Time to Die

by Alex Howard

  The two men walked quietly up the wooden stairs, which groaned slightly under their weight. The stairway was unlit save by the light from the reception area filtering upwards. Laidlaw opened a door at the top and, as they went through, gently closed it behind them. They moved silently on to a wooden spectators’ gallery with half a dozen rows of seats. As the manager had said, the gallery was unlit and ran round three sides of the gym hall so they were shrouded in blackness. Below, Enver could make out two boxing rings in darkness. Spotlights on gantries hung above them. Between the two boxing rings a heavy bag was hanging from a chain attached to the ceiling. This was lit by two of the spotlights, a circle of brilliant white light. In front of the heavy bag was Hanlon, wearing dark blue tracksuit trousers, a baggy grey top and heavy gloves.

  She was throwing combination punches at the bag, jab, jab, cross, then jab, jab, right hook. Her punching was fluid, graceful and very fast, particularly her left jab. Enver thought if he were fighting her, he’d be very wary about being caught with that. As she punched, her head swayed, almost mongoose-like, so as not to present a static target. The two former professionals watched admiringly, Laidlaw with more than a hint of proprietorial pride. Hanlon moved beautifully. Enver guessed he’d coached her. Moving like that she’d be very hard to hit. He noted too the way Hanlon’s chin, the most vulnerable point on a fighter’s face, was kept tucked in, just like it should be. The bag below thudded with the impact of her punches and he could hear her forceful breathing and the occasional squeak of her trainers on the polished wooden floor. The blows, the bag, her breaths were the only real sounds.

  ‘She’s bloody good,’ whispered Enver.

  Hanlon’s punches were hard, vicious and fast. Even from up here, at this distance, you could sense their power, not only by the movement of the heavy bag, but the percussive noise her gloves made on its surface. Laidlaw nodded, then put a finger to his lips.

  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 p
oncey. 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.

  26

  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.

  Five minutes and one train later Hanlon walked out on to the platform, gym bag in hand. Enver felt a surge of delight at having guessed correctly. He saw the whiteness of her face, emphasized by her sombre clothes, as she glanced up at the electronic arrivals board with its orange lights spelling out destinations and times. She looked neither left nor right, just waited with her back to the wall of the platform, seemingly lost in thought. He felt the rolling warmth of the stale air from the tunnel gather speed around him, the breeze from the tunnel growing stronger as the train came closer, and the sudden rumbling noise getting louder and louder until the tube train burst out of the tunnel with a rattling crescendo of sound to pull into the station, and they both boarded. She was half the length of the train away from him.

  The Underground train was old and it rattled its way up the Northern Line, its worn-out brakes squealing as they rounded corners or stopped with a screech at stations: Bank and Moorgate in the City and Old Street. Then came Angel, one of the stops for Islington. Enver was right in his assumption she wouldn’t be getting off there. Enver got out at each stop and moved compartments until he was in the adjacent one to Hanlon. He was beginning to feel the thrill of the hunt. Through the interconnecting door between the carriages he could see her dark hair obscuring her face as she sat hunched in her seat. The question now occupying him was where would she get off?

  He had a gut feeling she would make her move at King’s Cross or Camden. Both were large and busy, both would offer the anonymity that he suspected Hanlon needed. He felt that Hanlon had to live in the city. He couldn’t imagine her getting on an overground train and commuting to the countryside in Herts or Essex. Neither could he visualize her in some outlying suburb like, say, Pinner or Ongar. It would be absurd to think of her getting on the Metropolitan line to Metroland, as Sir John Betjeman had called it, places like Harrow on the Hill, Northwick Park, Little Chalfont or Chesham. Hanlon would not want to live somewhere friendly where she would have to talk to people. Her natural haunt would be large and impersonal but probably expensive. She would not be able to put up with noisy neighbours, and money, if nothing else, buys thicker walls. It insulates you.

  There was a certain amount of wishful thinking too in his choice of possible exits for Hanlon. He didn’t want to get out with her at some desolate station where just the two of them would be left together staring at each other on an otherwise deserted platform, High Barnet, for example, this train’s terminus. If that happens, thought Enver, I’m not getting off. I’ll stay on the train. Corrigan could hardly be surprised if this harebrained idea of his failed.

  He still hadn’t realized that Corrigan wanted Hanlon to see him, wanted her to know that his eyes were on her. Enver wasn’t the medium; he was the message.

