By Bishops Avenue standards, Conquest’s house was a fairly modest affair. It could have strayed in from nearby Hampstead Garden Suburb, it had that kind of arts and crafts look about it, and then grown unfeasibly large in its new environment, like a foreign species introduced to a native environment, like Japanese knotweed, giant hogweed or rhododendrons. Hanlon guessed it would probably have about seven or eight bedrooms upstairs. It was that kind of size. She walked towards the front door, which had a colonnaded porch and, flanking the entrance, a statue of a seated lion on one side and a unicorn on the other. She thought they were incredibly tasteless, Essex garden-centre chic. It looked like the entrance to an expensive but tacky nightclub, the security on the door adding to this impression. They were three large men, two black, one white, dressed in dinner jackets. They turned to face her.
Up close, the dinner jackets had seen better days; they were stained and shiny, and the fabric strained on the men’s freakishly pumped-up arms. Their shaved heads gleamed under the porch lights. They didn’t really match the Bishops Avenue; they looked like they belonged in a rougher part of town, Bethnal Green or Camden. They straightened themselves up as Hanlon approached.
Hanlon was wearing a simple black cocktail dress, thirties-style, that she knew flattered her toned body. She rarely went out, she disliked socializing, but when she did she took care with her appearance. She had a black-lace, antique shawl that had belonged to her grandmother, and her colleagues would have been interested to see her wearing heels. She had tied her unruly hair back, which emphasized her long, slim, muscular neck. Modigliani would have loved Hanlon. Without breaking her stride, Hanlon had perfect balance despite the stiletto-like heels on her shoes. She removed her invitation from her clutch bag and held it as she would a warrant card, thrusting it into the face of the head bouncer.
‘Hanlon,’ she said, her voice sharp with the peremptory tone of those used to being obeyed.
She stared into the hard, aggressive, brown eyes of the man. The top of his shaved head was tattooed geometrically, like a sergeant’s stripes, as were his knuckles, but with writing in a Gothic script. She didn’t know him personally but she had arrested enough of his kind to feel a contemptuous familiarity. Like many experienced police, she had a finely tuned nose for criminals. Like calls to like. He, in his turn, recognized her for what she was. She hadn’t said DI Hanlon but his brain automatically allocated her a police rank. They understood each other. They had faced each other’s kind many times over scratched and chipped tables in endless interview rooms where it always seemed to be one in the morning and the air was perpetually stale. She knew he had form. She could smell it on him as strongly as his Lynx aftershave.
He had a clipboard but obviously felt no need to consult it. He didn’t need to know who she was; he knew what she was. He nodded at one of his two companions and the door was opened to Hanlon. She stepped inside, the door closed behind her and her eyes widened with surprise.
The outside of Conquest’s house was a form of Lutyens design, whether fake or real Hanlon didn’t know. It was made of unadorned brick, that alone distinguishing it from its stuccoed neighbours. The adjoining houses were all brilliantly lit by spotlights and shone a uniform gleaming white. His didn’t. It had an arch over the front door and long, narrow, leaded windows — suitable for archers, she thought, but not for much else, and not for admitting light. The inside, however, by total contrast, was pure art-deco. It was a disturbing clash of styles. She looked down at her clothes. By coincidence she was perfectly dressed for Conquest’s peculiarly retro interior design.
She was now standing just inside the door that had closed behind her, on a wide, shallow balcony overlooking a huge room below. It was like stepping into the lounge of a nineteen thirties Cunard liner. The huge floor was sprung plywood, the sweep of the lines of the room sinuous, with thirties-style decorative tiling in friezes running across the walls. The railings and bannisters were nautical in style, made of chrome and steel; they gleamed in the lights above. Furniture was again full of period detail. Her eyes made out chrome-framed chairs, Bakelite-topped tables, sharkskin and zebra coverings on seats. Futurist and vorticist art was displayed on the wall. Hanlon recognized a Marinetti here and a Wyndham Lewis there. Good-quality reproductions, not prints. You could have filmed a thirties costume drama in here without changing a thing.
A string quartet of girls wearing thirties, flapper-style clothes played their way gently and undemandingly through a classical-style medley, while a hundred or so guests in black tie helped themselves to food from an enormous, expensive-looking buffet. Adjacent to the long tables under their white linen coverings, silver serving trays and ice sculptures, slowly melting in the heat of the room, was a champagne and wine bar that was doing brisk business. The recession was certainly not affecting Conquest.
Hanlon raised an eyebrow in quizzical surprise. The North London Traders’ Association must be doing well for themselves, she thought, if this was a typical evening out. She could begin to understand Corrigan’s insistence she did nothing to offend the man and why Ludgate had wanted her here. Look at my connections was the none too subtle message.
The noise was cacophonous. It was swimming-pool acoustics with little or nothing to baffle or absorb the sound. She looked below her in the crowd for Ludgate and saw him chatting to a couple of paunchy men in a corner. All three of them had overloaded their plates with food, in the way that the greedy do, just in case something coveted disappears before they can refill — not that there was any sign of it running out. Ludgate’s chin was jutting out aggressively, his scalp shone through his comb-over, and she could see him emphatically using his fingers to count off points in whatever argument or discussion they were having. Hanlon made up her mind to avoid him if at all possible. She saw him look up and register her presence before resuming his conversation. He hadn’t acknowledged her. Evidently Ludgate felt the same about her. Good, she thought.
The partygoers were conspicuously wealthy; they certainly gave off that rarefied perfume of money that the rich have, even from a distance. Money has a smell, and here it reached to the heavens. Excess was anathema to Hanlon. She looked down at the crowd with an expression like that of Oliver Cromwell and the Puritans looking at a group of Cavaliers or a wolf eyeing cavorting sheep. She was a barbarian at the gates of Rome. Momentarily she wondered what she would have done if she’d been in charge of a riot team and seen the angry hooded and masked mob frenziedly swarming down Bishops Avenue. She had a sneaking suspicion she’d have pulled back and let them do their worst. They’d be welcome to the place.
The women were heavily turned out and Hanlon recognized iconic handbags — Birkin, Hermes, Vuitton and Chanel — carried like heraldic, totemic badges. Dresses were designer, haircuts expensive. She saw a couple of politicians she knew and several journalists, as well as two judges and some lawyers whom she recognized from court appearances. She also caught sight of Cunningham who had his back towards her but whose face she could see reflected in a large mirror with a decorative stylized silver frame bordered with bas-relief sphinxes. She thought she’d try and avoid him too. She felt a twinge of guilt momentarily. If Anderson ever found out it was his lawyer who had supplied the information on the coke shipment they’d busted him for, Cunningham’s fate would be truly terrible. He wouldn’t just be killed, he’d be made an example of. Anderson had crucified a man for less; God alone knows what he’d do to his trusted lawyer if he discovered it was he who had grassed him up. Then she thought, well, that’s Cunningham’s choice. You make your bed, you lie down in it.