by Alex Coombs
Women had no place in Arkady’s world except for sexual pleasure, as the butt of jokes or for public beatings and humilia- tion. His relationships with women were those of slave and master from plantation times.
Now Hanlon had turned his world on its head. He had been the butt of a joke, he had been physically attacked, he had been humiliated. Nothing short of Hanlon’s death would satisfy him.
He wanted a razborki, a settlement of accounts.
Dimitri had been sent to a private treatment clinic in Wembley that Arkady used occasionally when people who worked for him needed patching up. The facilities and doctors were good, but more to the point, there were no awkward questions asked. They X-rayed him, suggested he might like to go somewhere for a proper CAT scan, gave him industrial- strength pain killers and sent him back. The fortunate thing for Dimitri was that the injury (all the pain seemed to cluster at the site of the broken bone around his eye) was easy to isolate. This was not the case for Arkady.
Arkady had been treated at the clinic, too, for the second- degree burns on his groin. The major problem for him was that whatever he did put pressure on the area. Sitting, lying, even standing, the burned flesh was chafed and pressured. The fact that it was this kind of pain he had enjoyed inflicting on his girls was an irony he failed to notice.
Dimitri was making light of his injuries. He had survived much worse in the past, as had Arkady, but the humiliation really hurt. To be beaten up by a woman, that was an unwel- come first. He ran the scene over and over in his head like a video on a loop. Hanlon headbutting him, fine, who could have anticipated that? But then his stupidity, when he had a hold of her, in not finishing the job properly! A two-handed grip and she’d have been his. Instead, that elbow strike to his gut, then the wooden end of the shotgun driving into his jaw. Well, the next time they met – and there would be a next time, they would see to that – it would be very different.
Arkady concerned himself with more practical problems. Who was she? He very quickly decided that she had to be some kind of professional. Well, that much was obvious. His first thought was probably ex-army. Not many men, let alone women, would have either the ability or, maybe more to the point, the guts to tackle Dimitri. If it had happened in Russia he would have guessed maybe the FSB, the Federal Security Service, the KGB’s replacement. Where Putin had come from. But they weren’t in Russia and he couldn’t blame Vladimir Vladimirovitch for this.
What was she? Mixed martial artist? Cage fighter? Surely not.
The only time he had seen commitment like that, bravery like that, and that fanatical look in the eye of someone perfectly prepared to die for their cause, was when he’d served with the army in Chechnya.
Svoboda ili Smert!
Freedom or death. That was a Chechen war cry he had heard many times. He could easily imagine it on her lips too. While promoting brand Belanov, Arkady had always heavily emphasized the terrible things that would happen to those who crossed him. He had learned long ago that fear paralyses people as effectively as a choke-hold. He liked people to be afraid of him and you would have to be crazy not to be. Whoever the woman was, she hadn’t been deterred by his reputation.
Then there was the question of who had sent her. His first thought, when Dimitri went down, was, I’m a dead man. She had to be an assassin, a hit-woman. He had never heard of such a thing, but why not? To see was to believe and from his position he felt sure he was looking death in the face. What else could this be? When you live a gangster’s life, you will probably die a gangster’s death, either behind bars or violently. There was no doubt in his mind as to his fate.
He knew what violent death looked like. He had meted it out often enough.
His most coherent thought had been a desire to die well, to show her that a Russian wasn’t scared of death. Dimitri had a tattoo of the Virgin and Child on his chest ready for this eventuality. It meant that his conscience was clean before his friends. Arkady’s only hope had been that it would be quick. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing or seeing, when she stuck that picture of the nonentity Fuller under his nose. This peculiar request for information on probably the least important of his clients, was what he found hard to grasp. That anyone should risk their lives to find out what that ineffectual pervert was up to was bewildering.
Arkady’s brain was an incredible storage system. In prison he’d occasionally do memory shows for his fellow inmates, memorizing packs of cards, that kind of thing. He had been able to provide all the details she had wanted in a nano-second, time, date, length of stay, choice of girl, but who cared about some two-bit teacher?
