by Jeff Gulvin
‘Charge him with wasting our time, Sir,’ Vanner said. ‘Do it now.’
For a moment McCague did not answer him. The phone rang on his desk. Vanner picked it up. ‘Superintendent McCague’s office. Who?’ He cupped his palm over the mouthpiece. ‘Harker.’
McCague glowered at the floor. Vanner lifted the receiver to his ear once more. ‘He’ll call you back.’ He hung up. ‘Now.’ He stared at McCague. ‘Let me go and charge him.’
Morrison thought through it all again as he stood in Judge Peter Staples’ kitchen and watched Ian Glenn moving about in the passage. His conversations with McCague and DC Kennett about the Hawkins fiasco. He looked at Glenn: such an innocuous little man, with those milk-bottle glasses that must just about crush his nose with the weight of them. As if he sensed the thought, Glenn eased the glasses up his nose and bent to look at the brown stain that still marked part of the floor.
‘Careless,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I said, careless.’ Glenn straightened and looked back at Morrison.
‘This is careless.’
Morrison nodded.
‘Much more hurried. The whole thing feels more hurried.’ Glenn stepped outside again. ‘That flower bed?’
‘Yes?’
‘Any old boot?’
‘Size ten. The sole was not very distinctive. Dr Marten.’
‘Police boot.’
‘Exactly. God knows how many size tens there are.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. Same as before. No prints. No fibres. No body fluid or skin samples.’
‘He never touches his victims, or if he does it’s with gloves on. Always that bit removed.’
‘But this was more hurried.’
‘It certainly feels like it, doesn’t it.’
Morrison nodded. ‘Maybe we’re beginning to worry him. Maybe the stakes have shifted just recently. Perhaps he feels we’re getting too close.’
They went back inside again. Morrison looked at Glenn. ‘Your feeling is that we’re looking for a loner, somebody who lives on their own.’
Glenn nodded. ‘There’s too much planning for him to live anything but alone. There’s no way he could keep it hidden.’
‘So he has no partner,’ Morrison said. ‘No wife, family. Are we saying he’s got emotional difficulties where relationships are concerned?’
‘It’s likely, yes.’
‘But apart from that he’s professional?’
‘Clinically so, wouldn’t you say?’
Morrison pushed out his coat flaps with his hands. ‘You said something on the phone about the notes.’
Glenn took a piece of paper out of his pocket. He sat down on a stool. ‘It took me a long time,’ he said. ‘Longer than it should’ve done.’
‘Sorry?’
Glenn showed him the paper. ‘It’s here. It always was, it was just a case of figuring it out.’
Morrison stared dumbly at him.
Glenn smiled. ‘But in these cases we still have judgement here.’ He looked up. ‘All my pretty ones? Did you say all?’ Again he looked at the paper. ‘And now this one, the killing of a judge, “That keep the word of promise to our ear and break it to our hope”.’ Folding away the paper, he looked back at Morrison. ‘Macbeth.’
He stood up and paced to the window. ‘Accursed be that tongue that tells me so: for it hath cowed my better part of man: And be these juggling fiends no more believed, that palter with us in a double sense, that keep the word of promise to our ear and break it to our hope.’ He turned and looked again at Morrison. ‘Macbeth.’
Morrison still stood where he was. ‘Macbeth?’
‘That’s right. I only realised this morning, when I read the note that was sent to the Eastern Daily News. The tragedy of Macbeth.’
‘Tragedy?’
‘Oh yes. It’s referred to as one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, as opposed to a comedy or history. I really should’ve worked it out much sooner.’
‘Is it a tragedy?’
‘Most certainly. At least that’s my opinion. I suppose it depends on how you look at it. You see there’s a school of literary thought that argues Macbeth was not totally responsible for what he did. Some say he set out on a road, engineered by forces beyond his control. Others will tell you that his personality was fatally flawed.’
‘How flawed?’
‘Ambition. Compulsion. A desire to walk the right path, but always going astray. And once strayed there could be no going back. He walked quite literally deeper and deeper into bloodshed.’
