Rolfey sank into his chair and put his head in his hands.
‘I just can’t stand to see them suffer,’ he said, defeated.
She watched carefully for any hint of manipulation or deceit. It wasn’t there. She believed him. He had to deal constantly with the misery the law caused and she was unsurprised that he could be driven to break it.
But she was unmoved.
She stared at the prescription in her hand. Now she had something on him that she could leverage to her advantage. More caps. The temptation made her palms sweat.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘For now.’
She would bank it.
Rolfey grimaced.
‘What was your impression of the kid?’ asked Berlin.
He seemed surprised by the question.
‘As smart as a whip,’ he said. ‘But a bit . . . ’ he hesitated.
Berlin pointed to her temple. ‘Touched?’ she said.
Rolfey shook his head, no. ‘Unpredictable,’ he said.
On her way home Berlin contemplated the often-fraught relationships between mothers and daughters, of which she had firsthand experience. Sonja had practically said Princess was mental; Rolfey’s more objective assessment was simply that she behaved erratically. It seemed that Rolfey had a higher opinion of the kid than her mother. And he was a shrink, after all.
Mothers and sons were different. Mrs Demir seemed in thrall to Murat, who had no doubt been brought up as a little prince. Berlin had to tell Mr Demir the truth. But his asthma had apparently taken a turn for the worse, probably stress, and her news wasn’t going to help.
There was something going on in the Demir household; perhaps the son was aware of his mum’s infidelity and was using it against her, or he knew and felt disgust or shame. Or all of the above. Whatever it was, she reminded herself, it was outside the scope of her instructions, if she could dignify them with that term.
As she made her way slowly up the worn, stone stairs to her flat, her limp reminded her to leave it alone this time. It was none of her business.
She unlocked her front door, went inside and dropped the local paper on the table. The headline screamed ‘Girl Dead Under Bridge’. Her heart juddered. She was too late.
It was thought that the girl had been in the tunnel crevice for at least twenty-four hours. She had been found by a dog that had run off during an early morning walk on the towpath. Its owner, an elderly man, was receiving treatment for shock. Police were appealing to the public for assistance in identifying the girl.
Berlin grabbed the old photo of Princess and walked out again, slamming the door behind her.
17
Getting into a police station these days was harder than getting out. Berlin had to state her business into an intercom, wait while a camera focused on her, and then step through an airport-style scanner. Luckily she didn’t have the Asp on her. It was legal to own it, but it was an offensive weapon on the street.
The vestibule, which acted like an airlock before you actually made it to the counter, was lined with plastic seats attached to the wall. Only one was vacant. Access to justice was carefully controlled.
Someone had forgotten to install air conditioning and the atmosphere was heavy with the scent of the street: fear, anger and defiance. A couple clutched each other and sobbed. Five youths sat in a row, knees bobbing, faces blank. Meeting their bail conditions. A young woman with a black eye flicked the top of her cigarette packet in an incessant, desperate rhythm.
Berlin took a number from the electronic dispenser and sat on the spare chair. She touched the photo of Princess in her pocket.
Beyond the plexiglass wall that separated them from the guardians of law and order, she could see harassed officers bent over computers, tightly packed desks piled high with documents, walls and floors littered with cables, boxes of kit shoved against peeling walls.
The hi-tech secure waiting room had been bolted on to a crumbling structure that couldn’t accommodate twenty-first-century wiring, let alone twenty-first-century policing.
Berlin watched as two plainclothes officers, a man and a woman, led a boy through the warren of desks. The boy’s face was buried in his hands and his shoulders trembled. The male officer went ahead, clearing a path. The female officer gently put her arm around the youth as his knees buckled. The man held a door at the back of the office open and the woman helped the youth through. It was Twig.
Berlin stood up slowly. Girl dead under bridge. She crossed the space with calm, deliberate steps. She stood in front of the automatic exit and waited for the motion detector to register her presence and release the door. A lifetime passed as she waited for it to open.
The movement of the train was comforting. Berlin needed time to process what she’d seen at the police station, to make sense of it.
The dead girl wasn’t Princess. It was Twig’s sister. Strangled and dumped the same night that Berlin had done her Dirty Harriet act. From the way the police were treating him it was clear the brother wasn’t a suspect.
What were the chances that, with an arm that was probably broken, the creep had gone after the girl and killed her, for revenge or to get his money back? Almost nil. He was more likely to have spent the rest of the night in hospital.
A random robbery didn’t fit the facts either. Too much of a coincidence after her intervention. Those kids were smart enough not to go flashing cash about on the street late at night.
The other option was a random punter. But that explanation didn’t really withstand scrutiny either. With that much cash in her pocket, the girl would have been more likely to take the rest of the night off.
Berlin couldn’t avoid the conclusion that her own actions and the girl’s murder were linked. She had handed the girl five hundred quid and a death sentence.
If she went to the police and gave them Derek Parr’s ID all she was doing was presenting evidence that she’d assaulted him. If Parr was smart he’d have reported a mugging by someone who looked nothing like Berlin. He wouldn’t want his mugger found.
