Time to Die

by Alex Howard

  At one point his eyes had met Bingham’s. In the course of his legal career the judge had done this countless times. This was different. Bingham had recognized a true soulmate. He made no sign to the judge. There was no smile or nod of the head, it was just a look, but it had been enough. They both knew what it meant. The jury, the audience in the gallery, the lawyers and court officials all had seemed suddenly insubstantial. He knows, he’d thought with a shock, he knows. Like calls to like.

  After the trial Reece had discreetly used his lobbying power and got himself appointed as the legal expert on a parliamentary committee to look into paedophilia. The authorities were delighted that such a senior figure had been so public spirited to volunteer for such a depressing job. He’d used it to engineer a meeting with Bingham.

  ‘Hello, Judge,’ Bingham had said with a knowing smirk when they finally met.

  There was a ring at the doorbell in Whiteside’s flat. That must be Cohen’s messenger, he thought, and pressed the button to let them in.

  21

  The first time Clarissa had seen, felt and handled the Makarov handgun (Eastern European, as predicted by Corrigan) had been a moment of true love. She had never seen a handgun in real life before. She was so used to the visual reality from TV and film that she expected it to have no real resonance, for it to be just a tool, like a cooker or an iPod. Far from it.

  First of all was the physical beauty of the weapon, which she hadn’t been expecting. Form follows function and good design has a timeless, classic grace. The gun had grace. It was a fairly standard-looking automatic and quite small, an ideal size for Clarissa. Its black metal body was sleek and functional. It smelt of oil, a scent she was unused to, slick and heavy. It gleamed dully when she held it to the light. She had balanced it in her palm and felt its weight with fascination: 700 grams, she learned later. That 700 grams was nearly the weight of a large bag of sugar, but concentrated in the small frame of the gun it felt supernaturally heavy.

  Conquest had shown her how to load the magazine, sliding the 9 mm bullets into its spring-activated mechanism. He knew the Makarov well. It had been a standard-issue firearm in Eastern Europe in the old communist days, and a large number of the guns were still in circulation. They were cheap and reliable. This one had cost Conquest 300 pounds, coincidentally the same sum he’d spent on the same night entertaining a client at the Ritz.

  In Clarissa’s eyes, each glowing copper-jacketed bullet with its lead tip looked like a miniature, deadly, metal lipstick. Loaded, it felt physically not that much heavier, but emotionally, well, that was a different story. Holding the handgun, she was now more than the equal of any unarmed man. She could walk up to someone like Mike Tyson, pull the trigger nine times – the gun was semi-automatic – and there would be no need of a referee’s count to decide the outcome. Holding the gun was power. Holding the gun was freedom. Holding the gun was heaven.

  Firing it for the first time was a sexual thrill. She felt it in the same visceral, physical way. In some ways it was more exciting than that physical act. Even the actions were arousing. Pulling the trigger was like a metaphor for sex. Even the wording, ‘pulling the trigger’, sounded like a sexual reference.

  He showed her on the range he had on the island how to shoot. The stance, ‘You can always tell a good shooter, he stands like a gay man,’ he had told her. The grip, how to pull the trigger; most importantly, how to breathe when she aimed. Hold your breath when you align the sight, he’d said. She’d taken it all in and then almost cried out in frustration as the empty glass bottle and cans he had put out at a ten metre distance stood unscathed as every shot she fired missed.

  Conquest had smiled at her incompetence. Don’t snatch the trigger, he had said, be gentle. Squeeze it gently. The gun will do the work.

  She had improved since then, and today she would be firing into a man’s body from a distance of probably under a metre. She couldn’t miss.

  Bald Paul, another of Conquest’s employees, a mate from the old days, who lived at the lodge house opposite the island, had dropped her off a mile away from Whiteside’s in Upper Holloway. She checked her reflection out as she walked past a shop window: shoulder-length, blonde hair, large red-framed sunglasses, short denim skirt, ankle boots. Anyone looking closely at her face would not have seen the scar between her eyes, she’d foundationed over that, she would never make that mistake again. She knew that soon all the CCTV around here would be searched again and again. She was carrying a canvas tote bag with her, the gun inside. She walked round the corner into Whiteside’s street.

