Dame Elizabeth looked at the woman across the desk from her. She had spent her whole working life grading and assessing people – students, civil servants, university lecturers, lovers – and she knew she was good at it.
How, she wondered would she judge the policewoman? First of all, she thought, Corrigan had obviously made an excellent choice. Dame Elizabeth had specified she did not want anyone who would stand out. She didn’t want students, or faculty for that matter, protesting they were being spied on by the authorities. Universities were a breeding ground for silly, paranoid fantasies, not helped by organizations like Special Branch occasionally launching fantastically stupid undercover investigations. Now there were the torrent of unauthorized incidents of surveillance as revealed by Bradley Manning and Edward Snowden. Undercover policewomen at a strongly left-wing university, it could so easily go disastrously wrong.
Gallagher, or whoever she really was, certainly did not look like she was in the police. She didn’t look groomed enough. With her springy, slightly unkempt hair, the black eye and the rather expensive blouse she was wearing, she reminded Dame Elizabeth of the radical student activists of her youth. There was something about the cast of the face that was anti-authoritarian. She could easily imagine Gallagher petrol- bombing the US Embassy in protest against the Vietnam War or leading a Baader-Meinhof protest march in what was then West Germany. It was a fanatic’s face. But if you looked closely, you could see she was surprisingly good-looking. She had high cheekbones, a full mouth, dark, curved eyebrows, and her figure was excellent.
She also looked like trouble. It was spelled out in the com- bative set of the jaw and the far from friendly expression on her face.
Her estimation of Corrigan, already quite high, rose another notch. She wouldn’t be brave enough to employ this woman, no matter how good her qualities. He was a bloody good judge of character. I’m getting old, she thought, annoyed at herself. I’m choosing the easy route and I’m getting risk averse.
Hanlon also reminded her of someone she’d once known back in her youth. The face hung tantalizingly at the back of her mind, but Dame Elizabeth had met a lot of people and she didn’t follow the thought up.
‘So, have you found anything relevant to add to DCI Murray’s investigation?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Hanlon. She made no attempt to elaborate or say more. It was this unusually abrupt reply that triggered Dame Elizabeth’s formidable memory. Now she knew who Hanlon reminded her of.
The possibility alarmed her, almost like meeting a ghost. It’s not so, she told herself. There is something almost horrific about the past returning to haunt you. It’s ill omened. It never presages good. Her face, schooled in a thousand meetings, showed nothing of her inner turmoil. It cannot be.
She moved the thought to one side for later inspection. There is no point getting sidetracked in a meeting, particularly if you’re the one doing the distracting. She concentrated on the business in hand.
‘I’m waiting,’ she said. Time to remind the policewoman who was in charge here.
‘I’ve established that Dr Fuller is a habitual customer of a brothel specializing in S&M. That there is quite compelling circumstantial evidence linking him to the death of Hannah Moore,’ Hanlon said.
Dame Elizabeth rolled her eyes. ‘Dr Fuller’s sexual inclinations are his business,’ she said. She looked with hostility at Hanlon. ‘How many of your fellow male officers use pornography, have affairs or take favours from prostitutes on their patch?’ she demanded. She would not accept a lecture about morality from someone in the police.
Hillsborough, the Lawrence affair, Plebgate, the police federation, frivolous personal-injury claims involving kerbs and paper- cuts. And those were just what sprang immediately to mind.
‘More than I’d care to admit,’ said Hanlon, ruthlessly honest. ‘Fortunately, I don’t have to work with any bent policemen.’ Thank God for Enver, she thought, even DCI Murray for that matter, a perfectly happily married man, who bored his colleagues rigid with tedious stories and photos of his children.
Dame Elizabeth nodded, surprised at Hanlon’s candid answer.
‘There you are then,’ she said.
‘There is the possibility that he may have been pressuring students into sex for better grades,’ said Hanlon. It was a rumour she’d heard from a woman in her class, and one substantiated by Michaels, but she thought she’d air it, just to see the professor’s reaction.
Dame Elizabeth raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘The possibility,’ she said with heavy emphasis. ‘All sorts of things are possible; let’s try and confine ourselves to the empirically verifiable. Dr Fuller seems to be the victim of a certain amount of rumour and innuendo, none of which would warrant disciplinary proceedings, let alone police interest. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘May I remind you a girl is dead, Dame Elizabeth. That’s why the police are interested. It’s not out of a prurient interest in Dr Fuller’s sex life.’
