by Alex Howard
Hanlon pulled up outside Albert Slater’s end-of-terrace house in time to see Joad about to get into the Mercedes. He leaned on the open door as she stopped alongside.
‘They’re in there, together with the doctor that he sent.’ He pointed at Serg. ‘The other copper seems OK, according to him. Anyway, I’m off. I’m feeling a bit under the weather.’ He smiled his infuriating smile. He patted the roof of the car in an almost proprietorial way. ‘I think I need a bit of time off work.’ He looked seriously at Hanlon. ‘Maybe a lot of time. I’d say it was stress. Adios, Hanlon.’
He slid into the driver’s seat and pulled away.
Hanlon watched him go. She put the handbrake on in the Audi but left the engine running and got out, as did Serg. She opened the boot and took out his gun bag and gave it to him.
‘Aren’t you coming in?’ he asked. The tension between the two of them was almost palpable, electric. They stood silently, looking at each other. Hanlon pushed her hair back from her forehead.
‘Please,’ said Serg gently. Hanlon got the feeling it wasn’t a word he had to use a great deal.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve still got things to do.’
She thought of Oksana; she thought of the man she had to speak to. Debts to be discharged.
He nodded. ‘Can I see you again?’ He was feeling almost light-headed with desperation. He hadn’t felt like this since he’d been a teenager. I’m thirty-four, he thought, almost wonderingly. Not seventeen.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. She got in the car. She didn’t turn her head to say goodbye.
He watched as her tail lights moved away.
45
The bar at Corrigan’s club officially closed at one a.m, but Corrigan had bribed the night porter to allow him to use it for his meeting with Hanlon.
She looked exhausted. James, the night porter, was ex-army. He had raised an eyebrow slightly at Hanlon, even though he’d been forewarned by Corrigan. The woman he admitted through the forbidding club entrance was unusual to say the least.
She smelled of smoke and sweat and blood. James knew the signs of combat when he saw them. She was wearing an old, faded, man’s denim shirt over a navy T-shirt, and he suspected he knew what the dark stains were on her chest. Her combat trousers were filthy and her dark hair matted and powdered with dust. She was wearing high-sided army boots – not British, he knew what they looked like only too well – American, he guessed. There were several deep gashes and scrapes across her knuckles.
‘I’m Hanlon,’ she said, her gaze imperious. James straightened his back automatically and fought a desire to salute.
‘If you’d like to follow me, ma’am,’ he said.
They walked across the marble foyer, lit only by a single lamp, James leading the way, and then up the broad marble stairs with the red carpet and the golden brass runners at the base of each step. After the hellhole of the farm, the club seemed supernaturally opulent and so quiet she could almost feel the silence throbbing. The stairs ended at the broad gallery that overlooked the foyer and the members’ bar was one of the rooms just off it. Like the foyer, it was lit by a single lamp.
‘He’s in there, ma’am,’ said James.
Corrigan was sitting in a pool of soft light that did little to mitigate the harshness of his craggy, slab-like face. He had been to a black-tie dinner and was still wearing his jacket and bow tie that on him gave the impression of a high-class bouncer in a low-class club. He had undone his bow tie and it hung like a short scarf around his thick neck. His dress shirt was rumpled. He was holding a cut-glass tumbler of single malt; she could smell it from where she stood.
‘Good evening, Hanlon,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.’
She sat down opposite him. He ran his eyes over her. She looked terrible, but she was alive. Enver’s silence over the last couple of days had become to Corrigan a deafening roar. Now, thank God, he would get some answers.
His eyes were hard as ever, but inside he felt a terrible anguish as he looked at Hanlon. He had tried to keep her safe and had failed spectacularly.
‘How’s Enver Demirel?’ he asked.
How are you feeling, Enver?’ asked Huss. Enver Demirel was lying in Albert Slater’s guest bedroom, which was mercifully free of oriental or whimsical touches. It had clean, hard, modern Scandinavian lines and its colour scheme consisted of greys and shades of white, with the occasional strip of black and clever lighting. Mirrors made the room bigger and lighter than it was naturally.
