‘I mentioned earlier that I needed to see a doctor,’ said Berlin, cradling her tea. She had waited for an appropriate moment to bring the topic up again. Tea at the Tsar’s table seemed about right.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Charlie, frowning.
‘I’ve run out of medication,’ said Berlin. She wavered. If Charlie was able to deal directly with Burghley’s client she really didn’t want her situation getting back to them. ‘It’s a long-standing endocrinal condition.’
‘You’re in trouble then,’ said Charlie.
Berlin was beginning to realise that her surly manner did not disguise a warm heart.
‘There must be a hospital with an emergency department somewhere in a city of this size,’ said Berlin.
‘Emergency?’ said Charlie. ‘You don’t look like you’ve been run over to me. Although I’m sure it could be arranged.’
It was the way she said it. Impassive, inscrutable.
‘Scotch?’ said Berlin. ‘I just remembered I’ve got a bottle in my bag.’
26
Fagan was tired and irritable. So much for fucking Christmas Day. He doubted Boxing Day would be any better. At least one problem had been tucked up for the night, so he could go home. The prospect didn’t fill him with joy.
Why had he decided to spend Christmas in England? Because it was expected, and he had to maintain at least a semblance of normality. In Fagan’s experience, once you let something slip, everything else soon followed. It was a juggling act, but he had had plenty of practice.
He drove onto the Fullwell Cross roundabout, but instead of taking the exit to Chigwell Road he drove around again. And again.
He kept going over and over the last few days; was there anything he should have done differently? A lot of things were outside his sphere of influence: he was just the subcontractor. Hirst paid him through a series of shell companies and offshore accounts that didn’t just minimise tax – they eradicated accountability.
But not his. He had to answer not only to his boss, but also to himself. Sometimes his answers came up a bit short.
The wife and kids had stopped asking questions long ago.
The fourth time he circled the roundabout he swore, and took the exit to Fairlop Waters.
He would go and feed the ducks, so their honking didn’t keep him awake all night.
27
Berlin shivered under a set of dusty brocade curtains on one of the chaises. She imagined the drapes had once graced the windows, but were redundant now that the glass was painted black.
Charlie was snoring loudly on a couch beneath a pile of what appeared to be moth-eaten rabbit fur. Yorkie had been escorted back to his wing. Charlie had explained that her residency in the building was only ‘semi-official’, so she was obliged to black out the windows to disguise her presence.
Berlin’s pleas to be taken to a doctor had got her nowhere. Her limbs were aching, but it was impossible to tell if this was withdrawal or the biting cold.
They had finished the Talisker. It had taken the edge off her ague, but her usual nocturnal restlessness was kicking in and wouldn’t be appeased unless she could walk. Silence and darkness always conspired against her.
She was exhausted, but as soon as her head had hit the pillow – or in this case, the lumpy bolster – her mind raced.
Unable to stand it any longer, she flung off the curtains, tiptoed to the vestibule and put on her coat, hat, gloves and boots. She would walk beside the canal to avoid getting lost. Surely even Russian muggers and rapists wouldn’t be out in these temperatures.
A thick layer of corrugated ice beneath six inches of fresh snow kept Berlin on her toes, literally. She was barely out of the gate when she began to consider turning back.
A sleepless night under the curtains was preferable to lying in a heap with a broken arm or sprained ankle. She guessed help would not come readily. The hum of traffic in the distance hinted at human habitation, but there was no-one on the street.
Agitation got the better of her, so she crossed the road and walked back the way she and Charlie had come earlier, between the parked cars and the canal wall.
A duck squawked and she leant over the parapet to take a look: it appeared to be complaining bitterly about the lack of swimmable water.
The opaque ice was a still life of modernity, a faded rainbow of polystyrene take-away cartons, disposable nappies, broken bottles and a solitary Nike, its tongue lolling.
She felt at home.
The clink of metal on metal echoed in the silence. She glanced in the direction of the noise. Fifty yards down the line of parked cars two figures were standing beside the door of a Range Rover. It was Charlie’s Range Rover.
