Special thanks to my editor, Tom Avery.
Robert Jeffries, retired serving officer and honorary curator of the Thames River Police Museum, was a very helpful and entertaining source of information about the river and Wapping.
The titles of the four parts are taken from the following works that deal, amongst other things, with the use of opium:
The Gate of a Hundred Sorrows, Rudyard Kipling, 1884.
Strange Heavens and Dull Hells, Oscar Wilde, 1890.
The Milk of Paradise, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1798.
Hands Washed Pure of Blood, Thomas De Quincy, 1821.
In Her Blood
A Bitter Taste
A Morbid Habit
Annie Hauxwell abandoned the law to work as an investigator, after stints as a psychiatric nurse, cleaner, sociologist and taxi driver. She divides her time between London, where she was born, and a country town in Australia. In addition to the Catherine Berlin series, she has written for the screen and stage.
1961. In the drawing room of an imposing Hong Kong residence, a British lord brutally assaults a young Chinese boy. His grandson watches, helpless. But he will never forget.
Wapping, London, present day. It’s a warm spring in the capital, and heroin addict Catherine Berlin feels the clammy breath of the past on her neck. Battling to stay clean, and bearing the scars of her most recent case, she is struggling to outpace her demons.
An old contact has offered her a job investigating a violent attack by a seventeen-year-old public schoolboy, a Chinese orphan on a prestigious scholarship. The victim has gone missing, and the boy’s patron, a shadowy peer, claims the case is being manipulated by the Chinese government. Seduced by the boy’s vulnerability and the peer’s allegations, Berlin journeys to Hong Kong, where she uncovers a conspiracy that reaches from the Pearl River Delta to the Palace of Westminster …
House of Bones is the forth novel in the inimitable Catherine Berlin series, and a breathtaking and blood-spattered thriller.
Spring. The blanket of fog shrouding London was a perversion of the season. It drifted in dense clouds across the capital as Catherine Berlin followed a hearse through the grand arch of the City of London Cemetery and Crematorium. She wondered how long it would be before she passed under it feet first.
The slow, steady crunch of tyres on gravel echoed in the still air. The hearse crept towards a mound of fresh soil and the wounded earth beside it.
The grave was not quite empty.
A million people were said to be interred on the two-hundred-acre site, the more recently deceased weighing down ancient bones excavated from medieval parish graveyards. Berlin imagined the original occupants groaning beneath the tier of coffins above.
The phone in her pocket vibrated. Ignoring the frowns of the other mourners, she fished it out, checked the caller ID, and answered.
‘I’ve got a job for you,’ said Del.
Delroy Jacobs was her closest friend. Although he didn’t have a lot of competition in that department.
A Plaistow boy, what Del lacked in Oxbridge degrees and old school ties he made up for with charm, loyalty and street smarts, which he rarely used, now confined to a safe management role by the needs of his growing family: Molly, eighteen months, and twins on the way.
Del worked for Burghley LLP, a boutique outfit established by former spooks and Whitehall types. They offered discreet investigative and intelligence services. Deep pocket essential. Burghley were well connected at the highest levels.
If they were offering her a job, it was an assignment nobody else wanted. It was dirty.
‘What is it?’ said Berlin.
‘Misper,’ said Del.
A missing person. Berlin glanced at the coffin suspended above the yawning pit. Resisting the urge to run, she pushed through the throng, averted her eyes from the sea of startled faces around her, and walked away.
The heart of the city was beating weakly. At half past nine on a Monday morning, traffic was at a standstill and the skies were silent because the airports were closed. The slap of the river against granite, punctuated by mournful sirens, resounded in the unnatural peace.
The blood on the cobblestones of Wapping High Street was dry. Berlin, under the reproving gaze of Detective Constable Terence Bryant, made a show of inspecting it. He was a compact man in his late forties with skin so white that his five o’clock shadow appeared to have been drawn on. It gave him a cartoonish look. But there was nothing funny about his demeanour.
‘What’s this all about then?’ he said. ‘We have the miscreant in custody.’
Miscreant.
‘There’s a witness. Lives in one of those posh conversions. She saw it from her window and called it in with a good description of the assailant. We nicked him at Wapping station. And we’ll get the council’s CCTV, of course.’
‘Open and shut,’ said Berlin.
‘Schoolboy,’ said Bryant. ‘Palmerston Hall, if you don’t mind.’
Palmerston Hall. Ancient and prestigious, famous for educating prime ministers, captains of industry and generations of British aristocracy.
Bryant brought a packet of Fisherman’s Friend out of his pocket and slipped one in his mouth, pointedly not offering her one.
