‘What do you think it’s to do with then, Kennedy?’ asked Snowe. ‘The weather? Thank you for your co-operation.’
He stood up and left the room, leaving the door open.
Two uniformed officers walked past. Sonja was between them.
It was so stage-managed that Kennedy could see the funny side.
Sonja saw Kennedy sitting there as they passed the doorway. He was wearing a white paper suit and it looked like he was on the wrong side of the table.
The cops steered her into a room and sat her down, then positioned themselves either side of the door as a black bloke in a suit strode in and shut it behind him.
‘My name’s Snowe,’ he said, flashing his ID at her. He didn’t sit down. ‘I ordered your arrest on suspicion of concealing a serious offence.’
She didn’t ask which one.
He slapped her mobile on the table. The photo of Princess was displayed on the screen. He pointed at it.
‘Who sent you that?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘It was Detective Chief Inspector Burlington,’ he said.
‘Who?’ said Sonja.
Snowe produced a photo from a file and put it in front of her: Bertie and Kennedy outside her place.
‘Who are these men?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Why would a policeman tie up your daughter and send you a photo of her?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Where is your daughter?’ he asked. ‘Where is Catherine Berlin? Where is Cole Mortimer?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Where is your daughter?’ he repeated.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sonja.
‘I think Burlington sent you that photo to motivate you to give up Mortimer, or the heroin. Or both,’ he said. ‘Where are they?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sonja.
‘Where is Princess?’
‘I don’t know!’ shouted Sonja and sprang to her feet.
Snowe walked out.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know!’ she screamed after him.
The two officers grabbed her.
Kennedy was in the locker room changing out of the disposable suit. He could hear Sonja shouting. A moment later the door swung open with a bang and Snowe strode in. Kennedy bolted into a toilet stall, slammed the door and locked it.
68
Rita was in a quandary. The cops had picked up Sonja early. But which cops? She didn’t know what she was supposed to do now. Being an informant was a tricky business when you were serving more than one master. Should she tell everyone or no one? If she told the wrong party, it could spell disaster.
She had a drink to calm her nerves. The cops had sealed the door and window and told her not to go into Sonja’s room. But she didn’t like to ask them who gave the orders. It would look a bit funny. It was all getting away from her. She wished the whole fucking business was over and done with and she could get the hell out of this dump.
She thought of her father, caught up in the Silvertown explosion when he was five years old. His brother was a baby in his father’s arms when the munitions factory went up; the blast took out the window and the baby was killed by a shard of glass. Decapitated. Her dad was below the height of the window and untouched. He said the place was cursed, but he never left.
She would wind up the same. If she had got out long ago she wouldn’t be in this position. But she’d imbibed villainy with her mother’s milk. It was in her blood. She gulped her vodka.
A place could tie you down, against all reason. It was as if the very dirt owned you.
She approached the phone, but hesitated. Better the devil you know.
69
Berlin was vaguely aware of Princess tugging at her.
‘I’m hungry,’ the kid said.
‘Go and watch television,’ said Berlin, and rolled over.
The tugging became more insistent.
‘I’m starving,’ said Princess.
‘You’re not bloody starving,’ mumbled Berlin, still half-asleep. ‘The poor children in Africa are starving.’ Oh god, she thought, I sound like my mother.
That was enough to wake her up completely.
After a battle involving a screwdriver and hammer, the freezer had finally yielded an old packet of fish fingers. Chipping away the ice had exhausted them both, but it had come in handy wrapped in a tea towel and applied to Princess’s bruises. Both her eyes were black.
‘You look like a panda,’ said Berlin as they sat at the table tucking into baked beans and the thick, golden crust that disguised the white flakes inside.
‘What fish has fingers?’ asked Princess.
Berlin thought she might be serious, until she grinned.
‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Berlin.
The windows were still open, to let in the desultory breeze. The noise of kids kicking a ball in the street drifted up to them.
‘What’s your real name?’ asked Princess.
‘Berlin,’ said Berlin.
‘Funny name for a girl,’ said Princess. ‘It’s a place. Ever been there?’
‘No. I’m not a great traveller,’ said Berlin. That was an understatement. She’d left London once in twenty years, to go to Brighton, and that had been a mistake. ‘What about you?’
‘No,’ said Princess. ‘I’ve never been to Berlin, but I’ve been to Turkey, Greece, Albania and Italy.’
Berlin stared at her. The Balkan Route.
‘With your mum and dad?’ she asked.
‘Usually just Sonja,’ said Princess.
‘She speaks a lot of languages, doesn’t she?’ said Berlin. ‘That must be useful.’
‘Yeah,’ said Princess, intent on squashing the life out of a baked bean with her fork. ‘And she lies in all of ’em.’
Berlin took a mouthful of tea and looked at the kid. Tell me something I don’t know, she thought.
‘I’m not going back,’ said Princess suddenly, and dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter.
Berlin could see she was making a case.
‘I’m not,’ said Princess emphatically, shaking her head.
‘Because Sonja lies?’ said Berlin. ‘Everyone lies.’
