Cold Revenge (2015)

by Alex Howard

  ‘What exactly?’

  He hated talking about important things on the phone. He was convinced they were all bugged. ‘I don’t want to talk about it on the phone,’ said the ever-cautious Enver, ‘but if you could come over to Euston, I’ll fill you in.’

  ‘Give me half an hour,’ said Hanlon. She pulled on some cycling gear and trainers, and she was ready. Thank God for Enver Demirel, she thought.

  The first thing Hanlon noticed as she strode across the floor of the open-plan office to Enver’s desk was a familiar figure sitting opposite the DI. Detective Inspector Melinda Huss, no less.

  If Hanlon was less than enthused by the sight of Huss, the flicker of distaste that ran across the latter’s face suggested the feeling was mutual. Oblivious to the tension, Enver beamed happily at the two of them.

  He can be incredibly obtuse, thought Hanlon. He will never grasp that we can’t stand each other.

  Hanlon sat down opposite Huss. Her slim, muscled body outlined in Lycra was in marked contrast to the more generous form of DI Huss. Huss was showing quite a bit of cleavage, thought Hanlon, eyeing her up and down, no prizes for guessing whose benefit that was for. Any minute now she’d be staring at Enver and playing with her hair.

  Good luck with that, she thought. Enver’s so shy of women it’s not true. In his own mind he’s convinced no woman could possibly find him attractive.

  Enver had something on a plate. ‘We’ve got coffee cake, ma’am,’ he said. ‘DI Huss made it specially. It’s got walnuts in.’

  Hanlon looked at the cake. Much as she hated to admit it, it could have come from an upmarket patisserie. It was the kind of cake that won prizes. It looked superb and was presented on a china plate that certainly did not come from the scabby kitchen area in the corner of the office. Huss had even brought a doily for the cake to sit on.

  Hanlon wondered crazily if Huss were baking her way to the top, her rivals in promotion on the Oxford CID ladder failing medicals left, right and centre, felled by carb- and cholesterol-induced heart problems and Type 2 diabetes.

  ‘Do you bake, ma’am?’ asked Huss smugly.

  ‘No,’ said Hanlon irritably. She didn’t even own an oven. There were shops for that kind of thing. She watched as Enver cut the cake, refusing a slice herself, and then said, ‘So, what’s this development then?’

  Enver, mouth full of coffee and walnut gateau, butter icing and mocha filling, gestured at Huss to explain. His eyes gleamed with pleasure. It was delicious cake, highly flavoured, the sponge moist but firm.

  His family background in catering always surfaced at moments like this. He was by far the most talented Demirel in a kitchen. His not going into the family business had been a bitter blow to his father.

  ‘We’d obviously conducted one search of Fuller’s room at the Blenheim, but DCI Templeman wanted a secondary search doing, just in case we’d missed something, and sure enough, hidden in the mattress itself, we found another pair of women’s pants and some more pubic hair clippings,’ she said.

  ‘What size were they?’ asked Hanlon.

  DI Huss gave her a suspicious look. ‘Ten,’ she said.

  ‘And the other ones, the size eight?’ continued Hanlon, rather enjoying her role as Fuller’s barrister in absentia. ‘Have you had the results back?’

  ‘We have,’ said Huss. ‘The DNA is no match for the victim, but the new pants are.’

  ‘And the gloves?’

  ‘No useful results,’ conceded Huss.

  ‘So that’s when Templeman had the second search done, is it, when the original one exonerated Fuller?’ said Hanlon.

  Enver had been watching the conversation between the women as it went to and fro like a spectator at a tennis match. ‘What does Fuller say?’ he asked.

  ‘No comment. That’s more or less it. He won’t tell us where he was at the time of the murder other than out for a walk to plan his lecture. He cannot explain the presence of the victim’s clothing in his room.’ Huss looked at them with an air of triumph.

  ‘Presumably he says that they were planted there,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he, ma’am,’ countered Huss.

  Hanlon said acidly, ‘And how secure was Fuller’s room during his time down at your nick?’

  ‘The door was locked, obviously. It was securely taped. So yes, the area was secure,’ said Huss defensively. Hanlon rolled her eyes.

