They hadn’t discussed Berlin’s involvement in the Kylie Steyne murder. Blind Freddie could see it was a fit-up. A bottle at the scene with her fingerprints? Come on. She knew exactly where it had come from: her neighbour’s dustbin. And she knew exactly who had planted it at the scene, someone with the treble: knowledge, motive and opportunity. If it had been any old bottle she would have had her doubts. The brand was the clincher.
Snowe wasn’t remotely interested in helping her out of that situation. But she and Kennedy understood each other. He would help Berlin find Kylie’s killer, the same person who had set her up for the murder. She would be off the hook and Kennedy would be a hero. In return she would keep him informed about Snowe’s operation so he could stay clear of it.
Win-win.
She could rely on Kennedy’s self-interest.
Probably.
Kennedy strode into Bertie’s office. From the look of it Bertie hadn’t slept a wink. That made two of them.
‘Good morning, Grant,’ said Bertie. ‘Marion’s looking well. She passed on my message then?’
56
Berlin’s target didn’t live far from the station. She watched from behind a tree on the other side of the leafy street, a very different world from the one in which she had last encountered him.
A woman emerged from the house and herded three kids into a Mercedes SUV. Mrs Parr. Derek followed her out, shut the door behind him and used a remote device to activate an alarm. Then he waved goodbye to his family with the arm that wasn’t in plaster.
The Mercedes drove away and Parr set off on his stroll to the station. He stopped dead when Berlin emerged from behind her tree.
‘Boo,’ she said.
Parr stared at her as if she had stepped out of his worst nightmare. She had.
‘You have a lovely family,’ said Berlin.
He glanced up and down the road, then advanced.
She stood her ground as he gave her both barrels, rapid-fire.
‘What do you want? Money? No one will believe you. Who are you going to tell, anyway? I already told my wife, and the police: I was mugged while I was engaged in an indiscretion with a lady of the night.’
Berlin was taken aback by this extraordinary anachronism. She almost laughed. His outburst seemed rehearsed, as if he always knew this moment would come.
‘And did you tell her that this lady of the night was fourteen years old?’ she asked.
‘There’s nothing to connect me with that girl,’ he said.
He fell silent as she displayed his licence and the family photo, which Kennedy had returned to her.
She watched as sweat bloomed through his crisp white shirt.
‘You can’t prove I was with her,’ he stammered.
‘Yes I can. Because she died with your semen all over her.’
‘I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t have, I was at the hospital for god’s sake!’
She thought he might faint.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said.
The Parrs’ living room was an expanse of quality: generous wool carpet, a discreet but top-of-the-range home-theatre system, stylish standard lamps that would confer a warm glow on the domestic scene during long winter evenings.
Berlin had a fleeting vision of Kylie on her knees in the cobblestoned alley.
Parr sat opposite her on a cream leather couch, hands clenched in a position of prayer. A supplicant.
‘Isn’t that a bit impractical, with three kids?’ she asked him, indicating the couch.
He was completely flummoxed.
‘I . . . we bought it before we had them.’
‘Do you like kids then?’ she said. She might just as well have plunged a dagger into his heart. He winced.
‘Oh god. No. You don’t understand.’
‘Tell me everything about that night,’ she said.
Parr bit his bottom lip and nodded, a schoolboy about to try extra hard.
Berlin sat through Parr’s self-serving story with a non-judgemental demeanour, ensuring that he didn’t omit any little detail. But she felt sick to her stomach.
It was the predictability of the litany that depressed her: he had no idea of the girl’s age; she had come on to him; he was drunk; he wasn’t a paedophile; his wife didn’t enjoy oral sex; and on, and on, and on.
But when he came to describe his encounter with Kylie, his voice dropped to another register. He couldn’t disguise his excitement.
The putrid odour of decay in the stifling alley seemed to catch in the back of Berlin’s throat once again. She asked herself how it was even possible, in a civilised society, that a child could come to this? The greater mystery was how a civilised man could justify giving free rein to the depravity that lurked inside him. The banality of the act appalled her.
She smothered her rage. He was lucky she didn’t have the Asp with her. Of course she did have the Glock. She leant back in the chair and felt its cool promise against her skin.
When he got to the part where Berlin had appeared in the alley, he didn’t hide his resentment. It was apparent that he thought she had been unfair; that the punishment she had meted out didn’t fit his crime.
Berlin didn’t argue. Instead, she asked him to move on from what she had done. To look past her. What did he see at the end of the alley?
Parr studied her for a moment. Her enquiry was too eager.
‘Will you leave me alone then?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply.
His licence and the family photo lay on the table between them.
‘What about my stuff? Will you let me have it?’ he wheedled.
He was a man who liked to bargain.
*
Berlin was glad to be leaving the suburbs behind. Misery was contained there, kept behind three-panelled oak front doors or in the dim corners of conservatories. She preferred it to be out where she could see it.
Parr had confirmed Billy’s story. There was someone else there that night.
‘I just assumed he was your backup,’ he had said. ‘That’s why I knew you weren’t police officers. You did well out of that night. There was at least five hundred quid in my wallet.’
