Time to Die

25

At 7 p.m. that evening, Enver was standing under the large Victorian railway viaduct in Bermondsey, a stone’s throw from the Shard. It was still light, but the sky was darkening and the narrow streets around here never really seemed to get much sun. He looked around. It was a strange juxtaposition, the gleaming, futurist construction rising skywards like something out of a sci-fi film, like Metropolis, and the gloomy, red-brick Victorian train viaduct. The enormously tall building looked deceptively short to Enver. This was, he thought, the tallest building in Europe but it certainly didn’t seem that way. It was hard to impress Enver.

Enver was a North Londoner. South London, the other side of the river, was alien territory. To want to live in South London seemed almost perverse. The very thought almost made him feel ill. To cross the Thames was to cross into another country. London was two distinct nations, but Schengen-like; you didn’t need a passport to travel between them.

Bermondsey, Enver decided from a short walk around it, was a schizophrenic part of London. It didn’t know what it wanted to be. It was like Barbara Windsor married to Damien Hirst. Bermondsey has a private art gallery, the White Cube, which is huge, both in reputation and size. Internationally famous artists like Gilbert and George, Anselm Kiefer, Tracey Emin and Antony Gormley show there. Following the art gallery, he guessed, like the Cantona seagulls around a trawler, or asteroids pulled in by the gravitational tug of a giant-like Saturn, came the hipsters, the fashionistas and the art-school students and the media types, and what was once a solid working-class environment had now become an odd mix of contemporary chic flats and Boho apartments in converted warehouses. Enver grimly noted sandblasted walls, lots of glass, nautical-style architectural flourishes, tiny balconies that mirrored ships’ decks, with hawsers as guard rails and panoramas of shiny stainless steel, at exorbitant prices. There were mini-piazzas with fake cobbles. He loathed these chichi details with a passion that surprised him. These bijou flatlets stood cheek by jowl with traditional council estates which Enver personally wouldn’t risk walking around without a local in tow. It’s Hoxton all over again, he thought.

Enver had been out in his youth with several girls from art-school-style backgrounds. He’d been a big hit with the students of Goldsmiths and St Martins. He was local colour. He was exotic. Art school was a country he’d visited often. He wouldn’t like to live there but he enjoyed staring at the colourful natives. A bit like Turkey. He’d lost count of parties where he’d been paraded as a kind of odd freak for the intellectuals to look at. ‘You must meet my boyfriend, Enver. He’s…’ here the categories had changed over the years but the point, he’s not one of us, had been the same… ‘half-Turkish/a boxer/a policeman/his uncle’s an imam, how weird/his dad’s got a kebab house in Southgate, but not in an ironic way, it actually is a kebab house!’ Perhaps that’s what I share with Hanlon, he thought, stroking his drooping moustache, we don’t fit in, and we don’t really want to.

Even the defiantly grim railway arches had been colonized by the arty interlopers. Underneath the red-brick, shallow arches of the railway bridge were small businesses and pop-up restaurants, the odd night club and, more prosaically, the occasional road that ran underneath from one side of the construction to the other. Enver was on the pavement of one of these thoroughfares, the vaulted roof of the bridge overhead, the noise of the traffic compressed to a loud, echoing roar by the constrained acoustics of the confined space. Despite the recent dry weather and the unusual heat, it was cold and damp in this shadowy place that never saw the light of day. It smelt of damp and piss and poverty. It was resisting gentrification. Enver patted the clammy, sweating brickwork. Good luck, he thought. Enjoy it before you get claimed as a ‘found’ artwork, dismantled and put in a gallery.

Some elements of the old Bermondsey remained, however. Halfway along the tunnel was a doorway with a fading sign for ‘Bob’s Gym, Boxer’s Welcome’. Enver knew there was something wrong with the punctuation, with the apostrophe, but wasn’t quite sure what it was. Punctuation wasn’t his strong point. What it did send out was the message that Bob was untroubled by such things. The sign didn’t mention popular quasi-boxing sports such as boxercise or, Enver’s personal bête noir, white-collar boxing, where office workers pretend they’re boxers. You’re such a snob, he told himself. You’re not a boxer any more. Look at you. A city accountant could probably take you, you fat lump. His obese stomach mocked his former slimline self. You wouldn’t need to hit me in a ring these days, just run around, I’d collapse trying to catch you.

He opened the door and it was like going back in time. His own boxing gym, the one that he’d fought out of in North London, was relatively smart. ‘Gentleman Dave’ Jones, who ran it, a sixty-year-old former middleweight like Enver, but, unlike Enver, annoyingly trim, embraced modernity and was also a cleanliness fanatic. He was an ex-army champion and the army had left its mark not just on his face, his posture and his language, but on his attitude. Everything that could gleam, did gleam. There was usually a smell of paint overlying the scent of sweat and effort that comes with a gym. And if it didn’t smell of paint, it smelt of polish. Not here. Not at Bob’s. Mildew, body odour, grim effort and violence, that’s what was in the air. Enver snuffled it with greedy pleasure. He realized with a pang how he had missed that smell.

