Time to Die

by Alex Howard

  Hanlon drove in silence. They had first of all gone in her Audi to a car park in Bow where Hanlon had swapped her car for an old Volvo estate that smelt of dog and had bits of straw in the boot. Its bodywork was covered with mud and dust. Stickers saying ‘Support the Countryside Alliance’ and ‘I Slow Down for Horses’ were stuck on to the hatch window. He guessed she’d borrowed the car. He assumed it was because her own Audi was too well known to the officers she worked with.

  Hanlon, unsurprisingly, drove fast and well. Enver was glad she was at the wheel. He rarely drove, he didn’t need a car in London, and knew he was at best an indifferent driver. He had a feeling that if he were driving, it would be nerve-racking, like doing a test again.

  ‘What will we do when we get there?’ he asked. They were leaving London now and heading deep into Essex. The traffic was light and they were making good speed.

  Hanlon turned her head momentarily to look at him. ‘Rescue the boy. We’ll worry about the legalities later.’

  Enver sighed and stroked his moustache pensively. In other words, there was no plan, or if there was, he wasn’t privy to it. He was used to meticulous planning, diagrams of the premises to be raided, photographs, ball-park figures as to the number of suspects likely to be present, risk assessments. Not ‘Rescue the boy’. That wasn’t a plan. That was a statement of intent. He made a mental note that he would never complain again about excess tactical planning as he had in the past.

  They drove past the small seaside town of Walton-on-the-Naze and along the road that bordered the sea. Enver had never been to this part of the world and he was surprised by how attractive it was. He wasn’t used to the countryside. The last time he’d seen so much green was on Hampstead Heath a few years ago in an operation targeting muggers. To their left, inland, rose slight hills with bushes and small trees; to their right, where the land gradually fell away to the sea, were flat fields dotted with sheep and cows. A couple of miles from town, just off the main road, they came in sight of the sea itself and Enver was moved despite himself, by its immensity.

  Hanlon slowed and pointed. ‘Down there,’ she said.

  There was a narrow, tarmacked track that ran from the road they were on and led down towards the water, glinting blue and silver in the late afternoon sun. At the bottom of the private road lay a small, detached house. There was a sign on the road, its paint peeling, barely legible as they drove past: ‘Strood Island Lodge’. Half a mile or so out to sea lay a long, narrow island with a single hill in the middle. Below the hill, facing the coast, they could see a sizeable white-painted building. Enver felt the adrenaline levels in his body begin to rise now their destination was in sight. That was Conquest’s island and that was where, if Anderson’s information was correct, they would find the boy.

  Hanlon slowed the car but kept driving for another mile before she pulled into a lay-by at the side of the road and switched the engine off.

  ‘Wasn’t that the road down to the island?’ asked Enver. He had a feeling he was in for a cross-country walk he certainly didn’t want and was definitely not dressed for.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hanlon, ‘but we’re not in London now, Sergeant. We can hardly drive down there and mingle with the traffic and the crowds. We’re in the countryside. We need to be inconspicuous, that’s why we’re in this car not mine.’

  She didn’t add that her car was known to quite a few police officers, which is what Enver had suspected was the case and, even if it wasn’t recognized, a trace on the number plate would reveal her as the car’s owner. Conquest would surely not fail to have a check on any unknown vehicles parked suspiciously nearby. Her Audi was a city car, the battered four-wheel drive Volvo estate, its paintwork scratched and dented, looked as if it belonged here in the country.

  Strood Island was a good choice for a place that Conquest wanted to keep a prisoner. Even if you got out of the house, surrounded by sea, you’d need a boat to escape. You couldn’t shout for help or attract anyone’s attention. Once you were out there, you were trapped. Hanlon knew from a land registry search she’d done earlier that he owned most of the farmland around, land was cheap round here, and she’d noticed as they drove along that he’d had it rigorously fenced off. There was no danger of any ramblers straying on to it or, more to the point, anyone posing as a rambler. She guessed that if worst came to the worst and the police wanted to place surveillance on the place, it would be practically impossible. Wherever they hid, they’d stand out like sore thumbs. Her respect for Conquest’s organizational skills, already high, rose another notch.

