The Innocent Girl

by Alex Coombs

  Murray was far from assertive as a policeman and he decided to let Fuller come to the station in the morning to give a statement, although he did put a plain-clothes in the street just in case Fuller emerged from his flat.

  When this officer was relieved the following day, Murray gave instructions that Fuller be escorted round the back entrance of the station. There’d be quite a media scrum out there on Monday, he guessed.

  Meanwhile the phone calls and emails to the station about Dame Elizabeth were accumulating rapidly. Her murder was very much in the public domain now, and was tweeted and retweeted as well as being hot news on other social network sites. She had touched thousands of lives and her students and legions of ex-students were media savvy. TV was now getting involved.

  Murray was the ideal choice to handle this kind of thing. Unassertive he may have been, but he was unflappable and possessed of a certainty that everything would be all right in the end. He gave a mini press conference, confirming no details other than that the police were investigating a suspicious death. The press knew Murray; they knew he could stonewall indefinitely.

  Well, Hanlon thought, my involvement is practically at an end. Fuller’s philosophy course would be suspended indefinitely, so her undercover role was over. She had Murray’s blessing to tie up the loose ends regarding Fuller’s potential whereabouts in Oxford on the day of the murder, and that was more or less it. By Friday, it would all be history.

  34

  He opened another bottle of wine and reread Dame Elizabeth’s letter that he had snatched from her desk. It was very moving. How sad never to have known your parents. Even if you couldn’t stand them, it was important to know where you came from. And the father sounded so interesting too. But it was the mother that was vital; the mother was the key to everything. Nietzsche had understood this. He had written:

  ‘Everyone carries within him an image of woman that he gets from his mother; that determines whether he will honour women in general, or despise them, or be generally indifferent to them.’

  He despised them.

  He recognized now that DCI Hanlon was the woman he had previously known as Gallagher. He sipped his wine and thought of how he could best use this unexpected development to his advantage. Nothing sprang immediately to mind, but that didn’t matter. Time was not particularly pressing at the moment. It did amuse him, though, that he knew practically everything there was to know about her father, while she knew nothing. It was like a Norse myth. By killing Dame Elizabeth he had somehow gained control of her memories, like Odin, drinking some magical potion brewed by dwarves or giants, able almost to see the future.

  Well, he could see Hanlon’s future and it was bleak. He would be seeing to that personally. But maybe it would be more merciful for Hanlon to die a violent, glorious death rather than get old and withered. He had the consolations of philosophy; he doubted if they would do much for Hanlon. He found this God-like image of himself entirely fitting. He was an exceptional person. It was only fitting that he do exceptional things.

  So, it was Hanlon then. That was her real name. The name suited her, its twin syllables short and hard. He had been thinking a great deal about her of late and not just about her death. He found her very attractive. Maybe he would have a chance to do something about that.

  35

  The following morning, after the rush hour had died down, Hanlon got off the Underground train at Lambeth North. She left the Tube station and looked around her, orienting herself with the twin landmarks of the Shard and the London Eye. It was nine thirty a.m.

  Her arm was in a sling, the wrist heavily strapped up, and the traces of her black eye gently disfigured one side of her face. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a shop window and smiled grimly.

  Lambeth seemed very light and open in the morning sun. If the colour scheme of Euston and Bloomsbury was dark and forbidding, then this part of London seemed light grey, palely reflecting the clouds above. The sky seemed huge. The roads were wider than she was used to; the traffic was light. It was surprisingly nice.

  She remembered a music-hall song she knew about the place and it ran briefly through her head.

  Any time you’re Lambeth way

  Any evening any day

  You’ll find us all, doin’ the Lambeth walk.

  * * *

  Its jaunty air, as dated as a boater hat and Max Miller, was at odds with her angry mood.

  She remembered that the Imperial War Museum was near here. Perhaps fittingly, it had been a mental hospital in a previous incarnation. The Mutiny on the Bounty’s Captain Bligh’s house was opposite. Hanlon was pleased to remember these disparate facts, even though South London was a bit of a mystery to her, a North Londoner.

