‘What are you going on about? I haven’t got a bloke, for god’s sake.’ Berlin tried to keep it down, acutely aware of the growing interest of the other residents.
It was pointless. Billy was apoplectic.
‘Bull-fucking-shit! He was there, I saw him. We both did. He was watching your back the whole time. Let me go, you bitch.’
She released his wrists and stepped away, but Billy was on a roll.
‘You think you’re so tough but he was there to protect you. You and him, you were in it together. You fucking killed Kylie!’
35
Twig hadn’t given her a description apart from ‘just some bloke’, who he said was hanging back in the shadows watching her that night.
There was nothing she could do to follow that up right now; the ogre’s confidence would grow with every moment Princess spent alone. When he finally made a serious move a sharp spike wouldn’t keep him at bay.
Berlin knew there could be a problem if Princess recognised the car, but it was a risk she had to take to get the kid out fast.
At that time of night the traffic wasn’t too bad heading away from central London. She drove down Grove Road, through Mile End to Stepney, then veered right at East India Dock Road. At Canning Town she took the fourth exit onto Silvertown Way.
In the distance the soaring towers of docklands glimmered: banks, investment houses, financiers. Masters of the universe who strode across the landscape, never gazing down at the destruction they wrought.
The price of bailing out the strongest had been paid by the weakest. We haven’t come far from the days of baronial tithes extracted from poor tenants, thought Berlin, as she pulled up near the yard.
From the road, the giant, rusty boxes gave no hint of the misery they contained. Out of sight, out of mind.
Sparks drifted up from the pit of a forty-four-gallon drum and again Berlin was assailed by the smell of frying. When had she last eaten? The food in the battered pans had probably been rescued from bins at the back of supermarkets and restaurants, but she knew that real hunger beats squeamishness any day.
People were huddled around their camping stoves, backs to the yard. Privacy was a need in even the most deprived circumstances.
The atmosphere was subdued tonight, apart from the usual distant singing.
She wound her way through the labyrinth to the row of containers where Princess was hiding. The purple plastic was still drawn across the entrance. A good sign.
She tapped on it and glanced over her shoulder.
The ogre’s eyes glinted. He was watching.
‘What?’ said Princess. Not who.
‘It’s me,’ said Berlin.
The plastic slid open.
Princess devoured the chocolate bars Berlin had brought.
‘It’s too dangerous here,’ Berlin said.
‘It’s as safe as anywhere else,’ said Princess, through a mouthful of chocolate. ‘I can handle him,’ she added, meaning the ogre.
Berlin tried another tack.
‘It’s overdue for a raid,’ she said.
Princess stopped chewing and focused.
‘Why would the cops come here?’ she asked.
Berlin was taken aback by the sudden hard edge. The police were a foe to be taken seriously.
‘I should think there would be more than a few people here with outstanding warrants. It would improve the cops clear-up rate without too much effort.’
Princess pondered this.
‘Yeah, but where can we go?’
Berlin felt a surge of optimism at her use of the word ‘we’. Maybe they could just walk out of here together.
‘Couldn’t we try your mum’s?’ said Berlin, keeping it low-key.
‘No,’ said Princess.
‘Why not?’
Princess looked away. The subject was closed.
‘Okay,’ said Berlin. ‘Let’s just go. I know a place. If you don’t like it, we can always come back here.’
A noise outside attracted their attention. Princess put her finger to her lips, commanding silence.
Suddenly there was a loud crack and the air was filled with shards of purple plastic. The ogre filled the gap.
‘She’s not going anywhere,’ he said.
Berlin saw Princess whip the sharpened spike out of the waistband of her jeans and run straight at the ogre with a bloodthirsty war cry. Her intent was plain.
Unsure who she was saving from whom, Berlin launched herself between them and felled the ogre with a tackle that jammed them both in the narrow gap.
She felt Princess scramble over her back as she struggled to hold the ogre down. The close quarters didn’t allow for any punches to be thrown, which was just as well, as he was strong. They tussled, his hands gripping her shoulders, trying to shove her off.
She used her boot for leverage and felt it connect with something soft. He grunted and relaxed his grip for a moment, which gave her a chance to scramble to her feet and take off as fast as she could manage.
A small figure darted out from between two containers.
‘Come on, this way,’ hissed Princess, grabbing her hand. They fled down the narrow passages, deeper into the dark warren.
In the distance, Berlin heard the whump of a muted explosion. A dull orange glare briefly illuminated the slit of sky above them.
She had stumbled into a war zone, but had no idea how to identify the enemy.
36
Rita always enjoyed her chats with Mr B. He brought her a decent class of spirits and didn’t try to fob her off with that supermarket-brand stuff. She had a mature palate and Mr B respected that.
‘She only ever goes as far as the petrol station. Fading away she is. There wasn’t much of her in the first place,’ said Rita. ‘She’s had the odd visitor, if you take my meaning, Mr B. Truck drivers, probably. Cash in hand, I should imagine.’
‘What about the kid, Reet? Seen the kid about?’
