Fucking cunt, the other one said in a low voice that was far more frightening than a shout. He sprang towards her, right arm pulling back for a punch. Carol saw it all with slow-motion clarity. As he brought his fist towards her, she let herself drop and his momentum carried him forward into the wall.
It gave her a couple of precious seconds to grab the gas canister from her bag. As her first assailant scrambled to his feet, she let him have the CS gas straight in the face. Now he was really howling, screaming like an animal in a trap.
His mate swung round, ready for a second attack. When he saw her grinning like a madwoman, the spray can at arms length, pointing straight at him, he raised both hands, palms facing her, in the universal gesture of surrender. Fucking take it easy, bitch, he shouted.
Get out of my fucking way, Carol snarled.
Obediently, he flattened himself against the wall. She edged past him, careful to keep the spray pointing at him all the time. His friend was still yelling, his eyes streaming and his mouth contorted in pain. Carol walked backwards in the direction of the street, never taking her eyes off them. The one who had punched the wall had his arm round the other now, and they were staggering towards the far end of the alley, all the bravado knocked out of them like the air from a punctured balloon. She allowed herself a small, private smile. If that was the best Morgan could throw at her, she was going to come out of this with flying colours.
She turned her back on her assailants and walked out into the busy street. It was hard to believe that only a matter of yards from this mid-morning bustle of shoppers and strollers shed stared physical danger in the face. As the adrenaline surge receded, she became aware of the state she was in. Her upper body was drenched, the double skin of the vinyl jacket and the kagoule acting like a sweatbox on her skin. Her hair under the baseball cap felt plastered to her head. And she was starving. If she was going to complete this mission, shed be crazy to ignore her bodys messages.
Up ahead, she saw the golden arches of a McDonalds. She could get something to eat then use the toilet to clean herself up and switch from the skirt into her denim leggings. With luck it would have a functioning hot-air hand drier. She could maybe even alter her hairstyle, thanks to the sweat of panic.
Twenty minutes later, Carol was back on the street. Her hair was off her face, slicked back with a smear of hair wax. The aviator frames subtly altered the shape of her face. The jacket was zipped up, hiding the T-shirt underneath. She looked different enough from the woman who had rung Garys doorbell to confuse most casual observers. She knew it wasnt enough to fool the sort of scrutiny she expected to be under, but it might be sufficient to buy her a few extra seconds when it counted.
She took her time getting to the station, browsing shop windows as if she was just another idle shopper wondering what to buy for dinner. But once there, she trotted up the steps to the platform just in time to catch the train. Good thing I checked out the timetable, she congratulated herself as she slumped into a corner seat in a carriage that smelled of dust. It was a breathing space. Time to figure out what came next.
12
Petra walked into the squad room of the GeSa. It was as depressing as every other one shed been in. The net curtains that blurred the bars over the three windows were the dirty yellow of second-hand nicotine, the walls and floor the same graded shades of grey that characterized the rest of the GeSa. That fascinating gamut from dove to anthracite, Petra thought wryly. The Wachpolizisten stationed at the GeSa had tried to brighten up the room with the usual kitsch array of postcards, cartoons and photographs of their pets. A couple of tired plants struggled to cope with the absence of any direct sunlight. It only served to make the place even more depressing.
The room was empty except for a solitary female WaPo who was putting a plastic box full of a prisoners personal effects on one of the shelves. She turned as Petra leaned on the counter and cleared her throat. Im Petra Becker from Criminal Intelligence. Im here to see Marlene Krebs, Petra said. Youve still got her, right?
The WaPo nodded. Shes due to see the judge in a couple of hours, then shell be transferred, I guess. Dont you want to wait till then?
I need to talk to her now. I can use the lawyers room, yeah?
The WaPo looked uncertain. You better talk to the boss. Hes in the report room.
Thats down at the end of the cell block, right?
Behind the fingerprint room, yes. Youll need to leave your gun here.
Petra took her pistol from its holster in the small of her back and locked it into one of the lockers for visiting officers. Then she headed out of the squad room towards the cell corridor. She glanced up at the electronic alert system the cops sarcastically called the room-service board. None of the alarm lamps was lit; for once the prisoners were being well-be-haved, not driving the GeSa team crazy with constant summonses.
