The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘John Radley,’ he said.

  ‘Andrew Morrison.’

  Radley gestured towards the house. ‘Come on in. I’ve got coffee on.’

  They sat across from one another in twin two-seater couches before an empty fireplace. Morrison glanced about him, the room cluttered with books and paintings of fighter aircraft. Radley watched him and grinned.

  ‘Hobby of mine,’ he said. ‘I should have been in the RAF.’

  ‘Why weren’t you?’

  ‘Family.’

  Morrison sipped coffee. ‘Your father?’

  ‘And his before him. Tradition. Eldest son and all that. Green Jackets, every last man of us. Winchester, you know. I suppose it’s a bit hard to understand in this day and age.’

  Morrison nodded at the painting of a Spitfire, climbing above the fireplace. ‘Sacrificed passion for duty then?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Radley set his cup down on the saucer and sat back with his hands on his knees. ‘CIB?’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘Police investigating the police. Not often I see you chaps.’

  ‘You’ve seen the police before though.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Done a bit of back-scratching in my time.’

  ‘You know Neville Standish?’

  Radley’s face lit up. ‘Certainly. Used to be in the Branch. I haven’t seen him for years though. How is he?’

  ‘Fine. He’s over in Hackney now.’

  ‘Seeing out his time?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Radley looked beyond him for a moment, as if caught in a memory. Then his attention snapped back once more. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘What is it I can do for you?’

  Vanner sat in the library of the Newcastle Evening Echo, labouring through a box of microfiches with a plastic cup of coffee by his elbow. Robert Black had been hit by the car in September of 1987. Two editors had come and gone since then and nobody could recall whether or not any letter about Black had been sent to them. Vanner had asked to look through the records anyway. It kept him busy and out of the reach of Morrison. He was flicking through page after page of newsprint, had been for over two hours and his mind was rapidly numbing. McCague bothered him: he felt he owed it to the man to give him a call but he really had nothing to say. So he trawled the old print like a half-hearted fisherman who knew there were holes in his nets.

  And then Black’s name flashed before his eyes as he dragged the cursor across the screen. Working backwards he found the story; a bad picture of Black in the top corner: it looked as though it had been taken from a passport. Underneath, there was a description of the incident in which he had been hit by the car. Vanner scanned it, picking up the details that Black himself had given him. There was nothing more than he knew already, and he was about to switch off the machine when something else caught his eye. He moved the cursor down and read. Roads of Death. Comment pg 13. Shrugging his shoulders, he moved down to page 13 and began to read.

  The piece was by somebody called Helen Parker, an editorial about the general rise in car theft, and then a specific comment about the increasing number of victims who were mown down by joyriders. The author cited five separate occasions going back to 1981, six if Black was included. Vanner read it with interest. The deaths had occurred over a radius of nearly fifty miles. The paper’s circulation went as far south as Sunderland and as far north as Otterburn, near the Scottish Border. Two of the victims were adults, a man and a woman, one of whom died. The other three were children. 1979, 1981 and 1983. Two schoolboys and a little girl aged three. All of them were killed.

  Vanner sat back and picked up his cup. He sipped cold coffee and stared at the screen. All the victims were pictured, though on the fiche they were pretty obscure. He looked at each one in turn, his attention focusing on the children. The boys were in school uniform and the little girl was in some sort of party dress, her cheeks dimpled in a smile, surrounded by bubbling curls of hair. The photograph was underscored with the words Little Meggie Hamilton.

  Screwing his empty cup into a ball, he walked over to the desk where the librarian was working. He looked up as Vanner approached. Vanner jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘How do I print from that thing?’

  He found Helen Parker in the Black Horse, a pub directly across the street from the offices of the Echo. She was with what looked like a gaggle of other people from the paper, drinking something and orange from a tall glass. A white filtered cigarette protruded from between scarlet painted fingers. She was blonde, dyed, and a bit beaten about the eyes. Vanner thought she was forty-five trying to look thirty. He bought himself a beer and watched her hold court from the bar. She talked loudly, incessantly, cracking jokes and poking fun. Gradually the crowd around her thinned though, until there were only a couple of stragglers. Vanner saw her glance at her watch and look wistfully towards the door. He walked over to her table.

