It wasn’t just his reputation that made him so menacing. She had long lost count of the number of convicted killers she had met, there were plenty in the prison itself right now, but none had come close to Anderson when it came to intimidating power. Julie didn’t scare easily, she couldn’t do the job if that were the case, but he scared her more than any prisoner she had ever met.
Anderson walked up to the door and looked at her through the small, open flap. She was very grateful to have the heavy steel door between them.
‘Tell her, Strood Island, near Walton-on-Naze, Essex. Repeat that.’ He spoke softly. He didn’t need to raise his voice. People paid close attention to what he said. His face was framed in the metal hatch like a compelling portrait of evil. She could sense the power emanating, radiating, from him. His gaze was hypnotic, compelling. Julie felt a sensation akin to vertigo, that overwhelming desire to jump, except in this case it was the need almost to beg him not to hurt her. Like a bird hypnotized by a cat, she thought. She repeated the words he’d spoken.
Anderson nodded satisfied, then he said, almost as an afterthought, ‘Tell Hanlon, Conquest is a supplier, not a user.’ Then he turned away from her. His back was a sign the conversation was over.
Julie closed the flap and walked away. As she did so, she felt Bingham had probably got off relatively lightly. That man was capable of far worse.
At half four, the first opportunity she got, she texted Enver with the information.
An hour later, he and Hanlon drove out of London, east, heading for the Essex coast. Hanlon had used that hour for some frantic, last-minute research. She had an excellent series of contacts in Essex and, because it was her, they dropped whatever they were doing to help. Shortly after they left, so did the judge, at the wheel of his own Porsche. His meeting, too, had gone well. His suspicion had been more than confirmed that the Home Office, knowing of the Brussels appointment, wanted to get into the judge’s good favour by the offer of a peerage. The stronger the ties that bound him to the UK government, the more chance of his reaching judgments favourable to his country of birth, that was their hope. The civil servants he had just met, always deferential, were now treating him like uncrowned royalty.
Hanlon drove in silence. They had first of all gone in her Audi to a car park in Bow where Hanlon had swapped her car for an old Volvo estate that smelt of dog and had bits of straw in the boot. Its bodywork was covered with mud and dust. Stickers saying ‘Support the Countryside Alliance’ and ‘I Slow Down for Horses’ were stuck on to the hatch window. He guessed she’d borrowed the car. He assumed it was because her own Audi was too well known to the officers she worked with.
Hanlon, unsurprisingly, drove fast and well. Enver was glad she was at the wheel. He rarely drove, he didn’t need a car in London, and knew he was at best an indifferent driver. He had a feeling that if he were driving, it would be nerve-racking, like doing a test again.
‘What will we do when we get there?’ he asked. They were leaving London now and heading deep into Essex. The traffic was light and they were making good speed.
Hanlon turned her head momentarily to look at him. ‘Rescue the boy. We’ll worry about the legalities later.’
Enver sighed and stroked his moustache pensively. In other words, there was no plan, or if there was, he wasn’t privy to it. He was used to meticulous planning, diagrams of the premises to be raided, photographs, ball-park figures as to the number of suspects likely to be present, risk assessments. Not ‘Rescue the boy’. That wasn’t a plan. That was a statement of intent. He made a mental note that he would never complain again about excess tactical planning as he had in the past.
They drove past the small seaside town of Walton-on-the-Naze and along the road that bordered the sea. Enver had never been to this part of the world and he was surprised by how attractive it was. He wasn’t used to the countryside. The last time he’d seen so much green was on Hampstead Heath a few years ago in an operation targeting muggers. To their left, inland, rose slight hills with bushes and small trees; to their right, where the land gradually fell away to the sea, were flat fields dotted with sheep and cows. A couple of miles from town, just off the main road, they came in sight of the sea itself and Enver was moved despite himself, by its immensity.
Hanlon slowed and pointed. ‘Down there,’ she said.
There was a narrow, tarmacked track that ran from the road they were on and led down towards the water, glinting blue and silver in the late afternoon sun. At the bottom of the private road lay a small, detached house. There was a sign on the road, its paint peeling, barely legible as they drove past: ‘Strood Island Lodge’. Half a mile or so out to sea lay a long, narrow island with a single hill in the middle. Below the hill, facing the coast, they could see a sizeable white-painted building. Enver felt the adrenaline levels in his body begin to rise now their destination was in sight. That was Conquest’s island and that was where, if Anderson’s information was correct, they would find the boy.
Hanlon slowed the car but kept driving for another mile before she pulled into a lay-by at the side of the road and switched the engine off.
‘Wasn’t that the road down to the island?’ asked Enver. He had a feeling he was in for a cross-country walk he certainly didn’t want and was definitely not dressed for.
‘Yes,’ said Hanlon, ‘but we’re not in London now, Sergeant. We can hardly drive down there and mingle with the traffic and the crowds. We’re in the countryside. We need to be inconspicuous, that’s why we’re in this car not mine.’
She didn’t add that her car was known to quite a few police officers, which is what Enver had suspected was the case and, even if it wasn’t recognized, a trace on the number plate would reveal her as the car’s owner. Conquest would surely not fail to have a check on any unknown vehicles parked suspiciously nearby. Her Audi was a city car, the battered four-wheel drive Volvo estate, its paintwork scratched and dented, looked as if it belonged here in the country.
Strood Island was a good choice for a place that Conquest wanted to keep a prisoner. Even if you got out of the house, surrounded by sea, you’d need a boat to escape. You couldn’t shout for help or attract anyone’s attention. Once you were out there, you were trapped. Hanlon knew from a land registry search she’d done earlier that he owned most of the farmland around, land was cheap round here, and she’d noticed as they drove along that he’d had it rigorously fenced off. There was no danger of any ramblers straying on to it or, more to the point, anyone posing as a rambler. She guessed that if worst came to the worst and the police wanted to place surveillance on the place, it would be practically impossible. Wherever they hid, they’d stand out like sore thumbs. Her respect for Conquest’s organizational skills, already high, rose another notch.
She had learnt from a trusted source in the Essex police constabulary that the track they had driven past led down to a lodge that served the island house. There was a small slipway, a jetty, and moorings for two boats. One was a six metre delivery boat with a shallow draft, used for delivering bulky supplies, the other an eight-seater motor cruiser for passenger use. There was also a small rowing boat with an outboard that was used for single passengers or more informal journeys.
Hanlon got out of the car and Enver did the same. He hadn’t come prepared for the outdoors and Hanlon hadn’t thought to warn him. She’d forgotten that city-dwellers are peculiarly ignorant about the countryside. He shivered in the chill sea breeze. It must have been about ten degrees colder than London, if you factored in the offshore wind. He was wearing another of his cheap, dark suits. Hanlon thought, he obviously thinks it’s a bad idea to spend good money on work clothes. Someone might throw up over you if you nick them when they’re pissed, or they might get ripped in a fight. It never occurred to Hanlon that Enver thought his suit perfectly acceptable. He would have been mortified to know her opinion of it. Whiteside, Hanlon thought, always wore great clothes. He used to joke sometimes, especially on undercover work, that you never know when your time will come, so you’d better look smart for the big occasion. She wondered what he’d been wearing when he’d been shot. She hoped it was something nice. God, how she missed him.