She glanced at Berlin. ‘Hello,’ she said, then looked down at Princess. ‘And who’s this pretty fairy?’
‘Princess,’ said Princess.
‘I’m Peggy. Do you like cakes?’
Princess seemed bewildered by this adult: she addressed her as if she were a child, so Princess tried to act like one. ‘I do like cakes, thank you,’ she stuttered. Berlin thought the kid might curtsey.
‘Well, you’d better come in then,’ said Peggy, and extended her hand. Princess stared at it.
She looked up at Berlin, who shrugged.
Princess took Peggy’s hand and the two of them walked off down the hallway.
‘Hello,’ said Berlin. ‘My name’s . . .’
‘Shut the door behind you,’ called Peggy.
Berlin sat on a stool, sipped her tea and watched Princess through a hatch that opened onto the dining room. She was staring at a jigsaw puzzle with wonder, as if she’d never seen one before. It occurred to Berlin that maybe she hadn’t. What she would make of ‘The Hay Wain’ as it emerged from one thousand pieces Berlin could only imagine.
‘Keeping busy?’ said Peggy.
Berlin sighed. ‘You?’ she asked.
Peggy gave a hollow laugh. ‘I’m not exactly rushed off my feet. It’s not as if I have grandchildren to babysit.’
Berlin couldn’t believe she was going to start on this so soon.
‘Princess will cure you of that aspiration,’ she said.
‘I thought you were joking when you rang. Ten years old. Where are her parents?’
‘Does it make any difference?’ said Berlin. ‘She needs a safe place and I can’t watch her all the time. I’ve got some arrangements to make, and then I’ll come back to get her. Okay?’
‘Oh it’s easy come, easy go with you. As always.’
‘Can she stay or not?’ said Berlin.
‘What choice do you give me? She’s an innocent child caught up in one of your shenanigans, I suppose,’ said Peggy, looking pointedly at Berlin’s attire. ‘I can’t let her suffer.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Berlin. ‘My shenanigans, as you refer to them, happen to be how I make a living.’ For a moment she thought better of it; it was a stupid idea. But she had to get going and there was no one else she could trust with the kid.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Don’t let her out of the house, and don’t tell anyone you’ve got her.’ Passing over the Battenburg and jam tarts, she grabbed a handful of chocolate bourbon biscuits and stuffed them in her pocket. ‘And watch out, she’s a bit . . . unpredictable.’
‘Are you going to say goodbye to her?’ asked Peggy.
Berlin slid the hatch closed and left the kitchen.
Princess looked up as she heard the front door shut.
‘She had to go, but she’ll be back for you soon. We’re going to have a lovely time. Come with me,’ said Peggy.
Princess followed her up the stairs to a landing with three doors.
‘That’s the bathroom,’ she said. ‘That’s my room, and this is yours.’
She opened a door and ushered Princess inside. The single bed was crowded with teddy bears. Books and games were piled high on a bookshelf, and the walls were covered with old posters of pop stars and bands.
‘Jimmy Page,’ exclaimed Princess, pointing at a life-size poster in psychedelic colours.
She ran across the room, leapt onto the bed and played a wild air-guitar riff. ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ she screamed. ‘Led Zeppelin! The greatest fucking rock band in the universe!’
The bears scattered.
40
Kennedy had a problem with dead children. They reminded him too much of the fragility of his own son. He didn’t want to look at Billy Steyne’s body; as wasted as it had been in life, it was even less substantial in death.
He returned to the front of the building, where the denizens of the shelter were lined up, ready for interview. The uniforms had taken the names of everyone who had seen Billy last night, and sorted out anyone who had something of value to say.
They were all of No Fixed Abode, so it was a matter of getting to them now, before they wandered off and joined the anonymous, transient mass of the London homeless.
Three detectives were sitting at makeshift tables, working their way through the standard questions. Kennedy was there as liaison. A different team would conduct the enquiries.
It wasn’t even clear yet that the circs were suspicious, but given the recent death of his sister, the local team would treat it as such. If it was murder, you’d have to think the two were linked.
