by Alex Howard
‘OK.’ Templeman sounded weary. ‘Any idea of the perpetrators? DI Huss, you have a theory, I believe.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She cleared her throat. ‘As a result of measures taken to ensure the safety of Wolf Schneider...’
Templeman audibly groaned and put his hands over his eyes in pantomime protest. Him again.
‘I wish he’d stayed in Bavaria.’
‘Baden-Württemberg, sir. Don’t we all. Anyway, sir, while he’s here for his political promotional tour, we looked into the threat posed by an anarchist group called Eleuthera. The group has a known history of violence and is said to be active here in Oxford. A freelance journalist called Marcus Hinds who is a suspect in the Kettering murder investigation passed information on the group in the form of a computer hard drive that was in the possession of Elsa Worthington.’
‘And was the hard drive found?’ asked Templeman.
‘A hard drive was found,’ confirmed McKenzie. ‘It’s at the lab, but the chances of anything usable being found are pretty much zero.’ He gestured. ‘The fire...’
McKenzie leaned forward. ‘Do you think they were involved in the fire? Eleuthera?’
Templeman looked at her sharply. Huss knew she had to tread warily. Her boss would be implacably opposed to bringing in shadowy organizations as potential suspects. He prided himself on being a simple man. ‘Murders are usually simple and most murderers are cretins,’ he’d told her once.
‘I don’t know,’ she said carefully, ‘but we’d be remiss if we didn’t have a look.’
‘But why kill Elsa? Why not just take the hard drive?’ asked Templeman.
‘Because Elsa was a witness to what went on that day at Pretoria Road when Kettering was killed,’ said Huss. ‘There was nothing wrong with Elsa’s eyesight, or her memory when she wasn’t zoned out.’
‘Is there any evidence other than supposition that Eleuthera had a hand in her death?’ Templeman, eager to shut down this line of enquiry.
‘Hinds will be able to shed more light on their activities when he’s caught,’ said Huss. ‘It’s believed that he was fleeing from Eleuthera when the stabbing took place.’
Templeman shook his head in irritation. ‘It’s all fascinating, DI Huss, but it’s just a theory.’ He put his hands flat on the table. ‘If Elsa was a witness to the killing and Hinds had done it, as all the evidence suggests, then he could well have killed her. In fact, I find that wholly credible.’
There was silence in the room. Huss had to admit that he had made a very valid point, and how would Eleuthera have known where to find Elsa? Hinds would have, he knew her well, but Georgie Adams?
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come,’ said Templeman. The door opened and DI Ed Worth stood there with an A4 envelope in his hand.
‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. The council highways department have just got back to us. They’ve been through the CCTV footage for the six hours prior to Elsa Worthington’s death. The camera in question is set to take pictures every ten minutes to measure traffic flow, part of a scheme to evaluate the need for traffic lights...’ Get on with it, Ed, thought Huss. Worth was inclined to go on and on. Get to the point.
‘These are the three images that I thought would interest you.’
He opened his envelope and laid out the photos.
Six thirty p.m. A black and white image of Elsa, burdened with several bags on each arm, shuffling along the pavement to her lair behind the bus stop.
Eight forty-five p.m. A black and white image of a man, a small backpack slung over his shoulder. His head was bowed, his face obscured.
Eight fifty-five p.m. The same man, this time his face was turned to the camera, a clear and unequivocal shot.
It was Marcus Hinds.
32
Hanlon sat opposite Schneider and Hübler in the suite they were staying in at Claridge’s. A several thousand pounds a night suite. Hanlon reflected that he wasn’t exactly leading a man of the people kind of life. She was disappointed; she rather liked Schneider. Opposing immigration was paying handsomely. Part of her was saddened by this hypocrisy. If you’re going to be a man of the people then you should act like one, she thought.
Schneider was wearing a white silk shirt and dark chinos, no socks and loafers. He looked like an ageing rock star, an MOR rock star. Hübler sat next to him on the sofa, exuding a certain coarse sexiness, a groupie made good. Her clothes: tight sweater emphasizing her large breasts; leggings emphasizing her large thighs.
