A Morbid Habit

by Annie Hauxwell

  The grins of the elves that guarded each of the three remaining doors seemed to taunt her, so after a moment’s consideration she opened those marked ‘23rd’ and ‘24th’. The illicit chocolate was all the more delicious.

  Now I’m two days ahead of myself, she thought. It was a relief, as she had no idea how she was going to fill them.

  The Yule log in the middle of the table glowed when she turned on the standard lamp. It was a nice thought on the part of whoever had sent it, even if it had been one of dozens dispatched by an erstwhile corporate client, an insurance company or a big legal firm – someone she’d worked for in what seemed like an increasingly remote past.

  A noise outside drew her back to the front door. She glanced through the spyhole at the gloomy landing; it was too early for the postman and Bella didn’t seem to be around. The sound of scuffling came from the stairwell, which was beyond the spyhole’s range.

  Berlin opened her front door and peered out. She had only the merest impression of a man, and then a forehead coming towards her before it connected with a sharp crack.

  A few seconds later she came around on the floor, aware of an intense pain in her ribs. Someone was kicking her. Her weak grunts of protest were drowned by a bloodcurdling cry as Bella scuttled across the landing, brandishing a carving knife.

  Berlin’s startled assailant ran for it. Another man came running out of the flat, ducked Bella’s knife and took off down the stairs. He was clutching Berlin’s bag. The one she always carefully stowed her computer in, in case she was burgled.

  Bella poured Berlin a Scotch. She sipped it, wincing.

  ‘Want me to call the police, love?’ asked Bella.

  Berlin shook her head. Both men were wearing hoodies and bandanas. She wasn’t the local station’s favourite person, either.

  Bella frowned at the state of Berlin’s face. ‘Better do something about that,’ she said. ‘It will definitely ruin your good looks.’

  Before Berlin could protest she placed her fingers either side of the broken nose and shoved. There was a bone-crunching sound. Berlin yelped, her eyes watering with the shock.

  ‘There,’ said Bella, stepping back to admire her handiwork. ‘It’s straighter than it was before.’

  ‘Jesus,’ mumbled Berlin. ‘Those little shits were up and about early.’

  ‘Maybe they thought you were a dealer, love,’ said Bella.

  Berlin got to her feet and handed Bella her glass.

  ‘Thanks, Bella,’ she said. ‘I owe you.’

  Berlin crossed the landing, went inside and kicked the door shut behind her. She grabbed a packet of frozen peas from the fridge, lay down on the sofa and plonked them on her nose, ignoring the smirking elves.

  They hadn’t got much, thanks to Bella. Not that there was much left to get. Her computer had been in the bag, but everything was backed up online. It was just the bloody inconvenience of it.

  Her head was throbbing. She was tempted to pop a couple of extra bupes. But that would leave her short at the end of the month, and the prospect of two days without pharmaceutical support wasn’t appealing.

  Which led her to wonder how realistic it was to aspire to being drug-free for the rest of her life.

  She could practically hear the elves cracking up: who was she kidding? She couldn’t even resist chocolate.

  8

  Berlin was woken by a dribble of cold water running down her neck: the peas had defrosted. Late afternoon, but it was already dark again.

  She switched on the radio and put the kettle on. There were wars in all the usual places; pensioners were choosing between eating and heating; gay-rights activists had stormed the prime minister’s lunch for the Russian president and his delegation. Five arrests and disruption to traffic.

  Berlin shuffled into the bathroom: the creature that stared back from the cabinet mirror would have won a prize at Halloween, but the look just didn’t work for Christmas. Too bad. Cinders was determined to go to the ball.

  The one email invitation she had gladly accepted was from Del. She had promised him she would put in an appearance at his firm’s Christmas party, although this wasn’t quite the appearance she had intended.

  Delroy Jacobs had stepped up for her more than once over the years. They had worked together, chasing loan sharks for a notoriously inept government agency. The agency’s incompetence hadn’t made the job any less dangerous. They rarely managed to get together these days. Del was now a family man and out of the operational side, but Berlin knew he missed the street. And she missed him.

