He turned around.
‘Yes? Can I help you? I’m a police officer,’ said Kennedy.
The bloke didn’t look like a doctor. He let the door swing shut behind him.
‘Is there a problem here, mate?’ Kennedy blustered.
Murat murmured.
Kennedy glanced at him.
Murat opened his eyes and blinked, groggy at first. Then his expression changed to one of fear. Kennedy followed his gaze, which was riveted on the man behind him.
The man stepped forwards and Kennedy felt a knife slip between his ribs.
I won’t live to see my boy die, he thought.
Berlin heard the lift doors open. Boots squeaked. It was the officer returning from his unscheduled break.
‘Who is he then?’ she heard the nurse ask.
‘A terrorist,’ said the officer.
‘Yeah, what’s he terrorised?’ she wheedled.
‘Need to know, innit,’ came the reply.
There was a pause. The nurse’s tone changed to peevish.
‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘Well, I need to know his vitals, so suppose you go and shoo out his visitors, then you can keep an eye on me while I stick a thermometer up his bum. You never know, you might enjoy it.’
The officer’s awkward laugh faded to an uncomfortable silence. ‘Visitors?’ he said. ‘There’s just the detective . . . ’
There was a clatter and he ran past the vestibule, readying his weapon.
Berlin stood up and held her breath.
A raucous alarm broke the moment of silence.
Kennedy lay on the floor, still at last.
The monitors beside Murat’s bed were bleating wildly. His discretion was guaranteed.
79
The police cordon was going up around the hospital already. Trucks were unloading barriers, pedestrians were being herded out of the back streets, special operations teams were flooding the area.
Berlin slowed down. Her Achilles tendon was screaming and she knew that running, or trying to, would just attract suspicion. Better to stand and gawk for a moment while she worked out how to get off the street and avoid the cordon.
When she gave them her ID at the barrier, her name and address would be radioed in and she would turn up immediately in cross-matching. If she refused to give them her ID she’d be detained for further checks.
Her vision blurred as she recalled the blood seeping from under the door of Murat’s room. She had pushed it open, registered the carnage, and let it swing shut again. Her ability to remain detached from events seemed to have diminished. No dope. No more soft landings.
The officer on guard duty had run to the emergency exit in pursuit of the assassin. She took the same route, following him down, pausing only to vomit in the corner of the concrete stairwell.
Steel grated on concrete as the barriers were dragged into position. The harsh sound brought her back to her senses and she realised where she was standing.
The receptionist wasn’t pleased to see her. Again.
‘He’s not here,’ she said.
But as she spoke, Rolfey came out of his office, head down, scanning a letter. ‘Let’s call it a day,’ he said. He looked up, saw Berlin and scowled.
‘What?’ said the receptionist, astonished. ‘Now?’
‘Well, I haven’t got any bloody patients, have I?’ he said, gesturing to the empty waiting room. ‘Lock up before they can get back in.’ He turned and marched back to his office.
Berlin followed him. She heard the door slam as the receptionist left.
‘We’re closed,’ said Rolfey. ‘Thanks to you. You’re well aware what effect the presence of the police has on my clients.’
‘They’ll be back,’ she said.
‘Fuck off,’ said Rolfey. He screwed up the letter and threw it at the bin. He wasn’t really talking to her. She’d never seen him like this.
She dropped into a chair to disguise the fact she was shaking.
‘I think I’ve ruptured my tendon again,’ she said. ‘It’s killing me.’
‘I suppose you were running away from someone,’ he said, giving her a dark look. ‘Well, you can keep running. I’ll be damned if I’m giving you another script,’ he said.
‘How’s your relationship with the General Medical Council working out?’ she said.
Before he could stop her she bent down and snatched up the letter, which lay beside the overflowing bin. He watched as she smoothed out the creases and glanced at the contents. The GMC investigators were coming, ready or not.