Twig would be shit-scared, as well as grief-stricken. If he said too much, he would think he was going to land himself in it. He wouldn’t realise that in pursuit of a murderer the police would overlook his relatively minor offences. Would he mention ‘the nice lady’?
If Twig and his sister had gone to buy drugs that night, he wouldn’t burn a connection, someone he might need in the future. That same someone could do to him what they did to his sister. He wouldn’t trust the police. But he might trust her. She was a civilian and she understood how his world worked.
A robotic voice announced they had arrived at Pontoon Dock. Berlin stood up. Her sense of guilt might be irrational, but it would be inescapable unless she did something to help catch the girl’s killer. She would find Twig and have a quiet word. If she came up with something, she’d hand it on to the police.
She stepped out onto the deserted platform and realised she had got here on autopilot. The girl’s murder had put Princess’s situation into sharp relief. Sonja had to go to the police.
If she refused, Berlin would report it herself.
18
Kennedy ruminated on the fact that Bertie had him sitting in the back of a stinking hotbox of a van in Silvertown when he should have been off-duty.
It was funny how it was always him doing this sort of thing. Bertie saved himself for the high-end stuff, like belting people. Kennedy didn’t have the stomach for it. Occasions when his own buttons were pushed were rare, but when they were it could get ugly.
He raised the telephoto lens and peered through the tinted back window at the building down the road. It was quiet, apart from a lone figure limping across the gravel towards the portico. There was no sign of a vehicle or a departing mini-cab, so she must have walked from the DLR station. Kennedy tightened focus.
It was the woman he’d noticed the other day crouching against the wall, watching the place. He took
a few shots just before she disappeared around the back of the building. Probably another junkie looking for a connection. Good luck, love, he thought, that’s what we’re all waiting for. He was bored half to death. Maybe he would take a closer look.
The dog tied to the skip didn’t even bother to stand up this time. Berlin knew the feeling: it had lost heart.
Any child with Sonja for a mother must be a survivor, but however tough she was, a kid could only avoid the predators for so long. That fact was now abundantly clear. Berlin was acutely aware of institutional failures when it came to child protection, which was why so many kids chanced it on the street. But if Princess were murdered, maimed, or raped, could Berlin say, hand on heart, it had nothing to do with her? She had been a fool to go along with Sonja.
The dog was stretched out on the gravel, tongue lolling. An old bucket lay on its side nearby. She walked over. The dog managed a listless wag of its tail. It was thin and dehydrated. She picked up the bucket, then went and tapped on Sonja’s window.
‘Any news?’ asked Sonja, looking past Berlin as she slid the window up. As if she expected the kid to be standing there.
Berlin thrust the bucket at her.
‘Fill it,’ she said.
Sonja’s room stank of despair. She sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed. Berlin stood over her.
‘You have to go the police,’ said Berlin, for the third time. ‘She’s just too young to leave it any longer.’
Sonja still didn’t respond.
‘Sonja, are you listening to me?’ said Berlin softly, and sat down beside her. She didn’t want to bring up the fate of Twig’s sister; it would freak Sonja out too much. But she had to make her see sense.
‘I’m listening,’ said Sonja.
Berlin saw snot dribble from Sonja’s nose. She reached out to the weeping woman, her hand coming to rest lightly on Sonja’s trembling shoulder. She gave it a squeeze. It was the best she could do. Then she stood abruptly and walked to the window, which she’d left open in order to get some air circulating in the rank room.
The dog was on its feet now, lapping at the water in the bucket.
‘Whose dog?’ she asked.
Sonja sniffed and wiped her face on her T-shirt. ‘It’s just some bloody stray Princess brought home. I told her to get rid of it but she never took any notice of me. Rita won’t have animals in the place.’
‘Rita? The crone who does sentry duty at the front?’
‘Yeah. She’s the landlady. She doesn’t own the place. She works for the owner. I think she gets her flat for free. Calls herself the “conserger”. Stupid old bat.’
Berlin watched the dog.
‘Who feeds it?’
‘She did. Princess. It followed her everywhere. But now, well. since she’s been gone, to tell you the truth . . .’
The mutt must be starving, thought Berlin.
19
Silvertown was built on a limb of reclaimed marshland beside the Thames. Three royal docks came later: the Victoria, the Albert and the King George V.
The docks had been silent for years, unruffled rectangular fingers of water that protruded into a landscape of abandoned warehouses, towering edifices that once housed industrial plant.
Brick ramparts were punctuated by grids of blank, broken windows. Warrens of rusted gantry sheltered pigeons and the occasional heron. These ghosts of industry were skirted by acres of cracked concrete, exposing its skeleton of twisted iron rebar. It was a Special Enterprise Zone.
Britannia Village, a social housing complex, had been built at one end of the limb and the City Airport at the other. Between them was Pontoon Dock, which boasted the Thames Barrier, Lyle Park and luxury apartments on the riverside. The other side of the road boasted waste-disposal facilities, a chemical works and an animal by-products factory.
