Cold Revenge (2015) (3 page)

She also admired how Dame Elizabeth had shouldered her way up the male-dominated world of academia, crunching through glass ceilings like an Arctic ice-breaker. She was high profile too. Dame Elizabeth appeared on book-judging panels, arts programmes, politics and media items on various TV stations.

Corrigan nodded. The Saunders name seemed to have jolted Hanlon out of her foul mood.

‘What do you know of her?’ he asked.

Hanlon frowned. ‘Well, she’s a well-known popular philosopher and broadcaster. She taught at Oxford and I’ve seen her on the TV. She specializes in moral philosophy, what is good and what is bad, that kind of thing, but also she’s done quite a bit of government work. I guess that’s a result of the moral philosophy. Most recently she was on that inquiry held by the IPCC on how we evaluate mental illness in arrested suspects.’

‘I know,’ said Corrigan through gritted teeth. ‘We’re police, not mental-health experts, for heaven’s sake.’ One of Corrigan’s duties was to handle the media and he’d had a grim time recently. Accusations of racism in the Met, corruption, systemic perjury and, as if that wasn’t enough, both they and the prison service were facing the consequences of a mental-health policy that left people in need of treatment rather than punishment out at large for the police to deal with.

‘Well, we do get more than our fair share of nutters, sir,’ said Hanlon.

Corrigan snorted derisively. ‘I hadn’t realized you had such a caring side, Detective Inspector. You certainly keep it well hidden.’

‘Oh, I care, sir,’ said Hanlon quietly. ‘I care about justice, something Dame Elizabeth has written extensively about.’ She paused. ‘Do you, sir?’

Hanlon’s mind was on Whiteside. Mark Whiteside kept alive by machinery, drips, tubing and a colostomy bag. Whiteside would have particularly hated that last demeaning touch. Even though the perpetrators were dead, she couldn’t help but feel they’d got off lightly compared to him. The innocent were punished, the guilty roamed free. Where was the justice in that? Hanlon was hurting, and like any hurt animal she wanted to lash out. Her tone was one of barely veiled anger.

Corrigan restrained a childish urge to kick the table over and storm out. He’d had a terrible day and he really did not need this shit from Hanlon. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. He was on beta blockers for his high blood pressure and he could feel a vein throbbing ominously in his forehead. Ironic if I keeled over here, face down in the hummus, felled by a Hanlon-induced stroke, he thought.

Something must have shown in his face because Hanlon asked, almost meekly for her, ‘What about Dame Elizabeth, sir?’ It was as close to contrition as she was likely to get.

‘Dame Elizabeth, as you may or may not know, is the professor of philosophy at Queen’s College here in London,’ said Corrigan.

‘No, I didn’t know that, sir.’

‘Well, now you do. She is.’

‘Why this interest in philosophy, sir?’ asked Hanlon. ‘It’s very Zen of you.’

Corrigan stifled a smile. Hanlon was one of the few people who dared to tease him. His work persona was one of angry efficiency.

He took the tablet he had on the table next to him and the screen brightened as he searched for something. A photo of a man filled the screen and Corrigan swivelled it round so Hanlon could see.

He was in his mid-thirties, she guessed, with longish, floppy hair, a linen jacket and a scarf that was probably from some Oxford or Cambridge college. It was thrown casually around his neck. She disliked him immediately. He was confident and good-looking, but to Hanlon’s eye there was a hint of weakness in the face, the self-deprecating grin a little too forced, with that air that some people have of trying slightly too hard. It was the kind of face that begged people to like him, the kind of person who would smile too much. It was a puzzling mix, arrogance tinged with desperation.

She looked quizzically at Corrigan.

‘That,’ he said, ‘is Dr Gideon Orlando Fuller, who also lectures in philosophy on a five-year contract at Queen’s College. Hired by Dame Elizabeth herself. He is a suspect, the main suspect, in the death of this girl, Hannah Moore, who was strangled – either by accident or design – during some sort of S&M-style sex, a week ago. This photo is from her Facebook page.’

Hannah Moore pouted at them provocatively from the screen. It was an attempt to appear sexually alluring, but her face and body were not the stuff of male fantasy. Hanlon looked at her dispassionately.

