by Jeff Gulvin
Vanner let smoke slip from his lips. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They do.’
‘I packed it in. Out on the rigs it’s all there is to do. Place’s dry. Everyone smokes. I figured that at least two weeks out of four I could be clean.’
‘You work offshore?’
‘Aye.’
‘What d’you do?’ Vanner watched him.
‘Electrical engineer. Keep things rolling you know.’ He held out his hand. ‘John,’ he said. ‘John Hamilton.’
Vanner looked at his hand and then shook it. The grip was weak, damp almost. ‘Vanner. Aden Vanner.’
‘Nice to meet you, Aden.’
Sitting up, Hamilton took a hip flask from his pocket and unscrewed the cap. ‘Chilly up here,’ he said. ‘Nip?’
Vanner could smell the alcohol on his breath now. When he took the flask it was two thirds empty. He sipped at it and passed it back. Hamilton drank, and wiped his mouth with his hand.
‘What do you do?’
Vanner flicked away his cigarette. ‘This and that. I used to be a soldier.’
‘Really?’ Hamilton tugged on the flask and passed it across again.
‘Interesting life.’ He squinted at him. ‘Did you fight?’
Vanner nodded. ‘Falklands. Ulster.’
‘Officer?’
‘Captain.’ Vanner paused. ‘Were you ever in?’
Hamilton chuckled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Afraid not. Would like to have been.’
‘You never thought about joining up?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Always liked the look of the adverts but I never really had the balls for it.’ He looked away, eyes glassy for a moment. He ran his fingers over the head of his dog.
Vanner sipped whisky and stared across the valley. He glanced again at Hamilton. ‘How long’ve you lived up here?’
‘Ten years or so. I come from Newcastle originally. Maybe you can tell. Most people can’t but then most of them are Scots. Always vowed I’d keep my Geordie accent.’
‘You married?’ Vanner asked him.
‘Yes.’ Hamilton frowned down into the valley. ‘Which reminds me. I ought to be getting home. She’ll be wondering where I am.’ He made no move to go though.
‘Have you got any kids?’
‘Two.’ Air hissed from his lips. Again he sipped from the flask. ‘Boys. Seven and four.’
‘Handful, this time of year. All the excitement of Christmas.’
‘Yeah.’ Hamilton did not smile. He passed the flask to Vanner. ‘You married?’
Vanner shook his head.
‘No kids then.’
‘No.’
Hamilton looked away again. ‘Funny time of year, Christmas.’
‘How d’ you mean?’
‘Different for different people. Families, noise. The whole commercial hassle of it all.’ He broke off, glanced at the ground and then looked round. ‘I think I will have that cigarette.’
Vanner passed him the packet. ‘I know what you mean about Christmas.’ He gazed across the valley. ‘Can’t stand it myself. Too much time to think.’
Hamilton lifted his eyebrows. ‘Tell me about it.’ He waggled the hip flask. ‘Nipping at this stuff doesn’t help. Hazard of working offshore though.’ He shook his head. ‘This time of year. Always mixed feelings for me. I like to get up here with the dog.’
Vanner took the flask from him and for a moment neither of them spoke. Hamilton fondled the dog, eyes glazed once again, staring out into space. ‘I had another child,’ he said. Voice low, almost under his breath.
‘Had?’
He clenched up his jaw. ‘Little girl. She got killed. Anniversary is the 21st of December.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago. Hit and Run. Place called Otterburn.’ He closed his eyes. ‘This time of year though—you know.’
Vanner could feel the beat of his heart. He could see the flat, feel the presence, the weight of the years. Black clothes, black mask, black boots stuffed with paper.
‘The driver,’ Hamilton was saying. ‘He didn’t stop. Just knocked her down and carried right on going. What a bastard—to just drive away.’ His words grated now, as if they came with great effort. He sucked again at the flask. ‘I’m sorry. Listen to me. Man comes for a walk and bumps into me. Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’
Hamilton looked at his dog. After a moment he said, ‘I should’ve done something. Instead I went to pieces.’
