An Incidental Death

by Alex Howard

  The other, Dave ‘Jesus’ Anderson. Shorter but also thin, in his late twenties or early thirties (who was going to dare ask?) dressed in a T-shirt and tracksuit, the kind of knock-offs you can get from a street market for a tenner although he was worth a conservative seven million pounds. Rumours and legends had accumulated around him too. His sanity was open to question, Marcus had heard. But not his business ability, efficiency, intelligence or propensity to violence. Rat-tailed hair and those extraordinary eyes, almost burning.

  The eyes of a prophet.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said Morris Jones, conversationally.

  Marcus did so, feeling absurdly as if he were there for a job interview. As their eyes rested on him he felt a scrotum-tightening chill of fear descend over his body. No, not a job interview, more the professional evaluation of a couple of undertakers interested to see if he would fit the coffin.

  Dave Anderson leaned forward. ‘Heard you was in a bit of bother. Cliff’s asked me to look after you for a bit until we come to some sort of decision.’

  It was highly uncomfortable sitting there under the gaze of someone who had crucified a man to a door, someone used to issuing orders for punishment beatings and occasionally worse. And although he wasn’t too concerned about his own safety, he knew he would be forever beholden to Anderson, and that was not a good feeling.

  Anderson’s voice was harsh, brutal, the words slapped down like cards in a winning hand on a table.

  ‘So, Marcus.’ Morris Jones smiled at him, or rather the corners of his mouth turned up in the parody of one. ‘Tell us what happened.’

  Marcus took a deep breath, and did so.

  16

  ‘I’m sorry, DI Huss, there’s nothing usable on this memory stick.’

  Evan Collins from Systems Support ruefully handed Huss the bagged memory stick. There had been three files on it and when Huss had clicked on them to open them nothing had happened other than an error message.

  So she’d gone in search of help.

  Evan’s presence at the police station was somewhat mysterious. It certainly wasn’t to do with lack of ability. Far from it. He had a degree in IT from Warwick, nobody could fathom why he had elected to work for Thames Valley CID instead of in the City. He seemed overqualified to be doing what he was doing. He was still on his first three months but already people were frightened in case he decided to leave. They could all remember his irritatingly incompetent predecessor. Huss personally put his presence there down to laziness and maybe a heavy weed intake. Some people like doing a job they can do blindfold, no stress, regular pay, pleasant working conditions. Nobody breathing down their necks anxious to supplant them. Certainly Evan looked a little zonked out some mornings, but then again, so did many of the police, although that was mainly alcohol rather than drug related.

  ‘Nothing at all?’ She was puzzled. Marcus Hinds had gone to considerable trouble to get this to her.

  ‘No, there was something, there were files there, but they’ve been corrupted.’

  ‘Accidentally or deliberately?’ asked Huss looking at Evan’s serious face. He looked exactly as one would imagine a systems support guy to look, nerdy, indoorsy, intelligent, habitually dressed in T-shirt and jeans. Today he had a retro Led Zeppelin sweatshirt on.

  ‘Oh, deliberately, I would say. Without a doubt. But you can take it from me they’re unusable.’

  ‘Oh, well, thanks, Evan.’ Huss took the useless memory stick. She might as well chuck it in the bin. She went back upstairs and sat behind her desk, staring into space. She would have to do a run-through on security with the Rosemount, she decided. She added it to her mental to-do list. At least she’d get to see one of England’s most exclusive hotels, that wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

  She walked along to DCI Templeman’s office and knocked on the door.

  ‘Do you have a moment?’

  Twenty minutes later she returned to her desk even more full of gloom. The case against Hinds’s was looking increasingly black.

  Templeman had happily shared his preliminary notes with her. Georgie Adams, his girlfriend and a PhD student at St Anne’s College doing her doctorate in Eastern European Political Thought, had stated that Hinds’s behaviour had been increasingly erratic lately, maybe due to heavy drug and alcohol abuse. He had been smoking worrying amounts of high strength skunk and she thought it was leading to cannabis psychosis. He had been violent and verbally abusive and had accused her and her friends several times of being in league with Islamic extremists.

  ‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet about them,’ she said.

  Huss frowned. She could believe Adams about the drugs, but she found it hard to imagine Hinds as violent towards women.

  Adams went on to say that he was unhinged.

  ‘I’m pro free speech and pro rights for the individual,’ she had said, ‘but in his mind to be a Muslim was to be a jihadi. I kept saying there are millions of British Muslims and just a few IS sympathizers. He was having none of it.’

  That morning, he had started drinking early and smoking skunk (Templeman said a plastic container of weed had been found in his flat. As well as that there was an ashtray with a half-smoked joint in and roach ends were in the bin in the kitchen). She’d been frightened by his behaviour, ‘muttering to himself, paranoid,’ and had texted a friend to come round.

  ‘He doesn’t like me going to Russia either. I say to him, look, I’m doing a doctorate in Post Communist Political Thought, where else would I go, Surrey? Chechens, he says, Tajiks, Muslim fanatics.’

  Two of her friends had come to give her moral and, if necessary, physical support and it was these two, Mark Spencer and James Kettering, the man who had subsequently died, that Hinds had attacked on the stairwell.

  The knife was being analysed for prints. Door-to-door enquiries had established only that two of the flats in the block had heard noises but nobody had actually seen anything. There hadn’t been that many people to interview. At that time of day the block had been virtually empty.

  A warrant had been issued for Hinds’s arrest on suspicion of murder and Serious Crimes alerted in the Met. It was assumed that Hinds, a Londoner, would hide out there with friends and family.

  ‘There’s still no sign of Hinds,’ said Templeman, ‘he’s still on the loose. Hardly the actions of an innocent man.’

  Or maybe, thought Huss, the actions of a very frightened man. A man on the run from a violent criminal organization.

  ‘Why the interest, Melinda?’ asked Templeman. Huss had decided that her previous relationship with Hinds, brief as it was, was of no concern to the police. She hadn’t mentioned the reason for Elsa’s visit or the memory stick to anyone.

  ‘I suppose that I’m just keyed up over this Schneider visit, sir. I had heard some rumour that this Georgie Adams was a member of an anarchist group called Eleuthera. They can cause quite a lot of trouble, I believe.’

  Templeman looked baffled. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘The master of St Wulfstan’s.’ Huss decided not to mention it was her own belief that Adams was a member of Eleuthera. Eleuthera were not actively banned in the UK but Huss guessed that their activities would be of interest to the security services. Adams had merely said that she was ‘left-wing, libertarian’.

  Huss continued, ‘He’s organizing Schneider’s visit. He arranged for the debate at the Oxford Union.’ Just to underline Smithfield’s importance, she added, ‘He knows the chief constable.’

  Templeman said, in a tone that cut down any chance of debate, ‘Georgina Adams seems a very respectable young lady and she has no criminal record. Her political views are her own concern, not ours. Marcus Hinds, on the other hand, has a conviction for drug possession and I gather his family appear to be well known to the police in London. His dad did time, as did his brother. His uncle’s a nutter, seemingly. And, from the injuries inflicted upon the deceased, even if we discard the fatal final knife wound, Hinds has inherited his propensity for extreme violence.�
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  ‘Well, I can probably discount that rumour then, sir.’ Huss hid her disappointment. Templeman was not going to allow her to see Adams. It rather looked as if he had decided that Hinds was guilty.

  Then Templeman asked, ‘How are the arrangements for Schneider’s trip going?’

  ‘Fine, sir.’ She sketched out the arrangements she’d put in place for security for his speech at the Oxford Union. Templeman seemed happy.

  ‘And this assassination threat? I don’t want him dead here in Oxford. Not in this current hysterical Middle East atmosphere. That’s all we need.’

  ‘I’ve been liaising with Protection Command, sir,’ said Huss. ‘They are taking it very seriously indeed. I’d like to go up to London just to run through some protocol with them, check out their arrangements with the Rosemount, since it’s on our patch.’

  ‘The Rosemount, very nice. Schneider must have a lot of money. By all means, Melinda, go up to London, and, oh, if you could, I’d like you to meet Georgina Adams.’