She’d kept her temper and pressed him for a description.
‘He looked – I don’t know – solid. The next thing I knew, you hit me. I didn’t see anything except stars after that,’ he said, petulant.
Berlin wished she had hit him a whole lot harder.
The picture was sketchy. There was little light in the alley and, like Billy, Parr’s perception was dulled. Eyewitness descriptions were notoriously unreliable, but although the details he had given her might not pass the beyond-reasonable-doubt test, it was good enough for cash, as her father would say.
Time to come out swinging.
57
Sonja woke up and lay very still, waiting for the grinding ache to seize her, body and soul.
Nothing happened. She found that she was remarkably clearheaded, and was amazed to find that she felt dirty. She stumbled out of bed and went to the bathroom.
The gentle stream of hot water from the shower was a miracle. She had asked him to top up the prepaid gas-meter card, and he had. He was a bloody marvel, really.
She gazed down at her body. She barely recognised it. Emaciated, mutilated, hollow where her heart should be. She was weak and tired. She had betrayed everyone who had ever loved her. Even the people who had used her had little use for her any more.
She hadn’t noticed the jolt when she hit rock bottom, but she was sure that was where she had arrived. It had taken her a bloody long time, more than twenty years, to get there.
Something long-neglected stirred: a sense of decency that belonged to the woman she had once been. Another miracle. What happened to her now was unimportant. There was only one thing that mattered, one thing of which she was absolutely certain: she had to stop Berlin from bringing Princess home.
58
The shop was closed. Berlin banged on the door. Nothing. She went to the rear
and peered through the fence. That door was shut too. The place was deserted. She hurried back to the front.
‘There’s no one there.’ The woman who ran the laundrette next door was standing in her doorway.
Berlin could hear the rolling thunder of washers and dryers. The hot air drifted past, thick with the smell of burnt cotton. Perspiration ran down the woman’s neck in rivulets and dripped off her bingo wings.
‘Foreigners,’ said the laundress, in a thick Polish accent. ‘They just run off and leave their business. We should all have a holiday.’
‘What happened?’ said Berlin. Then she added with a note of disgust, ‘They owe me money.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said the laundress. ‘These people. They had a row. I heard the son and the father. The father went off. Then the son. Just locked up.’
‘Did you see her at all this morning, the mother?’ asked Berlin.
The Polish laundress was insulted.
‘What? You think I’m watching them all day? I’m run off my legs. I mind my business,’ she said. ‘Not like some people.’
It was quicker to walk than catch a bus. The traffic on Cambridge Heath Road would be backed up, and anyway she could take a shortcut through Sainsbury’s car park. It was a route she often took to Rolfey’s clinic, popping out for morphine and Fairtrade Arabica coffee. She tried not to think about that. Her phone rang. It was Kennedy.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘How’s what going?’ she said.
‘Give it a rest,’ he said. ‘I gave you Parr’s stuff, didn’t I? I imagined you’d be paying him a visit sooner rather than later.’
‘Are you checking up on me?’ she said.
‘Are you paranoid?’ he replied.
‘Yes,’ she said. She had to learn to be more trusting. It was part of her rehabilitation, according to Rolfey.
‘Parr confirmed that someone else was there,’ she said. ‘He thought he was my backup.’
‘Right. Well, that’s what you needed, wasn’t it? Confirmation. You couldn’t rely on Billy.’
She had nothing to say on that subject.
‘Did you leave him in one piece?’ continued Kennedy.
‘Physically,’ she said.
‘So what’s next?’
‘I have to find this bloke that Parr saw,’ she said. ‘The bastard who set me up.’
‘It’s a big city,’ said Kennedy. ‘Where are you going to start?’
‘I’ve already started,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way to Whitechapel.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he said.
She hung up, catching a glimpse of herself in a shop window as she passed. She paused to take another look. She barely recognised the haunted woman who gazed back at her. Was she the predator or the prey?
Kennedy had told her not to do anything stupid, but she wasn’t at all sure she had a choice. She had a bad feeling that free will was an illusion. She clung to the belief that whatever she did was what she chose to do. But how would she know the difference? It was the dilemma of addiction.
For Christ’s sake, she thought, I haven’t got time for an existential crisis. And moved on.
It wasn’t just a flat. It was the luxury penthouse at the top of a converted school, and it was very secure: a camera at the bottom of the glass-enclosed stairwell captured the street and the main entrance.
She pressed the buzzer. A camera focused and she heard static as the entry phone came on.
‘My name is Catherine Berlin,’ she said to the intercom. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Demir.’
Mum would know where her little prince was hanging out. It seemed rude to arrive when she and the doctor would no doubt be at it, but needs must.
There was no response.
Berlin imagined clothes being hurriedly thrown on.
‘If you don’t let me in, I’ll have to call the police. I believe Mrs Demir may be able to assist with —’
It was sheer bluff, but the door clicked open.
She stepped inside and took the lift.
When she got out on the third floor she faced a solid timber door with security hinges and a sophisticated deadlock. She heard the bolt on the deadlock disarm. She pushed the door and it swung back. The whole system was automated. There was a camera in the vestibule and a motion detector.
