In Her Blood

by Annie Hauxwell

  He stopped hammering, dragged a chair down the hall, climbed up and unscrewed the fourth bulb from the socket. Three bulbs, that’s all he needed. It didn’t pay to shed too much light on things.

  He’d noticed lately that sometimes the furniture in the rooms he didn’t use seemed to have moved. That would account for the noises that kept him awake at night: the sound of something heavy being dragged across the carpet, then dropped with a thud.

  He hadn’t mentioned it to Doyle because he knew he would give him one of those funny looks. That boy had no backbone. He was just waiting for an excuse to put him in a home so he could get his mitts on everything. Over his dead body.

  He went back to hammering. So many windows.

  The Seventh Day

  60

  DOYLE ROSE WITH the first hint of light and put the kettle on. Another sleepless night and an excruciating headache. His schedule was up the spout and the lads were skiving off without his watchful eye to keep them in line. He couldn’t face Frank last night, and anyway the bloody roads were impassable. He’d better give him a call. He’d have to get out there today even if it meant using a bleeding toboggan.

  The truth was that he had been feeling a bit off his game, shaken up by recent events: Gina’s passing, Coulthard legging it, having to give Fernley-Price a tune-up. He wasn’t a young man any more. He had been knackered. Yesterday had passed in a blur of daytime television and vodka.

  He dialled Frank’s number and waited for ages, listening to it ring off the hook. He imagined Frank standing beside it, scowling. Finally Frank picked up the phone, but didn’t speak.

  ‘Pop, it’s me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The roads are bad.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  For God’s sake, thought Doyle. ‘I’ll be out today, Pop, rain, hail or shine.’

  ‘Make sure you are,’ barked Frank, and hung up.

  Doyle put the phone down and went in search of aspirin.

  Doyle parked opposite the Toy Museum on Cambridge Heath Road, where the lads were supposed to be waiting for him. He liked it in there. They always had lots of stuff about the old East End, and the sort of toys he remembered hankering after as a kid.

  He got out of the car and crossed the road, which was strangely quiet. There were usually coach-loads of children pouring through the doors of the museum but today there was only the odd intrepid tourist. For a moment Doyle imagined what it would be like to be a kid again, coming here for the first time, excited and innocent.

  Beyond the modern foyer, the glass and iron roof soared above him. He looked down at his feet. Last time he’d wandered in here one of the security guards told him the marble floor tiles had been laid in the nineteenth century by women prisoners from Woking Gaol. It made him think of his mum. He knew she’d been in the nick more than once, although Frank wouldn’t talk about it, of course.

  Tears came to his eyes. The woman behind the counter watched him, frowning. He’d better leave before they decided he was a nonce or a nutter and called the law.

  When Doyle got back to the car, the lads were hanging about beside it, looking as if they’d just got out of bed. Doyle threw the car keys at one of them.

  ‘What time do you call this?’ he shouted.

  The lads got in the front, sheepish, and he got in the back. They took off towards Hackney.

  ‘Right. We’ve got a couple of calls to make this morning and I want a result. Geddit? Got the collateral?’

  The lad in the passenger seat was clutching a plastic bag. He reached into it, brought out a fistful of foreign passports and held them up for Doyle’s inspection.

  ‘Okay,’ said Doyle. ‘Hassan’s mum is on her last legs in Pakistan and he’s desperate to get over there, so I’m pretty sure he’ll cough up today. Five grand or he doesn’t get his passport back and he’s going nowhere. Remind him the old lady wants to see her son one last time. We’ll start with him. We’ll do number fifty-one last. She’s overdue again.’

  The lads sniffed, yawned and scratched. Preparing for battle. The day was going better than Doyle had expected. It turned out the terrible weather was a bonus, with most people stopping indoors, and then paying up without too much of a fuss because they didn’t want to run out the back way into the freezing slush. Doyle whistled the old Bing Crosby number, ‘Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow’.

  Hassan had legged it the first time they had knocked on the door, so they’d had to go back again later, which had given Doyle the irrits. Now Hassan, who had apparently dredged up enough courage to face his creditor, sobbed and moaned.