‘What could you do? If he drove away …’
‘Yeah. I know. It’s funny though, but when I look at my sons, sometimes I feel I betrayed her.’
Vanner was silent. Black clothes, black mask, black boots. ‘The police never caught him?’
‘No.’ Hamilton shook his head. ‘You know the funny thing…’
‘What?’
‘You read the papers?’
‘Infrequently.’
Hamilton nodded. ‘There’s a guy out there killing people, you know people who’d been let off by the courts. A couple of them were hit and run drivers. “The Watchman”, they call him.’
Vanner was watching him closely.
‘He sends letters to the papers about it. He signs them.’ He looked round then. ‘His initials are the same as mine. JH. Can you believe that? JH. John Hamilton.’
‘I read about him.’
Hamilton stood up and the dog looked at him expectantly. He shifted his weight, a little unsteady on his feet. ‘Makes me feel about this big.’ He made a motion with forefinger and thumb. ‘No balls you see.’
‘He’s a murderer,’ Vanner said. ‘Murder never solved anything.’
‘No.’ Hamilton looked at him then and offered his hand. ‘I’d better get back. Nice to meet you anyway. Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas.’ Vanner watched him walk down the hill.
He drove quietly back to Aberdeen and pulled off on the industrial estate at Dyce. The receptionist at Mackintosh & Rayburn looked up as he walked in.
‘Hello,’ Vanner said. ‘Is your Mr Mackintosh here?’
He sat across the desk from him and Mackintosh passed him the files.
‘John’s been with us six years, Chief Inspector. He’s a good man. Works hard.’
Vanner nodded.
‘Is he in some kind of trouble?’
Vanner flicked through the pages. ‘These blue marks,’ he said, pointing to strips of highlighter pen. They denote when someone is offshore?’
Mackintosh nodded.
‘So in June last year Hamilton was on a rig?’
‘Yes.’
Vanner snaked his tongue across his lip and skimmed through to the beginning of the year. Again the same blue strips. ‘And here?’
‘That’s right, aye.’
Vanner went back a year. The same. Another year. The same. He closed the file and laid it on the desk. Size ten boots stuffed with paper.
‘Is John in some kind of trouble?’ Mackintosh said. ‘If he is I’d like to know.’
Vanner stood up and shook his head. ‘No, Mr Mackintosh. John’s not in any trouble. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
Twelve
POLICE CARS GREETED HIM, lights flashing as he drove along the road towards Sarah’s house. He was weary, dog tired after the journey. The length of the country peeling out before him for the second time in all but as many days. All the way back he had thought about what he was returning to. Had Sarah called McCague like he asked her to? Was that what all this activity was about? No, he thought. Sarah wouldn’t call McCague. They must be looking for him.
He pulled up and got out of the car. He saw Morrison standing on the steps with his hands on his hips. McCague came round from the back of the house, his face drawn and stern. Garrod behind him in a camelhair coat. Vanner walked towards the house. Nobody seemed to see him. He moved between two patrol cars. Scammell came out of Sarah’s front door and saw him immediately. He stiffened, then said something to Morrison. Morrison looked up sha
rply and Vanner met his gaze across the street.
‘Vanner.’ Morrison called his name and every policeman looked round. A bad copper identified. Vanner stood his ground. McCague saw him. Garrod. Morrison stepped down to the pavement and Vanner crossed the road to meet him.
‘Aden Vanner,’ Morrison started. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You don’t have to say anything …’
‘Shut up, Morrison.’ Vanner pushed past him.
Morrison caught his arm and Vanner went very still. He looked back over his shoulder and Morrison released his grip. Vanner turned to McCague, who held a smoking cigarette pinched between his fingers.
‘I’d like to talk to you, Sir.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘That’s what I’d like to talk about.’
McCague turned and Vanner followed him up to the house. Morrison started to protest but Garrod shook his head. Vanner went into the lounge and picked up the whisky bottle. Morrison came in with Garrod.
