by Val McDermid
‘How will I know it’s the right guy? I mean, what if he can’t get that table.’
Gary rolled his eyes. ‘He’ll be reading Q magazine. And he smokes Gitanes. That enough? Or do you want his inside leg measurement?’
‘A description would help.’
‘Dream on.’
‘Or a name?’
Gary’s grin was crooked, revealing even teeth stained ivory. ‘Yeah, right, that’ll happen. Look, just do it, huh? I’ll be expecting you back here by two.’
Carol tucked the drugs away in her shoulder bag, placing the package between the folds of the denim leggings then rubbing the surface clean through the cloth. She didn’t care if Gary saw her. It wouldn’t hurt to have a witness to her prudence if he was, as she suspected, one of Morgan’s watchers. ‘See you later, then,’ she said, trying not to show the antagonism she felt. After all, there was no point. He was almost certainly someone like her, a cop thrust into an alien role for some purpose neither of them was allowed to know.
She returned to the street and shivered as a chill gust of wind cut through her thin clothes. The quickest way to Soho would mean turning left and heading back to the main road where she could pick up a bus. Which would be what they were expecting her to do. So she turned right and walked briskly towards the end of the street. From her earlier reconnaissance, Carol knew she could cut through the warren of back streets to a short alley between some shops that would bring her out on the other side of Stoke Newington, from where she could catch a train. They wouldn’t be expecting that, she reckoned.
At the corner, she quickened her pace to a trot, hoping to make the next corner before whoever was on her tail could catch up with her. She crossed into the next street, pulling the kagoule out of her bag as she went. Her next turning was almost upon her, and she swung quickly into a gateway, pulling the kagoule over her head and jamming the baseball cap over her blonde hair. Then she walked back into the street, this time adopting a slow, swaggering walk, as if she had all the time in the world.
When she reached the junction, she glanced over her shoulder. Nobody in sight apart from an elderly man clutching a supermarket carrier bag and shuffling down the opposite side of the street. Which meant nothing, she knew. She couldn’t allow herself to act as if she’d shaken off her pursuit.
Now the entrance to the alley was in sight. It was a narrow passage between high brick walls, easy to miss if you didn’t know it was there. With the adrenaline surge of relief, Carol turned into its gloomy mouth.
She was about a third of the way down when she realized she’d made a bad mistake. Heading towards her were two young men. There wasn’t quite enough room for them to walk side by side, but they were so close together she couldn’t possibly pass them. They looked like thugs; but these days, most men in their late teens and early twenties did. Carol found herself wondering, idiotically, when exactly it had become fashionable for respectable lads to look like potential muggers. This pair fit the identikit mould perfectly. Heads shaved to stubble, waterproof Nike jackets over football shirts, chinos and Doc Martens. There was nothing to distinguish them from thousands of others. Maybe that’s the point, she thought as they approached inexorably.
She desperately wanted to look behind her, to check her avenue of escape, but knew that would instantly be seen as a sign of weakness. The gap between her and the two men closed by the second and she could see their gait change almost imperceptibly. Now they were moving more cautiously on the balls of their feet, a pair of predators sizing up the prey. She had to assume they were part of the game. Which meant they’d stop short of doing her serious damage. To think otherwise was too disturbing. Carol was far too accustomed to being a woman in control of her environment to contemplate how easily she’d turned herself into a potential victim.
Suddenly they were upon her, jostling her from either side, backing her into the wall. ‘What have we got here, then?’ the taller of the two said, his voice a guttural North London taunt.
‘Yeah, what’s your name, darlin’?’ the other leered.
Carol chanced a look at the far end of the alley. It was clear. There were only the two of them.
Her moment’s inattention had given them their chance. The taller one grabbed at her bag. ‘Give it up,’ he demanded. ‘Save yourself a beating.’
Carol clung on grimly, leaning against the wall and adjusting her weight. Her left leg shot out in a savage kick, catching him on the inside of the kneecap. He howled in pain and rage, stumbling back and away from her, releasing the bag strap to grab his knee as he crumpled to the ground.
