The supervisor had been there to guarantee that there was no email, no phone call, nothing to evidence the ‘irregularity’. Hirst had all their bases covered, as she had expected.
The last piece of the puzzle fell into place in the final paragraph.
The source, Catherine Berlin, a respected financial investigator, witnessed the events at the warehouse. She is currently in Moscow, where she is being sought by the authorities. The British Embassy did not respond to our requests for information, citing privacy issues.
Ms Berlin is the only independent eyewitness able to identify the participants in the warehouse delivery.
She’d been thrown under a bus.
The killer
72
Berlin hoped that Charlie was still awake, or would be woken by her knocking. The woman slept like a log. She was relieved when she saw that the front door of the apartment was actually ajar. She pushed it open.
Two suitcases, one large, one small, were waiting behind it. The coat hooks were empty. From inside the apartment came the sounds of shuffling. Activity in the middle of the night. It looked like a moonlight flit.
Could it be that Charlie had betrayed her, not Utkin? She had saved Berlin’s bacon in a desperate attempt to get her to take Nikki back to England. But when Berlin had demurred, perhaps she’d decided to come clean and try her luck with the krysha. She’d said she would do anything.
Did the suitcases mean the krysha could grant Charlie’s wish?
She stepped back from the front door, leaving it ajar.
Berlin crouched in a corner of the vast, gloomy lobby and listened to Charlie and Nikki come down the stairs. She heard Charlie’s phone ring. After a brief conversation in Russian, she hung up.
Berlin flattened herself against the wall.
Charlie hummed as she buttoned Nikki’s coat tight and pulled his woollen hat down over his ears. Then she grasped his hand and they marched out of the building.
They weren’t carrying the suitcases.
Berlin followed. This wasn’t just Nikki’s constitutional. It was well past midnight and below freezing. The Zaporozhets was still out of action. Charlie wouldn’t venture out without a reason.
Wherever they were going, it was a preamble to a longer journey.
Berlin had no problem keeping the odd couple in sight, striding through the deserted streets, arm in arm, during the early hours of New Year’s Day. Charlie kept glancing at her watch.
The pair made their way over the footbridge across the canal and turned to the right. There was no moon, and they were avoiding the well-lit main roads.
After about a mile they turned into a housing estate. Blocks of flats surrounded a basketball court and a children’s playground. There were more lights here.
Berlin avoided the open spaces and stuck close to the buildings.
The blunt shapes of the carnival-themed playground rides, buried beneath three feet of snow, created a landscape peopled by grotesque monsters. She imagined that at any moment they would lumber into life, eager to feed their evil appetites.
She realised that she was more than a little light-headed, disoriented by cold, exhaustion and other things: this was not a tapered withdrawal.
Charlie and Nikki proceeded around the perimeter of the estate and came to a halt in the deep shadow of an entranceway to a block of flats.
Berlin advanced as close as she dared. They were standing beneath an overhang, to one side of a path. It was so quiet that Berlin could hear Charlie wheezing.
At the sound of a vehicle approaching, Charlie touched Nikki’s sleeve and they stepped back further into the lee of the building. Berlin took their cue, and stepped back too.
Headlights swept across the carnival monsters, caught dancing in the beams. A black Range Rover pulled up beside the path leading to the entranceway.
The car door opened and a man stumbled out of the passenger seat. In the pool of yellow light from the car’s interior, Berlin saw that it was the little commodore.
Mikhail Gerasimov’s stand-in.
He called out to the driver in a jocular fashion, slammed the car door and began to make his way unsteadily up the path. He was obviously very drunk.
The Range Rover took off. As it swept past Berlin she caught a glimpse of the driver. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The swirling snow was a strobing light, each movement a staccato animation.
Charlie had stepped out of the shadows and approached the commodore, who was leaning forwards, peering at her. They spoke in Russian, and at first Berlin thought she was there to assist him. But then she gave him a shove. He staggered back, frowning.
Charlie advanced a few steps. He raised his arm to ward her off, but she persisted. The commodore grunted, said something in Russian and struck her.
In the next instant Nikki came hurtling out of the shadows. Berlin barely had time to register what was happening. His silent fury was vented in a series of vicious blows. The little man wasn’t even able to cry out. He fell to his knees.
Berlin saw him reach inside his jacket, but the gun was only in his hand a moment before Nikki kicked out and it flew through the air, coming to rest in a drift of snow.
Nikki grasped the commodore’s neck with both hands. The crack of splintering bone echoed around the playground. The commodore swayed for a moment, then fell forwards.
No lights went on. There were no sirens. It had all happened in a matter of moments. Berlin realised she was holding her breath.
The only sound was Charlie’s wheezing as she waddled over to take Nikki’s hand. He opened his palm. Charlie put something in it and they strolled away, arm in arm.
They didn’t look back.
Berlin waited until they disappeared into the darkness, then exhaled and tried to breathe normally. After a few minutes she reluctantly approached the body.
His face was a pulpy mess. The area around him was stained with blood and urine. The smell of faeces hung in the air. There was no point taking a pulse, even if she could overcome her horror. The angle at which his head was resting left no doubt he was dead. She backed away.