  The circulating waiter offered caviar on black bread, which Berlin gratefully accepted. Del had recently been promoted to a senior management position at Burghley & Associates, a boutique intelligence firm that was flourishing.

  Apart from servicing the pressing needs of private clients for information about their competitors, the public sector market for intelligence services was booming. Outsourcing had become the rule, rather than the exception, as the government relentlessly pursued ‘value for money’.

  Not that Burghley was cheap. They worked at the opposite end of the market from Hirst; they were very discreet, and entirely focused on intelligence.

  Berlin scanned the room. It was all very cosy. Experienced government workers who had been made redundant, or who had quit because of continual budget cuts, set up their own outfit, such as this one. They took their business knowledge and their contacts with them, and won the contracts that were necessary to fill the gaps they’d left.

  Surveillance, covert operations, analysis: trade craft had succumbed to market forces. Rendition appeared on invoices as ‘transport and logistics’. The dissolution of the boundary between national security and enterprise was so well advanced as to be invisible.

  Del handed Berlin a glass of champagne. ‘You look like you could use a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Can you remember a time when I didn’t?’ said Berlin.

  Del gently lifted the dark glasses from the bridge of her nose. ‘Ouch,’ he sympathised. ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Get me something stronger,’ she said.

  Del returned with a single malt. Berlin took the glass and raised it in a toast. ‘Here’s to capitalism,’ she said.

  Del ignored the jibe. ‘So are you really working for Hirst?’ he asked.

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘You spend your nights staring at screens?’ said Del.

  ‘Needs must, Delroy,’ she said.

  ‘Bullshit,’ he retorted. ‘What are you really up to?’

  Del was her oldest – some would say her only – friend. She let him get away with it.

  ‘May I remind you,’ she said, ‘that Hirst is the world’s leading international security solutions group. They control many important contracts.’

  Del laughed. ‘You mean, you can creep around in the dark and not have to deal with the duplicitous, fucked-up human race.’

  ‘Present company excepted,’ she said. ‘How are Linda and baby Emma?’

  ‘They’re fine, thanks. We keep telling Emma that her fairy godmother really does exist and one of these days she’ll appear.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to come over, Del, but you know how it is . . . anyway, I’m not working for Hirst any more. I’m joining the dole queue.’ She held out her glass for a refill. ‘So don’t hold back.’

  Fagan stood at the bottom of his garden, smoking. He speed-dialled a number on his mobile and waited, glancing up at his sons’ bedroom windows. A flickering glow played across both of them. Computer games. Finally, his call was answered.

  ‘She’s not working for anyone else,’ he said.

  ‘Why are you so sure?’ said his boss.

  ‘It looks like she’s handing it off,’ said Fagan.

  ‘Don’t tell me she’s gone to the police,’ came the response.

  ‘Worse,’ said Fagan. ‘She met with a reporter.’

  There was a silence. Fagan took a drag on his cigarette and waited.

 
‘This could compromise the business,’ said his boss.

  ‘Ours or theirs?’ said Fagan. ‘I mean, we’re just keeping an eye on things, doing them a favour.’

  ‘We’re building a strategic relationship,’ said his boss.

  If that’s what you want to call it, thought Fagan. Protecting the warehouse would give Hirst a lot of leverage: big government contracts were up for grabs and the company would have the inside running in future if they, meaning the subcontractor, meaning him, got this right.

  ‘There’s a job scheduled, to move the commercial partnership forwards. In a useful location.’

  ‘That’s up to the legal eagles. It’s not my end.’

  ‘I want you to make it your end,’ said his boss. ‘We can deal with this risk by removing it temporarily. But in the worst-case scenario it’s better suited to a permanent solution.’

  The mention of a permanent solution made Fagan uneasy. He preferred containment. Escalation often led to more problems than it solved. These people were always ready to embrace the quick and dirty solution, because they weren’t at the pointy end. Which could get messy.

