A Bitter Taste Page 3

  Sonja was wrong. Berlin did remember.

  It was 1 April. She recalled the date but not the year. It was nineteen eighty-something. For some bizarre reason the household decided to commemorate the day Marvin Gaye had been shot by his father, and the squat was grooving to ‘Sexual Healing’.

  On that day of fools Sonja had asked and Berlin had answered. She remembered she told her to sit, in case she fell, and set up the foil for her. They all laughed as the novice struggled to inhale the vapour given off by the boiling tar. The acrid smell hung in the air with the smoke they exhaled.

  The sour taste rose in Berlin’s throat.

  Turning to enter Catherine Wheel Alley, a twisting, narrow passage between Middlesex and Liverpool streets, Berlin was brought to an abrupt halt by two twig-like legs stretched across her path. They belonged to a thin, stoned youth leaning against one wall with his feet braced against the other.

  ‘It’s private, innit,’ he said.

  Berlin stepped over him and kept walking.

  ‘Oi!’ he said.

  A few yards down the alley, a shadow detached itself and resolved into a pale child, a slight girl of about fourteen. Berlin stopped, expecting the boy to come up behind her, the pair executing a half-baked mugger’s pincer strategy. The alley had once been the haunt of highwaymen. The tradition lived on.

  Then a larger figure loomed out of the darkness behind the girl, a man in his forties, zipping his fly. A creep.

  The girl spat and wiped her mouth on her T-shirt.

  Berlin felt rage explode in her guts, a swift, hard force as shattering as a blow to her sternum. She reached behind her and withdrew the tactical baton that was tucked into her jeans: the Asp. She flicked her wrist to release the friction lock, extending the telescopic steel and aluminium truncheon to its full, venomous length.

  ‘Go,’ she said to the girl.

  ‘What about my money?’ wailed the girl, but took off anyway.

  The creep frowned at Berlin, confused and fearful.

  ‘Look, I . . . it’s not what you think.’

  She took a step closer. The smell of alcohol rolled off him in putrid waves. He looked beyond her to the end of the alley. No pulsing blue lights, no uniforms. He probably thought it was a shakedown.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he snarled.

  The Asp cut through the stagnant air and struck. The creep howled and fell to the ground, clutching his elbow.

  Berlin stood over him and with the tip of the baton flipped opened his suit jacket. The lining was silk. She reached inside and took his wallet.

  The thin boy and the slight girl were hanging about on Liverpool Street when Berlin emerged from the alley. They backed up beneath the grand arch of the Bishopsgate Institute as she approached, beyond the reach of the CCTV cameras and well out of the way of the drunks and the clubbers waiting for the night bus.

  She went straight to the girl, opened the wallet and withdrew the fat wad of notes.

  ‘Here,’ she said, and thrust the cash into the girl’s hand, then turned to the boy.

  ‘Listen to me, Twig,’ she said.

  He looked around, unsure if she was talking to him. He pointed to himself, a question.

  ‘Yes, you,’ said Berlin. ‘That money is hers, understand? If you touch it, or hurt her, I’ll find you and snap you in half.’

  Twig nodded. Message received.

  The girl gazed up at Berlin, awestruck.

  ‘He’s all right, miss,’ said the girl. ‘He’s my brother.’

  Imbued with newfound authority, the girl addressed her dopey sibling, trying out a line dredged up from some shared memory of a maternal lexicon.

  ‘What do you say to the nice lady?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Twig.

  The gloomy interstices of London had always provided boltholes for orphans and urchins; good citizens avoided alleys, lanes and passageways, impenetrable by even the brightest sun. The chill air and murk were a curtain for depravity. It was a natural habitat for small, darting figures that went unremarked. Until there was a spate of housebreaking or one was found dead.

  Berlin flicked through the wallet. The creep’s driving licence named him as Mr Derek Parr. She took out a photo and held it under the streetlight. Three happy, healthy young faces beamed out at her. Cute. She wondered if Daddy took his vice to the streets to spare them.