  It was now lunchtime and the pavements were eerily deserted. The day was unusually hot and hardly a breath of air moved in the streets of Holloway. The lime trees stood like silent silver pillars, their bark bleached and peeling in the bright sunlight. It was fairytale-like, as if North London were holding its breath, as if some enchantment had sent everyone to sleep.

  She walked up the steps to the heavy front door of the house that Whiteside lived in and rang the bell that had his name beside it and the words ‘Flat One’. There was a noise from the buzzer and a click from the lock as it sprang open. She was obviously expected. Conquest’s text had done the work. She walked into the spacious hall, through the door with his flat number beside it, which stood ajar, and then gently closed it behind her with her foot. She was careful not to touch anything. After she’d finished, the place would be forensically examined in minute detail. She walked up the narrow flight of stairs to the first-floor flat, heart thudding, hardly able to breathe.

  Lights. Camera. Action. She thought: take one. The victim’s flat.

  ‘Hi!’ she said brightly to the figure framed in the doorway above, filling the space, who stood looking down at her. In the flesh the journalist looked frighteningly unstoppable, the kind of man who could absorb bullets. She hadn’t expected him to be so big; he looked huge. The Makarov had been highly effective against tin cans and empty wine bottles. It had punched holes in paper targets. Would it be any good against him? Her heart was racing now and her mouth was very dry. She badly needed some water. She wondered if she would be able to speak.

  ‘Come in,’ he said and she suddenly thought, what if he’s not alone? What am I going to do then? She started sweating and she felt faint. Clarissa’s training as an actress meant she was unusually good at detecting what was real from what was false in the image that people projected. She was really good at detecting bullshit. There was none here. He wasn’t playing a role. He wasn’t just tough-looking; he was tough. She had a mad desire to just give up, run out of the door or, even more crazily, give him the gun and surrender herself to him. I must do this quickly before I lose it, she thought to herself.

  She slid her right hand inside the canvas bag she was carrying and tightened it around the butt and the trigger. The feel of the gun lifted her spirits. She remembered Conquest getting her to shoot a watermelon, the massive damage the small bullet had inflicted. There was a tiny hole on the outside but when they’d looked inside, there you could see what it had done. Whiteside’s formidable muscles would no more deflect the bullet than the skin of the fruit. He led the way along a short narrow corridor, past a bedroom and a bathroom. Both had their doors ajar; both, she noted, were empty. Then a narrow galley kitchen to the right, again, unoccupied. Ahead, at the end of the corridor was what looked like a study. This had no door, it had obviously been removed to create an illusion of more space, and that too was empty. She felt her spirits rise.

  They moved into the living room, its huge windows flooding the room with light. They were alone. Relief flooded through her. Clarissa felt calm and in control. She knew now everything would be all right. She smiled at the man standing before her.

  ‘So,’ said Whiteside. It was the last word, the last syllable he would say to Clarissa. He had turned away, maybe to open a window, and his back was to her. She took the gun in a calm, easy motion from the bag, slid the safety off, and – remembering to squeeze, not snatch, the trigger,
be gentle and let the gun do the work – shot him in the back at a distance of a metre and a half.

  The gun kicked in her hand and the shot made a noise like a loud, dry crack. The bullet caught him, not in the spine which was what she had aimed for, but in the side. The shiny, bright copper-coloured shell casing was spat out by the gun and she caught an intoxicating smell of the smoke from the gunpowder as it rose out of the pistol. Whiteside felt as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. He staggered forward as if pushed by an invisible hand and turned. Clarissa took a step forward, and this time shot him in the stomach. Whiteside’s legs gave way and he crashed backwards on to the floor as if he’d sat on an invisible, non-existent chair. She was smiling now. Everything was working brilliantly. He made no sound. Automatically, he put a hand over the entry wound and dark-red blood seeped through his fingers. He watched as it soaked into the carpet. He felt no pain. Stupidly, he found himself thinking, that stain’s going to be hard to shift. There was a roaring in his ears and he felt as though he was falling. He had an overwhelming sense of unreality crashing over him like a wave in slow motion. This can’t be happening, he thought.

