The Stolen Child Read online

  ‘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, backlit 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.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Hanlon, annoyed. ‘It wasn’t so much of a chat as a Q-and-A session about community policing. He said it was because of his position as head of that traders’ group.’ There we go, thought Whiteside. I knew she wouldn’t follow Corrigan’s advice to be loquacious.

  She’d told Whiteside about the meeting with the assistant commissioner. She hadn’t told him, though, her reason for getting involved as the AC’s information officer on the Ali Yilmaz murder. Hanlon always played her cards close to her chest. When she had proof that Baby Ali’s death was not a one-off but connected to the Essex killing, she’d tell him, but not until then. Meanwhile, let him think it was because the AC thought Ludgate might screw it all up.

  ‘Oh, and he told me how much he admired me,’ said Hanlon. ‘And that went for everyone he’d met and everyone at the party. How at least I’d had the guts to tackle the rioters and how the country needed more police like me.’

  ‘That’s nice of him. I bet he fancies you too,’ said Whiteside. ‘Get him to put it in writing. You can give it to that disciplinary board. You don’t have many prominent fans, ma’am. They’ll be impressed. Start a campaign. They might give you your old job back.’

  Hanlon smiled, or rather her lips twitched momentarily, despite herself. She continued, ‘Conquest’s an independent councillor in Finchley, with access, according to him, to the mayor’s office, so maybe I should.’

  ‘Well then.’ Whiteside shrugged. ‘That’s good, isn’t it. He’s not a criminal after all.’

  ‘Well,’ Hanlon said, ‘I didn’t buy any of it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Whiteside, sipping his wine. Hanlon noted that, as usual when he drank, he held his little finger up. It was an odd quirk he had, like refined old ladies are supposed to do when they sip their tea.

  ‘I’m not the local police community liaison officer. I’m also not a household name. And how did he know I’d be around here to attend this party?’ said Hanlon. Whiteside thought she had a point, but equally he couldn’t see where she was going

  with this. ‘It had to be Ludgate’s doing. He got me the invite and I want to know why.’

  ‘Maybe he wants to make friends?’ said Whiteside with a humourless smile. He knew how much they detested each other. ‘Yeah, right,’ replied Hanlon sarcastically. ‘I think Conquest wanted me to reveal what I’m doing on Ludgate’s patch, what I’m spying on for the AC. Ludgate must have put him up to it. What I want to know is what Ludgate is doing cosying up with some multimillionaire property developer. It doesn’t smell right.’

  Whiteside scratched his beard. ‘You think DCS Ludgate’s bent?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hanlon simply. ‘Besides, I’m sure Conquest is.

  You lie down with a dog, you get up with fleas.’

  Whiteside looked at her dubiously. ‘You’re sure that’s not just because you don’t like him?’ That’s putting it charitably, he thought. ‘There could be any number of reasons why Ludgate wanted him to ask why you’re here. I’d be curious too, in his position. And annoyed. It is you, after all. And why shouldn’t he be mates with a property developer? The DCS is up for retirement soon; he might be after wangling a nice little job as a security consultant. I wouldn’t mind that myself. Couple of hundred quid a day for advising on anything from how to secure against squatters, to scams,
to the best person to approach in the council. Ludgate knows everyone round here. He’s been here since the ark.’

  ‘I ran Conquest through the PNC,’ said Hanlon. Her face

  was stony. She was not amused. Whiteside recognized the look. He supposed there was some point to all of this but he couldn’t see what.

  ‘And?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing, he’s clean. Not even a driving endorsement or an unpaid parking ticket.’

  ‘Well then.’ Whiteside shrugged. ‘That’s good, isn’t it. He’s not a criminal after all. Hoorah. We can all sleep easy in our beds.’

  Hanlon said, ‘I know shit when I smell it, Sergeant. And when I’ve got Conquest under my nose, I don’t smell roses. I’ve spent twenty years in the police and I know that man’s got a record, I don’t care what the police national computer thinks.’ Whiteside guessed she’d say something along those lines.