‘Not like this,’ said Princess. She hesitated.
‘Like what?’ asked Berlin. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
‘She told you she killed my dad, didn’t she?’ said Princess.
‘Yes,’ said Berlin.
‘Well, she didn’t.’
A sheen of sweat had broken out on the kid’s face. Her respiration had quickened. It wasn’t the heat.
Berlin put her fork down and waited for the other shoe to drop.
‘I did it,’ said Princess. ‘I killed him.’
70
The vans rolled in at both ends of the road and cut their motors. Authorised Firearms Officers and their colleagues slid open the well-oiled doors. They moved quickly and silently into position.
Anyone glancing out of the window or opening their front door took a step back, staying well out of range.
Officers were deployed at the base of the block of flats, up the staircase and in strategic positions on nearby rooftops. They waited for the signal, sweating in their helmets and stab vests, visors foggy, mouths dry.
A noise like thunder enveloped Berlin and Princess as the door caved in. Berlin tried to shout as she was taken down to the floor, but nothing came out. She was winded.
The cry she heard was not her own.
‘Hands behind your head. Hands behind your head. Hands behind your head!’ someone bellowed at her.
‘Take the kid,’ came a command. Boots thundered to obey.
A helmeted head came close to Berlin. The visor distorted the cold eyes, deep set in a florid face, which peered down at her. A heavy boot pinioned her, backed up by the muzzle of a semiautomatic weapon
pressed into her forehead.
Princess screamed.
Berlin remembered the only thing she knew about being ten years old. It was the age of criminal responsibility.
*
From the back of the van, Berlin could see the search team dumping her stuff, sealed in transparent bags, into the boot of a car. Including the bin bag of clothes.
A female officer was leaning on a car, applying a bandage to her bleeding wrist. Berlin suspected that the steady beat of muffled thuds emanating from the vehicle was Princess, kicking the roof in a tattoo of defiance.
Berlin had never wanted kids, but the magnificence of the child’s resistance struck her as something that would make any parent proud. Of course pride comes before a fall, as Peggy would say.
She had a bad feeling her own was going to be vertiginous.
71
The cell was cool. Walls a foot thick eliminated light and sound. Cold silence. The small window was constructed of opaque glass bricks. The fluorescent strip on the high ceiling was caged. Everything was fitted flush to the wall: the basin, the toilet, the bed. Moulded steel. No sharp edges and no hanging points.
It reminded Berlin of the hotel room. Minus the toiletries and the minibar.
She recalled the old copper’s myth that when a guilty man is nicked, he will sleep soundly in his bunk, relieved of the burden of his crime. Only the innocent pace.
She couldn’t sleep and she didn’t have the energy to pace. She waited. Patience was going to be essential. Every decision now would be made by someone else, according to their needs and the timetable of the system. The afternoon wore on.
She understood why there were no hanging points.
When the social worker walked in Princess saw her opportunity.
‘Bryan-with-a-y, I want to complain about police brutality,’ she said.
Bryan looked very concerned. He handed her a packet of sandwiches, sat down and brought out his pen and a file.
Princess leant over and peered at it. ‘Where have they taken her?’ she asked, tears welling.
‘Your mum is just answering a few questions,’ he said.
She sat back. That was just what she wanted to hear.
‘I don’t want to talk to them,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to,’ said Bryan.
She held out the packet of sandwiches. ‘Could I have cheese and pickle instead?’ she said.
Snowe waited, impatient for the constable to let him into Berlin’s cell. It was more good luck than good management that he’d let Sonja go before Berlin and Princess were brought in to the station. It had been a completely fruitless interview anyway.
He needed Berlin to deliver Princess to Sonja in order to flush out Mortimer. It was non-negotiable. Bertie was gone, but there was still Kennedy and Mortimer. Kennedy would keep a low profile now, but Mortimer would grass him up in order to do a deal. No doubt he would also name his connection to sweeten the bargain.
The problem was that Berlin had been nicked.
The Steyne murder team had finally caught up with her. Two experts had confirmed that fingerprints on a bottle matched those taken when Berlin was arrested on the stalking matter. Hurley had enough to charge her and had conveniently found her at home. He was pissed off, given recent events, and had sent in the heavy brigade.
Bad luck for her and a disaster for Snowe’s operation. He didn’t believe Berlin had killed the girl. Not that he was going to tell her that. It could come in handy, particularly as he now needed leverage to implement the strategy agreed by the ad hoc committee. Agreed wasn’t quite accurate; demanded was more like it.
Princess was in the care of some social worker who was on the record as having dealt with the mother and child previously; they were all under the impression that Princess was Berlin’s daughter. He wasn’t about to put them straight, but he didn’t know how long it would be before the error came to light.
Finally the constable appeared and opened the cell door.
Snowe carried in two cups of coffee. Berlin was even more drawn than usual. The white disposable suit did nothing for her pallor.
‘I asked for a doctor and a lawyer,’ she said to the constable. ‘Not room service.’
Snowe handed her a coffee. She sniffed at it and grimaced. Snowe nodded at the constable, who backed out somewhat reluctantly.
