Alex Howard - Time to Die

Hanlon’s top was soaked in sweat in an inverted triangle on her back and as she punched more sweat ran down her face, as wet as tears. He could see it shining like jewels on her skin in the harsh white light from above. Her hair was slick and matted with perspiration. She hadn’t tied it back and it flew around her head as she moved so she looked like Medusa.

She stopped throwing combinations and steadied the heavy bag with her arms, putting them round it as if she was embracing it. He could see the powerful muscles snake-like under her smooth skin. The bag, which was swinging on its chain like an erratic pendulum from the force of her punches, came to a stop. Hanlon switched to practising body shots on the bag. Enver watched in amazement at the power behind the gloves. Her face, when he glimpsed it through the curtain of her hair, was set in tranquil viciousness. She punched again and again at the same spot, creating, driving a football-sized dent, into the canvas of the bag. Enver knew how hard those things were, the canvas stiff and unyielding. You’d almost need a sledgehammer to do what she was doing to the bag. Faster and faster she hit the bag, each blow accompanied by a loud grunt of effort as she expelled air from her lungs, until with a final shout she landed a last punch that sent the bag arcing away from her. As it returned, swinging back towards her, she drop-kicked it with tremendous force. The bottom of the bag was what would have been, on a tall man, crotch level. The heavy bag jerked visibly up in the air on its chain, the metal links rattling, then stopped dead in its tracks, with a percussive thud. Enver shook his head disbelievingly.

‘Christ almighty,’ he heard Laidlaw whisper. The force Hanlon exerted on the base of the bag with her leg was unbelievable. He guessed she had just kicked forty-odd kilos of mass visibly upwards.

Hanlon stood for a moment, her gloved arms by her side, motionless, and then with a dancer’s grace sat down cross-legged on the floor and bowed her head. Her gloved hands rested on the ground and Enver could see the rise and fall of her shoulders heaving as her body tried to re-oxygenate her blood. He stared at her in respectful fascination.

He felt a gentle tug on his jacket as Laidlaw motioned him away, back through the door, down the stairs and into his reception area. Laidlaw sat down behind his desk.

‘She’s fucking wonderful,’ said Laidlaw in loving reverence. ‘Isn’t she.’ It wasn’t a question. He didn’t wait for Enver’s reply. The sergeant knew he was with another of the DI’s fan club. Corrigan, Laidlaw, himself and barely alive Whiteside.

‘Like I said to you before,’ said Laidlaw, eyes on Enver, ‘You’re supposed to protect her? I really don’t think she needs it. I wouldn’t like to try and attack her, would you?’

Enver looked steadily at him. ‘I think I’m supposed to protect her from herself, Freddie.’

Laidlaw nodded thoughtfully. ‘I heard about her colleague,’ he said.

‘There you go then, Freddie,’ Enver replied.

‘I take your point,’ said Laidlaw. ‘That was for him, wasn’t it?’

Enver nodded.

‘Someone’s going to pay, aren’t they?’ It wasn’t really a question.

Enver looked at Laidlaw noncommittally. ‘Don’t tell her I’ve been here, please.’

The manager nodded again. ‘No, I won’t. So what’s your plan now?’ he asked.

Enver shrugged. ‘I think I’m supposed to follow her, discreetly.’

Laidlaw snorted in derision. ‘Yeah, like that’s going to work. That’s a plan, is it? Good luck with that one. Follow Hanlon,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Or are you going to tell me you’re really good at covert surveillance?’

‘ No,’ said Enver simply. ‘No, I’m not. Did she drive here?’

Laidlaw shook his head. ‘No. Tube. There’s no parking round here. I think the tube’s your best bet. Go and wait for her at London Bridge Station, that’s closest. I think that’s the one she uses. I’ll speak to her before she leaves, I’ll offer her a lift there. If she shows any sign of not using the Underground I’ll phone you. Give me your number.’

