Berlin knew an Armed Response Vehicle when she saw one. There were three officers in a unit. She had seen the other two on the monitor approaching the building and now they were inside. No other units had arrived yet. The apartment building and the street hadn’t been secured.
The Demirs’ activities were nothing to do with her. She would explain that Murat had killed Kylie, or had seen who had, and she would be in the clear. It seemed unconvincing.
She thought about Sonja. The pair of them giggling as they squeezed through the skylight out onto the squat roof as the police came through the front door. The Nordic Fairy laughing until she was cross-legged, white-blonde hair flying, milk-blue eyes sparkling.
Berlin looked up.
61
Rita noticed straight away that there was something different about Sonja. It took her a while to work it out, but eventually she realised it was her smell. Or lack thereof. The acrid odour of stale sweat and the whiff of old mattress from unwashed hair had gone.
‘I wonder if I might borrow your phone, Rita?’ she said. ‘The credit’s expired on my mobile and I need to make an urgent call. Please.’
The body of a wasted junkie was standing in her doorway, but the person inhabiting it seemed somehow different.
‘Urgent, eh?’ said Rita. She folded her arms.
‘I’m really very sorry about the other day. It was the drink, you know what it’s like. I’ve been under a lot of strain lately.’
Rita kept a stony silence.
‘Please, Rita,’ said Sonja, exasperated. ‘I can’t tell you how important this is. It’s a matter of life and death.’
That did it. Rita was a forgiving soul, after all. This was a turn of events that should be reported. If she could find out who Sonja wanted to call concerning such a serious matter, all the better.
‘Be my guest, love. I’ll take a turn around the premises to give you some privacy.’
Rita stepped aside to let Sonja enter, then strolled away. As soon as she turned the corner into the corridor, the stroll turned into a scurry.
Keeping an ear out, she found the key to Sonja’s room on her ring and pushed open the door. The window was wide open, the sheets were hanging over the sill to dry, and there was something different about the room. Although not exactly spick and span, it was tidy.
Sonja took a deep breath and steadied her voice. She had to try to convey the gravity of the situation and that she knew what she was doing: she was rational.
The robot invited her to speak after the tone.
‘It’s me. Whatever you do, don’t bring Princess here. To Silvertown. Get in touch as soon as you can, but keep her somewhere safe. I can’t explain now, but this is really important, Catherine. Please, please, do as I ask. Do not bring Princess home.’
It was the best she could do. She hung up and waited for Rita to return.
Wandering around the room, she peered at the faded sepia portraits hanging on the wall. Rita’s forebears. Stalwarts in First World War uniforms. They had all had mothers.
Rita’s bedroom door was ajar and Sonja could see a beautiful old-fashioned quilt on the bed. It had been a long time since she had noticed anything so simple and elegant. It was incongruous amongst the detritus of Rita’s life, but inexplicably it gave Sonja hope. She pushed open the door to take a closer look.
A noise that seemed to come from the wall above the iron bedhead made her jump. It sounded too big for rats. She took a few steps closer. Someone was shuffling around. The noise was coming from the ventilation grilles high up on the wall, which went through to the room next door.
The room next door was hers.
When Rita returned, a bit flushed, Sonja was sitting at the table.
‘This heat!’ Rita exclaimed. ‘When will it ever end? Everything all right then, love?’
‘Fine. Thanks, Rita,’ said Sonja, standing.
‘Think nothing of it, love,’ she said. ‘Feel free to come in and use it any time.’ Rita made an expansive gesture. She couldn’t help herself. She was generous and forgiving.
62
Sirens wailed, alarms shrieked, bells clanged. It was the cacophony of disaster. Berlin crouched between two large air-conditioning units on the roof of the building.
The stanchions supporting the canopy on the balcony were steel and had easily taken her weight. She thanked god for her Peacekeeper boots, which had given her enough swing to kick away the chair on the table without breaking her foot.
She had crawled onto the canopy and across it onto the roof proper, but now she was stuffed. Her damaged tendon was screaming and she thought she might throw up from fear and exhaustion. As the adrenaline left her body, the shakes set in.
Doing a runner across the rooftops may have been a laugh when you were in your twenties, but it could well kill her now. If it didn’t, no doubt the Met would be happy to finish the job.
Mr Demir’s request had seemed so simple. Find out what his wife was up to. Money, or rather Scotch, for old rope.
Now she was caught up in a raid when she was already sought by the police to assist with their enquiries. She didn’t believe in coincidence, but in this case there was no other explanation.
She struggled to quell her panic and get her priorities sorted. First, get off the roof alive.
Time to bring in the cavalry.
Kennedy was in the canteen when his phone rang. He answered, but didn’t say anything. He sipped his tea.
‘Kennedy, it’s me’ came Berlin’s voice.
‘Yeah. How did it go?’ asked Kennedy.
‘There’s a problem.’
‘What sort of problem?’
‘I need you to give me a hand,’ said Berlin.
‘How’s that?’ asked Kennedy.
‘I’m in Whitechapel. You know what’s going on?’
Kennedy glanced up at the TV on the wall. The sound was muted. Special Operations were swarming all over a building. Bomb disposal was there; a body was being stretchered out.
