by Alex Howard
They hadn’t covered homosexuality in RE, but theft had certainly been on the curriculum. She could still remember the dessicated, elderly Miss Ardglass saying:
‘Treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but righteousness delivereth from death.’
And, more succinctly,‘Thou shalt not steal.’
Well, well, well. She scrolled through the hundreds of her contact names on her phone, until she came to Desmond Jardine of the DWP. He was a senior Fraud Investigation Officer and he loved his work.
‘Hi, Des, it’s DCI Hanlon here... Yes, they promoted me... Actually, you could. Could I call in and see you for ten minutes if you’re around... This afternoon would be fantastic. See you then.’
A yes, a no, a straight line, a goal.
She thought to herself, well, Mr Whiteside, judge not lest ye be judged.
And the DWP will be coming to judge you. And they will be in a wrathful mood.
Hanlon’s next stop was Regent Street and the revamped area incorporating Carnaby Street. It was almost the reverse side of the City. That was a place, a secular temple, devoted to the making and worship of money. Its buildings were stone, glass and concrete hymns to mammon. It was an almost spiritual place. The West End was just consumerism gone berserk. Hanlon wandered around Carnaby Street and the adjacent area. For years it had been full of shops selling tat, T-shirts with the Pope smoking a spliff, or bearing the legend My Sister went to London and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt. Now it had become chic again.
She missed Whiteside terribly as she looked for something to wear. He’d loved helping her whenever she’d bought anything. He loved shopping. Hanlon did not particularly enjoy clothes shopping. It seemed a frivolous waste of time. But she knew what suited her and after all, she only had to buy one dress and shoes.
She thought of Mark in his room in the hospital, wired up to machinery, in the endless sleep of his coma. She tried to imagine him next to her, his powerful, shapely body, his mocking laugh.
She settled on a shimmery, tight-fitting dress for her ‘Women in Policing’ dinner. It was probably not formal enough but Hanlon liked it. Whiteside would have done. If Corrigan didn’t he could always send her home. Then again, Corrigan would be delighted that she hadn’t turned up wearing something deliberately designed to annoy him.
It was a very sixties style that suited her slim, athletic figure. The shop assistant looked at her admiringly. She wished she had Hanlon’s legs. In fact, she’d have settled happily for the rest of Hanlon, given the chance. The dress was breathtaking and Hanlon looked stunning.
She studied herself critically in the mirror.
‘Is it for a date?’ asked the shop assistant timidly. Serving Hanlon was unnerving. She wanted the scary, monosyllabic woman out of the shop. Startled by the question, not one she was used to being asked, Hanlon started to glare, grey eyes narrowing menacingly. The shop assistant quailed inwardly. Then Hanlon suddenly thought, yes, it is, in an odd way. I am buying it for a date with a man I like and respect. Surprising but true. She had never really thought about Corrigan except as a necessary evil, but the truth was, she suddenly realized, I really do have a lot of time for him.
He’d started as a beat copper when to be Irish was a dirty word, when houses that offered accommodation had signs up: No blacks, No Irish, No Dogs.
Now he was almost top dog in the Met and one of the most respected figures in British policing. And he likes me, she thought wonderingly, which considering all the trouble I’ve brought him, is quite amazing.
She remembered a conversation she’d had with him when she was recovering after the business with Conquest in Essex.
‘What have you been doing, sir?’ she’d asked.
‘Digging you out of the shit, DI Hanlon. What do I spend my time doing? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your reply.’
‘Digging me out of the shit, sir.’
She smiled at the memory.
Tonight I’ll do what normal people do. It won’t be spectacular, but I’ll have a nice time. I’ll enjoy myself.
I’ll eat, drink and be merry. I’ll be a credit to the force. It can’t be that hard.
‘Yes,’ she said, almost shyly. ‘Yes, it is for a date.’
