Alex Howard - Time to Die

There was a sizeable pool of blood on the countertop. Hanlon examined it, careful not to touch anything. The epicentre of the blood was on the edge of the work surface. The cheap wooden laminate had splintered under a terrific impact and Hanlon could see shreds of skin and some coarse black hairs adhering to the surface of the counter. She guessed that it was Mehmet’s forehead that had been slammed down into the wood at hairline level. The force of such a blow, hard enough to break chipboard, would probably have killed him, certainly he’d have lost consciousness. She crouched down to look further. The other two, Nur and the little girl would be easier to subdue, particularly once they’d seen Mehmet’s skull cracked open, his body slumping to the floor.

‘Ma’am,’ called Enver.

She left the kitchen and joined him in the doorway of the neighbouring room. They didn’t go in. Inside the small living room were more signs of a struggle, less dramatic, equally depressing to the two police. The old sofa was beige. On the floor was a bloodstained cushion. A coffee table had been upset. Broken glass from little dainty cups shone in the sun coming through the windows. On a battered old sideboard was an embroidered lace cloth and a plastic model of the Sultan Ahmed mosque in Istanbul. There was an electrical cable coming out. It would light up. A souvenir of life in Turkey. Hanlon looked at the cushion. She guessed that the blood probably belonged to the wife, Nur. She shook her head sadly. The other room was the bedroom. She could see a cot from where she was standing that would have belonged to Baby Ali. There was a small mattress on the floor where Reyhan would have slept.

She went back into the kitchen.

On the floor, puddled with blood which had dripped off the counter, underneath the jutting ledge of the work surface, by the skirting board, was a small scrap of paper, torn, she guessed from a Turkish newspaper. Two words. Crouching down, she read them. Enver was putting his phone back in his pocket.

‘Everyone’s on their way, ma’am,’ he said.

She nodded and they both went outside into the fresh air. Three bags. Three bodies. Hanlon’s eyes narrowed. Someone knew they were coming and at what time. Someone had tipped them off. It had to come from their end, from the team investigating the Baby Ali murder. There really was no other possibility. She was glad now that she had told no one about her thoughts that the Baby Ali murder was connected to the Essex killing. They knew now they were not looking for a single perpetrator. Two men had done this. Paedophiles were normally organized, usually highly so, and they did operate in groups, but violence like this — direct, professional — from a paedophile was unheard of. This had more the hallmarks of organized crime. It was no sex attack. It was an efficient, organized hit. It was the sort of thing the Andersons of this world did.

‘Sergeant, what does “on sekiz” mean in Turkish?’ she asked, referring to the words on the paper.

‘Eighteen, ma’am.’

Hanlon nodded. She thought so. The images of memory obligingly lined up in her head. The pencilled eighteen on the bunker wall. The lock gate. Now this. The same number. The same killer. Different victims. There could be no shred of doubt now that they were the same perpetrator. Better make that plural. Well, she’d have to report this to Corrigan. He wouldn’t be best pleased. Serial killings and a police informer. Not good. The unusually blue skies and hot sun overhead gave an almost Mediterranean feel to the roof in contrast to the darkness of the scene within the flat.

‘Tell SOCO when they get here and start work there’s a piece of paper under that counter I want bagged as evidence. I don’t want it overlooked.’ That would annoy them, she thought, being told how to do their job.

‘Why take the bodies away, ma’am?’ asked Enver in a puzzled voice.

Hanlon had worked paedophile and rape cases before in Special Crimes. Enver hadn’t. Because the woman and daughter probably weren’t dead yet, thought Hanlon. That would come later. That was the reason. Baby Ali had been assaulted numerous times but there was no DNA trace. Hanlon guessed that mother and daughter wouldn’t be found. There would be no need for caution on their abductors’ part. She didn’t feel like going into it now.

‘I’m not sure, Sergeant.’ she said. ‘What I am sure of is that we’re looking for two powerfully built men. Three bodies carried down in a single trip. One presumably carried the man; the other, mother and daughter. That’s a lot of kilos. I don’t think it was the woman who abducted Ali that was involved. She wouldn’t be physically capable.’ Her voice was distracted. ‘Anyway, Sergeant, I’ll leave you to it. Right now, I’ve got things I need to do. I don’t have to tell you your job. Do what needs doing. Tell whoever arrives to call me on my mobile or text me. I’ll be back in the office later anyway. I can’t see that I’ve got anything to add that you can’t help them with.’

Enver registered the fact she was leaving without surprise. Like she said, it didn’t need two of them to stay, but he was interested to notice his regret. There was something very reassuring about Hanlon’s presence. More than that, he relished her presence.

‘Do you know who did this, ma’am?’ asked Enver. He looked hard into Hanlon’s long face. It was as expressionless as ever, her eyes flinty-grey, impenetrable. He realized that was as much of an answer as he was likely to get.

‘Oi, you two!’ shouted the old man. They had forgotten about him. ‘What was it then, rats?’

Hanlon, suddenly letting her anger off its leash, strode over to him. She’d had enough. ‘Hello, darlin’, come to make an old man happy,’ he leered at Hanlon. She leant forward until her face was over his and he was suddenly aware of the sun being blocked out by her long, tangled, black hair that haloed her face. It was like a terrible eclipse. He looked up and saw her features transfixed by rage. It totally unnerved him. He had never seen anything like it. She looked inhuman, devoid of any feelings other than fury, her face a mask of pure anger, and then to his mental fear was added physical and he gasped in agony as Hanlon’s long, shapely, immensely strong fingers crushed the ulnar nerve near his elbow, the so-called funny bone. It’s painful enough when you bang it on something; this was drawn-out pressure that hurt him like nothing he’d experienced in seventy-five years. He thought he was going to throw up with the pain. He cowered backwards in his seat as the pain mounted.

‘I know where you live,’ she hissed. ‘Do you want me to come back and visit you? When there’ll be just you and me? Do you?’ He shook his head emphatically, pleadingly. Her face, a gorgon’s mask, the features of Medusa, was almost touching his. He looked into her pitiless eyes as tears trickled down his face. ‘My colleague will ask you some questions, I suggest you be helpful.’ She released her grip.

Enver had seen her stoop momentarily over the old man and then, a couple of seconds later, stand up. He had absolutely no idea what had happened. He could see even at this distance the terror on the man’s face. It was almost pantomime-like in its characterization of fear. He wondered what on earth she’d said to him.

Hanlon walked past him, radiating aggression and rage. ‘Get a witness statement off him now he’s in a cooperative mood. Remember to secure the crime scene. Nobody up here but police,’ she snapped. ‘I’m off to see Whiteside.’

Enver watched as she climbed gracefully down the steel staircase. Again, for the second time since he had met Hanlon, he felt a stab of jealousy directed at the other sergeant. He walked over to the old man who gave him a frightened, placatory smile. He cowered away from Enver, trying to make himself small in his chair.