‘He banked it,’ said Berlin.
‘Da,’ said Utkin. ‘He banked it. When he needed an assassin, he used it. He needed someone who could never betray him. Nikita was perfect. And Charlotte was, well . . .’
‘Desperate,’ said Berlin. ‘He promised her passports. She was very ill. Her lungs.’
She felt compelled to defend Charlie. God only knew why.
Utkin shrugged. ‘I didn’t know it was that bad,’ he said.
‘She wanted to take Nikki back to England,’ said Berlin.
‘And that’s where he’s going,’ said Utkin. ‘Russian prison would kill him. You understand. Give me Yuri’s gun.’
She handed it over.
Utkin patted her down. He stepped back and looked her in the eye, then raised his arm.
The floodlights died.
Berlin caught a faint but familiar smell.
‘I’m sorry, Katarina Berlinskaya,’ said Utkin. ‘I am afraid I have traded you for my son’s future. A man telephoned me and made an offer . . .’
‘I’ll take it from here,’ someone growled.
90
Magnus had taken Peggy Berlin along as his ace-in-the-hole; Teddy Ashbourne couldn’t ignore a real, live constituent, even on the second day of the New Year. Hangovers had not yet worn off, but Magnus had worn out his welcome everywhere.
Peggy had seemed unconvinced at first; she was somewhat sceptical of how much clout a backbench opposition MP might wield. But she took Magnus’s point that if she was present Ashbourne would at least listen.
They needed someone on the inside if they were to have any chance of pressing Berlin’s case; Magnus knew that all other doors were now closed to them. He ushered Peggy into the office. Sure enough, the beaming Member greeted her warmly. ‘Mrs Berlin, is it?’ he said, pumping her hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you. Happy New Year.’
‘Hardly,’ said Magnus.
Ashbourne turned to Magnus with less enthusiasm.
‘Hello, Magnus,’ he said.
Magnus sat with Peggy on one side of Ashbourne’s gargantuan desk, which was piled high with books and papers.
Ashbourne sat on the other side with a thin manila folder occupying the small space that was left in front of him. It all conveyed that Ashbourne was a busy man.
Magnus sighed.
Ashbourne focused on Peggy. A voter.
‘So you haven’t heard from your daughter since before Christmas?’ he enquired, solicitous.
‘No,’ said Peggy.
Magnus could see the dark circles under her eyes, the evidence of endless nights of worry.
Ashbourne turned to Magnus, who noted the change of tone. ‘Ms Berlin has, of course, been named publicly as your source.’
‘And to date we haven’t heard a thing from the powers that be,’ said Magnus. ‘Why are they sitting on their hands, Teddy? This dear lady’s daughter is missing and . . .’
‘Indeed,’ said Ashbourne, loftily. ‘That’s the whole problem. You heard my speech in Parliament, and the prime minister’s reply.’ He looked pained. ‘I’ve been to the Foreign Office, the Home Office and the Metropolitan Police. They all say the same thing. There’s nothing they can do until Ms Berlin returns to London.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Peggy, surprising Magnus.
‘Because she’s the only witness to the alleged events at the Park Royal warehouse,’ said Ashbourne. ‘The premises have been inspected. There’s nothing there. There’s no evidence whatsoever, no documents, no CCTV, no other witness, to support any of the allegations.’
‘What about this Peter Green?’ said Magnus. ‘You’ve read my sworn statement.’
‘I’m afraid SO15 don’t set much store by it, Magnus. On your own admission you didn’t actually see what happened at Carmichael’s.’
‘That’s true,’ blustered Magnus. ‘But —’
‘There’s nothing to put you, or Peter Green, whoever he might be, in the house at that time,’ said Ashbourne. ‘Or to confirm that he kept you “incarcerated”, as you like to put it. There’s only your word for it.’
‘Why on earth would I lie?’ said Magnus.
‘It makes a very good story,’ said Ashbourne. ‘It’s the boy who cried wolf, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s preposterous,’ protested Magnus.
