Alex Howard - Time to Die

‘No,’ said Hanlon with laboured patience, ‘you tell him you’re a journalist investigating anti-Semitism in the property industry with links to organized crime.’ Whiteside shook his head in mystification. ‘Organized crime?’

‘Organized crime,’ repeated Hanlon firmly. ‘I think Conquest’s a criminal and he most certainly is organized. I checked out his business at Companies House. They made a small profit last financial year, nothing like enough to fund his lifestyle. You should have seen that party, that house. He’s got an underground garage with a Maserati, a Mercedes and a top-of-the-line Range Rover as well. His clothes, shoes and watch come to your annual salary alone. Something doesn’t add up. He’s spent a lot more money than he’s earned legitimately.’ Hanlon paused. ‘You’ll need these.’ She handed him an envelope which he opened.

Whiteside found himself looking at a photo driving licence and NUJ card that identified him as Michael Dunlop. There was also a covering letter written in Hebrew on Israeli Embassy notepaper. He looked inquiringly at Hanlon.

‘That asks that the Shapiro Institute grant you every assistance. I phoned someone I know. Saul Gertler is the Chief of Security at the Israeli Embassy here in London; he provided this. They take millionaire neo-Nazis with police connections quite seriously even if you don’t.’

‘Why can’t I just be me?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong with being Sergeant Whiteside? I can play that role. I’ve studied it for years. I was born to play it. Why undercover?’

Hanlon snorted. ‘The institute doesn’t trust the police. Shin Bet, yes; Scotland Yard, no. The police have connived too often in the past at shafting Jews. Who do you think rounded them up and sent them to camps, the Salvation Army? They wouldn’t let you through the door, Sergeant. The institute is very security conscious. Not only that. They’re always worried about information leaking. I can’t say I blame them. I don’t fully trust the police and I work for them. If I’m right, and he is dirty, someone deleted Conquest from the PNC. That’s probably one of our colleagues. I think we’ll just keep this to ourselves for now.’

‘If Corrigan finds out he’ll have a blue fit,’ said Whiteside warningly. You’ll be sacked, he thought, and I’ll be demoted.

‘Corrigan won’t find out,’ said Hanlon. Whiteside recognized the tone in her voice. It meant, don’t argue. ‘That letter in Hebrew identifies you as a freelance journalist who is accredited in Israel. Your address I’ve given as this one. Is that OK with you?’ Whiteside nodded. He doubted they’d be adding him to their mailing list. ‘If anyone gets inquisitive tell them to ring Gertler at the embassy. No one will dare. He’s not the kind of man you’d want to bother.’

‘You just did,’ said Whiteside.

She looked at him imperiously, her grey eyes dark in the soft light of Whiteside’s living room. Her chin lifted slightly in a combative way. ‘That’s true,’ said Hanlon equably, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. ‘But I’m me.’

What can you do, he thought admiringly, faced with someone who shortly after leaving a dinner party has contacted the head of Israeli Intelligence in London, whose number she has on her mobile phone, and got him to do this. The range of people that Hanlon knew was extraordinary. What was even more extraordinary was the way they all tended to do her bidding. Himself included. Hanlon was looking at him expectantly. ‘OK. OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll go. What exactly do you want?’

‘Like I told you. I want whatever they’ve got on Conquest. There’ll be something. He’s dirty, I can smell it. The fact that the PNC has got nothing on him doesn’t impress me.’

Whiteside, who knew Hanlon much better than most, was surprised at the level of venom in her voice. He thought it boded ill for Conquest, guilty or innocent. Nothing would get in her way. Whiteside had worked with her for five years. She was unstoppable.

‘That’s straightforward enough,’ he said.

Hanlon took another sip of water. ‘I also want to know if the number eighteen has any significance.’

‘Eighteen?’

‘Yes,’ she said. Whiteside paused expectantly. Hanlon looked at him as if to say what more do you want.

‘Are you going to tell me why this number’s significant?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not,’ she said.

‘OK, fine. Be like that.’ His mock irritation was not entirely mock. ‘And how about you, what’ll you be doing tomorrow?’ he asked.

Hanlon stood up to leave. ‘I’m seeing Sergeant Demirel about the murdered child. That, Sergeant, is what this is all about. Catching criminals, not feeding my ego.’ She looked at him commandingly. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

Clarissa sat in the front of the small, white Ford Transit van parked just down the road from Kathy and Peter’s flat and felt the excitement rise in her body and mind as the adrenaline started to flow. She was growing to love this sensation. It was like that feeling she had before she used to go onstage, would she remember her lines? Would the audience love her? It was like being at the top of a rollercoaster ride, waiting for the moment when the car would plunge forward into the abyss, or standing on a bungee platform, but far, far better. This was life and death. This must be how God felt. What she was about to do was apocalyptic. She would utterly shatter Kathy and Peter’s lives. She thought:

I am Destiny.

I am Vishnu.

I am the Destroyer of Worlds.

Today would be the third time. First the Somali girl, then the Turkish boy, now this. One of their best clients had requested a young, white child and Clarissa had the perfect candidate. Clarissa was looking forward to taking Peter. He would fit the customer’s specifications in every respect but, first and foremost, it would break Kathy’s heart, it would destroy her, and Clarissa hated Kathy.

She quickly ran through her list of resentments against Kathy again, just to inspire herself. How Kathy reminded her of the oh so superior girls at school who had looked down on her, who had sneered at her, who had belittled her, the girls who had ruined her childhood. She represented all the girls who had never liked her, never let her join their gangs. Well, suck on this, Kathy!

Then there was her career. Clarissa was a failed actress; Kathy an in-your-face successful businesswoman. Who did Kathy think she was with her high-power job, swanking around all over the world (in Clarissa’s mind Kathy didn’t travel, she swanked, every step of her elegant, high-heeled shoes leaving footprints of smugness), attending meetings, speaking her foreign languages. Oooh, look at me, I’m speaking German. Oooh, look at me, I’m speaking Italian. Oooh, look at me, now I’m talking French. Are you tri-lingual? I bet you’re not.

Then there was her beauty. Clarissa knew she herself was reasonably good-looking, and quite sexy, but she had to work on that, and there was no way on earth, no matter how many diets, how much aerobics, how much Zumba, that she would ever have Kathy’s long legs, Kathy’s neck, Kathy’s classic, fine-chiselled features. Women like Kathy were in the Style section of the Sunday Times . They modelled clothes for Boden. Clarissa despised them. She was everything that Clarissa wasn’t, but had longed to be, in one package. Slim, sophisticated, successful, almost certainly popular. She’d have been one of those girls who had taunted Clarissa (then called Clare) at primary school. The girls who used to sing:

‘Clare Yate, Clare Yate

Don’t kiss her at the garden gate!

Don’t touch her, isn’t she big!