  ‘We hadn’t gone overboard with sealing the area. It’s Oxford’s most famous hotel for heaven’s sake,’ said Huss defensively. ‘We can’t go round draping it in crime-scene tape. But yes, the room was sealed.’

  ‘Did anyone think to photograph the seals? Or at least check that their validity hadn’t been compromised?’ asked Hanlon.

  There was an uncomfortable pause from DI Huss who said, ‘I don’t have that information to hand.’

  I’ll take that as a no, thought Hanlon. If this comes to court, Fuller’s lawyer is going to rip you lot to shreds.

  ‘So, what’s the state of play with Fuller, have you actually charged him then?’ she asked.

  DI Huss shook her head. ‘He’s been bailed pending further enquiries and is due to return to Summertown in three weeks’ time, by when the CPS will have decided what to do.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ said Hanlon to the DI. ‘Do you think he’s guilty?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Huss. ‘He’s not exactly behaving like an innocent person. He’s lied to us, he’s evasive, there’s a stack of circumstantial evidence around him. He fits the profile.’ She paused angrily. ‘If he’s not guilty he’s doing a bloody good job of acting like he is. And I think he’s a danger to the public. He’s been involved in two murders, possibly three, that we know about. For all we know this is the tip of an iceberg. And if that underwear wasn’t Jessica McIntyre’s, whose was it? Answer me that!’

  I certainly intend to, thought Hanlon. Oh yes, I am going to make that a priority. If Fuller is not the killer, then it’s time to start looking elsewhere.

  Huss continued, ‘If anyone else dies, the press and public are going to be down on us like a ton of bricks. Rightly so.’

  Hanlon said nothing, then stood up. God, she’s got a great body, thought Huss bitterly, staring enviously at the Lycra-clad form.

  ‘What do you think, ma’am?’ she asked.

  Hanlon shrugged. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said to Enver and nodded coldly to DI Huss.

  Huss and Enver watched Hanlon stride across the office floor. Huss noticed that Enver’s eyes had lost their sleepy, good-natured look. They were watchful, guarded. He was thinking over Hanlon’s position on Fuller.

  Huss had been making discreet enquiries about Enver from colleagues. One or two knew him or of him. He was highly regarded, a coming man, and they were all impressed with Enver’s ability to handle himself in a brawl. I want him, she thought. I wonder what he’s thinking.

  Enver wasn’t thinking of Huss. He thought she was very attractive, too attractive for him. He moved his mind to the case.

  Hanlon obviously had doubts about Fuller’s guilt. Huss, on the other hand, was convinced of it. Enver was thinking to himself, Hanlon had a track record of being right. The thing is, he thought gloomily, if Fuller was not the killer, then they were left entirely without a suspect.

  ‘What do you think, Enver?’ she said.

  ‘I think, DI Huss, that this is exceptional cake.’

  She’d been hoping he would call her Melinda. She’d been so close, maybe a drink after work. Not now. Just her surname. She felt a surge of resentment towards Hanlon.

  The woman had ruined her day.

  22

  He was thinking of the last thirty seconds of Jessica McIntyre’s life. Killing her had been a real pleasure. She was an unpleasant, snobbish, domineering, sex-crazed bitch and thoroughly deserved it. It was so much better than killing Hannah Moore, which had been more like drowning a puppy, a trusting puppy at that. Still, he reasoned, we often have to do what
we don’t want to.

  It’s all a question of control. Life is inherently unfair. Only through imposing order upon chaos can we hope to progress. And when life attacks us, we have to fight back. And when we lose we can return to the fight, coldly, dispassionately.

  For our self-respect depends upon our ability to make requital, for good or for evil, as Nietzsche said.

  He thought about McIntyre some more. All too often in his life, he had suffered unfairly, he had taken too much grief. It was a very pleasant change indeed to be dishing some out. McIntyre with her silly upper-class ways, and her equally deluded intellectual arrogance, was better off dead. Well, the world was most certainly better off without her, anyway.

  He guessed that he had two more killings to go before he could stop and relax. Two more women, both powerful characters in their own way, Dame Elizabeth and Gallagher.

