by Alex Howard
They moved on to issues like friction at home, could he have run away following a row or maybe just in search of excitement? Had there been trouble at home or school? Had he got any trouble with friends? Did he belong to a gang? She understood that these questions had to be asked but she felt like screaming at them, you morons, he’s been taken. No one made the suggestion, nobody implied it, but she was beginning to feel, rightly or wrongly, that they viewed her as partly responsible. Absent mother stays in lap of luxury in posh Stuttgart (home of German luxury cars, Mercedes and Porsche) five-star hotel while child vanishes. She gave them a list of friends and relations, anyone that he could have gone to. ‘My son wouldn’t do this!’ she said.
The worst of it all was returning with the FLO to her flat to check that Peter hadn’t left a note, or packed a suitcase of his own volition. Of course he hadn’t. In his bedroom, neat and tidy, he was unusual in that respect, she’d asked the FLO for a moment, closed the door and sunk down to her knees and wept into his duvet, head buried in the material that still smelt slightly of him. There by his bed was the Artemis Fowl book he’d been reading, there folded by his pillow were his pyjamas.
She stood up and dried her eyes. I won’t cry again, not until he’s found, she told herself. She rejoined the FLO.
‘His overnight bag’s still here,’ she said. ‘The one he’d packed to take to Sam’s. I doubt he ever came back here.’
The FLO nodded, then asked hesitantly, ‘Could you let me have his toothbrush and maybe his comb or hairbrush?’
‘Of course,’ Kathy said, then in puzzlement, ‘Why?’
‘For the DNA,’ the FLO said simply. She saw Kathy’s face crumple. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. It was all she could think of.
Then it was back to the police station. It was painfully obvious to Kathy that they had very little information, and any steps were essentially constrained by this lack of knowledge. One part of her brain was still working analytically, although the rest of it was frozen with disbelief and misery. She was assured that an expert profiler was being brought in to help the investigation, that Peter’s description and photo (taken from a file on Annette’s laptop, recent and a good likeness of him) had been circulated nationwide to press and media. She said she was happy for it to be used from now on; she didn’t have a better one. They told her all ports and airports had been informed, he had been entered on to the PNC, that it was only a matter of time before he was found. She wished she had more faith in any of these measures.
Kathy had impressed everyone with her dry-eyed stoicism, her bravery in the face of every parent’s worst nightmare. The reality behind the facade of calm was one of nearly utter hopelessness. In her heart, she did not believe that, barring a miracle, she would ever see her son alive again. And she was not the kind of person who believed in miracles. She felt totally vacant, a shell of a person. The mantra, this can’t be happening, was running over and over in her head. Without much hope she prayed to God, as a policewoman brought her tea and the others tried to look busy and purposeful. It was a simple prayer, a plea bargain. In return for going to church every day for the rest of her life, let him be found now. Alive. Or even better, if You exist and You’re omnipotent, make it so none of this ever happened. You could do it with a blink of Your eye. It would be as simple as pressing ‘return to last scene’ on a DVD remote control.
Her tea grew cold. The clock ticked. Nothing changed. The asked for miracle didn’t happen.
First Dan had died, now Peter had been taken from her. It was that simple. Well, Fate was in the running for a hat trick. If Peter didn’t come back alive, she had no intention of carrying on without him, that was for sure. And she knew exactly how she would do it. No suicide bridge for Kathy. No need for that. She had enough insulin at home to kill an ox. She would leave a note on the bedroom door, swallow a handful of Valium, get into bed and inject herself with twenty-five units of NovoRapid. Within a few minutes her body would be rapidly exhausting all the sugars in her blood, she would black out and enter a coma from which she wouldn’t wake up. If Peter died, she would too. She had no doubt in her mind whatsoever. What would be the point in carrying on? She nodded her head to herself in confirmation of her plan. It seemed quite foolproof.
The police in the room watched her solicitously but almost nervously, as if she were suffering from something that might be contagious. No one could think of anything particularly helpful to say.