‘So, Miss Berlin,’ he said. ‘Who’s paying you a fat fee to interfere with a police matter?’
He sucked noisily on his sweet.
‘A client,’ said Berlin. ‘And just Berlin will do, Bryant.’
Bryant snorted. ‘Why is he or she so interested?’ he said.
‘No idea,’ said Berlin. ‘I haven’t been briefed yet. I came straight from a funeral.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Bryant. He looked her up and down, apparently taking this as an explanation for her long black coat and black boots. ‘No one close, I hope.’
‘Why would the victim leave the scene?’ said Berlin. ‘He must have been hurt.’
‘Dunno,’ said Bryant. ‘They sent an ambulance, but he’d gone. Probably up to no good himself,’ he added.
So the victim was also a miscreant in Bryant’s eyes.
‘It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘A public schoolboy assaulting someone first thing in the morning in this neck of the woods.’
Wapping, once a dark warren of warehouses and cheap housing for dock workers, was now thoroughly gentrified.
Bryant made a small, unhappy noise. He had agreed to meet her at the scene after a terse exchange on the phone, but it was obvious he wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of a civilian investigator stomping around on his patch.
‘I’ve been ordered to cooperate with you,’ he’d said, before hanging up. Which meant her client had clout.
The case, such as it was, was only a few hours old, and as far as Bryant was concerned, it was already closed.
‘I won’t get in your way,’ said Berlin.
‘You certainly won’t,’ said Bryant. His Adam’s apple bobbed above a tight half-Windsor.
But then again, I might, thought Berlin.
She gazed up and down Wapping High Street. They were near Pier Head, an oasis of charming gardens bordered by rows of elegant Georgian town houses. The street bisected the gardens, which had once been a lock, the Wapping entrance.
It had led from the river to twenty acres of the London Docks, built to receive tobacco, rice, wine and brandy. The huge cellars beneath the warehouses had been compared to the burial chambers of the Pyramids.
Similar demonstrations of wealth and power now appeared in the form of expensive warehouse conversions looming over the narrow thoroughfare, some linked four floors above the street by cast-iron catwalks. Once hogsheads of wine and tobacco rolled across them. Now they bore pots of geraniums.
Buildings on the river commanded astronomical prices and had security to match; CCTV sprouted weed-like from beneath eaves and at the top of lamp posts.
Bryant looked pointedly at his watch.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
Berlin smiled.
‘I’d like to talk to the miscreant,’ she said.
The front desk of Limehouse police station was protected by a floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass partition; only two people at a time were admitted to the presence of the officers behind it.
Bryant left Berlin in the waiting room, where the public queued for admission to the inner sanctum, while he went around to the cells. This was his idea of cooperation. The station stank of sweat, disinfectant, cold burgers and fried onions. She folded her arms and affected patience. It would do no good to antagonise Bryant any further.
Eventually he appeared behind the partition and beckoned her. The door buzzed open and Berlin was admitted, to a chorus of tutting and swearing from those who’d been there first. She followed Bryant down a series of corridors and through keypad-controlled doors, until finally he showed her into a small room.
‘Sit there,’ he said, pointing at a wooden chair positioned in front of a monitor, which displayed an image of a youth and a woman at a table in a small interview room. The technology was new and the vision sharp. The young man’s head was bowed, his face obscured by a hank of black hair.
Berlin sat down and adjusted the angle of the monitor.
The next moment Bryant walked into the frame and sat down. A uniformed officer brought a spare chair. The sound of it being dragged across the room put her teeth on edge. Good speakers, too.
Bryant switched on the recording device.
‘For the sake of the tape, those present are myself, Detective Constable Terence Bryant . . .’
‘Constable Tolliver,’ said the uniformed officer.
‘Sylvie Laurent of Godson, Bell and Rushmore,’ said the woman. ‘Mr Chen’s solicitor.’
Berlin was surprised by the accent. She was French, in her forties perhaps, with a strong, battle-hardened face. Her mane of hair was loosely pinned in a classic chignon. The suit was expensive, but well worn. She wasn’t a legal aid lawyer.
Laurent touched the arm of the youth beside her.
‘Philip Chen,’ he said. He didn’t raise his head.
‘I remind you, Mr Chen, you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Philip.
‘Detective Bryant,’ said Laurent. ‘Mr Chen will not be making a statement at this time.’
‘Is that right, Mr Chen?’ said Bryant.
Philip finally looked up. His fine features, luminous skin and cascade of straight black hair held the gaze.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Berlin noticed a slight tightening around the lawyer’s mouth. Irritation. Apology wasn’t in the legal playbook. She reached into her pocket and brought out a gold cigarette lighter. Her fingers played with it in an absent-minded fashion as she watched her client.