  She checked Whiteside’s parents’ names and address on her phone – Anna and Peter Whiteside. She crossed a couple of roads until she was in the right street. It was quiet and a long, low block of flats ran down one side of it. A blue plaque stated that William Blake, Poet and Visionary, had once lived there, or rather in a house on the site of the flats.

  She walked round the back of the building and found the door of the ground-floor flat that the Whitesides lived in. In the window was a crucifix and a framed religious text that had been painstakingly embroidered.

  I am the Way, the Truth and the Light.

  Hanlon’s heart sank. She rang the bell and the door was opened by a short, rather attractive woman of about sixty. She had a similar nose to her son but that was the only resemblance that Hanlon could see. She looked Hanlon up and down.

  ‘Can I help you?’ ‘I’m DCI Hanlon.’

  ‘Yes?’ she said enquiringly.

  ‘I’m here to talk about Mark,’ said Hanlon. ‘I’m a friend of his.’

  The woman nodded. ‘You’d better come in then. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Hanlon followed her into the flat. It smelled of polish and stale air. The smell of sanctity.

  An hour later Hanlon was drinking another cup of tea, this time with Anna Whiteside’s polar opposite, Iris Campion.

  The madam sipped her Scotch, while she waited for her tea to cool, and studied the policewoman opposite. She was wearing a dark jacket and trousers and an expensive-looking cotton flowery shirt. As if mocking the feminine floral design, she had a strapped-up wrist that had been bandaged halfway up her forearm. Her unmarked eye had dark bags underneath it almost as severe as the bruising on the other had been. Her face was set and hard. Hanlon looked dangerous and viciously attractive, thought the madam.

  ‘Well, you look royally pissed off, dear,’ said Campion cheerily.

  ‘I am,’ said Hanlon.

  The conversation with Whiteside’s parents had been as bad as she could have imagined. Maybe even worse. Whiteside’s father had sat next to his wife on the sofa, a balder, fatter version of his son. Like his son, he was heavily built, old muscle now, but still formidably strong. His sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were covered in fading tattoos. Hanlon guessed he had been a builder when he was younger. Maybe he still was. Something manual anyway. He had the physique that came from years of hard graft, not sculpted gym muscle. His sparse hair was carefully stuck to the top of his head in a comb-over. He was holding his wife’s hand in a visible display of unity.

  Their front room was eerily reminiscent of Campion’s. There were occasional tables with hand-embroidered cloths covering them, antimacassars on the backs of chairs, but unlike Campion’s room, everything had a biblical motif. There was a reproduction of Holman Hunt’s Light of the World, a bearded, hippy-looking Jesus, lantern in hand, his head haloed by a distant moon, knocking symbolically on a closed, weed-choked door, that gave on to this world. Jesus reminded Hanlon of a drugs squad officer she’d once worked with.

  ‘I can give you five minutes, no longer,’ Whiteside senior said. His tone made it clear that his time was valuable.

  ‘John preaches down at the market on a Monday,’ Anna said proudly.

  ‘I am a voice, crying in th
e wilderness!’ John Whiteside said. ‘Make straight the paths of the Lord!’ Presumably, thought Hanlon, for my benefit.

  The following conversation had been utterly pointless. She asked them, in as near as she had ever come in her life to begging, to grant Mark a stay of execution. John Whiteside’s position was clear.

  First of all, God’s will was to be done. For whatever reason, He had decided that Mark should be in a coma.

  Who was she to question the Lord?

  Second, there was Mark Whiteside’s homosexuality. Rather to Hanlon’s surprise, his father raised it himself.

  ‘We must all answer to the Lord in the fullness of time, DCI Hanlon, and Mark is no exception. Possibly the Lord has gathered Mark to his bosom to save his soul from straying. You know what I’m talking about,’ he said accusingly. You evil fag hag, Hanlon could imagine him thinking. He continued:

  ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: It is abomination. As Leviticus says.’