  ‘Fagan?’ said his boss. ‘The reporter?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll sort it.’

  Fagan looked up. Both his sons were at their windows, staring down at him. Even at this distance and in the dark he could see their pale, impassive faces watching him, as if he were something feral that had wandered in, unbidden. A fox fouling the neat lawn.

  The Swiss Re building, known universally as the Gherkin, shimmered against the orange glow of London’s night sky. Del and Berlin weaved their way through the knots of well-oiled City types in Santa Claus hats clustered around its base, suffering the cold for a smoke. Cigars and Eastern European accents were in evidence.

  The Underground was closed and the competition for cabs was fierce, but a taxi drew up beside them as if on cue. They leapt in, ignoring the cries of protest from a bunch of traders wearing reindeer antlers.

  ‘Bethnal Green, then Plaistow, mate,’ Del directed the driver. The cab did an illegal U-turn and headed east.

  ‘Do you have to work tomorrow?’ said Berlin. She was anticipating the sore head that would complement her aching face. When would she learn?

  ‘Yeah,’ said Del. ‘Although it’s reasonably quiet this time of year.’

  ‘Anything interesting on?’ said Berlin.

  ‘Nah. Not really,’ said Del, yawning. ‘We’re doing an audit on the export of licensable goods for a parliamentary subcommittee.’

  ‘What’s that all about?’ said Berlin.

  ‘The usual,’ said Del. ‘Lawyers, guns and money.’ He yawned again. Berlin chuckled.

  ‘I’m going to Hamleys tomorrow to do some shopping,’ said Del, showing more enthusiasm.

  ‘Hamleys?’ said Berlin. ‘And I see you’re buying your bespoke suits in Savile Row these days, too.’

  Del looked sheepish. ‘Needs must,’ he said. ‘What are you doing this year?’

  ‘Spending it with the ghost of Christmas past,’ said Berlin.

  The cab dropped Berlin outside her flats and took off again for Plaistow. Del waved a cheery goodbye through the back window. She waved back, but felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right.

  She glanced around. The road was deserted. There were no shadows hovering, no-one had been dogging her footsteps. Her paranoia was going into overdrive. Being mugged on your own doorstep can do that to you.

  Halfway up the stairs to her flat she realised that the cabbie hadn’t switched his meter on. It was unusual, but explained her anxiety. Just a driver on the dodge.

  One day she would rein in her suspicious nature.

  One day.

  9

  Berlin woke to the sound of a door slamming and an argument somewhere in the flats. Her mobile flashed: she had slept through a call. Her head throbbed, but a night out with Del had done her good. The headache was worth it.

  The missed call was from Magnus.

  First, she needed coffee. She put the phone down again.

  She wanted to ring Del, too, and find out what happened with the cabbie. And she’d forgotten to ask him if he sent the Yule log. He tried to keep his sentimental side hidden, but you only had to see him with his daughter to know he was a pushover.

  Just as the kettle boiled her phone rang. It was Del.

  ‘I was about to call you,’ she said. ‘What happened . . .’

  ‘Berlin, listen,’ Del interrupted. ‘I’ve got a job for you. It just came in.’

  ‘Wait, what?’ said Berlin.

  ‘Wake up,’ said Del. ‘The rest of us have been at work for hours. I’m trying to get out of here and down to Hamleys. So are you interested or not?’

  He sounded a bit short, but then he hadn’t had the benefit of sleeping off his hangover.

  ‘Why isn’t one of your people doing it?’ she asked.

  ‘Your particular talents are required,’ Del replied.

  It wasn’t unusual for a firm like Del’s to use trusted subcontractors, but it was the first time they’d called on her.

  ‘You mean everyone with a life has already gone for the holidays,’ said Berlin. ‘You’re desperate.’

  ‘Come on, Berlin,’ said Del. ‘The arrangements have all been made. Apparently the investigator the client had booked cancelled on them at the last minute.’

  ‘So who’s the client?’ she said.

  ‘I can’t tell you. It’s commercial-in-confidence.’

