by Alex Howard
‘And then he invited you to his study for a chat, did he?’ smiled Whiteside.
He wondered if maybe Conquest had made a pass at Hanlon. He suspected most men would be too scared of her to do so, even if they fancied her. Hanlon was certainly intimidating. Conquest must have great self-confidence. Or, he thought, even if the DI didn’t scare you, would you necessarily want to spend the evening with her? These things cut both ways. She didn’t have much small talk and so much of intimacy is bound up with just that, whispered sweet nothings. The idea of Hanlon chatting amicably was simply unreal. What would she find to talk about? Crime? Triathlons? How much Hanlon could any man take? He realized that despite the years he’d known her they rarely talked about things other than work-related issues. He knew very little about her. She liked architecture and history. She liked boxing, a taste they both shared. She would come over and they’d watch it on Sky Sports. That was more or less it. Sometimes she’d stayed over and slept on his sofa but she was still an enigma. They themselves didn’t talk much, content with each other’s company like a long-time amicably married couple. He smiled again in amusement.
‘He did indeed, Sergeant,’ said Hanlon. ‘And why are you grinning like that?’ She sounded irritated.
‘I was just wondering what you two young kids found to talk about,’ said Whiteside teasingly. ‘Was it everything and nothing? This and that? Setting the world to rights? The whole crazy, mixed-up world of policing the UK’s capital city.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Hanlon, annoyed. ‘It wasn’t so much of a chat as a Q-and-A session about community policing. He said it was because of his position as head of that traders’ group.’ There we go, thought Whiteside. I knew she wouldn’t follow Corrigan’s advice to be loquacious.
She’d told Whiteside about the meeting with the assistant commissioner. She hadn’t told him, though, her reason for getting involved as the AC’s information officer on the Ali Yilmaz murder. Hanlon always played her cards close to her chest. When she had proof that Baby Ali’s death was not a one-off but connected to the Essex killing, she’d tell him, but not until then. Meanwhile, let him think it was because the AC thought Ludgate might screw it all up.
‘Oh, and he told me how much he admired me,’ said Hanlon. ‘And that went for everyone he’d met and everyone at the party. How at least I’d had the guts to tackle the rioters and how the country needed more police like me.’
‘That’s nice of him. I bet he fancies you too,’ said Whiteside. ‘Get him to put it in writing. You can give it to that disciplinary board. You don’t have many prominent fans, ma’am. They’ll be impressed. Start a campaign. They might give you your old job back.’
Hanlon smiled, or rather her lips twitched momentarily, despite herself. She continued, ‘Conquest’s an independent councillor in Finchley, with access, according to him, to the mayor’s office, so maybe I should.’
‘Well then.’ Whiteside shrugged. ‘That’s good, isn’t it. He’s not a criminal after all.’
‘Well,’ Hanlon said, ‘I didn’t buy any of it.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Whiteside, sipping his wine. Hanlon noted that, as usual when he drank, he held his little finger up. It was an odd quirk he had, like refined old ladies are supposed to do when they sip their tea.
‘I’m not the local police community liaison officer. I’m also not a household name. And how did he know I’d be around here to attend this party?’ said Hanlon. Whiteside thought she had a point, but equally he couldn’t see where she was going with this. ‘It had to be Ludgate’s doing. He got me the invite and I want to know why.’
‘Maybe he wants to make friends?’ said Whiteside with a humourless smile. He knew how much they detested each other.
‘Yeah, right,’ replied Hanlon sarcastically. ‘I think Conquest wanted me to reveal what I’m doing on Ludgate’s patch, what I’m spying on for the AC. Ludgate must have put him up to it. What I want to know is what Ludgate is doing cosying up with some multimillionaire property developer. It doesn’t smell right.’
Whiteside scratched his beard. ‘You think DCS Ludgate’s bent?’
‘Yes,’ said Hanlon simply. ‘Besides, I’m sure Conquest is. You lie down with a dog, you get up with fleas.’