Something on the ground nearby caught her eye. She picked it up, then went and retrieved the gun from where it lay, half-buried in a drift. It was a baby Glock: slim, lightweight. She slipped it into her inside pocket.
It began to snow.
73
Berlin approached Charlie’s dark, silent lair warily. In her mind’s eye she played back what she’d seen: Charlie had provoked the little commodore until he had lashed out. Then Nikki attacked him. It was a practised manoeuvre. They’d done it before.
Nikki was Charlie’s strength, and her weakness.
Had her krysha blackmailed her into deploying Nikki, her secret weapon, as and when he saw fit? On pain of her son being taken away and incarcerated? Now that didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
The gate creaked as Berlin pushed it open. She looked up at the crumbling façade and blind windows. It was the perfect setting for what dwelt within.
Berlin took the stairs slowly and hesitated when she reached the door of the apartment. Her heart was thudding, even though there was probably no reason for her to be afraid. Charlie had had plenty of opportunities to use Nikki against her.
Nevertheless, there was something unnerving about the prospect of being in the room with someone you had just watched choke a man to death.
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Nikki was sitting at the table, eating a plate of dumplings. Charlie was stretched out on a chaise, smoking. They were both still wearing their outdoor clothes and boots. Ready to move on.
Berlin stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
Charlie looked up and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
‘So now you know,’ she said.
Berlin went straight to the dresser and poured herself a shot of vodka, then took the bottle and her glass to the table and sat down.
Charlie might be mad, but she wasn’t
stupid. She had been a spy, probably still was, and counter-surveillance went with the territory.
‘Your son’s a serial killer,’ said Berlin.
It was a stupid thing to say, and Charlie just laughed. With great wheezing and panting she levered herself off the chaise, shuffled over to the table and poured herself a large drink.
‘Down the hatch,’ she announced, and knocked it back.
Berlin waited for some kind of explanation, but she was not prepared for what came next.
‘After the revolution this building was converted into apartments for important cadres and Party members.’
Berlin stared at her. A history lesson seemed less than appropriate, given the circumstances.
‘They added internal walls,’ said Charlie. ‘To create connecting passages, a labyrinth that could accommodate a man, who was then able to travel between apartments and floors at will. Watching through peepholes. Ensuring everyone was toeing the Party line.’
Nikki kept eating, seemingly untroubled.
Charlie walked over to one of the walls and tapped it.
‘The walls had ears,’ she said.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ said Berlin.
Charlie launched herself at Berlin, grabbed her arm and yanked her out of her chair. ‘Nothing could be more important,’ she cried.
Berlin allowed herself to be dragged to the far corner of the room.
Charlie reached out and placed her palm flat against a panel formed by two elaborate, faded gilt borders, but before she could demonstrate further, they both heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
Charlie flew the length of the room and bolted the inner door, then hurried straight back to Nikki.
‘Come, darling boy,’ said Charlie, taking the spoon from his hand. Nikki stood up and Charlie led him quickly to where Berlin still stood beside the panel. She put Nikki’s hand in Berlin’s. ‘We don’t want him upset, do we, Berlin?’ she said. ‘They’re coming.’
The footsteps had reached the vestibule.
Someone knocked at the inner door.
Charlie leant against the panel. It slid open.
‘Just in case,’ said Charlie.
‘For God’s sake,’ protested Berlin. ‘This is insane.’
The knocking became an angry banging, accompanied by loud commands in Russian.
Charlie shoved Nikki into the narrow space. He kept a tight grip on Berlin’s hand and she had no choice but to follow.
‘Be a good boy,’ said Charlie. She leant forwards and kissed his cheek, then stepped back and touched the wall.
The panel slid back into place.
The darkness was absolute. Berlin was suddenly grateful for Nikki’s tight grip. He inched forwards. He seemed to know where he was going and it occurred to Berlin that this might be a drill that he and Charlie had practised.
The noise from the other side of the wall was muffled, but clear.
Berlin heard the distinct sound of someone kicking in a door. Then she found herself standing directly in front of one of the peepholes. It seemed to be recessed into a frame or border, and it gave her a surprisingly complete view of the room. She blinked and put her eye closer.
Charlie was standing beside the door. She glanced back at the wall, then opened the door. The rat-faced man, her krysha, now in uniform, stood in the doorway, breathing heavily.
‘That was unnecessary, Yuri,’ said Charlie. ‘I was asleep. We’re both very tired, as I’m sure you appreciate.’
Yuri gathered himself and looked around the room. He barked something in Russian. Berlin caught the word ‘Nikki’.
‘Locked up in his bedroom,’ said Charlie. ‘So you have nothing to fear.’
Yuri responded in Russian.
‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘I won’t speak bloody Russian. I’ve had it up to here with this bloody country. Just give me the passports, Yuri, we’re all square now.’
Berlin was aware that Nikki had sat down. His shape emerged as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness; he had drawn his knees up so that he could rest his head on his arms. He appeared to be dozing. There was something to be said for whatever was wrong with him.
Berlin looked back through the peephole. The krysha – Yuri – grabbed the bottle of vodka from the table and took a long swig. She realised he was already drunk.