  She had learnt from a trusted source in the Essex police constabulary that the track they had driven past led down to a lodge that served the island house. There was a small slipway, a jetty, and moorings for two boats. One was a six metre delivery boat with a shallow draft, used for delivering bulky supplies, the other an eight-seater motor cruiser for passenger use. There was also a small rowing boat with an outboard that was used for single passengers or more informal journeys.

  Hanlon got out of the car and Enver did the same. He hadn’t come prepared for the outdoors and Hanlon hadn’t thought to warn him. She’d forgotten that city-dwellers are peculiarly ignorant about the countryside. He shivered in the chill sea breeze. It must have been about ten degrees colder than London, if you factored in the offshore wind. He was wearing another of his cheap, dark suits. Hanlon thought, he obviously thinks it’s a bad idea to spend good money on work clothes. Someone might throw up over you if you nick them when they’re pissed, or they might get ripped in a fight. It never occurred to Hanlon that Enver thought his suit perfectly acceptable. He would have been mortified to know her opinion of it. Whiteside, Hanlon thought, always wore great clothes. He used to joke sometimes, especially on undercover work, that you never know when your time will come, so you’d better look smart for the big occasion. She wondered what he’d been wearing when he’d been shot. She hoped it was something nice. God, how she missed him.

  Enver’s lightweight, polyester tie flapped in the wind that blew his hair over his face as he stood looking at Hanlon. She was wearing a dark blue tracksuit and dark training shoes. She had a small, expensive-looking rucksack with her. She looked ready for anything, thought Enver. Not like me.

  They closed the car doors behind them and she locked the vehicle and gave Enver the key. She took a similar one with the Volvo logo on it, put it in a small plastic bag, and hid it under a stone in the grass by the lay-by.

  ‘That’s the spare,’ she said. ‘Just in case. Remember where I put it.’

  That little gesture brought home to Enver, as nothing else had, the danger they were in. Nobody knew where they were. Come to think of it, he only had a vague idea himself. Conquest had killed or had ordered the killings of at least several people that he knew of; the man wouldn’t care if he added to it. He certainly had very little to lose. Once again, Enver questioned his sanity in following Hanlon. Yet he could appreciate her worry that the mole might tip Conquest off, giving him time to dispose of the evidence by killing the boy. Enver thought, if we die, he dies anyway.

  He looked around at the unfamiliar countryside, the flat, featureless fields, the enormous expanse of sea, and suddenly craved the certainty of buildings and the proximity of people. He wanted the safety blanket of London. If anything happens out here, Enver thought, no one would ever know. In London you can always shout for help. Not out here. Only the gulls would hear.

  ‘Have you had enough of the view, Sergeant?’ said Hanlon acidly. ‘Come on.’

  A stream in a culvert disappeared under the road where the lay-by was, and flowed down across the fields towards the sea. From the road you could see its route, lined with bushes and scrubby trees stunted by the cold, salty winds that blew in off the sea. Hanlon intended to follow it downstream. Walking across the fields would make them visible from the lodge; the undergrowth flanking the stream would screen them from sight. She climbed gracefully and lightly over the waist-high barbed-wire fence that
ran next to the lay-by, putting her feet on the wire close to where it was attached to one of the upright posts, so it didn’t sag under her weight. She jumped over and Enver tried. The wire bent alarmingly as he trod on it and his foot slipped.

  ‘Be careful, Demirel, you cretin,’ hissed Hanlon angrily. ‘If you cut yourself open on that wire you’ll be no good to man or beast. I’m not driving you to fucking Colchester A&E! Put your jacket over it!’

  It was the first time he had ever heard her swear and it gave him some idea of the stress she must be under. He had almost forgotten that Hanlon was human and might well have feelings. He was coming to think of her as robotic, devoid of emotion. Enver did as he was told, now straddling the wire, his suit jacket protecting his groin from the barbs. He got over and the fabric caught on the wire and ripped as he removed it. He sighed to himself as he put it back on. There was a big tear in the material. It was going to be a long night, he thought. A long, cold night.