The cell block itself was surprisingly sterile and modern. The usual linoleum gave way to red brick tiles on floor and walls. Most of the doors were closed, indicating that they were occupied. A couple were open, revealing a small vestibule, beyond which wall-to-wall bars enclosed four square metres of cell equipped with a bed and a rectangular hole in the floor covered with a chrome grid in case the inmates decided not to ring for a toilet visit and just fouled the cell. It was a mistake most of them made only once; the cost of cleaning the cell after such acts of defiance was billed directly to the prisoners.
Petra wondered which door concealed Marlene Krebs, and how she was coping. Badly, she hoped. It would make her job that much easier.
She found the shift commander in the Schreibzimmer, frowning at one of the Berliner Modell computers. She explained her mission, and he asked her to wait while he organized an interview. We shouldnt really have her here, he grumbled. She should have gone straight to KriPo, but since it happened on our doorstep, they told us to hang on to her.
It is only for twenty-four hours max, Petra pointed out.
Thats about twenty-three too many for me. Shes been bleating since she arrived. She wants a lawyer, she wants to use the toilet, she wants a drink. She seems to think this is a hotel, not a detention centre. She acts like we should be treating her like a hero instead of a criminal. He pushed himself to his feet and made for the door. Ill send someone for you in a few minutes. You can take a look at the paperwork its in the tray over there. He gestured with his thumb to a pile of files stacked high above the edges of a filing tray.
He was as good as his word. Within ten minutes, she was sitting in the Anwaltsraum, facing Marlene Krebs across a table bolted to the floor. Krebs could have been any age between thirty and forty, though Petra knew from the report shed read that the woman was only twenty-eight. Her hair was dyed a harsh black, tousled from a night in the cells. Her make-up was smudged, presumably from the same cause. Krebs had the puffy face and hands of a drinker, and the whites of her pale green eyes were tinged with yellow. However, she also possessed the sleepy sensuality of a woman who is attractive to men and who knows it.
Marlene, Im Petra Becker from Criminal Intelligence. Petra sat back and let the words sink in.
Krebs face revealed nothing. Have you got any cigarettes? she asked.
Petra took a half-empty pack from her pocket and pushed it towards Krebs. She snatched at it and thrust a cigarette between full lips. What about a light, then? she demanded.
The cigarette was free. The light will cost you.
Krebs scowled. Bitch, she said.
Petra shook her head. Not a good start.
Whats this about, anyway? What have I got to do with Criminal Intelligence?
Its a bit late to be asking that, Marlene. That really should have been your first question.
Krebs took the cigarette from her mouth and flicked the tip as if there was ash to be deposited. Look, I admit I shot that dope-dealing bastard Kamal.
Its not like theres much room for doubt.
But I had good reason. He sold my Danni the junk that killed him. What can I say? I was crazy with grief.
Petra slowly shook her head. Youre never going to cut it as an actress, Marlene. That routine needs a lot of work before you go in front of a judge. Look, we both know your story is bullshit. Why dont we cut the crap and see what I can do for you?
I dont know what youre talking about. I told you. Kamal killed Danni. I loved Danni. Something in me snapped when I heard Kamal had been arrested and I wanted to take revenge for what he had taken from me.
Petra smiled. It was the lizard smile of a predator who smells the first hint of blood. See, Marlene, theres the first problem. The guys who brought Kamal in, they didnt hang around. They went straight to his restaurant, they pulled him out of the front door and into their car. Then they drove here. Ive seen the logs. There was barely enough time for you to hear about the arrest, never mind get hold of a gun and get to Friesenstrasse in time to put a bullet in his head. Petra let Marlene think about that. Unless of course someone tipped you the wink that the arrest was about to go down. Why would anyone do that, unless they wanted Kamal dead? So, how did you hear about Kamals arrest?
I dont have to answer you.
No, you dont. But you do need to listen to me, because everything Im saying to you is a stick of dynamite blowing a hole in your mitigation. Marlene, this isnt going to play the way whoever set you up for it said it would. Your story is going to fall to bits as soon as the KriPo start poking around. Now, I know you think theyre not going to bother too much with this because its saved them the hassle of a difficult prosecution with Kamal, not to mention one less scuzzy middle-ranking dealer on the streets. But me, you see, Im bothered. Because Im interested in the people above Kamal.
