by Alex Coombs
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 machine-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.
Conquest still made no real sound apart from hoarse gasps.
He and Hanlon were about a metre away as they faced each other, separated by the shaft of the spear. Hanlon advanced on the dying Conquest, the forward pressure of the weapon as it sank further into his body pushing his legs and lower back against the edge of his desk, trapping him. As she moved forward, gripping its shaft, yet more of the spear eme
rged from
Conquest’s back. Centimetre by bloody centimetre she moved forward jerkily, Conquest’s body twitching as more and more of the metal slid into him, until their bodies were touching, chest to chest, separated only by the width of Hanlon’s hand on the spear. Her thumb was pressed against his chest, her little finger against her own. Her face was so close to Conquest’s, their noses were only a couple of millimetres apart. It was almost as if they were lovers.
More blood trickled out of Conquest’s mouth, his white teeth were stained vampirically with the stuff, and Enver could see his lips move as he tried to say something. Hanlon stared into his dying eyes, and Enver heard her hiss, ‘Mark sends his love.’ And she gave the spear a final jerk upwards, lifting Conquest off his feet. The light in his eyes was finally extinguished and his head slumped forward.
Hanlon put the spear down. The end of the shaft was so long it rested against the raised hearth of the fireplace, propping Conquest upright against his desk so it looked like he was standing. Hanlon stood, seemingly lost in thought.
‘Ma’am!’ said Enver, urgently. She shook her head as if to clear it and went over to him. Quickly, she one-handedly undid the straps that secured his arms. Enver stood up. As he did so, he immediately sat down again, wincing at the agonizing pain in his foot. It was then the door of the study opened and Ludgate and Clarissa stood, framed in the doorway.
Clarissa took in the sight of Conquest’s bloodsoaked corpse, skewered by the spear, and the dreadful sight of Hanlon, covered in blood, both her own and Conquest’s, as if she had been dipped in it by a giant hand. Clarissa couldn’t believe that this had happened. It was like some kind of dreadful reverse miracle. Like Lazarus, back from the dead. She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream and stood, paralysed by the scene. Ludgate reacted more robustly. It was obvious what had happened, God knows how it had, but that wasn’t the problem. Hanlon was. The bloody woman had got free. Demirel was still sitting where he should be; he concentrated on the DI. He could see the shotgun out of Hanlon’s sight on the desk, concealed by Conquest’s body and the upright screen of the laptop. She was closer but didn’t know it was there, and Enver was still restrained in the chair.
He jumped forward to seize the gun. Even if Hanlon managed to pick it up, she only had one hand and the broken-open shotgun needed two to close it shut and work it. Then, without warning, Enver was upon him.
He had seen Ludgate move and he sprang out of his chair, ignoring the agony in his foot. As Ludgate’s fingers reached for the stock of the gun, Enver’s fist crashed into the side of his head. As a fighter, Enver’s strengths had always been as a puncher rather than his ability to move well. He would never have reached the top because of this, but in a brawl he was unparalleled. Style hardly mattered. The extra ten kilos he was carrying as surplus weight only added to the power of the mass behind the punch. Ludgate literally saw stars from the force of the blow. It was like being hit with a sledgehammer. He sprawled across the desk, coating himself with Conquest’s blood which had pooled in a sticky puddle on the wooden surface from the exit wound in his back. His outstretched arm sent the shotgun sliding across its surface and it fell to the floor next to Hanlon. There were two loud thuds as a left and a right hook slammed into Ludgate’s kidneys, one and two. His lower back exploded with the pain and he nearly blacked out, then he was dragged off the desk on to the floor, face upwards with Enver on top of him.
Ignoring the shotgun, Hanlon picked up the rifle and called out as she exited the room, ‘I’m going after the woman. The boy’s upstairs. Go and find him. Get backup.’ Enver nodded. He was sitting on Ludgate’s chest now, his knees pinning the DCS’s arms to the floor. He drew back his fist. Demirel’s face was maddened with bloodlust. Even in the ring he had never felt anything like this level of visceral hatred. Ludgate had meant to kill him and Hanlon. Enver’s dark brown eyes were sleepy no more. All Ludgate could do was lie there helplessly, trapped under Enver’s weight, and await the blow. Enver’s fist was huge.
Clarissa had run into the hall while Enver and Ludgate were struggling over the shotgun on the desk. Her tight dress made movement hard and her high heels were impossible to run in. She kicked her shoes off and looked around desperately. The house suddenly seemed like one huge cage. Upstairs were the two bodies and she didn’t want to join them. The ground floor had Hanlon. Downstairs, she feared being caught like a rat in a trap. She had seen what Hanlon had done to Conquest, God knows what the woman would do to her if she got her hands on her. Then, suddenly, like some hideous vision of an avenging angel of death, as if reading her mind, Hanlon herself appeared in the doorway. She was coated in blood, both hers and Conquest’s, and under her arm was his rifle. Clarissa moaned and backed away from Hanlon in terror, then ran for the front door and outside into the night.
