‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ she shouted.
‘He came for me!’ cried Princess.
‘What are you talking about? Who came?’
Princess looked beyond Berlin.
‘The ogre,’ she whispered.
Berlin tightened her grip on the gun and turned around.
There was no one there.
Peggy lay at her feet in a puddle of urine. Berlin had a lethal weapon in one hand and a dangerous child in the other. It was one of those moments that life can’t prepare you for; she laughed, and knew it was shock. Then she heard a siren. Her next decision wasn’t conscious: it was visceral.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ she mumbled as she slipped the gun in the waistband of her jeans and yanked Princess in the direction of the door. The kid had no will of her own, and Berlin still had her by the hair. She dragged her down the stairs, along the hall and out the front door, slamming it behind them, then released Princess’s hair and grabbed her arm.
She had no idea where they were going, but it seemed sensible to head in the opposite direction to the approaching siren. They ran around the corner.
Tyres squealed, car doors slammed and heavy boots connected with concrete as they fled. Berlin heard Peggy’s front gate clang, then someone used the shiny brass knocker in a fashion that Peggy would find rude and unnecessary. If she had come around in time to hear it.
Berlin and Princess took off as if pursued by the devil.
He dug in his heels and followed.
47
Peggy sat on the edge of the single bed between the ambulance lady and a senior constable. She looked from one to the other, humiliated by the fact that she had soiled herself, and embarrassed that the floor was coated in a thin film of white dust. She couldn’t think what to say.
‘I just vacuumed in here yesterday,’ she said. It was the best she could do.
A young PCSO entered carrying two mugs.
‘Here you are, Mrs Berlin. A nice cup of tea,’ said the senior constable, taking one and handing the other to Peggy.
‘Oh,’ said Peggy to the PCSO. ‘You should have used the good cups and saucers. And there are some chocolate bourbons in the cupboard on the right.’
‘Senior?’ said the PCSO, in a tone of mild protest that indicated he felt he was meant for better things.
‘You heard,’ the constable said. The PCSO stomped out of the room, colliding with a bouncy scenes of crime officer coming in.
‘Hey ho,’ said the SOCO, snapping on her disposable gloves. ‘Firearm discharged?’
The senior constable pointed to Jimmy Page. The SOCO got to work.
The ambulance lady finished taking Peggy’s blood pressure. ‘You’re fine,’ she said to Peggy.
‘I’m fine,’ said Peggy to the senior constable, who promptly got out her notebook. The ambulance lady smiled and left.
‘Now, Mrs Berlin, let me see if I understand this,’ said the senior constable. ‘Your daughter, Catherine, brought a young girl to stay with you, and she fired the weapon?’
Peggy nodded. ‘The other policeman said she fitted the description of a missing child. He wanted to talk to her. But when we came upstairs, she was gone. That is, we thought she was gone,’ said Peggy.
‘He wasn’t in uniform?’ asked the senior constable.
‘No. My daughter had told me not to let anyone in, but well, he showed me his identification. He was a detective, so I thought, well, you know, it’s official. You can’t really say no, can you, when it’s the police.’
The senior constable looked doubtful.
‘Are you sure he was a police officer?’ she asked.
‘He was very polite,’ said Peggy. ‘Very neat.’
The SOCO had taken down the poster of Jimmy Page and was digging a bullet out of the wall. Peggy found it distressing. Plaster was going everywhere.
‘Let me just go and get a dustpan and brush,’ she said.
‘Did his ID look like this?’ The senior constable produced her warrant card.
Peggy peered at it and nodded. ‘Similar,’ she said.
The SOCO gave a grunt of satisfaction as a bullet popped out of the plaster.
‘The thing is, Mrs Berlin,’ said the senior constable. ‘We can’t find any record of a detective tasked with enquiries that would involve paying you a visit about a missing child, because no child answering that description has been reported missing.’
Peggy looked stricken.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Catherine will kill me.’
