A Bitter Taste

by Annie Hauxwell

  So much for her Honours degree in classics and modern languages from Oxford. Daddy had given her a generous allowance and paid the bills while she was a student, so she never really noticed the steadily rising cost of her dope.

  She came from a good family. Whatever that meant. Her life had been mapped out: an easy path to a fulfilling career, marriage, a pied-à-terre in Sloane Square and a nice house in the country.

  But Daddy finally declared her ‘useless’ and cut her off.

  Cole looked after her. For a while. Then when times were tough he would ‘turn her out’; she found herself servicing businessmen with a taste for well-bred women who could talk dirty in three languages. She left Cole more than once, but he always found her.

  Then Princess came along.

  This was the end of the road: tossing and turning on a dirty sheet, alone and desperate for a fix. It wasn’t heroin – it was love that had brought her down.

  When someone tapped on the window she didn’t hesitate. She jumped up. By the time she realised who it was, he was already climbing over the sill.

  Kennedy left the window open. He could see Sonja was disconcerted. He had always come with Bertie before. They stood with the kitchen table between them.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said. ‘If you thought you’d find Cole here you can see you’re out of luck. He’s not been in touch either, before you ask.’

  ‘I’m not interested in Cole for the moment,’ he said.

  Sonja grabbed a fork from the table and backed away from him.

  Kennedy sighed. Why did people always think the worst?

  ‘Put it down, Sonja, you’ve got nothing to fear from me. Why do you think I’ve come on my own?’

  ‘I’ve got a fair idea,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ he said. Although she must have been a looker once. Those blue eyes. He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Take a look at these,’ he commanded, and put his phone on the table.

  Sonja approached near enough to see the photo of Berlin on the screen.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Kennedy.

  ‘No idea,’ said Sonja.

  Kennedy was tired.

  ‘Come on, Sonja. Don’t dick me about. I know she’s been here.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said, defiant.

  Kennedy took a tenner from his pocket and put it on the table. It was an investment. When Sonja reached for it he slapped his hand down over hers.

  ‘She’s just an old friend,’ exclaimed Sonja. ‘What do you want to know for?’

  ‘Look, this is nothing to do with Cole,’ said Kennedy. ‘It’s about a kid, it’s important, a murder inquiry, so you’ve no reason to . . . ’

  He was brought up short by Sonja’s reaction. He didn’t think she could get any paler, but he saw the blood drain from her face. Her hands twitched.

  ‘What? What is it, Sonja? What do you know about her?’

  ‘The kid. Is it a girl?’ asked Sonja, her voice breaking.

  Kennedy nodded.

  Sonja’s sharp intake of breath was a revelation. He remembered that Cole and Sonja had a kid. He hadn’t seen her around for a while. He pointed at the photo of Berlin.

  ‘Who is she and where can I find her?’

  ‘Please,’ said Sonja. ‘The girl. Has she been identified?’ Instead of taking her hand away, she gripped his. She was terrified. ‘I’m begging you, Kennedy.’

  Kennedy knew an opportunity when he saw one. Leverage. Better than cash. I’ve picked up a lot of bad habits from Bertie, he thought, rueful. But if he could get ahead of the game, he might escape those sweaty paws permanently.

  ‘Let’s hear it, Sonja,’ he said. ‘The whole story.’

  Rita was paid to see some things, and ignore others. This particular matter left her in a right two and eight.

  Anyone who thought they could evade her eagle eye by coming in the back in the middle of the night had seriously underestimated her. She wasn’t so green as she was cabbage-looking. Or something like that.

  She took another swig of vodka and ruminated.

  Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

  The story of her fucking life.

  After Kennedy left, Sonja was exhausted. She lay down and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep until she woke suddenly, unable to breathe. The room was pitch-black. She clawed at the hand that sealed her mouth and nose.

  ‘Stay still,’ came the command.

  Sonja froze.

  ‘What did he want?’ he growled, easing his grip so she could answer. His other hand caressed her throat.

