by Jeff Gulvin
They could see the road from the top of the point. Far in the distance, Vanner glimpsed a speck of red moving north towards them. He lifted the glasses to his eyes, focused and picked up the car. It was too far distant to hear. He watched until it turned east out of sight, away from the vicinity of the farm and then he laid down the glasses.
It was midday: the march from the landing site to the hilltop had been arduous, the ground bitten deep with winter. Vanner set a watch and let the men brew some tea and eat rations. He sat a little apart, poring over the map, and half-listened to the loosening of Hawkins’ tongue that came with the tea and the respite. Hawkins was prattling on about something, talking big, if quietly; ineptly attempting to endear himself to the men.
When they had eaten they went on, descending the far side of the hill, spread out in a traverse. At the bottom they crossed more fields and then came to where the road cut the countryside in half. Vanner moved first then he stopped abruptly. James almost bumped into him. A red Ford Escort was parked by the roadside. Vanner felt his breath go still. He looked at his watch, looked back at the hill and then back at the car once again. Lowering the barrel of his rifle from where it rested against his shoulder, he stepped into the middle of the road.
He looked first one way and then the other. He could see nothing. He could hear nothing. James moved out behind him. Three of the men took up positions in the field, looking back the way they had come. The others moved into the road. Vanner gestured for two of them to edge to where it curved, then he started walking towards the car. A man matched his steps. Looking up he saw Hawkins. Hawkins looked him in the eye. They approached the car and stopped fifteen yards from it on the far side of the road. Vanner passed his rifle to Hawkins.
‘Watch the hedges.’
Pushing up his sleeves, Vanner placed his fists on his hips and looked carefully at the car. The paint was chipped; rust chewed visibly at the wheel arches; the tyres looked worn. Vanner wet his lips. He looked beyond the car to the hedge. There were no gaps, no stiles, no break from the road. The car was half-tilted, lifted slightly from the tarmac, two wheels on the narrow grass verge. Glancing behind, he saw Hawkins still looking at his back, the heels of both rifles resting against his hips. Suddenly Vanner was nervous.
‘Concentrate,’ he hissed. He gesticulated forwards to where the road bent out of sight. ‘Check up there for a gap in the hedge.’
He remained where he was while Hawkins walked forward, still carrying both their guns. Vanner returned his attention to the car. Its boot was facing him; the rear window still misted by condensation. He came alongside, still five yards between himself and the vehicle. He scrutinised the door seals, the windows. Then he lowered himself until he lay prostrate, the leather palms of his gloves flattened against the tarmac. From where he lay he could see the underside of the car. His eyes moved over every dark lump, every twist of metal, seeking out that which should not be there. He found nothing. Getting to his feet again he moved closer, round to the front and then he stopped. The bonnet catch was not secured: the lines where it fitted to the wings were broken, as if the bonnet had been lifted and then not replaced properly.
Vanner spun round. ‘Back up!’ he called. ‘Back up!’ The men began to move, boots sharp against tarmac. Vanner looked to where Hawkins was watching him. The rest of the men were moving quickly now, the other way up the road. Vanner stepped sharply away from the car, walking rather than running, down the road towards Hawkins. He got to him. Hawkins tossed him his gun and then Vanner heard a noise, like somebody’s foot on a stick.
‘Jesus Christ! Down!’
Behind them the car blew up.
Vanner sprawled into the hedge, sending Hawkins over before him. He could feel the stinging heat against his skin and the agonising blockage in his ears as the noise seemed to shatter the air. Metal exploded, crashing to the ground and fire roared behind them. Instantly Vanner was on his knees, gun up, grabbing at the back of Hawkins’ jacket, hoisting him around so he could look him in the face. Hawkins blinked a few times and then seemed to snarl at him.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Course I’m all right. Let’s just get the bastards.’
Vanner was on his feet. From the other side of the hedge he could hear men running, swiftly, the sound rapidly fading. Behind them the car was a wreck of twisted, burning metal; black smoke, licked by flame, belching from where the engine housing had been. Vanner dragged his scarf over his mouth. Hawkins was still down.
