Cold Revenge (2015) (2 page)

Aware of the attention and just for the hell of it, she finished off her half-hour workout with some showy rope tricks, cross-overs, double-unders and double cross-overs, the rope a blur of movement, haloing her slim body. She moved so fast the rope audibly swished through the air and cracked whip-like against the floor.

Beat that, she thought triumphantly.

Laidlaw went over to her, noticing the faint sheen of sweat shining on her skin. She pushed her unruly hair back from her forehead. Laidlaw saw lines that he was sure hadn’t existed before her struggle to the death with Conquest. He guessed it had cost her more than she would ever admit.

‘Ready?’ he asked. She nodded and held her hands out, fingers splayed. With speed born of decades of practice, Laidlaw taped her long, strong fingers. She flexed them, nodded in satisfaction and Laidlaw slipped on her boxing gloves.

He had agreed with Hanlon on just one three-minute sparring round with one of the other boxers. Laidlaw had chosen Jay. He was a good, promising middleweight. At eleven and a half stone he was a stone and a half heavier than she was, so a challenge but not a mismatch.

Hanlon hadn’t been in the ring for nearly two months. She was keen to check her fitness levels and the extent to which her arm had recovered. Laidlaw knew too that she would be desperate to release some of the aggression that had built up inside her. Hanlon was one of those boxers who need to release their aggression and she knew it. It was one of the reasons why she did triathlons. She wasn’t competing just against a clock; she wanted to smash her rivals.

Eight weeks of inaction were bottled up inside her.

The trainer got into the ring after her and motioned to Jay, who followed suit. His black skin looked as though it had been carefully painted over an anatomically perfect body.

Laidlaw waved them together to the centre of the ring. Jay had a broad sceptical grin on his face. For a start, as well as being a woman, Hanlon was almost twice his age, though little was visible of her beneath her headguard and baggy tracksuit. They tapped gloves. Jay’s smile froze and vanished as he saw Hanlon’s eyes, hard and watchful. Until now he’d thought the whole thing might be some practical joke. He’d made a mental note not to hit her too hard, to go easy on her. Not now. Not after that look. The two of them circled each other and then Jay moved in.

Three minutes sounds like no time at all, the length of a song on the radio or the time it takes to clean your teeth. Three minutes.

Now, consider this.

Try leaning against someone the same weight as you. Put your head on the other person’s shoulder, neck bent so the top of your head is pressing just above their collarbone and you’re staring at the floor. Let them do the same. Interlink the fingers of each hand with your partner’s and take it in turns to push. When the other person pushes forward with their arms, resist as hard as you can, with all your strength. Then it’s your turn to push, theirs to resist. Like pistons working against a heavy mass. Use your legs as well to drive yourself forward, as does your opponent. Do this for three minutes without a break, as hard and as fast as you can, without a pause to draw breath. That’s one round.

That gives some idea of the physical effort inside the ring. Now, imagine too, the other person is trying to hit you in the face and body as hard as they possibly can, as viciously as they can, and they are strong and quick and practised.

All there is, is the ring. That is the world.

You can’t turn away, there’s nowhere to hide; you just have to face them until the round is over. Your eyes fill with sweat, occasionally tears, sometimes blood. You can’t hear anything except your own laboured breathing, sometimes not even the bell.

All there is, is the ring. All there is, is the pain. All there is, is the effort.

You’re unaware of the crowd, unaware of your surroundings. It’s just you and your opponent and those gloves coming at you. And there’s no respite, no let-up, no remorse.

Time seems endless.

Hanlon loved boxing. She was made for it. Being back in the ring just felt so good, like slipping into the sea when she swam, gloriously right.

Her reflexes were as sharp as ever. She let Jay do the work, jerking her head out of the way of his fast jab, which was accurate but not quick enough to catch her. He favoured a sharp right-cross, Hanlon used her fast footwork and ring-craft to circle him. Occasionally she flicked out a lightning-fast left of her own. Jay hadn’t expected this vicious jab and the first one caught him under his right eye, which within seconds had started to swell. Not only did he begin losing all-round vision, but it affected his calculation of distance.

He shook his head in baffled surprise. I’m losing, he thought incredulously.