  The yellow light shimmered, the night fractured and all she could see was the pale girl, her thin T-shirt glistening with semen, and her pitiful brother. Had they been abandoned by feckless parents or were they fleeing routine violence and degradation at home? Either way, they had run into the arms of evil.

  She thought of Sonja’s daughter. Too many backs were turned on these kids. It made her uneasy to think Sonja’s would be one of them. Why visit the sins of the mother on the child?

  She kept Mr Parr’s family photo and driver’s licence, and consigned the rest to the sewer.

  29.5˚C

  7

  It was early, too early for a junkie anyway, and Berlin knew there was a very good chance she would find Sonja at home. Sonja had scribbled her address and mobile number on the jacket of a book lying on Berlin’s table. Berlin had found the place easily enough; it was east of the East End, between Canning Town and the City Airport. Silvertown.

  Silvertown had always been on the outer. Home to nineteenth-century manufactories that rendered carcasses, burnt sugar, boiled chemicals and smelted rubber. In the heat, the earth seemed to sweat the poison of the past.

  The land, and its residents, had long been regarded as expendable. During the First World War officialdom decreed that a munitions factory should be built in the midst of the community. In 1917 fifty tons of TNT went up and with it seventy-three people. Four hundred were injured and seventy thousand houses damaged. The blast rattled the windows of the Savoy Hotel and even Westminster felt a slight tremor. The government issued an expression of regret.

  Sonja lived on Silvertown Way in a dilapidated edifice, a Victorian remnant that might have once been doctors’ rooms or a home for unwed mothers. The developers had not yet arrived on this side of the road. They stuck to the riverbank, which was only half a mile away in a straight line. Over there, scrapyards and warehouses were gradually giving way to smart apartments.

  Over here, a few truncated sections of fence were no longer able to hold the line against an encroaching wilderness of thistle, scorched by the sun, and rusty car bodies.

  Sonja’s building had a pockmarked façade and cracked windows. The portico was adorned with local gang tags. The ‘grounds’ around the building were carpeted with gravel.

  Pontoon Dock, the Docklands Light Rail station, was about a quarter of a mile away and there was a twenty-four-hour petrol station on a roundabout a few hundred yards in the other direction.

  Berlin sat in the shadow of one of the towering concrete pylons that supported the light rail. The line ran fifty feet above Silvertown Way on the other side of the road from Sonja’s. The road traffic was commercial, mostly trucks, and no doubt it was pretty dead at night. She imagined it would be difficult to set up surveillance here.

  Two beaten-up cars were parked on one side of the premises, and a pizza company’s scooter was propped near the old-fashioned front door, which was open to let in any breeze there might be. But everything was still.

  Berlin wanted to pay Sonja a visit unannounced so she could check out where she was living. If her kid had been befriended by some creep who was now hiding her, it might easily be someone in the immediate vicinity. Someone who thought they had more chance of getting away with it given Sonja’s chaotic lifestyle. Or Sonja might have a new boyfriend.

  She stood, flexed her stiff leg and was about to cross the road when a blue van drove up, turned sharply onto the gravel and fishtailed to a halt near the scooter.

  Two blokes in jeans and trainers got out, strode across the gravel and disappeared inside. One was fat and the other was thin with glasses.

  During a bri
ef lull in the traffic Berlin heard a scream coming from the building. She ran across the road to the door, kept close to the wall and peered in.

  A staircase and two corridors branched off a wide entrance hall, its floor just bare boards. A green felt noticeboard dotted with drawing pins hung on one wall. An ancient rack of numbered pigeonholes indicated the place had long ago been converted into a rooming house.

  Just inside the hall another door, on the right, also stood wide open. The sound of canned laughter drifted through it. Inching forwards, Berlin could see a raddled woman in a grubby dressing gown watching breakfast TV. Her grey curls tumbled from beneath a gaudy scarf. Gold chains and religious medallions hung from her neck. One bony hand, its wrist festooned with bangles and charm bracelets, clutched a tumbler of clear liquid.

  Berlin doubted it was mineral water.

