Time to Die

9

Enver watched the two police divers from the marine policing unit as they gently and carefully moved the body of the child into the webbing of the cradle, so it could be pulled free of the water and up on to the bank of the canal. The water of the Regent’s Canal was mournful, dark and still. It was now 11 a.m. on Tuesday morning and the towpath and canal banks had been cordoned off on both sides. On the other divide of the police tape, a group of TV reporters had assembled. They eyed each other disdainfully. By contrast, most of the technical crew with them — cameramen, sound engineers and other outside broadcast personnel — knew each other from similar, past occasions and there was a sense of, if not quite a party atmosphere, then a definite feeling of good cheer, of camaraderie, as they caught up with news and gossip. This was not shared on the other side of the police line. Grim efficiency was the pervasive atmosphere. There was very little talking beyond what was necessary.

Enver had worked on two previous child deaths, liaising with CEOP, the child protection people. He knew the statistics, themselves a subject of controversy. NSPCC figures put the number of deaths of under-sixteens at one child killed on average every week and one baby killed every twenty days in England and Wales. However, alternative sources put the figures much higher, at one to two hundred per year. The figures weren’t huge but they all knew that the investigation would be depressing enough. Whichever way you looked at it, it would be depressing. It could hardly be anything but. The chances were statistically high that the parents were involved and there would be a tearful litany of denial and attempt to shift the blame elsewhere if they were the killers. The alternative, that there was a child killer on the loose, an Ian Huntley or an Ian Brady or maybe even children involved in killing children, like the Bulger case, was perhaps even worse. Social services would be involved, newspapers, external agencies; it would be a messy and unpleasant investigation. And to make the investigation even more problematic, it would be conducted under an intense media scrutiny and an atmosphere of public semi-hysteria.

He watched as the small corpse, now on the bank, was carefully and gently zipped into a child’s body bag. Enver found the sight of the small container with its pathetic contents deeply distressing. He thought of Mehmet, his anguished, tear-stained face. He thought of Ali’s toy, Grey Rabbit. He couldn’t tell if he felt angry or depressed. Above all, he felt numb and slightly sick. The MPU men climbed out of the water, this part of their job done. Soon they would be joined by the Underwater and Confined Spaces Search Team to check that there were no more bodies down there. Enver guessed visibility would be dreadful in the canal. He’d often wondered why anyone would want to work for UCSST. He could understand people liking diving, not a passion he himself shared, but moving around, groping about in zero visibility in polluted canals, rivers and flooded buildings in search of bodies or evidence was hideous. Even when the search area wasn’t aquatic, UCSST would be crawling around unpleasant places. He’d seen them once having to extract a body from a ventilation flue in a pub in White City. A burglar over Christmas had tried to break into the premises like a criminally minded Santa, by crawling into the hood of the extractor fans from the kitchen, which rose funnel-like from the roof behind the building. He’d become trapped inside and because the pub kitchens were closed for three days, no one had heard his cries for help. He’d been in there for ten days while the kitchen staff had tried to work out where the terrible smell was coming from.

Enver knew the body they’d found had to be Mehmet’s son, Ali. Today was the day after he had spoken to Mehmet and his uncle. So far, all he had been able to do was confirm that the supermarket had no CCTV record of the incident. The shop system was an old XDH one, connected to twenty-eight cameras internally and half a dozen externally. It was a good system: colour and high-resolution. There were so few external cameras because the shop car park was relatively small. The security manager, an ex-soldier, had been very helpful, but they only stored images for three days, seventy-two hours.

And, of course, they had no member of staff either called Aisha or answering to Mehmet’s sketchy description. And that was as far as he’d got in his unofficial capacity. At least now they’d be able to do things properly, although Enver suspected it would all be too late. If only Mehmet had come forward earlier.

He knew too that he would be in for an uncomfortable time explaining to his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Ludgate, why he was able to identify the body. It wasn’t that he had done anything particularly wrong, he hadn’t had time, but he knew Ludgate would be in a bad mood and he’d be in the firing line.

He could see Jim Ludgate now, stocky and balding, wearing a suit that looked slept in, talking to a slim, dark-haired woman he didn’t recognize. Ludgate looked irritated; the woman, expressionless. Enver was a believer in doing unpalatable things quickly. Oh well, he thought, may as well get things over with. Hopefully, Ludgate won’t be too interested to know how one of his officers had managed to become personally involved with the illegal immigrant parents of a murdered child.