That made him rethink the soldier part of his theory. Police? It was such a cop kind of question, establishing an alibi, but such an unorthodox way of going about things. Still, it was something worth checking out. Indeed, realistically, it was one of the few things he could check out.
To think was to act. Arkady picked up his new mobile phone and called his contact at Oxford CID.
* * *
DS Joad looked around the bar with approval. It was only the second time that he’d been here, although he had been on Arkady’s books for two years. He had been given dis- appointingly little to do. Since he was paid a retainer, plus extra for services rendered, he’d earned a lot less than he was hoping for. Plus, he’d expected to be given the run of the house, where the girls were concerned. Joad had been extorting sex from prostitutes all his life and now he had hit the mother lode, he wasn’t allowed so much as a blow-job. Perhaps today his luck would change. He looked at the menu of girls. Nadezhda from the Caucasus looked very promising.
He ordered a Beluga Goldline vodka on the rocks. It was eye-wateringly expensive and he liked the stylish bottle it came in. He also liked the way that he didn’t have to pay for it. He knocked it back quickly and banged the glass down on the bar so he could get another one in while the going was good.
‘Make it a large one, Ivan,’ he said to the barman.
He caught his reflection in the mirror and straightened his tie. He was looking good. He was glad he’d worn his best suit. He fitted in perfectly. He’d had a bit of banter with the barman about it. He was popular with barmen; he had the common touch. He sipped his drink and looked around the bar. He smiled benignly at the other customers with their girls of choice. The barman slipped away and crossed the corridor to Arkady’s office. He knocked on the door and Dimitri opened it. ‘Get that fuck-wit out of my bar, please, Dimitri Nikolyavitch,’ begged Sergei. ‘He’s beginning to freak the other customers out.’ Dimitri looked across the office at Arkady, who nodded.
Dimitri then accompanied the distraught barman and returned thirty seconds later with Joad, still clutching his drink.
Arkady began to reconsider his hiring policy. Surely anyone was better than this. He ran his eyes coldly over Joad, who was grinning at him, anxious to please. The policeman was wearing a terrible three-piece suit, made of some dark, artificial fabric. Even in Arkady’s hometown of Tulskaya in south Moscow, notorious for being an industrial slum, a real dump, it would look like shit.
‘Sit down,’ he said abruptly. Joad did as he was told.
Enver had guessed that Hanlon would have been photographed on some form of internal security system. So she had.
Arkady slid a high-resolution photo of Hanlon across the top of his desk. Joad’s eyes widened as he saw who it was. He immediately decided to lie for the moment. It’s what he usually did.
Arkady had noticed Joad’s reaction.
‘Do you know who this is?’ he demanded.
Joad shook his head. ‘No, I was just admiring the view. Nice tits, bit small for me, not like Nadezhda,’ he added hopefully. Arkady stared at him coldly. ‘I’m sure I can find out for you, though,’ said Joad.
‘I hope you can,’ said Arkady menacingly.
‘If she’s on our system, it might take some time,’ said Joad, pulling a face.
‘Then make time,’ said Arkady.
Joad put his seriou
s face on. ‘I’ll run her through databases for you. Do you have fingerprints? That would be a huge help.’
‘No,’ said Arkady.
‘She sounds like a professional,’ said Joad. He frowned to indicate the difficulties he would face.
‘Meaning?’ said Arkady.
‘I mean, she might not even be on our system,’ warned Joad. He was warming to his task. ‘But I swear to God I’ll pull all the stops out.’
‘You do that,’ said Arkady. ‘And I will want some form of address, some knowledge of how to get hold of her.’
Joad thought carefully. ‘I’m sure that can be done, if I can track her down. And I take it you’ll want any other relevant information.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s she done, this woman?’ asked Joad, curious to know how Hanlon had come to Arkady’s attention.
‘Pissed me off,’ said Arkady.
45
Enver looked across the table at the twin figures of DCI Murray and Assistant Commissioner Corrigan. He had forgotten exactly how tall Corrigan was, and he looked even bigger in his uniform. Murray yawned and scratched his bald head.