When he put the bottle down he unclipped his holster and drew his gun.
Charlie took a step back.
Berlin could barely hear over her pounding heart.
‘You promised,’ said Charlie. ‘I . . . we . . . did everything you asked. You swore you’d get us passports so we could go home.’
‘That was before you lied to me,’ said Yuri. ‘The Anglichanka is still alive.’
‘Ridiculous,’ said Charlie. ‘Anyway, why would you care? You didn’t kill anyone. You never get your hands dirty. Life can go on for you.’
‘No more loose ends.’ At each word he smashed his fist down on the table. ‘You made me lose respect of woman I love.’
Charlie’s chuckle was hollow. Berlin was terrified for her. ‘You lot are all the same,’ said Charlie. ‘Everything has always got to be a bloody tragedy. I’m so tired of the Slavic soul.’
Berlin had the element of surprise. She considered using it, and the Glock. But only for a moment.
Yuri cocked his gun and shouted something in Russian. There was the sound of boots running through the apartment.
He hadn’t come alone.
Charlie picked up the vodka and poured herself a drink.
Two men in black camo gear stomped into the room, dragging the furled rug. Berlin gave up the idea of a shoot-out. She peered at the men: thick mops of blunt-cut brown hair framed faces that bore a strong resemblance to each other. They could be brothers.
The last time she had seen them they were standing beside a van on the Park Royal estate, smoking.
The shock was like a blow. She shuddered.
The men dumped the rug at Charlie’s feet.
It unravelled and Mrs Muir rolled out.
Charlie raised her glass in a silent toast.
‘Who is this?’ said Yuri.
‘Don’t they know?’ said Charlie. She indicated the two men. ‘Don’t tell me they bumped her off by mistake? Good help is so hard to find these days, don’t you agree?’
One of the men stepped forwards and smacked Charlie in the mouth. She reeled back, but didn’t fall. Her glass was still in her hand.
Berlin glanced at Nikki. If he woke up and realised Charlie was being assaulted, it was all over.
Yuri tried a different tack with Charlie. ‘This is foolish, Charlotte,’ he said. He pointed at Mrs Muir. ‘Who is she?’
Charlie muttered something in Russian that he clearly didn’t find complimentary.
Yuri flinched, as if she had struck him. ‘We’ll find out. You’re familiar with our methods. Whoever she is, you will be prosecuted for her murder.’
He gestured to the two men. ‘Take her,’ he said.
The thugs stepped forwards.
Charlie took a step back. ‘Where to?’ she cried. ‘Petrovka? Lubyanka? It doesn’t matter. I’ll never get out alive.’ She looked directly at the wall, as if she could see Berlin. ‘One good turn deserves another,’ she said.
Then she gulped the vodka, tossed the glass over her shoulder and with astonishing speed and grace ran to the window and flung herself through it.
A gust of freezing air swept through the room.
Berlin clapped a hand over her mouth, holding back the bile that surged into it.
Beside her, Nikki slept on.
74
Silence. Berlin found herself staring at the shattered window. Yuri and his two men stood frozen, shocked. A shard of black glass fell from the window frame and released them all from the moment.
Berlin shrank back from the peephole.
She heard Yuri mutter an order, followed by shuffling.
She looked back.
Yuri
was alone in the room with Mrs Muir’s body. He hadn’t moved an inch.
The night was very still. Noises drifted through the broken window: the gate squeaking, a motor starting. Yuri had sent his thugs away.
He put his gun and cap on the table, staggered to the sink and threw up. When he’d finished, he rinsed his face with cold water and wiped it on his sleeve, then hesitated, as if he’d just remembered something.
He picked up his gun and cap and walked out. Berlin could hear him marching down the corridor that led to Nikki’s wing. She wondered if they should make a run for it; it was pointless. They should sit tight. When Yuri found that Nikki wasn’t in his room, maybe he would leave.
Berlin’s optimism was stillborn in a tumult of yapping. She had forgotten about Yorkie.
The little dog burst into the room and ran around in circles, tiny paws scrabbling on the parquetry as he tried to bite his tail. He must have been shut up in Nikki’s room. Now that Yuri had inadvertently released him, he was going to make his presence felt.
Berlin cursed silently as the motley little dog dived under the furniture and between the chairs, bouncing up and down while emitting high-pitched barks. Looking for his master.
Yuri came back into the room.
Berlin held her breath.
Yorkie suddenly stood very still, quivering and sniffing the air.
He ran at the wall.
Nikki woke up.
75
Utkin gazed down at the body which lay near the entranceway, half-buried in snow. The man had taken a beating. He ordered the floodlights to be angled so that he could take a closer look at the face.
The crushed cheekbone and smashed nose made it difficult to discern the features. Nevertheless there was something familiar about him. He knelt and gently lifted the jaw to examine the neck.
Utkin sighed, then with ponderous movements got to his feet and called for a torch. Backing away from the body, he began to sweep the beam across the snow, moving in concentric circles, careful not to miss an inch.
He was some yards from the scene, and beginning to think he’d been mistaken, when he heard an officer hail him.
A Morbid Habit Page 21
