A Bitter Taste

by Annie Hauxwell

  Rita stood there for a moment and considered the implications of Sonja’s release. There were only two possibilities: they had nothing on her, or they were using her in some fiendish copper’s plot. They had no compunctation about that sort of thing. No morals.

  Whichever it was, it was a vindication of Rita’s decision to keep it in the family.

  Something told her that her ship was coming in any day now.

  Sonja slumped back against the closed door and surveyed the damage. Every surface was coated in fingerprint powder. The light that managed to filter in through the grimy window gave it a luminescent quality. Hard edges shimmered.

  A ghost room.

  The old piece of carpet beside the sink had gone. She peered at the bloodstain on the floorboards that had been hidden beneath it. Small scratches at the edge gave the lie to Rita’s opinion that they hadn’t found anything.

  She was standing at the bottom of a cliff. Above her an avalanche was gathering momentum. She screamed at her legs to run, but they ignored her. It wasn’t a dream.

  73

  Snowe had left Berlin alone for a few minutes to ‘consider her options’, although you could hardly grace them with that term. She suspected this gesture was more about underlining the stark reality of incarceration, and less about giving her time to think.

  The key turned in the lock and she feared it was a sound she might have to live with for many years to come. His gambit had been effective.

  Snowe stepped into the cell and dismissed the constable with a gesture. He leant against the wall and waited for her answer.

  ‘Let me see if I understand this,’ she said. ‘You want me to say I was at the apartment, working for you as a CHIS, when the raid went down.’

  The irony was gobsmacking.

  ‘Well, you were,’ he said, disingenuous.

  His logic was faultless, even if the truth it implied was utterly false. ‘So,’ she said. ‘An unmitigated disaster due to shoddy police work becomes a timely, pre-emptive intelligence-led intervention.’

  She looked at him, searching for any sign of embarrassment. ‘Spin,’ she added.

  He was not even remotely discomfited.

  ‘And what’s in it for me?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re the leading outfit, so all the others will abide by our strategic and operational imperatives. Including the disposition of other matters in which you may be involved.’

  ‘In other words, they’ll do as they’re told,’ she said.

  ‘We like to think of it as a partnership,’ he said. ‘But if I do exercise that influence, you and I need to have a clear understanding of what’s required.’

  ‘And what you require is half a kilo of heroin, Mortimer and Kennedy,’ she said.

  ‘Correct,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a whitewash,’ she said.

  ‘In the interests of national security,’ he responded, smug.

  The temptation to deploy the dregs of her coffee in his direction was almost overwhelming.

  She perused the scrawl on the cell wall, left by other scumbags, looking for a sign. The comments inscribed there led to the inevitable conclusion that lies, fit-ups and injustice had become unremarkable. And she was right up there with the worst of them.

  ‘Of course, I can’t guarantee an outcome if you did kill the girl,’ said Snowe. ‘Justice will take its course. But it will be tempered by your co-operation.’

  ‘You sanctimonious prick,’ she said.

  Snowe knocked on the cell door to be let out.

  ‘Who survived the raid?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t give you those details,’ he said.

  She was quiet for a moment, defeated.

  ‘I want to see the doctor,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘And I want you to leave Kennedy out of it,’ she said.

  Snowe frowned.

  ‘Kennedy’s finished anyway,’ he said. ‘Burlington’s suicide left a bad smell.’

  She had to smile.

  ‘There’s still the minor problem of ensuring you make bail,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘And that’s where your multi-agency operation comes into its own.’

  74

  Berlin contemplated the suit and shirt they had given her. They had returned her boots. The skirt didn’t really work with them, but perhaps the judge would think it was a fashion statement.

  She had trekked out to Snaresbrook Crown Court on many occasions to apply for warrants, but never under escort to her own bail hearing on a charge of murder. The sun was blazing but the temperature in the car was frigid. Her sweat dried cold.