‘Move.’
He struggled up. Lifting his gun, he started to push his way through the hedge.
Vanner looked beyond the burning car: they had been the two closest to it. In a moment the rest of the men were running down to meet them.
‘Booby trap.’ James stated the obvious.
‘Detonated by hand.’
‘Where?’
Vanner pointed to where Hawkins was tearing a great hole in the hedge with his elbows and his gun and his pack. He kicked out a gap and they piled through. Beyond it the field was empty. Vanner took the map from James. He stared at it. ‘Lane,’ he shouted. ‘Other side of the field.’ Collins was on the radio. ‘They’re winding up a chopper, Sir. Fifteen minutes.’
They started sprinting across the field and Vanner pulled up short as an engine fired in the distance. It was revved high and then gunned into gear. He craned to see, where the road dipped into view as the field rolled into a trough. A car flashed by, blue was all he could make out. Picking up the map, he stabbed a finger at the farmhouse.
‘There,’ he said.
Hawkins was alongside him. ‘Why?’
‘It’s close.’
‘They could have come from anywhere.’
Vanner waggled his head at them. ‘Yes. But they’re going there.’
‘How do we know that?’
‘We don’t. But I think it’s what they’ll do. It’s what I’d do. They know we’ll have a chopper up in no time, Hawkins. What would you do?’
Hawkins looked doubtful. Vanner ignored him and turned to Collins. ‘The farm. Tell them we’re heading for the farm. Let them fly by and then leave us. If they spot the car on the road …’ He turned back to Hawkins. ‘Then I’ll be wrong.’
A cluster of trees gave them shelter on the low hill that rose some five hundred yards from the farm. Hawkins zipped his jacket higher against the wind, and he stared down at the farmyard. He was looking for a blue car and not seeing one. James lay stretched on the ground, the machine gun propped on its legs. He held one eye to the sight. Vanner stood a little way behind, beret pulled almost to his ear, binoculars against his eyes, trailing the edges of the farmhouse.
It was built in an L-shape with a barn running at right angles. The concrete yard housed nothing save a broken down tractor. Three upstairs windows over the front, with two either side of the door.
‘Movement, Sir. Upstairs window.’ James’ voice broke over him.
‘Got it.’ Vanner saw a figure move across the top right hand window and flit back out of sight. He ran the glasses across to the barn where the door stood ajar. The wind dragged through the branches of the trees above his head.
He lowered the glasses and looked to where his men were spread between the trees or lying in the grass. He looked again at the farmhouse and the land beyond it. He had half a mind to try and get men behind the house itself, but all of the outbuildings were built either in front or to the side and open fields stretched beyond it.
James lay behind the machine gun, its legs cutting into the turf. ‘What d’you want to do, Sir?’
Vanner thought for a minute, then he raised the glasses once more. Again he scanned the house and again he saw movement at the window. Somebody darting a quick glance and then pulling back. He put down the glasses.
‘Take out the upstairs windows.’
‘Sir?’
‘Do it.’
James flattened himself into his gun and then raked the building. Bricks squealed and then the w
indows shattered. James released the trigger.
‘Keep firing,’ Vanner ordered. The shots split the air as another volley tore across the emptiness of the countryside. When James finished firing the silence boomed in their ears.
Vanner gazed through the binoculars, moving slowly back and forward across the upper storey.
‘Collins.’
‘Sir?’
‘Get the chopper to fly over the house. Get them to fly low.’
‘Sir.’
They waited. Hawkins watching Vanner, Vanner watching the house. A few minutes passed, and then the droning of the helicopter tore up the edges of the atmosphere. It passed low over the roof and Vanner lifted the glasses to his eyes once more. The helicopter disappeared beyond the trees.
All at once the front door opened and a man ran for the barn.
‘Bring him down.’
