Time to Die

by Alex Howard

  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.

  There was a peal on an old-fashioned doorbell, which rang through the house. It was literally a bell on a chain, it wasn’t electric. It jangled almost cheerily. Hanlon thought for a moment that Enver must have pre-empted the agreed time and called in earlier than he should have done. Well, she wouldn’t complain. Conquest jerked his head and Clarissa disappeared. She heard a bolt being drawn on the front door. It echoed loudly in the hall, followed by voices, and Clarissa re-entered the room. It was then that all hope ended for Hanlon.

  Clarissa was followed by Enver with Ludgate bringing up the rear, a shotgun pressed into the sergeant’s back. There would be no rescue. The cavalry would not be coming.

  38

  Enver was now sitting on a chair as well as Hanlon. It was a very sturdy, wooden chair with a high back. It was like a simplistic version of a throne. Its broad arms had leather straps and these secured Enver’s wrists, so he was tied to it. He was naked apart from his baggy blue boxer shorts and, free of restrictive clothing, you could make out the body of the athlete he once was. There was a lot of flesh there but you could see the solid frame beneath. Hanlon had watched him testing his restraints, his biceps swollen with muscle, writhing like snakes with the effort. His chest was carpeted with black hair and his jowly face dark with stubble. He was bear-like. Ursine, thought Hanlon, that was the word. If I get out of this alive, by some miracle, I’ll teach it to Corrigan. He can add it to his list.

  Conquest sat near him, the rifle still unrelentingly trained on Hanlon. Ludgate and Clarissa sat on a sofa. Ludgate’s shotgun was broken open and lying on Conquest’s desk.

  Ludgate said sourly, ‘Well, isn’t this cosy.’ He was beginning to feel highly vulnerable, more than slightly edgy. Although he knew that Hanlon had not so far confided in anyone other than Sergeant Demirel, he felt there could well be fallbacks that she’d set up. He would have done that. He could imagine her arranging with one of her small but devoted fan base something along the lines of ‘In the event of my not contacting you before, whenever, please inform Assistant Commissioner Corrigan, etc., etc.’ Like Hanlon earlier, he had an ear cocked for the telltale sound of a helicopter or the roaring of powerful outboards.

  He would have liked to see a lot more action on Conquest’s part, certainly more of a sense of urgency. At least to get rid of Hanlon and Demirel, for a start. Then there was Robbo’s body upstairs and the judge lying up there unconscious. God knows what Hanlon had done to him. And somewhere, out on the island, was the boy. It was a mess. He g
lared at Conquest and Clarissa. They’d make a lovely couple splashed all over the papers. He could see the headline now, ‘Monsters’, something along those lines. He’d be a footnote, but he’d end up doing a full-life tariff all the same.

  His thoughts were broken by a harsh laugh from Enver. Such was Hanlon’s magnetism, that the three of them hadn’t been able to take their eyes off her, and they’d almost forgotten the sergeant was there.

  Enver had been looking around Conquest’s study, at the five of them together. Ludgate looked at him angrily.

  ‘Something funny, Sergeant?’ he said.

  Enver replied, ‘I was looking for the sign.’ Frowns appeared on puzzled faces. ‘The one that says, “You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps”. That one,’ he explained. ‘You’ve got two bodies upstairs, a kid on this island that just about everyone in Britain is looking for, two police missing, one a senior officer, do you really think you’re going to get away with this?’

  Hanlon nodded her head in agreeement. She could visualize Forrest and his SOCO team carefully going over Conquest’s house searching for traces of her presence. Then she thought, the only person who knows of its existence is Anderson. Would he tell anyone? Probably not. Conquest could well get away with it. Ludgate might even end up heading the investigation for her and Enver’s disappearance. Conquest smiled bleakly as if reading her thoughts and he allowed the barrel of the .22 rifle to point towards the floor. There was a sharp crack as he pulled the trigger. The bullet drilled a neat half-centimetre hole through Enver’s naked right foot. Enver gasped, then grimaced in pain and clamped his jaw shut. Blood trickled from the hole in his foot. Conquest slid the bolt back and ejected the spent cartridge case. The polished copper casing tumbled to the floor.

  ‘When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. But in answer to your question, yes,’ he said simply. ‘Yes, I think I will get away with it. Why not?’ A thin wisp of smoke drifted upwards from the chamber and Conquest inhaled it appreciatively, like a man sniffing perfume. He took another full cartridge from a box by his side and reloaded the rifle. He slid the bolt back and pointed it at Hanlon.

  ‘Of course,’ he added thoughtfully, carrying on his train of thought and looking at Enver whose eyes were moist with tears of pain, ‘even if I don’t, I’m afraid neither of you two will be around to see it.’ He turned his eyes to the figure of Hanlon. The rifle barrel followed his gaze. So it ends here, she thought to herself. Her only regret was that she had brought Enver into it. He was paying for her arrogance, her hubris. Another word she’d never get to teach Corrigan.

  ‘Stand up, DI Hanlon,’ said Conquest. Slowly she complied, and drew her aching body straight, with pride, as if she were on parade. She braced herself for the impact of the shot.

  ‘Jim, could you hold her wrists behind her back.’

  Ludgate stood up and warily did as he was told. Hanlon with a broken arm was still Hanlon. He heard her hiss with pain as he took a very firm hold of her. Her wrists were slim and hard with muscle. He could smell her damp hair. He was careful not to put his face too close to her head in case she drove it backwards in a reverse headbutt. Similarly, he was very conscious of her feet. He didn’t want her stamping on his instep. He was nervously wondering too about the penetrative powers of Conquest’s rifle. He guessed the bullet that had gone through Demirel’s foot was embedded in a floorboard. He wondered if Hanlon’s body would stop a shell or if it would keep on going through her into him. Can’t we just kill them now, he thought, without all this faffing around?

