the sofa. He didn’t need to ask what for. It had to be obvious or Anderson would have told him. He started his grim task with his face expressionless. Anderson came over to Danny.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked, with no real interest. Danny nodded. Anderson looked at him thoughtfully.
‘Whoever did this was known to Tatiana,’ he said. ‘Someone who works for me. She let them in. Someone knew where this place was. Someone knew where to bring Jordan’s head so I’d find it. I’m satisfied to see it wasn’t you.’ Anderson’s eyes held Danny’s momentarily. It was a frightening sensation. ‘If I thought you might. . .’ said Anderson, indicating the bodies behind him.
He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
Anderson produced an iPad from the leather briefcase he had with him and tapped at it. Google Maps appeared and he pressed a couple more keys.
‘There’s a tracker installed in Jackson’s car,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘and right now Barry Jackson, or at least his car, is here.’ He pointed with a long, strong finger at the screen.
Danny looked at the map. A display marker hovered over the countryside near Ongar in Essex, north of London. ‘Jackson’s from Essex,’ said Anderson. ‘Do you know Essex at all, Danny? ’
‘Not really, Boss.’
‘Well, today’s your lucky day.’
Morris Jones looked up from the table, his task finished. He put Tatiana’s head back down gently as if replacing an ornament. ‘Nothing there, Dave.’
Anderson nodded. ‘I’ll leave you here, Morris, to finish off tidying everything up. Get rid of the bodies, usual place.’ Morris Jones nodded.
‘Look at this, Morris, when you’re done here. I want you to wait for us there.’ His finger indicated a place on the screen. Jones came over, stood beside him, looked and nodded.
‘Just there?’ he asked.
‘Just there,’ confirmed Anderson.
‘And Jordan?’ Morris Jones asked.
‘Put him in the lock-up in the freezer there. Until we decide what to do with him. He deserves better than the others.’ Morris nodded.
‘And the others?’ asked Morris.
‘The usual,’ said Anderson.
Morris Jones nodded. ‘Same old, same old?’
‘Yes,’ said Anderson. ‘Oh, Morris, I take it they both had their tongues?’ He indicated the heads.
‘Yes, Dave,’ said Jones. They might have been discussing the weather, thought Danny.
‘Jordan didn’t,’ said Anderson. ‘Come on, Danny.’ He switched off the tablet, his face expressionless. ‘Let’s pay Barry a visit. In lovely, leafy Essex. He will be surprised.’
5
Hanlon stood in the picket line outside Belanov’s sizeable house on the Woodstock Road in Oxford with the other protestors, and waved her placard. Underneath the strap heading of the Socialist Worker Party, a slogan read:
Pay Parity .
Twenty-five women of varying sizes, shapes and ages stood in an orderly crescent shape and chanted harmoniously.
‘What do we want?’
‘ Pay equality .’
‘When do we want it?’
‘ NOW! ’
Hanlon’s features were concealed behind a V-for-Vendetta-style plastic mask. Normally these sent her blood pressure soaring with rage: she associated the smug Hidalgo- style features with middle-class anarchists attacking the police. So it was with a certain ironic satisfaction that she used it to hide her policewoman’s face.
This wasn’t a collection of sex workers outside Belanov’s brothel; this was a demonstration by twenty-four short-term contract university administration staff (plus Hanlon) protesting about their pay conditions. When he had bought the house, Arkady Belanov hadn’t realized that the property to the left of his contained one of the offices of the finance department of Oxford University. More specifically, it housed the office of the finance director.
Women employees at the university finance office, it seemed, who were on part-time contracts, were not being paid bonuses and overtime entitlements that full-time staff
‘Feeling better?’ he asked, with no real interest. Danny nodded. Anderson looked at him thoughtfully.
‘Whoever did this was known to Tatiana,’ he said. ‘Someone who works for me. She let them in. Someone knew where this place was. Someone knew where to bring Jordan’s head so I’d find it. I’m satisfied to see it wasn’t you.’ Anderson’s eyes held Danny’s momentarily. It was a frightening sensation. ‘If I thought you might. . .’ said Anderson, indicating the bodies behind him.
He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
Anderson produced an iPad from the leather briefcase he had with him and tapped at it. Google Maps appeared and he pressed a couple more keys.
‘There’s a tracker installed in Jackson’s car,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘and right now Barry Jackson, or at least his car, is here.’ He pointed with a long, strong finger at the screen.
Danny looked at the map. A display marker hovered over the countryside near Ongar in Essex, north of London. ‘Jackson’s from Essex,’ said Anderson. ‘Do you know Essex at all, Danny? ’
‘Not really, Boss.’
‘Well, today’s your lucky day.’
Morris Jones looked up from the table, his task finished. He put Tatiana’s head back down gently as if replacing an ornament. ‘Nothing there, Dave.’
Anderson nodded. ‘I’ll leave you here, Morris, to finish off tidying everything up. Get rid of the bodies, usual place.’ Morris Jones nodded.
‘Look at this, Morris, when you’re done here. I want you to wait for us there.’ His finger indicated a place on the screen. Jones came over, stood beside him, looked and nodded.
‘Just there?’ he asked.
‘Just there,’ confirmed Anderson.
‘And Jordan?’ Morris Jones asked.
‘Put him in the lock-up in the freezer there. Until we decide what to do with him. He deserves better than the others.’ Morris nodded.
‘And the others?’ asked Morris.
‘The usual,’ said Anderson.
Morris Jones nodded. ‘Same old, same old?’
‘Yes,’ said Anderson. ‘Oh, Morris, I take it they both had their tongues?’ He indicated the heads.
‘Yes, Dave,’ said Jones. They might have been discussing the weather, thought Danny.
‘Jordan didn’t,’ said Anderson. ‘Come on, Danny.’ He switched off the tablet, his face expressionless. ‘Let’s pay Barry a visit. In lovely, leafy Essex. He will be surprised.’
5
Hanlon stood in the picket line outside Belanov’s sizeable house on the Woodstock Road in Oxford with the other protestors, and waved her placard. Underneath the strap heading of the Socialist Worker Party, a slogan read:
Pay Parity .
Twenty-five women of varying sizes, shapes and ages stood in an orderly crescent shape and chanted harmoniously.
‘What do we want?’
‘ Pay equality .’
‘When do we want it?’
‘ NOW! ’
Hanlon’s features were concealed behind a V-for-Vendetta-style plastic mask. Normally these sent her blood pressure soaring with rage: she associated the smug Hidalgo- style features with middle-class anarchists attacking the police. So it was with a certain ironic satisfaction that she used it to hide her policewoman’s face.
This wasn’t a collection of sex workers outside Belanov’s brothel; this was a demonstration by twenty-four short-term contract university administration staff (plus Hanlon) protesting about their pay conditions. When he had bought the house, Arkady Belanov hadn’t realized that the property to the left of his contained one of the offices of the finance department of Oxford University. More specifically, it housed the office of the finance director.
Women employees at the university finance office, it seemed, who were on part-time contracts, were not being paid bonuses and overtime entitlements that full-time staff
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