Enver did so. Freddie Laidlaw keyed it into his phone. ‘You’d better go now,’ said Laidlaw. ‘She’ll be out in a minute.’ They shook hands. ‘Come and see me again,’ said the manager. ‘You look like you could do with some exercise.’

Enver rolled his eyes.

‘I bet you a pony she susses you before you even get on a train.’

‘Deal,’ said Enver and grinned.

As he opened the door, he heard Laidlaw say, ‘Oi, Ironhand.’ He looked back ‘Don’t let her catch you with a body shot, mate. You’re a big man, but you’re out of shape.’

Enver flicked two fingers at him and grinned. As he walked down the crepuscular, gloomy stairs to the dark Bermondsey street he thought, at least I can afford to lose twenty-five quid. I don’t think Laidlaw will have to pay up.

Enver walked along Tooley Street, past the expensive dockside developments like Hays Galleria, to London Bridge Station. Inside the station, echoey and windswept, its lights bright and harsh after the dimness of the gym, there were two possibilities, if she used it, Jubilee or Northern Line. If Enver had known where Hanlon lived he’d have been able to make a more informed guess, but he didn’t. He assumed she’d head home. She was a solitary person, he couldn’t see her wanting to be with anyone or to go to a bar or restaurant, and for the same reason he knew she wouldn’t want a taxi. She’d be asked to talk. The driver might say, ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ or ‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen.’ He knew she’d hate that. Even the proximity of a potentially talkative stranger would be unwelcome to Hanlon, so the anonymity of the tube would be what she wanted. He knew that. He walked into the station. He now had a one in four chance of guessing correctly. Two lines, two directions on each line, north to south, south to north, for the Northern Line, east to west, west to east for the Jubilee.

Where would Hanlon live? Enver wondered. He guessed either East or North London. East because it was, inasmuch as London is, more affordable on a police salary and slightly more real than West London, which like many North Londoners he thought of as poncey. South London he disregarded, purely on prejudice; Wandsworth, the brighter borough, yeah right! Pull the other one. Battersea, to Enver, meant not the dog’s home but Sloane Rangers, driven out by Russian money, forever exiled by the river from Chelsea, their spiritual home. He was after all from Haringey, home of Spurs and Alexandra Palace, home of Muswell Hill where the Kinks came from and of Highgate Cemetery where Karl Marx is buried. Haringey, whose council was rated by the Audit Commission as the worst in London and the fourth worst in Britain.

North London, though, made him think. She was, or had been, based in Islington, that much he knew of her police history. He’d be willing to bet, though, she wouldn’t live there. He associated it with people who ate polenta and read the Guardian and liked performance art. He couldn’t see Hanlon in that kind of milieu. It would make her cross. She wouldn’t be going to see experimental theatre at the Almeida. She’d been caught up in the riots in Tottenham, so maybe she lived somewhere around there, Hackney maybe, Stoke Newington possibly. Also, there is something slightly gloomy about North London that he felt might have influenced her as a choice of district. She wouldn’t live somewhere frivolous, somewhere like Kensington or Notting Hill.

He chose north.

Enver swiped his Oyster card over the electronic sensor on the gates leading to the Underground platforms, the electric barrier parted and let him through and he went down to the northbound platform of the deep, twisting complexities of the Northern Line. On the diagrammatic map of the tube, Harry Beck’s legacy to the world, like an exploded wiring plan, the Northern Line is coloured black, a sombre warning to passengers of what lies ahead. Its regulars know it as the Misery Line. It’s notorious for delays, overcrowding and whimsical rerouting. He stood at the far end where the train would come in so he had an uninterrupted view of the platform. The platform itself wasn’t busy; there were only a dozen or so people on it. He picked up a discarded Metro newspaper and used it to partially shield his face while he pretended to read. He felt extremely conspicuous, also slightly ridiculous, and was half sure that Hanlon would notice him immediately, assuming she came. The air from the tunnels smelt metallic, sooty, industrial and gritty.