Rolfey ran his hand through his hair, close to tears. ‘I had you all wrong, Berlin,’ he said. ‘I thought you were serious about getting clean.’
‘I’m deadly serious,’ she said.
She didn’t know who was more surprised by this dramatic declaration, her or Rolfey. Her gaze was drawn to the iron-barred window that looked out onto a small loading bay. There was just enough room for one vehicle.
‘I don’t want another script,’ she said. ‘I want you to give me a lift to Walthamstow.’
The alley was just beyond the perimeter of the cordon. If she had just walked through the clinic and out the back, they might have spotted her even though it was beyond the perimeter. CCTV would certainly have picked her up. She was much safer in Rolfey’s car.
‘Were you running from them?’ asked Rolfey as they pulled out of the alley. The police were inspecting IDs at the barrier at the other end of the street.
Berlin didn’t answer.
‘This is very kind of you,’ she said.
‘I haven’t got much choice, have I?’ snapped Rolfey. She had reminded him of her intel concerning the local mechanic’s vice and his clients.
‘Needs must,’ she muttered.
‘What’s the cordon all about, then?’ he asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘Why would I know?
‘You’re pretty tight with some law-enforcement types,’ he said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. After your visit with the detective I thought you might know what’s going on.’
She stared out at the traffic and contemplated Kennedy’s fate. ‘I’d just forget about that visit if I were you,’ she said.
A heavy silence settled in the car.
‘What’s so important in Walthamstow?’ asked Rolfey finally.
She gave him a look. ‘What makes you think it’s important?’ said Berlin.
‘No reason, I just thought, traipsing out there, needing a lift . . . ’
‘You can drop me here,’ she said.
‘What? What about Walthamstow?’ said Rolfey, surprised.
‘I’m going to be sick,’ she said.
Rolfey pulled into the kerb sharply.
She got out and limped away.
Fear crept up her spine. She scratched at her arms as if paranoia were a mould on her skin. Deer scuffed their antlers against bark to remove the velvet. The rub left a scent on the tree, a challenge to others to lock horns. Hunters also used it to track their prey.
It was just the heat, she told herself, or lack of food and sleep. Or withdrawal.
She should have stayed in the car with Rolfey. Her reaction to him was ridiculous but she had suddenly felt uneasy. He was asking too many questions and he had seen her with Kennedy. He had also given her away to Sonja; practically provided her with Berlin’s resumé. It could even have been his idea to drag Berlin into the search for Princess.
Now she would have to risk the Tube in a bid to retrieve Princess before the police arrived at Kennedy’s. She hoped there was enough credit on her travel card.
*
Sonja’s phone vibrated and she picked it up, wary of the blocked ID.
‘She’s on her way to Walthamstow,’ said a familiar voice.
‘Walthamstow?’ she echoed, confused.
‘I’m almost certain that’s where she’s got her. It won’t be long now, I’m sure.’
The transcriber handed Sn
owe a piece of paper. He read it and frowned.
‘The intel suggests Berlin’s on her way to Walthamstow,’ he said.
‘How did she get through the fucking cordon?’ exploded Jock. ‘The CCTV shows her going into the hospital with Kennedy and leaving twenty minutes later. After the alert.’
‘Maybe your lads didn’t get the cordon up quick enough,’ remarked Hurley to Snowe.
DCI Hurley and Commander Jock McGiven sat on the other side of a desk in the middle of the control room. It had been hurriedly set up by the ad hoc committee to co-ordinate the operation. They were there to keep an eye on him and report back to their masters at the Yard and then to Whitehall.
Inter-agency cooperation.
‘Implementation of the cordon was down to the locals,’ said Snowe through clenched teeth. ‘It was nothing to do with me.’ Silently he berated himself for running for cover, just like all the other agencies involved in this debacle.
‘You better not lose her now,’ warned McGiven.
‘Why would she go to Walthamstow?’ said Snowe. He waved the transcript. ‘This intel is inconclusive.’
