by Alex Howard
‘I’m talking from experience, Detective Inspector,’ he’d said seriously. ‘Children love sex.’ Bingham, she had been reliably informed, had raped a three-year-old.
They all knew that the moment Bingham was released, he’d re-offend. She remembered how when interviewing him, Bingham gave nothing away, betrayed no one. Well, at that time she’d been constrained by PACE regulations. I wonder how you’ll stand up to a more robust interrogation, Bingham, she thought. I know you’re a monster. You fooled the judge who gave you the lightest sentence he could, you may even have fooled yourself, but I know you’re evil and I will not regret what I’m about to do.
Anderson was waiting for her in the interview room. It was furnished with two chairs and a table. The table was secured to the floor. Anderson was as she remembered him, tall, thin, and hollow-cheeked. He had grown his hair and it hung in rat-tails over his face. He looked ascetic and slightly crazy, like a killer monk, a clean-shaved Rasputin. John, the prison officer, looked enquiringly at Hanlon. His eyes said, are you sure about this?
Hanlon curtly ordered, ‘You can leave us now.’
‘Just press the button when you want me to come and get you,’ John said.
The metal door closed behind him and there was an emphatic noise as the key turned with finality in the lock. They were alone together. Anderson sat down without being asked, on the opposite side of the table to Hanlon, and raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
‘And what do you want?’ he asked. He remembered Hanlon from the time before he’d been arrested. She hadn’t been able to make that charge stick. He’d found out who was testifying against him. The witness had children. Anderson made sure he knew where they were, where they went to school. The witness withdrew his testimony and Anderson walked. No chance of that happening in this case – five kilos of coke weren’t going to disappear.
‘I’d like your assistance, please,’ Hanlon said.
Anderson smiled, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Hanlon’s own eyes were cold but Anderson’s were dead. When he looked you up and down, it was as if he were measuring you for a coffin. There was no humanity in his bleak gaze. Both inmates and guards alike preferred the company of Andy Howe, the multiple murderer, to Anderson. At least Howe was human, even if badly flawed. Anderson would kill you or hurt you with as little compunction as a man might swat a fly, and with less compassion.
‘I’m sure you would,’ he replied. His accent and inflection were typically London. He spoke quietly. He didn’t need to raise his voice.
Looking at him reminded Hanlon of how right she’d been to get him put behind bars. Anderson was a man untroubled by conscience or conventional morality. She reflected momentarily on the irony of the fact that she’d broken the law to get him in prison. Now, if he did what she wanted, and she was sure he would, she’d have to break it again to get him out.
Hanlon looked steadily in his direction. She didn’t bother trying to maintain eye contact. She wasn’t in a staring contest; she just needed Anderson to do what she wanted. Anderson had no intention of speaking first. He was in no hurry. By his own reckoning he had about ten years to go of sitting around behind prison walls. What was the rush?
‘This prison is Victorian, you know,’ said Hanlon conversationally. ‘It’s been here for 150 years. You’ll be here a while as well. You’ll be part of its history too. You could look into it, give yourself something to do while you’re here. Architecture is very interesting; I think so anyway.’ Anderson studied his fingernails with feigned indifference.
‘Perhaps you’ll come to like it too. Inigo Jones, Sir Christopher Wren, Norman Foster, Vanbrugh, all the greats,’ she added. Hanlon knew he must be wondering why she’d wanted to see him, but, of course, he wouldn’t ask. She carried on.
‘Or maybe, Mr Anderson, if architecture’s not your thing, there’s always history. Maybe you could study penal history while you’re in here, since you’re surrounded by it, so to speak.’ She tugged gently at a strand of her hair. It was thick and coarse. It was hard to do anything with it.
‘You’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. You’ll have to use books, not being allowed Internet.’
‘I know who you are, Hanlon,’ said Anderson with studied menace. He raised his eyes. It was a look that would make most people flinch.
Hanlon leaned across the table so her face was close to his. ‘Good,’ she said, very softly. He could feel her breath on his face. ‘I’m glad.’