Prurient, thought Dame Elizabeth. Not a word you hear every day. She looked into Hanlon’s menacing, cold eyes.
‘And that’s why we all want to find out who did it,’ she parried briskly. ‘Now, what do your fellow students have to say about him?’
‘That he’s hard-working, a good teacher, they like him,’ admitted Hanlon.
‘And what do you think?’ Dame Elizabeth tilted her open palms towards Hanlon in an over-to-you gesture.
Hanlon hesitated, unusual for her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She was thinking back to Iris Campion, to her statement that some of the girls say he can get a little too rough.
She pushed a hand through her unruly hair and the sleeve of her dark jacket slipped backwards revealing her slim, muscular forearm. She was wearing a very geometric, severe silver and platinum bracelet. Its unadorned simplicity and austerity seemed chosen to mirror Hanlon’s personality. Dame Elizabeth stared at it, aghast. Veteran as she was of the need to keep a public face on at all times, her features remained impassive.
‘Oh well,’ she said faintly, her mind almost hypnotized by the ornament, then, ‘Do you mind if I ask you what your real name is? I’m assuming Gallagher isn’t it.’
‘No, not at all. I’m DCI Hanlon.’
Dame Elizabeth’s heart sank. Of course it is. I knew that, she thought. What else could it be. Hanlon gave her a business card with her rank and mobile number. Dame Elizabeth took it. There was just one more test, one more thing of which she had to satisfy herself.
‘That’s a very unusual bracelet you’re wearing.’
‘It’s German, from the Bauhaus movement,’ Hanlon said. ‘It belonged to my mother.’
Walter Gropius, the founder of Bauhaus, designed it, thought Dame Elizabeth. It’s so rare, it’s practically unique. And no, it didn’t belong to your mother, DCI Hanlon. And yes, that is empirically verifiable.
Let’s verify the hypothesis.
So be it. Alea iacta est. The die is cast. ‘May I see it?’
Hanlon gave her a puzzled look but undid the clasp and handed the small bracelet to Dame Elizabeth. It was surprisingly heavy and very well made.
‘Walter Gropius, the founder of Bauhaus, designed it,’ said Hanlon. ‘It’s very rare.’
Dame Elizabeth turned the piece of jewellery over between her fingers. There was a small message engraved on the inside. She couldn’t read the letters, they were too small, but she didn’t need to. Her eyes had been a lot sharper when she’d first read the inscription, her face then softening with love and delight.
That was in another country. In another century. In another city.
Her literary mind added, And besides, the wench is dead.
And she shivered.
That was in Berlin. She knew what was written there: Jann and L 1976. The seven was written continental style with a bar through the stem.
She gave it back to Hanlon. ‘Thank you, it’s very distinctive.’ Hanlon nodded and placed it back on her wrist. She could have said, my mother left it to me after she died. She could have said, my mother’s name was Jennifer but the engraver, presumably German, got it wrong. He put Jann instead.
She could have said, I never knew who my father was, but I guess maybe his name began with L and maybe that’s why I choose not to have a first name.
The false reason she’d given Fuller in class, for not having a first name, was not too far removed from the reality. She could have told Dame Elizabeth that the name she was given came from her adoptive parents. She could have said, I want nothing to do with them or it. I’m Hanlon; I’m not that other girl. But she didn’t.
Hanlon never talked about herself. Like Iris Campion, she had rejected the idea of victimhood.
And Dame Elizabeth Saunders could have told her the truth, then and there, but she didn’t.
Dame Elizabeth seemed lost in thought as Hanlon stood up. ‘I’ve got a question for you,’ Hanlon said.
‘Go ahead.’
Hanlon looked at her, puzzled. The dame seemed suddenly very distant, as if totally lost in thought.
‘You seemed to believe that Kant was right, that we should obey moral laws, like do not lie, come hell or high water. Do you seriously believe that?’ Hanlon’s face showed barely concealed anger.
Something to be debated.
Dame Elizabeth nodded. ‘I do believe that, yes,’ she said, almost sadly.
‘Even if it would result in the death of an innocent person?’ The professor nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘even if someone were to be killed. Some things are worth dying for.’ Her voice was very quiet.
Hanlon shook her head contemptuously and turned and left the office.
Dame Elizabeth watched the door close and then buried her face in her hands, as a wave of self-revulsion engulfed her. I didn’t lie to you, DCI Hanlon, she thought to herself, but I sure as hell avoided the facts.
You can’t escape the truth, thought Dame Elizabeth. It catches us all up in the end. Kant knew that, and so do I.