Hanlon met the union rep, Derek Lansdale, on Saturday morning. He made it clear that Hanlon had absolutely no say in Whiteside’s fate. He made it more than clear; he positively revelled in telling her.
He reiterated that Hanlon had no claim on Whiteside; she wasn’t family or in a relationship with him. Unlike his parents, who were the ones who had decided that enough was enough, that it was time to let their son go. He even brought up the cost of keeping Whiteside alive. Besides, he said, maybe Whiteside would prefer to be dispatched cleanly, food and drink withheld until Nature had run her course, than languish in this hospitalized limbo.
Lansdale strongly disliked Hanlon. He also was entirely happy to let his feelings show. For more or less the first time in his unionized police life, he wished that management would sack someone. Her. He didn’t like women in the police force in general and he disliked her in particular.
He rationalized his thinking to read that she was a bad example to the police force and that if individual police made a habit of recklessly endangering their own lives, it would create a dangerous precedent. The obvious implication, although he didn’t actually say it, was that it was Hanlon’s fault Whiteside was where he was.
It didn’t help her feelings that she often did blame herself for his condition. He was where he was because she had put him in the firing line. The fact that she hadn’t ordered him to go, having no authority at the time, but that he had volunteered because he liked and admired her, only made things worse.
Hanlon felt her temper rising dangerously, but managed to control it. The arguments about quality of life and parental rights left her unmoved. The first was a temporary issue in Hanlon’s mind anyway. As for the second, Whiteside was not on speaking terms with his mother and father. Lansdale himself, Hanlon despised as a gutless desk-jockey.
She longed to drive her fist repeatedly into Lansdale’s pasty white face. Instead, she went home, changed, and ran a punishing five miles, deliberately upping her pace until her body cried out with cleansing pain, then, back home, her body slick with sweat, worked on her abs with endless sit-ups, crunches and abdominal twists. She tortured the muscles until they practically screamed. She showered, checked her phone, and found another message from the unknown caller, the one who had told her about Whiteside, this time giving Whiteside’s parents’ address in Borough, South London.
She lay on the unrolled futon that was her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She had phoned the number of the mystery caller back, but there was no reply, as she expected. She thought she must know the caller and guessed it was almost certainly a colleague. The motive behind the information provider was far from obvious, though.
Hanlon was notoriously short-fused. Was he – she was sure it was a he – hoping she would create some sort of incident to discredit herself? Anyone who knew Hanlon would quite reasonably assume that she might well turn up at the parents and create some massive, alarming scene.
Momentarily she considered doing just that. Going round to his parents and warning them off. Maybe break something, and she wasn’t thinking of a vase. Then she thought of DCI Tremayne, warning her when she was a trainee, ‘Don’t hit the fuck-it button, Hanlon,’ and she rejected the idea.
Or were they trying genuinely to help her, to give her the chance to save Whiteside’s life? She had toyed with the idea of getting the phone traced by GPS. Getting the mobile phone service provider’s permission would be simplicity itself, but she suspected that whoever had the phone would merely keep it at whichever station he worked out of. She was already sure it was a copper doing this. What good would it do to know where he worked? It’s not as if they would have the phone in their uniform pocket. In their place, she’d have stashed it at the back of a cupboard that wasn’t used often. An old Nokia or brick – no one would give it a second glance. It would sit there gathering dust until it was next needed.
I’ve lived too long in a half-world of lies and suspicion, she thought. Absent-mindedly she clenched her fist and tightened her left bicep. The long, sinewy muscle arced obediently. At least there’s something I can rely on in this life. I need physical action, she thought. I’m not designed for introspection.
Her phone rang. It was Enver. She felt a huge surge of affection for the man wash over her. She almost snatched at the phone as she picked it up.
‘Hello, ma’am, sorry to bother you. There’s been a development on the Fuller case.’ His voice was as excited as Enver’s could be, not a great deal.
‘What exactly?’
He hated talking about important things on the phone. He was convinced they were all bugged. ‘I don’t want to talk about it on the phone,’ said the ever-cautious Enver, ‘but if you could come over to Euston, I’ll fill you in.’
‘Give me half an hour,’ said Hanlon. She pulled on some cycling gear and trainers, and she was ready. Thank God for Enver Demirel, she thought.
The first thing Hanlon noticed as she strode across the floor of the open-plan office to Enver’s desk was a familiar figure sitting opposite the DI. Detective Inspector Melinda Huss, no less.
If Hanlon was less than enthused by the sight of Huss, the flicker of distaste that ran across the latter’s face suggested the feeling was mutual. Oblivious to the tension, Enver beamed happily at the two of them.
He can be incredibly obtuse, thought Hanlon. He will never grasp that we can’t stand each other.
Hanlon sat down opposite Huss. Her slim, muscled body outlined in Lycra was in marked contrast to the more generous form of DI Huss. Huss was showing quite a bit of cleavage, thought Hanlon, eyeing her up and down, no prizes for guessing whose benefit that was for. Any minute now she’d be staring at Enver and playing with her hair.
Good luck with that, she thought. Enver’s so shy of women it’s not true. In his own mind he’s convinced no woman could possibly find him attractive.
Enver had something on a plate. ‘We’ve got coffee cake, ma’am,’ he said. ‘DI Huss made it specially. It’s got walnuts in.’ Hanlon looked at the cake. Much as she hated to admit it, it could have come from an upmarket patisserie. It was the kind of cake that won prizes. It looked superb and was presented on a china plate that certainly did not come from the scabby kitchen area in the corner of the office. Huss had even brought a doily for the cake to sit on.