They held that position, staring now into each other’s eyes for a few heartbeats. Anderson broke the spell first. He moved back in his chair. He was impressed by what he’d seen in the policewoman’s eyes. It was almost like looking into a mirror.
‘The copper that nicked me. I heard he got shot.’ He smiled, a parody of sweetness.
‘That’s correct. He got shot. He got shot three times to be precise. Two to the body. One to the head. That’s why I’m here,’ said Hanlon. ‘He is a friend of mine, as well as a colleague.’
Anderson laughed. ‘Do you think I was responsible, is that what you think? I thought you were supposed to be smart.’
‘If I thought that,’ said Hanlon, ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you. I’d be talking about you, to one of the many new friends you’ve got on your wing.’ While Anderson digested this not so veiled threat, she said, rather thoughtfully, ‘There’s a man in here, on A wing. Rabbit Bingham, do you know him?’
Anderson looked surprised. ‘A wing. He’s a nonce?’
Hanlon nodded. ‘He’s a nonce.’
‘I don’t mix with nonces,’ said Anderson.
Hanlon sighed. ‘That wasn’t my question.’
Anderson asked, ‘So what’s he got to do with your sergeant?’
Hanlon had had enough of beating around the bush. ‘He used to be partners with the man behind the shooting, Harry Conquest. Conquest is also involved in the sex trafficking of children. I want to know where he keeps them captive. I also want to know anything relevant to Whiteside’s shooting.’
Anderson stretched luxuriously and flexed his powerful fingers. So that’s why she’s here. He was surprised by the request. The implication was clear. The DI was hardly likely to expect him to befriend this Bingham and gain his confidence, even if he’d been able to do so. The unstated message was, get him to talk. Beating people up for a confession or for information by the police had gone out with the ark and Bingham was safe in prison anyway, so she wouldn’t be able to do it herself. He didn’t doubt her capacity to do it, not now he had seen her eyes; he was just amazed she’d contemplate it. It would wreck any trial. He’d certainly never come across police violence in his dealings with them. Things had changed since his dad’s day, as the old man frequently reminded him. Blah, blah, Kray twins, blah, blah, Charlie Richardson, blah, blah, George Davis. Not like the old days. He suddenly wondered if this was some kind of trap to make him attack another prisoner and get his sentence increased. He looked at her and decided it probably wasn’t.
‘He’s a nonce, he’ll be hard to get to,’ he said. ‘Even if I wanted to. Why should I?’
Hanlon ignored his question. ‘I didn’t say it would be easy,’ she said. ‘How you do it is up to you. And you will do it. There is another problem. One of time. Conquest has taken a twelve-year-old boy. He’s diabetic with a limited supply of insulin. I don’t think he’ll last much beyond the weekend. You’ve only got four days.’
Anderson stood up slowly and leaned on the table over Hanlon. ‘And what do I get out of it? Unlimited access to Sky TV?’ He spoke quietly, his voice low with sarcastic overtones. ‘What could the Metropolitan Police possibly offer me in return for my help?’
‘Nothing,’ said Hanlon. He sat down again, surprised at the answer. He started to speak and Hanlon held her hand up to interrupt him. ‘The police don’t do deals like that. I, however, can get you out of here.’
Anderson looked around him theatrically and made an actor’s sweeping gesture with his hand, taking in the barr
ed windows, the iron door, the brickwork.
‘How would you do that?’ he asked her sceptically. ‘Magic?’
‘I’d tamper with the evidence that put you away,’ said Hanlon simply. She looked at her fingernails, cut short and covered with clear varnish. She studied them, then put her head back and looked at Anderson. She could see she had his undivided attention.
‘I would break the seals on two of the evidence bags. We’ve got five kilograms of what we claim is your coke in our evidence room, on a shelf, in a box. All neatly secured and labelled. Possession of that coke is the evidence against you. QED. It’s what you’ve been charged with, possession with intent to supply. You know that.’
Anderson was paying attention now, that was for sure.
