The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  Hawkins snaked his tongue over his lips and then very slowly he stood up. Hands, apelike, hanging low at his sides, he moved towards the skinheads.

  The tall one with the earring had his back to him. Hawkins came up behind him. The others stopped laughing and the tall one suddenly turned. Hawkins stared coldly into his eyes. He said nothing, did nothing, just looked deep into his eyes. The skinhead looked back at him and then glanced at his mates. None of them were laughing.

  ‘You spilled his drink.’ Hawkins said it quietly, his voice no more than a whisper.

  ‘No, mate.’

  ‘Buy him another.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said: buy him another.’ Hawkins turned then and very slowly looked from one of his mates to the other. Four of them; turned-up jeans, black boots and mock-combat bomber jackets. He sneered at them and looked again at the tall one. ‘Buy two,’ he said. ‘The other one was mine.’

  For a moment the skinhead seemed unsure. He looked at Hawkins then again to his mates. Slowly Hawkins lifted his right index finger and flicked at his gold, dangling earring. And then the skinhead gasped as, with his left hand, Hawkins slapped against his testicles and squeezed. The man cried out, eyes bulging. He was all but lifted off his feet. Hawkins was staring, expression dull and glazed, staring into his face. He held him, squeezing, lip curling a fraction. And then he let him go. The man gasped, doubled up, and Hawkins turned to his mates. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Who’s going to the bar?’

  Summer night, sticky on their faces as they stepped outside the pub. Hawkins spat on the ground. ‘Wankers,’ he said. ‘Bunch of bloody wankers. Couldn’t fight to save their lives.’ He stalked off up the road, Mason suddenly running to keep up with him. ‘Couldn’t fight worth a toss. Couldn’t bloody kill.’ He spun round and faced Mason. ‘Could you kill, Billy?’ He shook his head. ‘No, of course you couldn’t. Killing takes bottle. You don’t have the bottle. Do you.’

  Mason shrank away from him. ‘Come on, Jo. You’re drunk.’

  Hawkins gripped his collar in his fist. ‘You know what it feels like to kill, Billy?’ His eyes balled. ‘Fire the shot? Hear the screaming? Grown men screaming like girls? See the pain and the blood and the death?’

  Mason could feel his heart thumping. ‘The Falklands?’

  ‘Not just the Falklands. Other times. Gun in your hand, no bastard gets in your way.’ He leaned against a shop window, still holding Mason’s collar. ‘That’s what we need. More guns, Billy. More bloody guns. Shoot some of those joyriding shits on the estate: the dopeheads and the pushers and the pimps.’ Suddenly his eyes brightened. ‘Let’s get the gun, Billy. Go kill ourselves some lowlife.’

  In the flat Mason tried to protest. ‘Don’t be daft, Jo. You’re drunk. This is bloody stupid.’

  Hawkins was fumbling under his bed. ‘You’re scared, Billy. No bottle. Now me …’ He stood up and stared at the gun he held in his hand. ‘I’m a killer.’

  Mason was backing out of the door. ‘Jo, come on. Please. Put it away.’

  ‘Stop snivelling, Billy. You’re as bad as the others. Fat bellied squealer. Stick you and you squeal.’ Hawkins’ eyes dulled and he peered from under the lids. ‘They squeal, Billy. Just before I shoot them. When the gun is against their heads. They’re that bloody frightened they squeal.’

  Seven

  MCCAGUE MET MORRISON ON the landing. He paused, hand on the rail of the stairs. Morrison half-smiled at him and McCague inclined his head.

  ‘Mr McCague,’ Morrison said. ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘Well, you’ve found me.’

  ‘I’ve been reading the Watchman files.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘July 8th. The night you brought the caller in.’

  McCague looked evenly at him.

  ‘Vanner,’ Morrison went on. ‘All through that episode with the phone calls he was sure you were dealing with a hoaxer.’

  McCague nodded.

  ‘Vanner came and saw you that night, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’d like to know what he said.’

  For a moment McCague hovered, one foot still on the stairs. Morrison looked at him out of clear, green eyes. McCague sighed and turned back the way he had come. ‘You’d better come to my office,’ he said.