A shot sounded and the man screamed out, cartwheeling as his right leg was knocked from under him. Vanner moved out of the trees.
‘Hawkins. Ferguson. Brown. Get down there. Now.’
They moved off, running at a low crouch, down the line of the hill to the track that led to the farmyard. The man on the ground writhed, holding his leg. His cries could be heard from the hilltop.
Vanner stood over him, watching as his blood drained into a pool underneath him. From out of the house a second man was led with his hands on his head. Ferguson carried a pistol and handed it to Vanner.
‘Browning, Sir. Looks like one of ours.’
Vanner took the pistol. ‘Any more?’
Brown shook his head.
‘There must be others. A command somewhere. Must be close.’ Vanner looked down at the wounded man.
‘Where’s the rest of your cell?’
‘What cell?’ The man spat the words between teeth clenched together in pain.
Vanner turned to Collins. ‘Get the chopper.’ He looked at the second prisoner, younger than the first. ‘Who’s your commander?’
The boy looked back at him but said nothing. Vanner half-nodded. He looked down once more at the man on the ground, then he stepped over him to get to his comrade. As he did so he trod on the man’s wounded leg and he screamed out in pain. Hawkins stared at him. Vanner ignored the shrieks and walked over to where the younger man was still held by Brown. Vanner stood very close to him, looking into his face.
‘I’m going to ask you once,’ he said. ‘If you don’t tell me what I want to know—I’m going to shoot you. Do you understand?’
The boy curled his lip. Vanner smiled. ‘Bring him over here.’ He weighed the pistol in his hand as he walked over to the barn. He could see the back of a blue car through the doorway. He slipped the magazine from the pistol, to check it was loaded, and slid it back once again. Brown marched the boy in front of him, nudging him in the back with the nose of his rifle. Vanner waited by the barn door. The wounded man still lay on the ground, clutching at his leg with blood spilling over his hands.
Vanner stared at the boy as Brown brought him over. When he got to him Vanner ushered Brown away. He turned the boy to face the barn.
‘Kneel down,’ he said.
The boy seemed to swallow.
Placing his gloved hand on the boy’s shoulder, Vanner forced him onto his knees.
‘Cross your legs.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’ Vanner kicked at his ankle and gingerly, the boy lifted one foot so it lay across the heel of the other. Vanner walked round behind him and worked the action on the Browning.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m going to ask you about your commander. If you don’t answer me I’m going to shoot your friend and then I’m going to come back over here and shoot you in the back of your head.’ He bent close to the boy’s face, over his shoulder from behind him. ‘See that door there just in front of you? Your brains will be all over the paint. If I get it just at the right angle your head will come off.’ He paused. ‘Now, who and where is your commander?’
The boy licked his lips but said nothing. Vanner could feel him shaking.
‘Fine.’ Vanner straightened, turned and stalked back across the farmyard to the fallen man. Standing with his back to the boy he pointed the gun and fired into the ground. The man screamed out as dust and bits of concrete spattered his face. Behind them the boy was yelping. Turning quickly, Vanner walked straight back up to him, worked the breech and placed the cold muzzle into the soft area of skin just below his skull.
‘NO!’ The boy screamed out the word.
Vanner hesitated. ‘Name and place.’ The smell of urine, hot and pungent, filled the air about them.
‘Cellar,’ the boy sobbed. ‘There’s a cellar.’
Morrison sat very still, fingers gently kneading the arm of the settee. He rested his head back and looked across at Hawkins to the maroon-coloured beret on the shelf.
‘What happened after that?’ he said quietly.
‘Vanner was right. The car was in the barn. We got the commander, the explosives, the lot. Took out a complete cell in one hit. We’d been after them for ages.’
‘And Vanner?’
Hawkins shrugged. ‘He was moved on straight after. We stayed at the border. I think Vanner went back to Belfast but I’m not sure. I never saw him again until I read about him in the papers.’