Youre not making any sense, Krebs said obstinately. Are you going to light this fucking cigarette or what?
I told you. Not for free. Come on, Marlene. Face it, youre going away for a very long time. This wasnt a crime of passion, it was an assassination. And were going to prove it. Youre going to be a grandmother before you see freedom again.
For the first time, there was a flicker of something behind Krebs cold eyes. You cant prove what isnt true.
Petra laughed out loud. Oh, please, Marlene. I thought your sort believed thats what us cops do all the time? OK, proving what isnt true can sometimes be demanding. But compared to that, proving what we know to be true is a piece of piss. I know you were put up to this. And I know the people who did that gambled on us not caring too much about who took Kamal down or why. But they werent gambling with their own stake. They were using you for chips. So, we already have a hole in your story about time. I think the next hole will be where you got the gun from.
It was Dannis gun, she said quickly. He left it in my apartment.
Which is about ten minutes drive from Kamals restaurant and a good twenty-minute drive from here. But the cops only took thirteen minutes to get here from Kamals. You couldnt possibly have made it here in time, even if someone had called you the minute the cops took Kamal into custody. So calling it Dannis gun makes a second hole in your story. Petra picked up the cigarette packet and put it back in her pocket.
Right now, she continued, Ive got a team out in Mitte talking to everybody who knows you and who knew Danni. Id put money on us not finding a single person who can put you and him together. Well, maybe well get one or two. But Id put money on the fact that theyll be tied in as closely to Darko Krasic as you are.
At the sound of Krasics name, Krebs reacted. Her thumb flicked the end of the cigarette so hard she broke the filter tip clean off. For one brief moment, something sparked in her eyes. Inside, Petra rejoiced. The first crack had appeared. Now for the crowbar.
Give him up, Marlene. Hes thrown you to the wolves. You talk to me, you can save yourself. You can watch your kid grow up.
Something shifted behind Krebs gaze and Petra realized shed lost her. The mention of her daughter, thats what had done it. Of course, she thought. Krasic has the kid under wraps. Thats his insurance policy. Before she could break Krebs, theyd have to find the daughter. Still, it was worth one last throw of the dice. Youll be going in front of the judge soon, she said. Youll be remanded in custody. No matter how smart-mouthed your lawyer is, no matter how many times he plays the card that youre no risk to the public, theyre not going to bail you. Because Im going to tell the prosecutor weve got you on our books as someone with links to organized crime. Youre going into the general prison population. Do you have any idea how easy it will be for me to make it look like youre co-operating with us? And do you have any idea how little time it will take Darko Krasic to make sure you never talk to anyone else again? I mean, think about it, Marlene. How long did it take him to set up Kamal? Petra got to her feet. Think about it. She crossed to the door and knocked to indicate that the meeting was over.
As the WaPo outside opened up, Petra looked back over her shoulder. Marlene Krebs was leaning forward, her loose hair shrouding her face. Ill be calling on you, Marlene.
Krebs looked up. Hate blared across the room at Petra. Fuck you, she said.
Ill take that as a yes, Petra thought triumphantly as she walked back to the Wachte for her gun. She had finally lit a low flame under Darko Krasic that might eventually cook Tadeusz Radecki.
Carol had always enjoyed the ambience of Soho. Shed seen it shift from the seediness of the porn industrys hub to the stylish, gay-orientated café society it had become in the 1990s, but there had never been a time when she hadnt found it fascinating. Chinatown rubbed shoulders with theatreland, leather men shared the pavements with shifty-eyed prostitutes punters, media gurus battled wannabe gangstas for taxis. Although shed never policed its narrow, traffic-choked streets, shed spent a lot of time there, much of it in a drinking club on Beak Street where one of her oldest friends, now a literary journalist, was a founding member.
Today, everything was different. She was looking at the world through a different lens. From the perspective of a drugs courier, nothing was quite the same. Every face on the street was a potential cause for concern. Every dodgy doorway could pose some unnamed threat. To walk down Old Compton Street was to tiptoe into the danger zone, antennae bristling and every sense quivering with alertness. She wondered how criminals coped with these levels of adrenaline. Just one morning and she was jittery at some deep level, her stomach clenched and her skin clammy. Simply trying to keep her pace down to a stroll took every ounce of effort she had to give.