A Morbid Habit

by Annie Hauxwell

  ‘Major,’ called the officer. ‘There’s a witness.’

  ‘Where?’ said Utkin.

  ‘Up there,’ said the officer, pointing at a third-floor window.

  Utkin could just make out a wizened face pressed against the glass.

  ‘He says he saw the victim get out of a very smart black car. It drove off and that’s when the attack took place.’

  ‘Did he see the assailants?’ said Utkin. He held his breath.

  ‘No,’ said the officer.

  Utkin exhaled. His breath hung in the air.

  Utkin sat in his car and watched as they loaded the body into the mortuary van. The floodlights winked out. A thin veil of white was creeping across the bloody ground.

  He needed another opinion. There was something missing. He’d taken a photo of the victim with his phone. Only one person could confirm his suspicions. He doubted he would receive a warm welcome, but he had to try.

  If he was right, the victim would close the circle.

  He was getting close. He had a feeling it would soon be over.

  76

  Berlin and Nikki sat side by side on the moth-eaten chaise. Yuri stood as far away as possible, his arm extended to its fullest length, levelling the gun at them.

  In his other hand Yuri held his phone, pressed to his ear, conversing in a low voice in Russian. He knew she didn’t understand a word, but he was clearly aware that Nikki did. He seemed to be familiar with Nikki and apparently credited him with an understanding of what was going on. He was right.

  For his part, Nikki had shown no fear of the krysha. Or of anything else, for that matter.

  Berlin could see the sweat standing out on Yuri’s top lip, despite the snow swirling through the broken window and settling on the furniture. He was waiting for someone.

  Nikki seemed untroubled by Charlie’s absence and barely seemed to notice the mutilated corpse on the floor. Yorkie was lying in his lap, enjoying a tummy tickle.

  Berlin kept her eyes averted from poor Mrs Muir and tried to think through her next move. She was all out of ideas, apart from following Charlie through the window. Anger, disgust and fear were fighting for the upper hand. A lifetime of hard-won detachment was dissolving.

  The first day of the new year. But not for Charlie.

  A warm hand clasped hers. Surprised, she looked down. Nikki insinuated his fingers between hers and squeezed gently. It was strangely reassuring. Berlin squeezed back.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Keeping the gun on Nikki and Berlin, Yuri backed out into the vestibule and opened it.

  Gerasimova, whom Berlin had seen so recently dropping the little commodore off to die, strode right past him and into the middle of the room. It occurred to Berlin that he wasn’t the first person she’d had eliminated. Nor would he be the last.

  Yorkie sat up on his haunches and growled.

  Gerasimova didn’t glance at Berlin or Nikki. She went straight to Mrs Muir’s body and stood beside it. Her flared nostrils and rigid shoulders betrayed the effort it took for her to look down. But when she did, it wasn’t for long. She took Yuri aside and muttered something in his ear.

  He turned and pointed an accusing finger at Berlin.

  ‘You are working for British intelligence,’ he said.

  Berlin’s first reaction was That’s ridiculous.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am.’

  Berlin wasn’t entirely sure if British intelligence officers would actually acknowledge their status, except under torture, but her gambit had so far proved successful. It had postponed summary execution.

  Yuri and Gerasimova had engaged in an intense conversation. He had made some phone calls, but was clearly frustrated by the lack of response. Of course, it was New Year’s Day. Most people would be drunk or asleep. He had kept his gun on her throughout.

  Berlin had followed up her confession by quickly suggesting that they would naturally want to avoid exacerbating an already tense diplomatic situation. Or not, at any rate, without further consultation.

  Now Gerasimova was on the phone, trying her luck.

  Pieces began to fall into place: Yuri provided local, unofficial support to Gerasimova’s activities; she owned the Park Royal warehouse, perhaps on behalf of the SVR, which had provided a location in London for them to hide . . . what?

  Not Mikhail Gerasimov. He had been murdered in Moscow. Then, very inconveniently, Berlin had been sent to interview him. So they had procured a stand-in and dispatched Berlin’s interpreter. Yuri had prevailed on Charlie to take on the role.