‘Hey!’ shouted Berlin.
One of the men detached himself from the shadows around the car just as the other opened the door. Berlin heard a distinct pop-pop. The man seemed to be pointing at her.
It was only when the concrete parapet beside her exploded into shrapnel that she realised he was pointing at her. With a gun.
More pops were accompanied by the dull rending of metal as bullets hit nearby cars. Berlin flung herself to the ground between two of them. Her face struck ice. As she opened her mouth to scream, it filled with snow.
The sounds of squealing tyres and thrumming motors were suddenly all around her. A shadow fell across the space where she cowered. She looked up. A car door swung open.
‘Quick!’ came a command.
Berlin scrambled to her feet and flung herself into the car. It surged forwards and the door slammed shut, catching her ankle.
‘Christ,’ Berlin exclaimed, then added in outrage, ‘they shot at me.’
‘Very likely,’ said Major Utkin.
The tail-lights of the Range Rover were about a hundred yards ahead, at a T-junction, one arm of which was a bridge over the canal. It turned right and sped across.
When Utkin reached the T-junction he turned left.
Berlin was astonished. ‘What are you doing?’ she shouted. ‘Follow them!’
‘Men with guns? Not very likely,’ said Utkin.
The McDonald’s was very busy. The long queues appeared to be composed entirely of clubbers: young men and women in designer clothes who, as far as Berlin could tell, did not feel the cold. She recognised with envy the warm glow conferred by the many substances that coursed through their veins.
Utkin put down a tray that bore two cardboard cups of black tea. ‘First McDonald’s in Russia,’ he said. ‘Pushkin Square. Six-hour wait on day it opened.’ He chuckled. He smacked his hands together as if to emphasise the sudden nature of the cataclysmic change. ‘1991! Freedom.’
Berlin took off her left boot and rubbed her sore ankle.
‘Once was biggest McDonald’s in all world.’ Utkin sighed. ‘Now Oklahoma. But still biggest in Europe.’
‘What about the McDonald’s at Olympic Park in London?’ she said, amazed to find herself engaging in one-upmanship about anything, let alone McDonald’s.
‘Temporary!’ cried Utkin.
That settled it.
‘Not eating?’ said Berlin, indicating the tray.
‘Goodness me, no,’ said Utkin. ‘It is not eatable.’
From his inside pocket he produced a small flask and discreetly topped up their tea with a clear fluid.
‘I assume that’s antifreeze,’ she said.
Utkin guffawed. ‘Ah! English humour,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid I’m losing mine,’ said Berlin. ‘Are you stalking me, Major Utkin?’
Utkin’s smile was benign. ‘Very likely,’ he said.
Berlin slurped her tea and burnt her mouth, which only added to her irritation.
‘Why the hell didn’t you go after them?’ she demanded. ‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’
Utkin sighed. ‘I’m beyond retirement age,’ he said.
‘That’s no excuse,’ she said.
‘No. But it explains how I lived this long,’ said Utkin.
>
Berlin sipped her tea cautiously. ‘Your English is very good,’ she said. ‘Is that common among Russian coppers?’
‘Coppers,’ said Utkin. He drew out the word, enjoying it. ‘Few Russian coppers speak good Russian.’
Berlin noticed that although the restaurant was crowded and she and Utkin sat at a table for four, no-one sat at the empty places. The locals knew a policeman when they saw one, even in plainclothes.
A stocky, scowling man strolled past them. Berlin recognised him immediately. It was Joseph Stalin. Four more Stalins followed him, all carrying trays laden with burgers and fries.
‘They hang about outside expensive stores, or in Red Square,’ explained Utkin. ‘For few roubles you have your picture taken with them. Stalins make more money than Lenins. Both do better than Brezhnevs.’
Berlin tried to focus on the issue at hand, rather than staring at the old tyrants.
‘What are you going to do about the Range Rover?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Utkin.