  It would be a particular shame to kill Dame Elizabeth. She had after all employed him and he had always prided himself on his good relationships with his previous employers, but he had little choice. At least, he thought, he could take pride in the fact that in the period he had worked for her, she’d had nothing but good things to say about him. He had always taken a great deal of care with his work; he had always been highly regarded.

  He had the music for Dame Elizabeth’s departure planned. Nietzsche of course had a ready quote for music. He really was an incredible thinker.

  Without music, life would be a mistake.

  ‘D.I.S.C.O.’ by Ottowan. That would dictate how she would die, the movements of her final dance on this earth. He had choreographed the killing meticulously.

  At least with Dame Elizabeth he would not have to rush things too much. McIntyre was a strong woman; he had been forced to be quick. Luckily he’d had the element of surprise. Dame Elizabeth was in remarkable shape for a woman of her years, but she would be unable to put up much of a struggle. He hummed a phrase of the song to himself.

  He had a very pleasant singing voice.

  23

  Ask most people in Tottenham or Arsenal, North London in general, if they’d heard of the Andersons and you would get a yes. The Andersons were a well-known crime family, second generation now, currently led by Dave ‘Jesus’ Anderson. Jesus was his nickname since he’d crucified a rival to a door with a nail gun.

  Drugs and prostitution were the Andersons’ core businesses, these days. Malcolm, Dave’s father, had started off in the seventies with armed robbery. Then most wages were paid in cash and there’d been whole fleets of vans carrying money for payday on Fridays. Technology changes had put an end to that.

  Security vans delivering to banks had become too hard to target what with explosive-propelled dyes and other technological improvements to mark the cash. Malcolm Anderson’s choice of crime seemed as quaint and old-fashioned as being a highwayman. But drugs and prostitution had remained stable, although increased Internet traffic, together with cloned copies of drugs from China and the super-abundance of legal highs freely available, were denting the drugs trade.

  Hanlon had sent Dave Anderson down once. She’d also perverted the course of justice to get him freed, in return for information to save a child’s life. Now she was going to ask for his help again.

  Hanlon felt she knew without a shadow of doubt where Fuller would have been on the Thursday afternoon, assuming that he hadn’t been murdering Jessica McIntyre. Oxford would have its brothels too. Fuller, though, with his very specialist tastes, would have looked to visit a definite S&M place, and his reluctance to speak on the subject suggested that a certain code of silence was expected. In other words, Fuller was more frightened of whoever ran the brothel than he was of the police.

  Hanlon took this as a personal affront. She wanted criminals to know who was boss. She wanted them afraid of the police in general, herself in particular. If Fuller wasn’t going to give their names for questioning, she’d find out herself. She’d bet Campion would know.

  S&M brothels aren’t that common. It was a restricted world and they would all know each other by reputation, if nothing else.

  Campion wouldn’t tell her. ‘Me, grass someone up, dearie, I should coco,’ she’d say, or words to that effect. She hadn’t minded throwing Fuller to the wolves but a fellow criminal, that’d be different.

  We’ll see how Jesus Anderson’s name will play with you, thought Hanlon grimly. I’ll bet you won’t say no to him.

  Few people did. And they were all dead.

  She had texted Anderson upon leaving the police station in Euston. She hadn’t seen him in person since prison where he’d been on remand for what should have been an open-and-shut case of possession with intent to supply. She’d followed the subsequent dropping of charges against him and she had kept his phone number. She’d always suspected she would use it at some stage.

  She returned home to the one-room flat where she lived in the City. Her flat was as solitary as its owner.

  It had originally been designed as a kind of executive penthouse for the small four-storey office block it stood in, but had fallen foul of planning regulations. One of Hanlon’s admirers had tipped her off about it. He worked for the investment company that owned the property. The flat was redesignated as a security office and leased to Hanlon under an assumed name as a business premises. It had a separate entrance to the offices; none of the workers had ever registered her presence. She had never brought anyone home.

  Officially she lived in a terrace in Bow. It was where she was listed on police records; it was where her mail was sent. The woman who actually lived there was a seventy-year-old ex-pub landlady who Hanlon had known for years. Gloria was her name and she too liked anonymity, hugging her solitariness close to her. She trusted no one, the ideal gatekeeper between Hanlon and the outside world.

