by Alex Howard
‘If you say so, sir.’
Corrigan was fishing, thought Hanlon. There was no definite proof she was involved in the arrest. Whiteside had given his DI the information that had led to the bust as coming from an informant, which it had. Neither Toby Manning nor Cunningham had complained. Thompson, the uniformed sergeant, was notoriously silent and Whiteside said he had it on good authority Childs wouldn’t talk. They’d all closed ranks and mouths. So, no loose ends.
The AC leaned back in his chair. He was in his shirtsleeves and the sun through the windows sparkled on the crowns on the shoulders of the epaulettes on his shirt. ‘Do you know who Kevin Briggs is?’ asked Corrigan tetchily.
‘Yes, sir. He’s assistant commissioner, territorial operations.’
‘That’s correct. It was a rhetorical question,’ said Corrigan. ‘And you’ll doubtless know the name of the assistant commissioner for specialist operations.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Hanlon. She could guess where this was leading. She didn’t bother answering, he used to be my boss. They both knew that. They also both knew he had tried to have her dismissed from the police force.
‘Well, I’ve had both of them on my back about Anderson’s arrest. Compromising investigations, treading on people’s toes, up to your old tricks, I’m sure you can imagine the row you’ve provoked. Can you?’
‘It was nothing to do with me, sir,’ she said levelly. ‘I think you’ll find it was Haringey drug squad that made the arrest. I don’t know what they’re on about.’ They looked at each other, Hanlon’s gaze steady. ‘Quite frankly, sir, I’d have thought they had other things to occupy their minds with.’
Corrigan stared back at her. ‘Just, just, don’t, OK.’ He motioned with his hands to try to indicate the areas she should keep clear of. It was an expansive gesture. ‘You’ve got enough enemies as it is, I’m sure you can appreciate that.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ His eyes narrowed. Not I’m sorry, but I’m sorry to hear that. In no way, shape or form was that an apology. She was no longer part of Special Crimes and Operations but Whiteside was, and she knew that she hadn’t compromised anything by what she’d done. Credit for the Anderson bust had, like she’d said, gone to the Haringey drug squad. She was mildly surprised to find herself having this conversation. Someone must have talked.
‘I’ve had to spend a lot of time explaining to ACSO and ACTO that you probably had nothing to do with it. I said it was all hearsay.’
‘Yes, sir. But—’
‘No buts.’ Corrigan held up an enormous, admonitory hand, palm outwards. ‘Please try to remember that you work for me, not in some unspecified vigilante capacity. Is that clear?’ Hanlon didn’t look contrite as she nodded.
‘Yes, sir.’
Corrigan absent-mindedly rubbed his expanding paunch. He’d always been fond of food and, courtesy of Fleet Street, had eaten his way through the menus of most of London’s top restaurants. PR after all was one of his duties. He had to keep the media informed and if the media chose to be informed over agreeable lunches, so be it. Now the mood had changed. Corrigan was aware of the zeitgeist and adopted the new hair-shirt strategy. The Leveson Inquiry into the press and their lavish wining and dining of Scotland Yard was going to hit the assistant commissioner’s stomach hard. Today he’d eaten at the canteen. It hadn’t been very nice. He tried again to lay down parameters.
‘Let’s get this straight, Hanlon. I got you out from that disciplinary enquiry you were facing and, until the dust settles, you’re supposed to keep your head down and ideally help me, not chase high-profile criminals that you have a personal grudge against. Is that clear?’
‘Crystal clear, sir.’
‘Don’t take the piss, Hanlon.’
‘No, sir.’ She didn’t add, I wouldn’t dream of it, for fear of sounding sarcastic.
He looked hard at the woman sitting opposite him. Hanlon returned his gaze equably. Oh well, thought Corrigan, it’s not as if I didn’t know what she was like when I gave her the job. I brought this on myself. I might as well be talking to the wall. He was genuinely fond of Hanlon but he found her impossible to understand at times. Most people fitted in to the police force – it was a broad church – whether they were crusaders or career officers or simply the kind of people who temperamentally like large organizations. But she was none of those things. She was an enigma. She was... then the expression came to him from yesterday’s phrase of the day... sui generis. He was pleased with it. Sui generis. One of a kind, or, more literally, ‘of its own kind’. Well, that was something to be grateful for. David Anderson wasn’t sui generis; he was generic, he was a violent nutter of which London was not in short supply. Join the queue, Anderson, he thought. Violent crime in the capital was getting like football. The local talent was being overshadowed by players brought in from abroad. The Russians and the Albanians. Globalization was making his job increasingly hard. At the lower end, criminals were being undercut by the Poles and Romanians. You could get someone killed for a couple of grand these days, maybe not very professionally, but it was remarkably cheap. London was awash with Eastern European ex-Warsaw Pact firearms and Eastern European criminals who’d all done military service and were very much at home with guns.