She followed the hallway into a spacious living room. A monitor on the wall above the couch captured feeds from the cameras outside. A burqa lay in a heap on the floor.
The first surprise was the sight of Mr Demir. He was sitting on a chair, his face grey, his forehead beaded with sweat. Mrs Demir stood to one side of him.
The second surprise, which was a big one, was that Murat stood on the other side, with one of his hands on his father’s shoulder. Comforting or controlling?
Across the room stood a tall, elegant woman. She regarded Berlin with an intense expression and for a fleeting moment, Berlin thought she must be the doctor’s wife, recently apprised by Mr Demir of her husband’s infidelity.
Then the penny dropped. She was the doctor.
Poor work, Berlin, she berated herself. Why shouldn’t Mrs Demir’s lover be a woman?
Three suitcases were stacked near the door.
‘Sit down,’ barked Murat, pointing to a chair beside his father’s.
Mr Demir’s cheeks were damp with tears. ‘I’m so very sorry, Miss Berlin,’ he wheezed. For people engaged in a family punch-up they were all strangely composed, apart from him.
Berlin ignored Murat’s order.
‘What are we going to do with her, Murat?’ said Mrs Demir. It was curiosity, not concern.
Something was very wrong. Murat, Mrs Demir and the doctor were all as cool as cucumbers.
Then it came to her. They were the professionals. She was the amateur.
And this was no love nest.
Murat must have seen her put it together. He made a move, but before he could get to her she had the Glock in her hand. He stopped dead.
Everyone froze.
Jesus Christ, thought Berlin. What now?
59
Princess lay on the hotel bed surrounded by plates of half-eaten food, sachets of tomato sauce and a tower of the funny metal things, like flying saucers, that were used to cover the plates. To keep the chips hot on their way up. She was beginning to get the hang of hotels.
A knock at the door heralded another moment of glory. The food was okay, but the best part was being called madam and writing your name on the screen of a tiny computer with a stick. The man said it was called a stylus.
‘Yes?’ she answered, in an imperious tone.
‘Room service.’
She took her time. She stood up, stretched, and strolled to the door. It was heavy and took two hands to open it. But this time it wasn’t a problem. As soon as she turned the knob, the door burst open. She was knocked off her feet and before she could scream a hand was clamped over her mouth.
She fumbled for her spike, but it was snatched away. She kicked, clawed and squirmed, to no avail.
The tower of flying saucers tumbled.
60
Berlin had never pointed a firearm at anyone in her life. She was surprised at how profoundly it changed the atmosphere. The air crackled with uncertainty.
Murat’s jaw was clenched with anger, not fear. The doctor was alert, but not alarmed. She had obviously seen a gun up close before. Mrs Demir seemed almost resigned.
Mr Demir was watching Berlin in a kind of trance.
‘So whatever it is, it’s not adultery,’ she said to him. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job.’
Mr Demir sighed and gazed at his wife.
‘It may seem strange to you, Miss Berlin, but in one way I’m relieved.’
Strange didn’t come close.
‘Okay. Everyone on the couch,’ she said. She needed time to work out what the hell she was going to do. ‘You can stay where you are, Mr Demir,’ she said. He didn’t look as if he could make it from
the chair to the couch.
The others went to the couch and sat obediently. Could they possibly believe she would gun them down in cold blood? It meant they thought she was a serious threat to their operation and that she wasn’t acting alone.
‘Who do you work for?’ demanded Murat.
‘Your father,’ she said.
Murat sneered and shook his head in disbelief. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘I just want to know what happened to Kylie Steyne.’
It was momentary, but she was sure Murat faltered. He knew exactly who she meant.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
Berlin heard herself snarl, her throat taut with suppressed rage. She advanced on him, levelling the gun at his head. She suddenly understood what was meant by an itchy trigger finger.
The only sound was Mr Demir’s ragged wheeze.
The doctor snapped at Murat in Turkish. He muttered something in response. It was clear the doctor wasn’t impressed. It made Berlin nervous.
‘Enough talking. I’ve got the gun. Do you understand?’
Murat and the doctor fell silent. Berlin’s heart was pounding so loudly she thought they must be able to hear it. Sweat dripped into her eyes and plastered her hair to her head.
If I have a heart attack at least there’s a doctor in the house, she thought.
She took a step towards Mrs Demir, levelled the gun at her head, and spoke to Murat.
‘The truth,’ she said. ‘Now.’
She pushed the barrel into his mother’s temple.
‘I didn’t kill the girl,’ said Murat.
Then a movement on the monitor above their heads caught Berlin’s eye and she was seized with the sudden desire to leave.
The back of the apartment offered no way out. A door off the kitchen led onto a wide balcony, a vision of polished granite stones, bamboo and white canvas sunshades. Berlin peered over the balustrade, careful to stay out of sight.
Three storeys below a fully kitted officer stood by a vehicle, talking into his radio. She had to get out. The sound of a shot came from somewhere inside the apartment, followed by the tattoo of an automatic weapon. Suddenly it all seemed academic. There was no way down. She should just surrender.
A Bitter Taste Page 16