A Morbid Habit

by Annie Hauxwell

  14

  On the Tube to Heathrow Berlin concentrated on the reputational due diligence guidelines that had been loaded onto the tablet. The investigation had the complete cooperation of Mikhail Gerasimov, as you would expect.

  He had provided a Letter of Authority to his prospective business partners, which entitled them to make all enquiries necessary pertaining to his ‘background, qualifications, reputation and past performance’.

  Del’s colleagues had assembled the declared financials, bank statements, equities and so on, and the criminal conviction checks. Berlin’s folder also identified Gerasimov’s current businesses: transport, logistics, security services.

  The character references consisted of statements to the effect that Gerasimov loved his mother, was kind to animals and had never taken or offered a bribe in his life.

  It was clear that the work done by Burghley was very last minute. In the rush, gaps had been left in her briefing. She had tried to fill these online, but there was nothing. Gerasimov was by no means an oligarch, more of a middle-ranking entrepreneur apparently trying to move up.

  This job was window-dressing. No-one expected, or even wanted, her to find anything murky or untoward in Gerasimov’s past or present. She was required to do a couple of interviews, enjoy the minibar at the hotel, then fly home.

  It was all just for the record.

  The soaring glass canopy that was Terminal 5 conferred a sense of space and tranquillity on the travellers beneath it. On the other hand, it was a late flight on Christmas Eve and the place was closing down.

  There were only half-a-dozen flights left to depart. The last one went to somewhere called Abuja at 22.40. After that, the next flight wasn’t until 07.25 on Christmas Day. The Heathrow curfew ensured a few precious hours of silence for those who dwelt below its flight path.

  The flight to Moscow would take four hours. Moscow was four hours ahead of London, so she would arrive at five in the morning. Christmas morning.

  She was held at the check-in desk until an authorised British Airways employee arrived to confirm her visa was genuine. He told her they were expensive and it was not unknown for people to forge them. It sounded like a cover story for yet another security check to Berlin. He duly scrutinised her visa and marked her boarding pass with two stripes of his bright blue felt-tip pen. Very high tech.

  Boarding the aircraft, Berlin was impressed by the attentive service, the roomy seats and the drink that was served as soon as she sat down. Things had certainly improved since her last flight – to Bangkok, in the eighties. That trip hadn’t ended well.

  This time it would be different. She had changed, and so, it seemed, had the standards of international aviation. Then she peered back down the cabin and noticed a curtain across the gangway. She was in business class.

  Beyond the curtain she could see the aircraft was packed with Russians milling in the aisles, engaged in animated discussion; the topic appeared to be the allocation of overhead locker space.

  Elbows were being deployed as they attempted to cram into the lockers enormous shopping bags and parcels: Selfridges, Hamleys, Harrods and a number of bespoke Jermyn Street outfitters were over-represented among the labels.

  Berlin sat back, relaxed and enjoyed the spectacle of brands jostling. It was only as the jet thundered down the runway and jerked its nose skyward that she realised she’d forgotten to call Magnus. She settled back in her seat. It would wait.

  Nothing much would happen over Christmas.

  15

  Christmas was proving to be the usual trial for Magnus Nkonde. The Approach had closed early, it being Christmas Eve, as had public transport. He was forced to walk two miles in freezing drizzle to another pub that he knew would still be open, at least for a couple more hours.

  Every now and then he would come upon a small knot of bemused tourists who’d found themselves stranded in a corner of this vast city.

  The Magi had had an easier journey to Bethlehem; at Christmas wise men didn’t travel across London.

  Settling into a quiet corner of the Shakespeare’s Head with a festive mulled wine, Magnus didn’t pay much attention to the burly gent with a comb-over who sat down beside him. Just another lonely soul.

  But when a much younger chap, all fresh face and pungent aftershave, sat down too close on his other side, he began to pay attention.

  ‘Can I help you fellows?’ he enquired, attempting to sound jocular.

  ‘Fancy a breath of air, sir?’ asked Comb-Over, briefly displaying his ID.