‘Not since that night. She shot out of here, like I told you. Not seen the cheeky little bugger since,’ said Rita.
‘Who went after her?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Did anyone chase after her? Mum? Dad?’
Rita shook her head.
‘I should think they were glad to see the back of her. Nothing but trouble.’
Bertie reached into his pocket, unfolded a sheet of paper and handed it to her.
‘Ever see her around?’ he enquired.
Rita peered at the printout from the police computer. She picked up her reading glasses and took a closer look. Above a set of fingerprints was a digital headshot of Limping Woman, glowering.
Rita took off her glasses.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Are you sure, Rita?’ said Bertie.
‘On my life, Mr B.’
It was too much, too soon, and Rita knew it the moment it was out of her mouth.
Bertie’s fist smacked into her temple and knocked her off her chair and onto the floor. Dizzy, ears ringing, Rita tried to crawl under the table, but Bertie grabbed her by the ankles and yanked her out.
‘Let’s try that again,’ said Bertie, snatching up the printout from the floor. ‘Have you ever seen this woman around here? Is she one of Sonja’s visitors?’
Rita nodded. ‘He told me not to say,’ she said.
‘Who? Kennedy?’
She nodded again.
‘And that’s another thing you forgot to tell me about. His special visits.’
Rita knew it didn’t matter what she said now, she was in for it. She knew that look in a man’s eye. Someone was going to cop it. It was going to be her.
‘You take orders from me, Rita, not him. Understand?’
He reinforced the message with a backhander.
Rita’s teeth flew out of her mouth. Her tears mingled with the blood pouring from her nose. She didn’t know what CHIS stood for, but she knew what it meant. There was another word for it in her world, and it wasn’t very complimentary. Deep
down she wasn’t surprised it had come to this.
It was just that the pension didn’t go far these days.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could manage, ‘I’m sor—’
*
Outside the door, Sonja heard Rita’s apology cut short by a series of short, sharp smacks. The stupid old bag should know better. Grassing for those bastards, as well as playing footsie with one behind the other one’s back.
She wasn’t going to hang around to be next on Bertie’s visiting list. On the other hand, she wasn’t supposed to leave the room at night.
A moan from Rita helped Sonja make up her mind.
She tiptoed out of the front door and made for the petrol station. The bloke there was okay. He’d let her hang about for a bit if she bought a Pot Noodle. She had to eat, didn’t she?
37
‘You’re bleeding.’ Princess touched her own neck, indicating the spot.
Berlin put her fingers to the place beneath her jaw. It had been difficult to graft there because of the constant movement. Her hand came away bloody. The collar of her coat was soaked. The scar tissue, already stretched thin, had split during her scuffle with the ogre.
There was a noise behind them. Someone was coming. Berlin felt woozy. She realised she could be losing a lot of blood and would be too weak to fend him off. She put her hand on Princess’s shoulder for support and they took off, Berlin in her awkward fashion, the child jogging just in front of her.
They made it to the last row of containers at the edge of the yard, where the security lights created pockets of illumination. She no longer cared if Princess recognised the car. If she had to flatten the kid to get her into the vehicle she would do it. Whatever it took to get away from the fucking pervert.
They crawled through the container that opened onto the fence. Princess kicked the concrete post aside, they stepped through and hurried across the lumpy, barren wasteland.
Berlin stumbled forwards, blinking to clear her vision. She could see a dull orange glow in the distance. An acrid smell hung in the air. The unmistakable fumes of burnt vinyl and petrol. They slowed down as they approached the smouldering wreck.
Sonja’s car was completely gutted, the buckled chrome still glowing from the intense heat of the fire.
Oh shit, thought Berlin. At least all traces of Cole’s body will be well and truly gone.
And then she fainted.
33˚C
38
Kennedy was woken by the buzz of the mobile under his pillow. It was a text message from Hurley: Billy Steyne dead. Get yr arse down there & keep an i on it frm our end.
Down the hall he could hear his little boy labouring to breathe. He crawled out of bed.
Berlin was woken by a bright light.
‘Feeling better?’ asked the nurse, directing a small torch beam into each of Berlin’s blinking eyes.
The uniform was familiar. The Royal London Hospital. She touched her neck, which was bandaged.
‘You were lucky,’ said the nurse. ‘After the transfusion they packed the wound with a special antibiotic gauze. You won’t need more surgery.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘Your daughter called an ambulance.’
Berlin sat up and looked around. There was no sign of Princess.
‘Don’t worry. She wouldn’t leave your bedside all night, but we persuaded her to go down to the canteen to get some breakfast. You owe me two quid.’
Berlin tried to get out of bed, but the nurse placed a firm hand on her chest and pushed her back, none too gently.
‘If you’re going to leave before a doctor signs you out, you’re not doing it until I’ve gone,’ she said. ‘I’ve worked two straight shifts and I don’t need the bloody grief.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m off in fifteen minutes.’
The nurse left and Berlin tried to think through what had happened.
