In Her Blood

by Annie Hauxwell

  She backed out and closed the library door behind her. Two doors remaining. She hesitated between them. She could hear Thompson in the sitting room. His voice seemed to be getting louder, and she wondered if he was approaching the door to the hallway or if it was some kind of warning. She took the door closest to her and went for it.

  Thompson was becoming increasingly frustrated with Fernley-Price and anxious about what Berlin was up to. He raised his voice, addressing Fernley-Price as if he were deaf. He was obviously drunk and possibly drugged, but Thompson thought he could also detect recalcitrance and a reluctance to cooperate.

  There was no point taking him to the station in that condition. Plus he would have to call out the doctor, who would probably deem him unfit for questioning. He’d better retrieve Berlin and depart.

  ‘I’ll just see what’s keeping my colleague, sir,’ he said. Fernley-Price looked puzzled, as if he had forgotten that there was anyone else there.

  At that moment, Berlin appeared. Thompson was relieved, until she opened her mouth.

  ‘Where’s your coat, sir?’ she said to Fernley-Price. ‘We’d like you to come with us, if you don’t mind.’

  What the hell was she playing at? She held Thompson’s eye and gave him a nod that said she knew what she was doing. Did she? He decided to play along.

  Fernley-Price was bemused. He waved his cane at Berlin, a gesture of dismissal. But instead of backing off, she grabbed it, grasped his arm with her other hand and dragged him out of the chair. Fernley-Price squealed with pain.

  ‘Let me help you up, sir,’ she said.

  With Fernley-Price settled in the back seat and Thompson at the wheel, Berlin punched a Poplar High Street address into the sat nav. An imperious voice announced it was calculating the route, which it said was 2.5 miles and would take eleven minutes.

  ‘Liar,’ said Berlin. ‘It will take at least twenty.’ She addressed Fernley-Price over her shoulder. ‘This is very kind of you, sir. Given your current disability, we appreciate your assistance by other means.’

  Fernley-Price didn’t respond. She saw Thompson check him in the rear-view mirror, no doubt hoping he wouldn’t throw up or die en route. Berlin hoped that her comment would also reassure Thompson.

  Thompson drove according to the sat nav’s insistent instructions. It took them twenty minutes to reach their destination. No one spoke. Gentle snoring indicated their passenger was out for the count.

  When they arrived at their destination, Thompson gave her a look that she took to mean he was beginning to see a method in her madness. He parked illegally, taking a ‘Police’ sign from the glove box and propping it on the dashboard. Rousing Fernley-Price was not easy.

  ‘Come on, sir, out you come,’ said Thompson, helping him out of his seat.

  Berlin positioned herself on the other side of Fernley-Price and together they steered him along the pavement and down a side street.

  Thompson spoke through the hole in the thick glass that shielded the receptionist from the germs of the public. He flashed his warrant card and explained what he wanted.

  She picked up a phone, spoke briefly into it, then hung up. ‘They’ll be waiting for you,’ she said.

  Fernley-Price was leaning heavily against the wall, dazed. ‘Air are?’ he asked.

  Berlin knew this was ‘Where are we?’ but just smiled and patted his arm. ‘Not to worry, sir,’ she said. ‘Won’t be long now.’

  The trio made their way down a long, dimly lit corridor. There was a faint smell of antiseptic in the air as they pushed through a set of double doors made of heavy-duty plastic, which swished to a close behind them. It was colder in the small room they’d entered, and the sudden chill seemed to bring Fernley-Price to a higher level of consciousness.

  ‘Ang on,’ he said, and tried to dig his heels in.

  Berlin and Thompson propelled him forward. A man in a white coat was standing in the middle of the room in front of a hospital trolley. They walked right up to him. Thompson nodded and he stepped away.

  Berlin knew what was coming but it didn’t help. A shudder went through her that shook the teeth in her head. The air went out of her lungs and she held onto Fernley-Price as much for support as to hold him up.

  The body was covered by a white sheet that reached the shoulders. The face was frozen in a pale mask, lips blue, eyes closed. The jagged wound at Gina Doyle’s throat was no less livid than it had been the first time Berlin had seen it.