Their relationship continued to puzzle Hanlon. She was really out of her league with Schneider. A lot of it was to do with the disparity in looks. She was nowhere nearly as classy-looking as he was. It was as simple as that.
There was a disparity between the two that she couldn’t fathom. She wondered if the woman had some kind of leverage over Schneider. She had heard they had been together for a long time, maybe Hübler knew Schneider’s secrets and he daren’t get rid of her.
Hübler said, ‘So you met Wotan, Wolf’s dog.’
‘Yes.’ Hanlon saw no need to elaborate.
‘He’s quite an animal,’ said Schneider, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘He is so loyal, a true friend, loyalty over everything, DCI Hanlon. More valuable than anything. I mean, look at this place.’ He waved his arm to indicate the Claridge’s suite. ‘It would turn many men’s heads, but not a dog’s. I’m the most important thing in his life, not money or the trappings of wealth.’
The trappings of wealth indeed, thought Hanlon. Her eyes ran over the sitting room. The bedrooms opened on to it. The Germans were drinking champagne, the room was effortlessly luxurious, art deco in its inspiration, as if Hanlon had fallen through time and ended up in the thirties.
She would have fitted in. Medium height, slender, she would have looked fantastic in a strappy thirties flapper-style cocktail dress. Hübler would have struck a jarring note. Despite her obvious intelligence, despite her incredible English, despite her organizational abilities, she was not sophisticated. Or slim.
She could almost hear the voice of Soho Iris, a madam she knew in a brothel about a mile away, saying in her ear, ‘Oooh, plebby, is it? ’Oo’s the snob now, DCI Hanlon? Who’s got sharp claws?’
Hanlon took a sip of water. The opulent wealth of the room, its cream and gold furnishings, its deep, luxurious carpet, was of no interest to her. If anything it slightly irritated her. She was indifferent to ‘the trappings of wealth’ as Schneider had just put it. It was just the way it was. Strangely, it was a trait she shared with Dave ‘Jesus’ Anderson.
Maybe, she thought, maybe I like power. You have that in the police, you have that in boxing, the power not just to beat someone in a game or a contest, which she got from triathlon, but the power to hurt them. And she did like that. Momentarily she thought of Conquest, the Judge, Michaels. People she had done more than hurt. Oh well, she wasn’t going to waste any sleep worrying about stuff like that.
What’s done is done.
Let the dead bury their dead.
A thought, she reflected, that probably occurred to Anderson every morning when he saw the tall chimney of the Edmonton industrial incinerator just up the road from where he lived. His own personal crematorium.
‘Loyalty,’ said Schneider again. He looked at Hübler, the expression on his face enigmatic, inscrutable, and stood up. He turned to Hanlon. ‘I have someone to meet at the bar.’ She started to get up to follow him, he motioned to her to sit.
‘Gower has arranged for someone from Diplomatic Protection to be with me in the bar.’ He smiled at her. ‘I fear if you were to sit at a table by yourself there would be a series of unwelcome suggestions from the gentlemen staying in this fine hotel.’
He slipped a jacket on. ‘No, please stay here and look after Christiane. That way I won’t need to worry when I’m away.’
He smiled and left the room. The door clicked to behind him softly. Hübler looked at Hanlon. ‘Loyalty,’ she said. There was an almost bitter tone in h
er voice.
She poured herself some more champagne.
‘Want some?’ she asked Hanlon.
Hanlon shook her head.
Hübler propped herself up on one elbow. ‘Are you a loyal person, Hanlon?’ Her voice was slurred, she squinted at her, trying to focus her eyes, and Hanlon realized that she was very drunk.
Hübler carried on talking in a slightly dreamy way. ‘I’m loyal, well, my heart is, but he has other women and... well, I won’t say, so if I fuck around a bit, who’s to say that’s wrong...’
Hanlon had her own loyalty. His name was Mark Whiteside and he was in a hospital bed, brain-damaged. Eleven thousand people a year in the UK suffer severe brain injury, of these, four and a half thousand will need full-time care for the rest of their days. That’s an awful lot of people. But only one of them was her fault, her responsibility.
The woman on the sofa opposite poured and drank some more champagne.