  Magnus raised an eyebrow, indicating he was impressed, but not overwhelmed. They were coppers, but not the common-or-garden variety: representatives of Counter Terrorism Command.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I’m quite comfortable here, thanks all the same.’

  Comb-Over and Aftershave exchanged a glance. Magnus could see the latter was raring to have a go. A wiser head prevailed.

  ‘You’ve been making enquiries, sir,’ said Comb-Over. ‘About a vehicle.’

  ‘Have I indeed?’ said Magnus. He sipped his warm wine, poking an errant clove back into the glass with his tongue. He had to disguise his excitement. The game was really on.

  ‘Could I ask you, sir, where you obtained that registration number?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask my editor about that,’ said Magnus with relish. ‘And my paper’s legal eagles.’

  They would have no idea that these days he was a stringer.

  Comb-Over sighed and stood up. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ll do that. Merry Christmas.’

  His young colleague sprang to his feet, fists clenched. Magnus raised a glass to him.

  ‘God bless us, everyone,’ he intoned.

  When Magnus finally staggered out of the Shakespeare’s Head, steeling himself for the trek home through the frigid night, he found Bethnal Green Road utterly deserted. He was depressed to see that even the mixed businesses run by the Hindus, Sikhs and Moslems were closed. Bloody Christmas.

  Under the circumstances, he decided a hymn might provide some comfort, and as there was no-one on the street to offend, he began a rousing rendition of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.

  He had barely reached the end of the first verse when a man appeared in front of him. Magnus blinked. It was Comb-Over. He sensed, or rather smelled, Aftershave behind him.

  ‘Aha,’ exclaimed Magnus. ‘My drinking companions.’

  They took an arm each and steered him towards a car.

  Magnus put up token resistance. But he was flabby and drunk.

  ‘Mind yourself there, sir,’ said Aftershave, bouncing Magnus’s head off the car.

  ‘Ow! What the fuck is this?’ protested Magnus. ‘Bastards!’ He felt sick.

  Aftershave shoved him into the back seat, then got in after him. Magnus heard the motor start. Comb-Over was driving. As the car pulled away from the kerb Magnus turned to Aftershave and, with great deliberation, threw up into his lap. ‘That’ll teach you,’ he slurred, and passed out.

  16

  The cold air in the Domodedovo terminal was already beginning to creep into Berlin’s bones. She scanned the signs held by the platoon of silent, grim-faced men in black puffer jackets, their thick checked shirts buttoned up to the neck: the meeters and greeters at the barrier.

  None clutched a sign bearing her name.

  With only cabin baggage, perhaps she had emerged more quickly than her interpreter had anticipated. But she was not in the mood for cock-ups this early in the job. In a haze of Scotch and fatigue she scanned the arrivals hall for coffee. A candy-striped sign beckoned.

  The Snack Time Café was a bright, modern kiosk. The young woman who served her wasn’t happy when Berlin offered a credit card to pay for her coffee: she snatched it, swiped it and flung it back.

  ‘Welcome to Moscow,’ murmured Berlin.

  Keeping her sunglasses on, she found a stool that gave her a view of the greeters at the barrier, sat down and sipped the tepid coffee. It tasted like t
he decor: saccharine and plastic.

  A few minutes later a short, rotund woman with a helmet of iron-grey hair scurried into view, clutching a piece of cardboard. She pushed her way to the front of the greeters, peering anxiously at the arrivals board and the passengers emerging from customs.

  The motley piece of cardboard she flourished read ‘Katherine Berlin’.

  Berlin put down her coffee and left the café. Keeping one eye on the woman at the barrier, she promptly collided with two men in midnight-blue camo uniforms. The German shepherd between them snarled and the men glared at her. The welcome wasn’t getting any warmer.

  When Berlin looked up, the woman with the sign had seen her and was beckoning her forwards with an impatient gesture. But instead of waiting, she took off towards a door at one end of the hall that was propped open with a chair.

  Above the door were stencilled words in Russian and English. The English read ‘Emergency Exit’. The woman strode through it without a backward glance. Berlin had no choice but to follow.

  The door led into a stairwell. Berlin saw the woman glance up from the next landing, to make sure she was following, and then continue her quick descent.

