by Jeff Gulvin
‘What sort of things?’
‘Man, I ain’t just gonna cough.’
Vanner stood up and looked at Ryan. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so.’ He walked out of the room.
Ryan was rolling a second cigarette. He twisted up one end, placed it in the corner of his mouth and it flapped up and down as he spoke. ‘Listen, Ringo,’ he said. ‘You play ball and I might just be able to do something.’
‘What?’
‘Square this with Mr Serious back there.’
‘Get me off?’
‘Not off. Get you bail. Get you to help us maybe.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘Tell me what you know and we’ll see.’
They sat down in the canteen and Ryan poured out the tea.
‘So?’ Vanner said.
‘He’s been dealing for three months.’
‘What does he know?’
‘Not very much.’ Ryan spooned sugar. ‘He sells to other dealers. Very small-time. A few squares here. A few E’s there. Spreads it out a bit. Nobody we want to talk to. It’s a good scam, Guv. He doesn’t know who supplies him.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He’s got a post office box.’
‘And?’
‘Fifty quid a year. One application form, but two cards for signing. He sends off for the box, giving proof of his address. Lives up at Bream Park. You know—the arsehole of the world, where you only leave your car if you’re looking for an insurance job.’
Vanner sipped at his tea.
‘Anyway. The deal is he applies for two cards. Post Office’ll issue them so long as the box owner takes responsibility.’
‘And he’s the box owner?’
‘Yes. Card comes with a box number and a postcode. All he does is sign for the stuff he picks up. The source posts him acid and Ecstasy with the Denny logo. It comes in padded computer-disc envelopes. Doesn’t really weigh much. Could be anything inside. Anyway, all pretty boy has to do is waltz in with his card, sign the bit of paper and pick up the gear. When he gets outside he posts another envelope back with the cash in. Some time later number two cardholder arrives and picks up the dosh.’ He sat back. ‘Very bloody simple.’
‘You come across it before?’
‘As a method of supply?’ Ryan shook his head.
Vanner rubbed his jaw. ‘Who’s the second cardholder?’
‘He doesn’t know.’
‘How does he know when to collect the gear?’
Ryan tapped his wrist. ‘His watch, Guv. Built in pager. A phone number flashes up on the face. Ringo makes a call, presumably to a phone box. He reckons the numbers are different most of the time. Anyway, that’s how he gets his instructions. You see the watches advertised on the walls of the tube stations. Hundred and twenty a time.’
‘So who recruited him?’
‘Some kid in a bail hostel over in Chalk Farm. He was tucked up in there after being charged with assault.’
‘Can he give us the name?’
‘Says he can’t remember. Kid’s gone now anyway. He got off his case and Ringo hasn’t seen him since.’
Vanner sat back as Ryan’s breakfast arrived. ‘So he’s supplied with a box, a watch, and fifty quid for the rental. He gets two cards for the box and he never sees anyone.’ He took out his cigarettes. ‘What did he do with the second card?’
‘Got picked up from him. Number to call on the watch. Told to stand outside Wembley Central and wait. Cyclist picked it up. You know one of the fancy type messengers, all racing bike and lycra and radio.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Couldn’t tell. Helmet and smog mask. Two seconds to take the card and ride on.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Says it’s all there is.’
‘You believe him?’
‘He isn’t looking to go down, Guv.’
Vanner sat forward again. ‘So we set him up? Get him to lie down for this one. Give him a couple of weeks on remand and then don’t oppose the bail.’
Ryan nodded.
‘Will he go for that?’
‘I reckon.’
‘And you’ll handle him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Let’s do it.’
Vanner sat in his office with the door open. His mobile lay on the desk before him. He heard Ryan start singing ‘Jimmy Crack Corn’ from the outer office and he shook his head. Another face from the past. Jimmy ‘Crack’ McKay. One of the original members of the now disbanded Crack Squad that had been set up when everyone thought the US Crack epidemic would follow suit over here. But it didn’t and the squad was disbanded. Jimmy remained, however, as the Crack Liaison Officer, working for the Area Intelligence Unit. He was a big man, black hair. Vanner had fought him in the Lafone Boxing Championships in 1988.
The mobile phone rang on his desk and he picked it up.
‘Mr Vanner. This is Jabba.’
Vanner pushed the door to with his toe. ‘Jabba,’ he said. ‘What news?’
‘Not so much. The world is very quiet.’
