by Alex Coombs
‘No,’ he said. ‘Leave him here for now. We’ll move him
when Reece arrives.’
Lord Justice Reece relaxed back into the luxuriously soft, leather upholstery of Conquest’s Mercedes as he was driven through the outskirts of East London towards the highway that led to Essex and the island. He was humming an old pop song to himself, he couldn’t remember the name of the artist – ‘Tonight, I celebrate my love, for you’ – when his phone went. He pulled on his reading glasses in irritation and looked at the small screen. It was his office, his secretary.
‘Yes?’ he said angrily. He had left strict instructions not to be disturbed, unless it was absolutely necessary. His secretary was a highly competent woman called Caroline who had been with him for over thirty years now. Reece prized loyalty. Caroline would have crawled across broken glass for the judge if she’d had to, she thought he was wonderful. She said briskly, ‘I know you left orders not to be disturbed, my lord, but the Cabinet Office want to see you tomorrow morning. I told them you were officially on holiday, but they insisted.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘It could be the one. The big one,’ she said. She was far more excited than he was; she felt his talents had been criminally overlooked.
Reece smiled appreciatively. As a Lord Justice he was auto
matically a KBE, a knight, and could call himself Sir Crispin Reece, but he was not a full lord, entitled to a seat in the Upper House, and he wanted that honour. He had plenty of money now. More money was always nice, but it had ceased to delight him. Power, though, and titles, well, that was beyond mere money. He had campaigned assiduously for elevation to the peerage, flattering the egos of politicians he despised, sitting on committees he had no interest in, so his name would be more noticeable. Lord Reece of…? Well, that was a question to ponder. A very nice question to ponder. A shame his old sadist of a house master wasn’t around to see it; he’d always
predicted abject failure for Reece, a view shared by his parents who had taken any side but his. He hummed the first bars of ‘Come Unto Me’, the old school song.
‘What time?’ he said.
‘The Permanent Secretary wants you at 2 p.m.’ she replied. ‘Get back to him. I’ll be there,’ he said curtly and pressed the button to end the call. The present government was sucking up to him now he looked like getting the top job in Brussels.
He stretched luxuriously in the back seat of the car. Life could hardly get better.
The boy would have to wait until Thursday night. He couldn’t give the child the time that he felt he deserved. He wasn’t going to be rushed. He could spend the night on Strood Island, travel back up to town in the morning and then back again in the evening, but this, he felt was out of the question. He wanted to give his full and undivided attention to what was going to be the sexual highlight of his life. He ordered the driver to turn round and take him home to Mayfair. He texted Conquest the change of plan.
A pleasure deferred. It was one of the signs of a higher being.
34
Julie stood outside Anderson’s cell. It was Thursday afternoon; she was working the two until ten shift. She had often been responsible for the solitary punishment cells in the past – it was felt that a woman might have a calming effect on the more disturbed inmates – and getting to Anderson was simple. It had been a while since the cells had been used. Solitary confinement was out of fashion at the moment, but not illegal. It was regarded as counterproductive and of questionable human rights ethics, but Fordham’s towering rage had put one of them back into use for Anderson’s benefit.
She had been forced to wait until four o’clock, when she’d visited the guard on duty, started a conversation – not hard, she knew he found her attractive – and volunteered to check on Anderson. He smiled as he gave her permission. Quite a few staff had been along to have a closer look at their new celebrity prisoner. As she turned her back on him she could feel his gaze lingering longingly on her backside.
The walk to the cells was short; the other cells were untenanted. She opened the flap below the eye-level viewing window to speak to Anderson. He was standing up, his back turned to her.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, his voice flat and uninflected.
The accent was unassertive London.
‘Hanlon sent me,’ she said. ‘I need an address.’
Now he did turn round. It was the first time she had ever seen him in the flesh. He had shoulder-length rat-tailed hair, a thin, almost malnourished face and very deep-set, intelligent, dark eyes. His shoulders were narrow and his hands, which hung by his side, seemed disproportionately large. Julie felt the presence of an overwhelming malevolence coming from Anderson and a feeling of great strength. The hands, with their bitten-down fingernails and long, strong fingers, looked very powerful. They belonged on an animal; they were the kind of hands capable of tearing someone to shreds.
It wasn’t just his reputation that made him so menacing. She had long lost count of the number of convicted killers she had met, there were plenty in the prison itself right now, but none had come close to Anderson when it came to intimidating power. Julie didn’t scare easily, she couldn’t do the job if that were the case, but he scared her more than any prisoner she had ever met.
Anderson walked up to the door and looked at her through the small, open flap. She was very grateful to have the heavy steel door between them.
‘Tell her, Strood Island, near Walton-on-Naze, Essex. Repeat that.’ He spoke softly. He didn’t need to raise his voice. People paid close attention to what he said. His face was framed in the metal hatch like a compelling portrait of evil. She could sense the power emanating, radiating, from him. His gaze was hypnotic, compelling. Julie felt a sensation akin to vertigo, that overwhelming desire to jump, except in this case it was the need almost to beg him not to hurt her. Like a bird hypnotized by a cat, she thought. She repeated the words he’d spoken.
Anderson nodded satisfied, then he said, almost as an afterthought, ‘Tell Hanlon, Conquest is a supplier, not a user.’ Then
he turned away from her. His back was a sign the conversation was over.
Julie closed the flap and walked away. As she did so, she felt Bingham had probably got off relatively lightly. That man was capable of far worse.
At half four, the first opportunity she got, she texted Enver with the information.
An hour later, he and Hanlon drove out of London, east, heading for the Essex coast. Hanlon had used that hour for some frantic, last-minute research. She had an excellent series of contacts in Essex and, because it was her, they dropped whatever they were doing to help. Shortly after they left, so did the judge, at the wheel of his own Porsche. His meeting, too, had gone well. His suspicion had been more than confirmed that the Home Office, knowing of the Brussels appointment, wanted to get into the judge’s good favour by the offer of a peerage. The stronger the ties that bound him to the UK government, the more chance of his reaching judgements favourable to his country of birth, that was their hope. The civil servants he had just met, always deferential, were now treating him like uncrowned royalty.
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.