Ashbourne opened the manila file and scanned it.
‘There’s no record of anyone called Peter Green, Magnus,’ said the MP. ‘Hirst denies all knowledge of him.’
‘That’s bloody ludicrous. Someone must know who he is,’ said Magnus.
‘I’m sorry, but there it is. Burghley has nothing on record to confirm his involvement. Its employees have signed the Official Secrets Act and can’t even divulge what they had for breakfast. The government has no record of this particular Peter Green even existing.’
‘What about Catherine?’ said Peggy.
‘As I said, Mrs Berlin, nothing can be done until she comes home.’
‘But that’s just it – she’s missing,’ said Peggy. It was clear she was having trouble holding back her tears.
Ashbourne stood up and closed his file.
‘We understand that there was a problem,’ he mumbled. ‘With drugs.’
He walked to the door and opened it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Peggy felt a little unsteady. A gusty, cold wind whipped her legs as she stood beside Mr Nkonde on the pavement. He offered her his arm. He was still a gentleman, despite what the MP had said. And the MP hadn’t been sorry at all. It was written all over his face.
Two policemen were getting out of a car. They put on their caps as they approached. Another policeman, and a policewoman, were striding towards them from the other direction.
Before she knew what was happening one of the policemen had elbowed her out of the way, and he and his colleague had grabbed Mr Nkonde.
‘Magnus Nkonde, I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiring to commit misconduct in a public office,’ he said.
He kept speaking, and Mr Nkonde started shouting, but Peggy couldn’t take in what they were saying. She glanced back to see if the MP could help, but his door was firmly closed. The next moment the policewoman took her tightly by the arm and steered her towards a police car that had pulled up on the pavement. ‘Let’s get you home,’ she said.
Mr Nkonde was struggling with the two policemen. He was still shouting, but the traffic drowned him out. The policewoman put her in the back of the car and jumped in too. She nodded at the driver and the car took off.
Alone in her kitchen, Peggy sat at the table with a cup of tea to steady her nerves. She couldn’t believe it; her arm was quite bruised. It had all seemed so unnecessary; to think that the British police could behave in that fashion.
But more than anything she was shaken by what the MP had said: Catherine was a drug addict.
Her tea went cold.
91
Utkin and the man who had emerged from the darkness shook hands in a perfunctory fashion: the man Berlin had last seen at Park Royal wearing a supervisor’s badge.
He and Utkin were conversing in Russian. Utkin took a package from inside his coat and handed it over.
Berlin glimpsed the evidence bags that contained her passport and buprenorphine.
The supervisor took a passport from his pocket and gave it to Utkin, who inspected it closely, then slipped it in Nikki’s pocket. He had brought the little suitcase.
He kissed his son on both cheeks and whispered something in his ear. Nikki took the suitcase and Yorkie from him and went to stand beside the stranger.
‘He can’t take the dog,’ the supervisor said.
‘I would advise not to try and stop him,’ said Utkin.
The supervisor frowned.
‘Did you search her?’ he said, indicating Berlin.
‘Very likely,’ said Utkin. He held up Yuri’s gun.
Berlin looked at him. ‘Remember your grandfather’s tears,’ he said, and touched his
shoulder.
‘Okay,’ said the supervisor. ‘That’s enough. My car’s not far, just this side of the border.’
‘There will be no problem?’ asked Utkin.
‘No. We train the border guards. Their jobs depend on us.’ He turned to Berlin. ‘Let’s get going.’
Berlin hesitated, but she had run out of options; she started walking.
The supervisor followed, with Nikki at his side.
Berlin glanced back at Utkin.
The snow fell like a curtain between them.
Instead of taking a straight line across the field to the Latvian border, the supervisor steered them towards the forest. Berlin knew this wasn’t the route he had taken on the way in; he had left the faint trail of his footprints.
Nikki had not said another word since he had greeted his father. He kept pace. Following orders.