He walked up some steep, shabby wooden stairs. The walls were a dark green and every so often, every few steps, there were old, framed posters for fights featuring long-forgotten names of boxers from the past. The smell of the gym — old sweat, damp, disinfectant — grew stronger; he would be able to guess where he was blindfolded. Enver opened a door at the top to a rudimentary reception area. No Nespresso machine here. Just a kettle. A lime-scaled kettle.

There was a man of about fifty behind the desk, short and wiry, with a nose that had seen better days. The computer monitor in front of him was old-fashioned and massive and beige. He looked up, his eyes hard and suspicious. ‘We’re closed. Opening hours are listed on the door.’ His tone was unfriendly.

‘I’m not here to join,’ said Enver. His own tone was flat and matter-of-fact. His eyes wore their usual sleepy look but the other man recognized a kindred spirit in them. He sat up in his chair to better pay attention. He saw a thirty-year-old man with a gut but he also took in Enver’s powerful musculature, the slightly marked face and the attitude. Enver was impressively menacing.

‘How can I help you then?’ the manager asked. Momentarily he wondered if he was going to be made an offer he’d be foolish to refuse. Enver did have more than a hint of gangland enforcer about him. He could be quietly threatening when he wanted to be. Boxers intimidate.

Enver produced his warrant card and showed it to him. The man behind the desk looked at the ID, singularly unimpressed, and asked, ‘What do you want then, Sergeant?’

‘DI Hanlon.’

The man looked up at him, this time actively hostile, eyes narrowed. He leaned forward slightly in an aggressive way.

Enver returned his stare with his own heavy-lidded, sleepy look. Come on then, come on! was the message his own look sent out. Enver felt his pulse rate increase and he welcomed it. The brutal truth was that Enver would have been delighted if the manager started a fight. It had been a long, frustrating, highly depressing day, if not week. Not only that, it was complicated. The whole situation was complicated. A simple, satisfyingly violent fistfight would suit him nicely. It wouldn’t be the manager he was hitting, it would be everything that was getting him down. The case, Ludgate, the Whiteside shooting, maybe life in general. Enver would feel a lot better if he beat someone up.

‘What if I told you she wasn’t here?’ said the manager. He relaxed back in his chair. It was a submissive gesture; he was backing down.

Enver sighed. Corrigan had said that every Saturday from six to eight she was here, provided she wasn’t working. And Enver knew that after a piece of really grim news, the Whiteside incident, she’d want to be here, working out her anger, working out her pain. Where else would she go? A support group? Friends? Of course she’d be here.

Then the man looked again at the warrant card that Enver was still holding and said, with dawning recognition, ‘Demirel, eh? Did you used to box?’ Enver nodded. ‘Were you Iron Hand Demirel?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

The gym manager grinned, stood up and proffered his hand. ‘Freddie Laidlaw.’ Enver took his hand and shook it. ‘I saw you fight at the Vauxhall Recreation Club in Luton. I won a monkey betting on you.’ His attitude had changed completely. ‘You were a big hitter, bit slow on your feet, if I recall right.’

Enver remembered the fight. It was a northern boxer from Blackpool, Jason Clitheroe, that he’d fought then. He’d stopped him in the fourth. He shook Laidlaw’s hand. Laidlaw had become a lot friendlier now he knew that Enver was an ex-boxer. Or maybe it was because he’d won five hundred pounds on him.

‘Sorry I was a bit unfriendly,’ he apologized. ‘The DI likes to come here when we’re closed. Some of the members have got form, are a bit tasty, if you see what I mean. I used to think she’d seen enough criminals at work and that’s why she wanted to avoid them, but to be honest, I think she just prefers being alone. I can’t imagine any of them would worry her. They’d leave well alone. Do you want to speak to her?’

Enver shook his head. He decided to tell Laidlaw the truth, or at least a version of it. He seemed a decent man. ‘I’m supposed to babysit her,’ he said. ‘Follow her around, protect her back.’

Laidlaw was looking at him doubtfully. ‘You’re supposed to protect her? Are you sure?’ He placed a very heavy emphasis on the last two words.

Enver was stung by the obvious implication he wasn’t up to it. ‘Yes. Yes, I am sure,’ he said. ‘DI Hanlon has quite a few enemies at the moment.’ He didn’t bother adding that they were mainly to be found within the police.

‘Oh well, follow me, I’ll take you to her.’ Laidlaw didn’t sound as though he believed Enver was up to it.