  Snowe had obviously been busy. He had roped in a stray solicitor to act for her. They met briefly in her cell. The walls were institutional green, the colour of bile. An odour to match hung in the air.

  ‘Well, there’s not much to say, is there?’ said the solicitor. ‘The prosecution isn’t opposing bail or anything else, from what I’ve seen. They’ve even arranged for the witnesses to appear in camera. It’s a circus.’

  The lawyers acting for the commission, Snowe’s outfit, had successfully argued that the court should be closed on grounds of national security. So no one would know what was going on.

  Her solicitor intimated that she disapproved of the whole business, although she was hardly going to argue that point, unless Berlin had further instructions.

  Berlin shook her hand and thanked her for her time.

  When they brought her up from the holding cell it occurred to her that she needn’t have worried about her incongruous boots. She was in the box. The judge couldn’t see her legs anyway. She was half a person. The defendant.

  ‘All rise,’ said the bailiff, as the judge entered.

  They all rose.

  The matter was to be heard by a judge who had a murder ticket and he didn’t look too happy at the disruption to his list caused by this odd application.

  Not only that, but the courtroom was sweltering and the cheap fans deployed behind the bench were clearly doing nothing to alleviate his discomfort under his heavy wig and robe.

  Berlin gazed around at the assembled throng. There was a number of other organisations represented, apart from the Commission and the Met. They each had their own barrister, who was briefed by a solicitor, and behind them sat their clients. They all seemed to know each other and were nodding and chatting in that friendly way that always confuses defendants.

  Snowe stood at the back by the double doors. The ringmaster.

  ‘Call the first witness,’ barked the bailiff and the usher left the court. He returned pushing a man in a wheelchair. It was Mr Demir, attached to an oxygen cylinder.

  The solicitor was right: it was a circus. Except now it was a three-ring circus.

  Berlin slipped into the world that Princess inhabited. A universe where she was insignificant and exploited. A pawn.

  The custody sergeant at the station had entrusted the court escort service with the painkillers prescribed by the police doctor. They would only dole them out in strict accordance with the instructions.

  Berlin felt her body betraying her. She was trembling. Her neck and jaw were suffused with blood. The white collar of the stranger’s shirt couldn’t hide the crimson pattern of mutilation. She was ashamed, guilty, fearful. And she hadn’t even done anything wrong.

  Mr Demir swore an oath on the Koran. He agreed with her solicitor that he was currently assisting a number of law enforcement and intelligence agencies. He gestured with a slight movement of his hand at all those represented in court. There had been recent events involving his family.

  He asked for a glass of water.

  Berlin knew the hearing really wasn’t about her bail. She just had a bit part in a much bigger production. Each player was protecting their own interests. All the principals had been briefed by Snowe on Berlin’s role. The current proceedings were so they could cover their arses if it ever came out that they stood by and let a child-murderer back on the
street because she was a snout.

  Let the judge decide. That’s what judicial discretion was for.

  Those present listened, rapt, as Mr Demir described the beginning of his relationship with the defendant, the task she performed for him and the bread, milk and Scotch he provided in lieu of payment.

  Berlin felt that dying of humiliation was a real possibility. With his every word she heard another nail hammered into the coffin of her professional life. How low could you go? Investigator: will work for booze, thought Berlin.

  Then one of the barristers asked Mr Demir if he had any knowledge in relation to the charge against the defendant, that of the murder of Kylie Steyne.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.

  The barrister asked him to explain.

  ‘My son, Murat,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ asked the barrister, whom Berlin understood was acting for her, as her solicitor was sitting behind him.

  Mr Demir glanced at one of the men sitting behind the lawyers, who held his gaze.

  Berlin could see Demir was suffering. His wife and son had betrayed him by their involvement in activities he would never condone, but it was a stretch to ask any man to inform on his son.

