Rolfey opened the door in his boxer shorts. They were decorated with sailing ships.
‘You’re at half mast,’ said Berlin.
‘You’re bleeding,’ he said.
‘You must be a doctor,’ said Berlin. She limped past him. Del and Princess followed her inside. Rolfey closed the door without a word.
‘Would you make us a cup of tea, Del?’ she said.
Del took Princess into the kitchen.
Rolfey’s living room wasn’t flash. He wasn’t a man who spent money on furniture or pyjamas.
‘I’m here for my quarterly review,’ she said.
‘I’m not being blackmailed by the likes of you, Berlin,’ he said.
‘The likes of me,’ echoed Berlin. She advanced on him, fists clenched. ‘You’ve got a damn nerve, given the shit you’re involved in. I could break you.’
‘The GMC will give me a good hearing,’ blustered Rolfey. ‘I’ve made mistakes, but I’m a good doctor. I —’
Berlin held up her hand, as much to restrain herself as to stop Rolfey’s self-serving tirade.
‘Stop,’ she said. ‘Let’s stop this.’
She didn’t have time to get into a debate about their relative moral worth. If they didn’t get moving she would soon have plenty of spare time for introspection. The kid’s future was hanging by a thin thread. Berlin was about to give it a tug.
‘No more lies, Rolfey,’ she said. ‘It’s so undignified. I’m going to give you a one-time-only opportunity. Because I like you.’ She paused, giving his apprehension time to build. ‘And because I’m onto you.’
She watched as he considered belting her, running or denying everything. Instead he said, ‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘But I do now.’
Rolfey groaned.
Amateurs, thought Berlin.
‘A change came over Sonja,’ she said. ‘She was focused, the place was tidy. She wasn’t just thinking about herself. What does that mean?’
‘She could have got clean!’ protested Rolfey.
Berlin dismissed the suggestion with a scornful look.
‘And she could have given her heart to Jesus,’ she said. ‘But she didn’t. What she did was call on a reliable source. She had no money, there’s a drought on and all her connections had been burnt. Bar one.’
Rolfey sat down and wrapped his arms around his bare chest.
‘Okay,’ said Berlin. ‘This is what’s going to happen.’
They drove from Rolfey’s towards the City Airport, staying on side roads and skirting the river. They passed the Woolwich ferry terminal. The Royal Victoria Gardens loomed on their right. An oasis of darkness.
‘You can drop us here, Del,’ she said. ‘Thanks very much. You’ve gone above and beyond the call.’
Del pulled over. He looked worried.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ he said. ‘I can take you all the way there, you know, if you want me to.’
Berlin got out of the back seat and opened the front door for Princess. She slid out.
‘It’s too risky, Del,’ she said. ‘Too many cameras. We’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll be round with that Scotch to wet the baby’s head.’
She shut the door.
The car window rolled down. Del peered out at her, frowning.
‘Are you sure?’ he said, looking up and down the road, as if expecting blues and twos to appear on the horizon any moment. ‘They’ll have your description on every alert list in every CCTV control room in London.’
‘Del,’ she said. ‘I can’t take chances with the friend, can I? Especially now he’s a dad.’
Berlin shut the door.
‘By the way, what is it?’ she said.
‘A girl,’ said Del.
Snowe clicked through his emails. It was a dispiriting exercise, just endless requests for briefings and de-briefings at which he would be required to recount his failure.
Counter-terrorism had finally responded to his urgent request for an ID on the vehicle that had driven Berlin through the cordon. They had put together a profile on the owner. At first glance, it seemed unlikely to yield any further leads. Then something caught his eye.
90
Parallel lines of yellow light marked a stairway to heaven, but the skies were silent. City Airport was still closed. The two fingers of water that cradled the runway, once busy docks, were empty.
The night air was muggy. Berlin could see the sheen of sweat on the kid’s pale face. She was flagging. Berlin tugged at her hand, urging her on.
‘This is going to be great,’ she said, without enthusiasm. ‘A fresh start, just like we talked about.’
Princess said nothing.
Berlin looked down at the kid, shuffling along beside her. She had been betrayed in the worst possible way; her mother had let her believe she had killed her father, knowing she would be too scared to come home if she thought he was still alive.
Was it Princess that Sonja had wanted back, or the heroin? Berlin couldn’t tell, so how could a child? Lies and deception were all the kid knew. Berlin wouldn’t blame her if she never spoke again. On the other hand, she wasn’t just a naughty child. She was a cold-blooded killer.
Berlin looked away.
The area around the airport bristled with CCTV. Del was right, even without their description any operator would notice a woman and a kid tramping through – there was nothing else moving. They would send out a security patrol to take a closer look. Just being here was a risk.