  Mason walked home from Hawkins’ flat with his mind wandering away with him. He had had too much to drink. He knew he had had too much to drink; the disconnected manner of his walk told him so. The night clung around him, moisture like lacquer on his skin and yet he was cold, almost shivering. He felt disgusted with himself, as if he was suddenly able to look inward and what he saw was a blubbering masquerade of a man who clung to the deeds of others. Hawkins was hard and he just thought he was. Kill a joyrider. Hawkins was the one to do it. He walked on more steadily, sobering with every step. What was he thinking of—hanging round with a bloke like that? He was the sort who got you killed. His disgust grew as the extent of his cowardice was opened, tattered and burred like the edges of a wound. Death. The idea of killing: his eyes had been alive with it. Squealing: the word mocked him again, a stuck and bleeding pig. He shivered. And then all at once it dawned on him.

  Berry took the call. Vanner was in the car park with Nicholls, smoking a cigarette. The swing doors to the rear entrance were suddenly thrown open and Berry stood there.

  ‘Guvnor, we’ve just had a tip-off.’

  Vanner looked up at him. ‘And?’

  ‘Anonymous caller. Said he knows who the Watchman is.’

  Nicholls dropped his cigarette. Vanner was already on the steps. ‘Who?’

  ‘Somebody called Hawkins. Jo Hawkins.’

  ‘JH,’ Nicholls said.

  Vanner was still for a moment. ‘Where?’

  ‘Mulberry Estate, Sir.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s a high rise, Guv,’ Nicholls interrupted. ‘Walthamstow.’

  ‘The place where we traced the phone call?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Vanner let his breath go slowly and he leaned against the brickwork of the wall.

  ‘Sir?’ Berry was looking at him.

  ‘You better get everyone in,’ Vanner said. ‘Get them down to the Incident Room.’

  He climbed the stairs to the third floor, the night closing about the windows as he passed them. McCague was still in his chair, glowering at the papers that completely covered the desk. He looked up as Vanner walked in.

  ‘What the hell do you want? I went off duty hours ago.’

  ‘Then you’ve only got yourself to blame.’ Vanner opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet and took out the half-bottle of Grouse and two glasses. He handed a glass to McCague. ‘We’ve had a tip-off.’

  McCague pushed away the papers.

  ‘Phone call just now,’ Vanner went on. ‘We have a name.’

  ‘About bloody time.’ McCague was rising from his chair. Vanner held up his hand. ‘Wait. There’s something you need to know.’

  McCague’s face fell. ‘Don’t spoil my good mood, Vanner. It’s not as if I get many.’

  Vanner swallowed whisky. ‘It’s not our man.’

  Colour lifted about McCague’s ears. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s the caller. The address is the housing estate where we traced the phone box.’

  ‘So it’s the caller. So what.’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘I know who he is. I told you I knew him and now I have his name. I was right. He’s just having a go at me.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. Hang on a minute.’ McCague flapped him down with his hand. ‘Just because you know who he is doesn’t make him not our man. Who tipped us off?’

  ‘We don’t know. It was anonymous.’ Vanner sat forward. ‘Listen, Sir. I know you’ll want to pick him up. I’ve already called everybody in. They’re assembling in the Incident Room. But I need to tell you now, he is not t
he man.’

  McCague sat back wearily in his chair. ‘Vanner, you’re so damn sure about this it’s beginning to get on my nerves. You’re a good copper. Sometimes very good. But even you can be wrong.’

  Vanner shook his head and leaned his elbows on the desk. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Let me tell you.’

  The noise of the transport plane drummed in his ears. Vanner sat on the bench with his back to the fuselage and tried to adjust his seating position to fit the judder of the plane. He could not dislodge the smell of her. Why tonight such perfume? So delicate, so warm and yet so very far from him. He could feel the holes opening inside him. He tried closing his eyes; blocking out the dulled metallic green of the inside of the plane, with its hanging tapers and the sharp functionality of the benches. It had been the only plane and tonight, his one thought on leaving the house was to get away, get out of it, get back to somewhere familiar as quickly as he could. Belfast. Soldiers. The stifling proximity of the barracks where each was stacked against each, officer and man. His own billet, barely a cell, no more than eight by four, with not even the comfort of a window. Artificial light beckoned him. The grim tread of greyed and withered streets. The smell of hatred from a people sick to death of violence heaped upon violence. The familiarity of danger. The clear choice between life and death. To lose himself in thought and tactic and the feel of a gun in his hand.