Kathy’s mobile phone and her BlackBerry sat side by side in front of her in case the kidnapper called. Both had rung several times but she had recognized the caller in each instance and let it go through to voicemail. An officer was at her flat for now, another family liaison officer (what family? she thought bitterly) and she would monitor the landline. None of the police really expected the perpetrator to call. One of the police was saying something about a press conference that had been convened, was she up to doing it? It was always good to get the media involved.
‘Yes,’ she said in a clear voice immediately. She’d always been good at making decisions; it was one of the reasons she was so valued at work.
On the street in North Holloway, Enver stroked his heavy, drooping moustache. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. He turned round to face her.
Hanlon’s face was inscrutable, her grey eyes cold, devoid of expression. Her hair was still damp from the shower at the gym. It was very thick, he thought, it would take a long time to dry. He suddenly wished he could touch it. The street around them was quiet. A few people passed by on the broad North London pavement; one glanced at the two of them curiously. Enver thought, we probably look like a married couple about to have a huge fight. She’s furious and I’m standing here looking guilty.
‘I take it this wasn’t your idea?’ she said with an air of menace.
Now there was a distinctly ugly look in her eyes and she moved closer to Enver. He was beginning to understand why people who knew Hanlon were wary, to say the least, of upsetting her. The ex-fighter in him understood why, either consciously or subconsciously, Hanlon was moving herself into his range. She was six inches shorter than him at least, so she was positioning herself for where her reach could make contact. Enver hoped it wouldn’t come to that. If it did he’d most certainly fight back. There’d be no mercy from Hanlon and he didn’t want her doing to him what she’d done to the heavy bag at the gym. He decided he would flatten her with no compunction if he had to. He was a slow mover but he had fast hands and there was no way she would be able to block a punch from his sledgehammer fists. She was too light. He thought, and because it’s her, I probably wouldn’t even get into trouble officially. I’d be offered counselling. Maybe a promotion.
‘No, ma’am.’ He moved back a step. He felt slightly more comfortable now he was out of her reach.
‘Did Ludgate send you?’ The two syllables of the DCS’s name were virtually spat out. Enver could almost see them lying on the pavement.
‘Ludgate?’ he said, amazed at the thought. Hanlon stared up at him impatiently. Enver realized she’d had enough of asking questions. It was time to come clean. ‘Corrigan, ma’am, the assistant commissioner, he told me to follow you.’
Hanlon snorted derisively through her nose. Enver wondered if this were a Hanlon version of laughter.
‘Corrigan,’ she said, shaking her head. She stood before him, irresolutely. Enver could almost see the tension, the adrenaline, drain from her arms as she relaxed. She breathed deeply. ‘Come with me, Sergeant,’ she commanded. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do.’
He followed her a hundred metres or so down the street until they stopped outside one of the large terraced houses, and suddenly Enver understood where they must be and whose flat they were going to. Hanlon let herself in with a key. Enver realized, with a pang of jealousy, how close the two of them must have been and he followed her inside.
The house had been divided into flats and in the entrance hall was an internal door that obviously led upstairs. You could see the pa
nelling in the hallway where a narrow staircase had been boxed in. Police crime-scene tape sealed the door. Hanlon reached into the pocket of her jacket and took something out that fitted snugly in her hand. There was an audible click as the blade sprang out of the flick knife. She severed the tape and opened Whiteside’s door. She looked at Enver,
‘I cleared this with forensics, they’re done here,’ she said.
They walked up the stairs into the flat. More stairs, thought Enver, breathing heavily. He followed her inside the flat and into the lounge. Beneath the large window, overlooking the street, was the stain on Whiteside’s carpet where he had lost so much blood. Hanlon stood with her arms folded, looking at it. Her face was drawn and thoughtful. She had a strong urge to touch it, to smear some on herself, if it was still wet enough, as a kind of tribute or talisman to her injured colleague. She turned away from Enver and he could see her raise her arm and, he guessed, wipe her eyes. She thought, he would have hated that stain on his beloved carpet. I remember when he bought it. He was so pleased with it.
‘Sit,’ she said to Enver, indicating the sofa where Whiteside had been facing her only the other night.
