Hanlon’s features were a mask of blood. Enver guessed the skin around her eyes and mouth had been cut by the beating she’d taken from Clarissa, who stood there over her, panting. Her face and hair were spattered with Hanlon’s blood and there was a big smear of it down her dress where she’d wiped one of her hands without thinking.
‘Go and wash and get changed,’ said Conquest. ‘And I want those clothes you’re wearing binned. We’ll have to start removing evidence. Jim,’ he said to Ludgate, ‘go with her and bring back a roll of bin bags and duct tape. She’ll show you where they’re kept. About time we did some cleaning up around here.’
Hallelujah, thought Ludgate. Sanity prevails at last. And I, for one, could do with a drink, a Scotch, a bloody large one. Conquest was notoriously abstemious and he rarely offered people a drink. Guests, maybe; those on the payroll, never. Robbo liked a drink, though, had liked a drink, there’d be whisky in the man’s room. He’d have one down there. Robbo was hardly in a position to say no. The two of them left the study, closing the door behind them.
Conquest glanced at the unconscious Hanlon. He shook his head irritably. Four bodies to get rid of. Two upstairs, one down here. And the boy would make five. He looked at Enver upright in his chair, eyes virtually closed as he fought the pain in his shattered foot. He’d have to take them to Glasgow Brian in Essex to dispose of. The pigs could only eat so much and he didn’t want to risk burial at sea. The bottom round here was shallow and sandy. Even weighted down someone could end up entangled in a fisherman’s net and be brought to the surface.
He stood up and stretched, and swivelled his chair round to use the laptop on his desk. He switched it on and bent his head. He thought to himself that he’d better email Brian and warn him they were coming. There was a Mitsubishi pickup truck at the lodge, they’d be able to get the bodies in there while it was still dark and head off to the farm about six in the morning.
Behind Conquest’s back, Enver saw Hanlon’s eyelids flicker. He stared intently at her, hardly daring to breathe. Then, suddenly, her eyes opened. Hanlon was back.
39
Hanlon’s right eye opened suddenly. It was startlingly clear against the dark, red blood that covered her face. Hardly daring to breathe, Enver watched as she blinked twice. Then Hanlon rolled her weight off her left side and lay, face down on the floor. To the right of him, Enver was conscious of Conquest tapping one-handedly at the keyboard of his laptop. He was still sitting with his back to Hanlon. Enver was terrified that he might turn round.
Hanlon didn’t move for a couple of heartbeats that seemed to extend into eternity and then, pressing up with her right hand, her broken left arm useless, as though doing a yoga exercise, or attempting a one-handed press-up, she pushed her chest and shoulders upwards like a cobra. Still Conquest frowned at the screen. Next to him on the desk was Ludgate’s shotgun. Propped and leaning against the sofa was his rifle. Enver hardly dared to breathe.
Now Hanlon, in a fluid, graceful motion slid her knees forward and straightened up. She stood looking at Conquest’s back. Her dark hair was matted with her blood that obscured her features like a mask. Her other eye was swollen shut and her left arm hung uselessly by her side.
Her head turned left and right in an almost machine-like, robotic way as she scanned the room with her good eye. Hurry up, hurry up, willed Enver. Mounted on the wall, above where Hanlon had been lying, in parallel at a forty-five degree angle, were the two boar spears that had reputedly belonged to Goering. The spears that the dead Robbo had coveted. Very gently, Hanlon lifted one off its brackets where it was resting. She narrowed her eyes with the effort. It was nearly two metres long with a sixty centimetre barbed steel tip, ending in a needle-sharp point. It was very heavy, but beautifully balanced. She manoeuvred the spear under her right arm like a knight with a lance, then she ran at Conquest.
He must have heard or sensed something for, as she started her charge, he stood up and wheeled round, but he was far too late to react. The tip of the spear caught him in the sternum, just below the V of his ribcage, and kept going. Enver saw the fabric of his white, heavy cotton shirt pushed out, tentlike from his back, before bursting open as the tip of the spear emerged through the material, red with blood from his body. Conquest’s mouth was open in shock and pain in a soundless scream as the spear drove through him, and Hanlon stared triumphantly into his face, her right hand grasping the shaft of the weapon slick with the blood which was pouring out of his chest, trickling heavily from his mouth and flowing down his back from the exit wound. The white fabric of his shirt was now dyed a deep, deep red. Enver had never seen so much blood, it seemed endless.
Conquest still made no real sound apart from hoarse gasps. He and Hanlon were about a metre away as they faced each other, separated by the shaft of the spear. Hanlon advanced on the dying Conquest, the forward pressure of the weapon as it sank further into his body pushing his legs and lower back against the edge of his desk, trapping him. As she moved forward, gripping its shaft, yet more of the spear emerged from Conquest’s back. Centimetre by bloody centimetre she moved forward jerkily, Conquest’s body twitching as more and more of the metal slid into him, until their bodies were touching, chest to chest, separated only by the width of Hanlon’s hand on the spear. Her thumb was pressed against his chest, her little finger against her own. Her face was so close to Conquest’s, their noses were only a couple of millimetres apart. It was almost as if they were lovers.
More blood trickled out of Conquest’s mouth, his white teeth were stained vampirically with the stuff, and Enver could see his lips move as he tried to say something. Hanlon stared into his dying eyes, and Enver heard her hiss, ‘Mark sends his love.’ And she gave the spear a final jerk upwards, lifting Conquest off his feet. The light in his eyes was finally extinguished and his head slumped forward.
Hanlon put the spear down. The end of the shaft was so long it rested against the raised hearth of the fireplace, propping Conquest upright against his desk so it looked like he was standing. Hanlon stood, seemingly lost in thought.
‘Ma’am!’ said Enver, urgently. She shook her head as if to clear it and went over to him. Quickly, she one-handedly undid the straps that secured his arms. Enver stood up. As he did so, he immediately sat down again, wincing at the agonizing pain in his foot. It was then the door of the study opened and Ludgate and Clarissa stood, framed in the doorway.
Clarissa took in the sight of Conquest’s bloodsoaked corpse, skewered by the spear, and the dreadful sight of Hanlon, covered in blood, both her own and Conquest’s, as if she had been dipped in it by a giant hand. Clarissa couldn’t believe that this had happened. It was like some kind of dreadful reverse miracle. Like Lazarus, back from the dead. She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream and stood, paralysed by the scene. Ludgate reacted more robustly. It was obvious what had happened, God knows how it had, but that wasn’t the problem. Hanlon was. The bloody woman had got free. Demirel was still sitting where he should be; he concentrated on the DI. He could see the shotgun out of Hanlon’s sight on the desk, concealed by Conquest’s body and the upright screen of the laptop. She was closer but didn’t know it was there, and Enver was still restrained in the chair.