‘Yes, it’s on the TV now,’ he said.
‘I’m on the roof,’ she said.
Kennedy’s tea slopped all over his shirt. He looked around the canteen: the custody sergeant was doing a crossword, two PCSOs were arguing about the legitimacy of a penalty shootout. He wasn’t dreaming.
He stood up and approached the TV, as if he might be able to see her.
‘Are you serious?’ he said.
‘Perfectly,’ came the reply. He could hear the distant thrum of a helicopter through the handset.
‘What the hell can I do about it?’ he whispered.
There was a long silence. The sound of the helicopter got louder.
‘You’re a fucking policeman, aren’t you?’ she said.
Bertie had just walked back into his office and was gulping down cough medicine when in stormed Jock.
‘What the fuck are you playing at, you fat muppet?’ he shouted.
The deputy assistant commissioner was right behind him.
‘I beg yours?’ asked Bertie as he swallowed hard and screwed the lid back on the bottle.
‘A female with a single firearm and a kid in tow, you said.’
‘That was the original intel,’ said Bertie. ‘To which I alerted you as a professional courtesy.’
‘Well, she turned into a Turkish bloke with an automatic weapon and a state-of-the-art surveillance system. What does that fucking tell you?’
Bertie looked at the deputy assistant commissioner. If she was here, it was political. Political made the brass very, very nervous. The golf courses were littered with the bodies of senior officers who had made the wrong call in a terrorist-related incident.
‘What was the intel on the address?’ asked Bertie in an even tone, as he put his desk between himself and the enraged Scot.
The deputy assistant commissioner was all ears, waiting for Jock’s answer.
Jock stared at Bertie. They both knew his blokes wouldn’t have bothered to wait for more information. Berlin
was wanted for questioning about a murder, not terrorism. They weren’t counter-terrorism, anyway. They were just plods deployed in ARVs.
Send in the clowns.
The deputy assistant commissioner speed-dialled a number on her mobile.
‘Get me the director of media and communications,’ she said.
‘Your suspect —’ said Jock.
‘Not mine,’ broke in Bertie. ‘DCI Hurley’s. I believe I mentioned that. You conferred with him, of course?’
The look on Jock’s face was enough of an answer.
‘No? But then I take it your female target is either in custody or in a body bag?’
‘They’re still searching the building,’ came Jock’s guarded response.
The deputy assistant commissioner was in damage control on the phone. ‘Say we can’t disclose that at this time,’ she said. ‘Just use something like “known subversive organisation”, right?’
Jock’s hand went to his chest.
If my luck’s in, it might be a heart attack, thought Bertie.
‘The suspect was reported to be in Whitechapel,’ insisted Jock.
‘By whom?’ asked Bertie.
Jock hesitated. ‘It was an anonymous tip,’ he said. ‘Confirmed by CCTV.’
‘I see,’ said Bertie gravely. ‘Anonymous.’
He glanced at the deputy commissioner as she hung up.
‘And no checks were run on the address?’ he added, rueful. ‘Looks like there’s been a cock-up somewhere.’
Jock took a step forwards, as if he might leap across the desk and choke Bertie there and then. ‘I’ve got a man down, on top of the other casualties,’ he shouted. ‘I want your fucking phone records Bertie. Landline and mobile!’
Bertie looked shocked. ‘Of course, be my guest. I’ll co-operate fully with any inquiry.’ He addressed the deputy commissioner. ‘There will be another inquiry, I imagine?’ he said.
It was a none too subtle reference to the history of Jock’s crew.
This time Jock made a move.
The deputy assistant commissioner put a restraining hand on his arm, but it was Bertie she had in her sights.
‘Yes. There’ll have to be a full inquiry,’ she said.
Bertie looked at her, then at Jock, then back at her.
‘I’m going off sick,’ said Bertie. ‘Stress. Talk to my union rep.’
Berlin stayed flattened against the air-con units as the helicopter cruised the perimeter of the scene, which would be well and truly secure by now.
Her mobile had logged a missed call. Probably from Sonja or Snowe. Sonja would want to know when she was bringing Princess home. Snowe would want to know too. He might have already run out of patience. She had to check.
Berlin called the hotel room. It rang out. She cursed. She called again and this time spoke to reception. Would they please send someone up to check on the occupant of the room? They weren’t answering the phone and she was concerned.
There was a pause. The lobby muzak drifted down the line. Berlin could hear the soft clack of a computer keyboard.
‘I’m sorry, madam, that party appears to have checked out,’ came a voice trained to communicate a bright, corporate smile.
‘Did you see them go?’ asked Berlin. Snowe would have brought a female uniformed officer with him.
The smile hesitated.
‘Are you the cardholder to whom the room was charged, madam? Because there seems to have been a misunderstanding . . . ’
Berlin listened to the smile rabbit on.
A leaden blanket of cloud hung so low she felt its suffocating weight bear down on her.
Heavy footsteps approached across the roof.
She hung up.
A masked face appeared in the gap between the two units.