  Berlin hurried to keep up.

  At the bottom she found herself in a small cargo bay. Three men in dirty orange overalls sprawled on a wooden trolley, smoking. They looked exhausted, and didn’t even glance at her as she passed.

  The moment her so-called greeter cleared the loading dock she stopped, took a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one. Inhaling deeply, she offered Berlin her hand as she finally caught up.

  ‘Charlotte Inkpin,’ she said. ‘Call me Charlie.’

  Berlin had expected an accent, but not this one. Charlie, who was seventy if she was a day, spoke English with an accent redolent of class and privilege.

  ‘Catherine Berlin,’ she said. ‘With a “C”, actually. Call me Berlin.’

  They shook hands. Charlie took a fur-lined hat from her pocket and jammed it on her head, grabbed Berlin’s bag, as if she had just remembered why she was there, and led the way to a gleaming black Range Rover parked beside a wall of snow.

  ‘Sorry about the wait. Traffic,’ said Charlie.

  Traffic. At five in the morning? But before Berlin could comment, she became aware of icy fingers reaching down her throat to seize her lungs. The cold was literally breathtaking.

  ‘The sooner we leave, the less we pay,’ said Charlie, throwing the bag in the back as she got behind the wheel, panting from her exertions. Berlin took the seat beside her. The luxury interior exuded the acrid odour of stale tobacco.

  ‘Duty-free?’ asked Charlie as the motor purred into life. Berlin imagined it was a company car.

  ‘What?’ said Berlin.

  ‘Did you bring any duty-free? Decent liquor or English cigarettes?’ said Charlie, querulous.

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ said Berlin.

  She wasn’t about to mention the litre of Talisker in her bag.

  Charlie put her foot down and the car shot forwards, bucking and skidding across an expanse of broken concrete, up a small bank and on into a snowy wasteland.

  Berlin hung on as they headed straight for a fence constructed from steel cable. As they got closer, she could see a gap, protected by a sheet of corrugated iron.

  At the last minute a shabby woman swathed in scarves stepped out of a small wooden hut and stood beside it.

  Charlie slammed on the brakes, wound down her window and dropped some cash into the woman’s gloved hand. The woman slipped it in her apron pocket, then dragged the iron to one side.

  Charlie gunned the motor and they shot through the gap.

  Berlin’s sense of a seamless, comfortable transition between sanitised airport terminals evaporated.

  She had crossed a border.

  On the other side of the airport two tired kitchen hands dragged a waste bin towards a skip. The roar of the jets overhead precluded conversation, but gestures sufficed: they stopped. One sat down on the bin and lit a cigarette, while the other lifted the lid of the skip to see if there was anything worth salvaging. He peered into its depths.

  Unseeing eyes stared back at him.

  17

  Berlin was nauseous from the smell in the car and Charlie’s erratic driving. Charlie smoked incessantly, despite her wheezy chest, but Berlin didn’t want to get off to a bad start by asking her to stop. She was at the mercy of this woman for the next couple of days. It could be a very bumpy ride.

  The road was wide and flanked on one side by a dense phalanx of slender birch trees; their frosted white trunks sparkled against the black sky, in pristine contrast to the banks of grubby snow piled high in the service lane.

  If there was a speed limit on the highway, Charlie ignored it. As they entered a built-up area, the road remained wide but became congested. Russian roads had been built to accommodate tanks. One would have come in useful during this early-morning chaos.

  Charlie was forced to slow down, although she continued to lurch from one lane to another without warning, cutting up ancient lorries with high wheelbases that looked as if they had been converted from military vehicles. They were no match for the Range Rover.

  Korean pop music blared from the radio, making conversation impossible. Berlin sensed that this was deliberate. She didn’t feel much like chatting herself. Perhaps Charlie wasn’t a morning person either.

  Berlin took a sideways glance at her. How did this apparently very English pensioner wash up as an interpreter in Moscow? She looked as if she belonged in a bus shelter: her neck-to-knee quilted coat, flecked with mud, had seen better days; her boots were scuffed, lined with yellowing fur that matched her hat.