  A soft, tremulous moan began deep in Fernley-Price’s chest and erupted through his rigid mouth as a strangled sob. He dropped his cane and fell forward, his arms outstretched.

  ‘My darling,’ he whispered, as clear as day, and passed out.

  Thompson and Berlin watched grimly as the paramedic worked on the unconscious Fernley-Price.

  ‘Could be a clot, with those head injuries,’ said Thompson as the doors of the ambulance closed. It took off, siren wailing. ‘He might never regain consciousness long enough to be questioned.’

  ‘Think he did it?’ asked Berlin.

  ‘The grief could actually be remorse,’ said Thompson.

  ‘And Nestor?’

  ‘It’s doubtful. The P-M found no sign of a struggle. Then again, he was so pissed it would have only taken a nudge. Email me that audio file when you get home,’ he said. ‘I’ll get forensics to clean it up. We should find his conversation with Nestor interesting.’

  Berlin noted the ‘we’.

  53

  FLINT PARKED UP on a double yellow line and he and Coulthard poured themselves out of the car. Flint went to the window of The Wild Cherry vegetarian café and pressed his nose against the glass, peering inside.

  ‘There he is!’ he shouted to Coulthard, who was pissing up against the wall of the London Buddhist Centre next door. Coulthard zipped up and they pushed and shoved each other, fighting to get through the café door first, schoolboys on an excursion.

  They burst in and were greeted by a lull in the patrons’ conversations, which were already being conducted in muted tones. They staggered to the table of a solitary diner and flopped into the spare chairs. Bonnington scowled as Flint flung an arm around his shoulder.

  ‘Hello, my little mate!’ Flint exclaimed, dragging Bonnington’s head down into the crook of his arm.

  ‘You’re drunk. What the hell do you want?’ muttered Bonnington, shoving him off.

  ‘How about a nice lamb kebab?’ Coulthard chimed in.

  A couple at a nearby table shuddered.

  Coulthard extended his hand to Bonnington. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. John Coulthard, Financial Services Agency. I believe in working in partnership with the community. That’s you, mate. You probably don’t know about us and the very important work we do hunting loan sharks.’

  ‘And borrowing money from them!’ added Flint, roaring with laughter.

  Coulthard gave him a friendly punch in the arm.

  Bonnington regarded Coulthard with greater interest.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere more private,’ said Flint. ‘Your gaff will do nicely, Daryl. I imagine it’s not too far from here, right?’

  Bonnington didn’t move.

  ‘Come on, my son. Hospitality!’ said Flint.

  Coulthard and Flint stumbled to their feet and stood either side of Bonnington.

  Bonnington’s flat was spartan and he was clearly not one to entertain. He made dandelion coffee, but Flint and Coulthard were only interested in something stronger. Bonnington gestured to a cupboard, but when Flint flung it open it contained only noodles, spices and shaoxing cooking wine. Coulthard grabbed the bottle and waved it about.

  ‘I saw this on Masterchef, he said. ‘It’s very good in Hainan drunken chicken.’

  ‘Yeah, but not so good for drunken detectives,’ said Flint. ‘Daryl here is a Life Addictions Coordinator,’ he explained to Coulthard. ‘Works with junkies.’

  ‘Substance abusers,’ corrected Bonnington. ‘And their families.’

  Coulthard po
ured two tumblers of shaoxing and handed one to Flint.

  ‘He’s a mine of information,’ said Flint.

  ‘Only when it’s in my clients’ interests,’ retorted Bonnington.

  ‘What, no cash incentives?’ inquired Coulthard. ‘Chocks away!’

  He downed the wine, pulled a face and spat it out. He was drunk, but not so wasted that he was impervious to Bonnington’s all too apparent disdain. ‘What about your precious little cone of silence then?’ he inquired with a sneer. ‘I thought you lot – social workers and the like – took a very high and mighty stand when it came to your clients’ privacy.’

  ‘I look at the bigger picture,’ responded Bonnington.