‘People say I’m racist but I’m not... I mean, it’s true, I don’t want blacks and Arabs and Turks in Germany, but I don’t mind them in their own countries and I’ve got no objection, if they’re attractive, to wrapping my legs round one... In fact, I love it.’
She looked at Hanlon, trying to focus.
‘I don’t think that makes me a hypocrite. The leader, though, is worried Bild might get hold of it. Keep your pants up, Christiane.’ She mimicked Schneider’s accent. ‘Don’t embarrass me...’ She fixed Hanlon with a furious stare. She was at that stage of drunkenness where gushing affection alternates with sudden anger.
‘Embarrass me, embarrass me... He’s a bloody hypocrite, Wolf Schneider is... How dare he lecture me... how dare he... If the public knew who he’d been fucking, he’d be well fucked, and not just up the arse but...’ She tailed off into a string of German that Hanlon didn’t understand a word of.
She pulled herself together and looked across at Hanlon. ‘And if he pisses me off I’ll go to Bild. In fact, you know what, I bloody well will... You’re very quiet, why don’t you tell me about the men in your life?’
Hanlon could see that she was at that point of drunkenness where friendliness alternated with aggression. She wanted to hear less about Hübler and more about Schneider.
So she found herself telling her about Mark Whiteside, her injured former colleague. The hospitalization, the brain damage. He had paid the price for a crusade of her own making. This was the guilt that she carried. It was there every morning when she opened her eyes. For a wonderful second she was free as the day started anew, then she thought immediately of him. Mark Whiteside.
She told Christiane about the operation that he would soon be facing that she had arranged. An operation that, even if successful in bringing him out of his coma, could leave him like a babbling infant. It was almost unbearable. He was the last thing she thought of at night, and during the day her guilt walked alongside her like a shadowy, conjoined twin.
And the reason he was still alive, in the teeth of opposition from his parents and from the overstretched budget of the NHS, was her perseverance.
‘Schade...’ murmured Christiane gently. She downed her drink in one, her eyes glassy, and poured another. Quite a bit spilled on the floor.
‘So, in answer to your question, Christiane, yes, I do care about loyalty, I care about it a lot.’
Both of them fell silent and Hübler closed her eyes. Her breathing deepened. Hanlon guessed she had fallen asleep.
She watched her sleep, an unlikely guardian angel. She turned over what she had learned in her mind: that Hübler was by day trying to deport non-white Germans and by night trying to get laid by them. That Schneider was finding her a source of potential major embarrassment – such a revelation would be very damaging to his NS party. Then there was the tantalizing hint that Schneider himself was involved in some form of sexual impropriety. It had certainly been an evening of revelations.
Would she reveal all to the press as she threatened?
God knows, she thought, and I, for one, do not care.
Some time later, there was the sound of the card key being swiped and the door opened, as did Hübler’s eyes. She must have a head like a rock, thought Hanlon. She sat up and pushed her hair into a semblance of order and winked conspiratorially at Hanlon. Schneider came in, he was beaming.
‘Ach so, I trust you ladies had a pleasant time. And now, DCI Hanlon, you can leave us. If you would like to meet us at breakfast again, we can all travel down to Oxford together. We can see if the Rosemount is as nice as Hanlon says it is. Bis bald, Hanlon.’
‘Tschuss,’ said Hübler warmly.
Hanlon stood up and left the room. Outside was one of the plain-clothes officers she had met at the talk at Islington a couple of nights previously. He nodded at her affably and settled himself down for a long and dull vigil outside Schneider’s door.
She walked out of the expensive hotel into the cold evening air. She looked at her watch, eleven p.m. She walked slowly along the empty pavements outside the unbelievably expensive flats and houses in this part of town.
Mayfair at this time of night was practically empty. There was a tall, middle-aged man walking behind her on the pavement, a trilby pulled low on his head. He lit a cigarette and the faint breeze from behind him carried the smell of smoke to her nostrils.
Hanlon shrugged her shoulders. Let him try something if he dared, he’d soon regret it, she thought. No one is going to try and tackle me.
