The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘This is Chief Inspector Brearly,’ McCague said. ‘Old Street. Hawkins is supposedly armed. The tip-off said a pistol, black automatic pistol. If he’s our man,’ he paused and glanced at Vanner who leaned against the back wall of the Incident Room, ‘then he’s definitely armed.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s four now. We move on him at five-thirty. Chief Inspector Brearly is in charge. We take our lead from him.’

  Sarah Kennett shot a glance at Vanner. Vanner looked at the floor.

  He surveyed the empty Incident Room and the isolation of the past revisited him. He sat with his feet on the desk, surveying the debris of four years’ investigation, and thought about going home, only there was no home to go to. He closed his eyes, aware of the weight in them, the seemingly endless fatigue. Then he swore softly to himself and swung his legs off the desk.

  He drove through dark streets towards Walthamstow, the heater blowing cold air through the vents at him. There were no stars tonight, the atmosphere choked with summer cloud. Cars moved through the streets: London, never sleeping. Vanner picked his way to the housing estate. Spotting the gathering of police vehicles up ahead, he pulled over and got out.

  McCague had the men in position. Vanner saw two SO19 officers at the entrance to the estate, which loomed over the main road like some nightmare prison of the future. He showed his ID and slipped through the bleak, concrete corridor into the squared, shadow of the concourse. He spotted Berry hovering about the stairwell.

  ‘McCague upstairs?’ Vanner asked him.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Who’s with him?’

  ‘Brearly.’

  ‘Ours?’

  ‘Joe Nicholls, Guv. And Sarah Kennett.’

  ‘Sarah’s up there?’ For a second Vanner started.

  ‘She’s firearms, Guv. She did the weapons training, remember?’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes, Guv. Don’t you re … No of course you weren’t with us then.’ Berry grinned. ‘She can handle herself, Guvnor. Take it from me.’

  Vanner nodded. ‘I’ll wait down here then.’

  Leaving Berry to his sentry duty, he unbuttoned his jacket and wandered across the paving slabs to the children’s playground, where even in this light the graffitied obscenities leapt up and bit you. He sat down on a bench, folded his arms and took out his cigarettes. From where he sat he could see the fifth-floor balcony where shadowy figures moved. He grinned to himself as he heard boots scraping on concrete and, even from this distance, the hushed tones of their voices.

  McCague stood with Brearly to the left of the door with Nicholls at his side. Two SO19 officers took up position along the balcony. Sarah Kennett, uniformed, holster strapped to her hip, took up her position and eased her gun from its housing. She checked the rounds and then replaced it. She glanced at McCague and then at Brearly. Nicholls held the sledge hammer in readiness. McCague looked at his watch and glanced at the men standing behind them. Sarah stole a look across the shadowed mass of concrete that was the rest of the estate, and caught sight of a lonely figure sitting with his legs stretched out before him. He was held by the light above the children’s play area. She recognised him. Loosening the gun from its holster, she gripped it in one hand and weighed the torch in the other.

  ‘Now.’ Brearly said.

  Nicholls stepped up to the door and swung the hammer. Wood splintered, board cracking like logs on a fire. He hit it again and the lock gave. The SO19 men were in first, flashlights on. Sarah after them, into the short hall, kitchen to the right, empty. A dog snarled and then it was flying at her through the rush of light from the torch. Instinctively she fired and the yelping rang out like a child.

  From the back of the flat someone shouted. Sarah moved along the hall; a bedroom door, closed. She could feel the breath of the men beside her. Then the hall light was on, the door to the bedroom kicked open. A naked, tattooed man was standing in the middle of the bed. The officer beside her pointed his gun at his chest.

  ‘Armed Police. Stay exactly where you are.’

  The second officer stepped past Sarah and walked around the bed. Hawkins was staring beyond them to the hall where his dog lay.

  ‘You bastards.’ He jumped from the bed and rushed the door.

  ‘Stay where you are.’ One of the policemen grabbed him by the arm and he swung a fist, clouting the man behind the ear. Sarah moved forward and pushed the barrel of her pistol into his face.

