by Alex Howard
The false reason she’d given Fuller in class, for not having a first name, was not too far removed from the reality. She could have told Dame Elizabeth that the name she was given came from her adoptive parents. She could have said, I want nothing to do with them or it. I’m Hanlon; I’m not that other girl. But she didn’t.
Hanlon never talked about herself. Like Iris Campion, she had rejected the idea of victimhood.
And Dame Elizabeth Saunders could have told her the truth, then and there, but she didn’t.
Dame Elizabeth seemed lost in thought as Hanlon stood up.
‘I’ve got a question for you,’ Hanlon said.
‘Go ahead.’
Hanlon looked at her, puzzled. The dame seemed suddenly very distant, as if totally lost in thought.
‘You seemed to believe that Kant was right, that we should obey moral laws, like do not lie, come hell or high water. Do you seriously believe that?’ Hanlon’s face showed barely concealed anger.
Something to be debated.
Dame Elizabeth nodded. ‘I do believe that, yes,’ she said, almost sadly.
‘Even if it would result in the death of an innocent person?’
The professor nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘even if someone were to be killed. Some things are worth dying for.’ Her voice was very quiet.
Hanlon shook her head contemptuously and turned and left the office.
Dame Elizabeth watched the door close and then buried her face in her hands, as a wave of self-revulsion engulfed her. I didn’t lie to you, DCI Hanlon, she thought to herself, but I sure as hell avoided the facts.
You can’t escape the truth, thought Dame Elizabeth. It catches us all up in the end. Kant knew that, and so do I.
17
Forty miles away, west of London, he ran a gentle but firm hand over the light Oxford stone of the seventeenth-century college building that ran along three sides of the quad. The fourth side was where the large vaulted arch led to the gatehouse and the outside doors of the college.
The manicured, rectangular lawn of the inner quadrangle was bordered by a low, knee-high hedge of box that he guessed to be maybe as old as the college. It was a beautiful, tranquil place, the busy, noisy streets of Oxford outside its walls unheard and unseen. Here there were the three colours, the green of the grass, the honey-coloured Oxford stone of the buildings and the blue of the sky overhead. It was very soothing.
He knew the college well, intimately even. He had worked there for a few terms on a temporary basis and had got to know every inch of its ancient fabric. He always made a habit of knowing the topography of wherever he worked in precise detail. He liked the feeling of freedom it brought. Years ago he had come across the phrase used on security passes the world over, Access all areas. He loved that expression. It was exactly what he liked to do, to be able to access all areas, to go where he pleased.
In this college, he knew, for example, that there was a hatch on the outside pavement that flapped outwards and led to the college buttery where beer and wine were stored. He still had a copy of the key. He knew there was a small and rarely used concealed gate, which led from the street to the Master’s private garden. He knew where there was a street light close to the wall of the college that students used to help themselves climb over, when the college gates were closed.
He usually took copies of master keys with him when he left a workplace, or in today’s increasingly electronic security, he stole swipe cards and password details. These days it was information, rather than hardware, that counted. He wouldn’t need keys for what he was about to do.
He checked that the iPod was cued correctly and that the leather gloves were in their correct pocket. Above his head, Staircafe V was carved into the lintel stone in antique, lettering, the lower case ‘s’ written as an elongated ‘f’ and the Roman ‘V’ for 5.
The steps were worn and shallow; they must have been cleaned recently, because they gleamed gently in the light. They spiralled upwards and he followed them to a heavy oak door, with 2B on it in brass. The door was open, revealing a further door inside, and he knocked gently on this, while pulling on the supple, black leather gloves.
She opened the door almost immediately. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, her large eyes widening in surprise. ‘What do you want?’ She looked radiantly beautiful. Her mouth was full-lipped and inviting.
‘I just need to check on a couple of things about tonight.’
‘Well, do come on in,’ she said.
And he did. It was that easy.
Twenty minutes later, Ben Protheroe, a physics student who had the room above, passed by Laura’s room. The outside door was closed, ‘sporting the oak’ it was called in Oxford, and it meant you didn’t want to be disturbed. He could hear music coming faintly from her room, music with a heavy dance beat. He stood there for a moment, listening.