  ‘Where’s the boy, Hanlon?’ Conquest asked. She shook her head. He turned his head to the woman. ‘You ask her, Clarissa,’ he said.

  Clarissa nodded and stood up. She walked over to Hanlon and pulled on a pair of black, leather gloves that Conquest handed her. She smiled at Hanlon and then slapped her across the face with the palm of her hand and then again with her back hand. Her leather gloved hands made dull thuds on Hanlon’s skin. ‘Where is he, bitch?’ she hissed. Hanlon said nothing. Her face was marked crimson from the blows. Clarissa started again, grunting with effort.

  Enver watched in misery as Clarissa slowly, viciously, venomously, beat Hanlon senseless. She made more noise, grunting with effort, than Hanlon, who endured the assault silently. Hanlon didn’t say a word. Clarissa varied the attack on her face with blows to the body. It seemed to go on for a very long time. Clarissa was badly out of breath when eventually Hanlon’s legs gave way as she collapsed from either unconsciousness or pain. Enver saw her knees go and her body slump. Ludgate’s face tightened as he took the strain of her dead weight. He let her fall to the floor and she lay there, face down, on her left side on top of the broken arm. Her eyes were closed.

  Hanlon’s features were a mask of blood. Enver guessed the skin around her eyes and mouth had been cut by the beating she’d taken from Clarissa, who stood there over her, panting. Her face and hair were spattered with Hanlon’s blood and there was a big smear of it down her dress where she’d wiped one of her hands without thinking.

  ‘Go and wash and get changed,’ said Conquest. ‘And I want those clothes you’re wearing binned. We’ll have to start removing evidence. Jim,’ he said to Ludgate, ‘go with her and bring back a roll of bin bags and duct tape. She’ll show you where they’re kept. About time we did some cleaning up around here.’

  Hallelujah, thought Ludgate. Sanity prevails at last. And I, for one, could do with a drink, a Scotch, a bloody large one. Conquest was notoriously abstemious and he rarely offered people a drink. Guests, maybe; those on the payroll, never. Robbo liked a drink, though, had liked a drink, there’d be whisky in the man’s room. He’d have one down there. Robbo was hardly in a position to say no. The two of them left the study, closing the door behind them.

  Conquest glanced at the unconscious Hanlon. He shook his head irritably. Four bodies to get rid of. Two upstairs, one down here. And the boy would make five. He looked at Enver upright in his chair, eyes virtually closed as he fought the pain in his shattered foot. He’d have to take them to Glasgow Brian in Essex to dispose of. The pigs could only eat so much and he didn’t want to risk burial at sea. The bottom round here was shallow and sandy. Even weighted down someone could end up entangled in a fisherman’s net and be brought to the surface.

  He stood up and stretched, and swivelled his chair round to use the laptop on his desk. He switched it on and bent his head. He thought to himself that he’d better email Brian and warn him they were coming. There was a Mitsubishi pickup truck at the lodge, they’d be able to get the bodies in there while it was still dark and head off to the farm about six in the morning.

  Behind Conquest’s back, Enver saw Hanlon’s eyelids flicker. He stared intently at her, hardly daring to breathe. Then, suddenly, her eyes opened. Hanlon was back.

  39

  Hanlon’s right eye opened suddenly. It was startlingly clear against the dark, red blood that covered her face. Hardly daring to breathe, Enver watched as she blinked twice. Then Hanlon rolled her weight off her left side and lay, face down on the floor. To the right of him, Enver was conscious of Conquest tapping one-handedly at the keyboard of his laptop. He was still sitting with his back to Hanlon. Enver was terrified that he might turn round.

  Hanlon didn’t move for a couple of heartbeats that seemed to extend into eternity and then, pressing up with her right hand, her broken left arm useless, as though doing a yoga exercise, or attempting a one-handed press-up, she pushed her chest and shoulders upwards like a cobra. Still Conquest frowned at the screen. Next to him on the desk was Ludgate’s shotgun. Propped and leaning against the sofa was his rifle. Enver hardly dared to breathe.

  Now Hanlon, in a fluid, graceful motion slid her knees forward and straightened up. She stood looking at Conquest’s back. Her dark hair was matted with her blood that obscured her features like a mask. Her other eye was swollen shut and her left arm hung uselessly by her side.

  Her head turned left and right in an almost m
achine-like, robotic way as she scanned the room with her good eye. Hurry up, hurry up, willed Enver. Mounted on the wall, above where Hanlon had been lying, in parallel at a forty-five degree angle, were the two boar spears that had reputedly belonged to Goering. The spears that the dead Robbo had coveted. Very gently, Hanlon lifted one off its brackets where it was resting. She narrowed her eyes with the effort. It was nearly two metres long with a sixty centimetre barbed steel tip, ending in a needle-sharp point. It was very heavy, but beautifully balanced. She manoeuvred the spear under her right arm like a knight with a lance, then she ran at Conquest.

  He must have heard or sensed something for, as she started her charge, he stood up and wheeled round, but he was far too late to react. The tip of the spear caught him in the sternum, just below the V of his ribcage, and kept going. Enver saw the fabric of his white, heavy cotton shirt pushed out, tentlike from his back, before bursting open as the tip of the spear emerged through the material, red with blood from his body. Conquest’s mouth was open in shock and pain in a soundless scream as the spear drove through him, and Hanlon stared triumphantly into his face, her right hand grasping the shaft of the weapon slick with the blood which was pouring out of his chest, trickling heavily from his mouth and flowing down his back from the exit wound. The white fabric of his shirt was now dyed a deep, deep red. Enver had never seen so much blood, it seemed endless.