  ‘Armed Police,’ she said. ‘Stand still.’

  He stopped wrestling and stared at her. ‘You bitch. You killed my dog.’

  Vanner watched them march him out onto the balcony and he pinched at the gloom with his eyes. The lights were dim but there was no mistaking that swagger. He tried to count the years that had passed.

  He got up from his seat, thinking about the hours—days maybe—of wasted questions that lay ahead. McCague wouldn’t listen. Hawkins was an ex-soldier, and right now that was all they cared about. He strolled rather than walked across to the stairwell. Berry backed up as they bundled Hawkins down the steps, barefoot, wearing only a faded pair of jeans. Vanner admired his build; a little pudgy about the middle, but even now he took care of himself. Vaguely, he wondered what the outcome would have been if Hawkins had had the balls to take up his offer of a fist-fight.

  He stepped into the light at the bottom of the stairs, just as the SO19 men manhandled him down. They almost bumped into one another.

  ‘Vanner.’

  ‘Hawkins.’

  Hawkins spat on his shoes. Vanner stepped back and looked at the spittle, gloopy over his laces. Hawkins grinned at him, showing his teeth. Vanner smiled back and stepped forward, his shoe crushing Hawkins’ naked toes.

  Hawkins screamed with the pain. Vanner hovered a minute and then stepped back again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t see you.’

  Hawkins was still swearing as they led him away. McCague paused and cast a glance in Vanner’s direction. ‘You decided to show then,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing better to do.’

  ‘You’re so damn sure of yourself.’

  Vanner sighed and dropped his burning cigarette. ‘In this case I am, Sir. Yes.’

  McCague walked off and Vanner climbed the stairs to the balcony. Sarah greeted him halfway along. She was resting the heel of her palm on the pistol holstered at her side. Vanner smiled. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ Sarah shrugged. ‘Gets the blood flowing. Almost better than sex.’ She trailed him momentarily with her eyes as she walked by.

  ‘Find the gun?’ Vanner called over his shoulder.

  ‘Not yet. Forensic are on their way though.’

  Vanner walked into the flat. He raised an eyebrow at the bloodied pile of fur that had been Hawkins’ dog, and stepped over it. In the lounge the Paratrooper’s beret stood out on the shelf. He noticed the photos; the Falklands, Hawkins, rifle raised over his shoulder. He walked through to the kitchen, dishes stacked neatly in the drainer, empty beer cans protruding from the top of the pedal bin. On the small table in the hall he poked through the mail with the tip of his pen. Three letters, two bills and one from the Department of Social Security. Stepping over the dog once more, he walked back to his car.

  Vanner stayed the night at Michael Kirston’s house and the following day he drove back to London. The tiny house by the cliff edge had been a refuge, only after Staples it was a refuge no longer. McCague had found it and the refuge was challenged. Maybe it was nothing more than that, but he felt it was time to go back.

  His flat was damp and empty. He stood in the doorway, aware of the silence as part of him. Unopened letters piled up behind the door like so many autumn leaves. He ignored them, and stood for a while in the hall. The kitchen door was ajar. The lounge door wide open. The study door was closed. For a moment Sarah was in his mind. Vanner looked at the door of his study, hesitated and then opened it. The room smelled old and forgotten. The curtains were drawn across the window. For a moment he hovered in the doorway, ima
ges clouding his mind. Beyond the desk the pictures dominated him. All at once he was cold.

  Outside in the hall he paused, thought for a moment and then, picking up the telephone, he dialled Loughborough Street. Sarah answered.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘My place.’

  ‘Norfolk?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Go to my house.’

  He hesitated. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do I get in?’

  ‘There’s a key on the end of a piece of string. Fumble about in the letter box. You’ll find it.’

  He parked his car outside the flight of six steps that lifted to her door from the pavement. It was very cold: the sort of ice-cold wind that bites through any clothing no matter what. Vanner shivered as he locked the car and took the steps two at a time. He cast a short glance across the street to make sure it was not completely obvious that there was a key in the letter box. He found the string though and trawled it in until the key lay cold in his palm. Unlocking the door, he stepped into the wide hall with its stripped and polished floor.

