by Alex Coombs
She hung from the window ledge of the bathroom by the
fingertips of her right hand and reached over with her left hand to the ledge of the bedroom. Then she tightened the muscles in her arms and pulled herself up so she could see through the crack in the curtain. The judge had lifted the boy’s T-shirt up to his chin and was staring lustfully at his naked chest. He leant forward and gently stroked the boy’s nipples. He sat down on the bed next to the boy and licked his thin lips. Hanlon placed her shoes on the window sill and slid silently
into the room, lithe as a snake. As she did so, she pulled a length of cord from the right-hand pocket of her zipped top. At each end was a loop. She slipped her hands through these loops. The judge’s back was to her. His tongue extended as he bent his head forward to lick the boy’s body. As he did so, in one swift motion, Hanlon threw the cord over his head, around his neck, planted her knee in the judge’s back and pulled. While she did this, her hands crossed over each other and the cord bit savagely into the scrawny neck. She stood up, pulling the judge with her, the man making almost inaudible choking sounds, his eyes bulging, his erect penis, a bulging, blue-veined pole, maintained by two Viagra, incongruously dancing and jerking in front of him as they moved, in an obscene shuffling dance. His hands clawed ineffectually at the cord which closed his windpipe, cutting off his air supply. Then his knees gave way as he lost consciousness and he slid to the floor.
Hanlon checked her watch, five past nine. She went over
to the boy and examined him. He seemed unhurt, there were no visible injuries and there were no marks on his wrists to suggest he’d been restrained. He was breathing comfortably and deeply; he’d obviously been drugged. On the bedside table was an unfamiliar type of syringe with a very small needle and next to it was a small, black, plastic machine about the size of a pack of cards. She remembered that the boy was diabetic; this then must be his insulin and the machine for checking his blood-sugar levels. Well, if all went to plan, she’d be able to get him into the hands of a doctor soon enough and if things didn’t work out, then maybe he’d be better off not waking up. She knew that Conquest would never release him alive. His body would either never be found, or be dumped somewhere prominent with the number eighteen written nearby.
She slid her arms under the boy and lifted him up, then laid him gently down on a rug on the floor. She looked at the now empty bed. It had a sturdy wooden headboard and the posts which formed the legs at the bottom rose in twin carved wooden columns above the mattress. There were buckled restraints attached to both headboard and posts so a body could be tied down on the bed, legs and arms splayed out. She picked the judge up and secured him tightly, face upwards, like a skinny, wrinkled starfish. He stirred and moaned.
There was a jug of water on the table next to a bottle of red wine with a faded label, and a mirror, a razor blade, a silver straw and a folded bag of what she guessed was coke. Next to the table was a shoulder-high, Victorian, ladies’ screen with three hinged panels so you could conceal yourself while undressing or dressing. She looked behind it and there on a dainty ormulu table with ornately gilded legs was a mask and a studded codpiece. Her lips curled in contempt. She picked the mask up and looked at it. The mask’s eyes were covered in a kind of gauze so you could see out but not in. She guessed that the judge was too cowardly to meet the gaze of his victim. He had to hide behind a disguise. Above this table was another set of drawn curtains. Hanlon opened them a crack and looked out. These windows overlooked more lawn surrounded by a wall which had a section of fence and through there, in a field partially lit by the house’s floodlights, she could see a large animal. A pig was standing looking in her direction. She was aware of movement behind it and guessed that maybe there were more pigs in the field. Narrowing her eyes, she could just make out in the moonlight a couple of rudimentary shelters for
the animals to provide shade from the sun.
Satisfied, she closed the curtains and picked up the jug of water. She also selected a couple of items from a coffee table
that contained sex toys. One of these was a ball gag. She leant over the judge and pinched his nostrils closed. He automatically opened his mouth to breathe and she inserted the black rubber ball into the opening, releasing his nose, then slid the straps round his head and secured them tightly. She slowly tipped the water over the judge’s face and his eyes flickered and opened as he regained consciousness.
