by Jeff Gulvin
‘What happened?’
‘Morrison. God, I hate working with him.’
‘What was he up to?’
‘On the phone to SO19.’
‘About me?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Is McCague really going for all this?’
Sarah shrugged. ‘Who knows? I don’t even think it’s up to him any more. Since that judge was killed he’s been in Whitehall more than in Loughborough Street.’ She sat up and took the wine. ‘They want to catch someone badly, Aden.’
Vanner sat down on the toilet seat and watched her wash herself. He swallowed wine. She watched him as he watched her and he saw some kind of wicked delight in her eyes.
‘I know nothing about you, Sarah.’
She laughed out loud. ‘My God. Listen to you. I thought you just liked to fuck me.’
Vanner was stung. He felt colour fire his cheeks. Sarah stopped laughing. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What d’you want to know?’
He looked witheringly at her. ‘Nothing.’
‘Oh don’t sulk, Aden, for Christ’s sake. What d’you expect? You break off a relationship with me because you can’t offer anything vaguely emotional. We start up again just for the mutual masturbation of it all, and then you move in here. What d’you expect me to think?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He looked at his glass. ‘I’ll go back to my flat.’
She reached out for his hand and water splashed on the floor. ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t do that.’ She held his eye. ‘I need you here.’ She pulled him towards her and he allowed himself to be pulled. She kissed him, burying her mouth into his. She let him go again. Bubbles ran between her breasts. ‘Go and dish the food,’ she said.
They ate dinner and drank more wine. ‘Your tenant’s home,’ Vanner said.
Sarah looked up at him. ‘How d’you know?’
‘The light was on when I got here.’
‘This afternoon?’
‘Yes. How come we never see him?’
‘He’s never there.’ She chewed methodically.
‘He is today. Why don’t you invite him down?’
‘Since when did you become the socialising type?’
‘What’s he like?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re very coy.’ He felt the stiffness creeping into his voice. Sarah caught the tone. ‘Shades of green?’ She almost laughed again but lifted her hand to her mouth in time. ‘I’m sorry.’ She laid down her fork. ‘He’s just a bloke, Aden. There’s no need to be jealous.’
Vanner looked sideways at her. ‘Where’d you meet him?’
‘I didn’t meet him. I advertised the flat through an agent. He applied. Now he’s the tenant. I know nothing at all about him. That’s why I pay an agent. He’s hardly ever there. I think he works away.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘What difference does it make? He’s nothing to do with us.’
Vanner looked away from her. The word, us, the first time either of them had used it. Was there an us? There had been no us for so many years. He and Jane had been us for a while. Suddenly his appetite was gone and he pushed away his plate. He sat for a quiet moment washing red wine around his mouth. Sarah too was quiet, as if something had finally broken between them. After a while Vanner got up. Sarah looked suddenly fearful.
‘Aden?’
He breathed out heavily. ‘D’you fancy going for a drink or something? I need some air.’
They went down the steps to the street and Sarah slipped her arm through the loop of his. As they walked towards the shopping precinct Vanner glanced behind him. There was no light in the flat.
He brought the drinks to their table and sat down. The pub was empty save a couple of youths playing the fruit machine and a man in his thirties, sitting at the bar, reading a copy of the Guardian. Vanner drank Bushmills and smoked a cigarette. ‘I saw Ian Glenn today.’
‘Morrison was with him yesterday. I told you already.’
Vanner made a face. ‘Glenn told me too. Little bastard gets everywhere. He’s like a disease.’
‘What were you seeing Glenn about?’
‘I don’t really know.’ Vanner flicked ash from his cigarette.
‘He told you about the notes?’
‘We talked about it, yes.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
Sarah stirred the ice round her drink with a cocktail stick. ‘What about us, Aden?’
Vanner stubbed out his cigarette. ‘What about us?’
‘Are we together now?’
He opened his mouth and then closed it again.
