Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(79)
Berlin waited without speaking. The doctor was doing himself no favours the longer he talked, but it looked like nothing was going to stop him.
‘Adults may have been contaminated from a variety of sources over a prolonged period of time, so the information has limited use. However, with infants we have an exact date of conception, birth and death to work with, and the data is of immense value.’
‘You bastard.’ The words came out of Berlin’s mouth almost as a whisper.
Jessop held up both his hands, palms out in a calming gesture. ‘Children die, DS Berlin, children die every day, everybody understands that. Mothers miscarry, children are stillborn or die at birth from a variety of causes, or soon after from genetic defects or from any number of illnesses, like whooping cough or mumps or measles. These unfortunate infants, however, are an ideal reference subject for our work, and the doctors and hospitals involved in this project know exactly the kind of material we require and are happy to provide it.’
‘They’re happy? And are the parents aware of any of this? Are they happy?’
The doctor tried a conciliatory tone. ‘Happy is not the best choice of word, perhaps, but I’m not sure I understand your concerns here. Grieving parents in these situations are in no position to make informed decisions, even if they did in rare cases have the intellectual capacity to understand the vital importance of what we do. Trained doctors and other dedicated medical personnel make these decisions on their behalf and thus spare them any further distress, allowing them to get on with mourning the loss of their child.’
Berlin found it hard to believe that Jessop couldn’t see the anger that was boiling inside him. The man was a true believer who couldn’t help opening his yap when silence would serve him better. What had that bastard from Special Branch said about people up to their necks in shit?
‘So these lucky parents get to mourn over an empty coffin and that makes everything okay?’
‘You must understand that in most instances we only require samples, DS Berlin.’ Jessop was speaking quickly now. ‘It is a very rare case where we decide we need to acquire the whole body. And it is not just in this country, you should understand – the program has international ramifications, so the work, of necessity, must take place across international borders.’
Berlin took off his suit coat and hung it on the coat rack by the door. He found himself clenching and unclenching his fingers and twisting his wrists to loosen the muscles.
‘It seems to me, Dr Jessop, that what you said about everything that happens within these walls stays within these walls means I could belt you till you piss blood and there’d be no way you could do anything about it. I mean, it’s not like you could complain to the police, is it? You can’t stir things up, make a big fuss. Not with that letter floating about.’
Jessop appeared a little wary but not like a man who really took the comment seriously. ‘Come now, Berlin, do you think that physically attacking me would make any kind of difference to what is happening here? It would serve only to give you some momentary satisfaction but in the long run would have no effect, I assure you.’
The hot rage that Berlin had spent years suppressing, forcing back into that dark place inside him where it lived, was balling his hands into fists. ‘If momentary satisfaction is all I’m going to get, why don’t we see just how long we can make that moment last …’
Berlin was wrong about them taking five minutes to break down the outer door to the office – it was closer to seven. By the time they gained access he had washed his hands clean of blood and dried them using the towel by the washbasin. Then he had put his suit coat back on. The three men filled the doorway but the Enfield in Berlin’s hand was sufficient argument for them to not rush him. He ordered them to stand over near Jessop, who was lying on the floor by his desk, his face a bloody mask and his breathing wheezy due to several broken ribs.
Berlin reached into his pocket, found the roll of adhesive bandage and tossed it across the room. ‘Here you go, boys, the doc there is going to need a bandage or two, I reckon. I’m off home to my wife and kids now, and it’s probably not a good idea for anyone to try to come after me. Just ask your boss about that one. And you can take it as gospel that if I ever see any of you blokes again, any time, any where, someone will regret it.’
FORTY-EIGHT
Stansfield was still by the outer gate where Berlin had left him, moaning weakly. He screamed in pain as Berlin ripped the tape from his mouth, and louder still as he was dragged up the stone steps and into the light. He would be easier to find there when they finally came looking. Jesus, why do I even care? Berlin asked himself as he pulled the man into a more comfortable sitting position, ignoring the whimpering noises he was making. ‘You sound like my daughter’s dog after the fire, you prick,’ he told Stansfield. ‘I hope you bloody hurt for a long, long time.’
Berlin straightened up and took the khaki-painted dosimeter from his pocket. ‘And this might be yours, I’m guessing.’ He put the disk on the stone step by Stansfield’s head and stamped down hard with his right foot, twisting right and left, for once not caring about what might be happening to the sole of his shoe. The weight of the pistol in his pocket was a temptation, but a bullet in Stansfield’s head wouldn’t bring Len back. And he had seen what a bullet in the head could do.