Alex Howard - Time to Die

He could see Jim Ludgate now, stocky and balding, wearing a suit that looked slept in, talking to a slim, dark-haired woman he didn’t recognize. Ludgate looked irritated; the woman, expressionless. Enver was a believer in doing unpalatable things quickly. Oh well, he thought, may as well get things over with. Hopefully, Ludgate won’t be too interested to know how one of his officers had managed to become personally involved with the illegal immigrant parents of a murdered child.

He walked over to the DCS. Movement made him aware of the weight he was carrying. He was suddenly and ridiculously conscious of the tightness of his shirt against his growing belly. Enver was an ex-athlete. He’d been a boxer before becoming a policeman and now, freed from the constraints of having to train and diet to make a weight, his stomach had relished its freedom with predictable results. A section of unwearable shirts in his wardrobe was steadily growing. They were simply too small. Some he could no longer even button around his stomach. It wasn’t just his belly. He felt he could live with that. Even worse were the rolls of surplus flesh on his sides, above his hips. I’ve got love handles, he’d think to himself gloomily. Quite often he would grasp the fatty flesh in each hand and jiggle it up and down angrily in a fit of self-loathing. It really wasn’t the time to be thinking about dieting, he thought, as he approached Ludgate.

‘Morning, sir,’ he said.

Ludgate looked up, away from the woman. Enver saw her face properly for the first time. He noticed that her long dark hair could do with cutting and she had a pale, intense face, bare of make-up. He had no idea who she was. He guessed she was one of the scene of crimes people. There were dark circles around her eyes as if she habitually slept badly. She looked like the kind of person you might see in a line-up as a fanatic for some militant cause.

‘Morning, Sergeant,’ said Ludgate. There was an unmistakably sour note to Ludgate’s voice. He knew Enver by sight and, although Enver had a good, some would say very good, record, the DCS had never really acknowledged him. It was a slight that had not gone unnoticed at the Wood Green station, particularly by Enver. Enver put it down to racism. Most people liked him. He was an easy-going man by nature and not used to hostility, except as a result of his job.

It was unusual to see the DCS at a crime scene. Ludgate had very nearly put in his thirty years and was well known for studiously avoiding anything that might be regarded as hard work. He was a popular enough figure, though, loyal to his men and trustworthy. Or that was the myth anyway. Ludgate waved a vague, dismissive hand at the canal scene behind them. ‘Bad business, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Enver was aware that the woman was studying him with cold, intelligent eyes, as if trying to work out something about him, maybe to place him. He was still vain enough to wonder what she made of him, a powerfully built thirty-year-old with thick, black hair, a drooping black moustache and sad, sleepy brown eyes. And, of course, a fat stomach. Despite himself not finding her remotely attractive, he tried to suck it in. All that happened was the band of iron-hard muscle he still had around his middle contracted, but the flab stayed where it was. And the love handles. You couldn’t suck those in. He must do something about it. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what. He didn’t even have the excuse of ignorance. I need more will power, he thought. More exercise, less carbs. He wished she’d go away. He didn’t want SOCO there witnessing what could well be an unpleasant conversation. One that could lead to a very public bollocking.

‘Was there anything in particular, Sergeant?’ Ludgate was beginning to look impatient, evidently willing him to get to the point. Enver didn’t want to speak in front of her but he was left with no choice.

‘I think I might have information about the child’s identity, sir,’ he said.

Ludgate raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s quick work, Sergeant. Oh, this is DI Hanlon, by the way, I’m sure you’ve heard of her. Our Tottenham Riots Pin-up Girl.’

Enver kept his face expressionless. Ludgate’s old-school policing habits, he knew from rumour and anecdotes, extended into casual racism according to some, hard-core racism according to others, or harmless ‘banter’ if you believed his supporters. That made Enver dislike him on a secondary level. Personal rudeness to himself; racial rudeness to others. Maybe the two were interlinked. Now it seemed Ludgate didn’t like women either. There was no mistaking the venom in Ludgate’s voice behind the Pin-up Girl jibe. It was also hard to imagine anyone less like a vapid lingerie model than Hanlon.

Hanlon remained silent, impassive. Enver was impressed. It wasn’t that she was blanking Ludgate out; it was if he didn’t even exist. Her face was like a mask. There was no narrowing of eyes, raising of eyebrows. No reaction at all. So, he thought, this is the famous Hanlon. Everyone knew the riot story. There were other rumours too about Hanlon and violence. Rumour had it she’d hospitalized a fellow officer for calling her a ‘fag hag’, some rumour about her and her sergeant. He had also been told by someone that she was a triathlete and competed in several Iron Man competitions. Reputedly, she was one of the top amateurs in the country. Enver knew that an Iron Man event meant a 2.4 mile swim, a 100 plus mile cycle race and then running a full marathon. He doubted he could waddle 2.4 miles, let alone run a marathon. He doubted he’d be able to swim a length; he certainly hadn’t tried since school. He did have a cycling proficiency certificate, though, from primary school. The thought of getting on a bicycle made him shudder.

‘Ma’am,’ he said respectfully.

Enver realized too, at that point, how still she was physically. Ludgate scratched his head, moved his weight around, coughed, fidgeted. DI Hanlon looked as if she were playing a game of statues like children do.

Years spent in the boxing ring had taught Enver to weigh up opponents very quickly. A fight is sometimes over before you’ve even got in the ring. You know that standing before you is someone who is going to spend the next maybe thirty-six minutes trying their best to beat the living shit out of you, and you’re going to be doing the same to them. You get good at assessing threat levels. You have to. He suddenly thought to himself that if you had Hanlon advancing towards you, you’d better know what you’re doing, or give up. She was formidable.

She looked at him speculatively. ‘Who is the child, Sergeant? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Demirel, ma’am. Sergeant Enver Demirel.’ Against a background of car doors slamming, bursts of radio noise and raised voices as the body was put into a waiting vehicle, he quickly ran through what he knew of the history of the boy. ‘If indeed it’s him, sir,’ he added for the benefit of the DCS. Enver was relieved. Ludgate hadn’t exploded. He’d simply told him to report all that to the senior investigating officer once he’d decided who that was going to be.

Ludgate now looked out at the scene by the canal and at the TV people. He’d already spoken to them briefly. Ludgate was good on the TV. He came across well. He always looked and sounded like he knew what they were doing. His easy confidence went down well at all levels. ‘Well, the kid looks pretty Turkish from here. There can’t be that many of them bobbing about in the Regent’s Canal, Sergeant. Go and bring the parents in for identification and questioning. And we’ll need an interpreter — two interpreters, I suppose, male and female, and a social worker for the daughter. Jesus Christ, the cost of all this is getting bloody ridiculous.’ His voice was full of irritation. ‘As for Jacques Cousteau and his chum over there,’ he pointed at the divers, ‘I’ve got to pay for them too. We’re supposed to be making cuts.’ He glared at Enver as if he were part of the conspiracy to sabotage his budget, then he turned away and headed up the towpath back to where his car was parked.