  ‘Helen Parker?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘My name’s Vanner. I’m a policeman.’

  ‘Well bully for you, sweetheart.’

  Vanner smiled and nodded to her glass. ‘Can I get you another or have you somewhere to go?’

  She looked at him, startled for a second before catching up with herself. ‘If I did you wouldn’t want to know about it. I’ll have a large vodka and orange.’ While he was at the bar the last of her cronies left the table. Vanner settled himself onto the stool beside her.

  ‘You’re the Vanner are you?’

  ‘No, that’s my father.’

  She chuckled. ‘The Army chaplain.’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘I read about him—when your face was all over the nationals.’

  ‘At least you didn’t write about him.’ Vanner swallowed whiskey.

  ‘Nope. We’re pretty parochial once you get north of Gateshead, pet.’ She sucked on her cigarette, the imprint of her lips crimson about the gold band on the filter. Smoke dripped from her nostrils. ‘So you beat up a young thug, Chief Inspector, I’ll drink to that.’ She raised her glass. ‘Live long and prosper.’ She reeled a bit in the chair and glanced at her watch again. ‘Oh shit. This drunk this early.’ She shook her head. ‘You were right I have no place to go to.’

  Vanner sipped his drink. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Talk away, pet. I’m all ears.’

  He put down his glass and unfolded the printed paper from his pocket. ‘I wanted to talk to you about this.’

  Helen looked over her glasses at it and wrinkled her nose. ‘My God, have I really been here that long?’ She drained the vodka and waggled the ice round the empty glass. ‘I had designs on Fleet Street you know. Long time ago. I was interviewed once by the Times. Too radical for them. That’s my theory anyway.’

  Vanner took the glass from her and signalled to the barman.

  ‘You’ll have to go to him, love. This is Newcastle not New York.’

  When he came back she was reading the paper. ‘Not bad this. I used to be able to write a bit in those days.’

  ‘The children,’ Vanner said. ‘Do you remember much about them?’

  Suddenly she looked in pain, eyes cracked all at once behind her glasses.

  ‘The girl,’ she said. ‘Poor little soul. Terrible that was. Knocked over in her buggy. Or got out of it on her own. One of the two. Out with her Mum and Dad she was. God knows what they were doing.’

  Vanner looked at the paper. ‘Meggie Hamilton.’

  ‘That’s right. Poor wee Meggie.’ She took a long drag on her cigarette and then crushed it into the ashtray.

  ‘What was her father’s name?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Where would I find out?’

  ‘His name? God knows. I suppose we’d have it somewhere.’

  ‘Could you find it?’

  ‘At a push. How long did it take you to come up with this?’

  ‘A few hours.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You’d be better off going to the hospital.’

&n
bsp; ‘Hospital. Why?’

  ‘His name’ll be on the death certificate.’

  At the General Hospital he was told to come back in the morning as their records office was closed until nine o’clock. He ventured back into the night, restless. Vaguely he thought about seeking out the Black Horse again, to see if Helen Parker was still there. But he told himself he would regret it in the morning. He thought about phoning McCague, decided against it and then tried the number anyway. He got the answering machine. He did not know whether he was relieved or not. He phoned Sarah’s number but got no reply. In the end he did wander back to the Black Horse. Helen Parker had gone.

  ‘Haven’t you gone home yet?’ McCague stared at Morrison. They stood in his office at Loughborough Street.

  ‘Just about to, Sir. I’ve been trying to see you all day.’

  McCague rolled his eyes, sought for words, found none, and looked back at Morrison’s pale and open face.