The lights had dimmer controls and the bedroom was bathed in a very soft light. He was feeling tranquil and relaxed. He looked at the tall, bald Russian doctor with sleepy eyes and yawned.
Enver lay propped up in bed. Huss, her touch sure and gentle from handling sick animals, had helped the doctor to clean Enver up, treated his wounds, mainly bad burns and occasional deep cuts, bandaged his head and strapped him up where necessary.
‘Fine,’ he said and closed his eyes.
‘It seems pretty much superficial,’ said the doctor, satisfied. ‘I’ve given him morphine-based painkillers. Give him two of these.’ He pressed several bottles and blister-packed packages of tablets on Huss. Antibiotics, anti-inflammatories: it was a comprehensive pharmacopoeia. More instructions followed. Three days’ worth. In a day or so she’d get him checked over properly. Enver appeared to be sleeping.
She accompanied the doctor downstairs. In the front room Slater was at his desk, Chantal pouring him tea.
‘Let Dr Zhivago out, Chantal, there’s a good feele,’ he said to her. Chantal nodded. Huss thought she seemed to have adopted the role of PA to Slater. Chantal said politely to the doctor, ‘If you’d like to come this way, Dr Zhivago.’ She led the baffled-looking doctor to the front door. Chantal was dressed demurely in a white blouse and dark skirt. She looked relaxed and content, so much better than the wreck from a couple of nights before.
‘I think I’ll let the little palone feele stay,’ said Albert Slater. ‘Poor tart. I know what it’s like to work the meat rack. I was a dilly boy once and very much in demand, may I tell you, not that you’d guess it these days. But,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to be tough to survive and she ain’t that.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s street, but she’s not tough.’ He sipped his tea. ‘How’s the charpering omi?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Huss. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘He means your policeman friend,’ explained Chantal sweetly, as she came back into the room. ‘Mr Slater’s been teaching me Polari. Palone means a woman and feele means a child.’
Slater looked at her approvingly. ‘It’s all very Pygmalion,’ he said. ‘In a way.’
‘He’s fine,’ Huss said, and yawned. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You left your bag here the other day,’ said Chantal. ‘I put it in the same room as the policeman.’
Huss excused herself and went upstairs.
Enver seemed asleep. She found her bag that she’d packed for a night of cinema, food and sex. It felt like an awfully long time ago. She took out the exotic nightwear she’d been planning to wear just in case Enver still hadn’t got the message.
She padded into the bathroom, undressed and stood under the shower for what felt like a very long time, washing and scrubbing her hair and body with intense concentration, cleansing every bit of the day from her. She could feel the tension and the excess adrenaline flowing away down the drain with the dirty water. Tomorrow I’ll get a sauna somewhere, she thought, exfoliate even more. She had brought a bin bag upstairs with her and she had stuffed it with the clothes she’d been wearing. Everything connected with Tragoes Farm would go.
Eventually she got out of the shower and towelled herself dry. She felt renewed. She put on her ridiculously sexy nightdress and lacy kimono, feeling slightly absurd, and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. My, my, she thought. She slipped quietly through the door into the bedroom.
‘Is that for me?’ asked Enver. His eyes drank in the sight of her, ex
ceeding his wildest dreams. He had never seen such an attractive-looking woman wearing so little. The bandage round his head looked like a turban in the half-light, his powerfully muscled arms dark and naked against the white sheet that covered him.
‘In your condition?’ asked Huss. She was backlit by the light from the bathroom door, her nakedness and the curves of her body emphasized by the nightwear.
‘Particularly in my condition,’ said Enver. Huss smiled and slipped under the sheet next to Enver. They reached for each other hungrily.
I would imagine Enver Demirel’s fine,’ said Hanlon. She didn’t add, No thanks to you. It would have been a cheap shot.
‘Drink, Hanlon?’ asked Corrigan. He gestured expansively towards the darkened bar area, the ranks of serried bottles. ‘The place is ours.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m driving, sir, and I have things to do when I get home.’
