by Alex Howard
A string quartet of girls wearing thirties, flapper-style clothes played their way gently and undemandingly through a classical-style medley, while a hundred or so guests in black tie helped themselves to food from an enormous, expensive-looking buffet. Adjacent to the long tables under their white linen coverings, silver serving trays and ice sculptures, slowly melting in the heat of the room, was a champagne and wine bar that was doing brisk business. The recession was certainly not affecting Conquest.
Hanlon raised an eyebrow in quizzical surprise. The North London Traders’ Association must be doing well for themselves, she thought, if this was a typical evening out. She could begin to understand Corrigan’s insistence she did nothing to offend the man and why Ludgate had wanted her here. Look at my connections was the none too subtle message.
The noise was cacophonous. It was swimming-pool acoustics with little or nothing to baffle or absorb the sound. She looked below her in the crowd for Ludgate and saw him chatting to a couple of paunchy men in a corner. All three of them had overloaded their plates with food, in the way that the greedy do, just in case something coveted disappears before they can refill – not that there was any sign of it running out. Ludgate’s chin was jutting out aggressively, his scalp shone through his comb-over, and she could see him emphatically using his fingers to count off points in whatever argument or discussion they were having. Hanlon made up her mind to avoid him if at all possible. She saw him look up and register her presence before resuming his conversation. He hadn’t acknowledged her. Evidently Ludgate felt the same about her. Good, she thought.
The partygoers were conspicuously wealthy; they certainly gave off that rarefied perfume of money that the rich have, even from a distance. Money has a smell, and here it reached to the heavens. Excess was anathema to Hanlon. She looked down at the crowd with an expression like that of Oliver Cromwell and the Puritans looking at a group of Cavaliers or a wolf eyeing cavorting sheep. She was a barbarian at the gates of Rome. Momentarily she wondered what she would have done if she’d been in charge of a riot team and seen the angry hooded and masked mob frenziedly swarming down Bishops Avenue. She had a sneaking suspicion she’d have pulled back and let them do their worst. They’d be welcome to the place.
The women were heavily turned out and Hanlon recognized iconic handbags – Birkin, Hermes, Vuitton and Chanel – carried like heraldic, totemic badges. Dresses were designer, haircuts expensive. She saw a couple of politicians she knew and several journalists, as well as two judges and some lawyers whom she recognized from court appearances. She also caught sight of Cunningham who had his back towards her but whose face she could see reflected in a large mirror with a decorative stylized silver frame bordered with bas-relief sphinxes. She thought she’d try and avoid him too. She felt a twinge of guilt momentarily. If Anderson ever found out it was his lawyer who had supplied the information on the coke shipment they’d busted him for, Cunningham’s fate would be truly terrible. He wouldn’t just be killed, he’d be made an example of. Anderson had crucified a man for less; God alone knows what he’d do to his trusted lawyer if he discovered it was he who had grassed him up. Then she thought, well, that’s Cunningham’s choice. You make your bed, you lie down in it.
That Hanlon was not a party person was obvious from the somewhat sour look on her face as she gazed down at the crowd below. She despised occasions like this. Before coming, she had managed to fit in an hour at the gym where she’d worked on her legs, shoulders and abs. Her muscles still ached from the relentless pressure she’d subjected them to. She liked that feeling. She liked working her way through pain, it was cleansing. Hanlon tortured her muscles until they cried out and could barely function. She’d held a mental picture of Ludgate as she upped the weight on the smith bar, using her intense dislike of the man as an energy to transform the screaming torment in her upper thigh muscles into a healing agony, as she squatted up and down.
She decided to ignore Ludgate and go down to the buffet. She could feel her body craving protein. Let the property developer pay for it, she thought. Unlike other athletes she knew, she didn’t consult a dietician in her training for the Iron Man competition in California in the autumn. She didn’t particularly care where she placed; the challenge was her versus the event. The challenge was overcoming the pain. The reward was victory over self. The reward was paradoxically that there was no reward.