  Huss looked startled. The DCI went on, ‘She needs to go back to Hinds’s flat, pick up some of her stuff. Obviously with him on the loose she needs someone with her to babysit her. Can you do that? I’d also like your opinion of her. If you’re not too busy?’

  Yesss! thought Huss.

  ‘That’d be fine, sir. If you give me her number I could do that this lunchtime.’

  ‘Sure.’ He took his notebook out and jotted down a number and gave it to her.

  Huss went back to her desk and called the number. She spoke to the well-bred, educated voice on the other end of the phone with its genteel, modulated Edinburgh vowels and they agreed to meet at Georgie’s college.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at twelve,’ said Huss.

  She put her phone back in her pocket.

  She thought of Marcus Hinds. Was he the innocent boy she remembered coming to her for help, or had he really gone off the deep end as Georgie Adams claimed? She guessed that both were possible. Look at Elsa, brilliant don and bag lady/street drinker co-existing in one body, co-existing in one mind.

  She was looking forward to seeing Adams. She smiled grimly to herself, I could always introduce myself as his ex.

  17

  Hanlon met up with Schneider, Hübler and a member of his German team that she hadn’t met before, Frank Muller, his head of security, at Claridge’s for breakfast. Despite the fact that Muller was wearing a suit, a bearskin and a club would have suited him better.

  Huge, with an unkempt black beard and shaggy hair, he reminded her of Rasputin or the seventies British wrestler, Giant Haystacks. He must have been a good twenty stone. He was squeezed into an ill-fitting electric blue suit that was slightly too small for him. His arms bulged through its cheap fabric. The waiters looked at him with fascinated contempt.

  ‘This is Frank,’ Schneider introduced him. His eyes as they met Hanlon’s sparkled playfully and he raised his eyebrows in mock apology. There was a side of Schneider that Hanlon found very attractive, a kind of playfulness that was unusual in those that she had met who had, or aspired to, high public office.

  ‘Guten Morgen, Frau Hanlon. Leider, kann ich nicht Englisch sprechen,’ grunted Frank, his voice deep and slightly hoarse. His eyes regarded her with lack of interest.

  Having spoken, Frank returned to demolishing his full English breakfast. Not a pretty sight. His eating lacked finesse.

  Hübler leaned forward. ‘He says unfortunately he can’t speak English,’ she said, ‘but he says he’s delighted to make your acquaintance.’

  Hanlon doubted that. She couldn’t imagine Frank was remotely pleased to meet any representative of the police. She was certainly pleased not to have to talk to Frank. She doubted he’d be an Oscar Wilde, his conversations a flow of entertaining witticisms.

  His looming presence was out of place with the well-heeled clientele in the dining room. Frank created a kind of force field of aggressive silence at whose epicentre he floated serenely. She wondered if Schneider had brought him in to beef up security after the Islington incident.

  She suppressed a yawn and drank some of Claridge’s excellent coffee. She had been up at five for an hour’s run eastwards along the Thames, down through the City to East Ham and back. As she’d run, her hair bouncing in rhythm with her stride, the sweat running down her spine, her mind had floated free. The huge river, shrouded in darkness when she started, was gradually revealed as another cold dawn illuminated the great city. Hanlon’s two loves, Mark Whiteside and London, the eternal city. Sod Rome, she thought. Give me London.

  She had reflected as her feet pounded the narrow streets that these were the sorts of districts that, in Germany, would form the bedrock support of Schneider’s party, the dispossessed white working class.

  They were equally mutinous over here, shafted from all sides, feeling that their jobs were under threat. If the country were flooded with migrant lawyers, judges, journalists and TV presenters undercutting the law and the media and taking their jobs, they argued, coverage would be very different indeed.

  Well, here she was with the heroic defenders of the faith.

  Frank, as if divining her thoughts, scowled at her across the tablecloth. Like I care, thought Hanlon. Her cold grey eyes locked on to his. She felt utterly indestructible. She could feel the energy of her super-fit body coursing through her veins.

  Their gaze was mutually challenging. I can take you, she thought scornfully. You might be big, but you’re slow, and stupid, and you might have big muscles but how quickly can you move and how long before you’re puffing, out of breath?

