No Time for Heroes by Brian Freemantle Page A

word Cousins, which was coming close to going over the top. Cowley didn’t think it would produce anything, but then neither had the house-to-house enquiries. ‘Yes, we should,’ he admitted. ‘I hadn’t thought of it, which I should have done. Thank you.’
    Both detectives smiled, satisfied.
    Harry Robertson was standing expectantly in his office, shifting from one foot to the other with the impatience of a dedicated specialist. He was a giant of a man who wanted to be bigger and was trying hard to achieve it. His hair was long, part secured by a coloured bandana in a pony tail and the rest matted into a beard that had never been trimmed and exploded in all directions to hang fully down to his chest, like a napkin. His stomach was enormous, encased in a lumberjack-check workshirt and bulging over corduroys held up by a death’s head buckled belt at least two inches wide. The ensemble, predictably, was finished off by high-laced work boots.
    Cowley decided Robertson had to be damned good to be allowed to get away with such determined affectation: J. Edgar Hoover would be corkscrewing in his grave. But then, the homosexual Hoover would probably be wearing a dress.
    â€˜Here’s the little feller!’ announced Robertson, with the pride of a conjuror producing the rabbit from an empty hat.
    The shell casing was still enclosed in a see-through exhibit pouch. To Cowley it looked like an ordinary brass shell sleeve. ‘How can you be sure it’s Russian?’
    â€˜Size!’ declared Robertson. He gestured towards a desk as dishevelled as he was. For the first time Cowley saw two handguns, side by side. They looked identical. There were bullets alongside each.
    Robertson picked up the gun on the right of the desk, offering it for examination. ‘Observe the Walther PP!’ he invited. ‘One of the most successful hand weapons after the invention of the bow and arrow. Developed by the Germans in 1929 as a police pistol, not to be confused with its smaller brother, the PPK, of James Bond fame and all that crap …’ The man paused, to make his point. ‘It is also the most copied handgun in the world, both with and without permission.’
    Cowley shook his head against taking the gun. He supposed the theatrical presentation went with the man’s appearance.
    â€˜Specifications,’ itemised the scientist. ‘It’s 6.38 inches long and has a six-grooved, right-hand-twist barrel 3.35 inches long and an eight round magazine. Most popular chambering is known as a Short …’ Robertson picked up one of the unspent bullets and held it forward for inspection.
    Cowley looked, dutifully.
    Robertson took up the second gun. ‘The Russian 9mm Makarov,’ he announced. ‘It’s 6.35 inches long and has a four-grooved, right-hand-twist barrel 3.85 inches long. And uses an eight round magazine …’ He turned back to his desk, hefting the Walther again, making balancing movements with a gun in either hand. ‘The Makarov is the unlicensed, unauthorised Russian copy of this …’
    â€˜So how can you be sure it was a 9mm Russian copy and not a 9mm German original that killed Serov?’ demanded Cowley. ‘Or any other 9mm copy?’
    â€˜Simple, dear sir!’ said Robertson, pleased with the question. ‘I’ve already told you. Size. It can only be a Makarov because this shell’ … he produced the spent casing in its glassine bag … ‘won’t fit anything but a Makarov. They modified the shell. It’s fractionally larger than any other 9mm slug. You can’t fire an ordinary 9mm round from a Makarov, and the Makarov will only fire a Russian-manufactured 9mm bullet.’ He tossed the pouch up and down. ‘And that’s what this is. Guaranteed one hundred percent Russian.’
    Reluctant as Cowley was to accept it, the ballistic evidence took them closer to a tie-in with the Russian