‘This place is my pension fund.’ The dogs panted happily. ‘I can’t say I’ll miss it when I sell it.’
She nodded. Then she asked, ‘Conquest is an unusual name. Are you related to the historian?’
Another charming smile from the man opposite her. He really was quite attractive, thought Hanlon. His face was hard, but humorous, his eyes intelligent. A shame I find it hard to believe in you, she thought. Hanlon was used to people lying to her, or at best being evasive. She’d had two decades of it. In her view, Conquest was telling the truth, but it was a partial truth, an edited truth. I’m sure you are a property developer, but that’s not everything, is it. There’s more to you than that. I can smell it on you, just like I could on your security at the front door. He shook his head. I bet you know Jesus Anderson, she thought, or more likely his father.
‘I wish I was. I’m not that bright, I’m afraid. I left school at fifteen.’
Oh Christ, thought Hanlon, don’t give me the ‘I’m an educated peasant’ routine.
‘I do like history, though. I researched it. No, the surname means from Le Conquet in France. It’s in Brittany, so I guess it makes sense. It’s not too far to come.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Hanlon. And, she added mentally, there can’t be too many of you to go through when I do some of my own research. ‘Now,’ her voice became businesslike, ‘you had some questions to ask me about policing.’
If Conquest was disappointed at her brusque tone he hid it well. ‘Yes, I do. As a councillor I’m involved in the Safer Neighbourhoods scheme, so I’m more than aware of the valuable input of our local PCSOs. It’s how I met your DCS Ludgate,’ he said with a smile. He opened the folder that was on the coffee table and looked at a list of questions. ‘He tells me that you have the ear of one of the assistant commissioners, is that so?’
‘Yes,’ said Hanlon. She felt no urge to elaborate.
‘So, may I ask, what brings you up here to Hampstead?’ asked Conquest.
‘Crime,’ said Hanlon. Once again she made no attempt to explain. Conquest raised his eyebrows. If he felt aggrieved at the closing down of this line of questioning he took it in good grace. ‘Well, I do have a few general questions about the police and the future of community policing. Quite a few, really, you don’t mind, do you?’
Now it was Hanlon’s turn to smile. She had to admire the way that Conquest had prepared a fallback position just in case his attempts to find out exactly what had brought AC Corrigan’s attack dog, as she was known in certain circles, up to Hampstead were rebuffed. It was very slickly done.
‘Not at all,’ Hanlon said. I’d best be loquacious, she thought to herself.
13
The following night Hanlon parked her Audi outside Whiteside’s small, one-bedroomed apartment in Holloway, in North London. She stood outside the large house he lived in that had long ago been divided into flats and looked up at the soft light coming from his living room. The long, broad, quiet street was empty of people but most of the windows were lit, like so many TV screens, each featuring dozens of different individuals or families, all from different backgrounds, all with different stories to tell. Hanlon loved the diversity of London, its cool anonymity. Despite the large number of families, of people in the street, there was a sense of isolation in a London scene that echoed an Edward Hopper painting. You could be very alone in London, a feeling that she found deeply attractive. She yawned and rubbed her eyes; she felt very tired.
Whiteside buzzed her in when she rang the bell and she went upstairs to the first-floor flat. Whiteside was framed in the doorway at the top of the stairs, his muscular bulk filling the space of the open door, back-lit in the darkness. There was a coat-rack on the left-hand side of the wall as you walked in and Hanlon’s sharp eyes noticed a police uniform jacket that obviously wasn’t Whiteside’s hanging there. Beneath the coats was a shoe-rack and Hanlon’s eyes registered a pair of boots that weren’t Whiteside’s size. Whoever the jacket belonged to had quite small feet. As they walked past the bedroom she heard the light, slithery rustle of someone turning over under a duvet. The sergeant was obviously not alone.
Whiteside led her into his small, immaculate lounge and disappeared to the kitchen for something to drink. There wasn’t much furniture in the living room: a sofa, a chair and a glass coffee table. There was no clutter. His tidiness bordered on the obsessive, as indeed did Hanlon’s. There were three pens on the table, a copy of GQ, a Scissor Sisters CD and an iPod. All of them were aligned at precisely the same angle. The books on the shelf were arranged in alphabetical order; everything was precision placed. Everything that could gleam, did gleam. It was freer of dirt and dust than an operating theatre. Hanlon thoroughly approved.
She sat down on his sofa and tucked her legs under her. Her shoes she’d left at the door. Whiteside was very protective of his carpet; he hated dirt, marks or any form of stain on its fabric.
Whiteside reappeared with a bottle of wine and a Perrier for Hanlon. He put three coasters carefully on the table and poured himself a large glass of Pinot Noir. Hanlon sipped her mineral water. He was dressed for bed in a T-shirt and shorts. Whiteside had a great body, thought Hanlon approvingly. He was muscular, but not overly so. Hanlon couldn’t stand the bodybuilder look, the Gym Martha. It had everything to do with vanity and little to do with utility. I’m such a muscle snob, she thought. Whiteside would warrant an eight out of ten from Hanlon. Whoever was in the bed was a very lucky man in her opinion. Running your hands over Whiteside would be a thoroughly exhilarating experience, she imagined.
Briefly, she filled him in on the previous evening. Whiteside listened with amusement, scratching his neatly trimmed beard occasionally.
‘And then he invited you to his study for a chat, did he?’ smiled Whiteside.
He wondered if maybe Conquest had made a pass at Hanlon. He suspected most men would be too scared of her to do so, even if they fancied her. Hanlon was certainly intimidating. Conquest must have great self-confidence. Or, he thought, even if the DI didn’t scare you, would you necessarily want to spend the evening with her? These things cut both ways. She didn’t have much small talk and so much of intimacy is bound up with just that, whispered sweet nothings. The idea of Hanlon chatting amicably was simply unreal. What would she find to talk about? Crime? Triathlons? How much Hanlon could any man take? He realized that despite the years he’d known her they rarely talked about things other than work-related issues. He knew very little about her. She liked architecture and history. She liked boxing, a taste they both shared. She would come over and they’d watch it on Sky Sports. That was more or less it. Sometimes she’d stayed over and slept on his sofa but she was still an enigma. They themselves didn’t talk much, content with each other’s company like a long-time amicably married couple. He smiled again in amusement.
‘He did indeed, Sergeant,’ said Hanlon. ‘And why are you grinning like that?’ She sounded irritated.
‘I was just wondering what you two young kids found to talk about,’ said Whiteside teasingly. ‘Was it everything and nothing? This and that? Setting the world to rights? The whole crazy, mixed-up world of policing the UK’s capital city.’