Then, as his oxygen-starved brain readjusted itself, he focused on Hanlon. His head jerked wildly as he struggled in his restraints and he made muffled noises behind his gag. She held one of the nipple-clamps she’d taken from the table in front of his eyes and watched as they widened slightly. She leant forward and positioned it over the judge’s left nipple and then started screwing it tight. She watched as his eyes filled with tears and his body tautened with pain.
‘Good. I can see I’ve got your attention,’ said Hanlon. ‘When I take this gag off you’re going to tell me how many people there are in this house, do you understand?’ She screwed the nipple clamp tighter and the trickle of blood running down his chest intensified. ‘Another turn on this and you’ll be able to wear a nipple ring.’
The judge nodded frantically. Hanlon showed the judge the razor blade she had taken from the table. The judge now looked absolutely terrified. ‘Don’t try and scream for help,’ said Hanlon. ‘If you do, I’ll cut your throat.’ She pulled the ball of the gag down. Reece swallowed nervously.
‘Three,’ said the judge. ‘Me, Conquest and the girl, Clarissa.’ Hanlon replaced the gag and took hold of the clamp. She screwed it as tight as it would go, completely through the soft flesh of his nipple. The judge’s body bucked against his restraints. Blood trickled down his chest through the pierced nipple. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ said Hanlon. She stood up and walked
to the table. She picked up a paddle and returned to the judge. His erection had subsided now and she could plainly see the wrinkled sac of his scrotum. Three times she slammed the paddle into his testicles. The judge writhed and whimpered through his rubber gag.
‘I’d tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God, if I were you,’ said Hanlon.
The judge nodded frantically. She removed the gag. Lord Justice Reece was crying with pain, tears pouring from his eyes, and mucus dribbled thickly from his nose. His chest heaved as he sucked in air to vainly try and dampen the fires of agony that burnt in his groin and chest. It was hard to know which hurt more.
‘Four,’ he gasped. ‘Me, Conquest, the girl and Robbo. I swear. I swear it’s only the four of us. Please don’t hurt me any more.’
‘Robbo will be the skinhead?’
The judge nodded. Hanlon was pleased. It was better than she could have hoped for. Only four. And one of them was tied to a bed. Not that the judge, bereft of a supportive legal apparatus, was much of a threat to anyone. She guessed it was maybe the first time in his life anyone had deliberately hurt him. He would have no point of reference. He could hand it out, but he couldn’t take it.
‘Can you get him up here?’
The judge nodded. He moved his head so he was looking at an old-fashioned bell pull. ‘With that,’ he said. He was eager to be cooperative now.
Hanlon looked around the room. The only weapon she had with her was her knife and she did not want to be in a fight in close proximity to the massively muscled Robbo. She guessed, well, she knew, he would be no stranger to violence. She would
bet it was Robbo who had slammed Mehmet’s head into the kitchen counter, shattering his skull. If he managed to pin her down with his weight, she would in all probability lose. To lose meant to lose everything. She had no intention of doing that. The bedroom was dominated by a huge Victorian fireplace,
its hearth decorated with glazed tileware. There was a set of fire irons of a scale in keeping with the large fireplace, including a poker the length and thickness of a crowbar. Hanlon replaced the gag in the judge’s mouth and went over and picked
it up. She hefted it thoughtfully in her hand, feeling its solid weight. It was perfect.
She covered the judge with a blanket so only his bound wrists and ankles were visible; the rest of him, including his head, was an amorphous mass under the cloth. Then she unbolted the bedroom door, tugged the bell-pull and stood behind the old-fashioned screen. The judge’s mask stared at her balefully with its faceted eyes.
* * *
A couple of minutes later, she heard the stairs creak under a man’s heavy weight and the handle of the bedroom started to turn. Her grip tightened on the iron bar as she waited.