She tried to limp faster. They followed Albert Road down a finger of once marshy land that poked out into the river. A short bridge over a lock became an overpass, which straddled the channel between the Royal Albert Basin and the dock proper. A yellow haze hung over the water, sodium streetlights refracted in the vapour of the steamy night.
‘Nearly there,’ said Berlin, trying to sound encouraging as they turned onto a dirt track. At the end of it, she could see the tall gates of their destination. They were barred. ‘Oh, Christ,’ she muttered.
As they got closer an electronic eye blinked, waiting for Berlin to scan a pass she didn’t have. Princess came to a halt. She looked at the gates and then up at Berlin.
Berlin could see the reproach in her eyes; this was just another kick in the teeth.
‘Fuck it,’ said Berlin. ‘Come on.’ She turned Princess around and steered her back up the track and onto the overpass. ‘Okay. Over you go,’ she said. They had no option but to clamber over the parapet and negotiate the steep embankment.
Princess did as she was told and slithered down the steep, dusty incline without a problem. But Berlin’s arm was almost useless. It seemed to take forever. She could practically feel the cameras focussing. In the distance a siren wailed. She was almost sure it was on the other side of the river. Almost.
The kid waited for her at the bottom, scuffing her feet in the dirt, seemingly indifferent to the prospect of capture. When Berlin finally arrived she grabbed Princess’s hand and hurried her through the yard. An alarm caterwauled, triggered by a motion detector.
They half-ran along the dock, towards a light swaying gently at the top of a mast.
Berlin could hear the yacht’s engine rattling in neutral as they approached the pontoon.
From the stern, Rolfey nodded a perfunctory greeting.
‘Go,’ said Berlin, pushing the kid towards the gangway. Princess tightened her grip on Berlin’s hand, forcing her to go first.
Berlin stepped onto the narrow, unsteady plank that bridged the airy nothingness between the deck and the pontoon.
‘Come on,’ she said.
Princess stepped up onto the plank.
The dark, oily water six feet below them slapped against the rocking boat as they crossed. Halfway, Princess hesitated. Berlin could feel her small, sweaty hand slipping out of her own. The plank wobbled, threatening to tip them both into the river between the shifting pontoon and the crushing weight of the yacht. Princess glanced down.
‘Don’
t,’ said Berlin. ‘Look at me.’ For a second she couldn’t tell who was hanging on to whom.
How do you know the difference between a grip and an embrace? She knew then that she couldn’t let go.
The kid fixed her eyes on Berlin and took the last few steps.
As her feet struck the deck Sonja emerged from the cabin.
Princess gave an exclamation of joy, dropped Berlin’s hand and ran into Sonja’s open arms. Sonja kissed her and clasped her tight. When she looked up, she spoke to Berlin.
‘Thank you,’ said Sonja.
‘I’m doing it for her, not you,’ said Berlin.
‘Please, let me explain,’ said Sonja.
‘It’s not me you have to convince,’ said Berlin, glancing at Princess. But Princess seemed happy just to see her mum. She didn’t want any explanations.
Rolfey hovered, awkward. ‘We haven’t got much time,’ he said. ‘The tide will turn.’
‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ said Sonja to Berlin. ‘Cole made me.’
Berlin felt her anger flare. It was the rage that she had visited on Derek Parr in the alley, the fury that consumed Kennedy when he blew off Bertie’s face, the wrath Murat Demir turned on anyone who got in his way. But most of all, it was the frenzy that had possessed Princess when she sunk a knife into her father’s jugular. Berlin looked at Princess and reined in her temper.
She should follow the kid’s example. Princess was putting everything, including Berlin, behind her. The kid clung to her mother’s hand and gazed out at the river and beyond; at a future that Berlin couldn’t see. She tried not to feel spurned. She thought about Peggy.
Rolfey was casting off the ropes that tethered them to the pontoon.
A siren wailed.
Berlin stepped back up onto the plank and took two quick strides.
When she turned, the plank had gone and the yacht was already moving.
Rolfey was at the wheel. Sonja was standing close beside him.
There it was. The connection.
Berlin crawled up the embankment on all fours and dragged herself back over the parapet. Dizzy, she leant against it for support, the river below swimming with her own shadow, a grotesque shape captured in the stippled light.
A security patrol was parked on the other side of the road. The guard watched her. A moment later a vehicle came over the bridge slowly, staying close to the kerb, as if the driver were lost. Its blue light revolved in silence. The headlights flicked to high beam and it accelerated onto the overpass towards her, skidding to a halt.