  Yet he could not shift the essence of her. The loss haunted him. It pushed down and down into his soul; an ever deepening well without the hope of water. It felt like death, as if a part of him, something vital, had died. He opened his eyes and stared coldly at the other side of the plane. His co-passengers were Green Jackets from Winchester. Lieutenant Alan Davis he knew from previous tours. Davis squatted alongside him with his arms wrapped about himself against the cold. He had tried to talk but Vanner remained distant and Davis gradually subsided into the jabbering whine of the engine. Vanner saw only men, smelled only men, as if childhood revisited him again. His father’s voice; gruff, unwieldy. ‘I’ve met someone, a woman. I’m going to marry her.’ Back beyond that, way back when there were only men, only soldiers and guns and stale, khaki uniforms. He could cope with that; that was the familiarity of his life, his early memory, his comfort.

  But now she haunted him: her hair, her fragrance; and the cooled, stilted manner in which she had spoken to him, as if he was a stranger. And yet he knew, had witnessed, every intimate curve and arc of her body. The puckered rise of her nipple, the swathe of her legs and her smooth, flat stomach. Vanner swallowed, emotion gathering to betray him. He ground his teeth. Locking his jaw into a buckled line in his face, he stared hard at the floor.

  Cold night air on the tarmac, colder than the plane and yet less cold. The breeze against the skin of his face, drying the corners of his mouth and pinching the flesh round his eyes. A Landrover was waiting to take him back to the barracks.

  The CO wanted to see him. Vanner had hoped he would be spared the audience but it was not to be. Lieutenant-Colonel Peters was waiting for him as he entered the mess.

  ‘Vanner.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Everything all right?’

  Vanner pushed out his lips.

  ‘Drink?’

  Vanner nodded.

  He cupped the shot glass of Bushmills. Peters leaned more easily at the bar. ‘D’you want to talk?’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘I want to get back to the street.’

  ‘That’s tomorrow. 0600.’

  ‘Good.’

  Peters savoured his gin. ‘We have a bit of a problem.’

  ‘What’s that, Sir?’ The smell of her. He could not erase the smell of her.

  ‘Hawkins.’

  ‘Again?’

  Peters nodded. ‘He’s been upsetting Bravo. Thinks he’s still in the Falklands.’

  ‘Winding people up?’

  ‘The new boys, yes.’

  ‘Hawkins is a thug. Personnel should have spotted it from the first.’

  ‘He could be a good soldier.’

  ‘Not in this army.’

  Peters stood upright. ‘I want you to sort him out.’

  Vanner frowned. ‘Complaint?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. That’s why I want you to deal with it.’

  Vanner drank his whiskey and placed the glass very correctly on the bar top. Peters nodded to the steward.

  ‘I’ve transferred him to your platoon. He’s out with you tomorrow. How you keep him in line is up to you. If you understand me.’

  Vanner smiled. ‘Oh, I understand you, Sir.’

  He left the officers’ mess and walked the short distance to the billet. Silence inside. He opened the door and saw the men gathered, sitting about their beds. Singlets, lightweights. His men. They looked up at him. He could smell the atmosphere, see it in all of their faces. Corporal James flicked playing cards into his upturned beret and glanced suspiciously at Vanner. Vanner held his eye, witnessed the questions that rose in it.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked him.

  ‘Showers, Sir.’

  Vanner nodded and turned.

  ‘Sir?’

  He paused in the doorway and looked back. It was James’ voice, but all eyes were upon him.

  ‘We don’t want him, Sir. He’s a nutter. A liability.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s been messing about with his gun. You know, playing silly buggers.’

  Vanner thinned out his eyes. ‘In here?’

  James nodded. ‘Just now, before he went to the showers. Why’s he been dumped on us, Sir?’

  ‘Orders, James.’

  James made a face. ‘With respect, Sir. There’s no room for him here.’