  The ruse would have worked, except Utkin had connected the dead interpreter, Matvienko, to Berlin. When she told him she was to interview Mikhail Gerasimov, she had given him a link between the two. Utkin believed Gerasimov and Matvienko were victims of the same killer.

  He was wrong. They were victims of the same killers, plural: Nikki, sitting next to her petting his dog, and his mother.

  Yuri had accused Charlie of making him look a fool in the eyes of the woman he loved. Gerasimova had to be that woman. But Berlin still didn’t understand the connection between that and the delivery to the warehouse.

  But one thing was apparent: the situation was spiralling out of Yuri and Gerasimova’s control.

  Gerasimova hung up and spoke to Yuri. He bit his lip and muttered something.

  ‘Very well,’ she said to Berlin. ‘You will be detained as an enemy agent.’

  They had all trooped downstairs and were now standing beside the Range Rover. It was still snowing. Berlin stood close to Nikki and shivered.

  Yuri, gun in hand, was arguing with Gerasimova. It seemed to be about who should drive. Berlin’s perception might be compromised, but she knew a domestic when she saw one. She had been right about that relationship.

  In the end, Gerasimova got into the driver’s seat, Berlin and Nikki got in the back, as directed, and the chagrined Yuri sat in the front, next to Gerasimova, turning so he could keep his gun on her.

  Utkin drove up to see a Range Rover speeding away. It was the only vehicle on the road and in a hurry. What could be so urgent on New Year’s morning? It would wait. The car was familiar and he knew exactly where to find it when he was ready.

  But first he needed to establish the identity of the latest victim. If his intuition was correct, it would tie it all together.

  The blizzard was closing in, but even from the car he could see something had been going on: the snow on the path had been churned into icy ridges.

  He got out, bracing himself against the wind.

  The gate was wide open.

  Through the swirling white curtain he could see a trail had been trampled through the frozen vegetation. He followed it into the garden.

  Snow was drifting against something solid, forming a mound. He took a step and heard glass crunch beneath his feet.

  There were two people who could confirm his suspicions about the dead man on the estate.

  He took a few more steps and blinked the snowflakes from his lashes. The mound resolved into a body.

  Utkin fell to his knees and gently wiped the snow from her face.

  Now there was only one.

  77

  Berlin and Nikki were locked in a bedroom in an apartment that seemed to belong to Gerasimova. It was telling that they hadn’t been taken anywhere official. Yuri couldn’t risk taking her to the police station: awkward questions would be asked.

  Nikki had stretched out on the unmade bed with Yorkie and gone to sleep. It was his default setting: the sleep of the innocent. Berlin envied him. Perhaps a conscience free from guilt could cure her insomnia.

  Although that might not be a problem for much longer.

  Soon after they arrived there had been a lot of noise and activity in the rest of the flat: phones kept ringing and voices were raised. But for about the last fifteen minutes there had been an ominous silence.

  Berlin looked out of the window. The street, eight storeys below, was very quiet. In the distance a fortres
s glowed, formidable and beautiful. See the Kremlin and die.

  There was an old photo in a cheap frame on the dresser. Berlin picked it up. A young man, a boy really, was grinning at the camera. He was wearing a uniform that was too big for him. An older man had his arm around the boy’s shoulders. He had a proud, faraway look in his eyes.

  Berlin put it down and began listlessly opening and closing the dresser drawers, just looking. Peering into other people’s lives. It’s what she did. She could hear Peggy saying, ‘And look where it’s got you.’

  Gerasimova knew catching a British agent could be a turning point in her career. If she was a spy.

  Berlin could be exchanged for one of their agents, held by the British. Or she might have value as an asset; Gerasimova might even be able to turn her. Then her superiors might overlook other errors of judgement. Gerasimova glanced at Yuri.

  While she had been busy with the necessary enquiries, he had been drinking. His usefulness was coming to an end. It was sad, but true. She had never misled him. He had understood her priorities from the beginning.