36
DCS Ludgate slowly followed the twin sets of footprints down the stream. For a solidly built man, he moved silently and gracefully. The gun with its double barrels was comfortingly heavy in his hands. One for you, Hanlon, he thought, and one for you, Sergeant. He had no doubt that the other set of prints belonged to Demirel. Hanlon attracted these hangers-on, he thought dismissively. Other women have dogs, she has Metropolitan Police sergeants. She should get them chipped for when she loses them. Not that Whiteside was exactly lost. Not geographically anyway. How that stupid bitch Clarissa had managed to cock up shooting him in the head, God only knew. It wasn’t the kind of mistake he’d make.
He came to where Hanlon and Demirel had climbed up the
steep muddy bank to look at the lodge. He stood and looked at the prints and divined what had happened. Two sets up, two sets down. He moved slightly downstream and sure enough he picked up their tracks again. He was puzzled now as to what they would find or do on the beach. Had Hanlon arranged a boat? She was certainly far-sighted enough to do that. He was creeping forward now, every nerve strained. They had to be very close.
The banks of the stream widened and flattened as it spread out to the sea, and then suddenly visible in front of him, he saw
Demirel. He was crouched by a sand dune, his back to Ludgate, staring at the house on the island through binoculars. Ludgate noticed prints in the wet sand among the shingle and they led to the sea. They were footprints now as opposed to shoe prints. He shook his head in wonder. The crazy bitch must have swum over there. He hated Hanlon’s guts, but he had to admire her bravery and astonishing physical fitness. It would have been understandable for Ludgate to speculate wishfully that she might have been swept away by the powerful current, but he had absolutely no doubt Hanlon would be equal to the challenge. Keeping an eye on Demirel, he fished his iPhone out of his pocket. Still no signal. He’d have to call Conquest from the lodge. He put the phone back in his pocket and slowly and quietly walked up behind Demirel. The noise of the wind from the sea masked any sound he made.
He walked to within two metres of Demirel. ‘Stand up,
Sergeant, and don’t turn round,’ he said quietly. He watched, satisfied, as Demirel froze. ‘I’m armed. If you turn, I’ll fire.’ He watched as Demirel painfully, slowly got to his feet, keeping his back to him as instructed. Ludgate shook his head. And I thought I was unfit, he thought. ‘Turn round slowly now, hands outstretched where I can see them. I’m sure you know the drill.’ Enver did so. He recognized the voice immediately and was surprised by how unsurprised he was. It was as if he had known all along that if Conquest did have a man in the Met, it would be him. He looked now at Ludgate, saw his sparse, reddish-brown hair blown over his balding head, his fleshy face with the small, piggy eyes unwavering as they held Enver in their stare, the shotgun rock steady in his freckled hands. Enver knew that Ludgate wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him. Now Enver knew Ludgate was implicated, he wouldn’t be allowed to live. That much was certain. The only reason Ludgate hadn’t
pulled the trigger was almost certainly because he didn’t want the messy business of clearing up afterwards. At this range, bits of him, chunks, would be spread all over the place. Enver was sure Ludgate had a cleaner death lined up for him than blowing him into shreds with a shotgun.
He was surprised by how unafraid he felt, surprised and grateful. Although he’d climbed into a boxing ring many times, a thing most people would be terrified to do, he’d never thought of himself as brave. He was pleased to find he was. He’d have hated to go to pieces in front of Ludgate. If anything, he was strangely calm. Barring a miracle, he was a dead man. He breathed deeply and looked around him at the enormous expanse of sea and sky. They were beautiful. There were worse places to die. What did upset him was the feeling he had let Hanlon down. She would be relying on him and he was useless.
‘Take your jacket off, Sergeant. Good. Now your shirt and tie.’ Ludgate was concerned about two things; concealed weapons was one of these. The other was a key. Police handcuffs have a universal key and Ludgate did not want to have to body search Demirel to check he didn’t have one concealed about his person. He made the sergeant strip down to his boxer shorts. His clothes lay in an untidy pile on the beach as if he’d gone for a midnight dip. He shivered in the cold wind, his skin covered with goosebumps.