What annoyed him about this situation, the reason he was giving what he recognized as an ineffectual bollocking, were the signs of Hanlon’s meticulous planning and executing, right down to the phrasing in Whiteside’s reports. He knew her handiwork when he saw it. Worthy as it was, she had engineered this arrest when she knew she should have been doing no such thing. She would go too far one of these days and then she’d give the Met the excuse it needed to sack her. She’d got away with it this time by the skin of her teeth.
Hanlon sat in front of him, irritatingly self-composed. I’m getting nowhere here, he thought. I might as well cut my losses.
‘OK, Hanlon, let’s move on. These child murders, the Essex one and the baby in the canal, anything I need to know? We are doing everything sensibly, I take it. We haven’t cut corners? We haven’t fucked up?’ His eyes were resting on the report she’d sent him about the Somali girl.
‘No, sir.’
Corrigan raised his gaze from the paperwork. ‘And they’re not related at all?’
Hanlon met his eyes. God, that man is shrewd, she thought. Now isn’t the time, she decided. Not yet. Her suspicions, her certainty, that the two deaths were linked would for now remain unvoiced. Both were sexual in nature, both involved children, both were connected by the use of the number eighteen which had been added like a signature. She had worked once in paedophile crime and she knew how overstretched the team was. And that was before Operation Yewtree. You were dealing with an unusual group of criminals, usually highly organized, highly secretive and generally extremely intelligent. They also covered all sections of society. File-sharing on the Internet and people-trafficking with cheap travel to Far Eastern countries where policing was lax and more corrupt than Europe only added to the problems.
No, thought Hanlon. I think I’ll look into it myself before I bring anything to Corrigan. He’s cross enough over this Anderson business, he’ll go crazy if I tell him about this.
‘They would appear to be very different crimes, sir,’ she said diplomatically. Corrigan noted the delay in reply, the careful wording of the answer, but let it pass for now.
‘Who’s in charge of our one? The Maida Vale one,’ he asked.
‘DCS Ludgate’s in charge of the canal one, sir.’ She paused. ‘If I were you I’d have a word with him about his racial attitudes.’
She knew that would grab Corrigan’s attention. Ludgate had a track record of offensive remarks both on and off the record. Hanlon figured that one sure way to get close to Ludgate, who was leading the Baby Ali investigation, would be to do it under the guise of ensuring he did nothing to further discredit the Met in terms of racism. Corrigan had made a big display of his determination to tackle the issue. She should know, she’d incorporated it into his s
trategic plan for him. She felt sure he’d want her breathing down Ludgate’s neck, forcing him to keep to the straight and narrow. It would give her the perfect excuse to monitor the investigation.
Corrigan rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘I’m sure Ludgate won’t say anything too stupid,’ he said.
Hanlon shrugged. The gesture spoke volumes. ‘There are four hundred thousand Turks in London, sir. In one form or another. I’m including North Cypriot immigrants in those figures. They’re a sizeable constituency, sir. They have their own newspapers and radio station.’
‘You’ve clearly done your research, Detective Inspector.’
‘I’ve clearly done my job, sir.’ Rhetorically speaking, she thought.
‘OK,’ said Corrigan with irritation. ‘Point made, Hanlon.’
He knew Ludgate well enough from a couple of meetings to realize that any faith in Ludgate mollifying a sizeable ethnic community would be based more on hope than experience. He knew she was right, as she usually was. ‘I’ll officially appoint you my liaison officer on this. You can keep an eye on him. Tell him if he steps out of line I’ll be down on him like a ton of bricks. Try and do that tactfully. If you can.’
Hanlon nodded. I do wish she’d wear something other than black, white or grey, thought Corrigan, looking at her. It’s like she was perpetually dressed for a funeral.