‘Meaning we’re not paying you enough?’
‘No no. Would I say that, Mr Vanner? No, I mean what I say. The world is very quiet.’
Vanner sat down. ‘It’s nothing that Fennell Street are looking at?’
‘Not so’s I’ve heard. Who hates you, Mr Vanner?’
‘You want a list?’
Jabba chuckled. ‘That’s the place to start.’
‘It’s a long list,’ Vanner said.
‘Whose name’s at the top?’
Vanner lifted his foot to the edge of the desk and pondered. ‘Six years ago I was in D11. Forerunner to the Gunships we have now.’
‘I remember.’
‘Franklin Tate,’ Vanner said.
‘He’s dead.’
‘I know. I shot him. Armed robbery. Brought him down in a warehouse in Hammersmith. He tried to take me out with a sawn-off.’ Franklin Tate. Gut shot. Always the worst kind. Blood seeping like water and all that time to think about dying before finally you lose consciousness. Tate had lost it in the ambulance. He was dead on arrival at hospital.
‘He has two brothers,’ Jabba said.
‘Alexander and Christian. They both went down for the blag.’
‘So, it’s not them?’
‘They’re inside.’
‘Christian Tate is out.’
Vanner sat very still. ‘You sure?’
‘Very. A cousin of mine has seen him. Lives in Croydon with his mother.’
‘They were a Streatham family.’
‘Not any more.’
Vanner thought about it. Christian Tate, the brother of a man he had killed. Two hoods in the darkness, a baseball bat and a knife. ‘When did he get out?’
‘February.’
‘Why didn’t I know?’
‘You tell me, Inspector.’
Vanner sat forward again, shaking his head. ‘Do some digging, Jabba. Let me know what you find.’
Four
JOHN PHILLIPS HAD HIS back to the class as he looked out of the fourth-floor window to the sunfìlled concourse below. Three men stood talking, jeans and boots and motorbike jackets in spite of the heat. He felt the hairs rise on his neck.
‘Sir?’ He heard the voice from behind him, but did not reply. He was watching the three men. Did they know which was his class? Could they see him? Did they know he was looking at them?
‘Sir?’
‘What is it?’ He whirled around and saw one of the students holding up two wires.
‘Black negative?’
‘What?’
‘Is black negative?’
For a moment Phillips stared at him. John was about his age. ‘Yes. Of course it’s negative.’
The boy lifted his chin. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Only checking.’
Phillips turned back to the window. The concourse area was empty.
At three o’clock he stacked his books into his bag and sat down behind his desk. Long day. He rubb
ed his face with his palms. Always was on a Tuesday. Solid teaching. He should never have agreed to the timetable, but at least the term would soon be over. His nerves were tattered. It was beginning to get too much. He knew it was past time he went to the police. But what could they do? What could he prove? They would lie low maybe, if he was lucky. But they would be back. Their kind always came back. Slowly he got to his feet, closed the catch on his case and wandered down the stairs.
The heat blistered the tarmac, setting it mushy under his shoes. He walked towards his car, one hand fumbling for the keys in his pocket.
‘Hello, Mr Phillips.’
He stopped, chill all at once on the neck. He stood a moment then turned around. The tallest of them leered at him; long hair, half a beard. Phillips looked him in the eye. The small one, with the blackened teeth, stepped between them. ‘Where’s John, Mr Phillips?’
Phillips looked down at him. He was aware of the tension in his muscles. ‘I don’t know.’ He tried to step round him but the other two took his arms and forced him against the wall.
‘We think you do.’ Bad-teeth breathed in his face. ‘He comes home to do his washing.’
‘If he does—it’s not when I’m there.’
‘You’re a liar.’
Phillips bristled then. God how he’d like to smack the little bastard. In the old days he would have done.
‘We want him,’ Bad-teeth said. ‘You should teach him to pay his debts.’
Phillips made a move towards him and he stepped back. The other two gripped his forearms and pushed him back to the wall. He looked beyond them for help. But all he could see was a lad. Mark Terry, it looked like. One of John’s old friends from school. For a moment Phillips stared at him.
‘Maybe we’ll take a look at that little girlie of yours,’ Bad-teeth went on. ‘Must be old enough to bleed by now.’
Phillips’ face twisted. ‘You even …’
Bad-teeth jabbed him in the chest with stiff fingers. ‘We want our money. You think about that.’ They took his case, scattered his papers all over the car park and then left him alone.
