Berlin could see why the analogy with the old-school tie didn’t really work. The prospect of two damaged women, both past their sell-by date, challenging these men of power seemed unlikely.
‘Look, Charlie,’ said Berlin. ‘There’s something I should say.’
‘What?’ said Charlie.
‘Thank you,’ said Berlin.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Charlie.
But it looked like something else was on her mind.
‘I wonder if I might ask you a favour in return,’ she said.
Payback had come up fast.
‘Take Nikki back to England with you.’
Berlin was gobsmacked. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I’m not well,’ said Charlie. ‘He needs proper care.’
‘I can’t even get myself back to England, let alone him,’ said Berlin. ‘And have you seen the state of the National Health Service lately? He might be better off here.’
‘Hardly!’ said Charlie. ‘He’ll just end up in some ghastly asylum or prison.’
‘This is ridiculous, Charlie,’ said Berlin.
‘You owe me this much, Berlin. I saved your fucking life!’ she shouted.
Berlin stared at her. The woman had gone mad. She was also aware that Charlie could still give her up to the people who had murdered Mrs Muir.
‘How would I get him out?’ said Berlin.
‘All you have to do is make it to a border with an EU country and find a way across,’ said Charlie. ‘Illegals do it all the time. The borders are porous. It’s not like they would shoot you, even if you were spotted.’
‘For God’s sake,’ said Berlin. But Charlie had it all worked out. She ranted on.
‘There would be a lot of bureaucratic shenanigans, but finally the British would have to give you a new passport. In the meantime, you claim asylum for Nikki.’
When she fell silent, Berlin couldn’t look at her. She fixed her gaze on the frozen canal. Conversation over.
Charlie finally got the message. She huffed and puffed as she got to her feet.
‘One good turn deserves another.’
She shuffled away, back into the lobby.
Berlin tried to ignore Charlie’s chagrin and think through the larger issues: for a start, how she got into this shitty mess and who sent the people who came to kill her.
Charlie had admitted she was working for her krysha when she acted as Berlin’s interpreter and when she gave her shelter. Berlin believed her when she said she didn’t know Gerasimova or the Commodore, but there was clearly a connection between them and the krysha.
Perhaps the killers had also done Charlie a favour. What if Mrs Muir had something on her and Charlie saw a chance to rid herself of a threat?
Who said a problem is just an opportunity in disguise?
Yuri made his way down the corridor, clutching two coffees from Starbucks. He wondered how his men could have missed Utkin and Berlin at the monastery, given the tip-off from Artem. They were worse than useless.
But at least they’d finally caught up with her. He hoped that would please Maryna and her talk of ‘loose ends’.
At the moment she was in his ear about the risk posed by Misha’s stand-in. The little bastard was making a nuisance of himself, looking for more money, then spending it on vodka and boasting about working for ‘the authorities’.
That’s what you got when you used a criminal database to pick a lookalike.
Yuri pushed open the door to Utkin’s office with his foot and plonked one of the coffees on the desk.
Utkin looked up from a very old file he was perusing. He regarded the coffee with distaste.
Yuri knew that Utkin thought it very New Russian to spend good money on such beverages. Perhaps it had been a mistake.
‘You should be scaling back your workload, old friend,’ he said.
‘No-one will shoot at me here,’ said Utkin. ‘At least, it’s not very likely.’
Yuri laughed.
‘You seem cheerful,’ said Utkin.
Yuri sipped his coffee and smacked his lips with satisfaction. ‘A bad peace is better than a good quarrel,’ he said. He didn’t want to give the impression he still needed Utkin’s approval.
Utkin said nothing, deadpan.
It made Yuri nervous. ‘I’ve got some good news for you, old friend,’ he blustered. ‘Your case is solved.’
‘Which case is that?’ said Utkin.
‘Mikhail Gerasimov,’ said Yuri.
Utkin stood up. ‘It’s not possible. The body hasn’t even been formally identified yet,’ he said.