Whiteside looked at her dubiously. ‘You’re sure that’s not just because you don’t like him?’ That’s putting it charitably, he thought. ‘There could be any number of reasons why Ludgate wanted him to ask why you’re here. I’d be curious too, in his position. And annoyed. It is you, after all. And why shouldn’t he be mates with a property developer? The DCS is up for retirement soon; he might be after wangling a nice little job as a security consultant. I wouldn’t mind that myself. Couple of hundred quid a day for advising on anything from how to secure against squatters, to scams, to the best person to approach in the council. Ludgate knows everyone round here. He’s been here since the ark.’
‘I ran Conquest through the PNC,’ said Hanlon. Her face was stony. She was not amused. Whiteside recognized the look. He supposed there was some point to all of this but he couldn’t see what.
‘And?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, he’s clean. Not even a driving endorsement or an unpaid parking ticket.’
‘Well then.’ Whiteside shrugged. ‘That’s good, isn’t it. He’s not a criminal after all. Hoorah. We can all sleep easy in our beds.’
Hanlon said, ‘I know shit when I smell it, Sergeant. And when I’ve got Conquest under my nose, I don’t smell roses. I’ve spent twenty years in the police and I know that man’s got a record, I don’t care what the police national computer thinks.’
Whiteside guessed she’d say something along those lines. One of Hanlon’s greatest strengths was her terrier-like tenacity. She never gave up. The Anderson arrest was typical Hanlon. She’d been out to get him ever since the first attempt had ended in failure. Now Conquest was in her sights. Maybe Ludgate too. If she was convinced of their guilt she’d move heaven and earth to prove it. Hanlon handed him a piece of paper with a name and address.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘look at this.’ Whiteside took it and read it.
‘Who’s Dr S. Cohen and what’s the Shapiro Institute?’ he asked.
By way of answer she said, ‘I met Conquest’s dogs, Prince and Blondi. German shepherds. Nice animals.’ She looked at Whiteside. ‘Do those names mean anything to you?’
Whiteside thought momentarily. ‘No. No, they don’t. Eighties pop stars?’ What on earth is she on about now?
‘They’re the names of Hitler’s dogs,’ said Hanlon.
Whiteside laughed. ‘Oh, come on,’ he protested. ‘They’re really common names – well, Prince is for a dog. Even if he is a Nazi sympathizer and the dogs are named in honour of the Fuhrer, I don’t think that’s a crime in this country anyway, not unless he’s, say, inciting racial hatred. Is he?’
Hanlon twisted a lock of her dark hair. She chose to answer Whiteside’s question obliquely. ‘Prominent fascist supporters are very often engaged in criminal activity, Mark. And like I said, Conquest smells funny to me. I told you I don’t believe any of this hoohah of wanting to speak to me about community policing and telling me how much he admires me. I think he, like Ludgate, wanted to know what a senior officer associated with Corrigan – whose main issue is anti-racism, let’s not forget – is doing in his neck of the woods.’
Whiteside nodded. ‘Let me get this straight.’ He used the kind of voice you might use to patronize a small, annoying child. ‘So he’s worried that you might discover, what? That he doesn’t like Jews?’
‘If I’m wrong, I’m wrong,’ said Hanlon. ‘In the meantime you can humour me. We’re not the only people with criminal databases. The Shapiro Institute has a very good one. You can ask them if they know Mr Conquest.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Whiteside, curious despite himself.
‘They’re a think tank that monitors far-right and neo-Nazi activity in this country and Europe. If Conquest or Ludgate
is involved in illegal right-wing activity, they’ll know. Conquest is a prominent citizen; he’s anti-Semitic. I bet they’ve got something on him, even if it’s just rumours. I want to know. Sol Cohen is the director. He’s a busy man but he’ll give you half an hour on Saturday at eleven.’ It’s my day off, damn it, thought Whiteside. Then, she knows that of course.
‘Surely they don’t work on Saturdays?’ he asked.
‘Sol Cohen does. He’s not orthodox, in fact he’s an atheist,’ said Hanlon. ‘So you don’t need to worry about that side of things.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And what do I tell him? That we, you, think a property developer might be anti-Semitic? It’s hardly the crime of the century is it? Even to a Jewish think tank.’
‘No,’ said Hanlon with laboured patience, ‘you tell him you’re a journalist investigating anti-Semitism in the property industry with links to organized crime.’ Whiteside shook his head in mystification. ‘Organized crime?’
