A Bitter Taste Read online

  Berlin remained silent. Three. Would Snowe be satisfied with nicking the two coppers or would he escalate the hunt for Cole when he was a no-show?

  He had given her until the morning.

  She made a call. It was answered on the second ring, as always.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said.

  ‘Hello. How’s your missing-kid thing?’ asked Del. She was grateful he didn’t expect small talk.

  ‘I found her,’ said Berlin.

  ‘That’s a result. Congratulations,’ said Del.

  ‘Have you ever come across a bloke called Snowe? Joseph Snowe. With an “e”. A black guy.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Del.

  This was a good sign. Del had once worked for police complaints and had a voluminous knowledge of wayward coppers in the capital.

  ‘Could you look into him for me?’

  She heard him sigh.

  He had resources aplenty at work but had to log every inquiry and bill someone for it. It wouldn’t be her.

  Del was burdened with an aversion to injustice, which he had inherited from his mum, who was Jamaican, and his dad, who was Jewish. He was also very loyal. Both qualities made him a sitting duck for Berlin’s machinations. She tried not to push it, but she nearly always needed something from him, and didn’t have much to offer in return. One day she would make it up to him.

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  When she slid open the balcony door and stepped back inside, Princess murmured in her sleep and rolled over. The pack rolled with her.

  How could the kid sleep with that uncomfortable weight on her shoulders? Berlin knew she would wake up if it were removed. It could be a terrible awakening for both of them.

  53

  Kennedy sat in the hotel lobby and wondered whether the CCTV was recording. He could flash his ID at the security guard and check it out, but he really didn’t want to call attention to himself.

  There was a bar in the lobby and a few hardened drinkers were avoiding turning in. Perspiration was steaming up his glasses, but his sweat had nothing to do with the heat. It was chilly in here. He could barely sit still; his leg was going fifteen to the dozen. His beer slopped all over his trembling hand as he picked it up from the sticky table.

  Berlin had called at two in the morning as if it were normal business hours. Odd didn’t begin to describe her. But a murderer? Kennedy just couldn’t see it. He knew a fit-up when he saw one, and a bottle with her fingerprints on it at the scene had more than a whiff about it. She was too smart for that. She wasn’t your average chaotic junkie.

  Someone wanted to put Berlin in the frame, and that someone had killed the girl, or was there when it happened. Between them, he and Berlin should be able to work out who had motive and opportunity.

  If he found Kylie’s killer, he would move up in the world. Promotion. A decent pay rise. What’s more, Berlin would owe him. She would keep her trap shut about his other business interests. And once that matter was sorted, and the money was in the bank, he was going to tell Bertie he was out of it.

  He just had to solve the murder first.

  Berlin watched Kennedy from the car park. She didn’t want him to realise she was staying at the hotel by emerging from the lift, and she wanted to make sure he had come alone.

  You didn’t need an interpreter to read his body language. He was a man with a lot on his mind. He had challenges. The trouble was, he knew hers.

  She walked into the lobby, fresh from a long, hot shower, and wearing an expensive black linen shirt over her black jeans. The concierge had been prevailed upon to produce the shirt and happily, now she was a CHIS, it would go on Snowe’s bill. Princess was sound asleep. Berlin had left her a note: call me as soon as you wake up.

  Kennedy looked surprised when he saw her, and she realised she looked almost respectable.

  ‘Drink?’ asked Kennedy.

  ‘Talisker. A double. No ice. No water,’ she said.

  He stood up to go to the bar, but hesitated.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll still be here when you get back,’ she said.

  When he returned with their drinks and sat down his knee started to jig again. She got straight to it.

  ‘Let’s not fuck about, Kennedy. I know you and Bertie are shaking down Cole Mortimer. I know he’s gone missing and you want the product.’

  ‘So we’re even,’ said Kennedy. ‘I’m a corrupt copper and you’re a murderer.’

  ‘The big difference is that I didn’t do it, as you well know, but you’re in it up to your neck,’ said Berlin.