  She could imagine the sort of leverage that had been used to secure his co-operation: he was in the hands of those implicated in the rendition of terror suspects to countries where they could be tortured with impunity. The Turkish authorities would probably also welcome Murat’s speedy return for questioning.

  The bailiff handed Mr Demir a box of tissues and he wiped the sweat from his face.

  ‘My son put the evidence there. He went to the place, later. He thought Miss Berlin was a spy. It was to . . .’ He reached for the word. ‘To neutralise her.’ Clearly this was the expression someone had used during his briefing.

  The barrister addressed the judge.

  ‘I believe Your Honour has certain documents before him which show the defendant is a registered Covert Human Intelligence Source.’

  No one was going to ask her. In fact, it was important she didn’t speak. They were creating the impression she was spying for them. After all, they had no doubt Murat and his associates were a threat to the nation, although the nature of that threat couldn’t be disclosed because of considerations of national security.

  Her presence during the raid would provide them with a ready response when questions were asked about how the cell had managed to function right under their noses, given all the resources that were being thrown at serious crime and counter-terrorism.

  They could say, quite accurately, it hadn’t. They could say surveillance was ongoing. A CHIS was working on it. In fact, she was there. Of course, her identity had to remain a secret.

  The terrorists had been taken out before they could do any damage. They’d been about to flee without achieving their objective, although their intentions would remain unknown.

  A happy ending, bar the one poor copper who died in the line of duty. The dead terrorists were the happy part.

  Who would stand up and say the raid was nothing to do with good policing, and everything to do with a corrupt detective who wanted Berlin out of the way?

  Not I, said the fly, thought Berlin, sickened by her own complicity.

  The judge waved a sheaf of papers.

  ‘These redacted transcripts,’ he said, irritably.

  ‘Yes Your Honour, matters of —’

  ‘Yes, yes, national security,’ snapped the Judge. ‘But it’s all hearsay.’

  ‘This is a matter of bail, Your Honour, if I may be so bold. Not a trial of the substantive charge,’ said the barrister.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ said the judge. ‘I understand the party who is alleged to have planted the evidence cannot be produced,’ he grumbled.

  Another barrister stood up. Berlin’s sat down.

  ‘No, Your Honour,’ he said. ‘He cannot. We refer you to the documents submitted and to which the prosecution has no objection.’

  He sat down. Another barrister stood up. ‘That is correct Your Honour,’ he said.

  Mr Demir gazed at Berlin with a look of utter confusion as he was wheeled away. The rest of the hearing passed in a blur. The judge was no fool. He questioned each of the barristers acting for the various agencies concerning their agreement to her bail, and gave them the opportunity to raise objections.

  They conferred with their clients, there was muttering and grumbling, but no one objected.

  Going on the record was a two-edged sword. Silence was consent.

  75

  Berlin signed for her possessions and walked to the secure door. There was a click. She gave it a shove and stepped outside, never so glad to feel the sun on her face.

  She stood there for a moment and contemplated a future behind bars, a terrifying prospect that had receded for the moment. At least heroin wouldn’t be a problem, she thought. There was plenty on the inside.

  A door at the side of the courthouse opened. It led onto a ramp. Disabled access. An usher wheeled Mr Demir out and then left him to it.

  Berlin stayed close to the wall as she hurried to the ramp to meet him. She limped up to the landing where he sat, marooned.

  ‘Miss Berlin, how did this happen?’ His chest heaved with the effort. ‘Were you really working for them?’ He reached for her arm and gripped it. ‘Is it my fault? My son. My wife?’

  She touched his hand. ‘You had no idea?’

  ‘None. None whatsoever,’ he wheezed.

  A black car appeared, tooted, sped up and stopped sharply at the bottom of the ramp. Snowe jumped out.

  Berlin bent closer to Mr Demir.

  ‘Did Murat say anything about that night, Mr Demir? The night he planted the bottle?’

  A bloke with a shaved head, whom she had seen in court, came running around the corner of the building. Snowe gestured at the ramp. The bloke sprinted towards them. Mr Demir’s minder.