Yuri took a step back. He held his coffee in front of him, as if it were a talisman to ward off evil. He was aware of Utkin’s clenched fists.
‘I’m telling you, it is. And don’t forget who is the senior officer here,’ he said. ‘You should be thanking me.’
‘And who was responsible for his death?’ demanded Utkin.
‘An English woman who arrived recently. Someone sent by British intelligence,’ said Yuri.
Utkin froze. ‘You have a witness?’
Yuri was backing up. He was halfway out of the door now.
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Maryna Gerasimova, his wife. Who is . . .’
‘I know who she is,’ snapped Utkin. ‘And this English woman is in custody, I assume.’
‘No,’ said Yuri. He was in the corridor now. ‘She’s gone.’
Utkin strode towards him. Yuri began to walk away quickly.
‘Gone where?’ shouted Utkin.
Others in the corridor stopped to watch. A few people stuck their heads out of their office doors.
‘Fled. Back to England, I imagine,’ called Yuri, and disappeared around a corner.
Utkin strode back into his office and slammed the door. It bounced open. He kicked it shut again.
Utkin sat down at his desk and thought about Yuri, who had come to him as the junior partner in their working relationship. They grew close, almost like father and son, but from the beginning it was clear that Yuri was meant for higher things. He wasn’t a better policeman than Utkin, but he had better contacts.
What was his connection to Colonel Gerasimova?
Yuri had become an aloof, nervous man, so insecure that he still wore a uniform, a rare sight among people of his rank in the criminal division. He was almost certainly moonlighting too: he kept disappearing out of the station at odd times, and he avoided Utkin as if he had the plague.
Utkin reflected that a secret did not always create a bond between those who kept it. Often it drove them apart.
When Utkin’s marriage imploded, he and Yuri had shared too much. Yuri had said nothing, but he became distant. He had never used what he knew.
But there was always a first time.
60
Berlin mounted the stairs slowly. She was drained and her feet were frozen. The cold had finally driven her back inside, although she thought she could still detect a whiff of blood in the air. She entered the vestibule and sat down on a small bench to drag off her boots.
In the apartment, she heard Charlie’s mobile ring. She heard Charlie mumble a curse. The mobile stopped ringing.
‘Da,’ Berlin heard her say. Then, emphatically, ‘Nyet.’
There was a pause.
‘Nyet,’ said Charlie again. She sounded strained.
Berlin waited, boot in hand, to see where the conversation was going. A long silence ensued. Finally, Charlie called out, ‘No point hanging around out there, Berlin. You can come in now.’
Berlin dropped her other boot and left the vestibule. Charlie was sitting on a chaise, wrapped in her tatty furs.
‘Who was that?’ said Berlin.
‘Who do you think?’ said Charlie.
‘Your krysha,’ said Berlin.
Charlie nodded.
‘Checking up. Making sure your body hasn’t been left lying around.’
Berlin padded over to the wood stove in her socks, sat down and rested her feet on i
t.
‘Don’t do that,’ said Charlie. ‘You’ll get chilblains. You look like shite, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘Those blokes were sent by him, weren’t they?’ said Berlin.
Charlie nodded.
‘Did they kill Gerasimov and the interpreter at the airport?’ said Berlin.
‘No doubt,’ said Charlie. She lit a cigarette.
‘So why won’t you tell me who it is?’ said Berlin.
‘What difference would it make?’ said Charlie. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’
Berlin changed the position of her feet on the stove. But there must be. She had to know. It was her only chance of working out why corpses were piling up around her, which might go a long way towards helping her to avoid joining them.
She and Charlie had reached a stalemate. Somehow Berlin had to find a way to flush out the ‘roof’.
Berlin sat to one side of the stove, watching Charlie smoke while reading an ancient guide to the great gardens of England. Nikki had been sent to his room for a nap with the promise of a long walk that night.
‘You never take him out during the day,’ said Berlin.
