‘I’m sure you would,’ he replied. His accent and inflection were typically London. He spoke quietly. He didn’t need to raise his voice.
Looking at him reminded Hanlon of how right she’d been to get him put behind bars. Anderson was a man untroubled by conscience or conventional morality. She reflected momentarily on the irony of the fact that she’d broken the law to get him in prison. Now, if he did what she wanted, and she was sure he would, she’d have to break it again to get him out.
Hanlon looked steadily in his direction. She didn’t bother trying to maintain eye contact. She wasn’t in a staring contest; she just needed Anderson to do what she wanted. Anderson had no intention of speaking first. He was in no hurry. By his own reckoning he had about ten years to go of sitting around behind prison walls. What was the rush?
‘This prison is Victorian, you know,’ said Hanlon conversationally. ‘It’s been here for 150 years. You’ll be here a while as well. You’ll be part of its history too. You could look into it, give yourself something to do while you’re here. Architecture is very interesting; I think so anyway.’ Anderson studied his fingernails with feigned indifference.
‘Perhaps you’ll come to like it too. Inigo Jones, Sir Christopher Wren, Norman Foster, Vanbrugh, all the greats,’ she added. Hanlon knew he must be wondering why she’d wanted to see him, but, of course, he wouldn’t ask. She carried on.
‘Or maybe, Mr Anderson, if architecture’s not your thing, there’s always history. Maybe you could study penal history while you’re in here, since you’re surrounded by it, so to speak.’ She tugged gently at a strand of her hair. It was thick and coarse. It was hard to do anything with it.
‘You’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. You’ll have to use books, not being allowed Internet.’
‘I know who you are, Hanlon,’ said Anderson with studied menace. He raised his eyes. It was a look that would make most people flinch.
Hanlon leaned across the table so her face was close to his. ‘Good,’ she said, very softly. He could feel her breath on his face. ‘I’m glad.’
They held that position, staring now into each other’s eyes for a few heartbeats. Anderson broke the spell first. He moved back in his chair. He was impressed by what he’d seen in the policewoman’s eyes. It was almost like looking into a mirror.
‘The copper that nicked me. I heard he got shot.’ He smiled, a parody of sweetness.
‘That’s correct. He got shot. He got shot three times to be precise. Two to the body. One to the head. That’s why I’m here,’ said Hanlon. ‘He is a friend of mine, as well as a colleague.’
Anderson laughed. ‘Do you think I was responsible, is that what you think? I thought you were supposed to be smart.’
‘If I thought that,’ said Hanlon, ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you. I’d be talking about you, to one of the many new friends you’ve got on your wing.’ While Anderson digested this not so veiled threat, she said, rather thoughtfully, ‘There’s a man in here, on A wing. Rabbit Bingham, do you know him?’
Anderson looked surprised. ‘A wing. He’s a nonce?’
Hanlon nodded. ‘He’s a nonce.’
‘I don’t mix with nonces,’ said Anderson.
Hanlon sighed. ‘That wasn’t my question.’
Anderson asked, ‘So what’s he got to do with your sergeant?’
Hanlon had had enough of beating around the bush. ‘He used to be partners with the man behind the shooting, Harry Conquest. Conquest is also involved in the sex trafficking of children. I want to know where he keeps them captive. I also want to know anything relevant to Whiteside’s shooting.’
Anderson stretched luxuriously and flexed his powerful fingers. So that’s why she’s here. He was surprised by the request. The implication was clear. The DI was hardly likely to expect him to befriend this Bingham and gain his confidence, even if he’d been able to do so. The unstated message was, get him to talk. Beating people up for a confession or for information by the police had gone out with the ark and Bingham was safe in prison anyway, so she wouldn’t be able to do it herself. He didn’t doubt her capacity to do it, not now he had seen her eyes; he was just amazed she’d contemplate it. It would wreck any trial. He’d certainly never come across police violence in his dealings with them. Things had changed since his dad’s day, as the old man frequently reminded him. Blah, blah, Kray twins, blah, blah, Charlie Richardson, blah, blah, George Davis. Not like the old days. He suddenly wondered if this was some kind of trap to make him attack another prisoner and get his sentence increased. He looked at her and decided it probably wasn’t.
‘He’s a nonce, he’ll be hard to get to,’ he said. ‘Even if I wanted to. Why should I?’
Hanlon ignored his question. ‘I didn’t say it would be easy,’ she said. ‘How you do it is up to you. And you will do it. There is another problem. One of time. Conquest has taken a twelve-year-old boy. He’s diabetic with a limited supply of insulin. I don’t think he’ll last much beyond the weekend. You’ve only got four days.’
Anderson stood up slowly and leaned on the table over Hanlon. ‘And what do I get out of it? Unlimited access to Sky TV?’ He spoke quietly, his voice low with sarcastic overtones. ‘What could the Metropolitan Police possibly offer me in return for my help?’
‘Nothing,’ said Hanlon. He sat down again, surprised at the answer. He started to speak and Hanlon held her hand up to interrupt him. ‘The police don’t do deals like that. I, however, can get you out of here.’
Anderson looked around him theatrically and made an actor’s sweeping gesture with his hand, taking in the barred windows, the iron door, the brickwork.
‘How would you do that?’ he asked her sceptically. ‘Magic?’
‘I’d tamper with the evidence that put you away,’ said Hanlon simply. She looked at her fingernails, cut short and covered with clear varnish. She studied them, then put her head back and looked at Anderson. She could see she had his undivided attention.
‘I would break the seals on two of the evidence bags. We’ve got five kilograms of what we claim is your coke in our evidence room, on a shelf, in a box. All neatly secured and labelled. Possession of that coke is the evidence against you. QED. It’s what you’ve been charged with, possession with intent to supply. You know that.’
Anderson was paying attention now, that was for sure.
‘If there is any suggestion that this evidence is not what it seems, then the case against you has a massive flaw. Your brief will demand a further examination of the evidence, claiming that you were fitted up. We’ve got nothing to hide, we’ll say yes. An independent examiner will determine that the evidence — the drugs seized — has been tampered with, and this will come out in court. Some of the alleged cocaine will turn out to be, oh, I don’t know, icing sugar, say. Dextrose. It hardly matters. It’ll look as if you’ve been framed by an over-eager drug squad. I think that should be more than enough to have the case thrown out.’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘It could be argued that what you were nicked with never was cocaine, that our analysis was fraudulent from the start. Any lawyer, no matter how incompetent, would get you off on that. At the very least, reasonable doubt would exist. We’ll be completely wrong-footed; no one will know what’s happened. It’ll be a shambles.’
Anderson was silent. She was certainly right. Evidence tampering would raise all kinds of issues: planting of evidence by the police, perjury, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, and certainly reasonable doubt would be established. He’d walk. But could he trust her? He looked at the woman opposite. He knew he could. Hanlon was the real deal.
‘You might even get some form of compensation,’ she said helpfully.
But could he get to this Bingham? His mind was working furiously fast. Could he do it? He wondered. It was, as the DI had said, a problem of time. Yes, he could get to Bingham, but in such a short time? Usually time was in huge supply in prison; not in this case. Then that created the problem of bribing at least one of the screws, almost certainly more than one, to create a situation where he could get hold of Bingham for an hour. Half an hour would do, but Anderson hated being rushed and there’d be cleaning up to be done. It’d be ridiculous to have Hanlon make good on her part of the bargain only to be charged with, and end up doing time for, assaulting Rabbit Bingham. But this was running ahead of things; let’s deal now with the present, and with the most obvious question: ‘This isn’t official, is it? If any of this goes wrong, all bets are off, aren’t they?’ he said.