I wish I could practise our dances like we used to in her living room. Her parents had a Bang amp; Olufsen stereo which Dad said cost as much as his car. Everyone had rubbish cars then and we didn’t care. We didn’t care about brands. It was a lot more egalitarian. She lived in Canada now, Karen did, in Vancouver. She’d married a doctor. Far away. They still exchanged Christmas cards but that was as far as it went. You can never go back, can you. She returned her thoughts to the present.
She looked at the diary in front of her where she’d written down the day’s to-do list. She’d got the morning off work because Peter’s diabetic nurse was due round and they were to review his blood-sugar levels, carb-counting, diet and exercise. She knew the nurse would be pleased with his performance. Her son was very diligent. The diabetes was not a problem but it was a persistent and ever-present issue that had to be dealt with. She sometimes had nightmares that Peter would be away somewhere inaccessible without his insulin. She was determined she would never become overprotective.
She looked at the photo of Peter on the mantelpiece, absurdly handsome in his school uniform. He was taller than she was now, and he had the same loose-limbed, muscular grace that he had inherited from his father. Peter’s restricted diet because of his type-one diabetes had also trimmed any puppy fat away from his frame, so that his long muscles stood out like anatomical drawings. Even his stomach was ridged with muscle. He’s got a six-pack, she had thought wonderingly.
She was glad that Peter was going to be so powerfully built for reasons other than a parent’s simple delight at their child’s attainments. Peter was a frighteningly pleasant boy, considerate, kind. Sometimes she worried that he was too nice for his own good. It wasn’t just her who felt that way. Several of her friends had made the same comment. He would be a sucker for a girl with some hard-luck story.
On Saturdays he worked as a volunteer for the local branch of the North London Canine Defence League, helping to exercise and care for maltreated dogs. He desperately wanted a dog of his own but Kathy had been adamant. She travelled too much for it to be really practical. It was often hard enough to find a friend who could look after Peter let alone Peter plus dog. That was one of the benefits of living in rented accommodation. The no-animal policy meant the question would not even get raised. His school reports were straight A’s for effort, because, as he explained, ‘I want Daddy to be proud of me and I want to make you happy now he’s gone.’ She was frightened that because of Dan’s death, she might be overly protective, let alone because of the diabetes issue. She felt her eyes fill with tears and blew her nose loudly on a tissue. Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought, pull yourself together, and straightened some papers on her work table.
She picked the phone up and tapped out the number for the Siemens office in Stuttgart, where she was bidding for a seven million euro contract for her company. The negotiations were going smoothly. PFK’s product had been approved on a technical level and now it was simply a question of persuading the industrial giant of their own commitment, their own ability. She knew that it was going well and she also knew that it was mainly down to her.
‘Ja, guten Morgen. Ich heisse Frau Reynolds, ja, stimt, mitt ein “R”, nein jetzt.’ She paused, listening to the woman on the other end of the line. ‘Ja, Max Brucker bitte.’ She waited to be put through, then she was speaking to the Siemens procurement manager, ‘Max! Wie geht’s? Wie ist das Wetter in Stuttgart?’ The conversation continued for a few minutes and she pictured Max’s calm, intelligent face, his short-cut, thinning, dark hair, his elegant, muscular body, as they discussed the technical questions that she could have answered in her sleep. She was always formidably well prepared. Then, ‘Also, am Freitag um zwölf Uhr. Auf wiederhören, Max.’
‘Auf wiederhören, Kathy.’
She put the phone down with quiet satisfaction. Max wanted her out in Stuttgart in three days’ time for a Friday twelve o’clock meeting, to make a last, formal, presentation. It would be the clincher. She smiled at Max’s pronunciation of Freitag. Freidag. It was so stereotypically Schwäbische Deutsche. Kathy really fancied Max, even down to his Swabian Stuttgart accent. She’d have to arrange some kind of childcare for Peter. He was used to her travelling around the world at short notice. She’d ask Annette. She was irritatingly scatty but Peter liked both her and her son Sam, and of course he adored her dog.
Just then her front doorbell rang and she raised her head in surprise. She looked through the front-room window and there, outside the front door, with her habitual, charming smile, was Clarissa from the agency.
Kathy got up and let her in. It was always good to see Clarissa. Presumably she was here to finalize the arrangements for the cable installation. Maybe today, once they’d finished discussing that, she’d tell her to start looking for a permanent house in the area for her and Peter. But first they could have a good old talk about what they were both up to.
11
Hanlon was back in Corrigan’s office for the first time since the Essex murder. The public had forgotten about it. Deprived of the oxygen of interest supplied by the words ‘witchcraft killing’, the story had died its own death.
Hanlon was now working on a draft document for Corrigan with a provisional title, ‘Seizing the Initiative: Building on the Legacy’. The legacy was the post-Olympic Games spirit; ‘seizing the initiative’ was Corriganspeak for increasing the size of his department. Hanlon didn’t like doing paperwork, but she could apply herself diligently to most things if she chose and the right sentiments flowed from her fingertips on to the screen. Corrigan himself was quite inarticulate in written form. Verbally he was great, but he needed people to interact with. Hanlon was famously unable or unwilling to engage with people, so in some respects they made a not unreasonable team.
He was pleased with Hanlon’s work, pleased until rumblings from the arrest of David Anderson reached his ears. The rumour — there was no actual proof — was that Hanlon was behind it. Hanlon was not supposed to handle anything operational; she was toxic as far as most of the Met were concerned. But now, if the story was to be believed, and it sounded horribly plausible to Corrigan, she’d gone and done it again, launched her own initiative to arrest someone she didn’t like. It had the Hanlon hallmark of a praiseworthy thing done, the arrest and certain conviction of a dangerous criminal, with a cavalier disregard for legal process. It differed from Tottenham in that she’d roped some accomplices in to help. He’d had a couple of acrimonious unofficial meetings about the Anderson bust. Hanlon’s name had been mentioned in connection with that sergeant she was still close with. Corrigan didn’t know for sure, but he’d bet a lot of money that if he chose to ask he’d find Hanlon and Anderson had crossed paths before. Corrigan had gritted his teeth and stood by her. He felt like strangling her, and here she was, in his office, unrepentant as usual.
‘So, let’s go over this Anderson arrest again. Why’s he called “Jesus”, did you say?’ he asked. Hanlon was sitting opposite him on the other side of his desk, tired-looking, but holding herself very straight in her chair. He’d never seen her slouch.
‘Because he crucified someone to a door once,’ said Hanlon, ‘with a nail gun.’
‘Was that proven or is it just a rumour?’ asked Corrigan, curious despite himself. Hanlon shrugged. She was irritatingly self-composed. Then again, thought Corrigan, she always was. Although he was much bigger physically, it was the still, motionless body of Hanlon that somehow dominated the room.