He dropped his guard slightly and that was enough for Hanlon. Another punch rode over the protective gloves in front of Jay’s face, catching him off balance, and then as his feet moved awkwardly to restore his equilibrium, Hanlon was on him, sending what would have been rib-breaking body shots into his lower body, if she hadn’t pulled the power of the punches.

‘Break,’ said Laidlaw, moving between them, pushing them aside with his hands. He covered his mouth to hide his grin of delight. The old Hanlon was back. Lean and mean, he thought, lean and mean.

Hanlon moved over to a corner and rested against the ropes. She listened critically to her body. She was pleased, her breathing was perfect, her legs felt like steel. Jay came up to her pulling his headguard off and they sportingly touched gloves. She could smell his short, cropped hair and youthful perspiration. He grinned at her, taking his mouthguard out as he did so, his teeth startlingly white against his black face. Hanlon thought, he’s ridiculously good-looking.

‘Respect,’ he said. Hanlon smiled at him. Good boxers are, paradoxically, usually gentlemen. Jay nodded and rejoined his companions.

Hanlon took her gum shield out and rinsed and spat into the bucket that Laidlaw was holding. The water was tinged pink with her blood where one of Jay’s head shots had damaged her mouth. Perspiration soaked through the faded grey fabric of her baggy, sleeveless top and Laidlaw could smell a hint of scent through her sweat.

‘Are you wearing perfume?’ he asked. He’d never known her to do that. Hanlon’s unfriendly gaze met his.

‘I was seeing someone I know earlier,’ she said. ‘A friend.’ Her expression dared him to ask another question. Laidlaw had plenty of experience of reading hostility in faces and body posture; he wasn’t going to make that mistake. He knew the high price she put on her privacy.

He watched Hanlon’s back, her head held high, as she walked back across the gym. Several of the other fighters touched her shoulder gently as she passed. Laidlaw shook his head with rueful affection and sighed. She was back.

As she left, a figure in the shadows of the viewing gallery above the ring, who had been watching the fight unobserved from the darkness under the roof eaves, quietly got to his feet and slipped away towards the exit.

Hanlon showered in Laidlaw’s personal bathroom and pulled her clothes on. She felt elated. She had won; he had lost. The best of feelings.

She winced as she dressed. She studied her half-naked body in the mirror and could see the skin around her ribs changing colour, darkening, as she began to bruise. Her left eye, too, was puffy and swollen where Jay had caught it with a punch she couldn’t avoid. By the morning it would be black.

Later that night she knew she’d be in considerable discomfort from the beating her body had taken from Jay’s gloves, but Hanlon didn’t mind that kind of pain. It was there because of what she’d achieved. No pain, no gain. If there’s no charge, it’s not worth attending the show.

She was pleased overall with her performance. It was the first time she had been in a fight since her struggle with Conquest on the island, which was a couple of months ago. Her arm had healed perfectly and her fitness levels were better than ever.

She walked out of the fire door at the rear of the building, sure-footed and silent on the metal steps of the fire escape. Her sports bag in her left hand was partially unzipped and jutting out from it was the handle of a standard-issue police telescopic baton. Hanlon had made a fair number of enemies in her time and she suspected one of them would come looking for her some day. She also didn’t trust the dark streets of Bermondsey at the best of times, no matter how up-and-coming its image. Either way, she was ready.

As she exited the narrow alleyway into the dark, dimly lit street she saw a tall figure step out of the gloom.

With one fluid movement, she drew the carbon-steel baton as a familiar voice said, ‘It’s me, DI Hanlon. You can put the baton away now, unless you want to be arrested for assaulting a senior officer.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hanlon. Her hand moved away from the comforting metal handle. ‘How can I help you?’ she asked.

‘You can join me for dinner, Detective Inspector,’ said the assistant commissioner, stepping into the soft halo of a street light. ‘I’ve got a job offer for you.’

Hanlon and Corrigan sat together at a small table at the rear of the Sultan Ahmet restaurant near the brutalist sprawl of the South Bank complex, home of Lasdun’s hymn to concrete, the National Theatre and the Hayward Gallery by the Thames, just across the river from Westminster.