  ‘Amen,’ said his mother, her eyes downcast.

  ‘Well,’ said Hanlon. John Whiteside had obviously given the subject some considered thought.

  ‘If there is a man who lies with a male as a man lieth with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death,’ added John Whiteside sonorously.

  ‘Leviticus 20,’ said Anna, like a good student.

  And that was more or less that. Hanlon could see no point in continuing the farce. Icily polite, she thanked them for the tea. In the hall was a large wooden crate filled with leaflets of a religious nature and an A-board; REPENT! it said.

  Anna, who was showing Hanlon out, said proudly, ‘My husband carries them down to the market to stand on when he testifies. He’s ever so strong.’ Her voice caught on the word strong, and her eyes flooded with tears. ‘Just like . . . You’d better go,’ she said suddenly, too proud to break down in front of Hanlon. She held the door open and Hanlon heard it click shut behind her back as she left.

  Hanlon jerked herself back to the here and now in Campion’s office. The madam was wearing a great deal of make-up this morning and looked huge, in a sleeveless black dress that emphasized her doughy, muscular arms.

  ‘Finished thinking, have we, dearie?’ she asked mockingly. ‘You can almost see the wheels turning.’

  Hanlon sipped her tea and looked steadily back at Campion.

  The latter pointed at Hanlon’s wrist.

  ‘Did you get the bloke that done that?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Hanlon. Campion nodded, not unsympathetically.

  An almost friendly silence descended, then Hanlon spoke. ‘In central Oxford there’s a brothel that will provide S&M

  sex and is used by Dr Fuller.’

  ‘Surely not,’ said Campion with heavy sarcasm. ‘Not in Oxford, not in the city of dreaming spires.’

  Hanlon carried on. ‘Despite considerable pressure, even though he’s facing a possible murder trial, Dr Fuller has declined to name this place. So, I’m looking for a brothel with truly frightening management. Does any of this ring any bells?’

  Campion reached behind her and took out another bottle of Macallan. She poured herself a generous measure. ‘The sun is over the yard-arm,’ she said. She squinted at the cuckoo clock on the wall. ‘Somewhere in the world anyway. I don’t know anything about Oxford. I can’t help you.’

  Hanlon could smell the Scotch from where she sat.

  ‘I was talking to Dave Anderson the other day,’ she said. Campion’s back stiffened and she looked at Hanlon with new respect.

  ‘You do get around, duckie,’ she said neutrally.

  ‘I met his father too. He told me to send his regards.’ The two women looked steadily at each other, both powerful, both intimidating.

  ‘Malcolm Anderson,’ said Campion wonderingly. ‘I’d heard he was dying.’

  ‘He is,’ said Hanlon simply.

  ‘I didn’t want to go and see him,’ said Campion quietly. ‘I want to think of Big Mal as he used to be. In his car coat, you won’t remember those, you’re too young. He was very good- looking. Does he still have those sideburns?’

  Hanlon shook her head, ‘Chemo,’ she said.

  ‘Poor fucker,’ said Campion, sighing deeply. ‘Mind you, a lot of people would be glad to see him burn in hell.’

  ‘Like Maltese Alex?’ asked Hanlon innocently.

  Campion looked suddenly very angry. ‘Don’t you push your luck, Hanlon.’

  ‘He asked after you.’

  Campion sat up very straight and stared in a hostile way at Hanlon. ‘And just why, exactly, did my name come up, DCI Hanlon?’

  Hanlon ignored the question. ‘He mentioned someone called Razor Lewis.’ Campion blinked and her hand involuntarily went to the scars that ran down her face.

  ‘Mind yer own fucking business, Hanlon.’

  ‘He said that you should help me,’ Hanlon carried on, undaunted.

  ‘Malcolm Anderson said that?’ ‘Yes.’