  Coulthard wandered over to a computer in the corner. The modem lights were flashing and he jiggled the mouse.

  ‘Don’t touch that!’ hissed Bonnington.

  Coulthard was taken aback by this flash of rage as Bonnington strode across the room. The screen was suddenly filled with weapons and images of bloody combat. It looked like some sort of war game to Coulthard, but Bonnington yanked the plug and the display died. He gave Coulthard a cold smile. ‘Just a hobby,’ he said, then turned to Flint. ‘Now, what is it you gentlemen wanted?’

  ‘Know a loan shark called Doyle? I should imagine your clients are often in need of a few bob to tide them over,’ said Flint.

  ‘Why are you interested in Doyle?’ asked Bonnington.

  This bloke was giving Coulthard the shits with his bloody superior attitude. ‘Call of nature,’ he announced, and wandered off through the flat.

  ‘Do you know him or not?’ said Flint.

  ‘I know of him. Everyone does. Oily Doyley. Is this about Sheila Harrington?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Flint.

  ‘The woman whose dog was mutilated and killed.’

  ‘No, mate, sad as it sounds. It’s about the girl who was mutilated and killed.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bonnington in a flat tone. ‘The girl who was found in the Limehouse Basin?’

  Flint nodded.

  ‘I heard she was Doyle’s daughter. Is that true?’ asked Bonnington.

  ‘Yes, mate. It’s true. I’m in charge of the investigation actually.’

  Coulthard, poking about in another room, could hear Flint. You pillock, he thought. The snout was supposed to give you information, not the other way round. He went back to what could only loosely be described as the living room.

  ‘I believe one of your colleagues is on a similar quest,’ said Bonnington, addressing Coulthard.

  ‘What?’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘You mean Berlin?’ said Coulthard. His eyes lit up when Bonnington nodded. ‘Has she been around here asking questions?’

  Bonnington said nothing, his face inscrutable.

  Coulthard looked at Flint. Flint shrugged. He’d made it clear that Bonnington was his snout, and his alone. No one knew about him.

  ‘So how do you know her then?’ asked Coulthard.

  ‘I’m going to invoke the cone of silence at this point,’ said Bonnington, smug.

  Coulthard put it together. ‘Fuck me, she’s one of your clients!’

  Flint shot out of his chair and high-fived Coulthard. ‘She’s a junkie!’ he bellowed.

  Bonnington gave a tight smile. Ten out of ten. ‘If you find that information useful, gentlemen, perhaps you could do me a favour,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a problem with her and an officer called Dempster. You can help me out with that.’

  Flint could feel sobriety creeping up. It was a shitty feeling. The sky, the colour of wet slate, was about to dump more snow as he stumbled out of Bonnington’s. He got in the car and turned on the motor. Coulthard got in beside him and cranked up the heater.

  ‘I’ll take up that offer now, mate. We can meet my needs and those of your creepy snout in one fell swoop,’ said Coulthard.

  ‘This is serious stuff,’ warned Flint.

  Coulthard gave him a look which said ‘nervous nelly’. ‘You said whatever I wanted.’ He waggled his finger and smiled, but there was nothing warm or friendly about it.

  Flint was afraid that Coulthard could drop him in it in a heartbeat. He was the sort of bloke that would put the bullets in the gun, then watch with a smirk as you fired it so he had something on you to bank.

  ‘Yeah, okay. So what do you want?’ muttered Flint.

  Coulthard pushed the car heater to max and laid it out.

  Bonnington stood at the window and watched Coulthard and Flint drive away. Guardians of law and order who so rarely acted out of principle they couldn’t believe anyone else did. Fools. But useful fools. They could be very handy in getting Dempster and that bitch off his back. God knows, there was plenty of precedent when it came to the authorities fitting people up.

  Berlin’s behaviour this morning had confirmed what he’d suspected for some time: that the arm of the corrupt State was reaching out for him. He sat down at the computer to read the news on sites he trusted. He never watched television. People were blinded by misinformation from the media, weakened by vice and betrayed by governments who baulked at defending traditional values against moral relativism. Purity of purpose conferred moral authority. Why did so few understand that? The rest would have to learn the hard way. He had dedicated himself to providing the lesson.