  He turned his head to look at Clarissa. She looked down at him triumphantly, sprawled on the carpet of his flat, which was gently absorbing his life blood. She had won, he had lost. All that muscle, all that experience, all that character, all that crime-fighting expertise reduced to, what? A human rag doll. Her lips were parted and her eyes glinted with excitement as she carefully sighted the gun, and that was the last thing Whiteside saw as he lay there helplessly, the black hole at the end of the handgun’s barrel, the eye of the Makarov. Then her third 9 mm bullet hit him in the face and he knew no more.

  She shook her head to clear it. Time had ceased to mean anything. Clarissa felt as if the last couple of minutes had extended for hours, but a glance at her watch confirmed that it really was only a hundred or so seconds. She glanced briefly at the man lying on the floor, dead or dying. Blood was still oozing out of him and she avoided looking at what was left of his face, which was now a bloody mask. She slid the safety catch on to the pistol, put it in her bag and pulled on a pair of latex gloves that she had in her pocket.

  First of all she quickly retrieved the three casings from the shots she’d fired and put them in her bag. His mobile was ridiculously easy to find, lying on the coffee table. She had his number programmed into hers and she quickly called it, just in case he had more than one phone, but it rang immediately. That was the phone she was after. She switched it off and put it into her bag. Next to where the mobile had been was his wallet. She added that to the bag. Then she pulled off her blonde wig and dropped it into her bag too, followed by the sunglasses, and slipped a pair of small, heavy-framed glasses on to her face. Transformed from blonde siren to dark-haired intellectual, she let herself out of the flat, peeling off and pocketing the gloves at the last minute as the front door closed behind her.

  As she walked down the street, she passed Constable Childs on his way to Whiteside’s flat. Childs didn’t notice her. He was a man very much in love, with sex on his mind. His libido was rampant, he was as hot as the surrounding streets. He put it down to the sunny weather.

  22

  Hanlon turned her car into Whiteside’s road and immediately stamped on the brake. The street was like a disturbed anthill. She saw an ambulance, five police cars, two police vans and about twenty police in uniform milling frantically around outside Whiteside’s house. There was a loud roar and clatter as the police helicopter flew overhead. With a terrible, swift certainty, Hanlon knew immediately what had happened. This level of manpower on a Saturday afternoon had to be for a fellow officer.

  She parked the car and walked up to the sergeant’s house, stony-faced. The engine of the ambulance started, its lights and siren came on and it pulled away. Behind it, she could see two officers sealing the entrance to the building with incident tape. She heard a senior officer that she didn’t know shouting, ‘Block off that road. Jesus Christ. Will you hurry up. And cordon off those pavements, will you.’ His voice was sharp with tension, his face thunderous, tense and angry.

  ‘Hurry up. I don’t want any traffic moving up or down this street.’

  A uniformed officer blocked Hanlon on the pavement. ‘I’m sorry, madam.’ She opened her bag for her warrant card but a voice called, ‘Ma’am, ma’am.’ Hanlon looked past the PC and there was Childs. He was wearing a white disposable boiler suit and overshoes on his bare feet. Hanlon thought, they must have removed and bagged his clothing. Childs’ forearms and wrists were rusty with dried blood and there were more streaks of blood on his face.

  ‘It’s Mark, ma’am. DS Whiteside. He’s been shot,’ said Childs. He stood there awkwardly on the pavement, a beseeching look on his face. He looked even younger than usual. The uniform was still standing between them. It’s as if Childs believes I can wave a wand and everything will be somehow all right again, thought Hanlon. Behind Childs was the usual activity of crime scenes, but carried out with far more grim urgency than normal. In the background she could see DCS Ludgate directing the action. Hanlon felt a surge of anger towards him. He must have been inside the house when she arrived. Of all the people that this investigation could have fallen to, he was the one that she’d least like to have in charge. It was almost an insult to Whiteside to have Ludgate here as the senior investigating officer.