  The stream had cut its way into the earth over time, creating a kind of trench, and it zigzagged down to the sea a few hundred metres distant from the lodge. The two of them followed it down until they were parallel to the house. Hidden from view of the windows by tough, thorny gorse bushes and buffeted by the endless salt wind from the sea, Hanlon and Enver lay on the ground, looking towards the lodge-house. Hanlon had taken a pair of binoculars from her rucksack and they were pressed to her eyes as she studied the terrain.

  Enver’s shoes were covered in mud and waterlogged. His trousers were filthy and the fabric was soaked with water. He was very cold. Hanlon, by contrast, looked in her element. Enver’s father used to take him hunting when they went back to Turkey, to Rize, where the Demirel family had come from. They used to go there on holiday; it was up by the then Russian border. Now it would be some other independent former Soviet Republic. It had been equally uncomfortable. Enver remembered his father’s suppressed excitement as they drew near their prey, his old rifle in his hands. He sensed the same emotion in Hanlon but didn’t share it. This is what they were doing now, he thought, stalking Conquest before striking.

  He hadn’t liked hunting then either, come to that. He’d wanted to go to Fethiye or Kas, sunbathe, go swimming, look at girls. They never did, of course. They went to sodding Rize. There was a lot of rain, he seemed to remember, and a disproportionate number of mosques. They were very religious in Rize. No bikinis there. The noise of an engine broke his train of thought. A Porsche drove down the narrow strip of road and stopped outside the house. Enver saw the driver’s door open and simultaneously a man appeared from the lodge. He’d either heard the car or been expecting it. Then someone got out of the car. He heard an exclamation from Hanlon. She obviously recognized the driver.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Enver. She handed him the glasses. He put them to his eyes and adjusted the focus. The magnification was excellent and the resolution high. There, talking to the lodge-keeper was a man who he recognized from his TV appearances as a prominent, crusading QC. Not that long ago he’d heard the man had been made a judge; the papers had talked about a poacher turned gamekeeper. The man in the car was Lord Justice Reece.

  The last time Hanlon had seen Reece was when Bingham was sent down. Reece was the presiding judge at the trial. She was beginning to feel a strange sense of fate about this investigation. The protagonists had all met before. Reece, Bingham, Conquest. Bingham was connected to her by his past trial and his current role as unwilling informant. Anderson was linked by virtue of proximity to Bingham and as a direct result of Hanlon’s vendetta.

  Reece was a surprise. She guessed it shouldn’t be. Sex crimes were democratic, they cut across all bounds of class and money and societal divide. Why should a paedophile judge be worse or more unusual than, say, a famous paedophile film director or child rapist pop star, DJ, TV presenter or actor? Or carpet fitter, labourer, postman or bank clerk, come to that? She supposed because it was a double betrayal, a betrayal of the innocent and a betrayal of justice. Hanlon was ambivalent about the law, but she was passionate about justice. Corruption and hypocrisy turned Hanlon’s stomach. She preferred the company of criminals like Anderson. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were. Anderson was at least honest. He might nail people to doors but he didn’t bleat about upholding their human rights while he did so, or righting wrongs. Reece was far worse. Anderson’s words to Julie Demirel came back to her as if borne on the sea breeze, ‘He’s a supplier, not a user.’ Reece would be the customer. Hanlon clamped her jaw tight in impotent rage. She wouldn’t be able to do anything until evening, until darkness could cover her movements.

  She watched through her binoculars as Reece parked the car and the man from the lodge pulled a small rowing boat in from a mooring buoy with a rope on to the shore, a running mooring as it was called. The judge climbed in awkwardly and sat uncomfortably in the bows. He was obviously unused to boats. The boatman handed him his suitcase, tied the mooring up with a sheet-shank, then pushed the old clinker-built boat out into the sea and jumped gracefully into the stern as it moved away from the shore. He started the outboard motor and they headed off towards the island. The boat’s keel bounced a little on the choppy surface of the sea. The judge sat stiffly on the thwart, clutching his suitcase as it balanced awkwardly on his knees. Hanlon’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she examined the water. She was thinking of currents, tides and wind strength. She looked at her watch: seven o’clock. Maybe an hour, an hour and a half, before it was dark enough for her.