How can things happen so quickly? Hanlon was thinking to herself. Investigations seem to take forever; most of the people I’ve known personally who’ve died all had time to adjust or at least had an inkling something was coming, if only through age. It should only be strangers who die violently. Last night Mark was here where Demirel’s sitting, and now... She couldn’t, wouldn’t, finish the thought. She looked at Enver. His sad, brown eyes reminded her of a dog, maybe a Basset hound. Looking at his well-upholstered form, shining with sweat, shirt bulging over his waistband, it was strange to think he’d once, not that long ago, been a boxer. Maybe when his dream died so had his athleticism. He’d sounded terribly out of breath walking up Whiteside’s stairs. She thought of how amused Whiteside would have been by that, of his wolfish grin. Now he was lying in a drug-induced coma with various drips attached to him, while they hoped for the bruised swelling in his brain to subside. Oh God, what did they do to you, Mark?
Hanlon’s face showed nothing of her inner thoughts. ‘So, what did Corrigan say to you about me?’
He replied to the question. He left nothing out. When Enver had finished talking, she hadn’t moved. She was still standing, looking at the patch of bloodstained carpet. Hanlon hadn’t put any lights on in the flat and the only illumination came from the streetlights in the road whose yellow gleam cast a soft glow into the room. Her face was mask-like.
‘So Corrigan thinks if I found out who did this I might take the law into my own hands,’ she said softly.
‘Yes,’ said Enver simply. He was beginning to find it increasingly easy to speak to Hanlon. You didn’t need to qualify things.
‘And he actually thinks I have a supply of illegal weapons?’ she said contemptuously.
Enver said in an official tone, ‘Well, according to the Restriction of Offensive Weapons Act 1959, ma’am, switchblades, such as you possess, are deemed illegal, not to mention the 1988 Criminal Justice Act, which makes the carrying of knives longer than three inches also illegal. So, in a sense, ma’am, he’s already been proved right.’
Hanlon’s head moved slightly once, as if she had nodded. In Turkey, this is a sign for ‘no’ but he interpreted it as Hanlon’s way of conveying amusement. He knew Corrigan was right. Hanlon would almost certainly possess illegal firearms, he’d cheerfully bet money on it. It wouldn’t be a gamble; it would be a certainty.
‘Do you know who shot Whiteside, ma’am?’ he suddenly asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well, I know who was responsible for ordering it.’
Enver breathed deeply. ‘And are you going to take the law into your own hands, ma’am, like the AC fears?’
Hanlon looked at him. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, in an almost surprised tone of voice. ‘Very much so, Sergeant. That is exactly what I intend to do.’ Enver looked lonely and bulky on his sofa, like a seal, she thought, his eyes sleepy as ever. ‘Are you going to tell Corrigan?’ she asked him.
It was Enver’s turn to look surprised. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not.’ I can’t believe what I’m doing, he thought. ‘Tell me, are they responsible for the Yilmaz killings too?’
Hanlon nodded. He thought of Mehmet, twisting his fingers nervously as he’d watched him and his uncle discussing his future. He thought of his little daughter, Reyhan, and their hopes for her future. He thought of the tiny body bag that had awaited Ali by the side of the canal and he thought too of Grey Rabbit. It was the toy that was maybe the clinching factor. He felt his eyes moisten and he was glad of the protective darkness of the room. He wouldn’t have wanted Hanlon to see. This is for you, Grey Rabbit. Enver took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m going to help you then.’
27
HMP Wendover, thirty miles west of London, is a Category A prison. There are four bandings in the penal custodial system, which refer to the danger posed to the general public by the prisoner. Category A is for the most dangerous inmates. Dave ‘Jesus’ Anderson was now a high-risk prisoner in a high-risk jail.
He was currently on remand after his arrest for possession with intent to supply five kilograms of uncut cocaine with a conservative value of a quarter of a million pounds. He had been taking delivery of it with two of his men when Whiteside and the drug squad had busted him. It was a textbook scenario, a large lock-up garage, car, sports bag, bench, scales, drugs. It had looked to the police like a film set for a drugs bust. The photos that SOCO had taken alone would probably ensure a conviction.