  Schneider, aware of the tension, leant across the table and spoke to Frank who nodded and stood up, leaving the room.

  Immediately it became a brighter place.

  Schneider leaned forward over the table, the immaculate heavy white linen cloth under his elbows. He seemed very at home in the grandly intimidating room. Hanlon cared little what people thought of her but she was aware from the occasional disapproving glance, from staff and guests alike, that she somehow didn’t belong. Not to the same extent as Frank, it was true, but hotel staff are extremely good at placing people and Hanlon was definitely not a Claridge’s person.

  Schneider, however, had the successful politician’s ability to transcend barriers. You got the impression that he would be just as welcome at the boardroom of Mercedes as in some down-at-heel kneipe in the backstreets of Munich. The staff looked at him with devoted affection.

  ‘I’m here for three more days, but there are no public engagements. During the day I won’t need you, but I have three dinner appointments and I’d be glad of your company just in case.’

  Hübler added by way of clarification, ‘Herr Schneider has had problems in Germany with being recognized and it only takes a few phone calls to get a few anarchists or lefties to start throwing their muscle around.’

  Hanlon nodded. ‘What’s Frank going to be doing, sightseeing?’

  Schneider smiled. ‘Frank’s like having a bull mastiff around. You heard about what happened to that unfortunate man in Heidelberg,’ he grimaced, ‘my old friend Gunther.’

  Hanlon saw Hübler glance sharply at him. An odd look. Schneider ignored it.

  ‘I’m happy to take risks of being shot or blown up, but something about throat-slitting or beheading makes my flesh creep. I know it sounds stupid, but I sleep much better with Frank dozing on my sofa, even if he snores and... was ist “furzt” in Englisch?’

  ‘Farts,’ supplied the ever reliable Hübler.

  ‘Speaking of mastiffs,’ Schneider said, ‘Frank’s brought over Wotan, my dog. Claridge’s won’t have it in the place, but the Rosemount will.’

  ‘It’s a Presa Canario,’ said Hübler.

  The name of the breed meant nothing to Hanlon whose knowledge of dogs ran purely to shepherds and spaniels. She looked at her watch.

  ‘Well, I’m going to check on the arrangements for Oxford, is that the name of the hotel that you’ll be staying in?’<
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  ‘The Rosemount.’ Hübler smiled. ‘They have offered Wolf the use of their Garden Lodge, we’ll be there for a week.’

  ‘A week?’ Wasn’t a week a long time in politics? Hanlon thought to herself.

  As if reading her mind Schneider said, ‘I am meeting like-minded politicians from the USA, Scandinavia and several extremely wealthy individuals, entrepreneurs and industrialists who are interested in funding us. You saw those Abschaum den Menschheit.’

  ‘Scum of the earth!’ supplied Hübler, beaming happily, enjoying her translation role.

  ‘These enlightened gentlemen I shall be meeting feel there’s not much point in making money if people like that are going to take it from you,’ said Schneider, ‘or kill you! We’re their bulwark against the red hordes.’

  Although Hanlon personally detested the anarchist movement, she thought describing them as a ‘horde’ might well be a slight exaggeration. Dangerous, possibly. Numerous, certainly not.

  ‘Naturally there is a price to pay,’ said Schneider. ‘A political party is only as strong as its funding.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ll let you get on with your day, Herr Schneider.’

  I’ll go and see Huss, she thought, see how things are in Oxford.

  ‘See you this evening, DCI Hanlon.’ He drained his coffee and stood up, leaned forward and shook her hand.

  Accompanied by the faithful Hübler she watched his broad back as he walked across he thickly carpeted room. Once again she was struck by the power of the presence of Schneider. She had looked him up on a YouTube clip, addressing the faithful at a rally. It had been like a rock concert, dramatic lighting, choreographed movements, cunning use of multimedia anytime the audience’s attention looked like flagging.

  He carried this star quality with him even now. Several women in the room followed him with their eyes even though she doubted they would have a clue who he was.

  Schneider had charisma.

  He had it in spades.