Time to Die

24

Enver watched from his position outside the flat as the SOCO officers came and started their work, while various other uniforms sealed off the premises and started searching the roof and alley. These were the parameters that he had defined as the primary and secondary search sites. He had already started a crime-scene log, which he’d handed over to the SIO. He had also taken a witness statement from Mr Colin Hargreaves, the formerly abusive, but now extremely cooperative, pensioner. Hargreaves seemed pathetically eager to help. He kept smiling nervously at Enver, his false teeth slipping around wetly in his slack mouth. He reminded Enver of a chastised dog, keen to make amends.

What he told Enver was this: two men in council workclothes had arrived, had been admitted to the Yilmaz flat, there’d been some shouting, a general commotion which the old man had put down to objections to doing what they were told, then silence. The men had emerged carrying the large refuse sacks of the kind that were reinforced and strong enough to contain builders’ waste and rubble. Hargreaves said he assumed the bags contained rubbish. No description of the men beyond the fact that they were white and burly, both with hats, one a baseball cap, one a blue beanie. Hargreaves had no idea of the vehicle the men had arrived in. He said he’d heard doors slam after they disappeared down the staircase, so he assumed it was a van.

The officer who had been put in charge, the SIO, was DCI Murray, someone Enver knew fairly well. Murray was regarded as reliable and thorough, but Enver thought he was actually a lazy sod who liked to spin things out for overtime purposes. He was known as ‘Never Hurry’ Murray. As if to confirm this nickname, as soon as he’d cordoned off the service road and checked the initial plan of action with Enver, Murray had put Enver in charge of the crime scene and disappeared to ‘sort things out, logistics wise. We need an incident room.’ In Murray speak, that meant finding an office and drinking a lot of tea. Enver resigned himself mentally to a very late finish.

He sent officers to check the shops below for CCTV footage and to get witness statements. He arranged to have door-to-door enquiries down the street and he also sent an officer to try to track down the gang of youths who’d been hanging around when he and Hanlon had first arrived. If anyone had seen anything, they would have, although the chances of them helping the police with their enquiries would be practically nil.

He had been so preoccupied with the various tasks in hand, determined not to let Hanlon down, that strangely, the first he heard of the Whiteside shooting was when the outsize bulk of Corrigan, all six foot five of the assistant commissioner, loomed up the metal steps that led to the roof where the flat was. Like Enver, he was finding the metal stairs hard going and he appeared in Enver’s sight inch by impressive inch as he grimly hauled his way up, knees protesting. The top of his head came first, followed by the rest of him in slow motion. It was like the visitation of a deity. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared. He climbed on to the flat roof, followed by two of his own men, hard-faced police that Enver had never seen before, one in uniform, one not. They fell in behind Corrigan, one on either side, like attendant priests.

In the absence of Murray, Enver had been busy contacting the council for traffic and other CCTV sources to see if anything could be made of the van. If they had the number plate they could use the ANPR system. He wasn’t optimistic. They’d probably have fake plates, but it was worth a try. He told the council employee he’d be back in touch later and, like everyone else, he stopped what he was doing and stared at the assistant commissioner. Although Corrigan was wearing civilian clothes, chinos, a baggy shirt and deck shoes, Enver recognized him immediately and saluted. Like everyone else, he wondered, what had brought the assistant commissioner up here. To his horror, Corrigan bore down on him.

‘Are you Sergeant Demirel?’ Corrigan asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver uncomfortably. He wondered feverishly what all this could possibly be about. The AC’s acolytes stared at him silently. It was very unnerving.

‘Come with me, Sergeant.’ The assistant commissioner indicated the hatchet-faced plainclothes policeman to his left. ‘DI Ralphs will take over from you.’

‘Yes, sir. Do you want me to fill the DI in on what I’ve done already?’ asked Enver.

Corrigan looked at him as if he were insane. ‘No. No, I don’t,’ he said, as if speaking to a child. ‘I want you to stop what you’re doing and come with me. Ralphs is perfectly capable of following procedure, which I take it you have been doing?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver.

‘Good,’ said Corrigan. ‘Where’s the SIO here?’

‘Back at the station, sir.’

‘Is that so?’ said Corrigan.

‘Yes, sir. I’m acting SIO, in his absence.’

‘Well, Ralphs is now,’ said Corrigan. He looked unimpressed by Murray’s absence. Someone’s in for a bollocking, thought Enver. The AC ordered, ‘You, Sergeant, come with me.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver and fell in beside the AC. Corrigan swung his bulk over the roof’s edge and descended the stairs. Enver followed him. The sergeant came up to the other man’s shoulders; he hadn’t felt this small in years. He wondered what on earth Corrigan might want.