Morrison moved to the table and sat down. ‘Macbeth,’ he said.
Glenn nodded. ‘Started out as a hero and ended up as a villain, a bloody tyrant. Immune to fear and feeling. At the beginning of the play he’s a hero, the war with the Norwegians won. Thane of Glamis, a Captain in the Army …’
Morrison stared at him. ‘Captain?’
Glenn nodded. ‘“Our Captains, Macbeth and Banquo.” That’s how he’s referred to by the king, Duncan, whom later he stabs to death.’
‘I know what he did,’ Morrison said. He thought for a moment. ‘So how does that relate to the Watchman?’
‘It’s his signature, his comment to us about himself, his moral justification.’ Glenn lifted his shoulders. ‘He’s a man obsessed, personality shaped by some event in his past—some loss or other.’
‘What kind of loss?’
‘Given what he’s doing, I’d say a loved one.’
‘How far back in his past?’
‘A long time before any of this started.’
‘Loved one,’ Morrison mused. ‘Child? Wife?’ He stared at Glenn. ‘Parent?’
Vanner felt the emptiness of the bed as soon as Sarah left it. Darkness still blanked the windows; the chill of the morning rising from the floor. Sarah went to the bathroom and flicked on the light. Vanner saw her naked for a moment, then the door was closed and he heard the fall of the shower. He rolled onto his back, still smelling her on his skin; her scent, her sex. He rubbed his shoulder where it was rough with the indenting of fingernails. He felt it again: the raw depth of desire, the way she raked his body with hers, sweat flying in her hair almost like violence. Demure and then suddenly dominating.
She came out of the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the bed to towel her hair.
‘I don’t miss the early turn,’ Vanner said.
‘No.’ She stood up and pulled on her knickers. ‘By the way, Morrison was in Norwich yesterday.’
‘Was he?’ Vanner crooked his arm behind his head.
‘With Ian Glenn.’ She turned. ‘Glenn figured out where the lines come from.’
Vanner stared at her. ‘You mean the notes. Where?’
‘Macbeth.’
Vanner threw back the bedclothes.
Morrison was at Vanner’s desk, trawling through papers, when Sarah arrived. He looked up quickly and called her over to him.
‘We’ve been trying to reach Vanner on his phone, Sarah,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t respond. Do you know if he’s still in Norfolk?’
‘I don’t, Sir. No.’
He looked knowingly at her for a moment. ‘You know you want to be careful where you hang your loyalties.’
Sarah flashed her eyes at him and he lifted his palm. ‘Just a little friendly advice, that’s all.’ He looked away again. ‘Get me the duty rosters for June will you.’
‘You’ve already looked at them, Sir.’
Morrison tapped the desk with an extended forefinger. ‘I want to look at them again.’
Vanner walked along Harley Street with his collar up. Glenn met him at the foot of the steps.
‘Where’s the Bentley parked?’
‘I don’t have a Bentley, Aden. You know that. In London I take the tube just like everybody else.’
Vanner smiled.
They walked through the streets, the concrete icy underfoot.
‘I think it’ll snow tonight,’ Glenn said.
; ‘Cold enough.’
‘Haven’t had any yet this winter. I like snow. Even London looks pretty in the snow. All the hard edges are rubbed away.’
They walked on. Vanner said: ‘Morrison took you to Norwich.’
Glenn nodded.
‘Zealous, isn’t he?’
‘A veritable bloodhound.’
Vanner grinned.
‘He doesn’t like you.’
‘He thinks I’m unstable.’
Glenn chuckled. ‘I’d call you a lot of things, Aden. But unstable would not be one of them.’
‘I beat a young kid half to death.’
‘As I recall it you punched him three times. In the face, like a boxer.’
Vanner nodded.
‘Nothing unstable about that. A short, calculated attack.’
‘I gave him the bat first.’
‘Presence of mind.’
‘You’re right. I knew exactly what I was doing.’
‘There you are then.’
Glenn stopped at a zebra crossing and waited for the traffic to notice.
‘Morrison thinks I’m killing these people.’