‘It’s not that simple,’ said Enver. ‘It’s supposed to be without her knowledge.’ Laidlaw frowned. He was obviously puzzled.

‘I guess it’s because she’d refuse protection if she was offered it,’ Enver explained. He didn’t like lying but this contained more than a grain of truth. Anyway, thought Enver, it was probably true. Hanlon, from what he knew of her, would not accept protection even if she needed it.

Corrigan had told him to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid, by which Enver assumed he meant maim or kill someone in retaliation for Whiteside. He’d told him to stick close to Hanlon, intervene if necessary.

‘OK,’ said Laidlaw decisively. ‘Come with me and we’ll see how she’s doing. I know her routine.’ He motioned Enver round to a door behind the desk that he opened. More stairs led upwards into darkness. ‘The gym’s got a gallery above it. The lights are out and she won’t see us. Just be quiet and I can work out how much longer she’ll be.’

The two men walked quietly up the wooden stairs, which groaned slightly under their weight. The stairway was unlit save by the light from the reception area filtering upwards. Laidlaw opened a door at the top and, as they went through, gently closed it behind them. They moved silently on to a wooden spectators’ gallery with half a dozen rows of seats. As the manager had said, the gallery was unlit and ran round three sides of the gym hall so they were shrouded in blackness. Below, Enver could make out two boxing rings in darkness. Spotlights on gantries hung above them. Between the two boxing rings a heavy bag was hanging from a chain attached to the ceiling. This was lit by two of the spotlights, a circle of brilliant white light. In front of the heavy bag was Hanlon, wearing dark blue tracksuit trousers, a baggy grey top and heavy gloves.

She was throwing combination punches at the bag, jab, jab, cross, then jab, jab, right hook. Her punching was fluid, graceful and very fast, particularly her left jab. Enver thought if he were fighting her, he’d be very wary about being caught with that. As she punched, her head swayed, almost mongoose-like, so as not to present a static target. The two former professionals watched admiringly, Laidlaw with more than a hint of proprietorial pride. Hanlon moved beautifully. Enver guessed he’d coached her. Moving like that she’d be very hard to hit. He noted too the way Hanlon’s chin, the most vulnerable point on a fighter’s face, was kept tucked in, just like it should be. The bag below thudded with the impact of her punches and he could hear her forceful breathing and the occasional squeak of her trainers on the polished wooden floor. The blows, the bag, her breaths were the only real sounds.

‘She’s bloody good,’ whispered Enver.

Hanlon’s punches were hard, vicious and fast. Even from up here, at this distance, you could sense their power, not only by the movement of the heavy bag, but the percussive noise her gloves made on its surface. Laidlaw nodded, then put a finger to his lips.

Hanlon’s top was soaked in sweat in an inverted triangle on her back and as she punched more sweat ran down her face, as wet as tears. He could see it shining like jewels on her skin in the harsh white light from above. Her hair was slick and matted with perspiration. She hadn’t tied it back and it flew around her head as she moved so she looked like Medusa.

She stopped throwing combinations and steadied the heavy bag with her arms, putting them round it as if she was embracing it. He could see the powerful muscles snake-like under her smooth skin. The bag, which was swinging on its chain like an erratic pendulum from the force of her punches, came to a stop. Hanlon switched to practising body shots on the bag. Enver watched in amazement at the power behind the gloves. Her face, when he glimpsed it through the curtain of her hair, was set in tranquil viciousness. She punched again and again at the same spot, creating, driving a football-sized dent, into the canvas of the bag. Enver knew how hard those things were, the canvas stiff and unyielding. You’d almost need a sledgehammer to do what she was doing to the bag. Faster and faster she hit the bag, each blow accompanied by a loud grunt of effort as she expelled air from her lungs, until with a final shout she landed a last punch that sent the bag arcing away from her. As it returned, swinging back towards her, she drop-kicked it with tremendous force. The bottom of the bag was what would have been, on a tall man, crotch level. The heavy bag jerked visibly up in the air on its chain, the metal links rattling, then stopped dead in its tracks, with a percussive thud. Enver shook his head disbelievingly.

‘Christ almighty,’ he heard Laidlaw whisper. The force Hanlon exerted on the base of the bag with her leg was unbelievable. He guessed she had just kicked forty-odd kilos of mass visibly upwards.

Hanlon stood for a moment, her gloved arms by her side, motionless, and then with a dancer’s grace sat down cross-legged on the floor and bowed her head. Her gloved hands rested on the ground and Enver could see the rise and fall of her shoulders heaving as her body tried to re-oxygenate her blood. He stared at her in respectful fascination.

He felt a gentle tug on his jacket as Laidlaw motioned him away, back through the door, down the stairs and into his reception area. Laidlaw sat down behind his desk.