Hanlon was contemptuous of honours. Her medal for bravery was stuffed at the back of a drawer in her bedroom, various athletic awards in a cardboard box, and her degree still in the envelope it had come in when the university sent it to her. She hadn’t gone to the ceremony either. ‘They can post it to me,’ she’d snapped. She was famous for biting the hand that fed her. She knew that. She didn’t care. Whiteside had collected the medal for her and lied, saying she was ill as a result of injuries sustained in the riots. He implied it was post-traumatic stress. No one there who knew Hanlon had believed him.
She shook herself out of her reverie. She’d better be careful with these disapproving thoughts or she’d end up arresting someone for doing drugs in one of Conquest’s doubtless lavish washrooms. Just for the hell of it. Or maybe picking a fight with someone. It wouldn’t be hard. It wouldn’t be the first time.
She thought to herself, remember why you’re here. Don’t lose your temper. You’re supposed to get close to Ludgate, to the murder investigation you’re not allowed to be part of. Concentrate.
Then she saw Conquest.
From her perspective, literally looking down on the crowd below, Conquest – flanked by two minders or members of staff, Hanlon couldn’t really tell – cut a swathe through his guests like a boat through water. Up here, she could see the wake he left as he passed. Several of the women were looking at him with naked lust. Amazing what a house on Bishops Avenue can do, she thought to herself. From this distance she could tell he was grey-haired, distinguished-looking, with a tough, humorous face. She guessed he was about fifty. She’d certainly learned tonight that Conquest had a way with the ladies.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, then looked up to where she was standing and their eyes met.
‘DI Hanlon,’ he called up to her. ‘Do come and join me.’
It was more of a command than a request. Hanlon was suddenly conscious of his very blue eyes locked on hers and she was aware of the aggressively persuasive strength of his personality. She revised her opinion of the man. It wasn’t just the aphrodisiac quality of owning a very expensive property. Conquest had charisma. She wondered how on earth he knew who she was. Still, she was hardly in a position to say no. It was his party. She smiled, rather coldly, and walked down the steps to join him. Several of the women standing behind Conquest narrowed their eyes at her jealously, probably willing her to stumble on her heels and crash down the stairs in an ungainly, embarrassing fashion. She allowed her smile to broaden slightly. I don’t do requests, she thought.
Conquest met her at the bottom of the stairs and shook her hand warmly and firmly, his eyes locked on hers. His hand was large and powerful and he was a head taller than she was. He was very good-looking, almost theatrically so, a silver fox.
‘A pleasure to meet you, DI Hanlon,’ he said. He had the successful salesman’s knack of making you feel that you were the most important person in the room. ‘I’m Harry Conquest.’ He smiled and pulled a face as he looked around in mock despair at the opulence that surrounded them. It was a look that said, isn’t all this ridiculous, we both know that.
‘Good evening, Mr Conquest,’ Hanlon said. Around them the party whirled and eddied. Its noise level made conversation hard. Conquest showed no sign of wanting to leave her. He was looking at her with an almost pleading intensity.
‘Harry. Please,’ he said.
She nodded. He smiled charmingly at her in a practised way. Hanlon wondered if he was trying to flirt with her or if he was just one of those men who found the police fascinating. Neither was an appealing prospect but she was determined
to be on her best behaviour. Any complaints about her and Ludgate would be able to get rid of her all the more easily.
She wasn’t surprised when he suggested they go somewhere quieter to talk. ‘I’m an independent councillor in Finchley as well as a developer and I’ve got some questions I’d love to ask you about police policy, off the record.’ He practically had to shout to make himself heard over the noise. His voice was pure London, educated barrow boy. She found herself agreeing, not just because of Corrigan’s order to be nice to him, to win friends and influence people, but also out of genuine curiosity.