48
Kennedy had left the British Library and gone straight home. He rang the station and called in sick. He was sick. Sick to his stomach. He had put himself on the line, risking everything – and she had run out on him.
He went and sat beside his son’s bed. The little boy smiled at him from behind his oxygen mask. His bravery nearly undid Kennedy. He had to remember: he was the daddy. Everyone was depending on him and he had to show some guts and follow this thing through. He flicked open his mobile and dialled Berlin’s number. Voicemail.
‘I stick my neck out to give you a heads-up and your reaction is to leg it,’ he said. ‘We can help each other. Call me. We need to talk.’ He hung up with a heavy heart.
If he was wrong about this woman it meant he’d thrown in his lot with a child killer.
His son lifted the mask from his face.
‘Is it a crim, Dad?’ he asked. Every word cost him, but he was always eager and curious about everything.
Kennedy shook his head and tried to smile.
‘I’m going to be a policeman when I grow up,’ said his son.
Kennedy slipped the mask back on him gently.
‘Come on now,’ he said, his own chest constricting with despair. He wanted to buy the boy a special vibrating vest that would help clear his lungs. It wasn’t available on the National Health Service. They cost thousands.
His phone rang and he jumped, startled. That was quick. But when he checked the ID it was Bertie, not Berlin.
He only hesitated for a moment, then slipped the phone back in his pocket. That was it then. He’d made his choice.
He stroked his son’s damp forehead.
Bertie slammed the phone down on his desk. He was suffering and feeling peevish. His mood hadn’t been improved by the news that Kennedy had called in sick. Now the prick was ignoring his calls.
The product meant nothing to Kennedy, he was only interested in the extra cash. Bertie could hardly believe that the gutless wonder was doing the dirty on him, getting information from Sonja and Rita without passing it on. Kennedy seemed to be forgetting his place.
Berlin’s crumpled face lay on the desk in front of him. He smoothed out the creases. The interfering cow was involved with the murder Kennedy was working and, according to him, she was looking for Sonja’s kid.
A polite cough made him jump. A young DC, one of his outside team, was hovering in front of his desk.
‘Fuck,’ said Bertie. ‘Ever heard of knocking?’
The DC gave him a funny look.
‘I did knock, sir, but the door was open and I —’
‘Get on with it then,’ snapped Bertie.
The DC offered him a document.
‘What’s this?’
‘There was a shout in Leyton, boss. It’s just come through on the system. They’re looking for that Berlin woman you flagged. Looks like she’s armed.’
Bertie snatched the piece of paper out of his hand.
‘Okay, I can read. Bugger off,’ he said.
The DC backed out. Bertie quickly scanned the report.
It had to be Sonja’s fucking kid that she had in tow. Rita was right. The kid was in the middle of all this and now Berlin had found her. A fact Kennedy had signally failed to mention.
He knew what drove a weak-kneed, good family man like Kennedy. He also knew what drove Catherine Berlin, and it wasn’t heroics. The drought had them all trapped like fish in an ever-diminishing puddle, gasping for
oxygen.
No doubt if he reeled in the little fish, the big fish would follow. He picked up his phone.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Burlington here. Get me Commander McGiven.’
He chewed his thumbnail while he waited for his connection.
‘Jock? Bertie here. I thought you’d be interested to learn that there’s a suspect in a child murder running around with another kid. Looks like she’s got a weapon.’
He listened for a moment.
‘No, it’s not my case. It’s Hurley’s. You know him, don’t you? A right fucking nervous nelly – everything by the book. I thought it would be an opportunity for your crew to cover themselves in glory. For a change. Interested?’
There was a pause.
‘Righto. I’ll send over the details. Don’t thank me. What are mates for?’
He hung up. Jock’s outfit were looking for a soft target and a bit of good publicity since they’d managed to gun down a couple of unarmed individuals who turned out to be foreign students.
He wouldn’t be sharing this initiative with Kennedy, either.
The minnow didn’t know how close she was to the hook.
