essential to be compatible: things would become unworkable otherwise.’
‘I’m not completely sure I understand what you’ve just said.’
‘It’s necessary to make a conscious effort to get on well with everyone.’
‘Did it need a conscious effort to get on with Ann Harris?’
‘Not at all. She was a very pleasant girl.’
‘How would you describe things between you? Division controller to employee? Or friends?’
Hughes gazed unspeaking across the desk for several moments, and Cowley was caught by the stillness with which the man held himself. Finally Hughes said: ‘Neither. There was always the proper degree of respect between us but there was not a rigid distancing: as I said, that wouldn’t work here. But I would not go as far as to say we were close friends.’
‘I didn’t actually ask if you were close.’
‘It was amicable,’ allowed Hughes.
‘Did you mix socially?’
‘Everyone mixes socially: it’s an enclosed society.’
‘Regularly?’
Hughes shrugged. ‘As and when. There’s usually something organized here at the embassy every week, but people don’t go every time. There’s a fairly active dinner circuit.’
‘Ann Harris has dined with you?’
‘My wife and I.’
‘And you with her, at Pushkinskaya?’
‘I think so: yes I’m sure we have.’
‘But not recently? If you’d been there recently you would have remembered more easily?’
There was another unblinking stare. ‘No, not recently.’
‘Where do you live, Mr Hughes; you and your wife? In the compound or outside?’
‘Outside.’
‘Isn’t it difficult to get outside accommodation? I thought it was at a premium.’
Hughes brought both hands up on the desk, leaning forward to light another cigarette from the butt of the old. They were French, Cowley saw, identifying the packet. Hughes said: ‘Is a conversation about the accommodation problems of Moscow going to help find Ann’s killer?’
Now it was Cowley who hesitated, looking at the man and the way he was craning forward, ‘I don’t know. At the moment we’re a long way from finding the killer. Where is your apartment?’
Hughes sighed. ‘Pecatnikov. We were lucky enough to take it over from my predecessor. I really can’t see the point of this conversation.’
‘Do you want to help find Ann Harris’s killer?’
‘Of course I do!’ said Hughes, indignantly. ‘That’s an absurd question.’
‘I’m sorry, if it’s upsetting you.’
‘It’s not upsetting me! That’s absurd also! Your questions simply seem obtuse.’
There was colour to Hughes’s grey face, and Cowley thought that everything he was doing that day was making embassy staff go red. It didn’t seem to be achieving much, though: so far no one had lost their temper sufficiently to make any unguarded remark. ‘I’ll try to be less obscure,’ he promised. ‘Who was Ann Harris’s lover?’
‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t even know she had one.’
‘Not in this narrow, enclosed society?’
‘No.’
‘You want to reflect on that, Mr Hughes?’
‘What are you saying? Suggesting?’
‘Just that you reflect on what you’re saying.’
Hughes came further forward over his desk. ‘I’ve agreed to help you – I want to help you – but I won’t tolerate this sort of questioning. The inference is obvious and I reject it completely.’ The man’s voice was even, just occasionally snagging on words in his anger. The cigarette was stabbed out, forcefully.
‘What inference is that, Mr Hughes?’
The other man’s hands were clenched in front of him now, some of the knuckles even whitening. ‘That I am being less than honest with you.’
‘But you are, aren’t you? Being honest with me?’
Hughes pushed himself back into his chair. ‘I’ve helped you all I can. I’d appreciate it if you left, right now.’
‘I’d appreciate something else,’ said Cowley, settling further into his chair. ‘I’d appreciate your telling me why, from her apartment in Pushkinskaya in the month prior to her death, Ann Harris made sixteen telephone calls to you.’
There was a twitching movement through the other man’s body, as if he were wincing from a blow, but that was the only reaction, although the knuckles stayed white. ‘How do you know about telephone calls made to me?
What
, about telephone calls?’
‘You’ve said you want to help me. I’d hoped you’d help me about those, particularly.’
The movement that went through Hughes’s body this time was more of a shudder. ‘She was attached to this department. It is not at all unusual for members of my staff to talk to me on the telephone after normal working hours.’
‘Staff that work for you throughout the day?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Was Ann Harris efficient?’
‘Of course she was. She wouldn’t have been assigned here if she hadn’t been efficient.’
‘You never had cause for complaint about her work?’
‘Never.’
‘Yet during the month before she was killed she remembered sixteen things to talk to you about that she’d forgotten during the day when she was here with you and which couldn’t wait until the next morning.’
‘Is that a question?’
‘If you like. I find it curious, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Do other members of your staff consult you, after working hours?’
Instead of replying, Hughes depressed a button on a flat keyboard close to his computer complex. Cowley heard the door open behind him. Hughes smiled up and said: ‘Pam. Come in, won’t you?’
The girl who entered Cowley’s view was slight and dark-haired, bobbed short. She wore black-framed glasses which she removed as she approached. The twin-set was fawn, with a knitted-in flower motif which was picked up in the skirt, completing the ensemble. She looked curiously between the two men and Hughes said: ‘Pamela Donnelly, my other senior economist. William Cowley.’
From all the material he had read, Cowley knew Ann Harris had been twenty-eight years old: he guessed Pamela Donnelly to be the same, maybe a year or two older. Not knowing the reason for her summons, Cowley said nothing. Neither did the girl. Both looked at Hughes.