She needed to find the kid and get them both out of there before anyone started asking questions. She grabbed her phone, threw off the bedclothes and swung her legs out, then realised she was wearing only a white hospital gown. Before she could make another move, a smiling young man approached the bed.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘My name’s Bryan. That’s with a “y”. I’m a social worker. I’ve had a word with your daughter. I understand the two of you have been sleeping rough.’
Bryan perched on the edge of the bed as if they were old friends, and opened his crisp new file. Behind him, at the other end of the ward, Princess peeked around the door.
Berlin could tell Princess had encountered the Bryans of the world before. The kid wasn’t going to get any closer.
‘Can we do this some other time?’ asked Berlin.
Bryan frowned. ‘There are some concerns we need to address – about your daughter’s situation,’ he said.
‘Fine. I just need to go to the toilet,’ she said.
‘Oh, sorry. Yes, of course,’ said Bryan. ‘I’ll be right here.’
Berlin had a vision of herself running through the hospital with her gown flapping open at the back, the escaping lunatic. But when she got out of the ward and turned into the corridor, Princess was standing beside the door marked Ladies clutching a neat, rolled bundle.
Berlin’s cards, cash and front-door key were still tucked in her boot. She found her woolly hat rolled up in the other boot, but the Ziploc bag containing her morphine was gone. The paramedics would have handed it over when she was admitted. If she wanted to leave now, without a fuss and a lot of hassle, she would have to forget about it.
She dressed quickly, then they took the stairs and went out the back way, into the narrow street behind the old part of the hospital. Princess seemed familiar with the area.
Although Rolfey’s clinic was nearby, Berlin doubted it would be open yet. Whatever they’d given her at the hospital was still working. Her pain was under control, but that was all. She would have to come back later.
First, she needed to stow Princess somewhere safe while she worked out how to persuade her that Sonja loved her, or at the very least, that she really wanted her to come home.
After that, she had to get Sonja and Princess out of the country before Kennedy and his obese partner realised Cole wasn’t coming back and they were going to be permanently out of pocket. It would only be a matter of time before they began to wonder how he’d managed to drop out of sight so effectively.
She had never asked Sonja how she’d disposed of the body, but given the state she must have been in at the time, she probably hadn’t done a great job. It was likely to be in the river, which meant Cole would surface eventually.
After the air-conditioned hospital the temperature on the street was oppressive, but Berlin kept her coat on and her collar turned up to hide the bandage around her neck. They were conspicuous enough: a scruffy woman wearing a dusty overcoat, jeans and boots, all black, during a heatwave, and a skinny kid with bleached hair.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Princess.
Berlin wasn’t in the mood for twenty questions. They crossed Whitechapel Road and descended into the Underground. Nobody cared what you looked like down there, as long as you got out of their way.
Berlin grabbed Princess’s hand so she didn’t get lost in the crush and they fought their way onto a train.
‘Berlin,’ said Princess quietly.
Berlin looked down at her.
Princess was at eye-level with some unsuspecting bloke’s back pocket. His wallet protruded. She wiggled her fingers and indicated Berlin should give him a bump while she lifted it.
Berlin glared at her and took hold of her free hand.
Princess shrugged. A missed opportunity.
Berlin sighed, despairing. The progeny of a violent drug dealer and battered junkie mother. Was it any wonder?
Rolfey had lain awake all night, and so arrived at the clinic early. There was already a queue on the concrete ramp. He unlocked the doors and deactivated the alarm. His patients shuffled in behind him.
His instinct was to follow them, but he couldn’t leave his patients waiting. Their desperation trumped his concern. When the receptionist arrived he told her to hold the first client.
He went into his office, shut the door and took out his mobile.
Sonja was woken by a relentless banging. She came around slowly, stiff and cold. The trill of her phone added to the racket. She stumbled to her feet and struggled to open the door.
She had fallen asleep in the petrol-station toilet. As she stepped out an irate truck driver shoved her aside. ‘Fucking junkie,’ he said.
She bounced off the concrete wall and dropped her phone. It stopped ringing.
Rita’s front door was closed. Sonja hesitated: was the nosy old cow lying in there bleeding to death? Not much else would keep her from sentry duty. Then she heard a muffled version of Rita’s usual raucous voice. It sounded as if she was on the phone. So she was alive and conscious.
Sonja tiptoed away. She was tired and irritable, her mouth was dry, her lips were cracked and sore. She felt feverish, but it wasn’t the flu.
She unlocked her door and slipped inside. A snarl greeted her. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
‘Nowhere. The petrol station,’ she said. Her back was to the door, but there was no point in running.
‘Who have you been talking to?’ came the demand.
‘No one.’
The air was rank with menace.
‘Give me your phone.’
39
Berlin rang the bell to avoid smudging the highly polished brass knocker. The windows of the neat corner terrace were clean, the net curtains spotless.
The door was opened by a woman who appeared to be on her way to an important appointment. Her grey hair was permed, she wore modest gold jewellery and her blouse was crisply pressed. Her bearing was erect, her lipstick fresh. She was old, but it was impossible to guess how old. That was the way she liked it.
A Bitter Taste Page 10