  Vanner looked at him. ‘I hear you, James. But this is Number 1 and we take orders. Hawkins might fancy himself as a psycho, but I think we can handle him, don’t you?’

  ‘Handle what?’

  Vanner turned and saw Hawkins, towel draped about his shoulders, standing in the doorway behind him. They looked at one another. Hawkins was squat, stocky, muscular. He wore only his lightweights. Vanner could see the tattoos lining the backs of his arms.

  ‘Hawkins.’ Vanner let the word ease, deep, from the back of his throat. He saw the man stiffen, fingers flex involuntarily. He stood exactly where he was.

  ‘Hawkins.’ Louder, the name popping from his mouth like a shell. The smell of her in his nostrils: the empty ache in his gut.

  Vanner had his sleeves pushed back; his boots dusty from the journey. He stepped towards Hawkins. The men, his men, watched him. He was taller than Hawkins, leaner, sinew rising in his arms as he paced around him.

  ‘This is Number 1, Hawkins. Not Bravo, or any of the other units you’ve ever been in.’ Vanner spread his palm. ‘These are my men, every last one of them. They don’t want you here. They think you’re a liability: one that we can’t afford.’

  Hawkins looked him in the eye then, the trace of a sneer on his lip. ‘I’ve been where I’m not wanted before,’ he said.

  Vanner stepped right into his space then, nose to nose, eyes to eyes, toes almost touching. Hawkins stood his ground. Vanner stepped on and Hawkins wavered. Vanner was in his face; the tops of his arms brushing Hawkins’ shoulders. Hawkins stood his ground. Vanner saw his eyes flicker, sweat glisten a fraction on his brow. He stepped on and slowly Hawkins gave way, walking backwards until he was pushed bodily into the wall.

  ‘Think you’re a hard man, don’t you,’ Vanner said.

  Hawkins’ eyes dulled.

  ‘Like to break heads.’ Vanner stepped back a pace. ‘Anybody’s head.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Like to throw your weight around.’ Behind him the room was silent. ‘It’s quiet outside—you want to throw it around with me?’ He jabbed him then, stiff fingered in the chest. ‘Do you? Quietly. No fuss. No charge. Just you and me outside?’

  Hawkins half-lifted a fist and Vanner closed his fingers over it. For a moment they stood like that: Hawkins, colour burning his cheeks; Vanne
r, fingers over fist, arm ricked like a vice. He pressed, pushed his weight down and Hawkins wavered, then slowly, gradually he yielded.

  Again Vanner stepped right into him, Hawkins’ fist was flattened against the wall, still encased in Vanner’s fingers.

  ‘You cross us, Hawkins, and you’ll only do it once. This is my platoon. These are my men. I trust them. They trust me. We’re a team, an effective, well-disciplined team. That’s why we’re the best.’ Vanner stared right into his eyes. ‘If you forget everything else—remember this: I can out-fight you. I can out-drink you. And I will always, always out-think you.’

  He stood there a few seconds longer, long enough to smell the fear that oozed from Hawkins’ pores, like death. Then he let him go and stepped back. Halfway across the floor, he turned and pointed. ‘You step out of line, Hawkins—and we’ll feed you to the Provos. You fuck up and I’ll shoot you myself.’

  At the door he halted and looked at his men. ‘Get some sleep. We’re out at 0600.’

  McCague sighed and reached for his drink. Vanner sat back in the chair and made an open-handed gesture. ‘It’s not Hawkins, Sir. He wouldn’t execute them, he’d torture them. It’s like I said: he’s seen me in the papers and he’s having a pop at me.’

  McCague watched him, eyes clouded. He took a deep breath and looked at the clock on the wall. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, Aden, but his initials are the same as those on the letters. Glenn said they’d be authentic, didn’t he?’

  Slowly Vanner nodded. ‘He did, Sir. But he might be wrong.’ He sat back. ‘Besides, Hawkins’ initials aren’t the same as those on the letters.’

  McCague stared at him. ‘What d’you mean? Jo Hawkins. JH.’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘D-JH. David Jonathon Hawkins. He was only Jo to his mates.’

  McCague looked at him. ‘Semantics, Vanner. We’re picking him up.’