Alex Howard - Time to Die

That Hanlon was not a party person was obvious from the somewhat sour look on her face as she gazed down at the crowd below. She despised occasions like this. Before coming, she had managed to fit in an hour at the gym where she’d worked on her legs, shoulders and abs. Her muscles still ached from the relentless pressure she’d subjected them to. She liked that feeling. She liked working her way through pain, it was cleansing. Hanlon tortured her muscles until they cried out and could barely function. She’d held a mental picture of Ludgate as she upped the weight on the smith bar, using her intense dislike of the man as an energy to transform the screaming torment in her upper thigh muscles into a healing agony, as she squatted up and down.

She decided to ignore Ludgate and go down to the buffet. She could feel her body craving protein. Let the property developer pay for it, she thought. Unlike other athletes she knew, she didn’t consult a dietician in her training for the Iron Man competition in California in the autumn. She didn’t particularly care where she placed; the challenge was her versus the event. The challenge was overcoming the pain. The reward was victory over self. The reward was paradoxically that there was no reward.

Hanlon was contemptuous of honours. Her medal for bravery was stuffed at the back of a drawer in her bedroom, various athletic awards in a cardboard box, and her degree still in the envelope it had come in when the university sent it to her. She hadn’t gone to the ceremony either. ‘They can post it to me,’ she’d snapped. She was famous for biting the hand that fed her. She knew that. She didn’t care. Whiteside had collected the medal for her and lied, saying she was ill as a result of injuries sustained in the riots. He implied it was post-traumatic stress. No one there who knew Hanlon had believed him.

She shook herself out of her reverie. She’d better be careful with these disapproving thoughts or she’d end up arresting someone for doing drugs in one of Conquest’s doubtless lavish washrooms. Just for the hell of it. Or maybe picking a fight with someone. It wouldn’t be hard. It wouldn’t be the first time.

She thought to herself, remember why you’re here. Don’t lose your temper. You’re supposed to get close to Ludgate, to the murder investigation you’re not allowed to be part of. Concentrate.

Then she saw Conquest.

From her perspective, literally looking down on the crowd below, Conquest — flanked by two minders or members of staff, Hanlon couldn’t really tell — cut a swathe through his guests like a boat through water. Up here, she could see the wake he left as he passed. Several of the women were looking at him with naked lust. Amazing what a house on Bishops Avenue can do, she thought to herself. From this distance she could tell he was grey-haired, distinguished-looking, with a tough, humorous face. She guessed he was about fifty. She’d certainly learned tonight that Conquest had a way with the ladies.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, then looked up to where she was standing and their eyes met.

‘DI Hanlon,’ he called up to her. ‘Do come and join me.’

It was more of a command than a request. Hanlon was suddenly conscious of his very blue eyes locked on hers and she was aware of the aggressively persuasive strength of his personality. She revised her opinion of the man. It wasn’t just the aphrodisiac quality of owning a very expensive property. Conquest had charisma. She wondered how on earth he knew who she was. Still, she was hardly in a position to say no. It was his party. She smiled, rather coldly, and walked down the steps to join him. Several of the women standing behind Conquest narrowed their eyes at her jealously, probably willing her to stumble on her heels and crash down the stairs in an ungainly, embarrassing fashion. She allowed her smile to broaden slightly. I don’t do requests, she thought.

Conquest met her at the bottom of the stairs and shook her hand warmly and firmly, his eyes locked on hers. His hand was large and powerful and he was a head taller than she was. He was very good-looking, almost theatrically so, a silver fox.

‘A pleasure to meet you, DI Hanlon,’ he said. He had the successful salesman’s knack of making you feel that you were the most important person in the room. ‘I’m Harry Conquest.’ He smiled and pulled a face as he looked around in mock despair at the opulence that surrounded them. It was a look that said, isn’t all this ridiculous, we both know that.

‘Good evening, Mr Conquest,’ Hanlon said. Around them the party whirled and eddied. Its noise level made conversation hard. Conquest showed no sign of wanting to leave her. He was looking at her with an almost pleading intensity.

‘Harry. Please,’ he said.

She nodded. He smiled charmingly at her in a practised way. Hanlon wondered if he was trying to flirt with her or if he was just one of those men who found the police fascinating. Neither was an appealing prospect but she was determined to be on her best behaviour. Any complaints about her and Ludgate would be able to get rid of her all the more easily.

She wasn’t surprised when he suggested they go somewhere quieter to talk. ‘I’m an independent councillor in Finchley as well as a developer and I’ve got some questions I’d love to ask you about police policy, off the record.’ He practically had to shout to make himself heard over the noise. His voice was pure London, educated barrow boy. She found herself agreeing, not just because of Corrigan’s order to be nice to him, to win friends and influence people, but also out of genuine curiosity.

Hanlon followed him across the crowded room. She noted his suit was well cut and she also noticed his muscular build. Conquest obviously liked to keep in shape. He led her through a door on the other side. They walked down a short passageway to another light-panelled door. It led into a small, comfortable living room. Here the remorseless thirties art-deco theme ended. The room was large and simply furnished. As he opened the door, two dogs, German shepherds, ran excitedly over to Conquest. They ignored Hanlon and stared at their master lovingly. Conquest beamed with genuine pleasure and stroked their heads. The dogs panted happily. They continued to ignore Hanlon, which suited her. She wasn’t really a dog person.

There were a couple of sofas and a low coffee table between them. The furniture was well designed, stylish. It whispered, I cost a lot of money. Conquest indicated one of the settees to Hanlon. She sat down and he sat opposite, the dogs lying at his feet. She noted that the sofa was incredibly comfortable. Conquest looked at her with frank interest.

The situation felt oddly like a job interview. The door must have been quite heavy because the noise of the party was scarcely audible through its panelling. He breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Thanks for that,’ he said.

‘For what?’ asked Hanlon.

Conquest smiled. ‘For giving me an excuse to escape. I can’t stand parties,’ he said, pulling a mock-rueful face. ‘But in my line of work I need to put myself about. It’s part of the image. I’m a successful property developer.’ He made little inverted commas round the phrase to show he was being ironic. It was a gesture Hanlon particularly disliked. ‘I’m supposed to have a lavish lifestyle. It reassures my investors.’ He shrugged. ‘Do you want a drink?’

Hanlon said, ‘I’m driving.’

‘And?’ said Conquest. He stood up and made his way to what she’d thought was a sideboard but turned out to be a kind of lavish minibar. The side flapped down to reveal bottles and glasses. ‘I’ve got a wide variety of soft drinks, including eight varieties of water.’ She accepted a glass of mineral water and Conquest followed suit.