Morrison got up and took out his wallet. He selected two ten pound notes and handed them to Hawkins.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ At the door he paused. ‘By the way, what happened to the pistol—the one you took from the IRA men?’
Hawkins looked at his feet. ‘I don’t know.’ He jerked his shoulders. ‘Maybe Vanner kept it.’
Back in the car Morrison switched on his mobile phone. ‘Matthews,’ he said, when the call was answered. ‘Haven’t you been relieved yet?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘I’ll get onto it. Where’s Vanner?’
‘He’s back at DC Kennett’s house, Sir.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Outside.’
‘Okay. I’ll get someone over there as soon as I can. Oh, Matthews. If he comes out—whatever you do don’t lose him.’
The killer squeezed fingers into pale surgical gloves, the rubber snapping against skin. There was no light on, only that which filtered through the window. A blue card file lay open on the flat top of the desk. Quietly the killer sat down and selectively began to leaf through the faded black and white photographs, carefully turning each one over as it was finished with so as not to lose the sequence. A picture of a man aged about twenty and the killer stopped turning. The photo was lifted closer to the eye and inspected. The man was smiling, a shock of yellowed hair and a high-boned face. The killer laid it flat again and smoothed through the creases. Outside traffic moved. A door slammed. Closing the file the killer stood up and set it back on the shelf.
Vanner sat by the phone, impotent, alone. The phone rang so suddenly he jumped.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s me, Aden.’
‘Well?’
There was a pause for a long moment and Vanner wondered if she had heard him.
‘Sarah?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
‘Somebody at your desk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Okay, just talk about the weather or something.’
She did not laugh. Vanner waited. ‘Can you talk now?’
‘Newcastle.’
‘Newcastle?’
‘1987. A man called Robert Black was knocked down by a car. He’d been convicted of Hit and Run while driving a stolen car two years earlier. He killed a young girl in Sheffield. He’d been down there for a party. He got one year and served six months.’
‘Was he killed?’
Again a pause. ‘No.’
Vanner felt his pulse begin to quicken. ‘Thank you, Sarah. Did you stick your neck out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Morrison?’
‘Not about.’
‘No.’
‘I’ll check it out when I get there.’
‘Aden,’ Sarah said more urgently. ‘Be careful.’
Vanner drove along the North Circular Road, the blue Cavalier three cars behind him. The car had tailed him since he left Sarah’s house. He slowed as the traffic lights showed up ahead. They were green still but Vanner slowed anyway. Fifty yards from them the colour changed to amber and Vanner glanced in his rear-view mirror. The Cavalier was still three cars back and boxed in on the outside lane. Vanner flattened the accelerator pedal. He made it through just as the lights hit red. Behind him the traffic stopped and with it the blue Cavalier. Vanner grinned to himself. Easy, the driver must have been sleeping.
Matthews thumped the steering wheel. If Morrison had relieved him when he said he would this would not have happened. He had been on duty now for the best part of twenty hours. Angrily he picked up the phone.
Vanner drove quickly, north on the A1. It was two-thirty and the traffic was thick with lorries. His mind wandered as he drove, Morrison breathing down his neck like a shadow. He thought about Sarah, about what he thought about her, how he felt, if he felt at all. He thought about Ian Glenn and his words. Images flitted in and out of his mind and with them memories of the past from way back. His father, his stepmother, his mind working over itself, falling this way and that, dragging him along in its wake. Inevitably he thought about his wife and his best friend and their life together. Other memories came—deeper, darker. He pushed them away. Then he just concentrated on the road and drove on.
He had been to Newcastle only once before and that had been coming south during his days with the Lothian Serious Crime Squad. The A1 was a better road than he recalled, two lanes all the way, weaving north past Cambridge and Nottingham and Doncaster. He listened to Prime Minister’s questions on the radio and drove on.
He got to Newcastle at eight-thirty and checked into a tiny guest house on the outskirts. He was tired from the drive and found a quiet pub where he ate a bar meal and drank a couple of whiskeys. He phoned Sarah’s house from the payphone.