‘She’s your CHIS, Snowy,’ said Hurley. ‘I was against it from the start.’
‘It was you who arrested her using planted evidence,’ retorted Snowe.
Hurley stood up, flushing.
‘What the fuck are you implying?’ he screeched. ‘I’ve done everything by the book!’
Snowe stood up too. ‘I’m not implying anything. The evidence indicates Berlin was set up by Murat Demir.’
And now she had set him up. She had wanted Kennedy ‘left out of it’ and like a fool he had agreed, believing he was one step ahead of her. It had never occurred to him that she would use Kennedy to get to Demir.
‘So he set her up,’ barked Hurley. ‘Why won’t you face the possibility that Demir saw Berlin kill the girl? He planted the bottle to make damn sure she was caught and permanently out of his hair.’
Snowe had no answer for that. His conviction that Berlin wasn’t a killer was taking a battering as the bodies piled up around her.
Among the stuff seized from her flat was a bag of her and the kid’s clothes. He had asked the lab to test them against the samples from Bertie. They were spattered with his DNA.
The GPS had her in Bethnal Green. The transcript from Sonja’s phone had her on her way to Walthamstow. Jesus.
Snowe’s phone rang and he picked up.
‘Tracker one here, sir,’ announced the officer. ‘We’re still in Bethnal Green, now at the Weavers Fields playground. The kid with the badge doesn’t look like the description we’ve got. She’s on a bike. And there’s no sign of the target.’
‘Retrieve the device and get back to base,’ snapped Snowe.
The officer hung up and gazed out of the window at the playground full of children and their mums.
He turned to his mate.
‘He said you’re to go and get the badge off the kid.’
80
Berlin saw the police car parked outside Kennedy’s. She was too late. She kept to the other side of the road, watching, hoping that Princess would emerge on her own. It wasn’t going to happen. She ran her fingers through her hair, gathered herself, and crossed over.
The front door was open and the sound of sobbing drifted to Berlin as she crossed the threshold and took the few steps down the hall to the living room. A dazed-looking woman, Kennedy’s wife, was collecting her handbag and distractedly checking its contents.
An older woman, an even more shrivelled version of Kennedy, sat to one side of the boy’s bed. Her head lay next to his, her tears staining his pillow.
Princess stood on the other side of the bed, alert as a cat ready to spring. One of the uniforms was speaking to her quietly.
‘There’s my mum now!’ cried Princess.
Everyone turned to look at Berlin.
The two coppers appeared to be from the local nick.
Mrs Kennedy stared at Berlin, her eyes misty with confusion. ‘Do I know you?’ she said.
‘I’m from just down the road,’ said Berlin. ‘Your husband invited her in to play.’
The little boy in the bed took the deepest breath of which he was capable and removed his oxygen mask. ‘She’s my friend,’ he gasped.
One of the coppers addressed Berlin.
‘You better get her home, missus, this family has had some bad news.’
She had to say something.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Berlin. ‘I really am so very sorry. I can’t tell you how . . . if there’s anything I can do . . . I only wish —’
The policeman frowned.
She was babbling.
Princess tugged at her hand and dragged her to the front door.
Out in the street, Princess kept a tight grip on Berlin’s hand. The kid was the only thing tethering her to reality.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Princess.
‘Nothing,’ said Berlin.
They walked on in silence for a while.
‘You need a fix, that’s all,’ said Princess.
It was a chilling remark.
‘Yeah. But . . . the drought,’ she said.
Princess brought them to a halt. She squinted up at Berlin, shielding her eyes from the light. Or the truth.
‘I can help you with that,’ she said.
81
Snowe was under siege. He sat at the desk amid the uproar in the control room, a condemned man anticipating his execution.
The ad hoc committee had enthusiastically adopted his strategy of using Berlin’s status as a CHIS to deflect criticism of the raid; of course, he hadn’t mentioned at the time that it conveniently meant she was still available for his own operation. But now it had come out and the whole thing had backfired.