Two men walked out of a side street ahead and lurched toward her. She could smell the alcohol on them. If Hanlon had been a dog the hackles on her neck would have risen. She could sense trouble in the way they moved towards her, far from sober, slightly aggressive. They had obviously been to an upmarket formal dinner, they were wearing black tie. Middle-aged, out on the razz, hoping a wallet full of cash would make up for the jowls, the gut, the bald patch, the desperation.
‘Hello, darling,’ slurred one of them at her. ‘Come with us and have a drink.’ He leered at her hopefully.
Hanlon thought, I’m the oppressed middle. This morning it was the proletariat that were after me, now it’s the high earners. The crusties and the Hooray Henries. I’m between a rock and a hard place.
She didn’t really see them as a threat, then, suddenly, to her surprise, one of them grabbed her arm as she walked past, spinning her round.
‘Come on, darling, smile.’ He leaned forward, trying to plant a clumsy kiss on her cheek.
Before she had a chance to react there was a dull thud, and an explosive gasp of pain, and the man in the DJ sank to his knees. The tall man with the hat she had seen earlier was standing behind him, cigarette still burning in his mouth. He had slammed his fist into the dinner-jacketed guy’s kidney so hard that his legs had given way beneath him from the flaring pain.
The attacker put his foot between the man’s shoulder blades and shoved. He sprawled forward on the pavement. The other Hooray, red-faced, balding, looking utterly terrified, backed away from the tall man with a look of frightened alarm on his face. Hanlon bet that nothing remotely like this had ever happened to him in forty years. He obviously hadn’t got a clue what to do.
The tall man took his cigarette out of his mouth and leaned towards him, his tone threatening. ‘Now fuck off, you Footsie One Hundred muppet and take your mate with you.’ His voice was heavy with mingled contempt and dislike.
‘Come on, Benj,’ said the one who hadn’t been hit, helping his companion up. They limped off shakily, fearfully, westwards down Brook Street.
‘Good evening, Morris,’ said Hanlon, civilly.
Morris Jones looked at her expressionlessly. His eyes gleaming pinpricks under the brim of his hat.
‘Dave Anderson wants a word.’
‘I would never have guessed,’ said Hanlon.
A waiting Mercedes with tinted rear windows pulled up and the rear passenger door opened. Hanlon, followed by Morris Jones, climbed inside.
‘Hello, Hanlon,’ said Dave ‘Jesus’ An
derson.
The car pulled away silently into the expensive Mayfair night.
33
It was two o’clock the following afternoon that Huss caught up with Enver. He was on his break on the split shift that he was working and he met Huss in the Oriental Garden, which was one of the many sections of the hotel’s vast grounds.
There was a replica Chinese pagoda (you could, of course, hire it for picnics and parties in the summer at exorbitant expense), maple and cherry trees, bamboo groves, a Zen garden put together by an internationally famous consultant in feng shui, and a curved Japanese-style bridge that spanned a pond full of lilies and koi carp. There had been a pond with carp there as long as the house had been existence and many of the fish were rumoured to be a century old, or older.
Enver and Huss were on this bridge now, feeding them bread that Enver had brought from the kitchen. There were so many carp the waters seemed to be boiling as the huge, glistening fish fought over the scraps.
‘Some of them might be as old as the house itself,’ said Enver. ‘Carp can live an amazingly long time.’
Huss wasn’t interested in fish.
‘So, any leads from the kitchen, any sign of Al-Akhdaar or Eleuthera activists?’
Enver shook his head.
‘Nobody’s remotely interested in politics or religion. Sex, yes, drugs, yes, booze, yes. It’s a kitchen, for God’s sake. Mind you, if I worked there much longer I’d probably join the anarchists. You get paid more and treated better at my auntie Demet’s restaurant and she’s not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness.’
Huss had met Enver’s Aunt Demet and thought conditions must be bad in the Rosemount.
Enver shook his head gloomily. ‘I think it’s the contrast really that sticks in the throat. The staff here are all on minimum wage, much less really when you factor in the unpaid overtime, and the clientele can afford a lunch that costs more than they earn in a week. I’m surprised we don’t all rise up and burn the place to the ground.’