Hanlon followed him across the crowded room. She noted his suit was well cut and she also noticed his muscular build. Conquest obviously liked to keep in shape. He led her through a door on the other side. They walked down a short passageway to another light-panelled door. It led into a small, comfortable living room. Here the remorseless thirties art-deco theme ended. The room was large and simply furnished. As he opened the door, two dogs, German shepherds, ran excitedly over to Conquest. They ignored Hanlon and stared at their master lovingly. Conquest beamed with genuine pleasure and stroked their heads. The dogs panted happily. They continued to ignore Hanlon, which suited her. She wasn’t really a dog person.
There were a couple of sofas and a low coffee table between them. The furniture was well designed, stylish. It whispered, I cost a lot of money. Conquest indicated one of the settees to Hanlon. She sat down and he sat opposite, the dogs lying at his feet. She noted that the sofa was incredibly comfortable. Conquest looked at her with frank interest.
The situation felt oddly like a job interview. The door must have been quite heavy because the noise of the party was scarcely audible through its panelling. He breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Thanks for that,’ he said.
‘For what?’ asked Hanlon.
Conquest smiled. ‘For giving me an excuse to escape. I can’t stand parties,’ he said, pulling a mock-rueful face. ‘But in my line of work I need to put myself about. It’s part of the image. I’m a successful property developer.’ He made little inverted commas round the phrase to show he was being ironic. It was a gesture Hanlon particularly disliked. ‘I’m supposed to have a lavish lifestyle. It reassures my investors.’ He shrugged. ‘Do you want a drink?’
Hanlon said, ‘I’m driving.’
‘And?’ said Conquest. He stood up and made his way to what she’d thought was a sideboard but turned out to be a kind of lavish minibar. The side flapped down to reveal bottles and glasses. ‘I’ve got a wide variety of soft drinks, including eight varieties of water.’ She accepted a glass of mineral water and Conquest followed suit.
‘Tell me about the house,’ said Hanlon. She was genuinely interested.
‘It is an odd building,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I bought this place in the eighties, when I was a yuppy, remember them? I had a Porsche, a Filofax and a Barbour jacket, even one of those huge old mobile phones – it ran off a car battery. Happy days. The enterprise economy they called it back then.’ He laughed at the memory. He drank some Perrier; that had been popular too in the eighties. ‘It had belonged to an Israeli in the film business and this thirties stuff, that’s all his. He had the place gutted downstairs, knocked through, so he could hold big parties, like tonight’s. It’s great for that, but it’s practically unlivable. He went bust and I got it at a really good price.’ He drank some water. ‘I mean a seriously good price. The locals were terrified Boy George would buy it, but in the end he found somewhere down the road, on the Heath, and I bought it instead. To be honest, I hardly use it. Do I, Prince, do I, Blondi.’ The dogs looked at him adoringly at the sound of their names and Prince’s tail swished on the carpet. Conquest leaned forward and scratched them gently behind the ears.
‘This place is my pension fund.’ The dogs panted happily. ‘I can’t say I’ll miss it when I sell it.’
She nodded. Then she asked, ‘Conquest is an unusual name. Are you related to the historian?’
Another charming smile from the man opposite her. He really was quite attractive, thought Hanlon. His face was hard, but humorous, his eyes intelligent. A shame I find it hard to believe in you, she thought. Hanlon was used to people lying to her, or at best being evasive. She’d had two decades of it. In her view, Conquest was telling the truth, but it was a partial truth, an edited truth. I’m sure you are a property developer, but that’s not everything, is it. There’s more to you than that. I can smell it on you, just like I could on your security at the front door. He shook his head. I bet you know Jesus Anderson, she thought, or more likely his father.
‘I wish I was. I’m not that bright, I’m afraid. I left school at fifteen.’
Oh Christ, thought Hanlon, don’t give me the ‘I’m an educated peasant’ routine.
‘I do like history, though. I researched it. No, the surname means from Le Conquet in France. It’s in Brittany, so I guess it makes sense. It’s not too far to come.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Hanlon. And, she added mentally, there can’t be too many of you to go through when I do some of my own research. ‘Now,’ her voice became businesslike, ‘you had some questions to ask me about policing.’