‘So what happened?’ said Bryant.
Philip looked at Laurent. She shook her head.
‘No comment,’ said Philip.
Bryant frowned.
Philip might look Chinese, but he spoke with the well-modulated upper-class accent that went with his education. Berlin bent closer to the monitor. There was sweat on his brow.
‘You’re not going to offer any explanation for this vicious attack, Mr Chen?’ said Bryant.
‘That’s a very inflammatory description, Detective Bryant,’ said Laurent.
‘We’ll decide that when we see the CCTV footage,’ said Bryant. ‘That’s the way the witness described it.’
‘My client will make no further comment,’ said Laurent.
‘Then I’ll be detaining Mr Chen on suspicion of assault occasioning grievous bodily harm, pending further enquiries. He’ll appear before the youth court in the morning.’
‘He can’t stay here,’ said Laurent.
‘It’s a serious offence, madam,’ said Bryant. ‘His victim could be bleeding to death under a bush somewhere, or floating down the river. I can keep your client for twenty-four hours without charge. He can stay here or at the local authority secure unit. It’s up to you.’
Madame Laurent was unlikely to be capable of making an informed choice.
‘Take the cells,’ murmured Berlin. They might be cold and smelly, but the boy would be safer there than in a juvenile facility, where his accent would guarantee a swift and merciless fate.
Laurent put her hand on Chen’s shoulder. He started, as if he suddenly realised they were talking about him.
‘What about school?’ he said.
Bryant stood. ‘Come along, lad,’ he said.
For a moment Berlin saw fear in Chen’s eyes.
Bryant saw it too. He was gruff, but not cruel.
‘I’ll take you down myself,’ he said. ‘The custody sergeant will keep an eye on you.’
He meant well.
The warehouse, huddled between two modern apartment developments, was an unreconstructed remnant. Rising damp stained the foundations, strings of green slime hung from crannies left by crumbling mortar, and paint flaked from the iron window frames and down pipes.
Ziggurats of pigeon droppings decorated the sills. The guttering hung at an angle, and beneath it a constant drip stained the brickwork. The whole place sneered at the niceties of conversion. Berlin approved.
Iron railings enclosed a narrow strip of flagstones set lower than the pavement. Berlin pushed open the rusty gates, which hung askew, stepped down, crossed to the portico and picked up the entry phone. In stark contrast to the general dilapidation, a biometric pad glowed blue, waiting for a fingerprint.
She was aware of the soft whir of a camera as it focused and scanned. The warehouse might be a ruin, but the security was state-of-the-art.
Where she was standing was only a hundred yards from the bloody cobblestones. The heavy oak door swung open silently on its refurbished hinges. Berlin hung up the entry phone – she was obviously expected – and stepped inside.
The door closed behind her, and for a moment she was held in a gloomy limbo. Then the lights came on.
A man was standing on a ribbed steel platform, equipped on three sides with safety bars, the kind of hoist they had in public venues to provide wheelchair access.
‘Lord Haileybury,’ said Berlin.
‘Just Haileybury, please,’ he said.
This was Burghley’s client, and, as the subcontractor, now hers. She approached him and extended her hand.
‘Berlin,’ she said.
The earl supported himself on two sticks. When he hooked one over his arm to take her hand, his own was almost a claw, typical of rheumatoid arthritis. He did his best to shake hands, smiling all the while, despite the pain it must have cost him. Berlin could see it in his eyes.
Haileybury’s considerable height was somewhat diminished by a curvature of the spine, but his broad, open face had an attractive quality. A wave of tousled silver-grey hair rippled over his collar. He was ever so slightly dishevelled, with an air of distraction.
‘Sorry about all the security nonsense. Insurance insists on it,’ he said. ‘I have one or two pieces.’
He gestured, and she stepped on to the platform. Haileybury prodded a large red button with the rubber ferrule of his stick, a motor hummed and they rose in a stately fashion.
Gliding past three floors in shadow, Berlin had an impression of pulleys, geared wheels, levers and cables. It was an ascent through the Carceri, Piranesi’s imaginary prisons. But when they came to a gentle halt on the fourth floor, the scale was overwhelming for a different reason.
A pair of stone guardian lions reared above her as she stepped from the platform into a gallery crammed with treasures: jade and bronze sculptures, ivory and sandalwood carvings, bronze fountainheads, cloisonné enamel, red lacquer boxes. Silks adorned the walls.
Immense cast-iron stanchions supported a soaring roof; the furthest wall was glass, allowing light to flood in and illuminate a phalanx of carved dragons set on granite plinths. Ornately carved tables, chairs and cabinets occupied every inch of floor space.