52
Dimitri and Sam Curtis, a young Oxford thug who worked for the two Russians, got out of the white van that Curtis had stolen from Coventry the previous day. It was a five-year-old Ford Transit, now fitted with false plates. Dimitri liked white vans, their anonymous ubiquity. Arkady had wanted no connections to be made at all between Oxford and the dead policewoman. He’d also been very specific on how he wanted her killed.
Dimitri had wanted to take his time; he wanted to beat her to death, slowly. Arkady vetoed that. The woman had shown herself to be more than resourceful. Besides, who knew who else might be in the house, or indeed what else. For all they knew she might have a Rottweiler or some such animal, a Doberman, for example. The point was to do the job simply, effectively, cleanly, without anything going wrong.
Arkady had several handguns at the Woodstock Road property, two SR1 Gyurza 9 mm pistols and a Makarov. He also had his favourite piece, a Baikal. This was a small, snub-nose handgun and it had enough power to pierce a bulletproof jacket. They were old friends, old military service issue. He’d served his year of compulsory military service in Chechnya. It was the end of the nineties. Arkady wasn’t partying like it was 1999; he was in Putin’s second Chechen war. He’d learned how to kill, not just Chechens either.
Dedovschina, forcible male prostitution and rape, is commonplace for military conscripts, but Arkady was already a tough survivor of Russian state institutions. People had tried it on with him before and he’d killed the first soldier who’d tried to take him. There was no trouble after that. This soldier was what they called a ‘Grandad’, a conscript whose time was up and who’d soon be going home. Perpetually drunk and not caring about how they behaved now they could see the dazzling light of freedom after a year or two of terrible food, lice, stolen pay, perpetual danger and squalor, the ‘Grandads’ were the most feared group in the army, after the officers, of course. They could do what they wanted. In Arkady’s unit punishment beatings were common, sometimes for no reason at all other than just for the hell of it. If Arkady had killed an officer, he’d never have survived.
He’d dumped the dead ‘Grandad’ at Konservny, the mass open grave on the edges of Grozny, the state capital. No one cared. In fact, Arkady’s CO promoted him, impressed with his abilities. He was transferred to an ‘Elimination Group’. They were given a list of targets and a Polaroid camera to photograph the corpse. Then either a trip back to Konservny if they were minded to return the body or, if not, ‘pulverization’ as they called it. This involved strapping the body to a high-explosive artillery shell. Absolutely nothing was left.
It was that experience that taught him Chechen. And it was the attempted rape that had spurred him on to rescue Dimitri a couple of years later in the prison cell.
He didn’t want to use the Russian handguns. He didn’t want to leave any clues as to their ethnicity. From what Joad had told them of Hanlon, there would be quite a list of people wishing her harm. So, he thought, let’s not narrow the field down. Let the Met look for home-grown killers not Russians.
The previous night he’d hacksawed off the barrels of the twelve bore, the one she’d hit Dimitri with, and given him the sawn-off. One barrel for Hanlon’s body, one for the head. After that there’d be very little left of her that would be recognizable as human, apart from arms and legs. There was also very little room for error.
Dimitri and Sam Curtis had been here now, outside the end-of-terrace house in Bow, parked diagonally opposite, since twelve. Curtis stared in surreptitious fascination at Dimitri’s intricate tattoos on his massive forearms. He wished he had some like that. They made his own look stupid.
‘What does that one mean again?’
Dimitri looked at him and said, ‘It means, I live in sin, I die laughi
ng.’
Sam asked, ‘Where did you have it done?’
The giant Russian said, ‘In Labour Colony Number 40, in Perm.’ He pointed at some characters on Curtis’s arm. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s Chinese. It says, Death or honour,’ said Curtis.
Dimitri suppressed a smile. ‘Where did you have it done?’
‘Woody’s Parlour in the Iffley Road,’ said Curtis. Not exactly ‘The Crosses’ prison in St Petersburg, thought Dimitri contemptuously. He turned his attention back to the house. Nobody had entered or left the house, apart from an old woman, who Dimitri guessed to be in her seventies. Maybe it was Hanlon’s mother.