  She must be reliable, or Burghley wouldn’t use her. When she called Del she would ask him where on earth they had found Charlie Inkpin. But before she did anything she needed more coffee, a bath and a couple of hours’ rest. She had to be on her toes for her first meeting with Gerasimov at midday.

  ‘Katarina Berlin, yes?’ asked the receptionist with an efficient smile.

  ‘Yes,’ said Berlin.

  Charlie hovered near the revolving door, clearly anxious to be on her way.

  The receptionist handed Berlin a key card. The clocks behind her showed the local time as 06.35. In London it was 02.35. ‘Breakfast buffet seven to eleven,’ she said.

  ‘Can I change some sterling?’ said Berlin.

  The receptionist pointed to a cash machine. ‘Bankomat,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Berlin.

  ‘Enjoy your stay,’ said the receptionist.

  Berlin crossed the lobby to the cash machine.

  ‘All set?’ asked Charlie.

  Berlin nodded as she negotiated the instructions on the screen and withdrew what seemed like a reasonable quantity of cash for a couple of days.

  When she looked up, Charlie was leaving.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Berlin. ‘I’d like to review the schedule with you.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that,’ said Charlie, backing into the revolving door. ‘I’ll pick you up at eleven.’

  And she was gone.

  18

  Utkin took off his thick gloves and pulled on a latex pair, then stepped onto a plastic crate that someone had thoughtfully placed beside the skip for the photographers. He hauled himself over the rim with a grunt, struggling to retain his balance as his feet sank into the rubbish.

  The poor fellow hadn’t crawled in here to stay warm. He wasn’t a large man, but he was well fed and wore a smart suit. Not a bum. Bruising around the neck indicated strangulation. Foreboding quickened Utkin’s heart. He had seen the same marks only recently.

  From the look of his hands, the man had put up a fight, but his assailant had been undeterred by the blows. It took strength and persistence to choke a healthy adult male.

  Utkin slipped a hand into the man’s inside pocket. No wallet. The rest of his pockets were empty too.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ said Utkin, address
ing the corpse. Then, for the benefit of the sergeant, who was giving him a funny look, he added, ‘Maybe the keys are in here somewhere.’

  Utkin wondered momentarily if he could prevail on his subordinates to sort and bag the contents of the skip and to have them forensically examined.

  It was a fanciful notion. Moscow was in the premier league when it came to homicide. The laboratories of the Russian Federal Centre of Forensic Science had a massive backlog.

  He peered at the mounds of trash, which shifted as he moved about. A piece of white cardboard, stained brown and yellow, caught his eye. He picked it up gingerly, between his thumb and forefinger, and sniffed: urine and faeces, often evacuated during the death throes. His legs go from under him, he pisses and shits himself, it’s over. The man hadn’t been killed in the skip. Which meant the victim had dropped the piece of cardboard during the assault and it had been thoughtlessly tossed in after him.

  Utkin turned the cardboard over and held it in both latex-encased hands, tilting it towards the light.

  Printed in large black letters were two words in English: ‘Catherine Berlin.’

  He took the sign with him when he clambered out of the skip. ‘Bag this,’ he said to the sergeant. The sergeant took the sign, grimacing.

  Utkin pulled off his latex gloves and scratched his scalp, sweaty beneath his sheepskin hat. The cold feeling in his gut grew. ‘Lend me your torch,’ he said.

  The sergeant frowned. The place was lit up like the Kremlin. But he handed it over.

  Utkin plodded to where the darkness began and walked the perimeter, sweeping the torch beam back and forth. He didn’t have to go far.

  The snow was packed hard. A small, bright jewel sparkled on the crystal plane: a crumpled cellophane confectionery wrapper.

  The beam fluttered over it, unsteady in Utkin’s trembling hand.

  The traitor

  19

  Berlin had taken her buprenorphine, soaked in a hot four-and-a-half-star bath and was on her way to breakfast. She would eat, then call Del and Magnus. And Peggy. The dining room was decorated in warm, primrose tones. It took Berlin a moment to realise that the birdsong she could hear was a soundtrack. That could become irritating.