  Unlike Misha. He had never grasped that her advancement and the interests of her country were aligned. When he had betrayed her, he had betrayed her in other ways, not simply as his wife. And yet at one time there had been real passion between them. The fury she had felt could only have grown out of that.

  She was fond of Yuri, but he was becoming a liability. To her, and to Russia.

  Utkin made his way slowly down the empty corridor towards his office, one hand resting on the wall. He felt their presences all around: the dead were an unbearable weight on his shoulders, grinding him down, so that he felt he might sink through the floor to join them.

  He didn’t turn on the light, just closed the door behind him and went and sat behind his desk. In the gloom it took him a moment to see the note that someone had left, pinned beneath a mug emblazoned with a faded red star.

  He fumbled for his glasses and slipped them on.

  Someone had taken a message. His caller had left a long telephone number he didn’t recognise, but no name. He stuffed the note in his pocket, then felt beneath his desk drawer for a key he had taped there long ago.

  It unlocked the steel cabinet in the corner.

  He had kept the Avtomat Kalashnikova oiled and cleaned but hadn’t used it since the Afghan War. A legendary version of the weapon, its existence was even doubted by some people. It was a modified AK47, shorter, with a folding stock.

  Much easier to conceal.

  He was going to pay an unofficial visit to the owner of the Range Rover. An unofficial weapon might prove very useful.

  Berlin blinked in the shaft of light that fell across the bed. She had fallen asleep next to Nikki and Yorkie, but had no idea for how long. Her mouth was dry and her skin was burning. Familiar worms wriggled in her brain, demanding to be fed.

  Propping herself up on one elbow, she saw that it was Maryna who stood in the doorway.

  ‘Colonel Gerasimova,’ said Berlin.

  The colonel had recognised Mrs Muir because they moved in similar circles.

  Gerasimova came further into the room and switched on a lamp. Nikki stirred. Yorkie rose, hackles up, growling at the colonel. Berlin made a move to get off the bed.

  ‘No, no. Stay there,’ said Gerasimova. ‘Be comfortable.’

  Berlin sank back down. They must have been ordered to treat her with some respect. It was a good sign.

  Gerasimova walked around the bed to Berlin’s side.

  Through the open door, Berlin could see Yuri sitting at a table with a bottle of vodka, eyes downcast.

  ‘Why did you kill your husband?’ said Berlin. ‘Is divorce illegal in Russia?’

  Gerasimova looked stung.

  ‘This wasn’t about some petty marital dispute,’ she said. ‘He was a traitor.’

  Berlin thought she heard Yuri groan.

  ‘So your husband objected to the drug trade?’

  ‘Drugs?’ snapped Maryna. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your warehouse. Yuri’s thugs. The President’s plane. You’re just common drug dealers,’ said Berlin.

  Gerasimova’s eyes glinted. ‘You addicts disgust me,’ she said. ‘One-track minds.’

  Someone had helped Gerasimova with her homework.

  ‘If it wasn’t drugs, what was it? Enlighten my drug-addled brain,’ said Berlin.

  ‘Terrorists,’ said Gerasimova.

  Berlin struggled to take in this information. ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘Chechens. They wanted martyrdom. Their wish was granted.’

  The room seemed to tilt slightly.

  There were bodies in the crates.

  ‘Your government was foolish enough to give them asylum, despite the risk,’ said Gerasimova. ‘And my husband was foolish enough to betray our operation to eliminate that risk.’

  Berlin stood up. Yorkie began to bark furiously.

  Gerasimova shoved her hard in the chest and she fell back. ‘I have something for you, junkie.’

  It was a syringe.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Berlin. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerasimova. ‘I know precisely who you are. No-one. Nothing. You are disavowed.’

  She held up the syringe and depressed the plunger.

  Berlin watched the liquid travel up the barrel and spurt from the needle. A hotshot. They were going to give her a lethal overdose, then dump her body somewhere with a needle hanging out of her arm.

  Nobody would be surprised.

  The syringe in Gerasimova’s hand glinted in the light from the other room. Yuri called out something, his mournful tone apparent despite the slurred words.