Glenn looked at him briefly and then set out across the road. ‘Are you?’
Vanner matched his stride. ‘D’you think I’m capable?’
‘Certainly.’ They walked on in silence. Glenn said: ‘Why doesn’t he like you? Is it just because he suspects you?’
Vanner shook his head. ‘He’s never liked me. I worked with him in Lothian for a few months, after I left D11.’
‘You shot a man.’
‘In Hammersmith, yes.’
‘Morrison doesn’t believe in guns.’
‘No. He thinks we should all be community policemen. Admirable but impractical.’
‘He plays strictly by the rules. With him there’s no other way. No bending. No flexibility.’ Glenn nodded towards a café. ‘Do you want some lunch?’
Vanner toyed with his salad. ‘Macbeth,’ he said.
‘Indeed.’
‘When did you figure it out?’
‘Yesterday morning. Before I drove up to Norwich. I should’ve spotted it before, but the lines out of context, you know.’
Vanner nodded. ‘What does it tell you?’
Glenn made a face. ‘What would it tell you, Aden?’
For a moment Vanner was still. ‘It’s a tragedy.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Motive?’
‘Any number of things. The hurt from the past, once on the treadmill the killer unable to get off it.’
‘Flaw in the character.’
Glenn looked at him. ‘You know the play then?’
‘Yes.’
They were quiet for a moment. Vanner could feel the sudden awkwardness between them. ‘You told Morrison the profile?’
‘He’d read the file.’
‘Loner. Emotionally challenged.’
Glenn looked at him. ‘Professional.’
‘What about the initials. D’you still think they’re genuine?’
Glenn swallowed some wine. ‘Yes, Aden. I do.’
Morrison met Garrod by the river. He stood with his leather-gloved hands on the rail, watching the refuse barge forge a path through the water.
‘Vanner’s back in London. He’s sleeping with Sarah Kennett.’
‘Digging?’
‘Possibly. I think I worry him.’ Morrison paused. ‘I’d like him watched, Sir.’
‘What’ve you got?’
‘He was off duty on every occasion—from the first killing in Lothian when I was with him, right through to this last business in Norwich, while he’s been suspended. He can’t verify his whereabouts on any of the dates in question.’
Garrod continued to gaze out across the muddied furrow of the Thames. ‘You still have no more than that?’
Morrison frowned. ‘We’ve found out where the notes come from. They’re lines from Macbeth.’
Garrod looked round at him.
Morrison nodded. ‘I went up to Norwich with Ian Glenn, the psychologist. He gave us a profile on the man: loner, no partner, very professional yet emotionally wanting. Some- thing in his past which has stayed with him, some emotional trauma or other. The death or loss of a loved one.’
Garrod rested his arm on the rail. ‘Vanner’s wife left him.’
‘She did, Sir. Ten years ago.’
‘Do we know why?’
‘Not really. Maybe she saw something in him she didn’t like. Maybe he just ignored her. But it bothered him; he’s not had a regular partner since.’
‘Hardly enough motive for this.’
‘Glenn feels that maybe it was a series of events. Violent psychosis involves the whole personality, but events will shape how it’s expressed. Vanner’s mother died before he was two. His father was a chaplain in the Army. Vanner grew up among soldiers.’
Garrod looked away from him. ‘What’s the significance of Macbeth?’
‘He was a soldier, sir. A hero. Decorated. Thane of Glamis and then suddenly Thane of Cawdor. But his personality was flawed. Ambition, bloodlust, whatever. Maybe just the transition from war to peace. But something set him on a path of bloodletting, and once on it he couldn’t get off.’
He stopped talking and looked down at the water. ‘Vanner knew it wasn’t Hawkins, Sir. Right from the very beginning. Even when they didn’t know who the hoaxer was.’
‘Instinct.’
‘Possibly. I think there’s more to it though.’ Morrison sighed. ‘He was so adamant about it. If you talk to his colleagues you can feel it. It’s as if he didn’t want Hawkins brought in. I think Hawkins knows something about him, Sir. Something Vanner wants left alone.’
