Berlin said as little as possible as Kennedy rattled on. He was nervous, which meant he was playing out of school.
She glanced over her shoulder at the rear of the van and confirmed her impression that it was set up for surveillance. It occurred to her that she had been overly confident at the station; perhaps he had seen her at Sonja’s.
She shivered despite the heat. The sergeant who had arrested her, and from whom Kennedy was at such pains to distance himself, had confiscated her morphine caps. He had refused to return them until he’d made ‘proper enquiries’, even though it would only take a quick call to Rolfey. Murat Demir wanted to put the squeeze on her and she was powerless to squeeze back.
Now she was taking a ride with one of the men who had roughed up Sonja.
‘Who was he, the paedophile in the alley?’ asked Kennedy, as the van took a sharp corner. He seemed keen to put distance between them and the station.
‘A family man. I kept his driving licence and a picture of his kids. They’re at my flat.’
‘If you broke his arm he would have had a problem strangling the girl,’ said Kennedy. ‘Although I suppose it’s possible. A bloke could knock her out with one blow and choke her with one hand. But it seems very unlikely. He would have been in agony.’
Berlin didn’t respond. She had to agree.
‘Which leaves you as one of the last people to have seen her alive,’ said Kennedy.
‘Why aren’t we doing this at the station?’ she asked. ‘I came in yesterday to report my involvement, as soon as I heard about the girl found by the canal. You can check the waiting room CCTV tapes.’
‘I will,’ said Kennedy. ‘But there’s no statement on record, is there?’
‘I had to leave. There was a long wait and . . . I had other commitments.’
Kennedy gave her a look. She waited for him to ask what was more important than reporting information that might catch a child’s murderer. But he didn’t.
‘So why aren’t we at the station?’ she demanded.
He softened his tone. ‘Look, it was the end of my shift, all right? I could have been stuck there for god knows how long waiting for your brief or a free interview room. We can take a formal statement another time.’
Berlin didn’t buy it. He was a nervy type who didn’t really have the swagger that accompanied corruption. He wasn’t used to playing the heavy. That was Fatty’s role.
The streetlights flickered into life. Twilight was fading and she had to get back to Princess. She tried to put it together, searching for an angle that would help her get out of Kennedy’s clutches, fast.
Cole’s violent cronies were policemen. For obvious reasons Sonja didn’t want to tell them he was dead. Kennedy and his mate were letting Cole stay in business for a slice of the action. But now Cole had gone missing and they thought he was doing the dirty on them.
A loud horn behind them made her jump. Kennedy jumped too and when he looked in the rear-vision mirror she saw him blanch. He pulled over.
‘What the fuck are you playing at, mate?’ demanded Bertie.
‘What the fuck are you doing following me?’ said Kennedy. He glanced up and down the road, acutely aware of the interest that two grown men having a spat might attract. It wasn’t like Bertie to make a scene and create unnecessary risks.
‘Are you trying to avoid me, Grant?’ said Bertie.
‘Of course not,’ said Kennedy.
‘Jack told me he saw you pick up some woman outside the station,’ said Bertie. ‘You took off pretty fast. Who is she?’
Kennedy could see Berlin watching them from the van. He went on the offensive.
‘I have to do my day job, you know. She’s a witness in the Steyne case.’
‘Jack said she was a stalker,’ Bertie said, grabbing his arm.
Always one fucking step ahead, thought Kennedy.
‘That’s just some crap dreamt up by Pannu. Doing a favour for one of his extracurricular clients. Some domestic bullshit. She’s a private investigator,’ said Kennedy.
‘So why aren’t you interviewing her at the station?’ shouted Bertie.
Kennedy had to placate him, and quick. The last thing they needed was someone calling the police. He lowered his voice, conspiratorially. ‘Sonja’s kid is missing, did you know that?’
Bertie frowned.
Kennedy indicated Berlin. ‘She’s been looking for the kid at Sonja’s behest.’
