Alex Howard - Time to Die

Crouched outside the door, waiting for Hanlon, Harry Conquest was now enjoying himself hugely. This was like old times. This was what he’d been so good at as a teenager, the reason he’d been accepted into the Motorcycle Club. A stunning ability for violence. It had been twenty-five years, he guessed, since he’d been in a serious fight. One that meant life or death. Once, they’d been commonplace. To join the Angels, to be accepted even as a Probationer, he’d had to go Angel bashing, driving out to pubs frequented by rival motorcycle gangs and picking fights. Vicious, bloody brawls in bars and car parks. Your life hung in the balance as the fists and the steel-toed boots swung or glasses were smashed and used as weapons. He still bore the scars. And Harry had been exceptionally talented at violence. He was proud of his reputation. Then, once he was in the Angels, a more professional level of hurt, debt-collecting, often drug debts from dealers. Conquest had a bloody past and he’d been very good. As he stood there, feeling the adrenaline course through his body, he felt the years drop away. Life had been so much more fun then.

Today, he was richer and more successful than he could have believed possible, a multimillionaire he guessed, but part of him suddenly hankered for the old days, the excitement. The drugs, the booze, the partying, the women, maybe even the camaraderie. He’d got to the top, but a pinnacle is a lonely place to be. Life had become too corporate, too planned, too controlled. He’d never be young again, but tonight he’d stop time for once, he’d be the man he once was. Tonight he’d really live again.

He was looking forward to taking down Hanlon. She was a worthy opponent. She’d managed to deal with Robbo, that in itself was an achievement. Very few men could have done that. And she’d swum all the way here as well. He had to admit she was good.

Clarissa gestured frantically and he smiled. She was coming. He saw the doorknob turn, then the door opened and Hanlon strode out. Conquest admired that. She didn’t creep out, she boldly stepped out. As she did so, he moved his right foot out and swung the rifle in a powerful arc. The wooden stock hit Hanlon on the left upper arm. The bone broke on the impact. The power of the blow knocked her off balance and as she started to right herself, to launch the hand containing the knife at Conquest, he slammed the rifle butt into the side of her head. She collapsed on the floor, not quite unconscious but dazed, and Conquest kicked her in the stomach. He heard her gasp as the wind was driven out of her, and she doubled up and let go of the knife. He booted it away with his foot. It fell through a gap in the bannisters on to the polished, parquet floor below, where Clarissa picked it up. He kicked Hanlon again, viciously in the guts, and she retched.

Conquest moved forward, the rifle tucked under his right arm, and grabbed a handful of Hanlon’s thick hair, still damp with seawater, and half pulled, half dragged her downstairs. He guessed that she was barely conscious but she made no sound of pain, although she had to be in agony from the left arm that hung down uselessly by her side. Her chest twitched spasmodically as she tried to breathe through a crimson haze of pain. He moved quickly down the stairs, his fingers laced tightly through her wiry hair, the base of her spine and her heels thumping rhythmically on the carpeted stairs as they descended together.

He pulled her into the study, her backside sliding across the polished hall floor, hauled her to her feet, and pushed her down into an armchair that faced his desk about three metres away. She collapsed into it and sat awkwardly. Her head was bent forward and her right hand held her left arm, trying somehow to deal with the break she could feel in the bone. Her breathing was rasping and irregular. Her body was a mass of pain from her broken arm, to her agonized stomach, to the pain in her lower back.

Conquest pushed his chair out from behind the desk and dragged it round so he was sitting directly in front of her. He slid the safety catch off the rifle while he waited for Hanlon to recover. He called Clarissa over to him and told her to go upstairs and check on the judge, also to try to find the boy. As she left the room, Hanlon raised her head and looked directly at him.

‘What have you done to the judge?’ demanded Conquest.

Hanlon had no intention of replying. She doubted Conquest would be able to do much about it even if she told him; was there anything you could do to remove insulin? But she didn’t want to take the chance. She couldn’t see how he would get the judge into a hospital without seriously awkward questions being asked: how and where did this happen? You could hardly pass it off as an accident. The judge was doomed. And so too, she felt, was she, but right now she couldn’t think about that. Her entire body was on fire with pain. Her head, her stomach, but everything was dwarfed by the agony of her broken left arm.

Conquest looked relaxed and content in his office chair. He had won. Another day, another challenge, another fight, another victory. The barrel of the rifle pointed unerringly at Hanlon. She looked at him through her pain with a new respect. Conquest certainly knew how to fight, she thought. Once again she thought of Whiteside. He would have made some remark about Conquest knowing the way to a woman’s heart. ‘He sure knows how to impress a lady,’ or something similar. She smiled grimly to herself.

Conquest’s eyebrows raised slightly as he saw Hanlon’s lips move in amusement. He suddenly wondered if maybe she really wasn’t all there mentally. She must surely know she was going to die. He could hardly let her live.

Clarissa came back into the room. Hanlon looked at her, no trace of a smile now. So this was the girl who had shot Mark. She was medium height, Mediterranean colour, olive skin and dark eyes, a distinctive crescent scar between her eyebrows. She leaned forward and whispered into Conquest’s ear. He nodded.

‘Where’s the boy?’ he asked.

Clarissa had told him he was nowhere to be seen and that the window was wide open. He must be somewhere in the grounds, he couldn’t get off the island, thought Conquest. Hanlon must have lowered him out of the window. Well, he’s no threat. We can always find him later and dispose of him. It didn’t look as if the judge would be needing him any more. According to Clarissa he was in some kind of coma. Whatever it was, she couldn’t wake him up. It was going to be an annoying and time-consuming clean-up operation. Hanlon, her sergeant, the boy and the judge. Not to mention Robbo. All would have to be disposed of. Hanlon was staring at Clarissa. Idiot, she was thinking. You didn’t even look under the bed.

Hanlon met Clarissa’s eye. ‘Did you shoot him?’ she said.

Hanlon didn’t say his name. She didn’t want her to hear it, to know it. She wasn’t fit for that. Clarissa smiled sweetly and put her hand on Conquest’s shoulder. It was a possessive gesture, almost as if she thought Hanlon was some kind of threat.

‘Yes,’ she said proudly, ‘I shot your Sergeant Whiteside. Did it upset you, was he your lover?’ She studied Hanlon’s face.

It was impassive but it was obvious what she was thinking. Hate is always transparently obvious. Conquest felt Clarissa’s hand tighten on his shoulder. ‘When I shot him in the face, I laughed,’ she said. Her voice was ugly now, harsh. She had the actor’s way with delivering words; they carried clearly across the room like whip cracks. ‘I hear he’s still alive. Maybe not the same man he was, though. When he kissed you, did he drool? I hear he will now.’ She laughed out loud. She had a pretty, tinkling laugh.

Hanlon felt the rage flare up inside her like phosphorous burning, a white-hot flame. She welcomed it. It burnt away her pain and transmuted it into fuel for her anger. She looked at the clock on the wall above Conquest. It was nearly ten o’clock. Soon Enver would phone for backup and the police would arrive. All she had to do was stay alive for another maybe quarter of an hour. The police helicopter would be first on the scene from the Air Support Unit; they’d be happy. It cost about seven hundred pounds an hour to use the thing; the rescue of Peter Reynolds would go a long way to justifying its budget. There was a Marine Unit with a fast RIB vessel that could be here within half an hour based somewhere along the Essex coast, which would bring more police. She closed her eyes and felt relief wash over her. No matter what irregularities she had committed, Conquest wasn’t going to wriggle out of this.