  ‘How badly?’ Hanlon said. By that she really meant, was he still alive?

  Childs shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He’d been hit in the head and the body. I know that.’

  Oh God, thought Hanlon, a head shot. Childs had obviously done his best. The blood that soaked him was testimony to that. Behind Childs three SOCO officers had arrived and were busy suiting up. In a minute they’d be starting on the house and Whiteside’s flat. Now that the crime scene had been preserved, other officers were gathering at both ends of the now sealed-off road to search that perimeter. She could see Ludgate pointing at houses in the street and sending officers off for house-to-house enquiries. She couldn’t fault Ludgate for efficiency, that was for sure.

  She turned her attention back to Childs. The uniform had stood aside to let them be together. Childs looked immensely vulnerable. Tears rolled down his face. ‘I did my best, ma’am.’ He started to shake and sat down heavily on the pavement, as if he was going to faint.

  Hanlon sat next to him. She wanted to put her arm round him. She wanted to squeeze him tightly to her, heedless of the sticky blood that adhered to the youngster’s body. But she couldn’t. Not yet. She made gentle, soothing noises like you do to calm a child. In the distance she could hear the bad-tempered officer shouting, ‘Where the hell are those temporary barriers, I want this road properly sealed off, and tell those idiots over there to get back inside. The whole road’s a crime scene until I say otherwise.’ Windows down the length of the street were open and faces were looking out, intrigued by the commotion.

  ‘It’s not your fault. You did everything you could have done,’ she said.

  Childs’ head was bowed and she could smell the heavy, ferrous tang of Whiteside’s blood. She saw his shoulders heave as he sobbed and she thought, he’s only nineteen. Her grim-faced colleagues were taping off Whiteside’s door at what was now the centre of a crime scene.

  A sergeant approached Hanlon hesitantly. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘I’ll take Tom back to the station now, if that’s OK.’

  She nodded. She herself would have had Childs down there practically immediately. Theoretically, Childs, the discoverer of the body, was a suspect. It would be time for him to make a formal statement and doubtless for his hands to be tested in a kind of embarrassed way, for GSR. Hanlon spoke softly to the boy and Childs nodded and stood up. The tracks of his tears had put streaks in the dried blood that smeared his cheeks. He looked at his blood-covered hands and arms almost in surprise.

  ‘Go with the sergeant, Constable,’ she said gently. ‘I’ll be round to see you lat
er, but just now I’ve got work to do.’

  Childs nodded and the sergeant led him away to an unmarked car. Hanlon straightened up and looked for someone she knew. A senior officer who she recognized, DI Clarke, waved her over to him. As she walked towards him she was stopped by Sergeant Thompson, who’d been there with her for the Cunningham bust. ‘Sorry, ma’am, I know you’re busy, I just want to say how gutted we are.’ Thompson was shaking with suppressed emotion.

  ‘Do you know how he is, Sergeant?’ asked Hanlon. She knew that Thompson was a friend of Whiteside’s. They were sports fans and drinking buddies. They’d go and watch cricket together in the summer, rugby in the winter. Thompson shook his head. ‘No, ma’am, not yet. I know one of the paramedics who attended but there was no time to talk. At least he’s still alive. The one good thing is that young Childs over there found him shortly after and called it in. Otherwise Mark’d be gone by now. But gunshot trauma is really a hospital job, they got him there as soon as possible. When I know more I’ll text you. I’ve got your number.’

  ‘You do that, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘You do that.’

  Thompson said, ‘I don’t know who’ll lead the investigation but I hope it’s you, ma’am. I hope you get the bastard who did this.’

  Hanlon had been looking at the activity around them while he was speaking. Now she looked directly at him and the sergeant saw into her eyes for the first time. He knew her well enough and obviously their gazes had met in the past, but this time it was as though a darkened window had been opened and he could see the real Hanlon. The rage that burnt there was frightening. Later, when trying to describe it to a colleague, all he – a Catholic – could come up with was, ‘like the fires of hell’. Now she didn’t need to reply. She blinked and it was as if the shutters had come down again, and Thompson was looking into her habitually expressionless eyes.