A detective had been gutted by an assailant who had also killed Murat Demir. The woman charged with the murder of a fourteen-year-old girl had been allowed to run free and now she was implicated in those murders too.
Hurley was right: it would have suited Berlin to have Murat Demir taken out.
All the agencies involved were hunting his bailed CHIS. They emphasised ‘his’.
Snowe’s unhappy musings were disrupted by a bloke on the other side of the office addressing him. ‘Hurley just called,’ he said. ‘Walthamstow is Kennedy’s home turf. Explains why the target went out there.’
Snowe was more interested in where she was now.
The council CCTV footage caught Berlin in Stepney Way soon after she left the hospital. She was easy to pick out because of the limp. Then she went into a building and never came out. Google Maps showed a small car park at the back of it, leading into an alley. The exit was beyond the cordon.
Furious, Snowe tapped out an email addressed to the counter-terrorism team: he suggested they review the CCTV capturing traffic leaving the alley and run the vehicles through the Automatic Number Plate Recognition System. At their earliest convenience.
Google identified the building as a medical facility, some sort of clinic.
Someone drove Berlin out of that car park. If she had been on foot the cameras would have picked her up. He wasn’t going to wait for bloody counter-terrorism.
He’d pay the clinic a visit.
82
Princess and Berlin trudged through arid streets that underwent a change of character as the night closed in. They couldn’t risk public transport. The CCTV from the hospital would have been examined by now and her starring role broadcast. The hunt for her would have escalated.
They passed through once busy high streets, now a wasteland of boarded-up businesses, gaps in the smile of the capital. It was evidence of a crisis that had become a banal predicament. London was littered with these toothless ghosts, communities where only the despairing or dangerous emerged at night. Everyone else locked up tight.
Striped plastic awnings hung limp and brittle, cracked by the sun. Deals of another kind dominated trade in the lifeless marketplaces, but because o
f the drought they were almost deserted. Almost. Eyes glinting with desperation peered at them from doorways.
Princess seemed unconcerned. She’d seen worse.
They walked south for nearly an hour. Finally, dead on her feet, Berlin relented and they got on a bus. Within twenty minutes they were within a quarter of a mile of Sonja’s.
Berlin felt as if she were endlessly holding her breath, fearful of breaking the spell. The kid was leading her to half a kilo of heroin. To heaven or hell. Her quick pulse and shortness of breath had nothing to do with exertion, and everything to do with a panting eagerness.
The bus dropped them at Pontoon Dock. Princess crossed the road, steering them away from the manicured gardens of Thames Barrier Park, which were illuminated by the penetrating beams of floodlights, and avoiding the new apartments that colonised the riverbank, huddled together in gated luxury, defiant.
Instead, she took the dusty track beside the scrap-metal yard and skirted a mountain of aluminium cans that glinted in the last rays of light. Berlin limped along beside her. They tramped through the industrial estate to the bleak stretch of dirt and thistles beside the river. They passed the derelict factory.
It was the route the dog had taken.
‘I’ve got a dog, you know,’ said Princess.
The kid had broken into her thoughts.
‘Yeah?’ said Berlin.
‘Do you think Sonja has remembered to feed him?’ asked Princess.
This was as close to home as the kid had come since the night she killed Cole.
Berlin could hear the sucking sound made by the mud as the tide went out. Hollow, drained of feeling.
‘You know Sonja,’ said Berlin, noncommittal.
Princess stopped dead and looked at her.
‘I’m sure the dog’s fine,’ said Berlin. She couldn’t risk a tantrum. Now was not the time for brutal honesty.
The timbers of rotten wharves groaned with the changing tide. Iron roofs snapped and popped, contracting after the heat of the day. Each noise made Berlin jump. She kept glancing behind her, peering at the shadows as they guttered into night.
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