‘Good, Sergeant. Now turn round facing the sea. Good. Arms behind your back.’ Holding the shotgun with one hand, Ludgate advanced towards him and, both barrels pressed upwards into the rear of Enver’s skull, handcuffed his hands one by one behind his back.
‘Now sit down on the ground, back to me. Slowly now.’ Enver did so and Ludgate gathered up the sergeant’s clothes and shoes, and hung the binoculars around his neck.
‘OK, Sergeant. Stand up now. That’s good. Now head for the house.’ Enver winced as his naked feet scrunched painfully on the stony beach. Ludgate followed behind him, the shotgun cradled in one hand.
Back on the island there was a discreet knock on the oak-panelled door of the bedroom. Robbo had arrived. Hanlon waited, the door opened and Robbo came in. He stopped uncertainly, looking at the bed in puzzlement. Seeing the hands and feet, the body covered with the blanket, he assumed it was the boy, but where was the judge?
Hanlon sprang from behind the screen and brought the poker down in an overhead arc aimed at Robbo’s head. Robbo sensed, rather than saw, the movement. His response was instinctive, born of years, decades, of violence. His left arm, coated in heavy, protective muscle, swung upwards to block the blow. He grunted in pain as the heavy, iron poker smashed into his arm, fracturing the bone, and his right fist swung at Hanlon. She ducked and felt it graze the top of her head, and then she straightened up and drop-kicked Robbo in the groin.
It was exactly the same kick that Enver had seen in the gym in South London. The same kick that had lifted the heavy bag, all forty kilos of it, up high on its chains. Robbo gasped in agony and doubled over, his face contorted with pain. Hanlon stepped forward, her left knee scythed upwards into his face, and as she did so she dropped the iron poker, clasped her hands together, fingers interlaced, and slammed his head downwards to meet her knee coming up. There was a dull thud, a muted breaking sound, as the bones in his nose, his gum, upper teeth and cheekbones smashed, and Robbo went down. Even then he wasn’t finished. He tried to pick himself up off the floor, his face a bloody mask, and as he did so Hanlon snatched the
poker from the floor and struck him as hard as she could in the right temple, driving the shattered bone of his skull into his brain. He collapsed on to the carpet face down. A thick, dark red pool of blood slowly formed around his head. His breathing sounded ragged and wet and then slowly ebbed away into silence.
She looked around her. The blanket had come off the judge’s head as he had struggled to free himself and he looked at her, wide-eyed with terror. Hanlon pulled the ski mask off her face and shook her hair free. Yes, Lord Justice Reece, this is what I look like, look at me, look at my face. Her eyes blazed with bloodlust. I don’t need to hide behind a mask, she thought. She strode to the door and closed it, stepping over Robbo’s body as she did so with as little thought as if he had been a rug. She walked back to the bed and checked on the boy who still lay there on the floor, unconscious.
She went to the table where the boy’s insulin was. She was well aware how dangerous it could be. Hanlon
knew that insulin in a healthy person would lead to coma and death. Years ago, she had been a constable on a murder investigation where this had happened, a husband and wife thing, not too dissimilar to the death of Sunny Von Bülow, very possibly inspired by it. Insulin had recently led to several hospital deaths in the north of England when saline drips had been deliberately contaminated with it. She picked up the boy’s syringe and looked closely at it to see how it worked. It was simple enough. She twisted it experimentally and it clicked as a number of units were dialled. She decided that twenty would probably do. She’d make it fifty to be on the safe side. She turned the injection pen and saw it would allow her to go up to thirty-three. Well, if that was the maximum dose for a type-one diabetic, it would surely be more than enough for a healthy adult.
She thought of the boy’s mother, she thought of Whiteside, she looked at the tranquil face of the boy himself. She thought of the charred body of the Somali girl and the drowned corpse of Baby Ali and his dead family. She looked at the judge, then at the syringe. An expression of terrible fear spread over his face as he guessed what she was intending to do. He caught her eyes and silently shook his head, pleading with her not to do it. Hanlon’s face was expressionless, her eyes cold, hard and distant.