  ‘Please. Please, Mr Demir, it’s very important,’ she said.

  ‘Where are they taking me?’ he gasped, and gripped Berlin’s hand.

  Shaved Head was on them. He elbowed past Berlin and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.

  ‘Here we go, sir,’ he said cheerily. He knocked Berlin out of the way and took off.

  Mr Demir tried to look back at her. ‘They won’t let me see him,’ he cried.

  He raised a hand. She took it as a sign of mute forgiveness.

  Snowe was waiting for her at the bottom of the ramp. He stepped aside to let the wheelchair pass, then stepped back to ensure she couldn’t follow.

  Mr Demir had said, ‘They won’t let me see him.’ With those words Berlin glimpsed the possibility of a brighter future. Murat was still alive. But if Murat was alive, she had been played by Snowe. She glared at him.

  ‘I want to see Murat,’ she said.

  He took her arm and steered her towards the car.

  ‘It’s out of the question,’ said Snowe. ‘Anyway, he’s on the critical list.’

  ‘If he dies his father’s evidence won’t be admissible at my trial,’ she fumed. ‘It’s hearsay. Even the judge pointed it out. Mr Demir wasn’t actually there when Murat planted that bloody bottle.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Snowe, opening the car door. ‘Enjoy motherhood while it lasts.’

  Princess was in the back, reading a comic.

  Berlin tried to shrug Snowe off, but he tightened his grip.

  ‘Kylie Steyne’s killer is still out there and you don’t give a shit,’ she said.

  ‘Leave it to the professionals,’ he said.

  This was the most insulting thing he could say to her, and he knew it.

  ‘You think I’m going to rely on you to get them to drop the charge? What if it doesn’t suit your agenda at the time?’ she snarled.

  Snowe got in her face. His copper eyes blazed with the intensity of a man who would not be thwarted.

  ‘We have a deal,’ he said very quietly so Princess couldn’t hear. ‘You get her to
give up the dope, then you take her and it to Sonja. It’s simple. Do that and I’ll keep my end of it. Fail, and you go down for murder.’

  He shoved her into the back of the car.

  ‘Don’t forget. You belong to me,’ he said, and slammed the door.

  The driver took off.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Princess, who was wearing a new pink shirt and blue jeans.

  ‘Oh yeah, great,’ said Berlin. ‘You?’

  ‘I hate pink,’ said Princess, plucking at the fabric, and added, rolling her eyes, ‘Bryan!’

  ‘Where did you get that?’ asked Berlin, pointing at a smiley badge pinned to the shirt.

  ‘A policewoman gave it to me,’ said Princess.

  ‘Of course she did,’ said Berlin.

  76

  The unmarked vehicle dropped Princess and Berlin at the kerb and the driver waved as he drove off. As if the neighbours would mistake it for a mini-cab.

  Berlin saw Bella, who lived across the landing, peeking around her curtain. She raised a hand in greeting and mouthed a question: ‘The filth?’ Berlin nodded. Bella knew the score. The curtain dropped back into place.

  Berlin had no faith in Snowe’s good offices once she had served her purpose and his job was done. He had lied to her when it suited him. If the Crown Prosecution Service thought they had a reasonable prospect of a conviction on the murder charge, they would go for it, and she doubted he would have the inclination to stop them.

  If Murat survived, he would probably refuse to co-operate, and if he was in the hands of counter-terrorism, they would certainly refuse. Why should they do a deal with him to save her neck? Or even give her lawyer access to him? They might even deny having him. He could be anybody, sought by other governments. He could disappear.

  On the other hand, if he didn’t survive then the truth, and her best chance of acquittal, died with him. She had to try. First she had to find him.

  Her flat had been well and truly tossed. Books had been scattered, clothes flung in a heap, the floor littered with her belongings. The door of the cupboard under the sink hung open.