  Peter had spent the day feeling lethargic. He wondered why he felt so tired. Perhaps he was ill. He had finished Animal Farm and was rereading it. He had cried when Boxer, the horse, was taken away to the slaughterhouse. He felt a certain kinship with the animal, bewildered by events he couldn’t understand and beyond his control. Deep down, though, he didn’t really think anything bad was going to happen to him. He had a child’s faith in his own immortality.

  This lunchtime there had been a welcome variation in his routine. He had been given soap, shampoo, a towel and clean clothes, jeans, underwear, a T-shirt and a fleece, all in his size. He took a shower for the first time in a week, revelling in the sensation. He was a bit concerned about the TV camera in case it saw him naked, he was a shy boy, but he’d lived with the camera so long now he hardly noticed it. He put his new clothes on and played with Tito for a while. He was feeling a lot better. He suspected that the clothes might be a sign he was going home. His heart thudded with wild excitement at the thought.

  On the other side of the heavy steel door the judge, recently arrived on the island, watched him play with the dog through the one-way spy hole at eye-level. His eyes drank in the boy’s physical grace, his long-limbed beauty, his straw-blond hair. The thought that soon the boy would be his to do his bidding was incredibly arousing. Saliva flooded his mouth as he watched unseen. He played various sexual scenarios in his head and decided that, as before, for a while he would want the child unconscious while he explored his body for a couple of quiet hours at least. He found the thought incredibly arousing.

  The judge believed himself to be a connoisseur of pleasure. He wouldn’t tip a fifty-year-old brandy thoughtlessly down his throat out of the bottle, or guzzle a Roux brothers’ meal as though it was motorway service-station food. No, beautiful things should be savoured, and he fully intended to savour Peter. He would take his time. This treat had cost him a great deal of money but it would be worth every penny.

  The child was due to eat soon. The judge had already issued his instructions to Conquest and the Rohypnol would be given in his drink, as it had been the day before. He’d allow time for the drug to take effect, and the child would be delivered to the Bridal Suite in the upstairs part of the house at about nine o’clock. He turned and went up the stairs that led to a door beside the kitchen in the entrance hall, and walked up the broad, heavy, carved wooden staircase to his bedroom. Conquest had offered him food but the judge had tasted Robbo’s cooking. He shuddered at the memo
ry. It was as crude as Robbo. It was as criminal as Robbo. Such things really shouldn’t be allowed; they certainly shouldn’t be encouraged. The only people in the house tonight would be Robbo, Conquest, Clarissa and the judge.

  Upstairs in his room the judge stripped slowly, and wrapped his aged, thin, naked body in a silk, Chinese robe and laid out what he would need for later. Viagra to sustain himself, he needed to last. Cocaine, to heighten his pleasure, and a bottle of 1986 Premier Cru Margaux, his favourite Bordeaux. He also had a pack of three Cohiba Esplendido Cuban cigars. He looked up in irritation at the smoke alarm on the ceiling; he would have to lean out of the window because of Conquest’s ludicrous smoking ban. He turned on the TV and selected the channel that would bring him the feed from Peter’s cell. He rewound the image and watched the boy undressing for his shower, making judicial use of the freeze-frame. He looked at his watch. Not that long to go really. He stared hungrily at the boy’s buttocks. Very soon, oh yes, it would be very soon now.

  Enver looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. The sky was darkening and soon it would be night. There was a three-quarters full moon in the sky, but it was obscured by cloud. The boat, minus the judge, had returned from the island and lights showed in the lodge. They also showed around the lodge as well. The jetty and foreshore were floodlit. There was no possibility of taking one of the boats unobserved. He wondered how they would get over to the island. There seemed no chance now. For a delirious moment he hoped they would call in the police on some spurious excuse. Hanlon would think of something. The boy was over there, there was an Appeal Court judge over there, Conquest was over there presumably, what more did they need? Everybody could be scooped up in one fell swoop.

  He had tried talking to Hanlon about what they would do, but had been rebuffed. Now she turned to him. ‘Come on, Sergeant. Follow me.’