  King’s Cross came and went, as did Camden, then Kentish Town. She stayed seated. Enver studied the advertising posters on the wall as the train pulled away. So she’s not going to see the Alabama Three at the Forum tonight, he thought. There’s a surprise. Please God, not Tufnell Park, thought Enver. Hardly anyone ever got off there at night in his experience. As the train pulled out of Tufnell Park he saw Hanlon stand up. Archway, then, Enver was sure must be the one. It was the next stop. He stood up too and moved as far down his carriage away from Hanlon as he possibly could. To his relief, a group of about ten large drunken Australians stood up too, shielding him from view.

  The train stopped, the doors slid open and they left the train, the noisy Australians a good-natured, shouting, human shield. Through their bodies he could see Hanlon heading for the exit.

  Archway has a single very steep escalator and Hanlon was standing on the right as it moved up, about fifteen people away from Enver. Even if she turned round she wouldn’t see him.

  He followed her out into the street. Archway commands a good view of London and he could see the city spreading out beneath him. There, marooned like an island in a river, by the main arterial road down into London, the bottom of the A1, was the large bulk of what used to be a huge pub that he remembered being used by Irish builders that now seemed to have become a café. Just up the way was the semi-industrial conurbation of the Whittington Hospital, its name a reminder of where Dick and his cat had turned again, a jumble of ugly disparate buildings. Northwards, uphill, against the darkening sky, you could see the Gothic, Victorian bridge that spanned the deep cut of the road at the base of Highgate. The locals called it the suicide bridge for obvious reasons. It was a popular way to go. Handier than Dignitas, thought Enver, a lot closer than Switzerland.

  Hanlon was making her way to the underpass and Enver took the surface route, running across the busy main road, climbing the railings in the central reservation, and hurrying over to the other side. From there he could see her slim, dark-clad figure emerge from the pedestrian tunnel and walk eastwards towards North Holloway. Enver was really beginning to notice how unfit he had become. Tonight was the first time he’d walked any distance in a while and he was feeling it acutely. He still had an out-of-date mental image of himself as being in terrific shape, if a little overweight. But just like a once handsome man who’s lost his looks yet stubbornly clings on to the dream that women still find him attractive despite the evidence in the mirror, so Enver – now an enthusiastic user of escalators, lifts, cars and sofas, a man whose idea of heaven was the travelator at an airport, that wonderful moving pavement, so soft and springy underfoot – had refused to come to terms with the fact that times had moved on. He himself hadn’t moved faster than a walk for years. Running across the Archway Road had been a nightmare, almost in the true sense of the word. Like in a dream he’d run as fast as he could, yet seemed to be going nowhere. He’d misjudged totally how quickly he could move; he’d only just managed to break into a speedy waddle. Cars had been forced to brak
e to avoid hitting him. Horns had sounded angrily. The waist-high railings had proved embarrassingly hard to get over.

  Hanlon on foot moved speedily and lightly. Enver trudged after her through what had become the endless streets of Holloway, like an Escher drawing. His legs ached, his lungs laboured. She turned a corner, the sergeant following, grimly determined, in her footsteps. The sky was a rich purple-blue, it was now almost night, and he turned into the new street that the corner revealed and Hanlon was gone.

  He stood, hands on his hips, gazing hopelessly down the empty road, waiting for his heart to slow down. Where the hell was she? An unfriendly voice behind him asked, ‘Looking for someone, Sergeant?’

  At five to six Kathy’s Lufthansa flight had landed at Heathrow’s Terminal Three and she’d been fast-tracked by a customs officer and a waiting police officer and taken through a maze of back, employees only, corridors until she cleared airside. There, at Arrivals, she was met by a tearful Annette and a sympathetic WPC. The woman was a family liaison officer who explained as they moved quickly through the airport what they were doing to find Peter. From there she was driven in an unmarked police car to Highgate police station in North London, close to where she lived. Here she was escorted through the tall security gates at the back of the building to an office, where a team of three police officers were waiting. She was briefed on what they knew about his disappearance and what steps they were taking.

  Annette had already provided them with information on Peter’s diabetes and they asked about his insulin, how much he would have had on him when he was taken. She didn’t know, probably about a week’s worth. The police exchanged significant glances. If he hadn’t been found within a week, he almost certainly wouldn’t be found alive anyway, insulin or no insulin.