He walked over to the DCS. Movement made him aware of the weight he was carrying. He was suddenly and ridiculously conscious of the tightness of his shirt against his growing belly. Enver was an ex-athlete. He’d been a boxer before becoming a policeman and now, freed from the constraints of having to train and diet to make a weight, his stomach had relished its freedom with predictable results. A section of unwearable shirts in his wardrobe was steadily growing. They were simply too small. Some he could no longer even button around his stomach. It wasn’t just his belly. He felt he could live with that. Even worse were the rolls of surplus flesh on his sides, above his hips. I’ve got love handles, he’d think to himself gloomily. Quite often he would grasp the fatty flesh in each hand and jiggle it up and down angrily in a fit of self-loathing. It really wasn’t the time to be thinking about dieting, he thought, as he approached Ludgate.

‘Morning, sir,’ he said.

Ludgate looked up, away from the woman. Enver saw her face properly for the first time. He noticed that her long dark hair could do with cutting and she had a pale, intense face, bare of make-up. He had no idea who she was. He guessed she was one of the scene of crimes people. There were dark circles around her eyes as if she habitually slept badly. She looked like the kind of person you might see in a line-up as a fanatic for some militant cause.

‘Morning, Sergeant,’ said Ludgate. There was an unmistakably sour note to Ludgate’s voice. He knew Enver by sight and, although Enver had a good, some would say very good, record, the DCS had never really acknowledged him. It was a slight that had not gone unnoticed at the Wood Green station, particularly by Enver. Enver put it down to racism. Most people liked him. He was an easy-going man by nature and not used to hostility, except as a result of his job.

It was unusual to see the DCS at a crime scene. Ludgate had very nearly put in his thirty years and was well known for studiously avoiding anything that might be regarded as hard work. He was a popular enough figure, though, loyal to his men and trustworthy. Or that was the myth anyway. Ludgate waved a vague, dismissive hand at the canal scene behind them. ‘Bad business, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Enver was aware that the woman was studying him with cold, intelligent eyes, as if trying to work out something about him, maybe to place him. He was still vain enough to wonder what she made of him, a powerfully built thirty-year-old with thick, black hair, a drooping black moustache and sad, sleepy brown eyes. And, of course, a fat stomach. Despite himself not finding her remotely attractive, he tried to suck it in. All that happened was the band of iron-hard muscle he still had around his middle contracted, but the flab stayed where it was. And the love handles. You couldn’t suck those in. He must do something about it. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what. He didn’t even have the excuse of ignorance. I need more will power, he thought. More exercise, less carbs. He wished she’d go away. He didn’t want SOCO there witnessing what could well be an unpleasant conversation. One that could lead to a very public bollocking.

‘Was there anything in particular, Sergeant?’ Ludgate was beginning to look impatient, evidently willing him to get to the point. Enver didn’t want to speak in front of her but he was left with no choice.

‘I think I might have information about the child’s identity, sir,’ he said.

Ludgate raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s quick work, Sergeant. Oh, this is DI Hanlon, by the way, I’m sure you’ve heard of her. Our Tottenham Riots Pin-up Girl.’

Enver kept his face expressionless. Ludgate’s old-school policing habits, he knew from rumour and anecdotes, extended into casual racism according to some, hard-core racism according to others, or harmless ‘banter’ if you believed his supporters. That made Enver dislike him on a secondary level. Personal rudeness to himself; racial rudeness to others. Maybe the two were interlinked. Now it seemed Ludgate didn’t like women either. There was no mistaking the venom in Ludgate’s voice behind the Pin-up Girl jibe. It was also hard to imagine anyone less like a vapid lingerie model than Hanlon.

Hanlon remained silent, impassive. Enver was impressed. It wasn’t that she was blanking Ludgate out; it was if he didn’t even exist. Her face was like a mask. There was no narrowing of eyes, raising of eyebrows. No reaction at all. So, he thought, this is the famous Hanlon. Everyone knew the riot story. There were other rumours too about Hanlon and violence. Rumour had it she’d hospitalized a fellow officer for calling her a ‘fag hag’, some rumour about her and her sergeant. He had also been told by someone that she was a triathlete and competed in several Iron Man competitions. Reputedly, she was one of the top amateurs in the country. Enver knew that an Iron Man event meant a 2.4 mile swim, a 100 plus mile cycle race and then running a full marathon. He doubted he could waddle 2.4 miles, let alone run a marathon. He doubted he’d be able to swim a length; he certainly hadn’t tried since school. He did have a cycling proficiency certificate, though, from primary school. The thought of getting on a bicycle made him shudder.

‘Ma’am,’ he said respectfully.

Enver realized too, at that point, how still she was physically. Ludgate scratched his head, moved his weight around, coughed, fidgeted. DI Hanlon looked as if she were playing a game of statues like children do.