Ben Protheroe had never heard ‘You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)’ in his life. Neither had the girl inside, until now. He felt a stab of jealousy. He really fancied Laura. He found the thought of her in someone else’s arms unbearable.
Inside the room, sightless eyes stared at the ceiling while her killer danced gracefully to Sylvester. It had taken him a long time to learn to dance, but master it he had.
The carefully choreographed dance movements, lovingly practised, were now reflected endlessly in Wittgenstein’s mirror.
Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.
18
‘And who found the body?’ asked Hanlon. She and Enver were driving down the A40 towards Oxford. The horizon was low and grey. Enver sat in the passenger seat. Hanlon reckoned it would take a good hour and a half at least to reach the Summertown police station near central Oxford, where Fuller was being held.
‘A student called Laura Thomson. It’s her room that Jessica McIntyre was staying in,’ said Enver. ‘She organized the seminar, the philosophy evening, and those students from Queen’s, about ten of them, had been given accommodation belonging to St Wulfstan students, as part of the arrangements.’
Hanlon swore angrily as a car pulled out in front of her without indicating. They hadn’t reached Northolt yet and were travelling ridiculously slowly, due to the pressure of traffic. Enver looked around him with interest at the nondescript housing sprawl. He rarely travelled outside London, had never been to Oxford. Today was a day out, like a treat at school.
I must travel more, he thought, all I know is North London and Rize. Rainiest place in Turkey. Well, Oxford here we come, I can broaden my horizons.
‘So what do we know?’ asked Hanlon, scowling at the traffic. Enver shook thoughts of his father’s home city from his mind.
‘McIntyre checked in at the college lodge at three o’clock. We know that. The proctor, that’s what they call the gate-keeper—’
‘I know what a proctor is, Detective Inspector,’ said Hanlon with ominous calm. Of course you do, thought Enver, you know everything. He felt a touch of guilt at this mutinous thought. My promotion has gone to my head, he said to himself.
‘Yes, ma’am. He gave her the room key, noted the time, she signed for it. That’s the last she was seen alive. Her phone wasn’t used subsequently. The coroner estimates the time of death at around five in the afternoon. Plus or minus, obviously. She was strangled, manually, as opposed to ligature; the bruising is quite clear, right-handed assailant. And strong. There was no sign of a struggle, so it’s a reasonable assumption she knew her killer well enough to let them get close.’
Hanlon nodded. The traffic was speeding up now and she changed gear on her new Audi TTS Coupé, enjoying the noise from under the bonnet and the kick of the two-litre engine. The car handled beautifully.
‘Is there any sign of S&M-style sex?’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Enver.
‘So what’s the evidence against Fuller then? Why is Oxford holding him?’
Enver scratched his thick, drooping moustache. ‘DCI Templeman, who’s the SIO on this, had heard of Fuller through the Han
nah Moore investigation. I suppose he’s interested in crimes against students, with him being at Oxford.’
Hanlon made a derisive noise. ‘You’re based in Euston, Enver. You’ve got UCL, Queen’s, bits of Westminster Uni, language schools. Are you particularly interested in students? Or trains come to that, what with being near two major stations. Or books – you’ve got the British Library too.’
Enver remained unruffled by Hanlon’s sarcasm. She had washed her hair and he could smell her shampoo. The diagonal slash of her seat belt against her white cotton blouse, pulling the material in, emphasized her figure.
His own stomach strained against his seat belt; he guessed it too, emphasized his figure, but not in a good way. I’m starting to ripple, he thought unhappily, like a fleshy waterbed. However, he almost enjoyed the sensation of support the seat belt gave him. He’d been finding belts too tight lately; they were leaving terrible red marks when he took his clothes off at night. Soon he’d have to wear braces.
He had to slim down. Losing weight was imperative. Thinking of Rize made him think of his father; he’d died of a massive heart attack aged fifty when Enver was a teenager. The warning signs were there.
But there was always tomorrow.
