Alex Howard - Time to Die

In the comfort of the black leather back seat of Corrigan’s air-conditioned Mercedes, parked in the street below, the driver standing discreetly outside, the big man looked at Enver.

‘I need to talk to you and not down the nick. Where can we go that’s private and convenient?’ Enver’s mind went blank. He looked around the car for inspiration.

‘I’m not sitting in here talking,’ said Corrigan, ‘that’s for sure.’

‘Errm,’ said Enver. Corrigan sighed in exasperation.

‘You do know this area, Sergeant, don’t you? Somewhere we can go? Somewhere quiet?’

Enver thought furiously, North London addresses and venues whirring crazily in his brain, before he said, ‘My uncle’s house, sir. That’s near.’

‘Fine, Sergeant. Let’s go there then,’ said Corrigan.

‘Do you mind if I phone my aunt, sir?’ asked Enver. It sounded ridiculous.

‘Please go ahead, Sergeant.’

In Uncle Osman’s front room, in the house off the immensely long Seven Sisters Road — the room that Enver thought of as his uncle’s study with its shelves full of gloomy-looking theological works in Turkish, Ottoman Turkish and Arabic, souvenirs of Istanbul on the wall, the floor covered with Turkish rugs — they were drinking sweet tea from glasses. Corrigan, helping himself to some immensely sticky baklava, proudly brought in by Aunt Fatima, said, ‘You know DS Whiteside, I believe?’

‘Vaguely, sir. We’ve met anyway.’

‘I take it you haven’t heard the news then?’ asked Corrigan.

‘No, sir,’ said Enver, puzzled. ‘I’ve been busy with the Yilmaz murder.’

‘It’s not a murder case yet, Sergeant,’ said the AC. ‘They’ve technically gone missing. At this stage anyway.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver. ‘But surely the shouting, the blood, the disappearance of the three of them?’ It could only be murder, he thought.

‘It could be abduction, false imprisonment, it could be staged,’ said Corrigan. ‘It’s not the only thing that’s been happening.’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’ said Enver, bewildered.

‘Sergeant Whiteside has been shot, at his flat.’ Corrigan sipped his tea thoughtfully.

He looked around the imam’s study with a policeman’s eye for detail. It was the room of an elderly scholar, no more, no less. The glasses from which they were drinking their tea were small, about the size of sherry glasses, and held in a filigreed silver holder. They were absurdly dainty for Corrigan’s huge fingers.

Enver took in the news of Whiteside’s shooting. Various thoughts crowded his mind — amazement that such a thing could happen, a terrible sympathy for Whiteside that a man so full of vitality — he’d only seen him that one time — had been struck down, professional responses, why hadn’t he known before, how many would be on the investigation, shamefully (to his mind) a selfish relief that it wasn’t him.

‘Is he…?’ Enver hesitated.

Corrigan supplied the answer to the unasked question. ‘Not yet. Two body shots, but they missed vital organs — well, that’s not strictly true, his bladder’s been, well, I’ll spare you the details, extensive trauma, massive blood loss — only the third shot, he was shot in the face.’ Corrigan grimaced. He had seen gunshot head injuries before; he hoped to God he’d never need to see another one again. ‘The bullet shattered his jaw, then the cheekbone and lodged in the front of his head. They’re operating now to remove it.’

Enver shuddered inwardly. He didn’t mind bodily injuries. He had boxed for ten years, including three as a semi-professional, from the age of fifteen to twenty-five, and his own body had, literally, taken a pounding. But to live the rest of your life brain-damaged, to be there but not there, to be no longer you since you are defined by your personality rather than your physical abilities, struck him as awful. Of course, brain damage was a perpetual risk in boxing, but things had been tightened up a lot since the Michael Watson fight. A Whiteside with a permanent catheter was still undeniably Whiteside. So would be a Whiteside in a wheelchair. A Whiteside with permanent mental impairment, well, was that still Whiteside? If he survived physically, how mentally affected would he be? It was a terrible thought. Enver could face life physically disabled, or felt he could, but not as a vegetable.

He thought too of Hanlon. ‘Who’s heading the investigation, sir? DI Hanlon?’ Corrigan’s eyes bulged in disbelief, emphasized by his eyebrows arcing upwards. ‘How much punishment did you take in that boxing ring, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Are you crazy? Hanlon in charge? Think about it for a minute.’

Enver did so. He didn’t know the DI that well. She had a reputation for toughness, a superlative arrest record, that much was canteen knowledge, and, of course, there was the famous riot incident. And the rumoured propensity to violence. None of these, though, was particularly remarkable. He could think of half a dozen police that these qualities fitted, himself included, to a certain extent. There was the fact that she was remarkably physically fit, he’d heard about the triathlons, but again, there were probably quite a few athletes in the Met. He stroked his moustache pensively. Corrigan lost patience with him. He was beginning to wonder if Hanlon had been right in her glowing references.

‘DI Hanlon has a history of bending or breaking rules, Sergeant, as well you know,’ he said irritably, ‘and she has got away with it so far because she’s been very clever and very lucky. And also because she has a number of people, myself included, who have gone out on a limb for her. Quite frankly, she is the last person anyone would want in charge of this investigation. One of Hanlon’s biggest problems is she does take things personally and this Whiteside business…’ Corrigan shook his head; he didn’t bother finishing the sentence. ‘Hanlon is quite capable, Sergeant, of taking matters into her own hands. God alone knows what she might get up to, or God forbid, do to a suspect.’

He looked shrewdly at Enver. Corrigan had undertaken a bit of digging into the Anderson arrest. There were several niggling details that had caught his eye, particularly with regards to the information leading to the drugs bust. He didn’t think Hanlon had fitted Anderson up or entrapped him, but something felt fishy. Now he would have to let the thing go. Whiteside was in no position, maybe never would be, even if he survived, to help him. The point was, he, Corrigan had helped Hanlon and she’d repaid him by stabbing him in the back. Don’t ruffle feathers, he’d told her; what had she done, assaulted a chicken. And that was down to her wanting to get even with someone who’d merely outwitted her legally. God knows what she was capable of doing to avenge Whiteside. Hanlon needed to be reined in. Simply making sure she wasn’t part of the investigation wouldn’t be nearly enough. She’d be forever checking up on its progress, interfering, driving the SIO mad. And Hanlon had enough devoted fans in strategic positions to keep her well informed of everything she’d want to know. Reading her the riot act would just be a waste of breath.

In an ideal world, Corrigan would have seconded her to somewhere far away, Wales or Yorkshire, anywhere out of London. But failing that, he would find her a babysitter. He wasn’t going to share any of this with Enver, but his reputation as a grim, methodical copper might slow Hanlon down. He knew from Hanlon’s memo that she considered Demirel a good policeman and the checks Corrigan had made on his record backed that up. If he teamed him up with her, she’d accept it.

Corrigan had wondered momentarily if Anderson were behind the shooting of Whiteside by way of revenge. It seemed unlikely. Although the man was certainly capable of murder, had indeed committed it if the stories were to be believed, he was a professional criminal and would accept police activity as an occupational hazard. But you could never be sure. Anderson was capable of crucifying someone he didn’t like; he was capable of anything.