In the comfort of the black leather back seat of Corrigan’s air-conditioned Mercedes, parked in the street below, the driver standing discreetly outside, the big man looked at Enver.

‘I need to talk to you and not down the nick. Where can we go that’s private and convenient?’ Enver’s mind went blank. He looked around the car for inspiration.

‘I’m not sitting in here talking,’ said Corrigan, ‘that’s for sure.’

‘Errm,’ said Enver. Corrigan sighed in exasperation.

‘You do know this area, Sergeant, don’t you? Somewhere we can go? Somewhere quiet?’

Enver thought furiously, North London addresses and venues whirring crazily in his brain, before he said, ‘My uncle’s house, sir. That’s near.’

‘Fine, Sergeant. Let’s go there then,’ said Corrigan.

‘Do you mind if I phone my aunt, sir?’ asked Enver. It sounded ridiculous.

‘Please go ahead, Sergeant.’

In Uncle Osman’s front room, in the house off the immensely long Seven Sisters Road — the room that Enver thought of as his uncle’s study with its shelves full of gloomy-looking theological works in Turkish, Ottoman Turkish and Arabic, souvenirs of Istanbul on the wall, the floor covered with Turkish rugs — they were drinking sweet tea from glasses. Corrigan, helping himself to some immensely sticky baklava, proudly brought in by Aunt Fatima, said, ‘You know DS Whiteside, I believe?’

‘Vaguely, sir. We’ve met anyway.’

‘I take it you haven’t heard the news then?’ asked Corrigan.

‘No, sir,’ said Enver, puzzled. ‘I’ve been busy with the Yilmaz murder.’

‘It’s not a murder case yet, Sergeant,’ said the AC. ‘They’ve technically gone missing. At this stage anyway.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver. ‘But surely the shouting, the blood, the disappearance of the three of them?’ It could only be murder, he thought.

‘It could be abduction, false imprisonment, it could be staged,’ said Corrigan. ‘It’s not the only thing that’s been happening.’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’ said Enver, bewildered.

‘Sergeant Whiteside has been shot, at his flat.’ Corrigan sipped his tea thoughtfully.

He looked around the imam’s study with a policeman’s eye for detail. It was the room of an elderly scholar, no more, no less. The glasses from which they were drinking their tea were small, about the size of sherry glasses, and held in a filigreed silver holder. They were absurdly dainty for Corrigan’s huge fingers.

Enver took in the news of Whiteside’s shooting. Various thoughts crowded his mind — amazement that such a thing could happen, a terrible sympathy for Whiteside that a man so full of vitality — he’d only seen him that one time — had been struck down, professional responses, why hadn’t he known before, how many would be on the investigation, shamefully (to his mind) a selfish relief that it wasn’t him.

‘Is he…?’ Enver hesitated.

Corrigan supplied the answer to the unasked question. ‘Not yet. Two body shots, but they missed vital organs — well, that’s not strictly true, his bladder’s been, well, I’ll spare you the details, extensive trauma, massive blood loss — only the third shot, he was shot in the face.’ Corrigan grimaced. He had seen gunshot head injuries before; he hoped to God he’d never need to see another one again. ‘The bullet shattered his jaw, then the cheekbone and lodged in the front of his head. They’re operating now to remove it.’

Enver shuddered inwardly. He didn’t mind bodily injuries. He had boxed for ten years, including three as a semi-professional, from the age of fifteen to twenty-five, and his own body had, literally, taken a pounding. But to live the rest of your life brain-damaged, to be there but not there, to be no longer you since you are defined by your personality rather than your physical abilities, struck him as awful. Of course, brain damage was a perpetual risk in boxing, but things had been tightened up a lot since the Michael Watson fight. A Whiteside with a permanent catheter was still undeniably Whiteside. So would be a Whiteside in a wheelchair. A Whiteside with permanent mental impairment, well, was that still Whiteside? If he survived physically, how mentally affected would he be? It was a terrible thought. Enver could face life physically disabled, or felt he could, but not as a vegetable.

He thought too of Hanlon. ‘Who’s heading the investigation, sir? DI Hanlon?’ Corrigan’s eyes bulged in disbelief, emphasized by his eyebrows arcing upwards. ‘How much punishment did you take in that boxing ring, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Are you crazy? Hanlon in charge? Think about it for a minute.’

Enver did so. He didn’t know the DI that well. She had a reputation for toughness, a superlative arrest record, that much was canteen knowledge, and, of course, there was the famous riot incident. And the rumoured propensity to violence. None of these, though, was particularly remarkable. He could think of half a dozen police that these qualities fitted, himself included, to a certain extent. There was the fact that she was remarkably physically fit, he’d heard about the triathlons, but again, there were probably quite a few athletes in the Met. He stroked his moustache pensively. Corrigan lost patience with him. He was beginning to wonder if Hanlon had been right in her glowing references.