63
The young constable was amazed by the number of forensics people and senior brass going in and out of the apartment building. There were dogs and vehicles everywhere to add to the chaos, and he couldn’t hear a word anyone said because the helicopter was still circling.
He checked the ID of the figure in a disposable forensic suit and mask who emerged from the posh apartment building. How come terrorists could afford digs of this standard, when he could hardly manage the rent on his shoebox in Croydon? He ticked the exit box against Detective Kennedy’s name and noted the time on the log.
Thirty minutes later two officers left the scene. One, whom the constable recognised as Kennedy, went past stripping off his disposable suit and talking on his mobile. Confused, the constable checked his log.
Meanwhile the other officer, who was shrouded in suit and mask, kept going.
‘Sir, your ID?’ the constable called after Kennedy.
Kennedy signalled that he’d only be a moment; he was busy with his call. He kept talking and walking.
The constable ran after the other officer.
‘Hang on! I need your ID,’ he said.
The officer stopped, yanked off his mask and dragged his badge out from inside his suit.
The constable ticked him off the list and noted the time.
By the time he turned around, Kennedy had gone.
The constable knew he’d fucked up somewhere. Kennedy had left twice. He could have missed him going in again. The same number of officers had gone in and come out, according to the log.
Everyone was very touchy about terrorist incidents. Shit would rain down on him if he admitted to making a mistake. But no one would know if he didn’t tell them. There was no way of telling from the paperwork.
He’d worked long hours as a volunteer before he finally got into the Met. His career would be over before it began.
What should he do?
Nothing.
No one took any notice of a woman in a pair of white paper overalls. It was London. She was five minutes from a hospital and five minutes from a crime scene. It was like being six feet from a rat. It went with the territory.
Kennedy was astounded when Berlin got into the back seat of his car and pulled a gun on him.
‘What the fuck?’ he said.
They were in an ill-lit corner of an enclosed car park near Petticoat Lane, where they had agreed to meet. He couldn’t believe it. So this was how she repaid him. The dim light obscured her face, but he could see the rage gleaming in her eyes. It wasn’t a good look.
‘Let’s have it, Kennedy,’ she said. ‘And don’t bullshit me, I’m not in the mood.’
It occurred to him that whatever substance kept Berlin’s addiction under control might have run out. He cursed himself for ever getting involved with a junkie. They were just so fucking unreliable.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘I just saved your arse, didn’t I?’
‘Because it wouldn’t suit you if I was nicked,’ she said.
‘Get that thing out of my face. Please.’
Berlin kept the barrel level with his head.
‘What? What?’ he shouted.
Berlin squeezed the trigger.
They were tucked into a corner of a filthy car park, littered with used needles and condoms. The place where he might end his days. He thought about the trusting face of his little boy, gazing at him from behind his oxygen mask. He lost it.
‘I haven’t got her!’ he screamed.
‘Only two people knew where she was,’ she shouted back. ‘You and Snowe.’
‘Put a gun to his head then,’ yelled Kennedy.
Berlin pressed the Glock into the soft spot under his jaw, jabbing at the place where her own throat was blotched by tender cords of scar tissue.
‘Snowe doesn’t check out of hotels without paying the minibar bill,’ she said quietly.
Kennedy knew the steady roar of the traffic would drown the shot and he had no doubt she was capable of pulling the trigger. The buzzing in his ears was probably his blood pressure going through the roof.
‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ he said. ‘My son needs specialist treatment just to
stay alive. My wife can’t cope and —’
‘Get to the fucking point,’ she said.
‘It was Bertie,’ said Kennedy, miserably.
‘So you told him Princess was at the hotel.’
Kennedy nodded. ‘I had no choice. He wanted to know where you were too, to get you out of the way. But you have to believe me, I didn’t know he was going to set you up like that. I had no idea he would involve armed officers.’
‘What? Do you mean they were after me, not them?’ asked Berlin, incredulous.
‘He threatened my family! When I got home from meeting you at the hotel my wife was freaking out.’
‘So much for bloody coincidence,’ she said, and resolved to drop trust from her rehab programme.
He didn’t like the way she was staring at him. There was something cold and impenetrable at her core.
There was a long silence.
Kennedy drove through the narrow back streets of the East End. Berlin sat behind him. An unmarked police vehicle was probably the safest place for her to be right now.
Kennedy reached for his hanky, but she jabbed him with the gun. She’d moved it from under his jaw to the back of his head.
‘I just want to wipe my face,’ he said. The sweat from his forehead was running into his eyes.
‘Use your sleeve,’ she said.
He did as he was told.
‘I read Murat Demir’s affidavit and I spoke to Pannu before all this went down,’ said Kennedy.
‘Who?’ she asked.
‘The sergeant who arrested you on the stalking charge. No one, including Pannu, could have known that Murat had more to hide than you did. No wonder he was watching you.’
She didn’t respond.
‘So, did you get anything from him?’ he asked tentatively.
‘My interrogation was rudely interrupted,’ she said.
Kennedy’s phone rang. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Berlin nodded. He answered the call.
‘Kennedy,’ he said. He listened for a moment. ‘Yeah, okay. Thanks for that,’ he said, and hung up.
A Bitter Taste Page 17