‘Two blokes prepared to kill, just to steal a car, and you’re going to let it slide?’ she said.
‘It was their car, after all,’ said Utkin.
Berlin sat back and stared at him.
‘That is, they collect it for owner,’ said Utkin.
But before she could demand clarification, Utkin reached into his pocket and produced the photo of her grandfather.
She was so surprised she didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t missed it, probably because she’d been so preoccupied by the seizure of her buprenorphine and passport.
Utkin laid it on the table between them.
In the flat, sterile light the scorched black-and-white snap seemed even more archaic: it was the photo of Zayde in his long johns, barrel chest exposed.
‘Who is this?’ Utkin asked her.
‘My grandfather,’ she said. ‘Jacob Berlinsky. He was Russian.’
‘Do you know what these are?’ he said, pointing to the tattoos on Zayde’s shoulders.
‘Not really,’ she replied.
She remembered tracing them with her finger when she sat in her grandfather’s lap on rare hot summer days; he had a cat in a hat on one shoulder and five teardrops on the other.
‘I think perhaps he had them done during the war,’ said Berlin. ‘Something to do with his regiment, perhaps?’
‘His regiment?’ Utkin echoed, rolling his eyes. ‘Oh yes, his regiment: the vor. His war was fought against law, always and everywhere. They refused fight in Great Patriotic War, even in exchange for freedom.’
‘I’m not with you,’ said Berlin. ‘What do you mean?’
Utkin pointed to the cat in the hat. ‘This means your grandfather was vory v zakone. A thief-in-law. It’s like mafia. But worse.’
Utkin picked up the photo and offered it to her. She took it with both hands, stunned.
‘And now I understand you a little better, Katarina Berlinskaya,’ he said.
28
Berlin crept back into the apartment and sat in the vestibule. Charlie’s stentorian snores were indication enough that she hadn’t been missed.
Major Utkin hadn’t returned her passport or buprenorphine, and he hadn’t asked for money. He was keeping tabs on her, protecting his investment. He was dragging it out to soften her up. As her anxiety increased so would his price. The shakedown would come sooner or later. But she was angry that he had brought her grandfather into it.
Berlin was well acquainted with the major’s type: pathetic. His job was his life, and it was deserting him. How much he would ask her for, and in what currency, was all that remained to be established.
She dragged off her boots and sat on the low wooden bench, rubbing life back into her toes.
Utkin’s characterisation of Zayde as a criminal had dredged up memories that she thought long exorcised: her parents’ fierce arguments when Zayde came home with shiny stuff: gold chains, thick rings with bright stones that Peggy would refuse to polish or sell in the shop.
Berlin padded across the room under the blank gaze of the architects of communism. She crawled into her ersatz crib and drew the drapes over her head. She just wanted to do her job and get the hell out of there.
29
Yuri was livid. He was surrounded by fools. Two of them stood in front of him, surly and unapologetic.
‘You shot at someone,’ he said. ‘You think it could have been the woman?’
A sullen nod confirmed it.
‘It was very dark,’ said the other one.
Yuri turned to him. ‘But not too dark for someone to intervene,’ he said. ‘And why shoot? I gave you the spare keys.’
‘We were told to get the car,’ the man mumbled. He glanced at Maryna, who was standing by the window, her back turned to them. ‘No-one said anything about how.’
Yuri slapped him. He felt, rather than saw, Maryna flinch. It was a reaction he quite enjoyed. It was one of the few things he had over her. Correction. The only thing he had over her.
‘It must have been this policeman, Utkin,’ said Maryna. ‘I told you. He came to see me about Misha and mentioned Katarina Berlin. Heroes are very thin on the ground in Moscow.’
Yuri’s joy evaporated. He didn’t like keeping things from Maryna, but he had failed to mention he knew Utkin, because it would only lead to more questions, and more pressure.
‘But how did he connect them?’ he said.