Hanlon wondered crazily if Huss were baking her way to the top, her rivals in promotion on the Oxford CID ladder failing medicals left, right and centre, felled by carb- and cholesterol- induced heart problems and Type 2 diabetes.
‘Do you bake, ma’am?’ asked Huss smugly.
‘No,’ said Hanlon irritably. She didn’t even own an oven. There were shops for that kind of thing. She watched as Enver cut the cake, refusing a slice herself, and then said, ‘So, what’s this development then?’
Enver, mouth full of coffee and walnut gateau, butter icing and mocha filling, gestured at Huss to explain. His eyes gleamed with pleasure. It was delicious cake, highly flavoured, the sponge moist but firm.
His family background in catering always surfaced at moments like this. He was by far the most talented Demirel in a kitchen. His not going into the family business had been a bitter blow to his father.
‘We’d obviously conducted one search of Fuller’s room at the Blenheim, but DCI Templeman wanted a secondary search doing, just in case we’d missed something, and sure enough, hidden in the mattress itself, we found another pair of women’s pants and some more pubic hair clippings,’ she said.
‘What size were they?’ asked Hanlon.
DI Huss gave her a suspicious look. ‘Ten,’ she said.
‘And the other ones, the size eight?’ continued Hanlon, rather enjoying her role as Fuller’s barrister in absentia. ‘Have you had the results back?’
‘We have,’ said Huss. ‘The DNA is no match for the victim, but the new pants are.’
‘And the gloves?’
‘No useful results,’ conceded Huss.
‘So that’s when Templeman had the second search done, is it, when the original one exonerated Fuller?’ said Hanlon.
Enver had been watching the conversation between the women as it went to and fro like a spectator at a tennis match. ‘What does Fuller say?’ he asked.
‘No comment. That’s more or less it. He won’t tell us where he was at the time of the murder other than out for a walk to plan his lecture. He cannot explain the presence of the victim’s clothing in his room.’ Huss looked at them with an air of triumph.
‘Presumably he says that they were planted there,’ said Hanlon.
‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he, ma’am,’ countered Huss.
Hanlon said acidly, ‘And how secure was Fuller’s room during his time down at your nick?’
‘The door was locked, obviously. It was securely taped. So yes, the area was secure,’ said Huss defensively. Hanlon rolled her eyes.
‘We hadn’t gone overboard with sealing the area. It’s Oxford’s most famous hotel for heaven’s sake,’ said Huss defensively. ‘We can’t go round draping it in crime-scene tape. But yes, the room was sealed.’
‘Did anyone think to photograph the seals? Or at least check that their validity hadn’t been compromised?’ asked Hanlon. There was an uncomfortable pause from DI Huss who said,
‘I don’t have that information to hand.’
I’ll take that as a no, thought Hanlon. If this comes to court, Fuller’s lawyer is going to rip you lot to shreds.
‘So, what’s the state of play with Fuller, have you actually charged him then?’ she asked.
DI Huss shook her head. ‘He’s been bailed pending further enquiries and is due to return to Summertown in three weeks’ time, by when the CPS will have decided what to do.’
‘And what do you think?’ said Hanlon to the DI. ‘Do you think he’s guilty?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Huss. ‘He’s not exactly behaving like an innocent person. He’s lied to us, he’s evasive, there’s a stack of circumstantial evidence around him. He fits the profile.’ She paused angrily. ‘If he’s not guilty he’s doing a bloody good job of acting like he is. And I think he’s a danger to the public. He’s been involved in two murders, possibly three, that we know about. For all we know this is the tip of an iceberg. And if that underwear wasn’t Jessica McIntyre’s, whose was it? Answer me that!’
I certainly intend to, thought Hanlon. Oh yes, I am going to make that a priority. If Fuller is not the killer, then it’s time to start looking elsewhere.
Huss continued, ‘If anyone else dies, the press and public are going to be down on us like a ton of bricks. Rightly so.’
Hanlon said nothing, then stood up. God, she’s got a great body, thought Huss bitterly, staring enviously at the Lycra- clad form.
‘What do you think, ma’am?’ she asked.
Hanlon shrugged. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said to Enver and nodded coldly to DI Huss.
Huss and Enver watched Hanlon stride across the office floor. Huss noticed that Enver’s eyes had lost their sleepy, good- natured look. They were watchful, guarded. He was thinking over Hanlon’s position on Fuller.
Huss had been making discreet enquiries about Enver from colleagues. One or two knew him or of him. He was highly regarded, a coming man, and they were all impressed with Enver’s ability to handle himself in a brawl. I want him, she thought. I wonder what he’s thinking.
Enver wasn’t thinking of Huss. He thought she was very attractive, too attractive for him. He moved his mind to the case.
Hanlon obviously had doubts about Fuller’s guilt. Huss, on the other hand, was convinced of it. Enver was thinking to himself, Hanlon had a track record of being right. The thing is, he thought gloomily, if Fuller was not the killer, then they were left entirely without a suspect.
‘What do you think, Enver?’ she said.
‘I think, DI Huss, that this is exceptional cake.’
She’d been hoping he would call her Melinda. She’d been so close, maybe a drink after work. Not now. Just her surname. She felt a surge of resentment towards Hanlon.
The woman had ruined her day.