‘You should talk about the past, Aden. Get it out of your system.’ Sarah’s hand was over his, the fingers firm yet tender. Vanner looked down at them, the crimson camber of her nails.
‘Why did she leave you?’
The directness of the question stung him. He glanced at her, glanced away again. ‘Because I frightened her, Sarah.’
They lay in her bed, the pillows puffed under them, Sarah’s nakedness soothing against his flesh. Weariness plucked at him but he felt warm and wanted and almost vaguely at peace.
‘The beginning,’ Sarah said through the darkness. ‘Maybe we should go back to the beginning.’
Vanner opened his eyes. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘The Watchman. Maybe we should go back to the beginning?’
He lay still for a few moments, then he sat up and switched on the lamp. Sarah blinked hard and looked away.
‘D’you mean Scotland?’ he said.
‘Well, isn’t that where it started?’
Vanner was silent, thinking; an ice bound day in the borders. ‘Why don’t you suggest it to Morrison?’
‘I could,’ Sarah said. ‘But I think he’s only chasing one rabbit.’
In his dream he was punching Gareth Daniels. In his eyes the broken face of a confused old lady. Blood on his knuckles, very red against the boiled white of his skin. JAB. JAB. JAB. And his face flying back like a doll’s head. And the dark of the night; the breath of a man and the smell of death on the street. He woke, sweating in the dawn. The bed beside him was empty. He opened his mouth to call out for her then he heard the click of the front door. The hands of the clock read six-thirty.
Morrison drove to Old Street. Here is where it began, he thought. Vanner’s violence. Vanner with a gun. He did not know what he hoped to find but here was where it began.
‘We use Swiss guns now,’ the sergeant told him. ‘You know how it works, Sir. We issue them and take them in again. Weapon. Ammunition. Everything is accounted for, both here and in the vehicles. In D11’s day there were no vehicles. All the weapons were here.’
Morrison felt his frustration building. Another blank wall bricked up before him in mockery. ‘You did use Brownings though?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I see the records?’
‘If you want to. Nothing has ever gone missing, Sir. Believe me. We’d know about it.’
‘All the same, Sergeant. I’d like to see for myself.’ The sergeant stood up. ‘If you want to wait here, Sir, I’ll arrange it.’
The sergeant was right of course. Morrison went through the records very carefully, reading every line, checking every entry, but everything was in order. When he was finished he handed the papers back.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Is there anything else?’
He looked at the sergeant. ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked him.
‘Five years.’
‘You remember an Inspector Vanner?’
The man shook his head. ‘He left before I came.’
‘You know of him though.’
‘Heard about him. Everybody has. He was in charge of Operation Watchman then …’
Morrison nodded. ‘Then he lost it completely.’
The sergeant looked at the floor. Morrison stood up. ‘I know, Sergeant. A lot of sympathy in the ranks for him.’
; The sergeant looked levelly at him. ‘He’s job. Isn’t he, Sir.’
‘Tell me,’ Morrison said. ‘SO19. People generally stay, yes?’
‘Stay?’
‘With the department. Career, I mean.’
‘They do, Sir.’
‘Why would anyone wish to move on?’
The sergeant grinned. ‘I can’t think of a reason. Anything else is a bit tame after this.’
Morrison’s car phone was ringing when he went out to the car park. It was Matthews, the man he had detailed to watch Vanner.
‘What’s happening?’
‘He’s definitely staying with DC Kennett, Sir. They went out last night. I followed them to a pub.’
‘What did they do?’
‘Had a couple of drinks, talked, and then went back to her house again.’
‘He stayed all night?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Matthews yawned on the other end of the phone.
‘Where is he now?’
‘Still in the house.’
‘Stay with him, Matthews. I’ll get someone to relieve you shortly.’
‘You’ll have to make it quick, Sir,’ Matthews said. ‘He’s just come out.’