‘She’s fucking wonderful,’ said Laidlaw in loving reverence. ‘Isn’t she.’ It wasn’t a question. He didn’t wait for Enver’s reply. The sergeant knew he was with another of the DI’s fan club. Corrigan, Laidlaw, himself and barely alive Whiteside.

‘Like I said to you before,’ said Laidlaw, eyes on Enver, ‘You’re supposed to protect her? I really don’t think she needs it. I wouldn’t like to try and attack her, would you?’

Enver looked steadily at him. ‘I think I’m supposed to protect her from herself, Freddie.’

Laidlaw nodded thoughtfully. ‘I heard about her colleague,’ he said.

‘There you go then, Freddie,’ Enver replied.

‘I take your point,’ said Laidlaw. ‘That was for him, wasn’t it?’

Enver nodded.

‘Someone’s going to pay, aren’t they?’ It wasn’t really a question.

Enver looked at Laidlaw noncommittally. ‘Don’t tell her I’ve been here, please.’

The manager nodded again. ‘No, I won’t. So what’s your plan now?’ he asked.

Enver shrugged. ‘I think I’m supposed to follow her, discreetly.’

Laidlaw snorted in derision. ‘Yeah, like that’s going to work. That’s a plan, is it? Good luck with that one. Follow Hanlon,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Or are you going to tell me you’re really good at covert surveillance?’

‘ No,’ said Enver simply. ‘No, I’m not. Did she drive here?’

Laidlaw shook his head. ‘No. Tube. There’s no parking round here. I think the tube’s your best bet. Go and wait for her at London Bridge Station, that’s closest. I think that’s the one she uses. I’ll speak to her before she leaves, I’ll offer her a lift there. If she shows any sign of not using the Underground I’ll phone you. Give me your number.’

Enver did so. Freddie Laidlaw keyed it into his phone. ‘You’d better go now,’ said Laidlaw. ‘She’ll be out in a minute.’ They shook hands. ‘Come and see me again,’ said the manager. ‘You look like you could do with some exercise.’

Enver rolled his eyes.

‘I bet you a pony she susses you before you even get on a train.’

‘Deal,’ said Enver and grinned.

As he opened the door, he heard Laidlaw say, ‘Oi, Ironhand.’ He looked back ‘Don’t let her catch you with a body shot, mate. You’re a big man, but you’re out of shape.’

Enver flicked two fingers at him and grinned. As he walked down the crepuscular, gloomy stairs to the dark Bermondsey street he thought, at least I can afford to lose twenty-five quid. I don’t think Laidlaw will have to pay up.

Enver walked along Tooley Street, past the expensive dockside developments like Hays Galleria, to London Bridge Station. Inside the station, echoey and windswept, its lights bright and harsh after the dimness of the gym, there were two possibilities, if she used it, Jubilee or Northern Line. If Enver had known where Hanlon lived he’d have been able to make a more informed guess, but he didn’t. He assumed she’d head home. She was a solitary person, he couldn’t see her wanting to be with anyone or to go to a bar or restaurant, and for the same reason he knew she wouldn’t want a taxi. She’d be asked to talk. The driver might say, ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ or ‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen.’ He knew she’d hate that. Even the proximity of a potentially talkative stranger would be unwelcome to Hanlon, so the anonymity of the tube would be what she wanted. He knew that. He walked into the station. He now had a one in four chance of guessing correctly. Two lines, two directions on each line, north to south, south to north, for the Northern Line, east to west, west to east for the Jubilee.

Where would Hanlon live? Enver wondered. He guessed either East or North London. East because it was, inasmuch as London is, more affordable on a police salary and slightly more real than West London, which like many North Londoners he thought of as poncey. South London he disregarded, purely on prejudice; Wandsworth, the brighter borough, yeah right! Pull the other one. Battersea, to Enver, meant not the dog’s home but Sloane Rangers, driven out by Russian money, forever exiled by the river from Chelsea, their spiritual home. He was after all from Haringey, home of Spurs and Alexandra Palace, home of Muswell Hill where the Kinks came from and of Highgate Cemetery where Karl Marx is buried. Haringey, whose council was rated by the Audit Commission as the worst in London and the fourth worst in Britain.

North London, though, made him think. She was, or had been, based in Islington, that much he knew of her police history. He’d be willing to bet, though, she wouldn’t live there. He associated it with people who ate polenta and read the Guardian and liked performance art. He couldn’t see Hanlon in that kind of milieu. It would make her cross. She wouldn’t be going to see experimental theatre at the Almeida. She’d been caught up in the riots in Tottenham, so maybe she lived somewhere around there, Hackney maybe, Stoke Newington possibly. Also, there is something slightly gloomy about North London that he felt might have influenced her as a choice of district. She wouldn’t live somewhere frivolous, somewhere like Kensington or Notting Hill.

He chose north.