  Kennedy’s knee jigged faster, but he came straight back, jabbing his finger in her direction.

  ‘No. The big difference is that you’d be convicted on the strength of good forensics, but I would walk because there isn’t a scrap of physical evidence against me. And who’s going to provide credible witness evidence? A pack of junkies?’

  No, thought Berlin. Another copper, you idiot. There was the fatal flaw for you. Hubris.

  ‘I have to admit you’ve got me there,’ she said.

  Kennedy looked pretty pleased with himself. ‘But look,’ he said. ‘If we work together to find Kylie’s killer you’ll be home free. And all I’m asking is that you tell me first when you find the kid.’

  She didn’t react.

  He gulped his lager. She could see he was hesitating before going any further. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and jumped in.

  ‘Sonja gave me the heads-up,’ he said, and took another long drink.

  Berlin waited. Let him take his time.

  ‘She told me how Cole used Princess to move the stuff, and that the kid ran off with it when he belted her, the bastard.’

  He leant forwards, in earnest.

  ‘Find her before he does, Berlin. I won’t let any harm come to her.’

  So the honest cop wanted to use Princess as bait and the bent cop wanted to protect her. Sonja must have realised Kennedy had a soft spot for kids and exploited it.

  ‘Does your ex-boss know?’ she asked.

  Kennedy shook his head.

  So he would let Bertie keep thinking Cole had absconded with the heroin. And if Cole didn’t reappear, that was the end of it. Then Kennedy could do a deal with Sonja and cut Bertie out. No honour among thieves or dodgy policemen.

  Kennedy thought he had all his bases covered.

  She savoured her Scotch and considered her trump card: Snowe. When she finally told Kennedy he was under investigation he would be begging her to keep the kid well away from him and let Bertie have everything: the gun, the heroin, the long prison term.

  She was going to wait and drop that on him when the time was right.

  The lift doors opened on the other side of the now-empty lobby and Princess stepped out. She strolled over and sat down.

  ‘Hello, Mr Kennedy,’ she said.

  Kennedy looked at Berlin.

  Suddenly the time was right.

  *

  Marion Kennedy had long got over complaining when her husband was called out in the small hours. But when she was woken late that night by a knock on the front door she went cold.

  She hurried downstairs and peered through the spy-hole. His boss was standing on the doorstep. She stepped back and caught her breath. This was the moment she’d always dreaded, the moment every police officer’s partner feared. She opened the door.

  ‘Hello, Marion,’ said Bertie. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Kennedy?’ repeated Berlin. He had turned a funny colour, and it wasn’t just the lighting in the hotel lobby. She could see the pulse in his neck fluttering, a tiny blue insect trapped beneath his pale skin.

  ‘How long have they been watching us?’ he croaked.

  ‘Long enough,’ said Berlin.

  Berlin had given Princess all her change and sent her to play the fruit machines in the corner of the lobby.

  Kennedy was looking at the kid as if it were the plague she was carrying, rather than half a kilo of heroin that could s
end him straight to prison. He found his voice.

  ‘I would never, ever have laid a hand on her,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with the stuff. I haven’t got the contacts or the know-how. I went along with Bertie, that’s all. What am I going to do?’

  He looked around wildly as if addressing someone who might be eavesdropping, someone who might swoop out of the shadows any moment and nick him.

  Berlin let him sweat.

  His voice rose a register. ‘What am I going to do?’

  He buried his face in his hands.

  She gave him a long moment, to let it all sink in.

  ‘Trust me,’ said Berlin.

  He lifted his head and stared at her.

  ‘I’d like another drink,’ she said.

  Resignation replaced despair on Kennedy’s face.

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  While Kennedy was at the bar Berlin beckoned Princess over and took the opportunity to have a quiet word.

  ‘Do you ever do as you’re told?’ she said. ‘You were supposed to ring me if you woke up.’

  ‘You’re not the boss of me,’ said Princess, pouting.