  ‘Nothing. Just checking up,’ she gasped.

  ‘Did he say why he was on his own?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did he want then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  He exhaled, impatient, and his hot, sour breath assaulted her. Her kneejerk responses were those of a habitual liar or a fearful child: I don’t know, it wasn’t me, I didn’t see nothing.

  ‘Did he come for a fuck, was that it?’ he demanded.

  Sonja hesitated.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, struggling under his weight.

  Thick fingers gripped her face and squeezed it.

  ‘Well, you better not fuck with me, Sonja,’ he hissed. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  The blow came from out of the darkness.

  32˚C

  25

  Berlin woke at first light with a stiff neck and a cramped leg. Her sleeping bag was damp with dew, but she hadn’t had such a good night’s sleep in years. The great outdoors. She lay there for a moment and considered the attraction of a rootless existence based on scavenging. No mortgage, no bills, no obligations.

  A nomadic existence looked good during a warm summer. But could she do without a hot bath, good coffee and dope? How long before she was rolled by a desperate junkie?

  She crawled out of the sleeping bag, dismissing her romantic delusions, and shuffled into the yard, contemplating her less than romantic future. If Rolfey cut her off, how long before she resorted to violence to get what she needed?

  She had learnt to live with the difference between heroin and morphine. But could she live with the complete loss of that special ease coursing through her veins?

  The fires in the drums had been extinguished and it was quiet in the yard, apart from the dogs rolling in the dust, snarling at imaginary foes. There was a hell of a lot of ground to cover in here, but now was a good time to get started, while everyone was still asleep. But first things first.

  She found the pit, and beside it a mound of earth and a shovel. The hum of the flies reached a crescendo as she squatted and swatted, extinguishing the siren call of the open road.

  26

  Kennedy loped down the corridor towards the office, intent on getting to his desk and running some queries on the Police National Computer system before any bugger started taking an interest in what he was doing.

  He had a muffin in one hand and a plastic cup of tepid tea in the other, and as he rounded a corner he ran straight into Bertie. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d never seen him at the station so early. Bertie looked just as surprised to see him.

  ‘Mate, where are you off to in such a hurry?’ asked Bertie, taking hold of Kennedy’s muffin and stuffing half of it in his mouth.

  ‘Just going to catch up on some paperwork, you know,’ said Kennedy.

  ‘Oh? You’re a busy boy,’ said Bertie.

  ‘Yeah. Domestic responsibilities and a murder investigation,’ said Kennedy, watching his breakfast disappear. ‘I’ve got a full plate. Or did have.’

  ‘You’ve been making a few inquiries, I know that,’ said Bertie.

  The way he said it made Kennedy very nervous.

  ‘That’s my job, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Bertie regarded him for a long moment.

  Kennedy could see he was waiting for some kind of explanation. He felt more confident now that he wasn’t officially re
porting to the fat fuck. It was time to explore, in a small way, the limits of his new-found independence.

  ‘What’s up your bum, Bertie?’ demanded Kennedy.

  ‘Me, mate?’ said Bertie. He looked offended as he brushed the crumbs off his girth. ‘Nothing. Just making conversation. We’re always straight with each other, aren’t we? What you do in your own time is your business.’

  He winked, which Kennedy found disconcerting.

  ‘It’s just that you don’t start until three,’ said Bertie. He glanced at his watch. ‘You could forget the paperwork; you’ve got hours. I’ve booked the van. It’s out the front.’

  Kennedy didn’t move.

  ‘Come on. You can take that with you,’ said Bertie, pointing at Kennedy’s tea. Bertie’s jaw was working with the effort of keeping his temper.

  Kennedy could feel his own resolve weakening, but he still didn’t make a move.

  Bertie frowned, apparently puzzled by Kennedy’s sudden recalcitrance. He leant closer and spoke softly into Kennedy’s ear. ‘You’ve got a lot to lose, mate. All those bleeding cripples you call a family, for a start.’

  He stuffed the rest of the muffin into Kennedy’s jacket pocket and squeezed.

