Alex Howard - Time to Die

Hanlon sat in front of him, irritatingly self-composed. I’m getting nowhere here, he thought. I might as well cut my losses.

‘OK, Hanlon, let’s move on. These child murders, the Essex one and the baby in the canal, anything I need to know? We are doing everything sensibly, I take it. We haven’t cut corners? We haven’t fucked up?’ His eyes were resting on the report she’d sent him about the Somali girl.

‘No, sir.’

Corrigan raised his gaze from the paperwork. ‘And they’re not related at all?’

Hanlon met his eyes. God, that man is shrewd, she thought. Now isn’t the time, she decided. Not yet. Her suspicions, her certainty, that the two deaths were linked would for now remain unvoiced. Both were sexual in nature, both involved children, both were connected by the use of the number eighteen which had been added like a signature. She had worked once in paedophile crime and she knew how overstretched the team was. And that was before Operation Yewtree. You were dealing with an unusual group of criminals, usually highly organized, highly secretive and generally extremely intelligent. They also covered all sections of society. File-sharing on the Internet and people-trafficking with cheap travel to Far Eastern countries where policing was lax and more corrupt than Europe only added to the problems.

No, thought Hanlon. I think I’ll look into it myself before I bring anything to Corrigan. He’s cross enough over this Anderson business, he’ll go crazy if I tell him about this.

‘They would appear to be very different crimes, sir,’ she said diplomatically. Corrigan noted the delay in reply, the careful wording of the answer, but let it pass for now.

‘Who’s in charge of our one? The Maida Vale one,’ he asked.

‘DCS Ludgate’s in charge of the canal one, sir.’ She paused. ‘If I were you I’d have a word with him about his racial attitudes.’

She knew that would grab Corrigan’s attention. Ludgate had a track record of offensive remarks both on and off the record. Hanlon figured that one sure way to get close to Ludgate, who was leading the Baby Ali investigation, would be to do it under the guise of ensuring he did nothing to further discredit the Met in terms of racism. Corrigan had made a big display of his determination to tackle the issue. She should know, she’d incorporated it into his strategic plan for him. She felt sure he’d want her breathing down Ludgate’s neck, forcing him to keep to the straight and narrow. It would give her the perfect excuse to monitor the investigation.

Corrigan rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘I’m sure Ludgate won’t say anything too stupid,’ he said.

Hanlon shrugged. The gesture spoke volumes. ‘There are four hundred thousand Turks in London, sir. In one form or another. I’m including North Cypriot immigrants in those figures. They’re a sizeable constituency, sir. They have their own newspapers and radio station.’

‘You’ve clearly done your research, Detective Inspector.’

‘I’ve clearly done my job, sir.’ Rhetorically speaking, she thought.

‘OK,’ said Corrigan with irritation. ‘Point made, Hanlon.’

He knew Ludgate well enough from a couple of meetings to realize that any faith in Ludgate mollifying a sizeable ethnic community would be based more on hope than experience. He knew she was right, as she usually was. ‘I’ll officially appoint you my liaison officer on this. You can keep an eye on him. Tell him if he steps out of line I’ll be down on him like a ton of bricks. Try and do that tactfully. If you can.’

Hanlon nodded. I do wish she’d wear something other than black, white or grey, thought Corrigan, looking at her. It’s like she was perpetually dressed for a funeral.

‘You do realize, sir, that the DCS doesn’t like me very much. I can’t see him being cooperative.’

Corrigan rolled his eyes again, ‘And when,’ he said acidly, ‘were you ever concerned with your personal popularity, Detective Inspector. Ludgate is part of a fairly sizeable queue of people who don’t like you very much. Your leaving party would be packed, DI Hanlon, with people eager to wave goodbye.’

He picked up the landline phone on his desk. Hanlon listened as he told the unseen person to get hold of DCS Ludgate as a matter of urgency. Corrigan drummed his fingers for a while and then Hanlon listened to a one-sided conversation designed to save Ludgate’s face. Mayoral initiative, placating feminist lobbies, no reflection on Ludgate’s abilities, the Guardian , yes, they would get together, yes, it was political correctness run mad, yes, we all knew what those sorts of people were like, fine, bye.

Corrigan shook his head wearily. ‘Well, Hanlon, there you go. You can shadow him. He doesn’t sound terribly happy about it but he’ll cooperate. In fact he’ll be taking you out to dinner tomorrow.’ He noted with amusement the look of surprise and distaste that flickered across Hanlon’s normally expressionless face. ‘It’s the North London Traders’ Association Executive Committee. Someone called Harry Conquest is hosting it. It’s a party, you’ll love it.’

He smiled at Hanlon. He knew she hated parties. She had told him once she hadn’t been to one willingly since she was nine years old. He also knew how much she and Ludgate hated each other too. ‘It’s quite formal seemingly. Wear something nice. Phone Ludgate’s nick later, his secretary will give you the address and details.’

She nodded and stood up. As she reached the door he said, ‘Oh, Hanlon. Please be diplomatic. Try and win friends and influence people.’ Fat chance, he thought. ‘That includes Ludgate and Harry Conquest. He’s got a lot of clout politically. That means he’s rich, Hanlon, and gives generously to political parties. So be nice. Be loquacious. Not your usual silent self.’

Corrigan had a new app on his phone called ‘Word Power’. It aimed to build your vocabulary. It was where he had found sui generis . He was pleased to have found an excuse to use today’s word, ‘loquacious’. It was hard to work into a conversation. Hanlon stared at him as if he’d gone mad. ‘It means talkative,’ he said plaintively. Hanlon didn’t reply but let herself out of his office, silently.

Corrigan looked pensively at the closing door. He thought, she knew that. It was as if she had decided to bring the interview to a close, as if she had been in charge all along. It was a sensation he often had whenever he met her. The door clicked gently but firmly behind her. He felt somehow deflated.

The Bishops Avenue was only about a mile and a half geographically from Kathy Reynolds’s two-bedroomed ground-floor flat in East Finchley, but it was a world removed both socially and economically. The Avenue itself was unremarkable. It was a long, wide, charmless road, a stone’s throw from Hampstead Heath, flanked by about sixty very large, charmless houses. Only the very rich lived on the Avenue, Saudi and Qatari Royal families. Lakshmi Mittal, the steel magnate, had a house here. There were Russian oligarchs, media moguls and several property developers, Harry Conquest among them. This made Conquest a very rich property developer. A house on the Bishops Avenue was a warning from God that you have too much money.

There was no unifying architectural theme to the road. The houses on the Avenue were built in various styles. Faux-Palladian, Barratt home on steroids, Asda-style supermarket and mock-Spanish hacienda. None were architecturally distinguished; all were ostentatious. They could hardly be otherwise, not in the Avenue. It wasn’t a modest place.

Hanlon rolled her eyes in distaste as she drove in through the enormous, scrolled-iron gates that guarded Harry Conquest’s short, wide drive and expertly parked her Audi with mathematical precision between a Bentley and a Maserati. The luxury cars were too in your face for Hanlon’s taste, vulgar, as were the houses. Vulgar described Bishops Avenue very well. Whatever money could buy, good taste wasn’t necessarily part of it.