  He begged Doyle for his passport so he could visit his mum on her death bed, but Doyle knew that he wouldn’t be doing Hassan any favours by showing mercy.

  Concerned that Hassan might get it into his head to apply for a new passport, Doyle was forced to take extra measures – for Hassan’s own good, of course. The kneecap was a very sensitive part of the anatomy and now the state of one of Hassan’s meant he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. Funnily enough, he managed to find five thousand pounds hidden in a cushion to prevent damage to the other.

  All’s well that ends well, thought Doyle, as he knocked at number fifty-one. The youngest boy opened the door a crack, keeping the chain on and growling like a well-trained Rottweiler.

  ‘Mum in?’ asked Doyle, all smiles.

  Sheila Harrington appeared behind the boy and steered him away. Doyle heard her tell him to play his game and stay in the living room.

  There was the sound of a door slamming and Sheila reappeared. She reached into her cardigan pocket, brought out a wad of notes and thrust them into Doyle’s hand through the gap in the door.

  ‘That’s everything I owe you,’ she said.

  You could have knocked Doyle over with a feather. ‘Best let me be the judge of that,’ he said.

  But she was right. He counted it with care, trying to think of a reason to demand another payment. Then he offered her some back, to keep the loan ticking over. But she refused, point blank.

  ‘Well, Sheila, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you come up with this fucking lot? You haven’t been disloyal, have you? Consolidated your debts with someone offering an interest-free period and frequent flyer points? Taken your custom elsewhere?’ If someone was encroaching on his patch he wanted to know about it.

  ‘No, no,’ said Sheila. ‘Nothing like that, Mr Doyle. I would never. It was a friend. He gave me a sort of present. You know.’

  Doyle didn’t know. He folded his arms. He wanted an explanation. ‘I think my lads would enjoy that game your boy’s playing. Come to think of it, they might enjoy just playing with your boy. They loved taking your dog for a walk.’

  He glanced over his shoulder at the two lads, leaning on the car and smoking. They grinned at Sheila.

  ‘Appealing is it, love? A play date?’

  She took the chain off the door and opened it. ‘Cup of tea, Mr Doyle?’

  ‘That would be lovely, Sheila. A cup of tea and a nice chat.’

  61

  BERLIN TRUDGED THROUGH the icy slush, her weak footfall barely leaving an imprint. She had tried to call a cab to get home from the hotel, but an automated voice response system had informed her in cold tones that there was a fifty-minute queue just to speak with an operator.

  London was a cantankerous beast; her joints ached and her arteries were clogged. Now the weather had stretched her frayed nerves to breaking point.

  With each difficult step Berlin’s irritation grew. No one was responsible. No one was in charge. If something went wrong these days you could apply for a voucher as compensation. That was British customer service: don’t fix it, just add a quid to the price and then give it back to the customer when it doesn’t work. Nothing would change, but they would enjoy a good moan.

  With Gallic insight into their temperament William the Conqueror had granted the citizens of London special privileges, no doubt already well aware of their status a
s world-class grumblers. But he also built a tower in which to incarcerate them if they became too restive. The complaints were little changed, but the methods of containment had been modernised.

  By the time Berlin got to the flat she was having trouble seeing straight. She stumbled up the stairs. The key was still in the lock.

  The only sign of the chaos she had fled was a dent in the wall, which was about the size and shape of a helmet. She hoped someone’s head had been inside it at the time.

  She washed down three aspirin with what was left of her Scotch, then lay on the floor near the radiator and tried to conjure up the sensation of her last hit. It seemed an eternity ago, after she had snatched Coulthard from the bereaved Doyle’s lock-up. She thought about Gina’s blue-tinged flesh at the mortuary, cold as marble, which set her teeth chattering.

  She kept telling herself the physical symptoms would resolve soon. The experts couldn’t agree on how long this phase of withdrawal lasted. It didn’t invariably conform to the ‘cold turkey’ depiction of the desperate, foaming-at-the-mouth junkie in films, but depended on the individual. The experience could vary from very uncomfortable to hellish. She couldn’t remember it ever being this bad, but maybe it was the same as childbirth. You forgot the pain and did it again.