  There was no way to cross the hall without being seen and it was apparent from the angle of her armchair that this was exactly what the old girl intended. Berlin didn’t want to have to deal with some nosy crone.

  Raised voices came from somewhere on the ground floor, followed by a thud and another sharp scream.

  Berlin watched the crone wave the remote at the TV.

  The volume went up.

  Bertie’s fat fingers gripped Sonja’s throat and forced her to look him in the eye.

  ‘I’m going to ask you one more time,’ he said. ‘Where is Cole?’ He said it slowly, enunciating each word.

  Sonja gurgled, unable to speak because of the pressure on her larynx. He relaxed his fingers a fraction.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she gasped. ‘It’s the truth.’

  Bertie released her throat, transferring his grip to her arm.

  Kennedy was tossing the room. There wasn’t much to toss. He turned over the mattress. There were balls of dust beneath the old-fashioned spring bedstead.

  ‘Slut’s wool, Sonja,’ said Kennedy.

  ‘Yeah, I’m not competing for the Good Housekeeping Award this year,’ she said, rubbing her throat.

  Bertie gave her a slap and she bounced off the wall.

  Kennedy winced. ‘You’d think Cole could afford somewhere decent,’ he said.

  ‘These people don’t put anything by for a rainy day,’ said Bertie. He watched Kennedy searching the cupboards. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  Kennedy shook his head, then turned to Sonja and tried a more reasonable tone.

  ‘Give yourself a break, Sonja. We know he was here the other night. Then he disappears. Doesn’t answer our calls, nothing. Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. He just walked out. He does it all the fucking time,’ said Sonja, rubbing her jaw, tears welling up.

  Bertie was unmoved. He grabbed hold of her and flung her to the floor.

  ‘Give him a message,’ he growled. ‘Don’t be a stranger.’

  He took a step back to give himself more leg room.

  Kennedy turned away.

  Berlin heard a door slam and heavy footsteps approach down the corridor. She ducked behind a portico pillar and watched as the two men got back in the van and drove off.

  The TV volume went down.

  Now Berlin was even more cautious. She circled the building, taking care to make as little noise as possible on the gravel. A sad-looking dog tied to a skip stood up, but didn’t bark. Most of the windows were boarded up or hung with blankets. But through one, obscured by grime, she could make out the blurred figure of Sonja bent over the sink, being sick.

  She tapped on the glass. Sonja snapped upright and spun around, staring at the shadowy figure peering in at her.

  ‘It’s me,’ hissed Berlin.

  The heavy double casement window slid up with surprising ease.

  It struck Berlin that neither of them thought it odd she chose this method of entry.

  Sonja slumped onto a double bed and groped on the bedside table for her cigarettes.

  The rest of the tatty furniture consisted of a single bed, a wardrobe, a scored oak dining table, and two kitchen chairs. There didn’t appear to be a fridge. The doors of the cupboards were all open. There was no sign of food in them. A porcelain sink with a cold-water tap and an ancient gas burner completed the set-up.

  The single concession to modernity was a plasma TV. Berlin imagined that someone had recently listed it on an insurance claim form. A curtain hung across a doorway into what she supposed was the bathroom.

  Berlin sat on the edge of one of the chairs.

  ‘Who were they?’ she asked.

  Sonja lit a cigarette and leant back against the wall. The wallpaper had been worn bare by the dozens of heads that had rested there.

  ‘I don’t know. They were looking for Cole,’ she replied, her voice flat with resignation.

  ‘I thought he was out of the picture.’

  ‘He is,’ said Sonja. She inhaled and coughed, wincing.

  ‘So why did they come here?’

  ‘Just doing the rounds, I suppose. He turns up sometimes. Christmas, her birthday, that sort of thing.’

  ‘What did they want from you?’ asked Berlin.

  ‘To give him a message.’

  Berlin could see it: the imprint of a trainer on the side of Sonja’s face.

  8

  There was a hole in the sheet of purple plastic that was her makeshift doorway. If she stood on tiptoe she could see through it.