Garrod frowned. ‘What else’ve you got?’
‘He had a go at Judge Staples, verbally, after that car thief was let off. Staples has just been murdered.’ Morrison made a face. ‘I’m checking every inch of his history, Sir. When we’ve finished here I’m going over to Old Street.’
‘How long was he with them?’
‘Eighteen months. It was before he came up to Scotland.’
Garrod leaned on the rail. ‘He shot a man.’
‘Yes, Sir. Killed him. Building Society robbery. Gangland stuff.’
‘McCague still rates him you know.’
‘Yes, Sir, I know. But people can be wrong.’
Garrod moved away from the rail, walked over to a bench and sat down. Morrison said: ‘I’m going to talk to this Hawkins fellow, Sir. Something went on in Ulster. I want to know what it was.’
Garrod chewed his lip. ‘What do you hope to achieve by it? Even if he sees you, I doubt he’ll tell you anything that can be construed as evidence.’
‘I know that, Sir, but evidence is going to be hard to come by. If you think about it, there’s been five Watchman murders and not a shred of it so far. If it is Vanner, I’ll have to trap him, get him to talk. I’m hoping Hawkins can tell me something. Vanner has some history in Ulster and I’d bet my life it’s connected.’
Garrod breathed out stiffly. ‘This is an awful long shot, Andrew. I’m sticking my neck out as it is.’
‘I know.’ Morrison dug his hands in his pockets. ‘But there are no other leads, Sir. This killer has covered his tracks just about perfectly. We believe he’s either a policeman or a soldier. Vanner was both of those. He has to be a suspect.’
‘Okay.’ Garrod nodded. ‘Take somebody. You only have a week though, Andrew. That’s all the time I can spare.’
Vanner walked along the road towards Sarah’s house, the words of Ian Glenn still stalking the vaults of his mind. Macbeth. Dark, damp night and the smell of death on the street.
London was cold; the streets blighted with the promise of rain. Four o’clock and the lights were on already; fudged amber pools on the pavement. Vanner walked on the opposite side of the road to the houses, his hands in his jacket pockets, scarf wound about his neck. The traffic grew more weighty as the rush hour burgeoned.
He had to wait for a few minutes before being able to cross to Sarah’s steps. Looking up, he noticed that the light was on in the flat above her house. The curtains were pulled back from the window and somewhere behind it a lamp burned. It was not the overhead light: he could see that dangling naked and unlit from its housing. Dimly he could make out what looked like pictures on the far wall. At last he found a gap in the traffic and he trotted between the cars.
The house was cold, damp almost, and empty. Making a pot of tea he settled himself at the kitchen table and idly flicked through the Standard. After a while he laid aside the paper and went through to the front room. The world outside was dark now save the harshness of headlights that rebounded off the window. The clock ticked on the stripped pine of the mantelpiece. Vanner realised then just how much he missed Sarah when she was not there.
She came in at seven and he looked up from where he was stirring a spaghetti sauce. Sarah dropped her case on the hall floor and stared at him.
‘My God,’ she said. ‘If you had a pinny on now you’d be the perfect wife.’
Vanner scowled at her and tasted sauce from the end of the spoon.
‘I can cook,’ he muttered. ‘A lot of men can cook.’
‘Yes, but I’d never have believed you were one of them.’ She walked up to him and let her hand trail across his groin. ‘It’s quite erotic really.’
Laying aside the spoon he grasped the back of her neck, his palm sliding across her skin so she twisted her face up to his. She puckered her lips but Vanner held back and instead let his hand slip down the back of her blouse. His fingers moved forcefully between her shoulder blades until he found the cottoned elastic of her bra strap. Sarah reached for him and he kissed her hard on the mouth.
After a moment they broke. ‘Your spaghetti sauce is burning.’
‘You can make some more,’ he said.
He made love to her on the kitchen table. Hoisting her skirt to her hips he eased aside her panties and entered her as she lay back on the wood, the heels of her shoes digging into the flesh of his hips.
Later, he took her a glass of red wine as she lay in the bath.
‘Shitty day,’ she said.