‘He becomes overstimulated,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s uncomfortable.’
Berlin wondered if the discomfort was hers or Nikki’s.
The stove was struggling against the many draughts and the high ceiling. Berlin flexed her numb toes and moved her feet closer to the heat.
A greater puzzle was Utkin’s reaction when she had told him that Gerasimov owned the warehouse at Park Royal. Gerasimov was safely tucked up in the morgue. He wasn’t a threat. Utkin had made another connection, and one that apparently disturbed him.
He was pursuing a killer, but that had always been the case. That was how he had found Berlin: her name had been emblazoned on the sign that was in the skip with Matvienko’s body. Burghley had arranged the interpreter and would have informed Gerasimov. But Gerasimov was already dead.
So they didn’t call him. Or if they did, they left a message. Or sent an email. Which someone with access found.
Someone close or someone clever?
‘Mind if I use your computer?’ she asked Charlie.
Charlie sighed. Berlin had never seen the device in question, but she knew it must exist.
‘Be my guest,’ said Charlie. She raised herself up a couple of inches and reached beneath the cushion on her chair. The notebook computer she produced was a ruggedised, military-grade model: thin, tough and very high-end.
Berlin made no comment. She was past being surprised by Charlie.
Berlin couldn’t access her email without betraying her location and, more fundamentally, the fact that she was still alive. She was in no doubt that someone, somewhere, had been monitoring her account. But it was unlikely that anyone would think to flag activity on her Companies House login.
The link was still there on her account page. She’d already paid for the report so she wouldn’t have to risk using her credit card. She scanned the list of office bearers of the company that owned the warehouse. There it was. Gerasimov, M.
Berlin was aware that Charlie was pretending to read, but was watching her out of the corner of her eye.
‘Charlie,’ said Berlin.
‘Mmmm?’ said Charlie, feigning deep interest in her tome.
‘What was Mrs Gerasimova’s name?’ said Berlin.
‘What do you mean?’ said Charlie. ‘That is her bloody name.’
‘Her first name,’ said Berlin.
Charlie put her book down. ‘Why do you ask?’
Charlie hovered around Berlin as she dragged on her boots.
‘Where are you going?’ said Charlie, clearly alarmed.
‘I thought you were anxious to see the back of me,’ said Berlin.
‘Yes, no. Not like this. I mean, what about Nikki?’ said Charlie.
‘I’m not leaving Moscow,’ said Berlin. ‘Too much unfinished business.’
Charlie was wheezing so hard Berlin thought she might pass out. ‘What do you mean?’ said Charlie. ‘You shouldn’t go out during the day. They might see you.’
Berlin stood still and looked her in the eye. ‘Who are “they”, Charlie?’ said Berlin. ‘Who are these animals, who can slit a woman’s throat and cut out her tongue?’
Charlie couldn’t meet her gaze.
Berlin pushed past her and out the front door.
‘You’re not well,’ called Charlie, as Berlin strode down the stairs. ‘You’re rambling.’
Berlin kept going, resolute. She was displaying more confidence than she felt. There was a good chance Charlie was right.
Charlie heard the front door slam. She fumbled in her pocket for her cigarettes, lit one and stood there smoking furiously. It was all getting out of control.
Berlin was unpredictable. God only knew what she was getting up to out there. Everything was at risk. Nikki’s future. She had to do something, and quickly.
She went back to the table, where she’d left Nikki’s dollies and her phone. The phone wasn’t there.
She hunted among the detritus that littered the surface of the immense table, but without luck. She checked her pockets, the chaise, the floor.
Berlin had taken it.
‘Oh bugger, oh Christ, oh bloody hell,’ she mumbled.
Berlin wanted to know who was trying to kill her. If she used the phone to try to find out, they were all dead.
Something had to be done, and quickly. A pre-emptive strike.
She hurried down the wide hallway and peered into Nikki’s room. He was fast asleep. Yorkie was curled into the crook of his arm. They were inseparable.