‘Sorry, sir, sorry, Enver,’ he said. ‘We’ve got this new puppy and we keep her locked up in the utility room at night because she’s not house-trained, and she whines all night. Worse than the kids.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
Corrigan said nothing, but Enver noticed a flicker of impatience running across his slab-like face. We’re not here to talk about the puppy, the expression said.
‘The AC is with us today for a brief assessment report on the philosophy killings,’ said Murray. ‘I’d be grateful to you, DI Demirel, if you could give him a brief summary.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver. It was the kind of thing he excelled at. He had a retentive memory and a gift for precis. He also had the advantage of knowing that Corrigan was well disposed towards him. Enver had made reports to senior officers in the past, who had taken a cruel delight in deliberately misunderstanding, or misinterpreting, facts to make him look ridiculous. He guessed it was a typical power game. Belittling your juniors.
Corrigan was not like that. He was, however, immensely shrewd and a couple of times Enver noticed him raise his eye- brows and make a note on a pad of paper. After a while, the paper was annotated with short sentences in his neat hand- writing and ominous-looking question marks.
‘And how has DCI Hanlon been getting on in her information- gathering role?’ asked Corrigan. His eyes were fixed gently but firmly on Enver’s.
It was the question that Enver had been dreading. Corrigan knew Hanlon very well. He knew that she was quite capable of acting irregularly. He was superb at evaluating data and he could see that Enver’s report, while excellent, was expertly side-stepping around certain contentious issues.
Namely, Hanlon. Corrigan was extremely fond of Hanlon. He found her honesty, her incorruptibility and her integrity admirable, but above all he found her compelling. He wasn’t drawn to her because of anything, he had to admit, it was more in spite of. She was cantankerous, unpredictable and a huge source of trouble. And he also knew he would go to extraordinary lengths to protect her. He knew that Enver felt the same. She’d nearly got him killed, had got him shot in the foot, he was lucky not to have been crippled, and here he was, still loyally covering her back. He would bet good money that Enver knew an awful lot more about her activities than he was letting on.
Enver, correctly, put the AC’s presence here as a kind of warning not to overstep the mark. He scratched his moustache, which he did when he felt hesitant.
Telling the truth was out of the question. How could he even begin with the Belanov incident? But just for a second he felt an overwhelming desire to make a clean breast of everything, to pour his heart out to Corrigan. He resisted the temptation.
Let Hanlon deal with it, he thought. She created the situation in the first place.
‘Fine, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘She does have some theories that may impact upon the case, I believe.’
Corrigan raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, do go on, I’d be fascinated to hear a DCI Hanlon theory.’ His tone was dry, ironic.
‘Yes, sir.’ Enver thought of Hanlon’s strong, slightly arrogant features and the impossible situations she landed him in. I could strangle you, he thought.
There was a pause while he frantically racked his brains for something noncommittal to say. Murray yawned.
‘I’m all ears, Detective Inspector,’ Corrigan added helpfully. Enver said smoothly, ‘I wouldn’t like to pre-empt anything the DCI has, sir. I’m sure it’ll all be in her report, a full and
comprehensive account.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ said Corrigan with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘Until that happy day, let’s hear your side of things.’ Sod it, Enver thought, it’s what she wanted after all. He took a deep breath. ‘I rather think, though, sir, that she may have doubts as to Dr Fuller’s guilt.’
Corrigan nodded. ‘Ah yes, Dr Fuller. He seems to be trending quite a bit on Twitter of late. Have you followed any of the gossip yourself, DI Demirel?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, @LionofAfrica15 has posted some hair-raising images of Dr Fuller online. I think the Lion might well be a cleaner at Queen’s College. Have you seen it?’
‘Not as such, sir.’
‘Dr Fuller is handcuffed to a whiteboard. He seems to have been beaten up. Does this ring any bells, DI Demirel?’
‘I’ll certainly look into it, sir,’ said Enver. ‘#DrFullerphilosophy. That should take you there,’ said Corrigan.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver. Bloody Hanlon, he thought.