Years spent in the boxing ring had taught Enver to weigh up opponents very quickly. A fight is sometimes over before you’ve even got in the ring. You know that standing before you is someone who is going to spend the next maybe thirty-six minutes trying their best to beat the living shit out of you, and you’re going to be doing the same to them. You get good at assessing threat levels. You have to. He suddenly thought to himself that if you had Hanlon advancing towards you, you’d better know what you’re doing, or give up. She was formidable.

She looked at him speculatively. ‘Who is the child, Sergeant? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Demirel, ma’am. Sergeant Enver Demirel.’ Against a background of car doors slamming, bursts of radio noise and raised voices as the body was put into a waiting vehicle, he quickly ran through what he knew of the history of the boy. ‘If indeed it’s him, sir,’ he added for the benefit of the DCS. Enver was relieved. Ludgate hadn’t exploded. He’d simply told him to report all that to the senior investigating officer once he’d decided who that was going to be.

Ludgate now looked out at the scene by the canal and at the TV people. He’d already spoken to them briefly. Ludgate was good on the TV. He came across well. He always looked and sounded like he knew what they were doing. His easy confidence went down well at all levels. ‘Well, the kid looks pretty Turkish from here. There can’t be that many of them bobbing about in the Regent’s Canal, Sergeant. Go and bring the parents in for identification and questioning. And we’ll need an interpreter — two interpreters, I suppose, male and female, and a social worker for the daughter. Jesus Christ, the cost of all this is getting bloody ridiculous.’ His voice was full of irritation. ‘As for Jacques Cousteau and his chum over there,’ he pointed at the divers, ‘I’ve got to pay for them too. We’re supposed to be making cuts.’ He glared at Enver as if he were part of the conspiracy to sabotage his budget, then he turned away and headed up the towpath back to where his car was parked.

Enver felt a hard knot of rage tie itself in his stomach. He could still see the dead child’s favourite toy in his memory. He could still see the father’s gentle way of holding it, the only link to his missing son. Nobody would play with Grey Rabbit now or ever again.

‘I saw you fight, Sergeant.’ It was Hanlon. She ran her eyes over him speculatively like a butcher eyeing a piece of meat of dubious quality, and Enver straightened his back into a more erect posture. He was jerked back to reality, back to the present. ‘About five years ago. You beat someone called Tyler Mirchison on points. It was a good fight.’ She paused, remembering details, as did Enver. You never forget your fights. He was amazed, though, that she’d seen it. It hadn’t been televised; she must have actually been there, in Finsbury Park, on a freezing February night. And to remember his opponent’s name was an uncanny feat of recall. Mirchison had long since disappeared into obscurity. Then she said, ‘Enver, “the Iron Hand” Demirel. That’s what they billed you as, wasn’t it?’

He blinked in surprise. He hadn’t heard anyone call him that for ages, for years. He used to love the way the MC would introduce him, with the swooping emphasis and stress on the words that was unique to boxing. ‘Aaand in the Blue Corner,’ Blue stretched to two syllables, ‘Berrloo’. ‘All the way from Tottenham (Tot — Ten — Haaam!), North London, Enver, the Iron Hand Demirel.’ For an instant he could hear the roar of the crowd, invisible to him and his opponent in the bright, white light of the ring, the universe shrunk into a tiny square. ‘Are you ready to rumble!’ The smell of sweat and blood would still be there from the previous fight, hanging in the air like perfume, the canvas floor of the ring speckled rusty red here and there. And then he blinked again and he was back on the canal towpath, the glory days gone, the future contracting. ‘Demirel means “Iron Hand” in Turkish, ma’am,’ said Enver, by way of explanation.

‘I know that, Sergeant,’ said Hanlon.

Mirchison, a tough, angular Scot, may have lost the fight, but not as comprehensively as Enver, who had won the fight but lost the war. Mirchison had a powerful right hand and in the course of the eight rounds Enver suffered a detached retina in his left eye, which led to him losing his fight licence from the British Boxing Board of Control. He could never box again, not legally. It was the end of his career. It was then that he’d joined the Met.

‘Well, Sergeant. Boxing’s loss is our gain.’ She turned and looked at the top of the lock gates for a while, lost in thought. The gates seemed to fascinate her. Her eyes kept drifting to them.

‘I’ll be seeing you again, Sergeant,’ she said in a tone of finality. ‘There are things I’ll have to talk to you about regarding this murder.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Enver dutifully as he watched her walk away. She was joined by a tall, bearded, burly plainclothes officer who had been waiting for her at a respectful distance. Enver watched as she acknowledged him and he inclined his head down closer to her level so they could talk discreetly as they walked. You could tell by their body language that they were very much at ease with each other’s company. He wondered if they were seeing each other, they seemed so intimate. For some reason he felt a sudden stab of jealousy.

He tried to shake free the image of Hanlon as he too turned and made his way back to his car. He had a lot to do.