‘Why did you say she was a witness in the Steyne murder then?’ asked Bertie.
Kennedy knew there was no point bullshitting. The heat might be getting to Bertie, but it hadn’t shrunk his brain.
‘Because she is. She doesn’t know that I’m anything to do with Sonja or Cole.’
He could see Bertie processing it.
‘You think Cole took the kid as insurance against Sonja telling us where he is?’ he said.
‘It’s possible,’ said Kennedy.
‘Find the kid and you’ll find the dad,’ mused Bertie. ‘Yeah.’
Kennedy nodded. ‘What’s more,’ he said. ‘I think this woman knows where the kid is, but she’s not saying.’ He drove home his advantage. ‘So just let me work on her, Bertie.’
‘How are you going to get her to give it up?’ asked Bertie, more respectful now.
Kennedy smiled.
‘I’m taking her for a drive,’ he said.
Bertie licked his lips. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
Kennedy gave the fat fingers clenching his arm a friendly pat.
‘Leave it to me, mate. You’ve done more than your fair share lately.’ He winked, trying to maintain an air of confidence.
‘I suppose you’re right, mate,’ said Bertie. Then added with a sigh of envy, ‘Enjoy yourself then.’
It was stifling in Kennedy’s van. Dogs and infants were dying all over London as their owners left them in locked cars to cook while they did the shopping or played bingo in air-conditioned comfort.
Berlin swore. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. She had to get to Princess before her warning to the predatory vagrant wore off. Lengthy jail term and beatings from other inmates didn’t deter paedophiles, so the effect of a few crushed fingers would be transitory.
Kennedy seemed relieved when he got back in the van after his altercation with Fatty. He slammed the vehicle into gear and pulled out into the traffic. She’d tried to hear what they were arguing about – she was clearly a topic of conversation – but couldn’t catch it.
‘Is he your boss?’ she asked.
‘Bertie?’ said Kennedy. ‘Not any more. But he’s having trouble adjusting to the new arrangements.’
He reached into his jacket pocket, brought out the Ziploc bag of morphine capsules and tossed it to her.
She was astonished.
‘Call it a token of good faith,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have to trust me.’
Hell will freeze over first, thought Berlin. Which was very unlikely in the current climate. The gesture was an assertion that he was in charge.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘Your place,’ said Kennedy. ‘No need for directions.’
He had done his homework. She was relieved Sonja’s car was parked well away from her flat in case it was familiar.
‘You’ve been a registered heroin addict for over twenty years,’ said Kennedy.
‘That’s a rather old-fashioned term,’ she retorted.
‘You’ve no criminal convictions though,’ he continued. ‘Which is a miracle considering the shit you’ve been involved in. And you’re not a bad investigator.’
‘So I passed the audition,’ she said.
Kennedy’s laugh was hollow.
32
The heat was killing Bertie and he couldn’t wait to get inside. He loved going home.
He opened his front door and paused, waiting for her usual greeting to ring out: ‘Did you bring my treats?’ But it didn’t come.
He glanced up the stairs. Tha
t’s where she was. Reassured, he closed the front door behind him, switched on the light and plodded down the hallway.
The girth of DCI Maurice Burlington had expanded in direct proportion to his disappointment in life. It was substantial.
He had been called Bertie from birth, and often wondered why his parents hadn’t just christened him Albert in the first place. When he started school, the teacher read out the class register, and all the little Johns and Marys had dutifully answered ‘Here, miss’. When she called ‘Maurice’ he had remained silent, in complete ignorance of his proper name.
‘Aren’t you Maurice?’ asked the teacher.
‘No, miss, I’m Bertie. Bertie Burlington,’ he had replied, in all innocence.
The rest of the class had burst out laughing and the teacher had given him a clip round the ear for being cheeky. The incident had set the tone for his school days.
Bertie was the horrid fat boy in every playground. Too big to belt, a bully, shunned by all. He was destined to become a copper.