  Gerasimova turned her head a fraction, as if to answer him.

  Berlin reached inside her coat for the Glock. She sprang off the bed. So did Yorkie. The little dog flew straight at Gerasimova and bit her face. She cried out and careened into Berlin as blood poured from her cheek.

  Berlin staggered, trying to draw the gun with one hand and keep her balance with the other, but she was weak and ill-coordinated. She went down in a heap.

  Through the door, she saw Yuri stumble to his feet.

  Nikki had sat up and was watching Yorkie bouncing up and down, snapping at Maryna. She shouted something in Russian, took a step back, then made a fatal mistake: she kicked out.

  Her boot connected with Yorkie, who yelped as he flew across the room and hit the wall.

  Yuri laughed, briefly. He stopped when Nikki sprang off the bed and threw himself at Gerasimova. She went down hard, next to Berlin.

  Yuri rushed into the room, scrabbling to draw his gun. He had already been drinking when he got to Charlie’s, hence his failure to search Berlin. Now he was utterly drunk.

  Berlin got to her feet, drew the Glock and pointed it at Yuri’s head.

  ‘Drop it,’ she shouted above Gerasimova’s screams.

  Yuri, befuddled, let his gun fall to the floor.

  ‘Kick it over here,’ she demanded.

  He did as he was told.

  Berlin didn’t dare take her eyes off him, but the noise, a rasping gurgle, indicated that Nikki still had Maryna in his grasp.

  Yuri was aghast.

  ‘Stop him, stop him!’ he shouted at Berlin.

  She didn’t know how.

  Suddenly Maryna was silent.

  Nikki stood up. He approached Berlin and for a moment she thought she was next. He stuck out his hand, expectant.

  Berlin felt a surge of fear. Then something clicked. She reached into her coat pocket and there, tucked into a corner, she found the sweet Utkin had given her.

  She dropped it into Nikki’s bloody palm.

  He unwrapped it, popped it into his mouth and let the cellophane wrapper fall to the floor.

  The sickly sweet aroma melded with the scent of drying blood.

  78

  Yuri dropped to his knees and crawled across the room to where Maryna lay.
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  Berlin kept the gun on him, in case his grief suddenly turned to rage. He raised Maryna’s head from the floor, cradled it in his hands, and kissed her.

  Nikki had picked Yorkie up from the corner and carried him into the other room. The little dog was tougher than he looked. He was trembling, but set about licking the blood from Nikki’s hands.

  The only sound was Berlin’s ragged breathing. She struggled to control it, to remain calm and think through her next move.

  If she simply left the apartment, Yuri would soon follow and mobilise half of Moscow’s police to catch her.

  If she called the police herself, it would be Yuri’s word against hers. He would have an answer for everything, if indeed she lived to tell her side of the story.

  She couldn’t rely on Utkin. He had only one motive: catch the killer. It would make little difference to him that the murderer seemed incapable of intent. To a policeman, a result was a result.

  Yuri was kneeling beside Maryna, sobbing now, holding her hand. Berlin took a few steps closer, bringing the gun close to his head.

  She saw his shoulders tense as he waited for the shot.

  The gun wavered in her hand. She drew it back and struck.

  Yuri fell forwards, out for the count.

  Berlin snatched up his weapon, put both guns in her coat pockets, and went into the other room.

  Two mobiles and a wallet lay on the table. She grabbed the phones, emptied the wallet and tore the landline connection from the wall. There was no telling how long it would take Yuri to come round. His colour wasn’t good, but he was still breathing.

  Where were the damn car keys? She checked the kitchen, but there was no sign of them. Finally she was forced to go back into the bedroom, roll Yuri away from Maryna and search her pockets. Bingo.

  She stood up and backed away from the bodies.

  The syringe was still in Maryna’s hand.

  Nikki had been too fast, too powerful and too brutal for her.

  Nikki. What the fuck was she going to do with him? If she left him, she was leaving him to the wolves. He’d go straight to an institution of the sort that Charlie had feared most. He couldn’t fend for himself. He’d die, or go feral.