The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘It can’t still be your wife.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘She really hurt you that much?’

  ‘Leave it, Sarah.’

  ‘Come on, Aden. Talk about it. What’s so bad that it stops you from feeling anything?’

  ‘I said: leave it, Sarah.’

  Vanner sat up, drawing up his knees. He reached for a cigarette. Sarah worked her way round to face him. He placed fresh wood on the fire. She leaned forward and plucked the lighted cigarette from his lips.

  ‘So it’s just fucking then is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our relationship.’

  ‘Sarah. You came here. I didn’t beg you.’

  ‘You arrogant bastard.’

  Vanner looked back into the embers. Outside the wind drifted more pressingly against the window. Sarah inched closer to the warmth of the fire. She passed him back the cigarette.

  ‘Just physical then.’ She nodded as if in self affirmation. ‘Just sex. Fucking.’

  ‘Sarah.’

  ‘Well how would you like me to put it?’ Again she took the cigarette.

  Vanner took a fresh one from the packet and handed it to her. She lit it from his and passed it back to him.

  ‘Sure you can handle that, Aden—just a physical relationship?’ She tutted. ‘Oh, it’s what most men dream of, crave for. But very few can actually handle it. Can you handle it? Are you tough enough?’

  Vanner stared at her. She flashed her eyes, sharp as razors at him.

  ‘Aden Vanner. Big tough Aden Vanner.’

  He felt his anger rise.

  ‘Policeman and soldier. Too tough for love.’

  ‘Shut up, Sarah.’ Vanner got up and reached for his jeans.

  ‘Afraid of being naked? Vulnerable all of a sudden?’ The words spat from her mouth like a bad taste. Vanner curled his lip at her.

  Her head dropped then. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.’

  Vanner sighed. ‘Forget it. I’ll make us some coffee.’

  In the morning he felt vaguely disgusted with himself. They walked down to the village so he could buy some food.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sarah.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Last night.’

  She grinned. ‘Don’t be sorry, Aden. Has it ever occurred to you that I might use you just as much as you use me?’

  Her words stung and she laughed as she realised as much. ‘Men. Why is it they think only they can make the rules? You all think you dictate the terms. How d’you know I care about love, Aden? Has it ever occurred to you that I’m in this for myself.’ She caught his arm, forcing him to look at her. ‘When you broke it off after Hammersmith, what did you think—that I was falling in love with you? That’s a pretty arrogant assumption.’ Vanner walked on and felt the silence of her laughter in his back.

  They bought the food and as they came out of the shop at the corner, a mother was lifting a toddler from her car.

  ‘Now stand there while I get your brother,’ she told him.

  Vanner shifted the shopping bag from his left to right hand and looked down at the little boy. He shrank back and then walked out into the road. Sarah looked at Vanner. The mother was still fumbling with the straps on the baby seat. Sarah stepped forward and picked the boy up. His mother lifted the baby out of the car and Sarah set his brother down beside her. For a moment the mother looked at her and then took the boy by the hand. Sarah turned away and glanced at Vanner. ‘That’s how children get killed,’ she muttered.

  They made love again in the afternoon and then she made ready to go back to London. Vanner found himself not looking forward to solitude.

  ‘Why don’t you stay longer?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have to get back. I’m on duty tomorrow.’

  He sighed. ‘Okay. What’s happening down there anyway?’

  She took her coat from the stand. ‘Morrison’s sniffing around still.’

  ‘Is he? Why? He knows what went on. It couldn’t be any clearer.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Daniels.’

  Vanner stared at her. ‘What then?’

  She touched his hand. ‘He’s dangerous, Aden. Be careful.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean just that. He’s sniffing around more than we think he ought to be. The investigation.’

  Vanner clasped her hand. ‘What’re you trying to tell me, Sarah?’

  ‘I’m telling you he thinks you’re the Watchman.’