‘Organized crime,’ repeated Hanlon firmly. ‘I think Conquest’s a criminal and he most certainly is organized. I checked out his business at Companies House. They made a small profit last financial year, nothing like enough to fund his lifestyle. You should have seen that party, that house. He’s got an underground garage with a Maserati, a Mercedes and a top-of-the-line Range Rover as well. His clothes, shoes and watch come to your annual salary alone. Something doesn’t add up. He’s spent a lot more money than he’s earned legitimately.’ Hanlon paused. ‘You’ll need these.’ She handed him an envelope which he opened.
Whiteside found himself looking at a photo driving licence and NUJ card that identified him as Michael Dunlop. There was also a covering letter written in Hebrew on Israeli Embassy notepaper. He looked inquiringly at Hanlon.
‘That asks that the Shapiro Institute grant you every assistance. I phoned someone I know. Saul Gertler is the Chief of Security at the Israeli Embassy here in London; he provided this. They take millionaire neo-Nazis with police connections quite seriously even if you don’t.’
‘Why can’t I just be me?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong with being Sergeant Whiteside? I can play that role. I’ve studied it for years. I was born to play it. Why undercover?’
Hanlon snorted. ‘The institute doesn’t trust the police. Shin Bet, yes; Scotland Yard, no. The police have connived too often in the past at shafting Jews. Who do you think rounded them up and sent them to camps, the Salvation Army? They wouldn’t let you through the door, Sergeant. The institute is very security conscious. Not only that. They’re always worried about information leaking. I can’t say I blame them. I don’t fully trust the police and I work for them. If I’m right, and he is dirty, someone deleted Conquest from the PNC. That’s probably one of our colleagues. I think we’ll just keep this to ourselves for now.’
‘If Corrigan finds out he’ll have a blue fit,’ said Whiteside warningly. You’ll be sacked, he thought, and I’ll be demoted.
‘Corrigan won’t find out,’ said Hanlon. Whiteside recognized the tone in her voice. It meant, don’t argue. ‘That letter in Hebrew identifies you as a freelance journalist who is accredited in Israel. Your address I’ve given as this one. Is that OK with you?’ Whiteside nodded. He doubted they’d be adding him to their mailing list. ‘If anyone gets inquisitive tell them to ring Gertler at the embassy. No one will dare. He’s not the kind of man you’d want to bother.’
‘You just did,’ said Whiteside.
She looked at him imperiously, her grey eyes dark in the soft light of Whiteside’s living room. Her chin lifted slightly in a combative way. ‘That’s true,’ said Hanlon equably, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. ‘But I’m me.’
What can you do, he thought admiringly, faced with someone who shortly after leaving a dinner party has contacted the head of Israeli Intelligence in London, whose number she has on her mobile phone, and got him to do this. The range of people that Hanlon knew was extraordinary. What was even more extraordinary was the way they all tended to do her bidding. Himself included. Hanlon was looking at him expectantly. ‘OK. OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll go. What exactly do you want?’
‘Like I told you. I want whatever they’ve got on Conquest. There’ll be something. He’s dirty, I can smell it. The fact that the PNC has got nothing on him doesn’t impress me.’
Whiteside, who knew Hanlon much better than most, was surprised at the level of venom in her voice. He thought it boded ill for Conquest, guilty or innocent. Nothing would get in her way. Whiteside had worked with her for five years. She was unstoppable.
‘That’s straightforward enough,’ he said.
Hanlon took another sip of water. ‘I also want to know if the number eighteen has any significance.’
‘Eighteen?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Whiteside paused expectantly. Hanlon looked at him as if to say what more do you want.
‘Are you going to tell me why this number’s significant?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not,’ she said.
‘OK, fine. Be like that.’ His mock irritation was not entirely mock. ‘And how about you, what’ll you be doing tomorrow?’ he asked.
Hanlon stood up to leave. ‘I’m seeing Sergeant Demirel about the murdered child. That, Sergeant, is what this is all about. Catching criminals, not feeding my ego.’ She looked at him commandingly. ‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.