The ‘one or two pieces’ were the famous Haileybury Bequest, artefacts taken from the Old Summer Palace in Beijing, and the subject of a well-publicised stand-off between the earl and the Chinese government.
Haileybury lifted his stick and described a quick arc through the air.
‘They want it all back, you know,’ he said. ‘All of it, including the stuff that’s on loan to museums for the public good. Cheek. They’re supposed to be communists. They’ve offered me squillions.’
She remembered something about the Prime Minister getting involved too; one of his gaffes at a Chinese state banquet.
‘The government is backing me, of course,’ said Haileybury. ‘Precedent. Elgin Marbles and all that. Ironic, really. It was Elgin’s son, an eighth earl himself, matter of fact, who ordered the destruction of the Summer Palace. You know about the Marbles.’
‘We pinched them from the Greeks,’ said Berlin.
‘Except the Turks were running Greece at the time,’ said Haileybury. ‘The sultan was sweet on Lady Elgin, so he let the earl crate up the Marbles and ship them home. Massive job. Cost a fortune. It broke him. In the end he was forced to sell ’em to the British government at a loss. Never trust a politician.’
He twisted to face her.
‘The Chinese say this is their history, that my forebears were looters,’ he said. ‘What do you say?’
He didn’t wait for an answer.
‘But isn’t it my history – our history – too?’
Berlin had never thought of herself as a beneficiary of British imperialism, but he had a point.
Haileybury negotiated a path between the furniture with practised ease, making his way to two armchairs, worn wingbacks, beside a large walnut table that was littered with the mundane: newspapers, cups and saucers, an electric kettle, bottles of Scotch, reading glasses and a computer.
The chairs were arranged to take in the breathtaking view of the river through an enormous pair of double-glazed floor-to-ceiling doors, which opened on to a terrace.
Berlin followed him to this niche without comment; words couldn’t do the place justice. It was like opening the door of an old shed and finding the British Museum inside.
‘Of course, the government’s not interested in history, it just wants another weapon in its diplomatic stoushes over trade,’ grumbled Haileybury. ‘It’s all about politics.’
He dropped into one of the wingbacks with obvious relief. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re not here for a history lesson. I’m afraid I’m a little discombobulated this morning.’
He gestured to a bottle of Ardbeg ten-year-old.
‘Would you mind terribly?’ he said. ‘I could do with a drink. Would you care to join me?’
It was important to keep the client happy, and anyway, it would be impolite to refuse. Berlin nodded.
Haileybury poured two generous measures and handed her one.
‘I just got off the phone with the lawyer,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how well Philip will cope with incarceration.’
‘He might have to get used to it,’ said Berlin. ‘Apparently there’s a witness. This area’s bristling with CCTV. The police don’t necessarily need the victim for a conviction.’
Haileybury grimaced.
Berlin sipped her single malt and gazed at the muted outlines of Tower Bridge, the Shard and the grey, mist-laden ribbon of the river.
‘Did you engage the lawyer, too?’ she said.
‘I felt I had to do something,’ said Haileybury. ‘The school called and said Philip had been in a scrap, that he would need a lawyer and so forth.’
In her book, the bloody cobblestones put the assault somewhat higher than a ‘scrap’, but as she was the so forth, it was not her place to say so. Hopefully the reason she was there would soon become clear.
Haileybury shifted uneasily in his chair, apparently unable to sit in one position for too long.
‘In a manner of speaking, I’m in loco parentis,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ said Berlin.
His discomfort had preceded this admission. She waited.
‘I’m a trustee of a scholarship programme for talented Chinese orphans,’ said Haileybury. ‘The Anglo-Chinese Friendship Society. We pay their fees as boarders at my old school. Philip is one of them.’
Berlin watched him.
‘Do you know what precipitated the incident?’ she said.
‘No idea,’ said Haileybury.
‘It was early,’ said Berlin. ‘On a Monday morning.’
It was a speculative gambit. Clients often needed some encouragement to come clean. This was no straightforward missing person case.
‘Over the years I’ve made it a habit to offer the scholarship boys some hospitality,’ said Haileybury. ‘It can be rather lonely for them in this country at times.’
He stared out of the window for a moment, and then turned to look her in the eye. A challenge.
‘Philip had been here for the weekend,’ he said.
Now it made sense. She had been surprised when Del said Lord Haileybury would brief her personally. Someone of his standing would usually deal with the organ grinder, not the monkey. The august firm of Burghley LLP would want to keep this sort of thing at arm’s length. It was a bit tacky for their tastes.
‘I understand you want the victim found,’ said Berlin. ‘Why is that?’