‘Excuse me, Constable,’ said Berlin. ‘I don’t wish to be left alone with this man.’
The constable closed the door behind him.
Berlin glanced at the ceiling. There were no cameras in the cell.
‘I thought we had an understanding,’ said Snowe.
She sipped the coffee. It was truly disgusting.
‘Where’s Princess?’ she said.
‘She’s giving some social worker hell,’ said Snowe.
That’s my girl, thought Berlin.
‘I know Burlington had her,’ he said. ‘Then the next thing we know he’s dead and she’s at your place.’
She gulped more of the putrid coffee. How did he know Bertie had the kid?
‘How do the Met feel about another agency poking around in their cases?’ she asked.
‘Not another agency, the agency,’ he said. ‘And now there are a whole lot more agencies involved, believe me.’
‘And no doubt that’s a problem for you,’ she said.
‘That’s a problem for you,’ snapped Snowe. ‘Since an officer died in a shoot-out with suspected terrorists. Why were you at that apartment?’
‘Who said I was?’
‘Come on, Berlin. You shouldn’t have gone anywhere near the Demirs, given the stalking charge. It was Burlington who made the “anonymous” call reporting your presence in Whitechapel, did you know that? Why were you there?’
She looked at him, unmoved.
‘You’re in deep here,’ he said, pacing around the small cell.
He’s more of a prisoner than I am, she thought.
He came and stood over her. ‘I can walk away and leave you to rot, or you can co-operate and I can do you some good.’
‘How?’ she said.
‘What was so important that you had to approach the Demirs again?’
‘I’m not admitting I was at the apartment when the raid went down,’ she said. ‘But the son, Murat Demir, has information I need. He was there the night Kylie Steyne was murdered,’ she said.
‘How do you know?’ he said.
Berlin sighed. ‘A woman’s intuition,’ she said. ‘He can exonerate me.’
It was Snowe’s turn to utter a theatrical sigh. ‘That’s bad luck, then, about Murat,’ he said.
Her stomach turned over. She remembered the staccato beat of the automatic weapon in the apartment. ‘What do you want, Snowe?’ she said. ‘Just cut to the chase.’
He sat down close beside her on the bunk. His strange coppery eyes looked into hers, his gaze sincere, almost warm. Here it comes, she thought.
‘You were registered as a CHIS at the time of the raid on the Demirs.’
Berlin looked at him, waiting. ‘So?’ she said.
‘We can make a case to include the drug-related murder of the Steyne girl in a multi-agency operation. You’re the link between her, Burlington and the Demirs.’
‘But the only link,’ she said.
He shrugged. It didn’t matter.
‘I’ve interviewed Kennedy,’ he said.
She shook her head. She wasn’t buying that. There was no way Kennedy would confirm she was at the apartment; given the circumstances of Bertie’s demise he couldn’t risk pissing her off.
Snowe folded his arms, completely unfazed.
‘There’s CCTV footage,’ he said. ‘We may not know how you got out, but we certainly know you went in.’
Oh fuck, she thought. This song and dance has just been a warm-up. She waited for the kicker.
‘So,’ said Snowe. ‘It’s up to you; you can be a hero or a scumbag murderer.’
72
Rita knew the way
to a man’s heart: cold hard cash and the promise of a big score. She was short of the readies, but promises cost nothing.
Terry sat back in his chair and burped.
‘Sorry, Nan,’ he said. ‘That was cracking.’
Rita smiled, indulgent.
Before him lay the ruins of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, greens and gravy. Jam roly-poly and custard had left its mark on his T-shirt. How he could eat like that in this heat was beyond Rita. Her lunch had come in a glass with ice cubes.
‘Now, Tel,’ said Rita. ‘I think we’ve been going about this the wrong way.’
Terry blinked and tried to focus. She could see all he wanted to do was lie down on her sofa and have a lovely kip.
‘I’ve done me best,’ he snorted, sullen.
‘Well, now you’re going to do your worst,’ said Rita sharply. The adenoidal little devil didn’t know when he was well off.
Terry sat up straight, suddenly interested.
All ears, thought Rita. He loves a bit of bother. Especially on a full stomach.
Rita had barely got Terry out the door when Sonja slunk past. She hurried out to see what was going on.
‘They let you go then, love?’ she said, solicitous.
Sonja nodded. ‘Please, Rita, I’m very tired,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’m sure. Didn’t charge you with anything then? Did they knock you around? Let me make you a nice cup of tea.’
‘I just want to lie down,’ said Sonja as she walked down the hall towards her room.
Rita followed.
‘I don’t know what sort of a state it’s in, in there,’ said Rita. Although she did. ‘They had those people in here like off the telly, CSI, you know.’
Sonja touched her forehead, as if she had a headache. Rita thought they might have given her a smack or two.
‘But I don’t think they found anything,’ said Rita. ‘No evidence bags, from what I could see.’
‘Thanks Rita, I’ll talk to you later,’ said Sonja. She went into her room and closed the door.
A Bitter Taste Page 19