  Kennedy knew striking a senior officer could finish him. He felt Bertie’s heavy hand gripping his arm.

  ‘No offence, mate. But you’ve got a job to do,’ Bertie said. ‘I’ll give you a call later to see what’s what.’

  He turned Kennedy around and pointed him back the way he’d come.

  Kennedy slunk down the corridor. One day, mate, he thought. One day.

  27

  Berlin watched a derelict as he watched her. She had been trooping up and down the rows of containers for hours, peering inside and frequently copping a mouthful of abuse or, worse, a brick, for her trouble.

  But this bloke was taking a particular interest in her as she inspected the containers at the far end of the yard. He sat at the entrance to his own rusty cave, his face and neck swathed in grubby scarves and rags, hunched in an old army greatcoat, defying the heat. He had a solid build under the coat, although it could have just been layers of clothing.

  His eyes seemed weird somehow, but she wasn’t close enough to see why. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his head, covering one ear. He wasn’t missing much. She kept going, working her way up the line; dragging open the doors, scrambling over the heaped contents to get to the back of each container, then retreating again.

  As she got closer to the end of the row, the tramp stood up.

  Sitting in the back of the van in Silvertown, Kennedy considered his dilemma. He had a good lead in the murder of Kylie Steyne, but he couldn’t use it officially without a lot of questions about where he’d got a photo of Billy’s mystery woman, ‘the nice lady’. He had rehearsed a dozen scenarios but it always came out the same: badly.

  He could hear himself saying to DCI Hurley, ‘Well, sir, I was undertaking unauthorised surveillance on a junkie whose drug-dealer husband DCI Burlington and I are shaking down. I photographed this woman visiting the said junkie.’

  Even more questions would be asked about who had put a name to the mystery woman. ‘Oh that? Old-fashioned police work, sir. I blackmailed the junkie into identifying the woman by implying it was her missing daughter who had been found murdered down by the canal.’

  A truck roared past. The van shuddered in the turbulence, reflecting Kennedy’s own tremor. Watching Sonja’s place was a waste of time.

  He started the van and wound down the tinted windows to let in some air. His foot hovered over the accelerator. He would have to take his chances that Bertie’s threats were just bluff. After all, if he went down he would take Bertie with him.

  The problem was that Bertie was so unpredictable lately. It was like he had nothing to lose; his behaviour had always been erratic but his attitude had deteriorated, along with his personal hygiene. But there wasn’t much Kennedy could do about that.

  Fuck Bertie.

  He was going to go back to the station to pursue the lead on the woman Billy had described as intervening between his sister and the punter. An intervention that Kennedy held in high regard, despite it being vigilantism.

  He put his foot down and took off in a cloud of dust. It was very satisfying.

  Sweating and caked with dust, Berlin reached a buckled container; a gash in its side was protected by a sheet of cracked purple plastic. She took a few steps towards it. A movement at her back told her the tramp was on the move. She reached for the plastic.

  From beyond it came a cry: ‘Look out!’

  Berlin looked over her shoulder. The tramp was almost on her.

  The plastic slid open to reveal a kid clutching a metal spike, her eyes wide with terror.

  ‘Quick,’ she shouted. ‘The ogre!’

  Berlin shoved herself sideways through the gap and the kid thrust the plastic back into position and peered through a hole in it. She brandished her spike.

  ‘Fuck off!’ hissed the kid.

  The derelict’s shadow darkened the plastic. He stood very still, bending forwards: a hunchback listening.

  As Berlin’s eyes adjusted to the purple-tinged gloom, she could see the kid’s weapon of choice was a tent peg. But it was a big one, intended to anchor a marquee. It had been honed to a sharp point. Lethal.

  The girl addressed her in a gabbled whisper. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t come in, he knows what he’ll get if he does,’ she said, waving the spike around. ‘He puts sandwiches and stuff in a tin. I gave them to the dogs the first time and they were okay so I eat them, but it doesn’t mean anything. I know what he wants but he’s not getting any.’