Clarissa hurried down the steps and stood irresolutely look
ing around her. Her heart was thudding wildly. It was like a dreadful nightmare. What to do? What to do? She looked one way, then another. Her mind couldn’t think, she was panicking so much. It was like some horrible dream, hyper-real yet insane. The house’s bright security lights bathed everywhere within thirty metres in a harsh, white radiance. She could see the boat Ludgate had arrived in pulled up on the shingle next to
the jetty, but she could never get it into the water in time. She sobbed in panic. Hanlon was coming. On the other side of the house were the rocks and she knew they’d tear her bare feet to pieces. The door of the house crashed open, and there stood the terrible, blood-spattered figure of Hanlon. Behind the house was the sheer slope of the hill. She had a sudden vision of climbing it on her hands and knees, then a sudden jerk on her ankles in the darkness as Hanlon seized her and pulled her down into the terrible strength of her arms. She ran for the paddock, forgetting momentarily about the pigs.
Enver finished tying Ludgate’s arms behind his back with duct tape. His ankles were tied with the same material. He sat him upright and ran more tape around him, securing him to the leg of a heavy, mahogany table in the room. He tugged experimentally at the tape and nodded in satisfaction. The DCS wasn’t going anywhere. He picked up the shotgun and wondered as he did so, what the aftermath of all this would be. Enver’s mind usually ran very much on procedural lines. Tonight was unparalleled as far as he knew in police history. He laughed, slightly hysterically. He’d have to write a report. He laughed again, so hard that tears welled from his eyes. Where would he begin?
The assistant commissioner had wanted Enver to make sure Hanlon caused nothing untoward to happen without him knowing about it. Look around you, sir, thought Enver. Welcome to normality, courtesy of DI Hanlon. Conquest pinned with the spear like a butterfly, the DCS bound and gagged, he himself naked apart from his boxer shorts, with a bullet hole in his foot. Perhaps he should give Corrigan a ring, he thought, put him in the picture. Better still, he could take a photo on someone’s phone and send it to him. This idea precipitated another gale of laughter, he was sobbing now as he laughed,
tears rolling down his cheeks. His stomach muscles were starting to ache. He wiped his eyes and tried to relax.
Conquest’s TV was still flickering through its selection of fixed camera images from the house. The Bridal Suite came on, with clear images of the two bodies: Robbo’s and the judge’s. Hanlon’s handiwork, he assumed. Enver guessed there would be a control unit somewhere, probably in the cellar. Shotgun in hand, just in case, he limped across the study, wincing with pain, then crossed the hall and hobbled down the staircase through the door he’d noticed earlier.
At the bottom of the broad, stone stairs was a corridor running under the house with several doors, all open except one. The one that was closed had a prison cell style door. Enver looked through the viewing glass. The room was empty except for a small brown and white dog. He recognized it as a spaniel. His colleagues in the drug and bomb squad often used them. It was one of the few breeds he could identify; dogs used by the police were breeds he knew
– Labradors, German shepherds, spaniels – and dogs he thought of as criminal were pit bulls and Rottweilers. He wasn’t a dog person.
In the cell, he could also see a school blazer and a couple of books. This must have been where they’d kept the boy. He tried the handle experimentally. The door was unlocked and as it opened the dog ran out and stared up at Enver expectantly. It wagged its tail hopefully. It seemed happy to be out of the cell. The man and animal looked at each other and Enver shrugged. He guessed the dog might as well come too. One of his colleagues would look after it later. He limped on down the corridor, slowly and painfully, the dog at his heels.
He found a bedroom where he guessed the dead man upstairs had slept. Its walls were decorated with violent, pornographic images and there was a table with drugs paraphernalia and
stacks of porn DVDs, bodybuilding manuals, bike magazines and some books on Nazi Germany. Some of the drugs were prescription and he looked at the bottle labels for painkillers. He found some diazepam that looked promising and swallowed three. The adjacent room was a bathroom, leading to a kind of utility room which contained computer equipment, a couple of professional-looking servers, filing cabinets, film equipment neatly labelled and stacked on racking, and a table with a bank of monitors and the CCTV camera system’s controls.
Enver knew a lot about CCTV systems and this one was simplicity itself. It was old-fashioned, it still had actual tape, and it took him only a couple of minutes to rewind and wipe it clean. There was now no visual record of whatever Hanlon had done upstairs, or the death of Conquest come to that. That’ll make the IPCC’s job a bit harder, he thought. They can rely on Hanlon’s version of events. He nodded in satisfaction and patted the dog on the head. He switched the system off and, accompanied by the spaniel, headed upstairs. Time to try and find the boy.