Gloveless, Berlin kept her hands in her pockets. Sweat soaked into her thermals. The frigid air seared her lungs. The wind dropped as they walked into the dense wood of silver birch. The drifts were fewer, but deeper. Exhausted, she stumbled and fell.
The supervisor stood over her.
Berlin was aware of him glancing around. His eyes had a glazed, spaced-out look. A look she recognised. The smoky smell that hung around him came back to her. Opium.
It would make him careless, unguarded. For a while.
Berlin gestured; she needed a moment to rest.
The supervisor stamped his feet against the cold.
Nikki stood perfectly still.
‘It was you who sent me out here when I wouldn’t take your bloody fifty quid,’ said Berlin. ‘Did you know Gerasimov was already dead?’
The supervisor stared at her. For a moment she thought he was just going to tell her to shut her mouth. But then he shook his head, no. Of course they didn’t know.
‘He betrayed his wife’s operation in London,’ said Berlin.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said the supervisor. ‘We knew all about it.’
Berlin watched him slip into the garrulous state so typical of the stoned. Vague one moment, chatty the next.
‘We told British intelligence,’ he said. ‘But they didn’t want to know. Not in the national interest. They just asked us to make sure nothing leaked out. Then you came along.’
He frowned, suddenly edgy. The fairy dust was leaving his brain.
‘Who exactly do you work for?’ said Berlin.
‘The highest bidder,’ he said. ‘Now get up.’
Berlin struggled to her feet. The snow had soaked into her boots and she could feel it freezing between her toes.
Nikki stood motionless, snow drifting around him, waiting to be told to move again.
Berlin shuffled forwards.
The supervisor was taking them deeper into the forest. He beckoned Nikki and they all trudged on. The wind and fatigue made it difficult to talk, but Berlin was determined to keep up the conversation.
‘When did you realise I was still alive?’
‘When I heard my boss had taken extended leave.’
‘Did she work for the Russians?’
The supervisor laughed. ‘These intelligence types have more in common with each other than their political masters. And they regard people like us as disposable.’
People like us? Christ. Berlin felt a surge of indignation.
‘I know what was delivered to the warehouse,’ she said. It was petulant, but she had nothing to lose.
‘Yeah?’ he said, apparently unconcerned.
‘Dead Chechens,’ said Berlin.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Colonel Gerasimova.’
‘She lied.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Berlin.
‘They were still alive,’ he said.
Berlin couldn’t see his face. The wind moaned and hurled packed snow from the treetops. Branches groaned and snapped under the strain. It sounded like gunfire.
While she had sat there peering at the control room monitor, dicking about with the computer, checking schedules, people were being murdered. In front of her very eyes. In a nondescript warehouse on a bleak industrial estate four days before Christmas.
‘How many?’ said Berlin.
‘Five,’ he said.
Blood thundered in her ears. She remembered the tears in Zayde’s eyes. He whispered in his gravelly accent. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll pay.’ He slid a finger across his throat and gave her a solemn wink. They shared a special, scary secret.
Berlin realised she couldn’t feel her feet. She was putting one in front of the other, moving in lockstep with the supervisor, as if they were tied together.
‘And they – the government – just let the killers leave the country?’ she said.
‘They,’ said the supervisor. He sneered. ‘They weren’t very keen on the Chechens either.’
‘Why not just ship them out?’ said Berlin.
‘Human rights,’ said the supervisor. ‘It took them ten years to get rid of Abu Qatada. If you liquidate a few it puts the others off trying.’
‘But what was the point if it was a secret?’ said Berlin.
‘Their comrades knew. The message was clear: we can get you, anytime, anywhere. No-one is going to do a damn thing about it.’
‘So it was win-win,’ said Berlin. ‘For the British, the Russians . . .’
‘But not for me. I have to clean up the mess.’
He meant her.
It took an enormous effort to keep moving. She glanced at Nikki, plodding along. ‘You promised Utkin you’d look after his son,’ said Berlin. ‘Will you?’
‘Why don’t you just shut up, Berlin?’ he said. ‘You’re a fucking smart-arse.’