Losing weight was proving a failure, so he decided, as a temporary measure, to disguise his weight gain rather than fight it. He was wearing a new jacket he’d bought. That in itself had been stressful. He’d read in a Grazia magazine belonging to a WPC that stripes were slimming and had bought, at considerable cost, a blue and cream striped linen jacket from an expensive shop in Covent Garden. It had provoked sniggering at work. The same PC, Liz Mallowan, the unwitting Grazia owner, had begged him to take it back to the shop, over a quiet drink in a local pub. ‘People are laughing at you, sir. They say you look like an ice-cream salesman.’
She adored Enver; she hated her colleagues for making fun of him.
He had been wondering about the hummed snatches, behind his back, of ‘O Sole Mio’, or ‘Just One Cornetto’ as it’s better known in Britain. Now he knew the reason why.
The new jacket had a check design. He wondered if it suited him. At least no one had said anything. He took a packet of Jelly Snakes out of his pocket and offered one to Hanlon.
‘Jelly Snake, ma’am?’
She turned her gaze away from the road. They were exiting the A40 and joining the motorway. She looked at him incredulously.
‘Do I look like a woman who eats Jelly Snakes?’ she demanded.
‘They’re organic,’ said Enver defensively. ‘Made with real fruit juice. They’re probably good for you.’
Hanlon shook her head wonderingly. ‘Put the Snakes away and concentrate on Dr Fuller, please.’
The car surged forward and Enver caught sight of the speedometer as they hit both the M40 and ninety miles an hour. Oh well, he thought.
‘According to DI Huss, she works for the SIO, he lied about his movements that afternoon. He claimed to be in his hotel room at the Blenheim between three and six p.m, but the room key is linked to a computer and it shows that he was absent from three to five fifty. The Blenheim Hotel is about a five-minute walk from the college.’
He was going to say that the Blenheim was a big hotel in the middle of Oxford, but he felt it would draw a sarcastic comment from Hanlon.
Hanlon nodded. Fuller’s inability to provide an alibi had echoes of the Hannah Moore case, compounded here by the fact that it was a total lie.
‘So plenty of time for Fuller to have killed McIntyre and returned to the hotel.’
‘Exactly, ma’am,’ said Enver and continued. ‘His hotel room was searched and a pair of black leather gloves were found. He could give no coherent explanation for the gloves. It was twenty-one degrees Celsius in Oxford the day of the murder; not exactly glove weather. The gloves are now with forensics, as are his clothes. They also found an item of women’s clothing, whatever that may be.’
‘I think we can guess,’ said Hanlon grimly. ‘So presumably they’ll hold him without charge, until they get the results back from the lab.’ Thirty-six hours was the length of time the Oxford police could hold him without formally charging him, from the moment the custody clock started ticking.
‘Any other potential souvenirs?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am. A swatch of pubic hair, and yes, there was hair missing from the deceased.’
She fell silent as they drove, thinking of the dead Jessica McIntyre, so tough, competent and abrasive in life. Hannah Moore had been one of those people who had ‘victim’ almost tattooed on their forehead. You couldn’t say that about McIntyre. Hanlon was surprised there hadn’t been more signs of a struggle; she wasn’t the kind of woman who would go meekly to her death.
She’d been a champion of Fuller, had stood up for him. Had she, Hanlon wondered, been Hannah Moore’s female married lover and if so, did that have any relevance? Had she been Fuller’s lover, come to that?
They reached Headington, on the outskirts of Oxford, and Enver explained about the meeting he’d arranged with the DCI in charge of the McIntyre investigation. DCI Templeman wanted to hear from the two of them face-to-face before he restarted his interview with Fuller.
‘It should only take half an hour or so, ma’am,’ said Enver.
‘I hope so,’ said Hanlon. She hadn’t visited Whiteside for two days and was beginning to feel guilty.
She thought of him now, alone and unconscious in the airy hospital room in Seven Sisters in North London. It was like Sleeping Beauty in reverse, Whiteside the handsome prince and she the very-much-awake maiden.
She had tried to remember if she’d ever actually read Sleeping Beauty. She doubted it. Mark’s parents had never read it to him. He said they didn’t like any books except the Bible. Perhaps one day they’d tackle Sleeping Beauty together.