‘If there is any suggestion that this evidence is not what it seems, then the case against you has a massive flaw. Your brief will demand a further examination of the evidence, claiming that you were fitted up. We’ve got nothing to hide, we’ll say yes. An independent examiner will determine that the evidence – the drugs seized – has been tampered with, and this will come out in court. Some of the alleged cocaine will turn out to be, oh, I don’t know, icing sugar, say. Dextrose. It hardly matters. It’ll look as if you’ve been framed by an over-eager drug squad. I think that should be more than enough to have the case thrown out.’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘It could be argued that what you were nicked with never was cocaine, that our analysis was fraudulent from the start. Any lawyer, no matter how incompetent, would get you off on that. At the very least, reasonable doubt would exist. We’ll be completely wrong-footed; no one will know what’s happened. It’ll be a shambles.’
Anderson was silent. She was certainly right. Evidence tampering would raise all kinds of issues: planting of evidence by the police, perjury, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, and certainly reasonable doubt would be established. He’d walk. But could he trust her? He looked at the woman opposite. He knew he could. Hanlon was the real deal.
‘You might even get some form of compensation,’ she said helpfully.
But could he get to this Bingham? His mind was working furiously fast. Could he do it? He wondered. It was, as the DI had said, a problem of time. Yes, he could get to Bingham, but in such a short time? Usually time was in huge supply in prison; not in this case. Then that created the problem of bribing at least one of the screws, almost certainly more than one, to create a situation where he could get hold of Bingham for an hour. Half an hour would do, but Anderson hated being rushed and there’d be cleaning up to be done. It’d be ridiculous to have Hanlon make good on her part of the bargain only to be charged with, and end up doing time for, assaulting Rabbit Bingham. But this was running ahead of things; let’s deal now with the present, and with the most obvious question: ‘This isn’t official, is it? If any of this goes wrong, all bets are off, aren’t they?’ he said.
Hanlon was conducting a vendetta, that much was obvious. Whatever she was planning to do with the information it wouldn’t stand up in court. Tampering with evidence would get her jailed. She must really have a thing about her colleague Whiteside, or really hate this character Conquest. Hate is a powerful emotion; he could sympathize with that.
Hanlon’s mouth performed a smile of genuine sweetness and warmth for Anderson. Her eyes remained cold and hard.
‘Yes, of course it’s unofficial. If either of us gets caught, well, it’s goodnight Vienna. But, Mr Anderson, let’s not dwell on that unpleasant possibility, shall we? I’m sure we’re both optimists at heart. You do your job and I’ll do mine. If all goes to plan, and why shouldn’t it, you’ll be out in a few weeks, and Conquest will...’
Anderson finished the sentence for her in his head. He’ll be dead. It’s what he would do. He wondered if she would be capable of it. She stopped speaking and extended her open hands with a kind of gentle shrugging motion. She looked at Anderson. It was a look he recognized. He had seen it in his own eyes in the mirror a few times. It confirmed his suspicions. It was reassuring to know the kind of person he was about to deal with. Amateurs and weaklings were untrustworthy. He could do business with Hanlon. He had a feeling Conquest wouldn’t be coming to trial – at least, not in a legal sense. Hanlon had already passed judgement.
‘Deal,’ he said and they shook hands.
‘Before the end of the week,’ she said. He nodded. She pushed the button that would tell the guard to let her out and return Anderson to his cell. John, the principal prison officer, appeared in the doorway to escort her. ‘The governor would like a word, ma’am,’ he said quietly as the two of them left.
Mountfield, another screw, was standing behind him, ready to escort Anderson back to his wing. Anderson watched Hanlon go.
He didn’t know who Conquest was but he was glad he wasn’t in his shoes. Conquest, if Hanlon had her way, was a dead man walking.
29
It was night, and in her flat overlooking the Thames, flowing black, turbulent and powerful far below – a suitable metaphor for her feelings towards Conquest – Hanlon stood looking out at the water and the lights on the South Bank of the great river, thinking of Whiteside, thinking of Conquest, planning her revenge.