  The hall was silent; the stillness of an empty house, dormant in the day to come alive with warmth and chatter in the evening. The stairs rose two flights; wide full steps with a curling Victorian bannister. He had only been here a handful of times before, when he and Sarah were lovers. He thought about how expensive a place such as this would be if she ever sold it. She had no mortgage, he knew as much; the house inherited from dead parents. He seemed to recall Sarah having relatives in Australia or somewhere, but no one closer than that.

  Wandering through to the lounge, he stood in the middle of the floor, looking at her belongings: Persian rugs, the quilted patterned cushions. He wondered why he had come here. It disturbed him, threatened his calm. Subconsciously he had known he was coming here all day, that he would be phoning her and only her when he got back to London. He moved about her house, the kitchen, the dining room that overlooked the garden at the back. Upstairs, the towel-filled luxury of her bathroom. Why was the bathroom always so important to a woman? He could smell her here and the scent was heady.

  The bedroom he avoided, preferring to climb to the second floor where the spare rooms were. At the top of the stairs he looked up at the ceiling and considered the top floor, separated and let out to whoever. Who was her tenant? He had never seen him. Sarah had mentioned it, in the past, but he could not recall what she had said.

  He moved slowly back down the stairs, palm smooth on the bannister. Outside her bedroom he paused, feeling the well of trepidation rise against his breast.

  The bed was behind the door. The window greeted him, long velvet curtains billowing from beneath the pelmet. The height of her mirrored wardrobe on the far wall. He caught a voyeuristic glimpse of himself, lurking like a spectre from the past in the doorway. Downstairs he sat in the silence and fought with himself. What did he feel? How could he know what he felt?

  Sarah came in about six o’clock. Vanner was still sitting in the armchair; the central heating had switched itself on about half an hour earlier and the lounge glowed with a warmth. Sarah appeared in the doorway, tucking her car keys into her handbag. Vanner looked up at her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She laid her bag on the chair and came over to stand before him, her legs slightly apart. ‘D’you want a drink?’

  ‘Coffee maybe.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  He shook his head.

  She called out to him from the kitchen. ‘You know Morrison’s looking into the investigation big time now. Even McCague’s talking to him.’

  Vanner felt a small chill inside him. He went through, folded his arms and leaned against the door frame.

  ‘I saw McCague,’ he said.

  ‘In Norfolk?’

  ‘Yes. Why’s he co-operating?’

  She looked round at him. ‘I don’t think he has any choice.’

  ‘Has Morrison got any evidence?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘I see.’ He perched on the edge of the table. Morrison troubled him, his tenacity, the ever-present suspicion. ‘What’s he doing exactly?’

  ‘Looking over the files. He’s looking into the Hawkins debacle right now.’

  ‘Glenn?’

  ‘Hasn’t been to see him yet.’

  ‘He will.’

  ‘You did yourself no favours with Daniels, Aden.’

  She was right. Four years into this sort of investigation and nothing. Daniels gave them an excuse. Daniels had been a mistake.

  ‘Why does Morrison hate you?’ she asked him. ‘He does hate you. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  Vanner took the proffered coffee cup. ‘I don’t know. I guess we crossed swords in Scotland. I was transferred there without him really knowing why.’

  ‘It must be more than that.’

  He shrugged. ‘We’re different aren’t we. He does everything by the book. He probably thinks there’s no place for people like me in the Met. I think he always saw me as some kind of a threat.’

  ‘That’s not enough to hate you though, surely? I mean the man really does not like you.’

  Vanner looked at her as he sipped the coffee, the dark clarity of her eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about Morrison, Sarah.’

  He soaped her breasts. She lay back against the bath head. The water lapped about his hips where he squatted, steam rising between them. He watched moisture gather on her nose and drip to her lip where she nibbled at it. He moved his palm over her skin, slippery and responsive with the soap. Her nipples were easy, blood red. She watched him as he washed her, eyes betraying no feeling. For the first time Vanner really began to wonder who was using whom.

  ‘What are you going to do about Morrison?’ she asked him.