‘You do realize, sir, that the DCS doesn’t like me very much. I can’t see him being cooperative.’
Corrigan rolled his eyes again, ‘And when,’ he said acidly, ‘were you ever concerned with your personal popularity, Detective Inspector. Ludgate is part of a fairly sizeable queue of people who don’t like you very much. Your leaving party would be packed, DI Hanlon, with people eager to wave goodbye.’
He picked up the landline phone on his desk. Hanlon listened as he told the unseen person to get hold of DCS Ludgate as a matter of urgency. Corrigan drummed his fingers for a while and then Hanlon listened to a one-sided conversation designed to save Ludgate’s face. Mayoral initiative, placating feminist lobbies, no reflection on Ludgate’s abilities, the Guardian, yes, they would get together, yes, it was political correctness run mad, yes, we all knew what those sorts of people were like, fine, bye.
Corrigan shook his head wearily. ‘Well, Hanlon, there you go. You can shadow him. He doesn’t sound terribly happy about it but he’ll cooperate. In fact he’ll be taking you out to dinner tomorrow.’ He noted with amusement the look of surprise and distaste that flickered across Hanlon’s normally expressionless face. ‘It’s the North London Traders’ Association Executive Committee. Someone called Harry Conquest is hosting it. It’s a party, you’ll love it.’
He smiled at Hanlon. He knew she hated parties. She had told him once she hadn’t been to one willingly since she was nine years old. He also knew how much she and Ludgate hated each other too. ‘It’s quite formal seemingly. Wear something nice. Phone Ludgate’s nick later, his secretary will give you the address and details.’
She nodded and stood up. As she reached the door he said, ‘Oh, Hanlon. Please be diplomatic. Try and win friends and influence people.’ Fat chance, he thought. ‘That includes Ludgate and Harry Conquest. He’s got a lot of clout politically. That means he’s rich, Hanlon, and gives generously to political parties. So be nice. Be loquacious. Not your usual silent self.’
Corrigan had a new app on his phone called ‘Word Power’. It aimed to build your vocabulary. It was where he had found sui generis. He was pleased to have found an excuse to use today’s word, ‘loquacious’. It was hard to work into a conversation. Hanlon stared at him as if he’d gone mad. ‘It means talkative,’ he said plaintively. Hanlon didn’t reply but let herself out of his office, silently.
Corrigan looked pensively at the closing door. He thought, she knew that. It was as if she had decided to bring the interview to a close, as if she had been in charge all along. It was a sensation he often had whenever he met her. The door clicked gently but firmly behind her. He felt somehow deflated.
12
The Bishops Avenue was only about a mile and a half geographically from Kathy Reynolds’s two-bedroomed ground-floor flat in East Finchley, but it was a world removed both socially and economically. The Avenue itself was unremarkable. It was a long, wide, charmless road, a stone’s throw from Hampstead Heath, flanked by about sixty very large, charmless houses. Only the very rich lived on the Avenue, Saudi and Qatari Royal families. Lakshmi Mittal, the steel magnate, had a house here. There were Russian oligarchs, media moguls and several property developers, Harry Conquest among them. This made Conquest a very rich property developer. A house on the Bishops Avenue was a warning from God that you have too much money.
There was no unifying architectural theme to the road. The houses on the Avenue were built in various styles. Faux-Palladian, Barratt home on steroids, Asda-style supermarket and mock-Spanish hacienda. None were architecturally distinguished; all were ostentatious. They could hardly be otherwise, not in the Avenue. It wasn’t a modest place.
Hanlon rolled her eyes in distaste as she drove in through the enormous, scrolled-iron gates that guarded Harry Conquest’s short, wide drive and expertly parked her Audi with mathematical precision between a Bentley and a Maserati. The luxury cars were too in your face for Hanlon’s taste, vulgar, as were the houses. Vulgar described Bishops Avenue very well. Whatever money could buy, good taste wasn’t necessarily part of it.
Hanlon was fascinated by architecture. She wondered sometimes if it was a reaction to having to deal with people all the time. A lot of police have hobbies where they can avoid people and escape into a world of their own. Fishing, for example, cycling, or birdwatching. Forrest, the forensic guru, had a passion for lawns. You could crawl across his grass and not find a single weed or hint of moss. You weren’t allowed to walk on it in shoes, bare feet only.