  54

  THE POLICE STATION was busy with all the usual things that came out at night.

  Dempster had felt uneasy since the argument with Berlin and sneaking out with the Doyle file. He didn’t know why he cared, but it had bothered him. So he had photocopied the file for her and put it in an envelope, even though she had a mind like a steel trap and had probably memorised the contents. It would be a sort of peace offering. He would take it around tomorrow, but he might as well drop the original in to Thompson now. It would save him doing it in the morning.

  When he got to the Doyle incident room he could see that the office Thompson shared with Flint was deserted. A constable had his feet up on a desk, chatting on his mobile. He didn’t move when Dempster walked over and stood in front of him.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said, with a weary sigh.

  ‘I’ve got a file here for DCI Thompson,’ said Dempster.

  The constable glanced at the office. ‘He’s not in.’

  A real joker, thought Dempster. ‘When will he be back?’ he asked.

  Irritation crossed the constable’s face. He shrugged. ‘Dunno. In the morning I s’pose.’

  Dempster dropped the file on the constable’s desk. ‘Give that to him as soon as he arrives,’ he ordered and left.

  The constable didn’t wait until he was out of earshot to resume his conversation. ‘Sorry about that. A fucking suit.’

  Dempster ignored the jibe. The only people who thrived in this environment were corrupt bottom-feeders and slackers.

  The PA system crackled and Dempster heard his name. It was a summons to the control room.

  *

  Control was not the word that sprang to mind when he entered the hub of station activities. It was hot because of the number of people and computers crammed into a small, windowless space. The walls were hung with CCTV monitors displaying crime hot spots in the area. Radio controllers were barking orders, phones were ringing and in one corner an interpreter was on speaker phone with a distraught woman, trying to establish her address.

  A harried sergeant approached him. ‘Dempster?’

  He nodded and she thrust a post-it note into his hand.

  ‘A call for you to attend this address,’ she said and went straight back to her workstation.

  ‘What’s it about?’ asked Dempster.

  She shrugged and continued a conversation on her headset while manipulating a grainy image on a monitor. A mugging was in progress. Three hooded youths were giving a bloke on the ground a good kicking. In a quiet voice the sergeant directed an ambulance and a police car to the location. Dempster watched as the youths left the scene. They didn’t even run.

  But when Dempster glanced
at the address on the post-it note, he did.

  55

  THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN the living and their dead keeps changing. The death of Berlin’s father had taught her that. The way you feel about someone the day they die doesn’t alter the fact that you will still argue with them, abuse them, adore them, loathe them, miss them, or just be glad they’re gone. It can change every day.

  You might discover new things about the dear, or not so dear, departed, and about your relationship with them, years later. Or days. Or while you’re standing beside their death bed. And you can still fear someone who’s dead and buried.

  She had seen the beginnings of this awful realisation in Fernley-Price as they prised him away from Gina’s body. Fear, regret, anger, love. A relationship distilled into moments.

  Berlin feared death and the dead. She had felt a soft, cold touch from beyond when she slid open the door of the master suite dressing room at Fernley-Price’s apartment.

  A soft spotlight had come up on racks of suits, coats and dresses, shrouded in dry cleaner’s plastic. Dozens of pairs of shoes were arranged along one wall, most barely worn. Above them was a shelf of striped shirts, each with white collar and cuffs, fresh and crisp from the laundry, nestled in a layer of tissue paper. A perfume she recognised hung in there: the scent of the dead.

  Her fingers had barely touched the pink striped shirt but the shock was electric. She heard the voice of the woman she had known as Juliet Bravo, her clipped, classless intonation disguising the accent that Gina Doyle was born and bred with in the East End long before it was fashionable. Mocking.

  ‘So now you think you know who I really am? What are you going to do about it?’

  Berlin shivered as the number eight bus dropped her in Bethnal Green Road, but it had nothing to do with the cold. The driver said it would be the last one on this route because the roads were too dangerous and the council had run out of salt.