If Conquest was disappointed at her brusque tone he hid it well. ‘Yes, I do. As a councillor I’m involved in the Safer Neighbourhoods scheme, so I’m more than aware of the valuable input of our local PCSOs. It’s how I met your DCS Ludgate,’ he said with a smile. He opened the folder that was on the coffee table and looked at a list of questions. ‘He tells me that you have the ear of one of the assistant commissioners, is that so?’
‘Yes,’ said Hanlon. She felt no urge to elaborate.
‘So, may I ask, what brings you up here to Hampstead?’ asked Conquest.
‘Crime,’ said Hanlon. Once again she made no attempt to explain. Conquest raised his eyebrows. If he felt aggrieved at the closing down of this line of questioning he took it in good grace. ‘Well, I do have a few general questions about the police and the future of community policing. Quite a few, really, you don’t mind, do you?’
Now it was Hanlon’s turn to smile. She had to admire the way that Conquest had prepared a fallback position just in case his attempts to find out exactly what had brought AC Corrigan’s attack dog, as she was known in certain circles, up to Hampstead were rebuffed. It was very slickly done.
‘Not at all,’ Hanlon said. I’d best be loquacious, she thought to herself.
13
The following night Hanlon parked her Audi outside Whiteside’s small, one-bedroomed apartment in Holloway, in North London. She stood outside the large house he lived in that had long ago been divided into flats and looked up at the soft light coming from his living room. The long, broad, quiet street was empty of people but most of the windows were lit, like so many TV screens, each featuring dozens of different individuals or families, all from different backgrounds, all with different stories to tell. Hanlon loved the diversity of London, its cool anonymity. Despite the large number of families, of people in the street, there was a sense of isolation in a London scene that echoed an Edward Hopper painting. You could be very alone in London, a feeling that she found deeply attractive. She yawned and rubbed her eyes; she felt very tired.
Whiteside buzzed her in when she rang the bell and she went upstairs to the first-floor flat. Whiteside was framed in the doorway at the top of the stairs, his muscular bulk filling the space of the open door, back-lit in the darkness. There was a coat-rack on the left-hand side of the wall as you walked in and Hanlon’s sharp eyes noticed a police uniform jacket that obviously wasn’t Whiteside’s hanging there. Beneath the coats was a shoe-rack and Hanlon’s eyes registered a pair of boots that weren’t Whiteside’s size. Whoever the jacket belonged to had quite small feet. As they walked past the bedroom she heard the light, slithery rustle of someone turning over under a duvet. The sergeant was obviously not alone.
Whiteside led her into his small, immaculate lounge and disappeared to the kitchen for
something to drink. There wasn’t much furniture in the living room: a sofa, a chair and a glass coffee table. There was no clutter. His tidiness bordered on the obsessive, as indeed did Hanlon’s. There were three pens on the table, a copy of GQ, a Scissor Sisters CD and an iPod. All of them were aligned at precisely the same angle. The books on the shelf were arranged in alphabetical order; everything was precision placed. Everything that could gleam, did gleam. It was freer of dirt and dust than an operating theatre. Hanlon thoroughly approved.
She sat down on his sofa and tucked her legs under her. Her shoes she’d left at the door. Whiteside was very protective of his carpet; he hated dirt, marks or any form of stain on its fabric.
Whiteside reappeared with a bottle of wine and a Perrier for Hanlon. He put three coasters carefully on the table and poured himself a large glass of Pinot Noir. Hanlon sipped her mineral water. He was dressed for bed in a T-shirt and shorts. Whiteside had a great body, thought Hanlon approvingly. He was muscular, but not overly so. Hanlon couldn’t stand the bodybuilder look, the Gym Martha. It had everything to do with vanity and little to do with utility. I’m such a muscle snob, she thought. Whiteside would warrant an eight out of ten from Hanlon. Whoever was in the bed was a very lucky man in her opinion. Running your hands over Whiteside would be a thoroughly exhilarating experience, she imagined.
Briefly, she filled him in on the previous evening. Whiteside listened with amusement, scratching his neatly trimmed beard occasionally.