‘This is cosy,’ he said.
Vanner ignored him. He half-filled a glass and passed it to McCague. McCague produced a cigarette and offered it to him. ‘Superintendent Morrison has some pretty serious evidence against you, Aden,’ he said.
‘No he hasn’t. He has circumstance and suspicion. There is no evidence.’ Vanner poured himself a whisky. He turned to Morrison.
‘What’ve you got?’
For a moment Morrison looked less sure of himself. He turned to Scammell who was standing in the doorway behind them. ‘Tell him, David.’
Vanner sat down while Scammell went through what they had on him. He listened without replying to anything. When Scammell had finished he put down his glass.
‘Where’s Sarah?’ he asked.
McCague lifted one eyebrow. ‘We thought she was with you.’
‘With me?’
‘No one has seen her since Thursday.’
Vanner frowned. He looked at Morrison. ‘Where’s the gun?’
‘We don’t have it yet.’
‘So I’m right then. You’ve got no evidence. They’ll laugh you out of court.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You need a gun.’ Vanner was on his feet.
‘I’m sure you’ll help us with that.’
‘Let me see the records.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The records from Hammersmith. The Properties Log. You know, the bit that convicts me. Let me look at it.’
Morrison looked at him for a moment then motioned for Scammell to show him. Scammell fished in his briefcase and passed the book over. Morrison laid it on the table and turned to the relevant pages.
‘You were in Hammersmith, Vanner. Remember? Your name is listed as being on the strongroom register during the appeal period.’ He traced his forefinger down the list and stopped at Vanner’s name.
‘The shotgun.’
‘What?’
Vanner looked him in the eye. ‘The shotgun. There in the register. It was there for nearly a year. That’s how long it took to get the Building Society raid to trial. I was undercover. It was gang-inspired robbery and we wanted all of them.’
‘That was convenient,’ Morrison said.
‘Oh for Christ’s sake.’
Vanner looked back at the log book. WPC Kennett, three entries down from his own. ‘Sarah,’ he said. It was his last piece of the jigsaw. He had not wanted to find it but as soon as Scammell mentioned Hammersmith he had known. Before that everything fitted but the gun. Bright of Morrison to think of checking the bullets with Lambeth.
McCague was peering at him. ‘What’s Sarah got to do with it?’
Vanner straightened up. ‘Have you been upstairs?’
‘Upstairs?’
‘The flat. Have you been in the flat?’
They all looked at one another. Vanner took out his wallet and laid the two pictures of Meggie Hamilton next to each other on the coffee table.
‘Sarah Kennett’s daughter,’ he said. ‘She was killed by a hit and run driver in Northumberland.’
McCague stared at him.
‘You didn’t know she had a daughter? Don’t worry, none of us did.’
He related everything that he knew and when he was finished he took them upstairs to the flat. Everything was as he had seen it before, except the clothes were gone from the cupboard.
McCague was looking at all the pictures of Vanner who now moved alongside him.
‘Obsession.’ He could see it now. ‘Started when I was in D11. She saw me shoot a man. She wanted to be like me or rather she wanted Hamilton to be like me. Or maybe I should say, to have been like me. Only he wasn’t. And neither am I.’ He paused. ‘I haven’t had a daughter killed.’
McCague looked sideways at him. ‘She saw me as a soldier,’ Vanner said. ‘Hard man. Whatever. Her perception. Hamilton told me he fell to pieces after Meggie was killed. I don’t think he could deal with it. He can hardly deal with it now. Sarah needed him to be strong but he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Something must’ve clicked. I don’t know what. Ask Ian Glenn. But over time she became what she thought he should have been. She wanted her revenge, needed it. Christ, who the hell wouldn’t? Somebody took her child. She expected revenge from Hamilton but he couldn’t give it. Ironically, I think he could now. Anyway, in him she saw weakness when she needed to see strength.’
‘And she saw strength in you?’
