by Alex Coombs
There was a certain amount of wishful thinking too in his choice of possible exits for Hanlon. He didn’t want to get out with her at some desolate station where just the two of them would be left together staring at each other on an otherwise deserted platform, High Barnet, for example, this train’s terminus. If that happens, thought Enver, I’m not getting off. I’ll stay on the train. Corrigan could hardly be surprised if this harebrained idea of his failed.
He still hadn’t realized that Corrigan wanted Hanlon to see him, wanted her to know that his eyes were on her. Enver wasn’t the medium; he was the message.
King’s Cross came and went, as did Camden, then Kentish Town. She stayed seated. Enver studied the advertising posters on the wall as the train pulled away. So she’s not going to see the Alabama Three at the Forum tonight, he thought. There’s a surprise. Please God, not Tufnell Park, thought Enver. Hardly anyone ever got off there at night in his experience. As the train pulled out of Tufnell Park he saw Hanlon stand up. Archway, then, Enver was sure must be the one. It was the next stop. He stood up too and moved as far down his carriage away from Hanlon as he possibly could. To his relief, a group of about ten large drunken Australians stood up too, shielding him from view.
The train stopped, the doors slid open and they left the train,
the noisy Australians a good-natured, shouting, human shield. Through their bodies he could see Hanlon heading for the exit. Archway has a single very steep escalator and Hanlon was standing on the right as it moved up, about fifteen people away f
rom Enver. Even if she turned round she wouldn’t see him.
He followed her out into the street. Archway commands a good view of London and he could see the city spreading out beneath him. There, marooned like an island in a river, by the main arterial road down into London, the bottom of the A1, was the large bulk of what used to be a huge pub that he remembered being used by Irish builders that now seemed to have become a café. Just up the way was the semi-industrial conurbation of the Whittington Hospital, its name a reminder of where Dick and his cat had turned again, a jumble of ugly disparate buildings. Northwards, uphill, against the darkening sky, you could see the Gothic, Victorian bridge that spanned the deep cut of the road at the base of Highgate. The locals called it the suicide bridge for obvious reasons. It was a popular way to go. Handier than Dignitas, thought Enver, a lot closer than Switzerland.
Hanlon was making her way to the underpass and Enver took
the surface route, running across the busy main road, climbing the railings in the central reservation, and hurrying over to the other side. From there he could see her slim, dark-clad figure emerge from the pedestrian tunnel and walk eastwards towards North Holloway. Enver was really beginning to notice how unfit he had become. Tonight was the first time he’d walked any distance in a while and he was feeling it acutely. He still had an out-of-date mental image of himself as being in terrific shape, if a little overweight. But just like a once handsome man who’s lost his looks yet stubbornly clings on to the dream that women still find him attractive despite the evidence in the mirror, so Enver – now an enthusiastic user of escalators, lifts, cars and sofas, a man whose idea of heaven was the travelator at an airport, that wonderful moving pavement, so soft and springy underfoot – had refused to come to terms with the fact that times had moved on. He himself hadn’t moved faster
than a walk for years. Running across the Archway Road had been a nightmare, almost in the true sense of the word. Like in a dream he’d run as fast as he could, yet seemed to be going nowhere. He’d misjudged totally how quickly he could move; he’d only just managed to break into a speedy waddle. Cars had been forced to brake to avoid hitting him. Horns had sounded angrily. The waist-high railings had proved embarrassingly hard to get over.
Hanlon on foot moved speedily and lightly. Enver trudged after her through what had become the endless streets of Holloway, like an Escher drawing. His legs ached, his lungs laboured. She turned a corner, the sergeant following, grimly determined, in her footsteps. The sky was a rich purple-blue, it was now almost night, and he turned into the new street that the corner revealed and Hanlon was gone.
He stood, hands on his hips, gazing hopelessly down the empty road, waiting for his heart to slow down. Where the hell was she? An unfriendly voice behind him asked, ‘Looking for someone, Sergeant?’
At five to six Kathy’s Lufthansa flight had landed at Heathrow’s Terminal Three and she’d been fast-tracked by a customs officer and a waiting police officer and taken through a maze of back, employees only, corridors until she cleared airside. There, at Arrivals, she was met by a tearful Annette and a sympathetic WPC. The woman was a family liaison officer who explained as they moved quickly through the airport what they were doing to find Peter. From there she was driven in an unmarked police car to Highgate police station in North London, close to where she lived. Here she was escorted through the tall security gates at the back of the building to an office, where a team of three police officers were waiting. She was briefed
on what they knew about his disappearance and what steps they were taking.
Annette had already provided them with information on Peter’s diabetes and they asked about his insulin, how much he would have had on him when he was taken. She didn’t know, probably about a week’s worth. The police exchanged significant glances. If he hadn’t been found within a week, he almost certainly wouldn’t be found alive anyway, insulin or no insulin.
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 panelling 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 t
he 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?’