Gently, she turned the key in the lock.
Berlin had never seen Charlie move so fast. She didn’t even bother to hang the chain back across the gates.
Berlin watched through the railings as Charlie hurried to her car, opened the creaky driver’s door, got in and tried to start it. She tried again. Berlin put her hand in her pocket, touching Charlie’s mobile, as she heard the useless click of the starter motor turning over.
Berlin had no idea what the cables were that she had yanked out of their sockets and tossed into the bushes, but they were obviously important.
Charlie got out of the car, slammed the door and strode off down the road. The stout figure with the distinctive waddle was an easy target. Berlin moved out from behind the undergrowth of the wasteland next door, and followed.
61
Magnus took the tablets the nurse offered and swallowed them with a sip of water from the straw she put in front of his mouth. He fell back on the pillow.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I seem to be having a bit of trouble . . .’
‘You’re in the Royal London Hospital,’ said the nurse.
She drew back the curtains around his bed.
‘What happened?’ croaked Magnus.
‘The police found you in the gutter in Bethnal Green Road. You said you were on your way to Berlin. They called the ambulance.’
‘A blackout.’
The nurse looked at him with professional compassion. ‘It’s happened before,’ she said.
Magnus nodded. He covered his face with his hand.
He heard the nurse walk away. The tears leaked through his fingers.
Something on his bedside table vibrated. He realised it was his mobile. For a moment he couldn’t remember Peter Green returning it. Had he had a hand in this?
Magnus blew his nose and looked at the phone. It was another call from Berlin’s mother. He had no doubt the poor woman would be out of her mind with worry. He stuffed the phone under the pillow.
Green had warned him about ‘mixing it’ with the other parties involved. It was all his fault, but what could he do about it now? What had been going on while he was drinking himself into a self-pitying stupor?
A television, suspended from the ceiling, hung over the end of the bed. He fumbled around until he found the controls at the end of a long cable, swi
tched it on and flicked through the channels until he found the news.
There were a number of items of little interest: flood, famine and war. Then the newsreader introduced a ‘developing story’ about the Russian delegation. They cut to some anonymous civil servant being interviewed outside Whitehall. Magnus increased the volume; the little parasite was mouthing platitudes about the ‘unsubstantiated rumours that were damaging the country’s interests’.
Magnus fumed. The one person who could substantiate them was in mortal danger, if they hadn’t got to her already. He groaned.
The nurse popped her head around the door. ‘Everything all right, Mr Nkonde?’ she enquired. ‘Is the medication working? Can I give you something else to help you doze?’
Magnus glanced at the TV. The civil servant was still banging on and saying nothing; in the background Magnus spotted a pusillanimous MP sneaking into the building, head down. Magnus recognised him at once.
‘Mr Nkonde?’ said the care assistant.
Magnus grabbed his mobile from beneath the pillow, threw back the bedclothes and stumbled out of bed.
‘Stick your bloody pills,’ he shouted. ‘Call me a cab!’
62
Berlin watched as Charlie entered an upmarket Euro café and approached the counter. A moment later a young waitress handed her a phone.
The café was one corner of a T-junction. Across the busy road, hoardings and scaffolding, which seemed to be ubiquitous in Moscow, hid a new development.
Meanwhile, on the opposite corner, directly facing the café, a sprawling, decrepit public building of some kind was undergoing renovation. Berlin secreted herself between the massive pairs of columns that supported the wedding-cake-tiered tower above its barred entrance.
She was hidden, but had a direct line of sight into the café through its large plate-glass window. Its other customers – smart, intense young men, women absorbed in their smartphones, well-dressed ladies who lunched – wished to be seen.
The urbane habitués came for the casual dining, the rustic ambience and the affluent multicultural patrons: foreigners. This metropolitan class was global; their counterparts in London behaved in an identical fashion.
A Morbid Habit Page 18