  Campion sipped her malt whisky and looked at Hanlon with narrowed eyes. Perfectly relaxed and unmoving, Hanlon levelly returned her gaze. The policewoman had that rare gift of almost complete immobility that animals have, and humans rarely do. Hanlon’s eye had virtually healed but Campion remembered the heavy bruising to her body and now the strapped wrist. Her cold grey eyes were fixed expressionlessly on Campion. Somehow she seemed to have the Andersons, God forbid, on her side. Campion wondered how on earth she’d managed that. The boy, as she still thought of Dave Anderson, was psychotic.

  Hanlon must be odder than she had at first believed. The flowery blouse under her tailored jacket somehow added to the sinister effect of the policewoman’s presence. Campion knew tough people when she met them, it had been her life. Hanlon was that unusual mix that you hardly ever came across. Violence and high intelligence.

  Well, she wasn’t going to cross Dave Anderson, that was for sure.

  She picked her phone up from the table and scrolled down, punched a button.

  ‘Tatiana. Downstairs, now please.’

  ‘You’ll get what you want,’ Campion said to Hanlon.

  ‘I know that,’ said Hanlon. Her face was expressionless. ‘I usually do.’

  Campion looked at her, her emotions a mix of contempt, sympathy and respect. ‘I’d be careful what you wish for, dearie. It might just come true.’

  36

  Gideon Fuller came to on his sofa. His mouth was furred and dry, there were two empty bottles of wine next to the sofa and he guessed there would be more lying around in the kitchen.

  His head ached as he pieced together the events of the previous night. Dimly he remembered his conversation with the policeman. So they wanted to talk about Dame Elizabeth, did they? Well they would have to wait a bit. He was now, he guessed, more or less on leave from the university. He could hardly turn up for work as though nothing had happened.

  He wandered, yawning, into the kitchen of his flat. There were the other two empty bottles by the sink. He put his coffee maker on. He sat down on a chair while he waited.

  The press would be round. He’d better look good for them. The last philosopher he could think of who’d killed anyone was Althusser, a Frenchman, who had strangled his wife in 1980. Fuller recalled he had got three years in a psychiatric hospital. More to the point, people still knew his name, which was more than could be said about his Marxist theories, which

  now seemed pointless and very dated.

  Foucault, another French philosopher specializing in society’s attitude to madness, was rumoured to have knowingly carried on having unprotected sex while diagnosed with Aids. Murder by proxy, death by virus. Fuller didn’t believe the story, but it certainly hadn’t done Foucault’s reputation any harm.

  Maybe being linked to a series of murders would do his own career some good.

  Fame at last, he thought bitterly.

  After his shower he would call his solicitor. He was sure he would get the police off his back s
oon enough; they’d got no evidence. They couldn’t have. After that he’d have to think hard about his future. Well, he wasn’t going to buckle, that was for sure. He hadn’t survived childhood to be kicked to death on the shores of adulthood. He’d turned his unhappiness into strength before and he would do it again.

  What does not kill me makes me stronger.

  He made his coffee, strong, black, and went into his bed- room. On the pillow next to his was a familiar face. He was a lot older now and the paint had faded from his feathers so he was virtually monochrome, a dark greenish-black. His one eye looked lovingly at Fuller, and of course he still had only one wing. Fuller automatically pulled the duvet slightly higher so Vulture was covered. He gently patted him on the head. You could always trust Vulture.

  He turned on his computer and checked his emails, then he opened his photo files to the one marked Gallagher.

  He had built up a file of about fifty images of Animal Play and Pup Play. These were women dressed in dog-style outfits, collar, lead and so on, and an anal plug with a tail. They were engaged in dog-style activities, many of a hard-core sexual nature.

  The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.

  Nietzsche had nailed it again, he thought. That man was a genius.

  His personal favourite was the girl on a choke chain being led to a dog bowl. He opened his wardrobe. Half of it was devoted to his S&M gear. He took down a choke chain and tightened it experimentally round his arm. It felt good. He loved choke chains, the feel of the metal links, the pattern they made on the skin, the sensation of total control. He imagined slipping it round Gallagher’s neck and pulling it taut.

  He was becoming obsessed by Gallagher.