  One of Hanlon’s greatest strengths was her terrier-like tenacity. She never gave up. The Anderson arrest was typical Hanlon. She’d been out to get him ever since the first attempt had ended in failure. Now Conquest was in her sights. Maybe Ludgate too. If she was convinced of their guilt she’d move heaven and earth to prove it. Hanlon handed him a piece of paper with a name and address.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘look at this.’ Whiteside took it and read it. ‘Who’s Dr S. Cohen and what’s the Shapiro Institute?’ he

  asked.

  By way of answer she said, ‘I met Conquest’s dogs, Prince and Blondi. German shepherds. Nice animals.’ She looked at Whiteside. ‘Do those names mean anything to you?’

  Whiteside thought momentarily. ‘No. No, they don’t. Eighties pop stars?’ What on earth is she on about now?

  ‘They’re the names of Hitler’s dogs,’ said Hanlon.

  Whiteside laughed. ‘Oh, come on,’ he protested. ‘They’re really common names – well, Prince is for a dog. Even if he is a Nazi sympathizer and the dogs are named in honour of the Fuhrer, I don’t think that’s a crime in this country anyway, not unless he’s, say, inciting racial hatred. Is he?’

  Hanlon twisted a lock of her dark hair. She chose to answer Whiteside’s question obliquely. ‘Prominent fascist supporters are very often engaged in criminal activity, Mark. And like I

  said, Conquest smells funny to me. I told you I don’t believe any of this hoohah of wanting to speak to me about community policing and telling me how much he admires me. I think he, like Ludgate, wanted to know what a senior officer associated with Corrigan – whose main issue is anti-racism, let’s not forget

  – is doing in his neck of the woods.’

  Whiteside nodded. ‘Let me get this straight.’ He used the kind of voice you might use to patronize a small, annoying child. ‘So he’s worried that you might discover, what? That he doesn’t like Jews?’

  ‘If I’m wrong, I’m wrong,’ said Hanlon. ‘In the meantime you can humour me. We’re not the only people with criminal databases. The Shapiro Institute has a very good one. You can ask them if they know Mr Conquest.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Whiteside, curious despite himself. ‘They’re a think tank that monitors far-right and neo-Nazi activity in this country and Europe. If Conquest or Ludgate is involved in illegal right-wing activity, they’ll know. Conquest is a prominent citizen; he’s anti-Semitic. I bet they’ve got something on him, even if it’s just rumours. I want to know. Sol Cohen is the director. He’s a busy man but he’ll give you half an hour on Saturday at eleven.’ It’s my day off, damn it, thought Whiteside.

  Then, she knows that of course.

  ‘Surely they don’t work on Saturdays?’ he asked.

  ‘Sol Cohen does. He’s not orthodox, in fact he’s an atheist,’ said Hanlon. ‘So you don’t need to worry about that side of things.’ ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And what do I tell him? That we, you, think a property developer might be anti-Semitic? It’s hardly the crime of the century, is it? Even to a

  Jewish think tank.’

  ‘No,’ said Hanlon with laboured patience, ‘you tell him you’re a journalist investigating anti-Semitism in the property

  industry with links to organized crime.’ Whiteside shook his head in mystification. ‘Organized crime?’

  ‘Organized crime,’ repeated Hanlon firmly. ‘I think Conquest’s a criminal and he most certainly is organized. I checked out his business at Companies House. They made a small profit last financial year, nothing like enough to fund his lifestyle. You should have seen that party, that house. He’s got an underground garage with a Maserati, a Mercedes and a top-of-the-line Range Rover as well. His clothes, shoes and watch come to your annual salary alone. Something doesn’t add up. He’s spent a lot more money than he’s earned legitimately.’ Hanlon paused. ‘You’ll need these.’ She handed him an envelope which he opened.

  Whiteside found himself looking at a photo driving licence and NUJ card that identified him as Michael Dunlop. There was also a covering letter written in Hebrew on Israeli Embassy notepaper. He looked inquiringly at Hanlon.

  ‘That asks that the Shapiro Institute grant you every assistance. I phoned someone I know. Saul Gertler is the Chief of Security at the Israeli Embassy here in London; he provided this. They take millionaire neo-Nazis with police connections quite seriously even if you don’t.’