Kennedy listened at each table. The wits were all telling the same basic story: Billy was seen arguing with a woman. After that, no one remembered seeing him again. A profound sense of unease came over Kennedy as he listened to the witnesses describe her. When his mobile rang he answered, still preoccupied with what he had heard.
‘Yeah?’ he said, distracted.
‘Khan here.’ Khan was the Crime Scene Manager on the Kylie Steyne case. ‘There’s something from the scene you should take a look at.’ Khan cleared his throat. ‘Something that was missed the first time round,’ he said, apologetic.
Kennedy wasn’t surprised. The so-called experts had missed a body in the attic of a suspect a couple of months ago.
‘Hurley’s on his way,’ said Khan.
‘Okay. I have to have a word with someone first,’ said Kennedy. ‘I’ll meet you at the lab.’
En route to Bethnal Green, Kennedy tried to estimate how long it would be before one of the detectives on Billy’s case read the boy’s statement about his sister’s murder, and put his description of ‘the nice lady’ together with the descriptions of the woman seen arguing with him at the shelter last night.
Kennedy was the only point of contact between the two cases: he was the conduit, and in theory he should report the similarity of the descriptions immediately. Which was the last thing he was going to do. The problem was, it wouldn’t take Einstein to go the extra mile and review the file on Kylie. Then the hunt for the unknown woman would get serious.
The first question would be why Kennedy didn’t notice the ‘coincidence’ of the two distinctive descriptions. The next question would be how exactly ‘the nice lady’ had found Billy.
The team would be busy for a while, tied up with the witnesses at the shelter. But sooner or later someone would put the two descriptions together, if Billy’s post-mortem revealed evidence of foul play.
He died with a needle in his arm, and if the results didn’t indicate violence, it would get written off as an accidental overdose. The brass would jump at the chance to pull the resources devoted to someone as insignificant as Billy.
It was all about politics, perception and the so-called public conversation. Law and order rhetoric was popular, but serious policing cost real money. Kennedy had to keep his fingers crossed that it wouldn’t be spent on Billy Steyne.
It was callous, but if Berlin was picked up she might name Kennedy as the source of her information about Billy’s location. That would lead to questions about how Kennedy found her, and why he kept it quiet.
The whole fucking house of cards would come tumbling down.His and Bertie’s connection to Cole and Sonja would be on the table. Berlin would do a deal. Self-preservation.
It would get ugly.
But right now no one knew who ‘the nice lady’ was. There was no connection except through Billy’s statement. And poor Billy wouldn’t be available to positively identify her.
Kennedy spotted a parking space and felt lucky. As long as Berlin’s identity was his little secret, he was safe. Probably.
The wheezy bloke behind the counter looked anxious when Kennedy showed him his ID.
‘Murat Demir?’ he said.
Kennedy thought the poor man might have a heart attack on the spot. He gasped for breath and took three good pulls on his inhaler. Kennedy, who knew a bit about breathing difficulties, was alarmed.
‘My so
n isn’t here at the moment, officer,’ Mr Demir wheezed between puffs.
A woman appeared from out the back, said something in Turkish and then spoke to Kennedy.
‘I won’t be a moment,’ she said as she took the breathless man by the arm. He tried to wave her away, but she insisted on leading him out the back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Kennedy. ‘My husband’s health is very fragile.’
‘I understand, madam,’ said Kennedy. He could hear her scolding Mr Demir in a low voice. In a moment she returned.
‘How can I help you?’ she said.
‘Do you have any idea when your son will be home?’
She shrugged.
‘Perhaps I could ask you then, Mrs Demir, very quickly, about your son’s affidavit in this stalking matter? Which I understand involves yourself.’
‘Affidavit?’ she said.
‘His statement. You both made statements concerning the alleged activities of Ms Catherine Berlin?’
Mrs Demir nodded. She glanced back at the beaded curtain through which she had steered her husband. Kennedy could hear his rasping breath.