‘I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with the Metropolitan Police,’ said the assistant commissioner menacingly. ‘Why don’t you try asking DCI Hanlon about it? She might favour us with one of her theories.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver unhappily.
The discussion switched to other, more mundane aspects of the case and its wider ramifications. Time passed slowly until Corrigan stood up, towering over the table. ‘Well, I’d best be off. Tell DCI Hanlon I was asking after her.’
‘I will, sir,’ said Enver. He and DCI Murray watched him leave. Message understood, thought Enver.
Murray turned to him and said, ‘Right, Fuller. I happen to share DCI Hanlon’s concerns, up to a point.’ Enver looked at him in surprise. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent happy with the case against him as it stands and the CPS are mak- ing concerned noises about the Oxford end of things, but that’s not our concern. I take it you’ve got nothing to add to this?’
‘No, sir,’ said Enver. Not unless you count DCI Hanlon beating Fuller up and then threatening to emasculate a Russian criminal, then perversely coming to the conclusion that Fuller was innocent.
Murray smiled happily.
He was by nature a glass-half-full kind of a man. He was very relaxing to work with, not like some DCIs Enver could name. Murray hadn’t particularly cared that Corrigan had been down checking on the progress of the case. As far as he was
concerned, he’d done his best. His conscience was clear. ‘Well,’ said Murray, ‘there’s one thing I would like you to do.
I want you to go up to Leeds and interview Abigail Vickery’s mother.’
Enver raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, sir. And to what end?’
Murray took his glasses off and polished them on the fat end of his tie. ‘As of course you know, one of the theories swirling around Fuller is that Abigail was his first victim. That’s seven years ago. What I really don’t want to have to do, is track Fuller from then until now, looking at unsolved assaults and sex crimes in places associated with him. All that time, all that effort, all that cost.’ He shook his head. ‘I know you looked into the police and coroner’s reports but I want you to have a word with the mother. Police reports don’t always hit the mark, do they, DI Demirel?’
He spoke innocently enough, but Enver thought of the gaping holes in his own rep
ort. First Corrigan, now Murray. No one really believes me, he thought gloomily. Murray carried on.
‘I contacted Alison Vickery. She’ll be at home on Monday. No sense dragging her down to the local nick, maybe opening old wounds. Go and see her, find out what she thinks. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver.
‘I got DS Fremlin to book you rail travel. Go to him and he’ll give you the ticket documents. I’ll see you, I guess, on Tuesday or Wednesday.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘At least with you, Enver,’ said Murray, ‘I can rely on you to be discreet and tactful. It’s a terrible thing to lose a child, so handle her gently, yeah.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll do my best,’ said Enver.
First Oxford, now Leeds. Who said police work wasn’t glamorous?
46
Joad scratched his head in annoyance. Over the weekend he had drawn a complete blank on Hanlon. His friend in personnel, HR as he now had to call it, had been transferred, and he could no longer access addresses of serving officers. The Data Protection Act seemed to be taken very seriously indeed these days. He had tried a couple of exploratory approaches but had been warned off. He’d then got in touch with an old drinking buddy in the Met, to see if he could shed any light on Hanlon’s whereabouts. Again, a total blank. Hanlon was one of those people who everyone felt they knew, but nobody actually did. He couldn’t go back empty-handed to Belanov.
What he did next, struck him as genius.
‘Hey, Dave,’ he’d said to the desk sergeant at Summertown. ‘Hi, Ian, busy are you these days. Caught the St Giles flasher yet?’ Someone had been exposing themselves to women, students and tourists, in the centre of Oxford and Joad had been given the case. Three of the women had said ‘there was something funny’ – that is, strange – about the man’s genitals. Beyond that and the fact he had long hair, Joad had made little progress.
He was in no hurry.
‘I think he’s a foreigner, Dave,’ said Joad seriously. ‘But I tell you what is strange, several of the women have mentioned seeing an Audi around at the time.’