  ‘Why can’t I just be me?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong with being Sergeant Whiteside? I can play that role. I’ve studied it for years. I was born to play it. Why undercover?’

  Hanlon snorted. ‘The institute doesn’t trust the police. Shin Bet, yes; Scotland Yard, no. The police have connived too often in the past at shafting Jews. Who do you think rounded them up and sent them to camps, the Salvation Army? They wouldn’t let you through the door, Sergeant. The institute is very security conscious. Not only that. They’re always worried about information leaking. I can’t say I blame them. I don’t fully trust the police and I work for them. If I’m right, and

  he is dirty, someone deleted Conquest from the PNC. That’s probably one of our colleagues. I think we’ll just keep this to ourselves for now.’

  ‘If Corrigan finds out he’ll have a blue fit,’ said Whiteside warningly. You’ll be sacked, he thought, and I’ll be demoted. ‘Corrigan won’t find out,’ said Hanlon. Whiteside recognized the tone in her voice. It meant, don’t argue. ‘That letter in Hebrew identifies you as a freelance journalist who is accredited in Israel. Your address I’ve given as this one. Is that OK with you?’ Whiteside nodded. He doubted they’d be adding him to their mailing list. ‘If anyone gets inquisitive tell them to ring Gertler at the embassy. No one will dare. He’s not the kind of

  man you’d want to bother.’

  ‘You just did,’ said Whiteside.

  She looked at him imperiously, her grey eyes dark in the soft light of Whiteside’s living room. Her chin lifted slightly in a combative way. ‘That’s true,’ said Hanlon equably, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. ‘But I’m me.’

  What can you do, he thought admiringly, faced with someone who shortly after leaving a dinner party has contacted the head of Israeli Intelligence in London, whose number she has on her mobile phone, and got him to do this. The range of people that Hanlon knew was extraordinary. What was even more extraordinary was the way they all tended to do her bidding. Himself included. Hanlon was looking at him expectantly. ‘OK. OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll go. What exactly do you want?’

  ‘Like I told you. I want whatever they’ve got on Conquest. There’ll be something. He’s dirty, I can smell it. The fact that the PNC has got nothing on him doesn’t impress me.’

  Whiteside, who knew Hanlon much better than most, was surprised at the level of venom in her voice. He thought it boded ill for Conquest, guilty or innocent. Nothing would

  get in her way. Whiteside had worked with her for five years. She was unstoppable.

  ‘That’s straightforward enough,’ he said.

  Hanlon took another sip of water. ‘I also wan
t to know if the number eighteen has any significance.’

  ‘Eighteen?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Whiteside paused expectantly. Hanlon looked at him as if to say what more do you want.

  ‘Are you going to tell me why this number’s significant?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not,’ she said.

  ‘OK, fine. Be like that.’ His mock irritation was not entirely mock. ‘And how about you, what’ll you be doing tomorrow?’ he asked.

  Hanlon stood up to leave. ‘I’m seeing Sergeant Demirel about the murdered child. That, Sergeant, is what this is all about. Catching criminals, not feeding my ego.’ She looked at him commandingly. ‘Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

  14

  Clarissa sat in the front of the small, white Ford Transit van parked just down the road from Kathy and Peter’s flat and felt the excitement rise in her body and mind as the adrenaline started to flow. She was growing to love this sensation. It was like that feeling she had before she used to go onstage, would she remember her lines? Would the audience love her? It was like being at the top of a rollercoaster ride, waiting for the moment when the car would plunge forward into the abyss, or standing on a bungee platform, but far, far better. This was life and death. This must be how God felt. What she was about to do was apocalyptic. She would utterly shatter Kathy and Peter’s lives. She thought:

  I am Destiny. I am Vishnu.

  I am the Destroyer of Worlds.

  Today would be the third time. First the Somali girl, then the Turkish boy, now this. One of their best clients had requested a young, white child and Clarissa had the perfect candidate. Clarissa was looking forward to taking Peter. He would fit the customer’s specifications in every respect but, first and foremost, it would break Kathy’s heart, it would destroy her, and Clarissa hated Kathy.

  She quickly ran through her list of resentments against Kathy again, just to inspire herself. How Kathy reminded her of the