14
Clarissa sat in the front of the small, white Ford Transit van parked just down the road from Kathy and Peter’s flat and felt the excitement rise in her body and mind as the adrenaline started to flow. She was growing to love this sensation. It was like that feeling she had before she used to go onstage, would she remember her lines? Would the audience love her? It was like being at the top of a rollercoaster ride, waiting for the moment when the car would plunge forward into the abyss, or standing on a bungee platform, but far, far better. This was life and death. This must be how God felt. What she was about to do was apocalyptic. She would utterly shatter Kathy and Peter’s lives. She thought:
I am Destiny.
I am Vishnu.
I am the Destroyer of Worlds.
Today would be the third time. First the Somali girl, then the Turkish boy, now this. One of their best clients had requested a young, white child and Clarissa had the perfect candidate. Clarissa was looking forward to taking Peter. He would fit the customer’s specifications in every respect but, first and foremost, it would break Kathy’s heart, it would destroy her, and Clarissa hated Kathy.
She quickly ran through her list of resentments against Kathy again, just to inspire herself. How Kathy reminded her of the oh so superior girls at school who had looked down on her, who had sneered at her, who had belittled her, the girls who had ruined her childhood. She represented all the girls who had never liked her, never let her join their gangs. Well, suck on this, Kathy!
Then there was her career. Clarissa was a failed actress; Kathy an in-your-face successful businesswoman. Who did Kathy think she was with her high-power job, swanking around all over the world (in Clarissa’s mind Kathy didn’t travel, she swanked, every step of her elegant, high-heeled shoes leaving footprints of smugness), attending meetings, speaking her foreign languages. Oooh, look at me, I’m speaking German. Oooh, look at me, I’m speaking Italian. Oooh, look at me, now I’m talking French. Are you tri-lingual? I bet you’re not.
Then there was her beauty. Clarissa knew she herself was reasonably good-looking, and quite sexy, but she had to work on that, and there was no way on earth, no matter how many diets, how much aerobics, how much Zumba, that she would ever have Kathy’s long legs, Kathy’s neck, Kathy’s classic, fine-chiselled features. Women like Kathy were in the Style section of the Sunday Times. They modelled clothes for Boden. Clarissa despised them. She was everything that Clarissa wasn’t, but had longed to be, in one package. Slim, sophisticated, successful, almost certainly popular. She’
d have been one of those girls who had taunted Clarissa (then called Clare) at primary school. The girls who used to sing:
‘Clare Yate, Clare Yate
Don’t kiss her at the garden gate!
Don’t touch her, isn’t she big!
Look at her, she’s a big fat pig.’
Well, she wasn’t at school any more, she wasn’t called Clare Yate any more, and thanks to remorseless self-discipline, she wasn’t fat any more, and people didn’t chant hurtful things about her in playgrounds. Today she was Clarissa Yeats. And today she wasn’t going to eat any more shit in her life. She’d had a bellyful of it growing up. She didn’t take pain any more; she dished it out.
It’s not as if the woman needed her looks anyway, not with her ‘career’. To make matters even more galling, Kathy always seemed to be doing something worthy, baking, yoga, exercise, ironing, reading foreign journals. In the toilet there were The Economist, Der Spiegel, Paris Match and the FT.
Clarissa felt she was a living reproach. Kathy even had tragic glamour as a result of being a widow. Her husband would never grow bald, fat and old, never have hair sprout from his ears, never break her heart by having sex with a girl in his office or her best friend. He would remain an iconic, shining memory.
And then, of course, there was her beautiful son.
When the judge has finished with him, when Robbo has finished with him, he won’t look so beautiful then, Kathy.
I can never have what you’ve got, Kathy, but I can, and I will, take it away from you, she thought. And it starts today.
The Somali girl she had lured into a car where Robbo had dealt with her. The Turkish toddler she’d taken while following Mehmet. She knew the family routine and the gods had smiled on her when the man had left the boy of his own volition in her care.
She shook her head with irritation when she thought of Robbo, huge, packed with weightlifter’s muscle, his shaved head decorated with those three inverted V’s like sergeant’s stripes. He’d really started to go off the rails of late. Clarissa blamed the drugs he took for his bodybuilding. Human growth hormone, extracted from some dead guy’s pituitary gland, as if that would do you good.