  He stopped the motion of his hand. ‘Find the killer myself.’

  She sat up higher. ‘How?’

  Vanner looked past her. ‘I don’t know.’ He took up the soap once more. ‘Morrison’s determined to get me, Sarah. Maybe they all are. Maybe this is the excuse they’ve been looking for.’

  ‘Not McCague.’

  ‘No, not McCague. McCague knows how it is.’ He paused. ‘At least I think he does. The rest though—the Home Office perhaps. They’ll want to make an example out of me whatever happens. Can’t have DCIs beating up suspects. Hardly what they’d term good community policing.’

  ‘No.’ She smiled. ‘Trouble with you is you go your own way. That’s why they don’t like you.’

  Vanner leaned forward, took her chin between his fingers and squeezed.

  ‘Yeah, and that’s why you like me so much.’

  She looked at him, chin high all at once. ‘How do you know I like you?’

  He let his hand fall to her belly. ‘You really want me to tell you?’

  They made love on the floor in the bedroom. Sarah, hand curled about his head, fingers pressing deeper and deeper into his scalp. Vanner rising and falling between smooth, slim legs that coiled his spine like serpents.

  He smoked a cigarette, naked by the window. Silvered frost sprinkled the street outside. No cars moved. Nobody walking.

  ‘Who lives upstairs?’

  ‘What?’ She lay back in the bed with the duvet gathered about her.

  ‘Upstairs.’ Still he gazed at the street. ‘I’ve never seen your tenant.’

  ‘What’s it to you—worried that he’s screwing me?’

  Vanner turned. ‘I’d know,’ he said. Stubbing out his cigarette, he sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Can I stay here?’

  ‘What’s this?’ She sat up, the bedclothes falling from her. ‘Cracks in the armour? Want to keep an eye on me? Don’t tell me you have feelings.’

  Vanner did not look at her. ‘I can stay at my place.’ Getting up,
he bent for his trousers. Quietly she reached for him, fingers fluttering across his thighs. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she murmured.

  Vanner had gone home to sleep after they had brought Hawkins in that night. It was McCague’s spin. Let McCague sit up and question him. Joe Nicholls called him though; he had only been asleep for an hour or so. Vanner heard the phone, decided to ignore it and buried himself in the bedclothes. They knew he was there though and the phone rang and rang and rang. In the end he picked it up, hurled abuse at Nicholls and then got in the shower.

  He arrived back at Loughborough Street at eleven-thirty. The front steps were bursting with photographers. Vanner parked round the back. Nicholls greeted him, bleary eyed, smoking, on the back steps.

  ‘Morning, Guv.’

  ‘Is it?’ Vanner plucked the cigarette from his fingers and sucked on it.

  ‘Sorry about ringing you, but the old man insisted.’

  ‘Suppose he wants me to interview his suspect.’

  ‘I don’t know, Guvnor. But he does want you.’

  Vanner handed the cigarette back to him.

  ‘You’re convinced he’s not the one aren’t you?’ Nicholls said.

  Vanner looked at him. ‘I knew the voice, Joe. Knew it of old, I just couldn’t fit a face to it. The last time I heard it was in Belfast ten years ago.’

  ‘The initials?’

  ‘His Christian name is David.’

  ‘Ex-Army?’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  Nicholls shook his head. ‘You’re very sure.’

  ‘I’m absolutely certain. Hawkins isn’t the man. He’d make too much mess. You should’ve seen the Argies he killed in the Falklands.’

  He walked inside, collected a cup of burnt coffee from the machine and sipped it as he wandered down to the Incident Room. Sarah was there, looking even more tired than Nicholls.

  ‘Good morning, Sarah,’ Vanner said. ‘McCague got you still here too has he.’

  ‘He’s cock-a-hoop.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Yes. He’s convinced we have the Watchman.’

  ‘We don’t.’ Vanner sat on the edge of her desk. ‘We have an ex-squaddie with a grudge against me. He’s unemployed, aggressive, and pissed off with the England he fought for. He’s an ideal candidate for some far-right extremist party or a spell in the Foreign Legion. But he is not the Watchman.’