‘Because he is investigating the death of the interpreter,’ said Maryna, impatient. ‘When they found the body at the airport this Utkin went looking for whoever he was supposed to meet. It would have been the first thing he asked her: “Why are you here?” ’
And the second thing, thought Yuri, would have been who actually met you.
‘She must have told him about her assignment,’ said Maryna. ‘He asked me about a car, too. Can’t you do something?’
‘You mean, like arrange to have him removed from the case? How, without arousing suspicion?’
‘Well, you have to do something.’
Yuri stared at the floor. Maryna knew nothing of certain arrangements. She insisted on it. She said it was need to know, and she didn’t need to know. It was an expression of her trust in him.
It also meant she couldn’t be implicated.
‘This British woman, Berlin, is what she seems,’ said Yuri. ‘I am assured she came to interview Misha to fulfil legal requirements, that’s all.’
‘What does Utkin know?’ said Maryna.
‘Nothing,’ said Yuri. ‘He’s an old man pursuing a phantom. Don’t be concerned.’
Maryna touched his cheek.
His heart soared with gratitude. She knew he was weak, but forgave him. What more could a man ask from a woman?
30
Charlie appeared dazed when she woke in the morning and saw Berlin sitting at one end of the imperial-scale table, staring at her.
Berlin waited until the confusion cleared from her bloodshot eyes, then spoke. ‘The car’s gone,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ said Charlie. ‘Put the kettle on, would you?’
‘How do you think they found it?’ asked Berlin.
‘Probably had one of those satellite thingies in it,’ said Charlie.
When Berlin didn’t move Charlie sighed and slid out from under the tatty furs, retaining one draped around her shoulders.
‘So why did you steal it?’ asked Berlin.
‘You wouldn’t happen to have an aspirin, would you?’ asked Charlie. Berlin could hear the phlegm bubbling in Charlie’s chest as she shuffled to the gas ring and put on the kettle.
‘What happened to your own car?’ Berlin persisted.
‘It died at the airport,’ said Charlie. ‘I didn’t want to lose this job. As you can see, I’m not exactly living high on the hog. So I pinched one.’
Berlin was astounded at the cheek of the woman.
‘But you had the keys,’ said Berlin.
Charlie hesitated a moment. She yawned in an
exaggerated fashion.
‘Oh, they always leave them behind the visor, like American gangsters in films,’ she said. ‘They can’t believe anyone would have the nerve to steal from them.’
So Charlie, like Utkin, was well aware of who owned the car. It struck Berlin at that moment that Charlie was either desperate or deranged. Or both.
Wrapped against the cold in one of the brocade curtains, Berlin turned on her computer and waited for it to pick up a wi-fi signal. Nothing happened. She got up and began wandering up and down the room, peering at the walls.
‘What are you doing?’ said Charlie.
‘Looking for your modem.’
‘I haven’t got the internet,’ snapped Charlie.
Sure. Just like you haven’t got a mobile.
‘You couldn’t work for Burghley without it,’ said Berlin. She flung open the first set of doors, which led to Yorkie’s wing.
Charlie seemed alarmed. ‘All right, all right,’ she said. She scuttled across the room to close the doors again, then reached behind a stack of ancient Pravda newspapers. Berlin heard a click. She went back to the tablet and saw five signal bars appear on the screen.
Charlie stomped off and set about preparing what looked like a large bowl of gruel to feed the scabrous chihuahua.
Berlin accessed the British embassy website, quickly scrolling through pages of cheerful information about building Britain’s prosperity by increasing exports and investments, opening markets and ensuring access.
There were lists of contacts if you wanted to pursue trade opportunities, but she had to look long and hard to find consular services for British nationals ‘in distress’. She found a pad and scribbled down a number.
She logged on to her mobile phone account and paid her bill. Now at least she could make calls. She went straight to contacts and tapped one while waiting for her email to download.
Charlie shuffled towards Yorkie’s wing with the gruel. The doors closed behind her.
Del’s voice invited Berlin to leave a message.
A Morbid Habit Page 8