Nine
VANNER LEFT THE HOUSE and paused on the steps to button his jacket. Across the road a man sat in a blue Cavalier. He flapped out a broadsheet newspaper. Vanner squinted at him for a moment, then he shrugged and walked towards the High Street. At the first phone box he stopped.
‘Sarah? It’s me. Can you do it?’
‘The computer?’
‘Yes.’
She hesitated. ‘You’re suspended. If anyone finds out?’
‘Is Morrison there?’
‘No.’
‘You’re checking leads, Sarah. You’re entitled to.’
He heard her sigh in his ear. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll phone you at my house this afternoon.’
Outside the phone box Vanner paused. The blue Cavalier was parked across the street. Then he remembered and smiled to himself.
Morrison parked his car and looked about him. The estate rose in ugly blocks of stone, cluttering the skyline. He watched a bedraggled-looking woman of about thirty struggle towards the spiral of broken, concrete steps with two toddlers and two shopping bags. She paused to push oily hair behind her ear before hoisting the weight of the bags again.
No way to live, Morrison thought. No way to live at all.
Number 53 had a battered blue door, a shiny new catch fixed into splintered and naked wood. The door was opened by a stocky, tattooed man, wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt.
‘Jo Hawkins?’
‘Who wants him?’ Hawkins showed his teeth. ‘Let me guess—police.’
Morrison smiled. ‘Superintendent Morrison.’
‘I’m paying the fine.’
‘I’m sure you are, Jo. I just want to talk to you.’
‘Well I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘Vanner,’ Morrison said. ‘I want to talk about Vanner.’
Hawkins hovered a moment then he stood aside and gestured for Morrison to pass.
Morrison was greeted by a neat hall and an open door to the living room. A lengthy, chain-link dog lead hung from the back of the door. Hawkins led the way into the living room and moved a set of curl bar weights from an armchair. Morrison glimpsed the black and white photographs of his host dressed in army fatigues; a maroon beret laid on the shelf next to a picture from the Falklands. He nodded to the weights. ‘Keep yourself fit?’
Hawkins nodded. ‘Used to go running with my dog, till some tart shot the poor bastard.’ He took a packet of papers and a plastic pouch of rolling tobacco from the mantelpiece.
Morrison took out his warrant card and waved it at him. ‘I’m with CIB,’ he said. ‘Police complaints.’
‘I haven’t made one.’
‘I know you haven’t.’ Morrison perched himself on the arm of the settee. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’
‘Vanner.’
Morrison nodded.
Hawkins smiled. ‘I saw the bastard got suspended.’
‘Beating up a suspect.’
‘Yeah. That’s Vanner all over.’
Morrison pricked up his ears. ‘Is it?’
‘Course it is. Hard man is Vanner. Or at least he thinks he is.’
‘You don’t.’
‘He used to put it about a bit in Belfast.’ He shrugged. ‘Tough enough I suppose.’
‘You served with him.’
‘For a tour I did, yeah.’
‘After the Falklands?’
Hawkins nodded.
‘Vanner was there—in the Falklands?’
‘He was there. Not with the action though. At least I never saw him.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘Does anybody?’
Morrison moved from the arm of the settee to the seat, but found it no more comfortable. ‘Tell me about Vanner,’ he said.
‘What’s to tell?’
Morrison made a face. ‘You say he put it about a bit. What did he do—hit people? What?’
Hawkins shrugged his shoulders.
‘He had a go at you, didn’t he?’ Morrison said. ‘You must’ve had some reason to make those telephone calls.’
Hawkins sat back. ‘He was an officer who’d come from the ranks. They’re the worst kind. Used to be one of us but moved on—you know? At least the nobs, the pretty boy set, are on the level with you. Don’t try to be one of the lads.’
‘Vanner did?’
‘He had his cronies. Number 1 platoon. I got transferred to them. We did a spell in Crossmaglen.’
‘What happened?’
Hawkins looked at him. ‘What d’you mean what happened?’
‘With Vanner. Something went on in Ulster.’
‘Why’d you want to know? He’s been out ten years.’