  Hanlon showered, changed and checked her phone. Anderson said he’d meet her at seven p.m. in a pub, The Three Compasses in Edmonton, north of Tottenham.

  It was five to seven when Hanlon pulled up outside the pub. It was a simple drive, more or less direct, up through the intriguing strata of London. From the shiny temple of mammon that was the City, through hip Hoxton and the middle-class enclave of Stoke Newington, through orthodox Jewish Stamford Hill to the Turkish foothills of North Tottenham and beyond.

  She checked the clock on the car. She was always punctual. Being late was a sign of grave moral weakness in Hanlon’s eyes.

  Edmonton wasn’t an area she knew well. She’d been on a team that had recovered a body from the reservoir years before, but that was about it. She also knew it had Britain’s largest incinerator. Greenpeace called it London’s Cancer Factory. LondonWaste, its current owners, call it London EcoPark. A rose by any other name, thought Hanlon. Doubtless the Andersons had made use of its facilities on more than one occasion. She could see its huge, slim tower thrusting into the sky from here, like a minatory finger.

  The street that the pub was in looked poor and rough. The cars parked by the side of the road were old, most of the tax discs out of date. The tarmac was worn, the pavement cracked and the terraced houses that lined the street, each with a satellite dish pointed hopefully at the sky above, were in urgent need of repair. Curtains sagged, paint peeled. Front gardens were unkempt, with weeds and uncut grass, breeze blocks, mattresses and other detritus. It was an unloved street, in an unloved part of London. Several windows had right-wing flyers displayed and there were a couple of ragged St George flags, hanging from rudimentary poles out of top windows.

  There was a group of kids, all of them white, although it was a very ethnically diverse neighbourhood, playing football on the pavement. The street, Gilpin Road, was a cul de sac. Outside the pub, two large, shaven-headed men stood, menacingly watchful. They weren’t smoking, they didn’t have drinks; part of Anderson’s Praetorian guard, thought Hanlon. They were wearing a bouncer’s off-duty uniform of crombie coat and shiny DMs. Hanlon could see the faint bulge at the front of the shoes that indicated they were steel-toed. The Three Co
mpasses was not a pub you went to for a drink, unless you had dealings with the Andersons. It was a business premises, not a licensed premises.

  The kids, seven of them, formed a little semi-circle round Hanlon as she got out of the Audi and locked it. One of them, aged she guessed about eleven or twelve, took a pace forward. He was small and stocky, his blond hair cut short. He exuded confidence.

  ‘Nice car, miss,’ he said, with mock politeness. He was wearing a very new pair of Air Jordan Nike trainers. Hanlon guessed they cost over three figures. He had a Lonsdale T-shirt and a gold chain. The eyes looking at Hanlon were those of an adult, not those of a child. They were disconcertingly vicious. He was the kind of child who would find it amusing to throw bricks at a cat, she thought.

  ‘Mind your car for you, can we?’

  Hanlon wondered what the going rate for her Audi would be, if she didn’t want to return and find it keyed and the tyres let down, or punctured.

  Her silence and impassive face were beginning to annoy the kid. He glared at her with an expression no child should have. It belonged to a much older head. He wondered if she spoke English.

  ‘Twenty quid,’ he said.

  Hanlon pointed at the pub. ‘You know Dave Anderson, don’t you?’ Her voice was quiet, but the kid flinched. He knew a threat when he heard it. Her face was sinister in the gathering gloom of the evening.

  The kid nodded; he didn’t look so tough now. He looked worried. Hanlon carried on, menacingly. ‘I’m meeting him over there. Anything happens to my car, if so much as a leaf blows on it, I’ll ask him to sort it out with you. I’m holding you personally responsible. You got that?’

  The kid nodded.

  ‘You know what he’ll do to you.’

  The kid nodded again.

  ‘Good,’ said Hanlon.

  She crossed the road to the pub. The kids resumed their game of football, but this time much further down the street. No one wanted to accidentally kick the ball against her car.

  Anderson hadn’t changed since she’d last seen him. His hair was still long and slightly ratty, the face still thin and the mouth narrow-lipped. He always looked slightly malnourished, she thought. Then again, perhaps he was.