Instead she told Corrigan a carefully edited version of the whole business from the start. She left out anything connected with Anderson. She no longer cared what happened to her, but that might hurt Whiteside and he had been hurt enough.
Corrigan said little while she briefed him. He drank some more Scotch, but mainly contented himself with swirling the pale liquor around in his glass. It was a Laphroaig, a west coast malt from Islay. Corrigan could taste the peat from the water it was made from; its smell reminded him of a childhood long ago. Of a burning fire in a cottage when he’d been a boy on holiday.
He knew Hanlon was leaving great chunks out. But let her, he thought. If it wasn’t for her, well – he didn’t deal in ifs, but he was profoundly grateful.
‘Mawson was a shock, sir. I was expecting Edward Li or even Serg to be the Russians’ man in the government, never him.’
‘You should never trust likeable bosses, Hanlon,’ said Corrigan. ‘You’re better off with old bastards like me.’ He sighed. ‘He was my friend. I’ve known him since I was, what, seventeen. But now we know what we know. . . Well, he gave up being a firearms officer after he killed an armed suspect. He was exonerated and he said he couldn’t go on doing that job after that, but it did look suspiciously like he’d shot him for fun. But because he was who he was, Mr Nice Guy, well, we never thought anything of it. We thought, it’s Mawson, it can’t be. His wife died unexpectedly too, come to think of it. I have a horrible feeling that if we started looking into his past. . . Straw dogs, eh, Hanlon.’
He fell silent, frowning. He hadn’t imagined Mawson capable of anything like this. He certainly wouldn’t be making any of that public. All Mawson’s cases gone over, floods of litigation and appeals. God knows what the press would make of it. Mawson could take all of this to the grave with him.
Let Mawson become one of his own statistics. Let DC McIntyre, or whatever she was called, put photos of Mawson out on social media and the Internet. Hanlon could start the investigation into his disappearance.
‘I got your email, Hanlon.’
‘My resignation, sir.’
He nodded. ‘What was it Surikov said to you about duty?’
‘He said, sir, “If I left I would feel a traitor.”’
‘Well,’ said Corrigan, ‘you care about people, Hanlon. Surikov has Russia. You’ve got London and an abstract sense of fair play. If you left you’d regret it. You’re not even going to face an inquiry over this. Nothing, technically, has happened.’
Hanlon felt a surge of affection laced with irritation towards Corrigan.
‘I may have arranged an operation for Mark Whiteside,’ she said. ‘I need to concentrate on that, sir.’
Corrigan brightened. He poured himself a massive Scotch.
‘Six months’ compassionate leave, Hanlon, effective in a fortnight. We can put it down to post-traumatic stress from your last case, followed by six months’ unpaid leave but your job open if you want it. Think of it as your gap year, Hanlon. Deal?’
Despite herself, she smiled. Corrigan thought, I’ve hardly ever seen her do that. It transformed Hanlon’s sombre face. He suddenly thought sadly, I wish I wasn’t so old. Oh, well. I suppose I’d better look wise and avuncular.
A gap year, she thought. She leaned forward and shook his hand. ‘Deal. So what are you going to do about the Russians, sir?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ said Corrigan. ‘The only witness of tonight is this Arkady Belanov and he won’t be coming forward. God knows what will happen to Myasnikov’s businesses but that’s not my concern. Enver and Huss can forget the whole thing happened and you tell me that Joad will seek early retirement. Mawson’s gone.’
‘Well, Hanlon, you’re still in Missing Persons,’ he said, draining his Scotch. ‘In a couple of days you can add Mawson to the list. I doubt he’ll be turning up.’
Hanlon thought of the Edmonton Waste Incinerator near Anderson’s pub.
‘No, sir, I don’t think he will.’
It was four a.m by the time Hanlon wearily opened the door to her studio flat. In the east she could see the darkness beginning to lift.
Like Huss earlier, she stripped off her clothes. Like Huss, she bundled them into a bin bag for disposal later. Like Huss, she showered with intense concentration.