  Six

  STREETS STILL WASHED BY the rain. Footsteps receding and then stillness. The killer sat in the car, rubber-bound fingers about the steering wheel. Across the avenue, the upper lights blacked against the chalk wall of the house. The car door was opened. No sound now; even the wind seemed silenced. The killer stepped out; rubber-soled boots, no imprint on the chipped flag of the pavement.

  The killer crossed to the house—tight, short steps and the cover of a tree whose roots were lost within concrete. The gravel crunched underfoot and the killer stepped to the squared grass verge that bordered the sweep of the drive. At the garage the killer stopped, then slipped beyond the doors to haunt the hedge that cut off the advance of the lawn. The house was still; flat, white walls reaching through the darkness to the steeped pitch roof where black skylights glinted. Rain tempered the air—an odour, a sensation of dampness. Carefully the killer slipped on the ski mask and pulled it tight to the neck. All was black now, save the pale luminescence of hands.

  At the back of the house a single light bled onto the lawn from a downstairs window. The killer sided the house, feet in the earth, flattened on the wall like a spider. Through the glass the old man squatted behind the width of an antique desk, spectacles squashed to his nose. He peered through the lamplight, tweezers poised, holding a dead butterfly. From somewhere on the lawn a cat called and called again. The killer searched the dark. No sign. The cat called again. From within the room the light was lifted from the desk and the old man pushed back his chair. The cat called. The old man shuffled over to the window, feet in leather slippers; his long, checked dressing gown dragging across the pile behind him. The killer froze to the wall. The old man was at the glass now, cupping his hand to avoid the reflection. From the rose beds the cat called once again. Inside, the old man shook his head and shuffled out of the room.

  Swiftly now the killer sprinted to the back of the house. A second light, brighter than before and then full and brilliant, firing a patch of lawn as the kitchen door was unfastened. The killer moved to the path.

  ‘Puss.’ Lips pursed in a kiss call. The cat meowed and then darted from the darkness and the old man bent to stroke her. When he lifted his head again he stared into the muzzle of a pistol.

  The killer made a motion with his hand to keep him silent and the old man’s eyes blinked wide.

  ‘What do you want?’ His voice was hoarse, as if the mouth was suddenly dry. Rubber fingers bit the flesh of his lips and he gagged.

  The killer stepped him forcibly back into the house. Eyes into eyes, they stood; pale liquid eyes into piercing lights that burned from behind a mask. For thirty seconds they remained like that, the old man and the killer.

  ‘I have no money here.’ The voice was calmer now, but still no more than a whisper. The killer pressed a hand into the high-boned flesh of his collar and he was turned full circle.

  ‘Who are you?’ His voice wavered. ‘If you’re going to kill me, I’d like to know who you are.’

  Fingers bruised his flesh and the voice died in his throat. The killer could feel his fear, rippling off his body in taut, tangible waves.

  The kitchen was rambling: a range against one wall, a rectangular central unit with gas hob, rising from the chessboard flooring. A door led off to the left. The killer marched the old man towards it with the gun against his back. A nudge from the barrel urged his fingers to the handle and they stepped into a short corridor. Trembling, the old man was forced onto frail and uncertain
knees. For a moment he half-cried out, suddenly trying to resist.

  ‘Kneel.’ A single hiss in his ear. He was trembling. Wind broke from him. He stuttered: words, rambling; a whisper liquid against his throat. The killer kicked his ankles so they were across one another.

  ‘Eye for an eye.’ Words spoken slowly and clearly in his ear and then metal at the base of his skull.

  McCague led Nicholls and Berry up the gravel drive to the rambling, chalk-coloured house. He strode with purpose, coattails flicking out behind him. Two uniformed policemen stood at the door. McCague walked up to them.

  ‘I’m McCague. Where is he?’

  ‘Round the back, Sir.’

  They walked round the line of the hedge, the morning sunshine cool on the dew-soaked grass. The flower bed by the study window was cordoned off with blue and white tape. McCague paused and bent down. Nicholls moved alongside him.

  ‘Footprint,’ McCague said. ‘Our boy’s getting sloppy.’