  ‘Vanner worked with John Radley,’ Morrison said. ‘Radley had been a major in the Green Jackets. Vanner was an ex-captain. Radley came out two years before him, right after the Falklands. Two ex-soldiers in Civvy Street. It made sense. Vanner was ideal for Radley.’

  ‘Radley still working?’

  ‘Not that he told me. But then he wouldn’t, would he? Not in his line of business.’

  ‘Vanner joined the Met,’ McCague cut in. ‘Neville Standish recruited him.’

  ‘D’you know why Standish recruited him, Sir?’

  McCague just looked at him.

  ‘Because Vanner was being courted by 5. He and Radley had worked for 5 indirectly. Standish knew Vanner from Ulster. The last thing he wanted was Vanner disappearing to 5. Suddenly unaccountable. Vanner was bright. Better in than out.’

  ‘You know this?’

  ‘Ask Standish.’

  McCague stared at him, not really knowing any longer how he could deal with him. Morrison went for the throat. Cold face, cold eyes and BAM—straight for the jugular.

  ‘Radley’s firm supplied information,’ Morrison went on. ‘They found people. Sometimes I daresay they lost people.’

  ‘I know the form, Morrison. I worked in the Branch.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ Morrison said. ‘So did I. Anyway, they did some work relating to Ireland. Vanner’s speciality, keeping an eye on a couple of potential undesirables.’

  McCague pushed at his hair with his hand. ‘Where the hell is Vanner anyway?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Why not? Weren’t you tailing him? He is your prime suspect isn’t he?’

  Morrison looked briefly at the floor. ‘We lost him. My man Matthews on the North Circular. My fault. I left him on duty for too long. He must have got tired.’

  ‘Sarah Kennett must know. I told her to get him to phone me. The bastard never does what he’s told.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ Morrison said. ‘He’ll show up. And if he doesn’t we’ll know that I’m right.’

  McCague looked at him. ‘What else did Radley tell you?’

  ‘Nothing in so many words.’

  ‘Something though.’

  Morrison nodded.

  ‘About Ulster? About the Army—why he left?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, Sir. I have to check it out.’

  McCague stared at him. ‘Serious, though?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re going to Belfast are you?’ Morrison nodded. ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Garrod know about this?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘More suspicion. More supposition.’ McCague shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t you be better off looking for a gun?’

  Vanner drove into the hospital and parked his car. In the reception he showed his identification and was ushered upstairs to a waiting area, where one of the hospital managers kept him hanging around for fifteen minutes. Finally, after some discussion, they allowed him access to their records. He gave them the information and waited. He waited and waited and waited. Twenty minutes later the clerk returned with a sheet of photocopier paper. She smiled and apologised. ‘Hamilton, there you go,’ she said. ‘The father’s name was John.’

  Morrison had never been to Belfast. He caught a flight from Stansted, taking with him only an overnight bag and a hand-held tape recorder. While he waited for the plane he thought about the province. Peace in Ulster: he never thought it would happen in his lifetime. It was true though—not yet Christmas, and the Government had held separate talks with both Sinn Fein and the Loyalist factions.

  The flight only took an hour and he landed at Belfast City Airport. From there he took a cab into the centre. He did not know what he had expected, but the army presence was minimal. He saw berets instead of helmets, and here and there grey-armoured police vehicles crawled. The streets thronged with shoppers and he detected accents from the South, a testament to the new freedom brought about by the relaxing of border controls. It might have been his imagination but he could not help but witness the optimism as something tangible. He watched the soldiers, still heavily armed, and he thought of Vanner. Almost ten years had gone by, and he wondered if his suspicions would founder here.

  In his hotel room, Morrison took a notebook from his briefcase and flicked through the leaves. Picking up the telephone, he dialled the number Radley had given him. It took a few minutes to be answered and he almost hung up. Then suddenly a weary voice sounded in his ear.

  ‘Yes?’

  Morrison licked the line of his lip. ‘Cahal Barron?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘My name’s Morrison. John Radley sends his regards.’

