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developed an obsessional hatred of incarceration and was determined never to be locked up again.
    Yezhov’s was one of fifty names to emerge during the case history search of the city’s psychiatric clinics and hospitals.

Chapter Four
     
    Danilov disliked entering the homes of murder victims. He’d had to do it too many times and always had a sense of awkwardness, feeling he was intruding into the privacy of someone whose privacy had already been too much violated. In the minute entrance hall he said: ‘This isn’t a normal situation. I want everything – and I mean everything – completed now . There won’t be another chance. There must be no damage …’ Nodding towards Pavin, who carried the specimen case, Danilov said: ‘The Major will compile a complete and detailed inventory of anything removed. List it at the moment of collection. I want nothing overlooked, to be complained about later. Understood?’
    There were grunts and nods from the assembled men: as if investing him with the responsibility for what might go wrong, they remained slightly behind as Danilov went further into the apartment.
    The curtains were drawn, but all the lights still burned, showing an apartment luxurious by Russian standards, comfortable by Western. The wallpaper was heavily patterned, unlike any Danilov had seen in Russia, and the furniture was obviously also imported. There was an extensive stereo system along one wall, with records stacked on a shelf above. All the books in a cabinet against a far wall were English-language. Cushions on a couch and an easy chair fronting a small table were crumpled from the pressure of being sat upon. There were two glasses – one still containing some clear liquid – on the table. Delicately he sniffed and then carefully dipped his finger into the liquid. It was vodka.
    Ann Harris’s handbag was on a small occasional table that supported a sidelamp, which was on. The bag was the sort that secured by a snap clasp. The clasp was undone.
    With a wooden medical spatula Danilov opened the handbag fully, so that it gaped, and used long-armed tweezers to lift out the contents, one by one. As he did so, he listed the items for Pavin to record. There was a compact, with a fixture at the side, empty, for a lipstick canister. The billfold was Vuitton: it held American Express and Visa cards, American and Russian driving licences, a plasticized embassy ID card, seventy-five roubles and eighty US dollars. There was one photograph, a studio portrait without any background, of a smiling couple, both grey-haired. Danilov estimated their age at about sixty. The address book was very small, clearly designed for a handbag or a pocket. Danilov flicked through, quickly, seeing both American and Moscow numbers. He offered it sideways to Pavin, who held out a waiting plastic envelope. The diary was a slender one, pocket-sized again, with a line-a-day entry. Danilov looked more intently than he had at the address book, realizing at once it was very much an appointments record, with no personal entries. The line for the previous day was blank. That, too, went into a plastic exhibit envelope. Danilov gestured to the fingerprint man for the handbag to be tested.
    The kitchen was clean, with no indication of a cleared-away evening meal the previous night. The dishwasher – a dinosaur rarity in a Russian home – was empty. Everything in the store cupboards carried American labels, bought from the embassy commissary. The tins were regimented on the shelves, sectioned by their contents, so that selection would only take moments. Even the perishable goods in the refrigerator, like milk and butter and bread, carried American brand names.
    There was an extensive range of alcohol in a cupboard beneath sink level, bourbon and scotch whisky, brandy and gin. The vodka bottle was at the front, half empty. All the labels – even the vodka – showed them to be imported. There were fifteen bottles of wine, a selection of white