Dimitri found himself getting increasingly suspicious of this address, this house. It did not seem the kind of place a woman like Hanlon would live. The net curtains, the tiny regimented flowerbed, the cheap statue of a robin in the neat, postage-stamp-sized front garden, it just wasn’t her.
He had texted Arkady to confirm the address; maybe it was a postcode error. It wasn’t. He suddenly realized that it was probably a poste restante, a delivery address and nothing more. A cut-off point between Hanlon and the outside world.
He had an A4 padded envelope with Hanlon’s name and address on. He checked that the sawn-off was loaded and clicked the safety off. He had a deep, diagonal inside pocket, sewn into his tracksuit top, which would contain most of the gun. The excess part of the butt was hidden by the folds of material of the jacket. He doubted that she was in the house, but he would look stupid if she opened the door to him and he wasn’t armed.
‘Hi, remember me!’
‘Wait here,’ he said to Curtis. He got out of the van and stretched painfully. He’d been cooped up in that Ford for hours. They’d been sitting in the back where they couldn’t be seen, a mirror propped on the front seat reflecting the image of Hanlon’s front door. Or to be more precise, a front door.
He crossed the road and opened the gate, rang the doorbell. He could hear the sound resonating inside.
The door had a stained-glass panel, depicting art nouveau-style tulips. Their red heads drooped mournfully. He could make out a figure approaching slowly. Not Hanlon, the old lady. He reached inside the tracksuit jacket and slipped the safety back on.
The door opened, a pair of shrewd eyes assessed him, taking in his huge, pumped bulk, his intimidating features. The enormous biceps distorted the sleeves of his jacket.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I have package for DCI Hanlon.’
She looked at him dubiously. For a nano-second, he toyed with the idea of simply disposing of her. One blow, that’s all it would take. One blow. His fist would shatter her face, she’d go down, and then a stamp with his foot on her throat or neck, it’d be over. Her bones would break like dry twigs. It was very easy to kill old people, he knew from experience. Then he could just wait for Hanlon to arrive in comfort.
But Arkady hadn’t sanctioned it.
‘Do you want me to sign for it?’ asked the old woman.
‘No, is valuable. I must have DCI Hanlon’s signature. When is she back?’
He could see the old woman didn’t believe a word he was saying.
‘Oh, I don’t know, dear, she comes and goes. Do you have a card, I’ll tell her you called, Mr...?’
‘Is not important. My boss will call her, thanks for your help.’
‘What delivery company are you, dear?’
He smiled meaninglessly at her. ‘I am sorry.’ He grimaced. ‘My English not too good. I come back.’
He turned and retreated down the path.
Well, he realized he was beaten for now, but he knew that he had guessed correctly. The place was a poste restante and the old woman would almost certainly tell Hanlon someone suspicious had been asking after her. She’d probably be calling Hanlon in the next few minutes.
Hanlon would want a description. Eastern European, huge. She’d know it was him and she’d want to come over and check things out. She wouldn’t be deterred by the thought he might be waiting.
He doubted she would be making anything official. Her actions in Woodstock were proof enough that she was working alone; she would want to keep it that way. When she turned up – and she would come, he had no doubt of that – it would be by herself.
He heard the door close behind him and he got back into the van, started the engine and moved away quickly. He knew that the woman would immediately go upstairs to check the street.
The road was quiet, with two entrances at either end where Hanlon might appear. At least he knew the make of her car and he would certainly never forget what she looked like.
At the end of the street he parked and said to Curtis, ‘Go to nearest car-hire place and come back with something small. Park other end of street.’ He jotted down the number and the make of her Audi. ‘This is her car. You see it, you call me.’ He scrolled through the image gallery on his phone and sent her image to Curtis’s.
‘This is photo of Hanlon. You see her, you call me. Every thirty minutes, you text me.’
‘Sure, boss,’ said Curtis. He was eager to ingratiate himself with the huge Russian. Dimitri and Arkady were like gods to him. It was an enormous promotion to have got a job with Belanov’s firm and he wanted to prove himself worthy of the honour.