His smile was a snarl, as cold as the black night.
‘Smart enough to suss out a prick like you,’ she said.
‘You know nothing, you stupid bitch, or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘I know you’re a junkie and a killer,’ said Berlin.
He stopped and turned to face her.
The wind howled around them. It threw up tiny shards of ice that scored Berlin’s face. She watched him, caught in the same maelstrom. He didn’t flinch.
‘I wondered why those two men just stood there outside the warehouse after they’d finished unloading, having a smoke,’ she said. ‘They were waiting for you to come back.’
His eyes were black pits.
Berlin took a step, stumbled and went down on one knee in a deep drift.
The supervisor twitched and wiped his face with his hand. She’d managed to piss him off. He seemed about to speak, then reached inside his jacket.
Berlin was still on one knee. She tried to stand, wobbled and held out her hand.
He instinctively grabbed it to steady her.
A shot rang out.
92
For a moment Del didn’t recognise the wasted, dishevelled figure that got out of the car. The border guard started waving his arms and shouting at her in Latvian; her vehicle was blocking the traffic.
Berlin took a few awkward steps and collapsed.
Del ran to her as a solidly built young man got out of the passenger seat, clutching a little dog. He stood between Del and Berlin. It was a protective gesture.
Del skirted around him and knelt down. He gently lifted Berlin’s head out of the snow. The front of her coat was wet. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said.
The young man stood very close, peering down, reading Del’s face, as if he was trying to discern his motives.
Berlin opened her eyes. They were clear, but she was far away. Her face and hands were cracked with frostbite.
She gripped Del’s arm and tried to lever herself up.
‘Stay still,’ said Del. ‘There’s blood everywhere.’
‘It’s okay, Del,’ she croaked. ‘It’s not mine.’
Fagan lay in the forest, eyes wide, fixed on the treetops. The wind shook a branch, which shed a layer of snow on him. The buprenorphine was in his pocket. It would still be ther
e when spring arrived.
93
Bella opened her front door as Berlin reached the landing. It had taken her a while to hobble up the stairs. She had spent ten days in a Latvian hospital with a drip stuck in her arm. Her feet and hands were still bandaged from the frostbite.
‘What happened to you?’ asked Bella. She had a parcel tucked under her arm.
‘Don’t ask,’ said Berlin, fumbling to unlock her door.
Bella came over and gave her a hand. ‘It’s only just started,’ she said. ‘Bad luck’s going to follow you all year. You haven’t taken down your Christmas decorations.’
Berlin laughed.
‘Here,’ said Bella. She handed Berlin a parcel. ‘The postman left this for you yesterday. It’s good to have you back, love.’
‘Thanks, Bella,’ she said. ‘It’s good to be here.’
Berlin retrieved the emergency bottle of Talisker from under the sink and opened it with difficulty. The Yule log was on the table, a tired seasonal centrepiece. Del hadn’t sent it. She swept it off the table.
One of the bright red holly berries chinked as it struck the square of tiles that were her kitchen floor.
She stomped on it.
Hirst had forgotten to include a greeting card with their listening device.
A long, hot bath had helped ease the pain in her blackened fingers and toes. A couple of double Scotches hadn’t hurt, either. Now that was her only vice: a normal habit.
Her new mobile, courtesy of Burghley, burbled. She picked it up.
‘Settling in?’ said Del.
‘There’s no place like home,’ said Berlin. ‘How are things?’
‘Can’t complain,’ said Del.
The Burghley partners had expressed their gratitude to Del with a new title and a bigger salary. Hush money. Burghley’s reputation was intact, and, in their business reputation was everything.
‘How’s our friend?’ said Berlin.
‘He seems happy enough. Who knows? They’ve found a place that’s secure. The therapists are going to try to “unlock” him.’
‘I hope they’ve got plenty of sherbet lemons,’ said Berlin. ‘What about the dog?’
‘Still in quarantine,’ said Del. ‘Have you seen the business pages?’
A Morbid Habit Page 25