  Berlin jerked awake feeling as if she had fallen a great distance. She must have dozed off. Dragging herself from the floor to make tea, her fingers clutched at her favourite blue china mug. It went flying and smashed on her bare foot. The urge to scream, to lose herself in an unceasing howl, was almost overwhelming.

  Another moment was too much to bear.

  She could think of only one person who might be able to help her.

  62

  DOYLE’S DOORBELL PLAYED an attenuated version of the children’s nursery rhyme ‘Oranges and Lemons’ and she thought of the final line. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

  Doyle opened the door. He seemed surprised, but not put out.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ he said. ‘It’s bleeding arctic out there.’

  The flat was spick and span, and everything in it dated from the eighties. Apart from the plasma television. This must have been the way it was the day Nancy walked out, thought Berlin. Melancholic best described the atmosphere.

  Framed family snaps of a pretty woman and a young girl, clearly mother and daughter, took pride of place on the mantelpiece. Berlin felt her chest constrict as she stared at the serious face of an eleven-year-old Gina Doyle, whom she had known only as a woman in her mid-thirties.

  Even in death, Gina had been the image of her mother. There were no photos of Doyle with them, and she guessed he was always the photographer. Camera-shy, too. He wouldn’t have wanted a pictorial record to assist with any future police inquiries.

  He emerged from the kitchen with tea and a plate of biscuits. Berlin just knew they would be chocolate bourbons, and they were. This was England. If Jesus Christ came to visit, tea would be taken before he was crucified.

  ‘You don’t look at all well, Miss, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Doyle.

  You don’t look too flash yourself, mate, thought Berlin. ‘I’ve got a nasty cold. Do you mind if I use the bathroom?’ she said. It was a polite gambit, a ritual gesture which they both knew meant she wanted to snoop around a bit.

  ‘Be my guest.’ He pointed at a door off the sitting room.

  In fact she did need the loo, and didn’t bother to open the two other doors off the small hall. She suspected that behind them would be two neat bedrooms and she would bet the farm that one was still decorated for a little girl.

  What did surprise her was the calendar on the back of the toilet door: 1986. Faded kittens gazed down on her with big, soft eyes. Doyle seemed an unlikely Miss Havisham, but here was the evidence.

  When she returned to the sitting room, he looked expectant. The pleasantries were over.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Miss?’

  ‘Mr Doyle, I have some information for you about your daughter.’

  Doyle remained very still but she saw his right knee begin a slight nervous jig. ‘This isn’t official,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  He regarded her for a moment, as alert as any predator. ‘So what do you want?’

  He was no fool.

  ‘My request might surprise you,’ she said.

  ‘I doubt that, but go on. Whatever you need, I’ll do my best. I know that everything in this life has a price and you’ll find me a ready payer.’

  Berlin thought it was a measure of her desperation that she was prepared to take him at his word.

  ‘Did you know your daughter was married?’ she asked.

  ‘Married? What, you mean, like living with some bloke?’

  It was as if he couldn’t quite comprehend that his little girl could be someone’s wife.

  ‘Married.’

  Doyle sat forward. ‘Who was he? Why didn’t he report her missing? They told me no one had. Did you know that? If they were together or whatever why didn’t he —’

  He broke off suddenly, as if he had just realised the implications. His demeanour hardened.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Berlin hesitated. There was a limit to her trust.

  ‘Before we get to that, I wondered, that is, I thought perhaps you may have some contacts in certain areas,’ she ventured.

  She could see he was impatient. What the hell was the point of beating around the bush anyway?

  ‘I need heroin,’ she said.

  He didn’t even blink. Just went to a small bureau and scribbled on a pad. He tore the page off and handed it to her. She glanced at it. The address was local.

  ‘Mention me,’ he said. ‘Now. What’s his name?’

  ‘Fernley-Price. He works in the City.’