Rita Braverman sat staring at the TV screen. She had lived in Silvertown all her life. A fan of Law and Order – it was one of her favourite shows – Rita’s own relationship with the police had had its ups and downs over the years. The down part had involved three years for receiving in the sixties.
The rest of the gang, including her dear departed hubby, had done five to ten for armed robbery. He was never the same after he came out. She’d brought her boys up alone. But that was all in the past, along with victories in the World Cup, milkmen and proper telephone boxes. She especially missed the milkmen.
She was retired now, although she had been left to drag up her grandson Terry, a boy who wasn’t the full quid really. He had his uses – he had grown into a strong lad – but he was a lazy little blighter and she had to keep an eye on him.
She was semi-retired in point of actual fact, because she had her various duties. The extras made a big difference. Information was what the modern economy was all about. She’d seen it on the telly. There was a market for it and no mistake. Her client list was growing.
The party of the first part in the back room had been very quiet of late. Rita made a note in her diary, which she kept in her voluminous dressing-gown pocket. The actual time of comings and goings wasn’t her strong suit, particularly after lunch, so she had taken to writing things down straightaway. She liked to employ proper language in her records, to make it seem more official-like. No names, no pack drill was the rule.
She had watched that gimp in black take the dog and now she made a note. She was using the initials LW, Limping Woman, for her. The party of the first part was up to something, no doubt, and Limping Woman was involved. She would find out, she had her ways and means. It was just a matter of time.
One day, and it could be soon, the planets would line up and she would make that special phone call. Then her ship would finally come in.
Berlin let the dog lead her down a path through an industrial estate to a stretch of bare, dusty earth and rampant thistles beside the river, well demarcated from the landscaped gardens around the new estates.
The dog was thin but lively, clearly glad to be out and racing towards bins it knew would contain the desiccated remnants of burgers and fried chicken. Berlin let it have a good scavenge, then gave it a tug – they were moving on. The dog took off and she tramped across the wasteland behind it.
In the distance she could see a dark shape, a profile of sharp lines etched against the pale yellow murk of the sky. The effect was of broken battlements but, as the clouds moved and the light changed, the image resolved into stacks of shipping containers. The dog was heading that way.
As they got closer she saw three figures coming from the opposite direction, ambling towards the yard. She watched, shading her eyes not from the sun, but against the opaque glare of dust and heat. The figures moved towards a fence and then seemed to melt into it.
Berlin blinked and scanned for a gate, or a sign of one – a veil of dust kicked up by a gate opening and closing. But there was nothing. The people had just disappeared.
By the time she and the dog were close enough to actually touch the fence the sweat was stinging her eyes and her clothes were thick with dust.
The fence was heavy-duty chain link, at least eight feet high, solidly attached to concrete posts at regular intervals. It enclosed acres of abandoned shipping containers, rusted and broken, some stacks three and four containers high.
She stood very still. The dog collapsed into a heap at her feet and rolled onto its back. Playtime. Berlin ignored it. She couldn’t hear any sound coming from beyond the fence. There was no sign of the people she had watched walk through it. She walked on, forcing the dog to its feet.
They followed the fence to a dirt track where double gates topped with barbed wire were secured by thick, padlocked chains. A faded sign forbade entry.
There seemed to be no way in except through the gate. But the people she’d seen hadn’t had time to unlock and then re-secure all those chains and padlocks. She looked at the dog, which was obviously familiar with the place.
‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘How do we get in?’
But if the
dog knew it wasn’t saying. It gazed up at her, tongue lolling, eyes bright and ready to continue the game. Useless.
There was only a foot of space between the fence and the first row of containers, which formed a solid wall across the gate and around the entire perimeter. It took her and the dog forty minutes to walk all the way around.
There didn’t seem to be an inch of space left in the yard. The trucks that delivered the containers must have stopped coming a long time ago. But she was certain she’d seen people go in.
She’d just have to wait for them to come out.
20
Before his official shift began at three, Kennedy had to meet Bertie in the canteen for a quick cuppa and heads-up on the day’s events.
Once upon a time the canteen had been a bustling place with proper hot food prepared by a cook who knew everyone’s favourites. When you came off a long night she would cook your bacon crispy and your scrambled eggs soft, with hot, sweet tea in a thick, white china mug.
Now there were just bloody machines dispensing weak espresso and soggy salads, in plastic containers that tasted better than their contents. Bertie never stopped moaning about it: the good old days when there was respect and decent, subsidised grub.
Kennedy missed the warm, supportive environment of the canteen as much as the food, but he was more adaptable. He had to be, given his domestic situation. Bertie never mentioned his home life and Kennedy doubted he had one.
‘Mate, there’s the bad news and the very bad news,’ said Bertie.
Kennedy sipped his tea, which tasted like boiled cabbage water. He’d already done a day’s work and now he was about to start another. He was so over it.
‘You’ve been reassigned,’ said Bertie. ‘To Hurley’s crew.’ Bertie grimaced.
Kennedy struggled to contain his delight. This might be his opportunity to extricate himself from Bertie without pissing him off and unleashing all sorts of unintended consequences.
A Bitter Taste Page 5