His dad, a bus driver, had died of a heart attack when Bertie was eleven, and his mum had clung to him, and he to her, for the next thirty years. When he got teary or lonely, she gave him some of her pills. They shared everything.
Although he had opened all the windows the oppressive, putrid air hung about him, a thick, sticky blanket. The stench was overwhelming. The heat obliged him to use talcum powder to prevent his sweaty skin becoming inflamed. He hated the talc because it seemed girly, but like so many things it had become a necessary evil.
He stripped off and dropped his clothes on the floor. He’d tidy up after his soother. He wasn’t a slob. He kept the house neat, the way she liked it, and the cupboards well stocked with their favourite snacks and biscuits.
Bertie tightened the belt around his arm. The drought was a worry, but he had a bit put by for rainy days. The incongruity of the thought made him chuckle as the needle pierced his flesh. Bliss flooded his brain and a quiet confidence dispelled the anxiety about the recent disruption to his arrangements.
The natural order would be restored, and he would be on top. Just the way Mum liked it.
33
Berlin went straight to the shelf, removed the creep’s driving licence and family photo from the book where they were hidden, and handed them to Kennedy.
But he didn’t leave. He sat down at the table, his right knee working like a piston.
‘Derek Parr,’ he read from the licence.
She remained standing and checked out his shoes. Was it his trainer that had left its mark on Sonja’s face? His Nikes were old, probably knock-offs, and the soles lacked tread. They were worn and thin. Just like him.
‘Will you make a sworn statement?’ he asked her.
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Even though you were carrying an offensive weapon and committed grievous bodily harm?’ he said.
‘Who’s going to charge me?’ she said. ‘You?’
It was clear he wanted her cooperation. This wasn’t going on the record, that much was obvious. ‘If he’s charged with anything, he’ll plead to it, rather than risk publicity,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t want to see me in court.’
Kennedy brought out his notebook and flicked through it, looking for the page he wanted. ‘You should have broken his neck, not just his arm,’ he said. ‘But we won’t be looking at him for her murder. After Billy told me his story I checked the crime reports for that night.’ He pointed to a name in the notebook. ‘There was one report that fit the bill. It was made by a bloke who alleged he was mugged near Liverpool Street station by a young black man. The complainant was your Mr Parr.’
She contemplated the misfortune of being young, male and black in Britain. A soft target.
Kennedy slipped his notebook back into his pocket with Parr’s licence and the photo. She could hardly object.
‘He spent the rest of that night in A & E,’ continued Kennedy. ‘I talked to the hospital. He sat there for four hours before he was seen by a doctor for a fractured ulna. CCTV will verify it. He didn’t have time to kill Kylie, or the two-handed grip used to strangle her. It’s NFA on Mr Parr.’
No further action. A phrase she was familiar with.
‘I’d like to speak to her brother,’ she said.
Kennedy didn’t respond.
‘I feel, I don’t know . . . responsible somehow,’ she said.
Kennedy looked at her for a long moment. ‘Billy says his sister had the money you “confiscated” from Parr. How much?’ he asked, not sparing her feelings.
‘About five hundred,’ she mumbled.
Kennedy made a small noise of disgust. ‘That kind of cash. Word would have spread fast if she was after drugs.’
Berlin nodded. She’d already come to that conclusion herself, and it didn’t make her feel any better.
‘Billy thinks she might have gone to the Halal Southern Fried Chicken place in Brick Lane,’ said Kennedy. ‘Apparently she loved their spicy mix. A lot of street kids hang around there. They beg from City types who are slumming it after they’ve had a skinful.’ He sighed. ‘They love throwing chicken legs in the air and watching the kids fight over them. The pavement is thick with tiny bones.’
There was an awkward silence as they both contemplated the image. Kennedy was genuinely appalled. He was not the hardened cynic she expected.
‘The cash was well gone when we found her,’ he said. ‘And there wasn’t any sign of chicken in her stomach. She was fourteen. Ain’t life grand?’