The finance controller said: ‘Cowley’s investigating Ann’s murder. Seems to think there’s something unusual about us talking together after we leave here at night. How often do you and I talk, out of hours?’
The girl gave a shoulder movement of uncertainty, ‘I don’t know. Once or twice a week maybe: sometimes more, if there’s some particular thing going on.’
‘Why?’ Cowley asked the question of the girl but was conscious of the other man smiling, in expectation.
‘The time difference,’ explained the girl. ‘Mr Hughes very often stays on for queries coming in from Washington: if it’s important we speak to each other, if it’s something we’ve been involved with during the day …’ She hesitated, finally smiling back at the financial chief. ‘Mr Hughes likes to keep things up to date: we work an action-this-day system …’ There was another pause. ‘I still can’t believe what happened. Have you found who did it?’
‘Not yet,’ said Cowley.
‘Satisfied about the telephone calls now?’
To the girl Cowley said: ‘Thank you. That was very helpful,’ and remained standing until she left the room. Seated again, Cowley said: ‘What was that all about?’
‘Another question I don’t get.’
‘Why bring her into the conversation?’
‘Corroborative evidence. Isn’t that what you detectives look for, in an inquiry? Corroborative evidence?’ Another cigarette clouded into life.
‘Do you think you need your word corroborated, Mr Hughes?’
‘No, I don’t think I need it at all, Mr Cowley. Do you?’
‘I don’t know: I don’t know very much at all.’ A lie, thought Cowley: he believed it was turning into a very productive day. This whole affair might be resolved very quickly. But with some severe embarrassment.
‘What else can I help you with?’ The man appeared more relaxed, not holding himself so rigidly.
‘Ann Harris’s office,’ declared Cowley. ‘Where was that …’ He hesitated, looking about him. ‘… in relation to this room?’
‘Next door,’ said Hughes. ‘Ann to the right, the secretary to the left. All made a neat, compact unit …’
‘… what happened to it?’ broke in Cowley, suddenly worried.
‘Happened to it?’
‘There are usually some personal things in a private office. Have they been gone through?’
‘Of course,’ said Hughes, impatiently.
‘By whom? Who has it now?’ This was an overdue inquiry: one he should have made the first day. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t done it then and almost at once answered his own doubt. A lapse of proper professionalism, he recognized, critically: he’d been away from active operational work too long and become sloppy. He was made uncomfortable – actually, briefly, disorientated – by the awareness.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Hughes, frowning. ‘Maybe Barry Andrews. I know he was there when everything was boxed up by embassy security. I guess you should ask Barry.’
‘Boxed up?’
‘The personal bits and pieces. There wasn’t much. Just one box. Small, too.’
‘Do you have it here?’ demanded Cowley, too hopefully.
Hughes gestured uncertainly, lighting another cigarette. ‘I just took over the official embassy stuff she was working on. Which wasn’t much, fortunately. She really was an efficient girl: job started, job finished. Action-this-day, like Pam said. Again, about the other things, you’d better ask Barry.’
Cowley was suddenly impatient to leave this man, to get back to the resident FBI officer, but held back, knowing it would be a mistake to make an abrupt departure, ‘I’m very grateful, for all your help. And I really do hope I haven’t caused any offence.’
‘Why should you think that?’
‘You seemed tense sometimes.’
‘I’ve never before personally known somebody who was murdered. And in such an appalling way. Nor been questioned by a detective, ever before. Did you really expect me to behave as if I were enjoying it?’ Despite the question there was an amiability about the finance director now, an impression of a man at ease in his surroundings.
‘Perhaps not,’ agreed Cowley. ‘You’ve been very patient.’
‘Poor Ann,’ said Hughes. ‘Poor, dear Ann. She really was a wonderful girl.’
‘So everyone tells me,’ said Cowley. He positively thrust out his hand, forcing the financial director to rise to take it. As they shook, Cowley thought: very productive indeed. He hesitated directly outside the room that Ann Harris had occupied, tempted to enter, but abandoned the idea. There would be nothing left now. Continuing on, he wondered where Pamela Donnelly worked. All the doors were closed, with none of the more lowly occupants designated by name-plates.
Barry Andrews was in the FBI office where Cowley had left him: the only difference from the earlier visit was that Andrews was now wearing his suit jacket. A cigar was smouldering in a bowl near the telephone. Seeing Cowley’s look towards it Andrews said: ‘First today: limit myself to three.’
‘You got something to tell me?’
‘How’s that?’
‘Ann Harris’s office: you helped clear it yesterday, of her personal things. What’s there to tell me? I’d like to see the stuff.’
Andrews picked up the cigar, considering its lighted end. ‘I think we’ve got a slight problem here.’
Cowley experienced a stomach dip. ‘What sort of problem?’
‘There was nothing: hardly anything. Just odds and ends.’
‘I’d still like to go through it myself.’
‘The body was shipped back yesterday. You knew that.’
‘What about the personal things that were in her office?’ persisted Cowley, his temper slipping in anticipation.
‘I asked the ambassador what he wanted me – or security – to do. He said her personal stuff should go back with the body.’
‘You
asked
the ambassador! About what should be done to articles belonging to a murder victim! What in the name of Christ are you talking about?’ This was work – professionalism – and Andrews had fucked up, so he had every reason for the anger: their personal situation had nothing whatsoever to do with it.