  Doyle looked at her as if she was mad. ‘No. That can’t be right.’

  ‘He confirmed their relationship when he viewed her remains, Mr Doyle. I was there.’

  Doyle stood up, stunned. She could see he was reeling.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ.’

  Berlin stood up too, alarmed by the change that had come over him.

  ‘Mr Doyle, are you okay? What’s wrong?’

  He stared at her, his fists clenched and she saw the monster within rise up.

  ‘Do you know him?’ she asked.

  Doyle didn’t respond and she saw him recover himself. When he spoke, his voice was steady and very cold.

  ‘I think that concludes our business, Miss.’

  The door closed behind her. The view of Weaver’s Fields from the landing was a picture postcard. A blanket of snow obscured all shape and colour; the swings and slide appeared to have been coated in thick white polystyrene by the clumsy hands of a giant. It wouldn’t last long. Even as she watched, a boy ran into the park and plunged into a drift. Watch out for the dog shit, she thought.

  What had she done? Her judgement could be off, given her current condition. Why hadn’t Doyle asked any questions about his son-in-law once she’d named him? True, Fernley-Price was a distinctive surname and there wouldn’t be too many of them. No doubt Doyle felt he would have no trouble finding him. She could feel the lines reaching out for the dots as she made haste to deliverance.

  Thompson had told her that Fernley-Price was a hedge-fund manager who had gone bad in the crisis. Nestor and Fernley-Price were part of the old boys’ network and Nestor had every penny tied up with Fernley-Price.

  When Doyle was torturing Coulthard he had as much as said his partner was in touch with Nestor. Could Fernley-Price be Doyle’s partner without Doyle knowing that Gina was his wife?

  By bringing her father down, she would also destroy her husband. Was it a BOGOF – buy one, get one free? Fernley-Price hadn’t reported her missing. There could be a very good reason for that. He’d killed her.

  He was lucky to be comatose in hospital under police guard. She wouldn’t like to be in his shoes when Doyle decided it was time for a family reunio
n.

  Should she alert Thompson? She dismissed the thought. She had just swapped a key piece of evidence in the case for a drug connection. Not a good look. Plus, Fernley-Price was safe where he was. She would tell Thompson eventually. First she had to deal with her own shit.

  Pure, dazzling white coated everything: roads, cars, hedges, bins, railings, the tops of walls, streetlights. Everything was covered in a foot of snow. Ice encased gables and downpipes. The world was transformed. She turned her face upwards and felt the soft, icy touch of snowflakes falling on her cheeks.

  All sound was muted, nothing moved. The tumult and constant, restless movement of London had been cancelled. It was as if her own turmoil had squeezed out the rest of life. This was the longest she had gone without heroin for more than twenty years.

  She glanced behind her nervously, half expecting Gina Doyle, privy to her selfish thoughts, to be dogging her: a persistent corpse dragging her feet through the snow, the gaping wound at her throat hung with bloody icicles. Hanging on, making sure that Berlin didn’t abandon her.

  God, I am really losing it now, thought Berlin. She had to focus on one problem at a time. The one she was about to solve.

  63

  AFTER THE PUNCH-UP at Berlin’s flat, Dempster had taken the unconscious Flint’s car keys and gone after her. He’d driven around in Flint’s car for hours, crawling along to avoid skidding on the black ice, but he had no idea which direction she had taken. Eventually he’d gone home to consider his next move.

  Bonnington was the lynchpin. The social worker knew of the connection between him and Berlin, and the fact that she was an addict. The little toe rag had told Flint. Flint had got together with Berlin’s hostile boss, Coulthard, and together they had cooked up the scene at her flat to ensnare Dempster and destroy her. But they had been pissed and hadn’t thought it through. The last thing they had expected was physical resistance from either him or Berlin.

  He knew how it had looked to Berlin. She would think that he was in it with them. He’d crushed the vials of heroin to demonstrate that he wasn’t going to allow it to be used as evidence against her. But it had enraged rather than reassured her. He rubbed his temple. His head hurt but, wherever she was, she would be feeling worse.