‘Fucking cunt,’ the other one said in a low voice that was far more frightening than a shout. He sprang towards her, right arm pulling back for a punch. Carol saw it all with slow-motion clarity. As he brought his fist towards her, she let herself drop and his momentum carried him forward into the wall.
It gave her a couple of precious seconds to grab the gas canister from her bag. As her first assailant scrambled to his feet, she let him have the CS gas straight in the face. Now he was really howling, screaming like an animal in a trap.
His mate swung round, ready for a second attack. When he saw her grinning like a madwoman, the spray can at arm’s length, pointing straight at him, he raised both hands, palms facing her, in the universal gesture of surrender. ‘Fucking take it easy, bitch,’ he shouted.
‘Get out of my fucking way,’ Carol snarled.
Obediently, he flattened himself against the wall. She edged past him, careful to keep the spray pointing at him all the time. His friend was still yelling, his eyes streaming and his mouth contorted in pain. Carol walked backwards in the direction of the street, never taking her eyes off them. The one who had punched the wall had his arm round the other now, and they were staggering towards the far end of the alley, all the bravado knocked out of them like the air from a punctured balloon. She allowed herself a small, private smile. If that was the best Morgan could throw at her, she was going to come out of this with flying colours.
She turned her back on her assailants and walked out into the busy street. It was hard to believe that only a matter of yards from this mid-morning bustle of shoppers and strollers she’d stared physical danger in the face. As the adrenaline surge receded, she became aware of the state she was in. Her upper body was drenched, the double skin of the vinyl jacket and the kagoule acting like a sweatbox on her skin. Her hair under the baseball cap felt plastered to her head. And she was starving. If she was going to complete this mission, she’d be crazy to ignore her body’s messages.
Up ahead, she saw the golden arches of a McDonald’s. She could get something to eat then use the toilet to clean herself up and switch from the skirt into her denim leggings. With luck it would have a functioning hot-air hand drier. She could maybe even alter her hairstyle, thanks to the sweat of panic.
Twenty minutes later, Carol was back on the street. Her hair was off her face, slicked back with a smear of hair wax. The aviator frames subtly altered the shape of her face. The jacket was zipped up, hiding the T-shirt underneath. She looked different enough from the woman who had rung Gary’s doorbell to confuse most casual observers. She knew it wasn’t enough to fool the sort of scrutiny she expected to be under, but it might be sufficient to buy her a few extra seconds when it counted.
She took her time getting to the station, browsing shop windows as if she was just another idle shopper wondering what to buy for dinner. But once there, she trotted up the steps to the platform just in time to catch the train. Good thing I checked out the timetable, she congratulated herself as she slumped into a corner seat in a carriage that smelled of dust. It was a breathing space. Time to figure out what came next.
12
Petra walked into the squad room of the GeSa. It was as depressing as every other one she’d been in. The net curtains that blurred the bars over the three windows were the dirty yellow of second-hand nicotine, the walls and floor the same graded shades of grey that characterized the res
t of the GeSa. That fascinating gamut from dove to anthracite, Petra thought wryly. The Wachpolizisten stationed at the GeSa had tried to brighten up the room with the usual kitsch array of postcards, cartoons and photographs of their pets. A couple of tired plants struggled to cope with the absence of any direct sunlight. It only served to make the place even more depressing.
The room was empty except for a solitary female WaPo who was putting a plastic box full of a prisoner’s personal effects on one of the shelves. She turned as Petra leaned on the counter and cleared her throat. ‘I’m Petra Becker from Criminal Intelligence. I’m here to see Marlene Krebs,’ Petra said. ‘You’ve still got her, right?’
The WaPo nodded. ‘She’s due to see the judge in a couple of hours, then she’ll be transferred, I guess. Don’t you want to wait till then?’
‘I need to talk to her now. I can use the lawyer’s room, yeah?’
The WaPo looked uncertain. ‘You better talk to the boss. He’s in the report room.’
‘That’s down at the end of the cell block, right?’
‘Behind the fingerprint room, yes. You’ll need to leave your gun here.’