She was obviously overweight and her heavily made-up eyes were small and piggy in the generous expanse of her face. She had dyed her hair blonde, but not her dark eyebrows, and at the front the roots showed their true colour. Yet in those eyes, framed by inexpertly applied make-up, was a real look of intelligence. Hanlon shook her head with irritation.

The girl must have known that she looked both slightly pathetic and ridiculous. That
FHM
/
Loaded
look was not for her, but she’d been desperate enough to try. Why could she not just have settled for quiet dignity; she was a student, not a Page-3 girl.

She looked again at Corrigan. ‘And?’

‘Hannah Moore was in one of Fuller’s evening classes. Dame Elizabeth, who has a lot of clout in the government and civil service, has demanded and received assurances that our investigation will be discreet and low-key.’

‘Is that right?’ said Hanlon contemptuously. Much as she admired Dame Elizabeth, she didn’t see why the Met should be forced to dance to a civil servant’s tune, no matter how distinguished.

‘Why on earth should we care what Dame Elizabeth thinks?’ she asked.

Corrigan looked at her sharply. ‘Dame Elizabeth taught the PM at university and also the leader of the Opposition. Oh, and the mayor too. Philosophy was very much in vogue then, it would seem.’ He paused, allowing time to absorb the fact that the request for discretion had come from on high. ‘She’s also a non-exec director of a major newspaper and she is adviser to the civil service pay-review body. Let me repeat myself, Detective Inspector, our investigation will be discreet and low-key.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said mutinously.

‘Not boring you, am I, DI Hanlon,’ said Corrigan sarcastically. ‘You don’t seem to be concentrating.’ He raised his eyebrows and leaned his head forward across the table close to Hanlon’s to emphasize the point. He suddenly looked very menacing. Decades ago, when Corrigan had walked the beat, and later in the flying squad, policing had been a lot more physical. He’d always been first choice if a ruck seemed inevitable. ‘How do we want the investigation to proceed?’

‘Low-key and discreet, sir.’

‘Exactly. You will join Fuller’s evening class and gather any relevant information that may shed light on this girl’s death.’

‘And he’s the prime suspect?’

Corrigan nodded. ‘There’s forensic evidence linking him to the scene, and circumstantial evidence. He has no alibi for the time in question. But the officer in charge will fill you in better than I can.’

Hanlon looked sceptical. ‘Won’t my turning up at his evening class at this point seem a bit suspicious?’

‘Not particularly,’ said Corrigan. ‘Fuller’s evening class has to be at least fifteen in number to pay for itself, or it’ll be axed. The students will be told that you were at the head of a waiting list, should a vacancy occur, which it manifestly has.’ He drank some more of his Efes Pilsen lager, the half-pint glass looking dainty in his huge hand. He beckoned the waiter for another one. He looked at Hanlon’s strong-featured, intelligent face. Nobody would question her intellectual capability and he could rest assured that she’d keep her mouth shut. Hanlon never confided in anyone, no risk of any leaks from her. ‘That happens to be true. The finance part. Times are tough. Everyone will be pleased with you for saving their class. You’re also one of the few officers we have who would look remotely credible on a philosophy course.’

‘Really?’ said Hanlon sceptically.

‘Really,’ said Corrigan. ‘They’ll think you are a militant feminist.’

Hanlon raised her dark, curved eyebrows in surprise. Corrigan beamed at her.

‘Exactly, Hanlon, that’s the kind of look we want. Just the ticket. Aggressive scepticism. I knew you’d be perfect. You will be a civil service adviser on a quango for women’s equality. That’s dull enough as jobs go to stop any questions and you’re intimidating enough to block most enquiries. Queen Anne’s Gate Human Resources department will authenticate any queries about Ms Rachel Gallagher.’

‘That’s my name, is it?’ said Hanlon.

‘That’s your name,’ said Corrigan. ‘Not a million miles removed from your own surname.’

It could be worse, thought Hanlon. And it’s not as if I’m being asked to live a part. All I need to do is be a Gallagher for a few hours a week. I can do that. Anything’s better than sitting around at home on this endless sick leave.

‘And you recommended me for this job, sir? May I ask why?’

‘It’s a murder investigation, Hanlon,’ said Corrigan. ‘I thought you’d like it. Also, I find the idea of people using their senior positions to coerce others into having sex with them against their will, as Fuller is alleged to have done, repellent, even if murder is not involved. Do you, DI Hanlon?’