The Audi threaded its way through the complex street system into the centre of Oxford where the colleges were. Enver hadn’t realized that Oxford was such a large place.
It seemed prosperous and smugly pleased with itself. The traffic was gridlocked. It took nearly three-quarters of an hour to drive the relatively short distance across town to the police station.
Hanlon parked and they went into reception. Both she and Enver were aware of the curious glances they attracted and the fact that when they walked in the place seemed practically deserted, yet a few minutes later there was quite a bit of traffic as officers tried to catch a glimpse of the notorious Hanlon.
She had become a minor celebrity within the force, after the island killings. Before that she had been mainly known in the Met for a controversial policing incident when she’d rescued a fellow officer and hospitalized several of his attackers (or innocent bystanders, depending upon who you believed). But now her fame had reached a larger audience.
The Met had clamped as many reporting restrictions on Hanlon’s last case as it could, and she herself never spoke about it, but people talk. If anything, the tale had grown in the telling, unhampered by truth, fed on rumour. Now here she was in person, accompanied by her bulky, scary-looking minder, Enver Demirel, the ex-boxer turned cop. Enver looked as if he could wrestle bears and still come out on top.
A competent-looking, burly young woman came up to them.
‘Hello. I’m DI Melinda Huss. You must be DCI Hanlon, DI Demirel.’ She had a pleasant, open face with blonde hair and a scattering of freckles. There was a healthy look about her as if she worked on a smallholding, out in the open air. Her shrewd blue eyes assessed the two of them.
The legendary Hanlon seemed a bit of a let-down, if she were honest. She looked tired, careworn, and the remains of a black eye didn’t help. Her face was sour and unwelcoming. Quite frankly, thought Melinda, she seemed a bit of a bitch.
Her colleague, though, was a different story. Melinda liked her men to be men. She had no time at all for the effete metrosexual kind, or for the urban chav. Central Oxford was packed with the first type, scrawny men in skinny jeans and beards. The outski
rts of Oxford – Cowley, Headington, Iffley and Botley – were packed with the other, tattooed youths in stonewashed jeans, gold chains, sovereign rings and hoodies.
She found both equally unappealing.
Her eyes drank in Enver’s powerful neck and shoulders, the large, strong hands. He wouldn’t have a man-bag, or wear moisturizer or use words like ‘spritz’, or try to get seconded to police the Glastonbury or Reading festivals so he could watch the bands.
He wouldn’t use expressions involving the word ‘artisanal’. He wouldn’t eat or make sourdough, thank God. He certainly wasn’t Superman. You couldn’t imagine him bounding over a building, or wearing tights, but he absolutely looked more than capable of running through a wall, even if he couldn’t hurdle it.
Melinda wished to God she could have him by her side in some of the grim places she had to work. Oxford is much more than the Dreaming Spires; it’s also the Blackbird Leys estate and rough pubs in Cowley. She found herself thinking dreamily, I bet he wouldn’t just be good in a fight.
She liked his drooping moustache, the sleepy, slightly sexy bedroom eyes. She liked the ridge of his broken nose and the scar tissue by the side of his eyes. She swallowed hungrily.
‘Please follow me,’ she said and as she did so, she caught Hanlon looking at her with sardonic amusement and she knew, with a terrible flash of clarity, that the witchlike DCI had more or less read her mind. Hanlon watched, expressionless as an Easter Island statue, while a hot, crimson flush of embarrassment spread over DI Huss’s face from her neck up, like mercury rising in a thermometer.
I hate you, you cow, thought Huss venomously. Coming up here from London, telling us what to do in Thames Valley CID where you obviously think we don’t know our arse from our elbow.
‘DCI Templeman started without you,’ she said as they walked down the blue-carpeted corridor. She smiled warmly at Enver.
Huss led them through a door into a small room that adjoined the interview room. There was a one-way mirror separating the two rooms and through it they could see Fuller, accompanied by a lawyer – presumably the duty solicitor, thought Hanlon – opposite them an owl-faced, overweight policeman in his late fifties and a much younger colleague.