  Nicholls made a face. ‘Got sloppy when he decided to kill a judge, Sir.’

  ‘Didn’t he just.’ McCague stood up again and looked across the lawn. The road was hidden beyond a complete line of conifer trees. The kitchen door was open and another police officer stood there with his hands behind his back. McCague went up to him.

  ‘Nothing been touched?’

  ‘Only SOCO, Sir. And the FME.’

  Nicholls and Berry took a look around the garden before following McCague into the kitchen. They found him standing at an open door that led into a corridor. Nicholls could see the slippered feet of a man sticking out between his braced legs. He came alongside.

  ‘Sweet Jesus.’ He looked away sharply, breathed for a moment and looked back. ‘It gets worse.’

  ‘Much worse.’ McCague bent forward and inspected the bloodied mess that once had been the head.

  ‘Judge Peter Staples. My God. The Home Office’ll squeeze us so hard we won’t be able to breathe.’ He stepped back into the kitchen and looked about him. The uniformed officer was hovering in the doorway to the garden.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Staples?’

  ‘She’s upstairs, Sir. There’s a doctor with her. Family friend I believe.’

  McCague looked at Nicholls. ‘Pity Sarah Kennett phoned in sick. We could do with her right now.’

  ‘Do you want me to speak to her, Sir?’

  ‘If you would. The usual thing—what she heard, what she saw.’

  ‘Of course.’ Nicholls went through to the hall.

  Berry came over to McCague. ‘We’ve got a footprint at least, Sir. More than we’ve had before.’

  McCague nodded. ‘If there’s that then maybe SOCO will turn up some more.’

  Vanner roamed the beach: the flat Norfolk sky striped with cloud like upturned fish in the surf. The sea troubled the sand between the wooden groins, shifting uneasily in the winter stillness. Vanner walked, eyes to the ground, as if a weight tugged him towards the earth.

  He saw the figure set against the dome of the sky when he was still some distance from the headland. A tall, bulky man in a brown overcoat. Vanner did not recognise him, took him merely for a lonely walker like himself. It was only when he drew closer that he realised the figure was watching him. He walked close to the sea, striding up and over the groins. In the distance he heard children shrieking, the short yelp of a dog. Looking up again, he saw that the man had vanished. He reappeared halfway down the flight of wooden steps that led to the cottage. McCague.

  ‘Vanner.’ McCague called out to him, voice stabbing at the stillness. Vanner stopped and stared at him. ‘Used to be quiet here once.’

  ‘Shut up.’ McCague clattered down the remaining steps and dropped to the sand. He dusted his coat and felt in his pockets for cigarettes. Vanner took out a pack and handed him one.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  McCague cupped his hands to the match. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Judge Peter Staples was killed last night.’

  Vanner stared at him.

  ‘Murdered,’ McCague said. ‘Executed, for Christ’s sake! A bullet in the back of the head. Blood and brains and bits of skull all over the kitchen. His wife found him. She’s seventy-three years old.’

  ‘Staples?’

  McCague nodded. He sucked on the cigarette and looked him in the eye.

  ‘Murdered at his house. In Norwich.’

  ‘I see.’

  McCague looked out over the ocean. ‘Got a bad feeling, Aden.’ He broke off. ‘You had a run-in with him didn’t you?’

  ‘Disagreement, yes.’

  ‘You thought he was weak.’

  ‘He was.’

  McCague sucked at his teeth. ‘We found a size-ten bootprint. In the flower bed under the window.’

  ‘Careless.’

  ‘Very.’ McCague looked back at him. ‘Bleak here.’

  ‘I like it that way.’

  ‘On your own last night?’

  Vanner nodded.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t go anywhere?’

  Vanner cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘I had a drink.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just the local.’

  ‘Anyone see you?’

  ‘I guess.’

  McCague drew on his cigarette.

  ‘Sarah was here yesterday,’ Vanner said. ‘She left in the afternoon.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘Pity she was here, or that she left in the afternoon?’

  McCague made a face. ‘You tell me, Aden.’

