‘I cleared this with forensics, they’re done here,’ she said.
They walked up the stairs into the flat. More stairs, thought Enver, breathing heavily. He followed her inside the flat and into the lounge. Beneath the large window, overlooking the street, was the stain on Whiteside’s carpet where he had lost so much blood. Hanlon stood with her arms folded, looking at it. Her face was drawn and thoughtful. She had a strong urge to touch it, to smear some on herself, if it was still wet enough, as a kind of tribute or talisman to her injured colleague. She turned away from Enver and he could see her raise her arm and, he guessed, wipe her eyes. She thought, he would have hated that stain on his beloved carpet. I remember when he bought it. He was so pleased with it.
‘Sit,’ she said to Enver, indicating the sofa where Whiteside had been facing her only the other night.
How can things happen so quickly? Hanlon was thinking to herself. Investigations seem to take forever; most of the people I’ve known personally who’ve died all had time to adjust or at least had an inkling something was coming, if only through age. It should only be strangers who die violently. Last night Mark was here where Demirel’s sitting, and now… She couldn’t, wouldn’t, finish the thought. She looked at Enver. His sad, brown eyes reminded her of a dog, maybe a Basset hound. Looking at his well-upholstered form, shining with sweat, shirt bulging over his waistband, it was strange to think he’d once, not that long ago, been a boxer. Maybe when his dream died so had his athleticism. He’d sounded terribly out of breath walking up Whiteside’s stairs. She thought of how amused Whiteside would have been by that, of his wolfish grin. Now he was lying in a drug-induced coma with various drips attached to him, while they hoped for the bruised swelling in his brain to subside. Oh God, what did they do to you, Mark?
Hanlon’s face showed nothing of her inner thoughts. ‘So, what did Corrigan say to you about me?’
He replied to the question. He left nothing out. When Enver had finished talking, she hadn’t moved. She was still standing, looking at the patch of bloodstained carpet. Hanlon hadn’t put any lights on in the flat and the only illumination came from the streetlights in the road whose yellow gleam cast a soft glow into the room. Her face was mask-like.
‘So Corrigan thinks if I found out who did this I might take the law into my own hands,’ she said softly.
‘Yes,’ said Enver simply. He was beginning to find it increasingly easy to speak to Hanlon. You didn’t need to qualify things.
‘And he actually thinks I have a supply of illegal weapons?’ she said contemptuously.
Enver said in an official tone, ‘Well, according to the Restriction of Offensive Weapons Act 1959, ma’am, switchblades, such as you possess, are deemed illegal, not to mention the 1988 Criminal Justice Act, which makes the carrying of knives longer than three inches also illegal. So, in a sense, ma’am, he’s already been proved right.’
Hanlon’s head moved slightly once, as if she had nodded. In Turkey, this is a sign for ‘no’ but he interpreted it as Hanlon’s way of conveying amusement. He knew Corrigan was right. Hanlon would almost certainly possess illegal firearms, he’d cheerfully bet money on it. It wouldn’t be a gamble; it would be a certainty.
‘Do you know who shot Whiteside, ma’am?’ he suddenly asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well, I know who was responsible for ordering it.’
Enver breathed deeply. ‘And are you going to take the law into your own hands, ma’am, like the AC fears?’
Hanlon looked at him. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, in an almost surprised tone of voice. ‘Very much so, Sergeant. That is exactly what I intend to do.’ Enver looked lonely and bulky on his sofa, like a seal, she thought, his eyes sleepy as ever. ‘Are you going to tell Corrigan?’ she asked him.
It was Enver’s turn to look surprised. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not.’ I can’t believe what I’m doing, he thought. ‘Tell me, are they responsible for the Yilmaz killings too?’
Hanlon nodded. He thought of Mehmet, twisting his fingers nervously as he’d watched him and his uncle discussing his future. He thought of his little daughter, Reyhan, and their hopes for her future. He thought of the tiny body bag that had awaited Ali by the side of the canal and he thought too of Grey Rabbit. It was the toy that was maybe the clinching factor. He felt his eyes moisten and he was glad of the protective darkness of the room. He wouldn’t have wanted Hanlon to see. This is for you, Grey Rabbit. Enver took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m going to help you then.’
27
HMP Wendover, thirty miles west of London, is a Category A prison. There are four bandings in the penal custodial system, which refer to the danger posed to the general public by the prisoner. Category A is for the most dangerous inmates. Dave ‘Jesus’ Anderson was now a high-risk prisoner in a high-risk jail.
He was currently on remand after his arrest for possession with intent to supply five kilograms of uncut cocaine with a conservative value of a quarter of a million pounds. He had been taking delivery of it with two of his men when Whiteside and the drug squad had busted him. It was a textbook scenario, a large lock-up garage, car, sports bag, bench, scales, drugs. It had looked to the police like a film set for a drugs bust. The photos that SOCO had taken alone would probably ensure a conviction.
Anderson knew immediately that someone had grassed him up, the moment the police had burst through the door. He had been over and over candidates for the informer’s identity in his head more or less continually from the second the handcuffs went on him up to now, but with no credible suspect. He could not understand how anyone who knew would dare to do it. Who would have the balls to do this? Somewhere out there was a dead man walking.
He had been in Wendover for some time now. He had been arrested, appeared in court the following day; bail was denied, even with Cunningham passionately arguing his case. He hadn’t been surprised by the decision and he was now here waiting on a court date for his trial. There had been a work-to-rule by the PCS Union and this had delayed legal proceedings. Meanwhile, he had tried to make the best of things. He was no stranger to prison.
Anderson’s family were drug dealers. They were career criminals; Anderson was born into it. All ancillary crime, the beatings, the money laundering, intimidation, the occasional killing, were professionally driven. It was a family business, started by Malcolm, his father, thirty years ago and run now by Dave and his two brothers, Terry and Jordan. Dave, the middle brother, was the head of the operation. Terry would have been capable but was fundamentally lazy and Jordan had neither the brains nor the temperament. All three brothers were violent, both by nature and nurture, but the temper that burnt inside Dave Anderson was controlled. It was like a blowtorch: it was always there, usually on a pilot light, but when he wanted he could turn up the gas to a white-hot, incendiary degree. Jordan couldn’t restrain himself when it came to violence. He would explode unpredictably. He was currently doing ten years in Armley Prison in Leeds for attempted murder and GBH over a pointless road rage incident. His absence made Dave’s incarceration all the more troublesome.
It had taken him two days and ten grand to get a mobile phone inside Wendover. He guessed he would have to run things from in here for a while. Malcolm, his father, was being treated for lung cancer, in fact had recently had a lung removed, and was in no frame of mind to work. They all knew, Malcolm included, the future was not rosy. Life had given him a sentence and the sentence wasn’t life.