  Berlin could see goosebumps on her thin arms and the hand that gripped the spike was trembling.

  It was also emblazoned with a crude version of a symbol that Berlin recognised from long ago: the phoenix that decorated Cole Mortimer’s fist. She was her father’s daughter.

  This was Princess.

  28

  The girl bore little or no resemblance to the soft-featured innocent in the photo in Berlin’s pocket. This kid was all angles; a head of hacked, badly bleached hair atop a sharp little face, eye sockets blue-black from sleepless nights. Her reedy body was all bony arms and legs.

  Berlin offered her hand.

  ‘Berlin,’ she said.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Princess,’ said the child.

  They stood side by side, waiting for the ogre to move on.

  Berlin was impressed with the way the kid had set up the container; the string of cans was a smart move.

  The pack on Princesses’ back was emblazoned with faded symbols wonkily executed in felt-tip pen: pentagrams, a staring eye in a pyramid, Celtic crosses. A legacy of Sonja’s hippy predilections: a universe of auras and karma. Sonja had said the kid made things up. Something else she’d inherited.

  Berlin couldn’t abide that sort of pseudo-mystical claptrap. It lulled children into thinking that there was another world over the rainbow, or that the fairies could save them. Don’t bother clapping. Tinkerbell is dead.

  But this kid wouldn’t be surprised to hear that. She had a mind of her own.

  It dawned on Berlin that getting the ten-year-old delinquent back to Sonja wasn’t going to be easy. She had imagined a few gentle, reassuring words about her mother’s love and then a walk hand-in-hand into the sunset. Now it occurred to her that the runaway might not want to go home. It could get ugly.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Princess, apparently mistaking Berlin’s frown for fear. ‘I’ll protect you.’

  Somehow she had to get the kid to go with her without a fuss, or else attract a lot of unwanted attention.

  ‘He tried to grab me the other night,’ said Princess, meaning the ogre. ‘These others were after me, too. Anyway, I got out.’

  She gestured to the rear of the container. If there was a hole back there only a kid could wriggle through it. Princess was no fool.

  ‘The
re must be safer places than this,’ said Berlin.

  ‘Like where?’ asked Princess.

  ‘Home?’ said Berlin, making sure the emphasis was on the interrogative.

  Princess snorted. ‘Where’s your home, then?’ she said.

  ‘I ran away a long time ago,’ said Berlin. It was the truth.

  ‘Adults don’t run away,’ said Princess, scornful.

  ‘I said it was a long time ago,’ said Berlin. ‘My dad was dead and I didn’t get on with my mum, so I took off.’

  ‘Same here,’ said Princess.

  ‘You don’t get on with your mum?’

  Princess nodded. ‘And my dad’s dead, too,’ she said.

  The sweat trickling down Berlin’s spine suddenly ran cold.

  She glanced sideways at Princess, whose finger was unconsciously tracing the rough shape of the phoenix on the back of her hand.

  ‘That’s tough,’ she said. ‘About your dad.’

  ‘Yeah,’ mumbled Princess. But when she looked up, her crooked smile implied it might not be all bad.

  The ogre was sitting in the entrance to his container, watching. Berlin yanked the purple plastic back into position behind her, and limped over.

  ‘If you go near her, you’ll be sorry,’ she said.

  He leant back, taking his weight on his hands, and squinted up at her.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he responded gruffly. ‘The fucking social?’

  ‘No. I don’t have their scruples,’ she said. ‘So if you want to crawl out of here without kneecaps, you’re going the right way about it.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ he said.

  She stood up and took a step forwards. Her Peacekeeper boot came to rest firmly on the fingers of his left hand. He gasped and squirmed.

  She had always worn knee-high Cossack-style boots. Then a man she realised too late was more than a friend had been blown away by a suicide bomber. All they found were his boots. Peacekeepers. Now she wore them too, and whenever she kicked someone or stomped on a sensitive part of their anatomy, she thought of him. It was a kind of homage.