Haileybury ran his stiff, crumpled hand through his hair. ‘This is going to get out, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘More than likely,’ said Berlin. ‘There’s invariably someone in every police station – a cleaner, a clerk, a copper – who tips off the press. Palmerston Hall is newsworthy. Although they can’t name a juvenile offender.’
She didn’t add that if they put it all together, which they would, they could name Haileybury. The victim was going to turn up looking for compensation when he learnt who was involved. The earl would want him found and paid off before he took his long, sad story of being bashed by a public schoolboy friend of Lord Haileybury to the press.
She wanted to hear him say it.
‘How many trustees are there?’ she asked.
‘Three, including myself,’ said Haileybury. ‘You needn’t concern yourself with the others. They’re very discreet.’
‘Has Philip ever done anything like this before?’ said Berlin.
‘No, never,’ said Haileybury.
‘I’d hoped to talk to him this morning,’ said Berlin. ‘But it will have to be tomorrow, after he’s bailed. He may be able to provide the sort of detail I’ll need if I’m to have any chance of locating this person. When Philip left here, was he angry or upset?’
‘No,’ said Haileybury. ‘Not at all.’
She pressed a little harder.
‘If I can find this person – and it’s a big if – then what?’ she said.
Haileybury eased himself out of his chair and stood with his back to the terrace doors, facing her. He seemed to be bracing himself for something.
‘I believe this incident is part of a campaign of harassment. It’s a warning, a signal that they have leverage and can use it against me.’
This was unexpected. Speedy recalibration was required, but the Ardbeg had taken the edge off.
‘Leverage?’ said Berlin. ‘You mean blackmail?’
The diffuse light behind Haileybury was a ghostly aura.
‘I am rather fond of the boy,’ he said. ‘Of which they are no doubt aware.’
‘Who are “they”?’ said Berlin.
Haileybury looked at her as if she hadn’t been paying attention.
‘The Chinese, of course,’ he said. ‘If we can show this is the work of their dirty tricks brigade, it will cause them a great deal of embarrassment. Possible expulsions, all sorts. They watch me all the time. The PRC – the People’s Republic of China – are ruthless, you know.’
She’d been completely wrong about Burghley. It wasn’t the more salacious aspects of this job that had put them off; it was the possibility of being dragged into a diplomatic incident involving an unpredictable foreign power and a paranoid aristocrat.
She proffered her glass for a refill.
‘Perhaps you could run that past me again,’ she said.
Bryant stood beneath a gnarled horse chestnut tree in St John’s churchyard, sucking on a Fisherman’s Friend. He could watch discreetly from here; he knew exactly who lurked in the decrepit warehouse on the other side of the street.
Bryant was Wapping born and bred. In the eighteenth century, his great-great-grandfather had owned a pub in the High Street, the Waterman’s Arms, long gone. A good thing too, his grandmother would have said. She had been a very devout woman. Church of England, but High.
Bryant had grown up with the history of Wapping and its denizens, and a lot of what he knew wasn’t to be found in books. The churchyard he was standing in was all that remained of St John’s, which now boasted two-bedroom apartments full of character with original features.
The one hundred bodies removed from the crypt were not mentioned in the glossy brochures. They may have been Low Church corpses, but it was a godless act anyway, according to Gran.
He shuffled, his collar chafing in the humidity. It was humiliating, a serving officer reduced to this, but he needed to be sure who was sticking their nose in, which meant following this blasted woman. She had clearly been around the block a few times and didn’t take much pride in her appearance.
His boss, Detective Chief Inspector Tomalin, had pointed a finger towards the ceiling when Bryant asked him where the order to cooperate with her had come from.
He’d been told to extend every courtesy to the private investigator, although Tomalin added that her role wouldn’t affect the case; there would be no interference.
Bryant knew what that was worth if higher-ups were involved. They would talk to the Crown Prosecution Service over a skinny latte, and once they got their hands on it they would live up to the name more commonly used by coppers: ‘Can’t Prosecute, Sorry’.
He didn’t like it. It smelt wrong. Like the mucky odour coming from the drains in this weird, clammy weather. He popped another Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth and waited.
Leaving Haileybury’s, Berlin was conscious that her reaction to his story might have been influenced by the single malt, the effects of which she was still enjoying. Until Bryant stepped into her path.
‘Jesus Christ!’ she said. ‘What are you playing at?’
‘I knew it. I just knew it,’ he said.
He was so wound up he was practically fizzing.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Berlin.
‘I know who lives in there,’ said Bryant.
‘Bully for you,’ said Berlin.
‘What did he have to say?’ he demanded.
‘Do me a favour, Bryant,’ said Berlin. ‘Sod off.’