‘There are seven different varieties of grass in my lawn,’ he’d told her. ‘The secret really is feeding and drainage.’ It had been a long lecture.
Hanlon liked buildings. They spoke to her in a vernacular that excluded lies, unlike people.
By Bishops Avenue standards, Conquest’s house was a fairly modest affair. It could have strayed in from nearby Hampstead Garden Suburb, it had that kind of arts and crafts look about it, and then grown unfeasibly large in its new environment, like a foreign species introduced to a native environment, like Japanese knotweed, giant hogweed or rhododendrons. Hanlon guessed it would probably have about seven or eight bedrooms upstairs. It was that kind of size. She walked towards the front door, which had a colonnaded porch and, flanking the entrance, a statue of a seated lion on one side and a unicorn on the other. She thought they were incredibly tasteless, Essex garden-centre chic. It looked like the entrance to an expensive but tacky nightclub, the security on the door adding to this impression. They were three large men, two black, one white, dressed in dinner jackets. They turned to face her.
Up close, the dinner jackets had seen better days; they were stained and shiny, and the fabric strained on the men’s freakishly pumped-up arms. Their shaved heads gleamed under the porch lights. They didn’t really match the Bishops Avenue; they looked like they belonged in a rougher part of town, Bethnal Green or Camden. They straightened themselves up as Hanlon approached.
Hanlon was wearing a simple black cocktail dress, thirties-style, that she knew flattered her toned body. She rarely went out, she disliked socializing, but when she did she took care with her appearance. She had a black-lace, antique shawl that had belonged to her grandmother, and her colleagues would have been interested to see her wearing heels. She had tied her unruly hair back, which emphasized her long, slim, muscular neck. Modigliani would have loved Hanlon. Without breaking her stride, Hanlon had perfect balance despite the stiletto-like heels on her shoes. She removed her invitation from her clutch bag and held it as she would a warrant card, thrusting it into the face of the head bouncer.
‘Hanlon,’ she said, her voice sharp with the
peremptory tone of those used to being obeyed.
She stared into the hard, aggressive, brown eyes of the man. The top of his shaved head was tattooed geometrically, like a sergeant’s stripes, as were his knuckles, but with writing in a Gothic script. She didn’t know him personally but she had arrested enough of his kind to feel a contemptuous familiarity. Like many experienced police, she had a finely tuned nose for criminals. Like calls to like. He, in his turn, recognized her for what she was. She hadn’t said DI Hanlon but his brain automatically allocated her a police rank. They understood each other. They had faced each other’s kind many times over scratched and chipped tables in endless interview rooms where it always seemed to be one in the morning and the air was perpetually stale. She knew he had form. She could smell it on him as strongly as his Lynx aftershave.
He had a clipboard but obviously felt no need to consult it. He didn’t need to know who she was; he knew what she was. He nodded at one of his two companions and the door was opened to Hanlon. She stepped inside, the door closed behind her and her eyes widened with surprise.
The outside of Conquest’s house was a form of Lutyens design, whether fake or real Hanlon didn’t know. It was made of unadorned brick, that alone distinguishing it from its stuccoed neighbours. The adjoining houses were all brilliantly lit by spotlights and shone a uniform gleaming white. His didn’t. It had an arch over the front door and long, narrow, leaded windows – suitable for archers, she thought, but not for much else, and not for admitting light. The inside, however, by total contrast, was pure art-deco. It was a disturbing clash of styles. She looked down at her clothes. By coincidence she was perfectly dressed for Conquest’s peculiarly retro interior design.
She was now standing just inside the door that had closed behind her, on a wide, shallow balcony overlooking a huge room below. It was like stepping into the lounge of a nineteen thirties Cunard liner. The huge floor was sprung plywood, the sweep of the lines of the room sinuous, with thirties-style decorative tiling in friezes running across the walls. The railings and bannisters were nautical in style, made of chrome and steel; they gleamed in the lights above. Furniture was again full of period detail. Her eyes made out chrome-framed chairs, Bakelite-topped tables, sharkskin and zebra coverings on seats. Futurist and vorticist art was displayed on the wall. Hanlon recognized a Marinetti here and a Wyndham Lewis there. Good-quality reproductions, not prints. You could have filmed a thirties costume drama in here without changing a thing.