Anderson knew immediately that someone had grassed him up, the moment the police had burst through the door. He had been over and over candidates for the informer’s identity in his head more or less continually from the second the handcuffs went on him up to now, but with no credible suspect. He could not understand how anyone who knew would dare to do it. Who would have the balls to do this? Somewhere out there was a dead man walking.
He had been in Wendover for some time now. He had been arrested, appeared in court the following day; bail was denied, even with Cunningham passionately arguing his case. He hadn’t been surprised by the decision and he was now here waiting on a court date for his trial. There had been a work-to-rule by the PCS Union and this had delayed legal proceedings. Meanwhile, he had tried to make the best of things. He was no stranger to prison.
Anderson’s family were drug dealers. They were career criminals; Anderson was born into it. All ancillary crime, the beatings, the money laundering, intimidation, the occasional killing, were professionally driven. It was a family business, started by Malcolm, his father, thirty years ago and run now by Dave and his two brothers, Terry and Jordan. Dave, the middle brother, was the head of the operation. Terry would have been capable but was fundamentally lazy and Jordan had neither the brains nor the temperament. All three brothers were violent, both by nature and nurture, but the temper that burnt inside Dave Anderson was controlled. It was like a blowtorch: it was always there, usually on a pilot light, but when he wanted he could turn up the gas to a white-hot, incendiary degree. Jordan couldn’t restrain himself when it came to violence. He would explode unpredictably. He was currently doing ten years in Armley Prison in Leeds for attempted murder and GBH over a pointless road rage incident. His absence made Dave’s incarceration all the more troublesome.
It had taken him two days and ten grand to get a mobile phone inside Wendover. He guessed he would have to run things from in here for a while. Malcolm, his father, was being treated for lung cancer, in fact had recently had a lung removed, and was in no frame of mind to work. They all knew, Malcolm included, the future was not rosy. Life had given him a sentence and the sentence wasn’t life.
Anderson’s cell was in B Wing. There were five wings at Wendover, A to E. They were ageing, red-brick structures, following the usual prison pattern of cells built on several floors, three high at Wendover, around a central, netted well. The net w
ould catch anyone who jumped, fell or was pushed from one of the galleries, before they hit the ground.
Anderson hadn’t been inside for a while, but it all came flooding back quickly enough. Nothing had changed. The echoing acoustics of prison were what he noticed first. Everything was metal, stone or brick, with the qualities of a claustrophobic swimming pool. Any sound was instantly magnified, from the slam of a door to a barked command. From a whisper to a shout. Then there was the smell of prison. Canteen cooking and men’s bodies, and air that was never quite fresh enough, overlaid with pungent disinfectant. The noise was constant. It was multilayered. The jangle of the screws’ keys on their belt and the squeak of their shoes on the flooring, the shouting, even the quietest of conversations, added to the hubbub. Just about all sound was amplified in here. And he’d forgotten too, the colours of prison, the yellow paint. Prisons always seemed to favour yellow. Anderson guessed some study must have claimed it soothed people – either that, or it was cheap – and then there were the blue denim uniforms of the prisoners and the dark ones of the warders, the grey of the ubiquitous metalwork. Finally, there was the durability of everything: iron staircases, iron bars, iron doors, stone walls, reinforced glass. Everything was designed, unlike normal places with comfort or style in mind, so it couldn’t break or be broken, or smashed or used as a weapon. There was nothing soft in prison, nothing soft except flesh.
B Wing was controlled by a mass murderer. To be classified as such, you had to have killed at least four people and he just qualified for this. He had killed them without any ‘cooling down’ time and so was not deemed a serial killer. He was an old-timer called Andy Howe, who had butchered his father, his stepmother and two other people in one blood-drenched, murderous evening. He had used a machete. Andy was never going to be released. He’d been sentenced to a whole life tariff which meant he would never be freed unless by order of the Home Secretary. Nobody, Andy included, believed this would ever happen. This gave him a certain cachet in the small world in which he lived. He had quasi-celebrity status. Both guards and inmates were wary of Andy. In the fifteen years he had been inside, he had occasionally been challenged by other prisoners. It had been a mistake on their part.