  She took stock of her hideout, assessing her defences. She’d strung old Coke cans above the plastic and now caught sight of herself, distorted in crushed aluminium. The plastic tinged her face a mauvey colour. It was like war paint.

  Outside, the ogre was having a good look around. She knew what he was after.

  A noise drew her attention back to the spy-hole. He was watching. Her fist tightened around the spike she’d sharpened on concrete. She’d found a bunch of them among stuff spilling out of one of the abandoned containers. He would get it right in the eye if he came near her.

  Her dad had always told her never bring out your big guns too early.

  She hoisted her backpack over her shoulders and brandished her new weapon, ready for anything. But after a few minutes her arm got tired and she had to change hands.

  She’d hardly slept and she was tired all over. It was different here at night. When she’d come during the day it was great, there were a lot of places to explore. The containers went on forever, and lots of them were full of stuff.

  But at night there were weird noises, dogs howling and fights. She’d picked a quiet corner, which might have been a mistake. There was no one at this end of the yard except him. The thing was, she had to hide. They would be looking for her.

  Her sweaty palm was stained red. She dropped the spike. Rubbing her hand on her jeans, she told herself it was just rust. But the smears wouldn’t budge. Frantic, she spat on her palm and rubbed harder, and harder, and harder, until her skin was raw.

  She looked outside again. He’d gone.

  Relieved, she flopped down, took off her pack, opened it and found her felt-tip pens. She found the blue one and began to tattoo the back of her hand. It would make her look tough.

  Suddenly the plastic wobbled and fell. The shape of the ogre loomed in the gap. The light dazzled her for a moment. He said something, but she was screaming and couldn’t hear anything except her own cry.

  She scrabbled for the spike, but her hand came to rest on a lump of concrete. She flung it with all her might and caught him on the side of the head. She heard him swear as he scuttled away. She had landed him a good one and he would think twice before coming back.

  She dragged the plastic back into place. Her knees went weak and she had to lie down on the piece of foam she had found. Her heart was beating so hard she shook with every thud.

  But she didn’t cry.

  9

  Berlin waited for Sonja to focus. She’d disappeared into the bathroom and when she emerged, she had stretched out on the bed.

  Berlin watched as a blanket of tranquillity settled ove
r her. Given the drought, what was it? There was a cocktail containing a potentially lethal sedative, ketamine, doing the rounds: Special K. But it was difficult to come by and expensive. She imagined that Sonja would go on the game when things got really bad.

  ‘Okay Sonja, let’s get real here, shall we?’

  Sonja opened her eyes. Her gaze was frank, disarming.

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened before your daughter took off,’ said Berlin.

  ‘She’s a special child,’ mused Sonja. ‘We had an argument, just a stupid mother-daughter thing. She ran off before I could stop her.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ said Berlin. She looked around the room, which was devoid of anything of value, sentimental or otherwise, apart from the TV. ‘Have you got a photo?’

  Sonja hesitated. Berlin watched as she slowly put it together: Berlin was going to look for her daughter.

  ‘What brought this on?’ Sonja asked.

  ‘I’m not responsible for your shitty life, Sonja. But if I made a mistake a long time ago perhaps this will square it. After this, we’re done.’

  ‘Karma,’ said Sonja.

  ‘Call it what you like,’ said Berlin.

  The realisation that Berlin was on the case galvanised Sonja. She flung open a drawer in the bedside table and tossed aside unpaid bills, letters from the dole office and a collection of credit cards. No doubt stolen. Finally she produced a picture, a school photo, and handed it to Berlin. The child in the picture was about seven years old.

  ‘When was this taken?’ Berlin asked.

  Sonja looked blank.

  ‘At one of her schools. We’ve moved around a lot, so maybe . . . a while ago,’ she said.

  ‘God, Sonja, haven’t you even got a recent photo of your own daughter?’ said Berlin.

  Sonja was unperturbed. ‘I don’t really subscribe to bourgeois values, making a fetish of the child,’ she remarked airily.

  Berlin wanted to give her a good shake. Instead she tried to glean something useful from the conversation.