‘Your son’s statement concerns her movements. Do you know how he came by this information?’
A change came over Mrs Demir.
‘May I ask your connection to this matter, officer? I understood the sergeant at the station —’
Kennedy recognised the instinctive reaction of a mother whose child is threatened. She stood a little taller. Her jaw set.
He flashed his ID again.
‘Detective Sergeant Kennedy, madam,’ he said, emphasising detective. The public were generally under the impression that detectives were superior to uniforms, even when they were of the same rank.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how he came by the information.’
It wasn’t a hesitant or dilatory response. A customer entered and hovered behind Kennedy. Mrs Demir moved to one side so she could eyeball the customer and ignore Kennedy.
‘Madam?’ he said, ducking back into her line of sight.
‘You will have to ask him yourself,’ she said, and began serving the customer.
The conversation was over.
‘Perhaps you could ask Murat to call me when he gets home?’ he said, thrusting his card into her hand. ‘I’m asking nicely. This time.’
*
The Thames Magistrates Court was a building redolent of sixties brutalism, but inside the chaos was pure twenty-first century.
The usher called Berlin’s name for the third time, but it was lost in the din outside the courtroom: a dozen Chinese purveyors of ‘Gucci’ handbags were discussing plea options with a harassed lawyer; a bunch of police officers were arguing about the football; youths were milling about waiting to be sent back to the Children’s Court, if they were lucky; and a clutch of junkies on minor possession charges paced and squabbled.
The scene was replicated outside each of the eight courts in the building.
The usher scored a line through Berlin’s name and moved down to the next defendant on her list.
Berlin limped up the steps and into the waiting arms of the security guard, who obliged her to take off her dusty overcoat and undergo a pat down for weapons.
She was late, which meant she’d have to try to wheedle them into putting her back on later in the day. She was also aware that her current outfit wasn’t going to do her any favours in court. She hadn’t had time to go home and she certainly wasn’t going to borrow anything of Peggy’s.
The sullen clerk was as thick as the glass behind which he skulked. He mumbled that her case was to be heard in Court Two.
Berlin joined the throng and waited for the usher to emerge. When she appeared, flicking through a wad of documents, she began calling Chinese names in a thick Glaswegian accent.
‘Chang Kai-shek, Lu Shao-chi, Hu Jintao, Wen Jiabao . . . ’
Berlin thought one or two of the names sounded familiar. Pushing through the crowd she touched the usher on the shoulder as she turned to follow the line of famous Chinese politicians into court.
‘’Scuse me, miss,’ said Berlin, adopting her best forelock-tugging, downtrodden underclass idiom. ‘Did you call me? I was in the Ladies.’ She affected a look of bewilderment.
‘Name?’ snapped the usher.
‘Berlin.’
She flicked through her papers. ‘Too late,’ she said.
‘Oh dear,’ said Berlin.
‘Are you going to plead guilty?’
‘No,’ said Berlin.
The usher sighed.
‘I can put you back on today if you want to plead,’ she said. ‘It’s a lot quicker and you’ll get a better result than if you plead not guilty and end up being convicted.’
Berlin stared at her, suppressing the urge to suggest that making this recommendation wasn’t really in her job description. This was British justice in an overburdened system. An usher could dish out cheap and cheerful legal advice in the service of efficiency.
‘I’m innocent,’ Berlin said.
‘You’ll be given another date. Ask at reception,’ said the usher, and disappeared back into the courtroom.
Before the door swung shut behind her, Berlin heard a querulous voice demanding to know why nobody had booked an interpreter for Chang Kai-shek.
Murat put his mobile back in his suit pocket and offered Sergeant Pannu a cigarette, which he declined.
‘Not on duty,’ he said. ‘Too many busybodies about.’
‘Make sure you pick up an extra carton next time you’re at the shop,’ said Murat.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ said the sergeant. ‘Very kind.’
Murat glanced around him. The pavement outside the Magistrate’s Court on Bow Road was wide, but crowded. No one was paying them any attention. Another copper with his witness, waiting to be called.