Touché, thought Hanlon. You messed with Corrigan at your peril. One moment you were facing a ponderous, slow-moving, easy-to-predict relic; the next you were lying on your back, wondering just where that punch had come from.

He stood up and gave her a folded piece of paper. ‘That’s the name of the investigating officer, his nick and the time of your appointment.’ He looked around the restaurant with approval. ‘Very good food,’ he said. ‘You can get the bill, Hanlon. I’ll be in touch.’

He towered above her. ‘Oh, and Hanlon, one more thing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re now DCI Hanlon, acting rank until the official confirmation.’

Good God, thought Hanlon, and I suspected I was being measured for the axe. She looked at Corrigan’s impassive face. It’s down to you, you old bastard, she thought, in a rare moment of affection.

Corrigan saw her left eyebrow rise quizzically, as she digested the news of her promotion. He thought he would spare Hanlon the ordeal of having to express, or not express, gratitude. Both would be equally problematic for her.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said.

She shook her head with affectionate irritation, watching his broad back as he threaded his way carefully through the restaurant. He didn’t look back.

She unfolded the paper and looked at the name of the investigating officer and his DI and, despite herself, she smiled. You cunning old bastard, she thought.

He had woken up wet again. He lay in his bed staring fearfully at the ceiling. There was a clock in his room on the bedside table. It was a little travel clock with a hinge and a case that had belonged to his grandmother. It was one of the few things he did have. The hour and minute hands glowed greenly in the dark with a faint luminosity. The clock had no LED display. It was old, mechanical rather than electronic; you had to wind it up. In order to make it glow properly you had to put it in direct sunlight all day. But he loved it.

The clock told him it was seven in the morning. Please, God, let her not be up. Please, please, God. I’ll do anything.

There wasn’t a great deal else in his room. His mother had confiscated most of his toys. He had hidden Vulture, a rubber bird he’d won as a prize at a fair, so she couldn’t take him away.

He could smell urine, overlaid with the rubberized odour of the special sheet she put on his bed to protect the mattress. He hated the smell of that sheet and its cold, sticky feel. He got up and lifted the duvet. There was an oval-shaped wet patch, but it really wasn’t too bad. She probably wouldn’t notice.

His pyjama bottoms were sodden, however. He pulled on a pair of underpants. They were too large for him and the elastic had gone in the waist. His mother didn’t believe in wasting money on new clothes for him and that included underwear. Everything he wore was second hand.

Holding the Y-fronts up with one hand, the bundled-up pyjamas in the other, he pushed open his bedroom door.

The flat, just off Gloucester Place in central London, was small with two bedrooms, a galley kitchen and a bathroom, all opening on to a central living area. She had been up late with his ‘Uncle’ Phil, the producer of the show she presented, the BBC’s
Let’s Dance
. Monica Fuller was one of the arts correspondents. She specialized in dance. ‘Big’ was Uncle Phil’s nickname for her. It stood, as he liked to put it (‘and I do like to put it, as the actress said to the bishop,’ Phil liked to say), for big hair, big tits, big glasses. His colleagues found the nickname very funny. Uncle Phil was famous for his sense of humour at the Corporation. He was very popular there. He was one of the lads.

The boy looked nervously out at the lounge, where the table was covered with several wine glasses, some half full. She must have had more than one friend round. Hers were easy to identify; they were marked with crescent moons from the very red lipstick she favoured. They’d used a couple of the glasses as an ashtray. Now they were full of a greying mass of sludge and cigarette ends and a couple of roaches from smoked joints. She must still be asleep, he thought, good. I can bury these in the washing basket and wash them later, when she’s at work.

He was halfway across the room when the door to her bedroom opened and she appeared.

‘What are you doing sneaking around?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing, Mummy,’ he said defensively.

‘What’s that you’ve got, give it me.’ He handed over the wet trousers, his stomach knotting in fear and misery. Please, God, please let her not be too angry, he prayed. He could smell the stale alcohol and cigarettes on her breath as she leaned over him.

‘God, you sicken me, you dirty little sod,’ she said with genuine disgust. ‘It’s no wonder your father left.’

She had on a housecoat with nothing underneath, showing a lot of cleavage. He stared at her large, heavy breasts, blue-veined, with fascinated repulsion.

‘I’ll have to punish you now,’ she said. ‘I should have been firmer with you from the word go. Phil says I mollycoddle you.’