At last he stood up. Berlin went to the front door and opened it.
‘Billy’s at the shelter in Westminster,’ he said, and walked out.
34
Billy shuffled into the common room, which was deserted because it was so stuffy, and sat down on the threadbare, rickety sofa next to Berlin. She couldn’t help thinking of him as Twig.
‘Got a smoke?’ he asked, without making eye contact.
‘Do you remember me?’ said Berlin.
Billy nodded.
‘Come on, then. You can’t smoke in here,’ said Berlin, standing up.
She hadn’t relished the idea of driving about in a vehicle that was practically a crime scene, but she didn’t have much choice. She needed to move fast in case Billy was moved, or just disappeared onto the street. Then she had to get back to Princess.
Billy dutifully shuffled after her and out onto the concrete steps at the front of the building, where they joined other sleepless residents, smoking, drinking or just escaping the stifling heat inside for the heat and traffic fumes outside.
Berlin never went to a hostel or a prison without a pack of cigarettes. She thought it was a disgusting habit, but then some people took the same view of heroin.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said as she handed him a smoke.
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘How are you doing?’ she asked, reigning in her impulse to get straight to the point. She couldn’t afford to get Billy offside.
‘They’ve got me on all these zombie drugs,’ he said. His hands trembled as he lit the cigarette.
Berlin nodded. And you were so alert before, she thought.
‘They’re trying to put me on methadone,’ he said. ‘That stuff’s horrible.’
Berlin had to agree. But she was on a tight timeframe here and in no position to discuss the merits of opiate substitutes. She asked the question that she knew he wouldn’t answer if asked by a policeman. He wouldn’t burn someone he might need one day.
‘Who was the dealer, Billy? The dealer she went to buy from that night,’ she asked.
‘Dunno, miss, honest,’ he said.
‘Come on, you can tell me. I’m looking for a connection.’
Billy looked nervous.
‘Really?’ he asked.
She nodded.
He looked her up and down. She was still wearing the rough sleeper outfit she’d donned for Love Motel. It wouldn’t hurt her credibility.
‘Did
she always buy for you?’ she said.
‘She looked after me, miss.’
Tears began to dribble down his cheeks, quickly joined by a long string of snot.
‘You’re not gonna hit me, miss, with that stick?’
She realised he meant the Asp.
‘No. No, of course not. Look, Billy, I want the shithead who did this as much as you do.’ She said it with a vehemence even he could recognise.
‘I’m sorry, miss. The thing is, I dunno where she tried to score. It couldn’t have been the usual bloke, he’s got nothin’. I dunno where she went or who she saw, but she just never came back.’
He began to cry in earnest. She wasn’t going to get anything else out of him, so she stood up and dropped the pack of cigarettes in his lap.
‘Thank you, miss,’ he said and began to sob.
Berlin was about to leave.
‘That’s cold,’ she heard someone mutter.
She sat down again and put an arm around Billy’s shoulder. He collapsed into her. She patted him.
‘It will be all right,’ she said. They both knew it was a lie.
‘She looked after me, miss. Who’ll look after me now?’
Berlin remained silent. Typical junkie, she thought. His sister has been choked to death but it’s all about him.
‘Who looks after you, miss? Where do you get your gear?’ asked Billy.
You sly little bugger. The question hung out there. He was clinging to her.
‘Billy, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,’ she said, trying to gently extricate herself.
Billy’s expression turned from pitiful to malevolent in a flash.
‘Fuck off then. You’re just like everyone else. Everyone’s got someone to look after them except me.’
Berlin caught hold of his wrists, sensing that any minute he might clobber her.
‘I look after myself, Billy. Now you’re going to have to do the same instead of pimping your little sister.’
‘Liar! You’re a fucking liar. What about that bloke?’
‘What bloke?’
‘The bloke who was with you,’ shouted Billy, struggling to free himself from her grasp.
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