‘My mother tells me a detective has been at the shop,’ said Murat.
The sergeant looked surprised. ‘About this matter?’
Murat nodded.
The sergeant frowned. ‘Kennedy,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ said Murat. ‘How did you know?’
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ he said.
‘He was asking about the Berlin woman,’ said Murat. ‘Why would he be interested in her?’
‘She’s a junkie,’ said the sergeant. ‘When I arrested her she had a pocketful of morphine. Kennedy came to get it back. I couldn’t say no because it was on prescription. She’s his snout, he works a lot of drug cases. He has a vested interest in keeping her happy and on the street.’
‘Can he interfere in this?’ asked Murat, indicating the court behind them.
‘Nah,’ said the sergeant. ‘Due process. They’re not going to lock her up, in any event.’
‘Oh,’ said Murat. ‘You never know your luck.’
41
Kennedy hurried down the corridor of the forensic unit. He hated the chemical smell that oozed from the walls of places like this. Morgues, labs and hospitals seemed to share the same odour. He thought he might be allergic.
He pushed open a pair of opaque plastic swing doors and was greeted by a glare from Detective Chief Inspector Hurley.
‘Sorry, boss. Traffic,’ said Kennedy.
Khan hovered behind a bench spread with litter, mostly condoms and cigarette butts.
‘You’re looking at 72 square feet of rubbish from under the canal bridge,’ said Khan. ‘Useless.’ He picked up a bagged item and offered it to Hurley. ‘Apart from this.’
‘What took so long?’ asked Hurley.
Khan looked sheepish. ‘Er . . . it was found in the second sweep.’
‘The second?’ said Hurley.
‘The first team finished their shift, there was no overtime authorised for this job, so . . .’
‘So everyone fucked off and came back the next day,’ barked Hurley.
‘The scene was secure,’ protested Khan.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Hurley. ‘How? With a bit of tape and
a sleepy PCSO in a car parked on the bridge.’
Khan fiddled with his pen.
Hurley thrust the bag at Kennedy.
A printout was attached to it; the results of a fingerprint scan.
Kennedy followed Hurley out of the lab.
‘Get a warrant,’ said Hurley.
‘I thought you might want another opinion on the prints first,’ said Kennedy.
‘Well,’ said Hurley, ‘I might.’ He looked at Kennedy, expectant.
‘We’ve lost a couple of big cases on fingerprints lately,’ reasoned Kennedy. ‘Challenges to the science and that sort of bullshit.’
‘These crime-scene numpties have already cost us twenty-four hours,’ protested Hurley.
‘Exactly, sir,’ said Kennedy. ‘Khan’s admitted there may be an issue with the integrity of the scene. Strike two against us.’
They emerged from the air-conditioned building into the sweltering car park.
Hurley mopped his brow, frowning.
‘Perhaps we should get our ducks in a row first,’ suggested Kennedy. ‘An arrest means time starts running. I know you like to follow best practice, sir.’
Hurley was fretful. ‘We could bring her in to assist with enquiries,’ he ventured.
‘It’s up to you, boss,’ said Kennedy airily. ‘But if we’ve got no solid physical evidence it’ll just be no comment at interview, the CPS will run for cover and so will the suspect.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hurley. ‘That’s what I was thinking. Get another opinion on the prints. But let’s find her and have an informal chat. Put a flag in the system. We don’t want anyone fleeing the jurisdiction. Best practice.’
‘Good thinking, sir,’ said Kennedy.
When Berlin finally emerged from the court foyer after a lengthy monosyllabic engagement with reception, Bow Road was crowded.
Defendants, lawyers, uniforms and detectives, the latter apparent by their ill-fitting suits, all jostled for space in which to talk, smoke and eat.
Among them Berlin caught sight of Murat and the sergeant who had arrested her on the stalking charge. As she watched them, the sergeant answered his mobile. He listened, then began to scan the crowd.
A Bitter Taste Page 11