49
Berlin had turned her T-shirt inside out and dumped the sunglasses, which she didn’t need anyway in the twilight. She couldn’t do much about the Union Jack scarf, but it was less conspicuous than her scars. She had plonked the baseball cap on the kid’s head, making her look a bit like a boy. It wasn’t much, but it might throw off a casual observer.
The kid hadn’t said a word since they’d left Peggy’s, just trotted along beside her, getting on and off buses without asking any questions, apparently unconcerned with where they were going or what the fuck they were going to do now. Princess had her issues, but she wasn’t delusional. Bad men were after the kid. Ogres. It looked like she was on the money with that characterisation.
The bloke in the suit at Peggy’s was clearly looking for Princess: he’d pursued her when he thought she’d snuck out. Peggy wouldn’t have let just anybody into the house, either. He must have been able to convince her he was legit.
Berlin didn’t want to think how mortified her mother would be when she came around to find she had wet herself and the house was full of coppers. They’d only recently been back in touch after years of ‘no speaks’, except for polite exchanges at birthdays and Christmases.
Peggy had come and sat with her often during the long months when she was in hospital, and with her jaw wired she hadn’t been able to tell her to go away. At least, that’s what Berlin told herself.
She took out her mobile and dialled. The call was flicked to voicemail. Maybe they had taken Peggy to hospital, as a precaution. She took a deep breath and struggled to think of something to say. ‘Sorry,’ just didn’t seem to cut it. She hung up.
The heat was still merciless, the day’s accretions of traffic fumes and dust a grimy veil hanging in the still air. Berlin touched her throat, as raw inside as it was out. She needed a drink.
The Blind Beggar was no stranger to fugitives.
‘Where did you get the gun?’
Princess barely paused between mouthfuls as she devoured her third packet of crisps. ‘It was my dad’s,’ she said.
Thanks for the heads-up, Sonja, thought Berlin. Your kid could have killed me.
‘Did your mum know about it?’ she asked, aware of the weight of the weapon tucked into her jeans. It felt snug in the small of her back.
Princess frowned, as if unsure how her mum had got into the conversation. She shook her head, but Berlin couldn’t tell if she meant ‘no’, or ‘I’m not going there.’
The beer garden was heaving with beefy men in baggy shorts and tight T-shirts, their faces, shins and forearms scorched pink. Berlin and Princess sat in the corner on a piece of artificial grass, their backs to the wall.
Despite a steady stream of true-crime tourists who came to see where Ronnie Kray blew away George Cornell in 1966, visitors didn’t linger. It wasn’t that sort of pub. Berlin felt relatively comfortable; she knew that now, as in the sixties, eyewitnesses and snitches were not welcome here.
‘Look Princess, let’s get real here,’ said Berlin. The Scotch and the pint of Stella had gone straight to her head and she didn’t have the energy to finesse this situation.
‘I’ve got my own problems and I can’t have you hanging around. That bloke who came after you at Peggy’s, I strongly suspect he’s actually looking for your dad. And since your dad’s dead, he isn’t going to find him, is he?’
Berlin waited a moment to let this sink in, but Princess didn’t react, just squinted into the sun and slurped her lemonade.
‘You need to go home. You’ll be safe there,’ said Berlin, although she didn’t believe it for a moment. Safe compared to what?
Princess shot her a scornful look.
‘What’s really the problem between you and your mum?’ asked Berlin, struggling to keep the note of exasperation out of her voice.
‘She doesn’t want me.’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘How would you know?’ said Princess.
‘Because she sent me to find you.’
Berlin knew it was a tactical error the moment she said it, but she’d run out of options. And patience. She saw every muscle in the kid’s body go taut, although she didn’t move an inch.
‘You don’t know her,’ said Princess.
‘I knew Sonja and Cole before you were even born,’ she said.
She caught the merest hint of movement as Princess prepared to bolt. Berlin grabbed hold of her wrist.