The restaurant was owned by relatives of Hanlon’s former partner in the Met, Enver Demirel. His aunt, Demet, ran the place. Hanlon could see her, standing behind the bar, organizing everything with tight-lipped efficiency. Short, beaky-nosed, and whippet thin with a shock of dyed brown hair, she looked like a small, angry bird. Enver, and the other relatives of his who Hanlon had met, were all placid by temperament and good-natured. Neither adjective applied to Aunt Demet.

She watched the waiters moving with professional grace, and as they exited and entered the kitchen she caught glimpses of the chefs toiling away. She reflected how much Enver had hated the catering world, how he had once told her that boxing and the police force were relatively stress free compared to working for the family-run restaurant business that the Demirels had. Mind you, she thought, I got Enver shot and nearly killed, a charge that couldn’t be levelled at his family.

Corrigan’s six-foot-five frame was uncomfortably wedged between banquette seat and table. His huge hands made the knife and fork he was holding look child-sized. He poured himself another Efes Pilsen and emptied half of it down his throat.

If Demet Gul looked bird-like, thought Hanlon, then Corrigan with his slab-like builder’s features was more like an ox or a bull. It had led many people to think him slow-witted, a huge mistake. Corrigan had a consummate political awareness that had kept him at the top table of the Met for about a decade now, and she felt uncomfortable under his shrewd, calculating gaze.

Hanlon and Corrigan were sharing a mezze-style starter, a selection of salads and various kebabs. Corrigan’s eyes brightened at the sight of the food.

‘What’s this again?’ he asked, pointing at a salad. Most of the mezze he could recognize, falafel, hummus, mini-kebabs, even Baba Ghanoush. Hanlon glanced at the plate.

‘Kisir, sir. It’s a salad with nuts in.’

‘It’s very good.’ He had another forkful. ‘What kind of nuts?’

‘Hazelnuts, I believe, sir.’

‘Ingenious,’ said Corrigan.

‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it, sir.’

Hanlon ate sparingly. She could at least pretend to be enthusiastic about her food, Corrigan thought, food that was extremely good. From the expression on her face, she might as well have been eating cardboard. Her mouth seemed to attack the mezze as if eating were some sort of unpalatable duty. She never lightens up, he thought.

‘I see you’re keeping yourself fit, Detective Inspector.’ Conversations with Hanlon often ended up as a series of sarcastic interchanges.

‘A healthy mind in a healthy body, sir,’ said Hanlon, pointedly eyeing the AC’s prominent gut.

Pictures of the great mosque in Istanbul covered the walls, along with stylized portraits of various Ottoman emperors.

‘Have you been there?’ asked Corrigan, changing the subject and pointing to a framed photo of the mosque’s enormous courtyard, lit up at night.

‘Yes,’ said Hanlon. Corrigan waited for more information. None was forthcoming. Hanlon looked back at him silently, unemotionally. Her eye was swelling up and her face was puffy. You need to get some ice on that, he thought. He had a mouthful of his Efes Pilsen beer and waved the waiter over to order another one.

He was beginning to feel thoroughly annoyed with Hanlon, a not uncommon sensation. This silent treatment from her had everything to do with Whiteside. Corrigan knew that she visited him in hospital three times a week. She had been there earlier that evening, before the gym.

Sergeant Mark Whiteside was in a coma, as a result of a shooting. Neither he, Corrigan, personally nor the Metropolitan Police had anything to do with the circumstances relating to it.

Corrigan suspected that Whiteside was where he was because of Hanlon and he had the innocent person’s natural resentment at being blamed for something of which he was not guilty. Hanlon was always convinced she was in the right, thought Corrigan. The fact that she often was had given her a messianic belief in herself. It was a source of huge strength but one day, thought Corrigan, it’ll go horribly wrong. In one sense, it already had.

Hanlon was very much of the ‘act immediately, think later’ school. Corrigan suspected that she herself knew that, which is why she relied upon cooler heads like Whiteside and now Demirel.

Not that there was any point raising this with her.

‘Do you know Dame Elizabeth Saunders?’ he asked now.

‘The philosopher?’ said Hanlon, surprised.

She did indeed. Dame Elizabeth was someone she revered. Hanlon never read fiction, regarding it as a pointless waste of time, but she was interested in history and philosophy and Dame Elizabeth, an expert on moral and existential philosophy, was one of her favourite writers. And she always felt better educated after reading a Saunders book, even if she disagreed with it.