  Berlin took a deep breath. To Princess she was just the lesser of two evils, able for the time being to keep her out of the hands of the law. Berlin didn’t want to jeopardise this uneasy truce.

  ‘You’ve put me in an awkward position with Kennedy,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Princess.

  ‘You do know he’s a detective?’ said Berlin.

  ‘Yeah. But he’s our detective,’ replied Princess with a smile.

  It could have been Cole sitting there. It gave Berlin the willies. Could a ten-year-old be playing her?

  When Kennedy sat down again he addressed Princess as if she were one of his own kids.

  ‘Your mum’s very worried about you,’ he said.

  ‘Did she say that?’ said Princess.

  Kennedy nodded. ‘She wants you both to make a fresh start. She wants to get clean.’

  Princess frowned at Berlin. This was exactly what she had said. Berlin shrugged, disclaiming any collusion between her and Kennedy.

  ‘What about Cole?’ asked Princess.

  For one awful minute Berlin thought she was going to give the game away.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Kennedy. ‘He won’t hurt you any more.’ He leant forwards and gave Princess a wink. ‘I’m a policeman.’

  He turned to Berlin with a twitchy, tentative smile. His silent plea was unmistakable: we’re on the same side. Aren’t we?

  54

  Berlin had another drink after Kennedy left, attempting to assuage her fatigue and irritability.

  Princess had fallen asleep in her chair.

  Why do all hotels smell the same? The muzak was disconcerting too. Very little traffic noise permeated the double-glazed picture windows, which were blank in the still darkness. The skies were empty. The City Airport operated on a curfew until six-thirty a.m.

  She thought about going abroad. Would she be stopped on her way out? She knew nothing about border security, except that it didn’t work very well. Anyway, her passport was about twenty years out of date.

  She shivered in the dank, artificial air. The Scotch couldn’t reach the part of her that felt the chill. She knew that now she was involved in the most dangerous game of all: playing coppers off against each other.

  Weighing up the two men from a strategic point of view, it appeared she had the most to gain by protecting Kennedy from Snowe, because he was working Kylie Steyne’s murder.

  On the other hand, Snowe’s persistence, which reminded her of her own foolish reluctance to let things lie, meant he wouldn’t be satisfied with just nabbing Bertie.

  There was nothing noble about this reckless pursuit of the truth; it was just a determination to know, to not be beaten by the people trying to stop you. To get a result.

  It was unfortunate that in this particular situation Snowe was chasing the truth and she was determined to stop him. He hadn’t bought her story that Cole had done a runner.

  Whatever her sense of Snowe’s character, and she was still waiting for Del’s verdict, she had to work on the assumption that his intentions would conflict with her interests: he wanted her to make a call that could only lead to disaster. When neither Cole, nor Kennedy, turned up for the kid’s homecoming, Snowe would want answers.

  She dragged Princess from the chair and led her, half-asleep, to the lift. They rode up, still pursued by the muzak. If she were arrested for Kylie’s murder, there would be nothing she could do to help Sonja and Princess.

  She would keep Kennedy out of Snowe’s grasp. The neurotic detective seemed genuinely concerned about protecting the kid, unlike Snowe. And only Kennedy could help her avoid going down for murder. It had to be him.

  Princess was fully awake by the time they reached their room. It was almost dawn. Berlin drew the curtains and lay on the bed.

  ‘Keep the TV down,’ she said. ‘I need a couple of hours sleep.’

  In her half-dream, populated by the voices of cartoon characters and daytime TV talk-show hosts, Berlin heard her father, who sounded a lot like Homer Simpson, telling her to ‘break for the border’. It was a common refrain that ran through all his advice, which included ‘get going while the going’s good’ and ‘take the money and run’.

  Lenny Berlin had loved gangsters: James Cagney was his favourite. He often greeted Peggy with, ‘Top of the world, Ma!’ To which she would respond, ‘I’m not your mother.’