‘DI Hanlon has a history of bending or breaking rules, Sergeant, as well you know,’ he said irritably, ‘and she has got away with it so far because she’s been very clever and very lucky. And also because she has a number of people, myself included, who have gone out on a limb for her. Quite frankly, she is the last person anyone would want in charge of this investigation. One of Hanlon’s biggest problems is she does take things personally and this Whiteside business…’ Corrigan shook his head; he didn’t bother finishing the sentence. ‘Hanlon is quite capable, Sergeant, of taking matters into her own hands. God alone knows what she might get up to, or God forbid, do to a suspect.’

He looked shrewdly at Enver. Corrigan had undertaken a bit of digging into the Anderson arrest. There were several niggling details that had caught his eye, particularly with regards to the information leading to the drugs bust. He didn’t think Hanlon had fitted Anderson up or entrapped him, but something felt fishy. Now he would have to let the thing go. Whiteside was in no position, maybe never would be, even if he survived, to help him. The point was, he, Corrigan had helped Hanlon and she’d repaid him by stabbing him in the back. Don’t ruffle feathers, he’d told her; what had she done, assaulted a chicken. And that was down to her wanting to get even with someone who’d merely outwitted her legally. God knows what she was capable of doing to avenge Whiteside. Hanlon needed to be reined in. Simply making sure she wasn’t part of the investigation wouldn’t be nearly enough. She’d be forever checking up on its progress, interfering, driving the SIO mad. And Hanlon had enough devoted fans in strategic positions to keep her well informed of everything she’d want to know. Reading her the riot act would just be a waste of breath.

In an ideal world, Corrigan would have seconded her to somewhere far away, Wales or Yorkshire, anywhere out of London. But failing that, he would find her a babysitter. He wasn’t going to share any of this with Enver, but his reputation as a grim, methodical copper might slow Hanlon down. He knew from Hanlon’s memo that she considered Demirel a good policeman and the checks Corrigan had made on his record backed that up. If he teamed him up with her, she’d accept it.

Corrigan had wondered momentarily if Anderson were behind the shooting of Whiteside by way of revenge. It seemed unlikely. Although the man was certainly capable of murder, had indeed committed it if the stories were to be believed, he was a professional criminal and would accept police activity as an occupational hazard. But you could never be sure. Anderson was capable of crucifying someone he didn’t like; he was capable of anything.

Enver began to see what Corrigan was getting at. Hanlon would be on the warpath. Corrigan continued, ‘For one thing, she has licences for two hunting rifles, a.22 and a.243, and three shotguns, one double barrel, one up and over and a pump action, and that’s just what she officially owns.’ He had stressed the word ‘officially’. Enver nodded. Hanlon could probably get anything she wanted in London, come to that. Enver could himself if he wanted to. He knew an underworld armourer, two in fact. You could even hire guns on a deposit basis for a couple of hundred quid plus deposit, non-returnable if the firearms were used.

Enver suddenly thought to himself, Corrigan thinks she might kill whoever did this. This is what it’s all about. ‘Why are you telling me this, sir?’ he asked. He wanted his suspicions confirmed.

Corrigan poured himself some more tea. The glass looked ridiculously fragile in his massive fingers. ‘Hanlon’s unstoppable, Sergeant, once she’s made up her mind. Why am I telling you this?’ He hesitated and rubbed the bald patch on his crown thoughtfully, ‘Because I like Hanlon a lot and I think you do too.’ He paused. ‘She can be her own worst enemy.’

‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ Enver was confused by Corrigan now. He had always thought that Corrigan would hang anyone out to dry who might get in his way. He hadn’t realized the extent to which the assistant commissioner was prepared to shield Hanlon.

‘I suppose I would like you to save her from herself, Sergeant. DI Hanlon has enemies in high places who would very much like to sack her. I want you to find out what she intends to do and stop her. That is what I want you to do, Sergeant. Needless to say, this conversation never took place.’

Sure, thought Enver. And stopping Hanlon doing anything is going to be really easy. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, purely to annoy Corrigan. ‘Then what are you doing here, sir? Officially, I mean. For when people ask me what the assistant commissioner wanted to talk to me about.’

The assistant commissioner didn’t miss a beat. ‘Building bridges, Sergeant, with the London Anglo-Turkish community. My secretary has arranged an interview with Olay Gazetesi and Londra Gazete for later.’

Enver nodded admiringly. You’re slick, he thought. They were the two Turkish-language newspapers in London. The AC had been in touch with them both. Corrigan had a rare talent for PR. Nothing was wasted.

‘I’m looking forward to meeting your uncle, the imam. We’re going to have our photos taken. I gather he’s highly respected,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, here is what you’ll do about Hanlon.’