Princess stared at her, her eyes empty, giving nothing away, shutting down in the face of another betrayal.
Berlin moved closer to her and lowered her voice.
‘I know Sonja did it. She realises that scared you, it was a terrible thing for you to see, but she really wants you to come back. If you go home, I’ll do everything I can to get you both far away, somewhere safe. You can make a fresh start. She loves you.’
It was the best she could do. She let go of Princess, who immediately stood up and took a backward step.
‘She’s a lying cunt and so are you!’ she shouted, and tossed her drink in Berlin’s face.
For a moment Berlin thought the kid was going to glass her, and so did the drunks around them, their blank faces suddenly alive at the prospect of violence. But Princess flung the pint pot to the ground and stormed off.
‘She needs a good hiding,’ said some wag in the crowd, his heavy gold rings glinting as he brandished his fist.
His mates laughed.
What the hell was she going to tell Sonja? She had been a fool to alienate the kid now, when they had come so far. She limped down Whitechapel Road, sticky with lemonade, cursing herself as she tried in vain to figure out which way Princess would run. Every bone in her body ached. The kid was fleeing back onto streets where her chances of survival diminished on an hourly basis.
Berlin checked her phone, which had been vibrating in her pocket at regular intervals. Missed calls and messages. All from Sonja pleading with her to bring Princess home. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.
She weaved through the crowd thronging the broad pavement. The moist smell of rotting melons hung in the air, undercut with the tang of crushed turmeric and chilli. Market leftovers. It made her eyes water. Fat, sweaty babies in floral sunhats screamed for mercy. Listless men hung about in the doorways of mini-cab offices, playing games on their mobile phones.
She hadn’t got more than a hundred yards from the Blind Beggar when a sharp cry made her turn.
Princess was running towards her, pursued by a man in a suit. He was gaining on her fast.
The ogre.
50
The golden arches provided a demilitarised zone for their negotiations. Berlin gazed at the man sitting opposite her. The transformation from derelict to suited-and-booted respectability was dramatic. Only the swollen fingers of his left hand and the plaster on his ear remained as eviden
ce of his former incarnation.
His new persona hadn’t fooled Princess. Berlin thought the kid had probably clocked his eyes, which were a strange coppery colour, almost amber. He was lucky he hadn’t lost one to her spike. He was even luckier that he hadn’t lost his life to her Glock.
His ID lay between them. He was with the National Crime Commission, the most recent incarnation of over a decade of law-enforcement agency mergers, shuffles and closures.
The process had begun years ago with the establishment of SOCA, the Serious Organised Crime Agency, which had soon gained a reputation as Seriously Disorganised. SOCA had been formed from the merger of six other law enforcement bodies, or at least, some of their functions, although it wasn’t always clear which, especially to those working for it.
After a few years SOCA had been merged into the commission. It was on the cards that one day the NCA too would be reduced to ashes in response to political, rather than law enforcement, interests. The process was ongoing.
The people who had survived the various waves of toe-cutters neither knew nor cared what the chain of command might be on any given day. This was the agency to which the ogre belonged. It was an operational free-for-all.
He extended his hand, which was very decent of him given that the last time they met she had kicked him in the bollocks. His impression of a pervert had been very convincing.
‘Joseph Snowe. With an e,’ he said.
She had the feeling that no one would get away with calling him Snowy, although it would be irresistible, particularly because he was black.
‘Berlin,’ she said. But she was sure he already knew that.
‘You should never have let her out of your sight,’ he said. Berlin could scarcely believe he was reprimanding her. On the other hand, he was dead right. Neither of them were making that mistake twice.
Princess was watching them from a table just out of earshot, where she sat with a burger, fries and thickshake. It had taken Berlin fifteen minutes to calm her down and convince her that they were in no position to let him have it right between the eyes. The panic that had seized the kid when she saw Snowe approaching had trumped her outrage at Berlin’s deception. Any port in a storm.
A Bitter Taste Page 13