‘I’m not a turnip,’ said Bryant. ‘The assault occurred just down the road, he’s got friends in high places and you scuttled off to see him as soon as you left the station.’
‘Surveillance without reasonable cause is harassment, Detective Bryant. I’ll be lodging a complaint,’ said Berlin.
She tried to walk away, but he grabbed her arm. A cloud of aniseed fumes engulfed her.
‘Get your bloody hands off me,’ she said. ‘Those cough sweets have got you wired.’
‘The high and mighty eighth earl wants the victim found,’ said Bryant. ‘What else is there for you to do? And I know why. So he can protect his catamite.’
The word exploded from his mouth in a flurry of spittle.
Berlin almost laughed.
‘Catamite?’ she said. ‘Who do you think you’re dealing with, Oscar Wilde?’
‘I know what goes on in there,’ said Bryant.
‘Do you?’ said Berlin. ‘How?’
Bryant let her go. They were standing beneath an old tree. One of its thick limbs creaked in a current of tepid air. The hoary sentinel was wheezing.
‘What’s your problem, Bryant?’ said Berlin. ‘You’ve pretty much got the boy on the assault. What more do you want? You said yourself the victim was probably up to no good.’
‘And you said the circumstances of the assault were a bit odd,’ said Bryant.
He had a point.
‘So why do you care if Haileybury’s involved?’ said Berlin. ‘Chen’s old enough to consent. There are a lot of dirty old men about. As you seem to be only too well aware.’
Bryant was squinting at her, apparently trying to decide if she was taking the piss, when a sudden squall threw grit and dust in their faces.
There was a sharp crack. They both looked up.
The rotten limb, splintered from the trunk, hung above their heads at a precarious angle. Berlin took a quick sidestep, but Bryant just stood there, staring up at the branch, until Berlin shoved him out of harm’s way.
He didn’t say anything, just gave her a small, enigmatic smile before he turned and walked off.
She had the feeling he’d wanted the limb to fall.
Berlin took the bus, the D3, which would drop her close to home in Bethnal Green. Her leg was aching, thanks to an old Achilles tear repaired badly, and her feet burned, the result of nerve damage from frostbite.
She was still managing, just, not to fall back into the arms of her old flame, or even its stand-ins, methadone or buprenorphine, which she loathed for their cold, deadening effect. Prescription codeine washed down with Talisker was her fallback position for pain. Analgesia had never played any part in her addiction to heroin.
Abstinence was a relentless state and she couldn’t yet put her hand on her heart and say she had fully embraced it. Age hadn’t diminished her agitation; fifty-eight felt no different from eighteen when it came to anxiety.
She wasn’t at all sure she wanted this job. The peer’s tirade about the Chinese intelligence service didn’t really fit the facts and stretched credulity. Haileybury was reaching for an excuse for his boy; how often had some psychopath’s mother insisted her son wouldn’t hurt a fly?
Whichever way you cut it, the earl was intent on a cover-up. Helping a privileged public schoolboy avoid the consequences of a nasty crime didn’t sit well with her. A kid from one of the sink estates would still be in a cell waiting for legal aid to turn up.
On the other hand, there was something slightly off about the whole business; Haileybury’s explanation could have some element of truth. But which element?
The bus was stuck in traffic halfway across Whitechapel Road. Berlin took out her phone and dialled. Del answered, panting.
‘Don’t tell me you’re jogging at lunchtime?’ said Berlin.
‘Squash with the boss,’ said Del. He lowered his voice. ‘Sir Simon May, a senior partner putting in a rare appearance at the coalface. He’s the source of your current job.’
‘How are you doing?’ said Berlin.
‘I’m losing,’ said Del.
‘Very sensible,’ said Berlin.
‘How are things at your end?’ said Del. ‘Behaving yourself with the gentry?’
‘They have excellent cellars,’ said Berlin.
‘Where you belong,’ he said. ‘Below stairs.’
Only Del could get away with such a comment.
‘This job has all the upstairs-downstairs features the tabloids could want: a seventeen-year-old delinquent public schoolboy and an ageing aristocrat.’
In recent years, both houses of the Palace of Westminster, not to mention other bastions of British civil society, had been exposed as harbouring more than their fair share of depravity. The Great British Public would ask how long this association between the earl and the schoolboy had been going on. The question had crossed her mind, too.
‘So you’re okay with it, then?’ said Del.
He knew her well enough to know she would have doubts.
Leaving aside the political angle, Bryant’s open hostility and prejudice had made her uneasy. Philip Chen was seventeen. If he had a sexual relationship with Haileybury it was legal. Just.