  Vanner looked at the sand. ‘She told me Morrison is sniffing around.’

  ‘He’s very pissed off about Daniels.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  McCague flicked away the cigarette. ‘I had a call from Garrod.’

  ‘CIB Garrod?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Vanner watched him carefully and McCague sighed. ‘I’ve got to co-operate, Aden. The Home Office will string me up after this.’ He turned back to the steps. ‘Watch yourself, okay?’

  Morrison pushed open the door of the Incident Room in Loughborough Street and almost bumped into Sarah Kennett.

  ‘Good afternoon, Constable. What was it—alarm didn’t go off?’ Sarah went very red. Nicholls came in after Morrison.

  ‘I want everything on the Watchman files.’ Morrison strode into Vanner’s office and stripped off his coat. ‘From when the calls started coming. I want every bit of paper, every tape, every last thing there is.’ He sat down in Vanner’s chair and picked up the phone. ‘Now, Nicholls. Now.’

  Sarah stared at him. She grabbed Nicholls’ arm. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘The Watchman killed a judge last night,’ Nicholls said. ‘In Norwich.’

  ‘Norwich?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nicholls jerked his head toward Morrison. ‘As far as he is concerned that puts the Guvnor squarely in the frame.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  ‘A footprint. That’s all so far. But it looks like for the first time he got scrappy. Was bound to happen sooner or later. We’re hoping for more from SOCO.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Joe.’ Sarah still held his arm. ‘Is this a CIB inquiry now?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  Vanner bought a copy of the Eastern Daily News from the shop in the village and flicked through the pages. He found nothing and threw the paper in the bin. Walking to the phone box he fumbled for change and dialled the newspaper’s number.

  ‘Michael Kirston please.’

  The phone clicked and he was treated to badly taped Vivaldi and then a voice spoke in his ear.

  ‘Michael Kirston.’

  ‘Michael Kirston. Aden Vanner.’

  Vanner sat across from him, his legs stretched out. Kirston wore khaki-coloured chinos and brogues. Dark hair fell across his brow. He smiled. ‘I don’t know how long it’s been, Aden. I read about your suspension. W
e even ran a small feature. You’re something of a hero.’

  Vanner grimaced. ‘Poor misguided fools.’

  Kirston smiled.

  ‘You received a letter?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Are you going to print it?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Where was it postmarked?’

  ‘Norwich.’

  Vanner fisted his hand against the other palm. ‘Violence,’ he said, looking beyond Kirston. ‘D’you think it ever solves anything?’

  Kirston raised one eyebrow. ‘Why don’t you come to dinner—tonight?’

  ‘You married?’

  ‘Yes. Recently. You?’

  Vanner shook his head. He stood up. ‘What time?’

  ‘Whenever you like. I’ll be home about seven.’

  Vanner walked the streets. Norwich, cathedral city, city of his youth. He had been at school with Michael Kirston. He and Kirston and Andrew Riley. Three friends. Close friends. Riley, the city and later his wife. Kirston, the newspapers; and he, Vanner, the Army. He had left school at sixteen. They had stayed on.

  He walked: cold streets, the afternoon all but over, headlighted cars blinking at him from all directions. Kirston had been the thinker. Riley the talker. Him the doer. The three of them—thick as thieves for three years. At school Kirston had made head boy. He was the only one of them who had remained true to the city.

  Morrison pored over papers, a plastic cup of water at his elbow. The lights were low in the incident room. Only Sarah Kennett was still out there, making up for the time she had lost this morning presumably. Vanner was in Morrison’s mind. Vanner’s face. Vanner’s voice. Vanner leaping out of the pages before him.

  ‘We’ve got a definite set of prints from the phone.’ Nicholls put his head round Vanner’s door.

  ‘Which phone?’

  ‘The payphone in Walthamstow.’

  ‘Fresh?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Form?’

  ‘Checking.’

  ‘Won’t do us any good.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it isn’t him, Joe.’ Vanner stretched and settled both hands behind his head.