Enver had been wrong about which part of London Hanlon lived in, but not by much. She lived just off Upper Thames Street, close to Southwark Bridge, in the heart of the City of London.
She could see it all now, understand it all, the chess game that Conquest had started and she had become involved in as his default opponent. Conquest’s pieces were currently faceless, the two men who had abducted the Yilmaz family and the woman who had taken the Yilmaz child. They were also responsible for the death of the Somali girl and the attempted murder of Whiteside. Another major unidentified piece on Conquest’s side of the chessboard was his informant in the police.
He had more pieces but she was the White Queen. She could move anywhere; she wasn’t restricted like the others.
She stood up and moved restlessly around the enormous room that formed the main body of the flat. A spiral staircase in the corner of the room led up to the roof upon which she could sunbathe in the spring and summer. She had a small bedroom, just big enough for a double bed, and a kitchen and bathroom. Hanlon rarely had visitors; she didn’t like her personal space invaded by people. Even Whiteside had never been here. Officially, Hanlon’s address was not this one; the flat itself was not in her own name. It’s easy to be anonymous when you don’t have friends.
She couldn’t relax. The shooting of Whiteside was continually at the back of her mind like a piece of mental wallpaper. She had turned all the lights off in the flat and she paced up and down like a tiger in its cage, staring out across the dark expanse of the water to the lights on the south side. The wall overlooking the Thames was virtually one huge sheet of glass upon which she was projecting her thoughts like on a screen.
She conjured up the image of Conquest’s confident, smiling face. Conquest and Bingham. She thought about Rabbit Bingham. She might have guessed their paths were fated to cross again.
Bingham had earned his nickname from his teeth. The front ones were prominent and stuck out; the resulting name was almost inevitable. He had told her during an interview that obviously, as a child, he hadn’t liked it, but things could have been worse. They could have been a lot worse. His face rose up before her like a hologram. Bingham was odd-looking. Tall and flabby with a skull-like face, he had lank, receding blond hair which had started to fall out when he was young. He told her he was already going bald when he was at school. As a kid he had been a strange mixture of effeminate and old.
He had informed her of all of this in some interview room with real urgency, as if it were important she understood him. He kind of latched on to her almost as if she were his friend. Whiteside he hadn’t liked. He’d refuse to talk if Whiteside was in the room. Hanlon felt another spasm of rage shake her when she thought that Bingham would be delighted to hear about what had happened to him.
H
er memory took her back to Bingham. So, all in all, he felt he’d got off reasonably lightly with being called Rabbit. It sounded almost affectionate. It was the kind of name someone with friends had, and he had never been that sort of person. He had grown up, but the nickname stuck. Paul was his real name, yet he found himself telling people, ‘My friends call me Rabbit.’
After leaving school he’d drifted into IT and discovered a talent for it. His paedophile tendencies, which grew stronger and stronger the older he got, had spurred him on in his studies. It’s not my fault, he told Hanlon, I was born this way, I didn’t choose it. The closed world of child Internet porn opened like a rare flower before the expert stroking of Bingham’s nimble, caressing fingers on the computer keyboard.
He had served three years for the paedophile image collection on his PC’s hard drive. Now he had only four months to go.
Conquest must have been combining his money and abilities with Bingham’s paedophile connections and IT expertise, thought Hanlon. It was a kind of hideous, hellishly perfect marriage. Most paedo porn was Internet-based, but you needed a source and she could bet that the dead children had been part of it. Unless she found Peter Reynolds soon, he would be part of it too. Having no knowledge of the Nazi-obsessed Robbo, she was at a loss to understand why Conquest had been flagging up the bodies with the number 18, the Adolf Hitler code. Perhaps he was just crazy.
She sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the window. The room was virtually furniture free. Hanlon didn’t like furniture much. The only decoration was a signed, framed photograph of the artist Joseph Beuys, who stared impassively down from beneath his trademark hat at Hanlon’s muscular back. She looked out at the night. Southwark Bridge was brilliantly lit above the darkness of the Thames. She was in a perfect lotus pose, but her thoughts were hardly meditative.