That wouldn’t deter a homophobic detective; Bryant would look for every opportunity to drag the peer into it. His strange behaviour in the churchyard made that a certainty.
An old man parading a young woman on his arm attracted a certain sneaking admiration. It was different when it was a young man. And Haileybury himself had said he was practically in loco parentis. It might be tasteless, but it was nobody’s business.
‘Yes,’ said Berlin. ‘Against my better judgement.’
‘It will be a walk in the park,’ said Del.
She could hear the relief in his voice. He liked to keep her busy and the partners happy.
Berlin was Molly’s godmother, but she didn’t see her very often. Linda, Del’s wife, wasn’t that comfortable with the idea of Berlin as a role model for Molly, or, for that matter, Del. Berlin liked to think that her work in the field provided him with a vicarious outlet. He didn’t always see it that way. Neither did Linda.
‘This one’s off the books,’ he added. ‘And whatever you need in the way of expenses.’
No contract. No paper trail. No budget. Everything done on a nod and a wink. The old-boy network.
‘I have to get back to losing,’ said Del. ‘Sir Simon has a plane to catch.’
‘What did he tell you about this job?’ she said.
‘Not much. Just that it needed discretion, sensitivity and an unorthodox approach.’
‘That’s me, is it?’ said Berlin.
‘Yeah,’ said Del. ‘Tight-lipped, touchy and unpredictable.’
Berlin chuckled. It was the first laugh she’d had in a while. She decided not to mention the Chinese angle; if Sir Simon hadn’t told Del, fine. He would just worry. Her previous encounters with foreign agents hadn’t always turned out well. She flexed missing toes.
The bus finally juddered and moved forward.
Bryant was pleased when all his so-called colleagues cleared off home and the squad room was his. He worked better alone and there would be no awkward questions about what he was doing. He bent over the computer and fiddled with the USB stick, finally getting it into the slot.
At least he’d had the satisfaction of putting that Berlin woman in her place. She’d been drinking, he’d smelt it on her breath. Probably hitting the bottle with Haileybury. Birds of a feather. She wouldn’t give him any trouble.
He’d skipped lunch and spent a long afternoon at the council’s CCTV control room, where he had an old mate with as much patience as him for the niceties of paperwork. They eventually found the footage involving Chen and saved it on to the stick.
He copied the video on to the hard drive. It would be logged when it suited him, if it was used in evidence. A double click brought the grainy footage to life. The images weren’t great, but when he froze the video, he could see that the face of Philip Chen was contorted with fury.
He pressed play again. The boy threw a punch and the victim reeled back, hands to his face. That would be the blood on the cobblestones. Noses bled profusely. Pity.
The Berlin woman was right about one thing: it was unusual. Assaults at that time of the morning were the forte of drunken youths and junkies. A lone assailant with nothing to gain, oblivious to the CCTV, implied something else. Something more personal.
Whatever the motive, he was determined to get to the bottom of it, particularly now he knew Haileybury was involved.
‘Any problems this morning, Bryant?’ said Tomalin.
He started and fumbled with the mouse, blanking the screen. The bloody DCI was watching him from the doorway.
‘No, sir,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Tomalin. ‘Go home.’
Easy to say when you had a wife and three kiddies tucked away in a nice semi in Chigwell.
He switched off his computer and slipped the USB stick into his pocket.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’
Bryant left the station by way of the custody suite. The sergeant on night shift was arranging his Thermos and snacks the way he liked them, and cleaning the console and the computer keyboard with antibacterial wipes.
Bryant pointed at the cells.
‘Sleeping like a baby when I came on,’ said the sergeant. ‘Must be guilty.’
Only the innocent paced and fretted when banged up. For the guilty, it came as a relief.
The fear Bryant had seen earlier in the boy’s face wasn’t about a night in the cells. Something else was on his mind. Perhaps now he felt safe.
‘See you first thing,’ said Bryant.
The sergeant nodded.
‘I’d put money on it,’ he said.
Haileybury stood on his terrace and watched the light die behind Tower Bridge. An email had confirmed the investigator was on board. She was an odd fish, but then he hardly wanted some buttoned-up by-the-book type involved in the affair.
He leant on the parapet. The terrace extended out over the river, an endless shadow that tonight appeared to absorb the city lights, not reflect them.
The river endured and accommodated all, flowing on regardless, a constant reminder of the things he held dear: continuity, loyalty and the promulgation of excellence in all its forms. He preferred to think of these as traditional, rather than old-fashioned, values, which exposed the shallow contemporary attachment to moral relativism and the cult of the amateur.
As far as he was concerned, twentieth-century Britain had created little of lasting value, references to Mary Quant, Francis Bacon and the Beatles notwithstanding. There was an adamant refusal amongst the chattering classes to acknowledge the fact that we are not all created equal.