Morrison chose his words. ‘Let’s just say he worries me. I’m looking at him, so to speak.’
‘Investigating him?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘What you have to tell me.’
Vanner dropped first as the helicopter blades cut the air above his head. Crouching, he ran to the hedge; the damp length of the grass dragging at his boots. One by one his men followed him. When the last one was behind him, he waved to the pilot and the chopper took to the air. The men remained where they were, strung out along the hedge until the aircraft was no more than a blur on the horizon.
‘Move.’ Vanner commanded.
They ran, zig-zagging across the field towards the gap in the far hedge that led to the road. Vanner leading; Hawkins bringing up the rear, puffing as he ran backwards, his rifle buckled into the curve of his arm. At the gap in the hedge Vanner halted and crouched. The men fanned out behind him. Beyond the hedge the road glistened with early morning frost.
Vanner squatted, one knee in the grass, the damp gradually seeping through his trousers. He studied the broken thorns that made up the circular, man-sized, gap which tore out the heart of the hedge. He inspected every tangle, where the slender mottling of twigs wove a maze of little shadows. Very slowly he traced a line down to the worn patch of dirt at his feet. The ground was frozen, beaten flat and cracked here and there as if dried by the sun. Only when he was completely satisfied did he slowly push his way through.
The surface of the road crunched hard under his boots; the frost blistered by the sudden weight. He held his rifle in the crook of his arm. He looked first east, where the road curved; the view blocked by the hedge. Then he turned west where the landscape suddenly dipped. One by one his men followed him onto the road.
Corporal James walked next to him, shouldering the machine gun, Collins next to him, a radio headset spread across his scalp. Vanner had the map, folded into a plastic covered square in one hand; rifle, gripped by his elbow, in the other. Every now and then he would glance behind him, gaze rolling quickly over his men and then forward again. Once Hawkins c
aught his eye and held it.
‘Hawkins is turning out better than I thought, Sir,’ James murmured.
‘I still wouldn’t turn my back on him.’
Half a mile west they left the road at a stile. Beyond it, a ploughed farmer’s field where the furrows were still banked with snow. Beyond the field, a line of trees and beyond that the shallow rise of a hill.
‘Coaltree point, Sir.’ James pointed. Vanner nodded and paused in front of the stile. Again the scrutiny, the swift yet learned eye seeking for a glimpse, the vaguest inkling of something just out of place. He saw nothing and the platoon crossed into the mud.
The weather had stiffened each line of lifted earth into a mini wall of concrete and, rather than being sucked in, their ankles jarred with each step. The wind bit, coursing across sudden and open space with a sting that paid no heed to their clothing. Vanner tightened the netting scarf at his throat and lifted the collar of his flak jacket. They walked spread out, six paces between a man, fanning into a line across the field. Vanner watched, eyes moving; head constantly pivoting around on its axis, or cocked to one side and listening. Nobody spoke, nobody needed to. All of them concentrated on the level of the ground that passed under their feet and the sounds that broke around them. This was South Armagh. Bandit country.
At the far end of the field they passed through a gate that led into a rutted lane, travelled only by cattle and tractors. The hedge lifted to over six feet on either side of them. Quickly Vanner issued the men across to the gate on the far side and a second field, left fallow for the season. It was bordered by the line of trees and the extent of the hill after that.
The tension was high in his men now. They rested among the trees and Collins checked in with the base. Vanner was bent to his haunches with the map on his lap.
‘There’s a farmhouse,’ he said to James. Three miles the other side of the point. James leaned over him and looked where Vanner pointed. Two separate roads led up to it; a minor tarmacked road and a broken track, that led in the opposite direction to the main road about a mile away.
‘Communications aren’t bad and yet it’s well out of the way,’ James said.
Vanner nodded. ‘We’ll make for it. It’s overlooked by that rise. If nothing else we can watch.’ He stood up and motioned for the men to spread out once again. They picked their way through the trees and set off up the hill.