A Hard Woman to Kill (The DCI Hanlon Series) Read Free

voice that touched Hanlon, who was used to people being either in denial or more visibly shaken. The woman across the desk was calm and matter-of-fact. There was no ‘I can’t believe this could have happened’. She was just stating a fact. If there is one thing Russians are, Hanlon thought, it’s tough. She’d met a few. Oksana’s face was expressionless.
    ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked.
    Oksana looked at her steadily. ‘The people Charlie knew, particularly from Moscow, that is how they deal with problems. They eliminate people.’
    ‘I see,’ said Hanlon. Maybe in Russia, she thought, but not in Windsor, not tubby ex-civil servants like Charlie. Litvinenko, yes; Taverner, no. ‘But you shouldn’t really be talking to me about this. Your husband was a civil servant, ex-Foreign Office, an important man. You have a reasonably convincing story suggesting a crime has been committed. Go to Corrigan. He’s surprisingly accessible.’
    ‘No,’ said Oksana.
    Hanlon wasn’t over-burdened with work but the Baranski disappearance was generating more than its fair share of paperwork and she had a meeting with Child Protection looming that she had to prepare for. Oksana’s problem wasn’t her problem.
    Even if what she said was true, her husband’s disappearance wouldn’t fall under a Missing Persons remit. It would be Thames Valley’s Serious and Organized Crimes’ baby.
    She also suspected that Mawson would not be happy at Hanlon taking it upon herself to bypass procedure. He’d made it clear that such things would not be tolerated.
    ‘Look,’ said Hanlon, leaning across her desk and pushing some hair from her forehead. The light through the window picked out several long, pale scars on her forearm. There was a slight kink to her nose that suggested it had been broken some time ago. Oksana noted the fine lines that time and pain had etched on Hanlon’s forehead, the tiredness around her eyes. She had obviously known hardship and trouble in her life.
    She also noted the ligaments moving elegantly under Hanlon’s skin. Oksana, a former gymnast when younger, until she had become the wrong shape – too curved, too tall – could appreciate how strong Hanlon was. Her eyes now ran over the elegant musculature of Hanlon’s frame. She could easily imagine her on a parallel bar or a beam.
    ‘You need the National Crimes Agency. Maybe even MI5 or 6.’
    If it’s a threat to the country, which I doubt, she thought. I wish you’d go away.
    ‘Not me. I’m Missing Persons, OK, Mrs Taverner,’ said Hanlon wearily. ‘I find errant husbands and sometimes I order reservoirs dragged for missing Polish junkies.’
    As I am at the moment, she thought, thinking of Datchet Reservoir, Peter Baranski’s probable resting place. She should be seeing the Specialist Search people really, rather than wasting time with this woman. She thought, You really don’t need me, not unless Charlie is shacked up with his secretary in South Berkshire.
    Oksana shook her head angrily. ‘ Nyet, nyet, nyet , Hanlon. Sorry, I mean no. These other people. They are nomenklatura .’ She virtually spat the word out. Nomenklatura , the high priests of the ruling caste. Every Russian’s nightmare. There was no Party in the UK, but there was its equivalent, the civil service.
    ‘They are officials, government officials. Charlie’s killers have access to obshchak .’ She hunted in her mind for the English word; the policewoman was looking baffled. She found it. ‘To trough, like pigs. But a trough full of money. They will have someone to help them in government. They will have someone in police. We say in Russia, ‘roof’, a krysha . They have millions to spend. You cannot trust government.’
    ‘I’m the government,’ said Hanlon acidly. She had a certain amount of sympathy with Oksana’s views but she didn’t appreciate someone from the back of beyond, the Urals, telling her the score.
    ‘Yes,’ said Oksana. ‘But you are