  Berlin sighed. Del was so damn straight.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s someone you’ve worked with before. Okay?’

  Berlin knew Del wouldn’t lie to her. ‘Okay. What is it?’ she asked. It would probably be a petty meltdown at a Christmas party: a blow-up sex doll at the office lunch or a sex toy sneaked into someone’s bag for their spouse to find. Stress, bullying, harassment. Jolly japes.

  ‘It’s due diligence,’ said Del.

  Berlin was surprised. She poured boiling water onto the last of the Kenyan Arabica.

  ‘When?’ she asked.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Del.

  She paused. The aroma of the coffee soothed her sore nose; with a decent corporate job she would be able to stock up on more. And on ten-year-old Talisker.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ she said. ‘Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Not where you’re going,’ said Del.

  10

  Moscow. Candy-striped cathedrals with gold cupolas, sinister men in fur hats drinking vodka, Gorky Park, nesting dolls and spies. Berlin recalled her grandfather’s muttered ‘Cossacks’, and added this to the impressionistic list.

  The flood of Russian money into London had become a tsunami since the late nineties. The oligarchs were beloved by estate agents flogging mansions in Mayfair, commercial lawyers flogging writs in the Royal Courts of Justice, and the Square Mile flogging complex revenue shelters.

  The émigrés loved the tax regime, the public schools and the police. London was safe. Unless your name was Litvinenko, Perepilichny or Gorbuntsov.

  A clerk from Burghley arrived a couple of hours later with a new tablet-style computer and a standard forty-eight-page confidentiality agreement, which she signed without reading; it would just insist she keep her mouth shut.

  The clerk took a photo of Berlin for her Russian visa application, which would be accompanied by a letter of invitation, an essential visa support document. The visa would be lodged in her British passport, which she had always kept up to date as it was useful for ID. She handed it over. The clerk was very apologetic about the fact that she would have to collect it herself at the Russian visa centre in the morning.

  Anything was possible if you had the budget.

  Berlin fired up the tablet and downloaded her online backup. She hadn’t used a tablet before, but this one had a singular advantage: it would fit into one of her voluminous coat pockets. No bag to be snatched.

  While her backup was coming she stared at the single folder already d
isplayed on the tablet’s home screen. It contained her instructions, details about the subject of the due diligence, and the arrangements: flights, hotel and interpreter.

  Her fingers hesitated. She hadn’t ventured abroad since roaming the hippy trail in the eighties. Her memory of those trips, and that’s exactly what they were, was murky.

  Travelling with heroin, or just using abroad, had become difficult and dangerous once the ‘war on drugs’ kicked off, and so travel had dropped off her agenda. It wasn’t the only sacrifice she had made in order to manage her addiction.

  The cursor blinked beside the folder icon. Berlin reminded herself there was no good reason to refuse this assignment. Her withdrawal was controlled by a perfectly legal pharmaceutical, of which she had an ample supply. She had undertaken dozens of similar enquiries over the years; it was good, clean, straightforward commercial work. It was just that this time it was in Moscow.

  A ping alerted her to an email. It advised that an advance for expenses had already been paid into her bank account. The fee for service would be paid promptly on delivery of her final report.

  She tapped the folder icon.

  To interview, obtain and collate information in relation to MIKHAIL PETROVICH GERASIMOV in order to perform effective due diligence on Mr Gerasimov as a potential business partner, with particular reference to Section 7 of the Bribery Act 2010, whereby a commercial organisation may be committing an offence if it fails to prevent persons associated with it from bribing another person on their behalf.

  The Act provides a defence to Section 7 if it can prove it had adequate procedures in place to prevent persons associated with it from engaging in bribery.

  The conduct of due diligence on those persons will assist in meeting that standard.

  It was an arse-covering exercise. A UK firm wanted to do business with a Russian, or in Russia, where business was synonymous with bribes. No doubt Del couldn’t disclose the identity of the firm because of the potential for insider trading: it was a listed company. News of potential deals in Russia could affect the share price.