Vanner made a face. ‘Like I say, you’d have to ask Glenn. I’m making assumptions here. But that’s my opinion. We had a relationship while I was in Hammersmith.’ He paused. ‘I broke it off. She needed love. It wasn’t fair to her. I couldn’t give love. I finished it but that only made things worse. In a warped kind of way it was what she expected, what she needed to see: some kind of macho indifference.’ He gesticulated at the desk. ‘She went on to collect all this.’
‘But she worked on the case.’
‘Yes.’ Vanner squinted at him. ‘How did she do that?’
McCague shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Well I do, she was always there. Part of the unit. When it came down to me I just picked the best. Sarah was good. Very good. Good as any man …’ He stopped himself. ‘Jesus Christ. She must be very sick.’
Vanner grimaced. ‘Must she? How would you feel if one of yours got killed like that—and then the bastard just drove away.’
McCague drew in a breath.
‘We overlook revenge,’ Vanner said. ‘We sanitise our lives with the rule of law but we overlook revenge. It’s in your guts. Eye for an eye. Instinct. Does that make somebody sick?’
McCague stepped over to the shelves and took down a book. Vanner glanced at it as he held it up. It was a paperback copy of Macbeth. He half-smiled then. He had not noticed it before. Idly McCague skimmed the pages then he looked up at Vanner.
‘This doesn’t make any sense now,’ he said.
‘Yes it does.’ Vanner took the copy from him and opened it. ‘It makes perfect sense.’ He glanced down the page. ‘Yet do I fear thy nature: It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way.’ He looked back again at McCague. ‘Strength where there was no strength. Lady Macbeth,’ he said.
As he turned to leave he found Morrison standing behind him. He looked red-faced, squinting at him as if he still did not believe him.
‘One thing, Vanner.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Armagh.’
Vanner looked down at him. ‘What about it?’
‘Thomas Quinlon.’
Vanner looked in his eyes. Dark night, damp with winter rain. Men breathing beside him and the smell of death on the street. ‘You’ll never know. Will you, Morrison.’
He stepped outside into the rain. McCague walked with him.
‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ McCague said. ‘I should be at home with my kids.’
Vanner put his hands in his pockets.
‘Vanner.’ It was Morrison calling from behind him. Vanner
half-turned. The scene of crime officers had arrived and were pulling on their coveralls. Vanner watched them.
‘Pound to a penny they don’t find a single fingerprint. You’ve got to give her her due—she was very bloody clever.’
McCague looked ruefully at him. ‘Maybe she had a good teacher.’ He touched Vanner’s arm. ‘I’m going home,’ he said, and trotted down the steps.
‘Vanner.’
Vanner turned to face Morrison. ‘What?’
‘Kennett. Where is she?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, where might she be?’
‘I don’t know that either.’
Morrison looked angrily at him. ‘Can’t you think?’
Vanner shook his head. ‘You’re in charge, Morrison. You think.’
Norfolk sky, blood red and boiled by the mist that rose from the sea. He drove between two churches. If you stand at a church anywhere in Norfolk, the one thing you’re guaranteed to see is another church. It made him think of his father, how long it had been since he had visited him. The last time at the cottage and before that—a year, maybe longer. He drove slowly, cresting the short hill, and then he could see the lighthouse, dark about its trunk with the mist. The church stood high on its promontory, the far end of the village from the lighthouse, as if one stood guard for the other. The unmade road that led out towards his cottage was still awash with salt water from the last time the tide had broken over the cliff. Every year more and more of the coast was being eroded. At the head of the track that drew his father’s cottage away from the others, Vanner stopped the car. When he flicked off the headlights the sudden darkness blocked all vision save his reflection in the windscreen. The wind rocked the car as if testing its vulnerability. For a moment he sat where he was.
He could not see the house from here but the road snaked in front of him, blacker than the growing black of the evening. He realised that this place was the nearest thing he had to a home. He walked up the track and the wind battered him like something malign and physical. The glow from the lighthouse flickered for a few moments across the sea and then died again.