Petra took her pistol from its holster in the small of her back and locked it into one of the lockers for visiting officers. Then she headed out of the squad room towards the cell corridor. She glanced up at the electronic alert system the cops sarcastically called the room-service board. None of the alarm lamps was lit; for once the prisoners were being well-behaved, not driving the GeSa team crazy with constant summonses.
The cell block itself was surprisingly sterile and modern. The usual linoleum gave way to red brick tiles on floor and walls. Most of the doors were closed, indicating that they were occupied. A couple were open, revealing a small vestibule, beyond which wall-to-wall bars enclosed four square metres of cell equipped with a bed and a rectangular hole in the floor covered with a chrome grid in case the inmates decided not to ring for a toilet visit and just fouled the cell. It was a mistake most of them made only once; the cost of cleaning the cell after such acts of defiance was billed directly to the prisoners.
Petra wondered which door concealed Marlene Krebs, and how she was coping. Badly, she hoped. It would make her job that much easier.
She found the shift commander in the Schreibzimmer, frowning at one of the Berliner Modell computers. She explained her mission, and he asked her to wait while he organized an interview. ‘We shouldn’t really have her here,’ he grumbled. ‘She should have gone straight to KriPo, but since it happened on our doorstep, they told us to hang on to her.’
‘It is only for twenty-four hours max,’ Petra pointed out.
‘That’s about twenty-three too many for me. She’s been bleating since she arrived. She wants a lawyer, she wants to use the toilet, she wants a drink. She seems to think this is a hotel, not a detention centre. She acts like we should be treating her like a hero instead of a criminal.’ He pushed himself to his feet and made for the door. ‘I’ll send someone for you in a few minutes. You can take a look at the paperwork – it’s in the tray over there.’ He gestured with his thumb to a pile of files stacked high above the edges of a filing tray.
He was as good as his word. Within ten minutes, she was sitting in the Anwaltsraum, facing Marlene Krebs across a table bolted to the floor. Krebs could have been any age between thirty and forty, though Petra knew from the report she’d read that the woman was only twenty-eight. Her hair was dyed a harsh black, tousled from a night in the cells. Her make-up was smudged, presumably from the same cause. Krebs had the puffy face and hands of a drinker, and the whites of her pale green eyes were tinged with yellow. However, she also possessed the sleepy sensuality of a woman who is attractive to men and who knows it.
‘Marlene, I’m Petra Becker from Criminal Intelligence.’ Petra sat back and let the words sink in. Krebs’ face revealed nothing. ‘Have you got any cigarettes?’ she asked.
Petra took a half-empty pack from her pocket and pushed it towards Krebs. She snatched at it and thrust a cigarette between full lips. ‘What about a light, then?’ she demanded.
‘The cigarette was free. The light will cost you.’
Krebs scowled. ‘Bitch,’ she said.
Petra shook her head. ‘Not a good start.’
‘What’s this about, anyway? What have I got to do with Criminal Intelligence?’
‘It’s a bit late to be asking that, Marlene. That really should have been your first question.’
Krebs took the cigarette from her mouth and flicked the tip as if there was ash to be deposited. ‘Look, I admit I shot that dope-dealing bastard Kamal.’
‘It’s not like there’s much room for doubt.’
‘But I had good reason. He sold my Danni the junk that killed him. What can I say? I was crazy with grief.’
Petra slowly shook her head. ‘You’re never going to cut it as an actress, Marlene. That routine needs a lot of work before you go in front of a judge. Look, we both know your story is bullshit. Why don’t we cut the crap and see what I can do for you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you. Kamal killed Danni. I loved Danni. Something in me snapped when I heard Kamal had been arrested and I wanted to take revenge for what he had taken from me.’
Petra smiled. It was the lizard smile of a predator who smells the first hint of blood. ‘See, Marlene, there’s the first problem. The guys who brought Kamal in, they didn’t hang around. They went straight to his restaurant, they pulled him out of the front door and into their car. Then they drove here. I’ve seen the logs. There was barely enough time for you to hear about the arrest, never mind get hold of a gun and get to Friesenstrasse in time to put a bullet in his head.’ Petra let Marlene think about that. ‘Unless of course someone tipped you the wink that the arrest was about to go down. Why would anyone do that, unless they wanted Kamal dead? So, how did you hear about Kamal’s arrest?’