  He’d do a poor Cagney imitation and Peggy would say, ‘I wish you’d stop that’; his response would be a quote from The Public Enemy: ‘There you go again with that wishin’ stuff. I wish you was a wishing well, so that I could tie a bucket to ya and sink ya.’

  It had cracked Berlin up when she was a kid, but her mother never laughed. The problem with her dad was that he hadn’t drawn the line at films; he loved gangsters, period.

  Anxiety swept through Berlin and she shuddered, seized by an agitation that made her skin crawl. This lack of ease was familiar. There was only one cure. It wasn’t talking.

  34.5˚C

  55

  Murat sat on the edge of his bed listening to his father shuffling about. The old man wasn’t usually so active. After raising the shutters he would usually retreat to his stool behind the counter, where it would take him the next twenty minutes to recover his breath.

  Murat ran his fingers through his thick hair and scratched at his stubble. His mother wanted to cut their losses, but he couldn’t face all their hard work going down the drain. She kept talking about going home.

  For some reason the prospect filled him with disquiet. The truth was that he’d been born in England and home was an abstraction for him. His real home was more an ideology than a place.

  Loud wheezing heralded his father’s approach. He had on his old suit, as if he were going to a funeral.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he announced. ‘You will watch the shop.’

  Murat sprang off the bed. ‘Where are you going? Don’t be stupid. You can’t go out!’ he shouted.

  His father turned and shuffled away. ‘This is not your concern,’ he said. ‘She may be your mother, but she is my wife.’

  Murat groaned. He heard the shop door slam, ran out and saw his father getting into a cab.

  Murat ran back to his room to find his phone.

  Berlin gave Princess strict orders not to venture out of the hotel room.

  ‘Where would I go anyway?’ she asked, affecting wide-eyed innocence.

  Berlin dragged a comb through her hair, which was damp and tangled from a cold shower that had failed to wash away her agitation.

  ‘So, what about breakfast?’ asked Princess, querulous.

  Berlin tossed the comb away. She didn’t have time for this.

  ‘Do you know about room service?’ she asked.

  Princess frowned.

  Berlin showed her the menu and how to or
der. The kid’s face lit up.

  She had unleashed a monster, but that would be Snowe’s problem.

  It was another blistering day. Berlin walked up to Limehouse Rail Station.

  For the time being she could travel relatively safely; Kennedy had told her they were still waiting for the expert opinion on the bottle. Hurley was risk-averse and wouldn’t escalate the alert for her until he had confirmation.

  The train was sticky and uncomfortable, even though it was above ground. With a change at West Ham, she would be at her destination in half an hour. She paced up and down the empty carriage, the hiatus of the journey forcing her to confront the source of her discomfort.

  Her physical injuries were healing and she knew that Rolfey was obliged to reduce her pharmaceutical support. He had as good as admitted he didn’t believe that long-term abstinence was anything other than the latest rhetorical flourish in a policy driven by politics, not public health.

  If professionals like him were sceptical about its value as a way of managing addiction, then why should she adopt it? Her use of heroin did not automatically make her mad, bad or criminal. But a nagging voice insisted it was tyranny. She was bound to agree.

  *

  Berlin hurried through the leafy streets of Upminster, anxious to arrive before her quarry left for work. She was reasonably confident that he would keep executive’s hours. His routine would involve a journey into the City.

  She had a lot to do and very little time to do it; Snowe had her on a short leash. If he was intercepting Sonja’s phone he would know Berlin hadn’t called her. It would be too risky for him to let the situation drag on, so he would be forced to take the kid and the heroin and be satisfied with arresting Sonja. Then he would turn in Berlin, as an afterthought.

  When he’d asked why she hadn’t taken Princess home in the first place she had said she wanted her safe at Peggy’s while she sorted things out. The kid was reluctant to go home and he knew that Berlin had to appear on the stalking charge. What he didn’t know was that the kid was reluctant to go home because she’d seen her mum kill her dad.