At that moment he felt a chill, a cold presence; not a ghost, but someone lost, just the same.
‘My poor boy,’ he murmured.
Disoriented, he gripped the balustrade, enveloped in a memory carried on the sultry breeze. In his decline, the always tremulous border between past and present was dissolving precariously. He must hold on a little longer.
He went inside and drew the curtains.
Bryant took the long way home, via the Thames Path, ignoring the glimmering skyline in favour of the oily swathe that undulated below. The river always mesmerised him. Backwash slapped the embankment as a barge loaded with steaming refuse chugged downstream.
To his mind, there was a lot more rubbish in London that should be put out. This case might just be the opportunity he’d been waiting for.
Berlin’s pace slackened as she reached the stairs that led up to her flat on the second floor of a former council block. It wasn’t fatigue that slowed her footsteps, it was dread.
She’d eaten at her local, the Approach, and let the evening drift away with more Scotch. Usually more than content with her own company, tonight she was afraid to be alone with her thoughts.
She negotiated the three locks on the front door, shut it quietly behind her and went straight to the bathroom, where she grabbed a couple of codeine from the cabinet and went back to the kitchen for a glass of water.
The flat was small – a living area with a tiny kitchen, bedroom and bathroom – and it was oppressively stuffy. She sidestepped the stack of cartons lining the wall and opened a window. The air that wafted in was warm and acrid. She shut it again, then stood there, paralysed.
A thin grey line on the horizon was rolling inexorably towards her. Grief. She swallowed the codeine and walked out again.
Lee Wang Yan paused beside an open window for a moment and took a deep breath. He found the humidity and fumes of the London night air comforting. It reminded him of home. Quickly he turned away from the window and continued on his way down the long passage.
It was late, but a light still burned in the upstairs kitchen. He paused outside the door and listened. The slap of cards and the chink of glasses punctuated moans and grumbles.
The moment he turned the handle, the whining ceased.
Deng, the injured party, reclined in an armchair with a half-empty bottle of cheap whisky at his elbow. He was playing poker with his pals and making the most of his sacrifice. They preferred Texas Hold ’em to the more traditional pastime. Lee tried to disguise his disdain.
‘You delivered the message,’ he said.
‘And the boy delivered his,’ said Deng, wincing to emphasise his pain.
‘A tap on the nose. It’s not even broken,’ said Lee. ‘And your ribs will heal quickly.’
A grunt was the only reply.
He left them to it and went downstairs.
The young were so soft today, so reluctant to endure even a moment’s suffering. Raised by indulgent parents in a world of plenty, they possessed an exaggerated sense of entitlement.
Deng had handled the situation poorly, although Philip’s outburst had been completely unexpected. The boy was capable of considerable violence when provoked, a trait that could prove useful if channelled in the right direction. Finessing his rage would be something of a challenge.
A back door that lacked an alarm gave on to a large garden. The trees rustled and shadows flickered as he lit a cigarette, but he was unconcerned. This neighbourhood was as safe as houses, as the British would say.
The gate opened without a squeak, and he strolled down the road. Its solid, elegant buildings and clean, well-maintained pavement were pleasing and irritating in equal measure; so smug. Although what the British had to be smug about these days was unfathomable. Their delusions were, however, useful, as were their weaknesses, and he was able to exploit both to great effect.
Philip Chen’s belief that he was protected by power and privilege would unravel as it became apparent his membership of the elite was conditional. He could rapidly become just another unsavoury foreigner with questionable habits. He would learn the hard way. Lee’s own lesson in humility had been particularly harsh.
He gobbed in the gutter. He knew how it disgusted them.
*
Lee returned to his room and locked the door. The blinding headache he endured nightly had set in. He lay down and plumped his pillows, trying to find a comfortable position. He’d been trying for more than fifty years.
From the drawer of the bedside table he withdrew a slim leather case, which he unzipped and laid flat on the bed. The old-fashioned glass barrel syringe and stainless-steel needle gleamed.
The mere sight reassured him; he tightened the rubber tube around his bicep, clenched his fist and prepared for merciful oblivion as his vision degenerated into jagged flashes. It didn’t matter, he could do it in the dark.
He closed his eyes.
Every morning was busy at the Thames Magistrates’ Court, and this Tuesday was no different. The youth court sat in the same brutalist building. Assailed by its ripe odours – sweaty adolescence, fried chicken and stale cigarette smoke – Berlin pushed her way through the crowd looking for Philip Chen and his lawyer. No one gave ground. The assembled throng spoke many languages, but all shared a common code: surly.