‘I don’t have to answer you.’
‘No, you don’t. But you do need to listen to me, because everything I’m saying to you is a stick of dynamite blowing a hole in your mitigation. Marlene, this isn’t going to play the way whoever set you up for it said it would. Your story is going to fall to bits as soon as the KriPo start poking around. Now, I know you think they’re not going to bother too much with this because it’s saved them the hassle of a difficult prosecution with Kamal, not to mention one less scuzzy middle-ranking dealer on the streets. But me, you see, I’m bothered. Because I’m interested in the people above Kamal.’
‘You’re not making any sense,’ Krebs said obstinately. ‘Are you going to light this fucking cigarette or what?’
‘I told you. Not for free. Come on, Marlene. Face it, you’re going away for a very long time. This wasn’t a crime of passion, it was an assassination. And we’re going to prove it. You’re going to be a grandmother before you see freedom again.’
For the first time, there was a flicker of something behind Krebs’ cold eyes. ‘You can’t prove what isn’t true.’
Petra laughed out loud. ‘Oh, please, Marlene. I thought your sort believed that’s what us cops do all the time? OK, proving what isn’t true can sometimes be … demanding. But compared to that, proving what we know to be true is a piece of piss. I know you were put up to this. And I know the people who did that gambled on us not caring too much about who took Kamal down or why. But they weren’t gambling with their own stake. They were using you for chips. So, we already have a hole in your story about time. I think the next hole will be where you got the gun from.’
‘It was Danni’s gun,’ she said quickly. ‘He left it in my apartment.’
‘Which is about ten minutes drive from Kamal’s restaurant and a good twenty-minute drive from here. But the cops only took thirteen minutes to get here from Kamal’s. You couldn’t possibly have made it here in time, even if someone had called you the minute the cops took Kamal into custody. So calling it Danni’s gun makes a second hole in your story.’ Petra
picked up the cigarette packet and put it back in her pocket.
‘Right now,’ she continued, ‘I’ve got a team out in Mitte talking to everybody who knows you and who knew Danni. I’d put money on us not finding a single person who can put you and him together. Well, maybe we’ll get one or two. But I’d put money on the fact that they’ll be tied in as closely to Darko Krasic as you are.’
At the sound of Krasic’s name, Krebs reacted. Her thumb flicked the end of the cigarette so hard she broke the filter tip clean off. For one brief moment, something sparked in her eyes. Inside, Petra rejoiced. The first crack had appeared. Now for the crowbar.
‘Give him up, Marlene. He’s thrown you to the wolves. You talk to me, you can save yourself. You can watch your kid grow up.’
Something shifted behind Krebs’ gaze and Petra realized she’d lost her. The mention of her daughter, that’s what had done it. Of course, she thought. Krasic has the kid under wraps. That’s his insurance policy. Before she could break Krebs, they’d have to find the daughter. Still, it was worth one last throw of the dice. ‘You’ll be going in front of the judge soon,’ she said. ‘You’ll be remanded in custody. No matter how smart-mouthed your lawyer is, no matter how many times he plays the card that you’re no risk to the public, they’re not going to bail you. Because I’m going to tell the prosecutor we’ve got you on our books as someone with links to organized crime. You’re going into the general prison population. Do you have any idea how easy it will be for me to make it look like you’re co-operating with us? And do you have any idea how little time it will take Darko Krasic to make sure you never talk to anyone else again? I mean, think about it, Marlene. How long did it take him to set up Kamal?’ Petra got to her feet. ‘Think about it.’ She crossed to the door and knocked to indicate that the meeting was over.
As the WaPo outside opened up, Petra looked back over her shoulder. Marlene Krebs was leaning forward, her loose hair shrouding her face. ‘I’ll be calling on you, Marlene.’