She wrapped a towel round her wet hair and stood naked by the window, looking out at the Thames far below, her face inscrutable. She picked up her phone.
Oksana’s number appeared and Hanlon tapped in: A life for a life. Five words. She pressed send. She hoped it would bring Oksana some measure of solace. That was the past dealt with as best she could. Her obligation discharged.
She selected another number and this time she hesitated. This was the future. She reached a decision.
Serg answered immediately. ‘Hello, Hanlon.’ His voice was full of suppressed elation.
For the second time in an hour she smiled. She knew that she’d said goodbye once; she’d hardly be phoning to confirm. ‘You’re not the only one with father issues, Serg. I’m in Berlin next month, the twenty-eighth is a Friday. I’ll be at the Neue National Galerie at eleven a.m., by the Beuys gallery.’
Serg’s response was coolly matter of fact. ‘Potsdamer Straße.’
‘I thought you’d know it.’
‘I’ll be there,’ he said.
‘I know you will,’ said Hanlon.
~
We hope you enjoyed this book.
The next gripping instalment in the DCI Hanlon series will be released in autumn 2016
For more information, click one of the links below:
Acknowledgements
Alex Howard
More books in the DCI Hanlon series
An invitation from the publisher
Acknowledgements
I received a great deal of help from various people but I would particularly like to thank the following: Narine Jordan for her invaluable assistance in translating Russian expressions and vocabulary. Roger Prior for help with what stripped down Landrovers look like.
The following are recommended to anyone remotely interested in Russian crime:
Putin’s Russia by Anna Politkovskaya
Angel of Grozny by Asne Seierstad
Investigating the Russian Mafia by Joseph di Serio
Mafia State by Luke Harding
And also of interest, Stasiland by Anna Funder
About A Hard Woman to Kill
CHECHNYA:
an incorruptible security officer is assassinated.
BERLIN:
a small child grieves for his father.
IN THE EAST:
a psychopath sets his feet on the first rungs of his criminal career.
A frightened Russian woman seeks DCI Hanlon's help in finding her missing husband. Hanlon's not keen on the case. Until she hears a name she recognises only too well. ArkadyBelanov, sadistic pimp and owner of an exclusive brothel in Oxford, is involved.
When DI EnverDemirel, her former partner and friend, disappears, Hanlon is forced into an uneasy alliance with the London underworld to rescue him from the blo
od-stained hands of the Russian mafia.
Reviews
‘Meet my new favourite detective – DI Hanlon.
‘She’s not that likeable. But I loved her. She’s not all that trustworthy. But you’d want her on your side. . . If you get on her radar beware – yet if you gain her trust and her loyalty she will fight for you until her last breath.
‘This dark and sinister tale of missing children is brilliantly done, authentic and doesn’t pull any punches. . . The story twists and turns its way to an edge of the seat conclusion.
‘Highly recommended.’
LizLovesBooks
About Alex Howard
ALEX HOWARD was born in London and educated at St Peter’s College, Oxford and Edinburgh University, where he studied Arabic and Islamic History. He worked in adult education for the British Council and other institutions in the Middle East and London. He is married with two children.
Visit alexhowardcrime.com
Or visit his Facebook page.
About the DCI Hanlon Series
1 – Time to Die
The kidnap of a 12-year-old diabetic boy blows the case of some missing children wide open and the finger is pointing at the heart of the Met. Only one woman is incorruptible enough to handle it.
Time to Die is available here.
2 – Cold Revenge
Detective Inspector Hanlon is back. She's been promoted, and now she goes undercover in Oxford to find the sadomasochistic killer of two students. Philosophy lecturer Dr Gideon Fuller, with his penchant for high-end sadistic sex, is in the frame, but Hanlon is not convinced. From the specialist brothels in Oxford and Soho, to the inner sanctum of a Russian people trafficker with a taste for hurting women, the trail leads Hanlon deeper and deeper into danger – until she herself becomes the killer's next target.