Snowe jumped out, gazing in all directions, frowning.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
The patrol car drove off.
Snowe looked beyond her and saw the locked marina gates. He swore under his breath. He was looking for something.
Berlin realised that boats on the Thames had to be registered. She felt sorry for him, but not much.
‘I asked you why you were here,’ he said, scanning the river.
‘I was thinking of chucking myself in,’ she replied.
Snowe turned to stare at her.
‘Too late,’ he said. ‘You’re nicked.’
Before she got into the car she glanced back.
The tide was so swift that the river seemed to boil up out of its depths.
The yacht was just a streak of white in a listing bank of mist.
12˚C
91
The lawyer who had appeared for her at Snaresbrook seemed unsurprised when Berlin called from the station. ‘I knew this would come back to the bite them,’ she said, smug.
Now Berlin sat in the interview room and listened to her in the corridor haranguing three men in suits, who seemed to have very little to say.
The gist of the lawyer’s argument was that Rita’s account of Cole’s admission was hearsay, but given that and Murat Demir’s involvement, the case against Berlin for the murder of Kylie Steyne was dead in the water.
Surely the Met wanted this woman off their hands? She had more on them than they did on her: corrupt officers, a disastrous raid, the murder of a valuable intelligence asset while in police custody. At all material times she was a registered Covert Human Intelligence Source and working for one of their officers, who had apparently failed to log all the relevant policy decisions.
Her lawyer invited the men to imagine details of these events in the press. What were the implications for their agencies and national security?
When the lawyer returned to the interview room she put a sheaf of paper on the table in front of Berlin.
‘Sign this,’ she said.
It was the Official Secrets Act.
Berlin obliged.
‘You can go,’ said the lawyer. Berlin blessed British justice.
‘I’m going back undercover,’ Snowe said to her as she walked out. ‘I’d rather be someone else.’
92
The brass knocker gleamed in the weak light of a cold, grey dawn. Berlin knocked carefully, wary of tarnishing it. There was no response. She tried again.
The spyhole below the knocker went dark. There was the sound of a bolt being slid across, then the door opened a chink. The chain was still on.
‘What do you want?’ asked Peggy.
‘How are you?’ said Berlin. ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay.’
‘There’s such a thing as a telephone, you know,’ said Peggy. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ said Berlin.
‘You’re always sorry,’ said Peggy. ‘Just like your father.’ She closed her eyes and uttered a deep, juddering sigh.
‘Cup of tea?’ said Berlin.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Peggy. ‘I just can’t do this any more.’
The door closed softly.
Berlin went to see what the arrangements were now that Rolfey was gone. Maybe there would be a locum. Maybe. But there wasn’t a queue outside. The despair of those who had been shut out was already inscribed in graffiti on the front of the building. Bad news travels fast. The receptionist was inside, surrounded by archive boxes. Berlin tapped on the glass.
The place was even tattier without occupants. ‘What about them?’ Berlin asked the receptionist, gesturing to the queue of ghosts in the waiting room.
The receptionist shrugged.
So that was it then. Berlin hadn’t just shot herself in the foot – there were hundreds of people out there now looking for an alternative. In all the wrong places.
‘What about you?’ asked Berlin. The receptionist had always been a stern, disapproving presence in the place, but Berlin realised she was as worn out as the furniture. The receptionist gave her a weak smile.
Berlin followed her into Rolfey’s office. ‘Dr Rolfe sent me an email,’ said the receptionist. ‘He wanted to explain.’
‘And did he?’
‘Not really,’ said the receptionist. ‘But he thanked me for my good work.’ Her voice caught. ‘And he wanted you to have this.’
Berlin’s heart leapt, hoping for a prescription.
The receptionist picked up a painting that was leaning against the wall and handed it to Berlin. It was the one Rolfey had gazed at so often. His yacht, moored in the idyllic harbour.
Berlin laughed. Her ship had come in. She noticed the particular curve of the land, the distinctive skyline.
‘Where is it?’ she asked.
‘I don’t really know,’ said the receptionist. ‘Somewhere in Turkey.’
Granite clouds studded the sky.
A hooded boy slipped a ten-quid deal into Berlin’s hand.
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ he said.
Dust and litter swirled about her feet as thunder rolled across London.
Her scars stung. When she touched them, they were wet.
She put her fingers to her lips.
Could rain be salty?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to the gentleman at the Red Lion in High Barnet whom I overheard tell the story
of his father’s lucky escape, and his uncle’s sad fate, in the Silvertown explosion. I owe you a pint.
MICHAEL JOSEPH
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First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2013
Text copyright © Annie Hauxwell 2013
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