  Barron rolled a skinny cigarette and licked the paper like a cat dabbing at water. He was about forty, long grey hair that hung loose to his jawline. His face was pinched and pockmarked and his eyes had that haunted quality of too many years spent looking over his shoulder.

  Morrison handed him his drink and settled into the booth alongside him. ‘Different here now?’ he said.

  Barron looked puzzled. ‘Different?’

  ‘The city. Peace.’

  ‘Is that what youse call it? Might look like it from your side of the water, Mr Morrison. But I’d still wind up with my knees gone if certain people found me in here.’ He nodded. ‘Peace, right enough.’

  Morrison clasped his hands together. ‘I’m after some information.’

  ‘You have money then?’

  Morrison patted the hip pocket of his jacket. Barron lit his cigarette and spat threads of tobacco into the ashtray. He glanced across at the door and then quickly to the bar. He blew smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘So what is it you’re after?’

  ‘Ten years ago …’ Morrison started.

  ‘Sweet Jesus. Now you’re asking.’

  ‘Radley said you would know. Told me you had a long memory.’

  Barron was staring at his hip pocket. Morrison sighed and took out his wallet. Scraping off a fifty he passed it across. Barron crumpled it into his pocket.

  ‘Go on then, ten years.’

  ‘Does the name Vanner mean anything to you?’

  Barron looked blank.

  Morrison felt his heart sink. ‘1984,’ he went on. ‘February.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Special Branch.’

  Barron glanced at the bar again. Two men were drinking shoulder to shoulder. ‘Who knows you’re here?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do the Blacks know you’re here?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Police.’

  ‘No.’

  Barron stared at him. ‘You pissin’ in my ear, Mister?’

  Morrison shook his head. ‘I’m CIB,’ he said. ‘Complaints. The Met.’

  Barron was half out of his seat. ‘It’s been tried, mister. Don’t you read any books?’

  Morrison had his hand on his arm. ‘No, you don’t understand. Sit down.’

  Barron hovered. Morrison took out his wallet again. ‘Please.’

  He stopped the hi
re car at Gartree Point and looked across the rumpled waters of Lough Neagh. He could have been in Scotland. The farm comprised a bank of buildings huddled together almost at the water’s edge. Fields separated them, dotted here and there with black and white Friesian cattle. Morrison got back in his car.

  Two men were moving hay in the yard, piling it from an open-sided store onto a trailer and then towing it into a barn with a tractor. Morrison parked his car in the yard and got out. If they saw him they did not register it. Morrison stood by the door with his hands in the pockets of his coat. A young man was ladling the hay onto the trailer; the other, older, squatted in the cab of the tractor. When the load was completed he revved the engine and trundled across the yard. Morrison walked towards the hay loft.

  ‘Mr Farrell?’ He called up to the young man. He looked down, pitchfork resting against his thighs.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Eamon Farrell?’

  ‘Junior.’

  Morrison nodded. He looked towards the barn. ‘Your father?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Which one of you was in the RUC?’

  Farrell’s face clouded. ‘I was.’

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  They stood by the gate to the field. Beyond it, heifers eyed them curiously from the mud.

  ‘I left,’ Farrell was saying, ‘came back here to work with my Da’.’

  ‘When?’

  Farrell looked at him. ‘Is this official?’

  Morrison pushed out his lips. In his pocket he handled the tape recorder. ‘It could be.’

  Farrell sighed. ‘You want to know about Quinlon, don’t you?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Tommy Quinlon.’ Farrell was looking at the floor. ‘I wasn’t there you know.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Brindley Cross.’

  ‘February 1984?’

  Farrell nodded. His father came walking towards them from the barn. Farrell waved him away.

  ‘Doesn’t know?’ Morrison said.

  ‘Knows what he needs to know. There was enough trouble with all that in ’82. You know, the hayshed and all that fuss? Felt sorry for your man who came over. Got sweet fuckin’ nowhere, didn’t he.’

  Morrison watched him. ‘You were in GSquad?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘They killed Quinlon?’