As he left the van, he wondered again who had damaged Dimitri’s face. He must have some balls, he thought. He must be built like a brick shit-house. It was probably some other branch of the Russian mafia that had done it, he decided. Who else would dare?
Curtis turned his attention to the job in hand. This new task would give him the chance to show how good he was. Already he was planning on Googling car-rental places in Bow; he had a fake driving licence that was registered at Swansea.
Today was his chance to shine. He fully intended to make the most of it.
53
Fuller entered the university through a back entrance that few knew about. The university, like just about every university he had worked or studied in, apart from the Oxford and Cambridge colleges, which were more like mini-fortresses with their main gates and high walls, was a jumble of buildings with a variety of approaches.
The one Fuller chose was down an alleyway and then along a cul de sac, which ended in a small barred gate hidden behind some bins. The gate should have been locked, but never had been in all the time that Fuller had worked there.
The gate led to an access road that ran round the back of the main university building and was used for deliveries and waste collection. At this time of night, six p.m., it was deserted. Fuller was wearing hipster jeans that were a bit of a squeeze to get on these days, Converse sneakers and a hooded Queen’s College top which obscured his face. CCTV would show him up as a generic student.
He could easily have got into the university through the main entrance, but tonight it would very much suit his purpose to be incognito.
Around the corner was one of the smaller student-union meeting rooms. There were half a dozen in the university, to serve the ten thousand strong student body. Access to it was theoretically only possible via the internal corridors branching off the university main halls.
Tuesday nights in this particular meeting room were pre-booked all term by the al-Nahda (in Arabic it meant ‘renaissance’) society. They were a moderate group of Muslim intellectual students, who debated the perennial issues gripping the Arab world. Israel, American foreign policy, democracy, the Muslim Brotherhood, the usual. More importantly for Fuller, he knew their routine. He had been a guest speaker at their meetings a couple of times, and a lot of them, particularly the overseas Middle Eastern students, smoked. The emergency door was propped open to allow exit to the outside for this purpose.
Prayer time for early evening tonight was six thirty p.m. Fuller lingered in the shadows outside, until he heard the opening of the Shihaada in the Adhan, the call to prayer:
‘Allah u Akbar.’
He knew this meant God is Greatest. More importantly, he also kn
ew that it would be repeated three times and that everyone inside would be facing the Qibla, the direction of the Ka’aba in Mecca in Saudi Arabia. Fortunately for Fuller, this was opposite the door he was about to use. Everybody’s back, without exception, would be turned.
He slipped through the door unseen. He was in the corridor outside the meeting room and he could see the backs of heads of about forty Islamic students engrossed in their devotions. Nobody looked round; nobody saw him.
Unseen and unnoticed, he slipped into the main university building.
In the capacious pockets of his jacket he had a choke chain and mask.
He was ready for her this time. This time he knew she wouldn’t say no.
54
Enver sat in the kitchen with Alison Vickery. Her cooking was every bit as good to taste as to smell. A while ago he had started to feel major guilt pangs about eating so much and mentioned this to Alison. She was one of those people who he met occasionally that he just clicked with. Like the missing piece of a particularly irregular cut in a jigsaw. She rolled her eyes impatiently.
‘Shut up, Enver,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a healthy appetite.’
Enver had taken his jacket off and Alison Vickery could see his powerful ridged pectoral and shoulder muscles; she could guess at the iron-hard sinew beneath the skin.
‘You’ve got a lovely body,’ she said to him. She meant it.
‘I’m overweight.’ said Enver gloomily. ‘I eat too much.’
Sex was off the agenda, but Alison was one of those women that he felt an affinity with. Usually he was very shy with women, but not with her.
‘Well, you’re not size zero, that’s for sure. But if girls want to date Mo Farrah, they’ll hang around more athletics meetings,’ said Alison. ‘You look pretty good to me. Now, have you got any more questions?’