Phillips slowly collected the papers. He could feel tears behind his eyes. Fifty years old and he could feel tears. A shadow crossed his and he looked up. Mark Terry stood there with his bag over his shoulder, heavy-lensed glasses half-covered by his unbrushed hair. The sun was still high overhead and he had his coat fastened to the neck. ‘You all right, Mr Phillips?’
‘Fine.’ He said it gruffly. ‘I’m just fine.’ Snapping the fastener on his case, he marched over to his car. The boy followed him. Phillips paused and his shoulders sagged. ‘It’s okay, Mark. Really, I’m fine.’
Mark looked towards the gates. ‘What did they want?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘I heard them talk about John. Are they looking for him?’
Phillips looked round then. ‘Yes, Mark. They are.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘You don’t know where he is?’
Phillips ran a hand through his hair. ‘I have to go, Mark.’
‘If you see John … Say hello for me will you. I’d like to see him again.’
Phillips nodded.
‘Is he in trouble?’
Phillips felt the threat of tears once more. ‘Promise me something, Mark,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You’ll have nothing to do with drugs.’
Ryan registered Ringo May as an informant with the Yard. He gave Vanner the details. Ryan would handle him on his own. Vanner would manage the relationship. The two of them sat in Vanner’s office in Campbell Row.
‘Sorted?’ Vanner asked him.
Ryan nodded.
‘What’s his pseudonym?’
‘Milo.’
Vanner arched his eyebrows.
‘It’s a chocolate drink. Comes in green boxes from Safeway.’
‘Why Milo?’
‘Fuck knows. Maybe his mother fed him it.’
Vanner shook his head. ‘They’ll know he was pulled,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope they still go for it.’
‘It’ll be all right. He’s been away a fortnight. Long enough to allay any suspicions. He’ll tell them we nicked him for possession—that’s if they ask. The way this is set up he can’t do them much harm anyway. We just have to wait for a delivery then set up a plot on the box.’
Late afternoon, he sat in the park with his jacket undone, watching a man and a woman dragging a spaniel along the path. Black and white thing, scruffy, dragging its ears on the ground. They walked arm in arm, their heads very close. They did not seem to notice the dog. Thirsty, he thought. That dog looks thirsty.
He sat back, looking at the crystal blue of the sky. The sweat formed on his brow and dampened his shirt at the armpits. A child toddled in front of him, on reins held by its mother, a sinking 99 ice cream dripping all over its hand. He smiled at the mother. She ignored him and concentrated on guiding her child.
Standing up, he glanced at his watch and wandered over to the phone box. It rang as he got to it. ‘What took you so long, Wasp?’
‘I was busy.’
‘Well don’t be. I don’t call for the good of my health.’
‘Hey. Fuck off, man. I was with a woman.’
‘It’s the middle of the afternoon.’
‘I like it in the afternoon.’
He took a breath and leaned into the booth. ‘Was she any good?’
‘I don’t know. I got interrupted.’
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘One of the gang is down.’
‘Who?’
‘Ringo May. Wembley.’
‘So what? He knows less than I do. Stuff gets dropped. He drops off the cash. If he don’t Ninja and me kick his head in.’ He paused, seemed to think. ‘Anyway how come you know?’
‘Because it’s my job to know, Shithead.’
For a few moments there was silence then he said: ‘He’s been out of the game for two weeks. He’s just now been released.’
‘How come you know that?’
‘Because I watched him come out of Neasden Police Station.’
‘You saw him?’
‘That’s what I said.’
The Wasp was quiet. ‘Man, you get about don’t you. You want another dealer?’
‘No. Not yet. I want to watch for a while. Get in touch and find out what went down.’
‘Okay.’
‘And Wasp.’
‘What?’
‘There’s something else you should know.’
‘What’s that?’
‘There’s a new man on the Drug Squad.’
‘So.’
‘His name’s Vanner. Small world isn’t it.’
John Phillips sat with his wife in the living room. She chewed at her nails, her face still very red. ‘They came right into the college?’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
He looked beyond her, through the window to the street and the mass of parked cars that seemed to crowd and box him in. He stood up, looked again, then sat down and twisted in the seat. ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Worry me?’ She stared at him. ‘You think I’m not worried already?’
‘Exactly,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t want to worry you any more.’
She paced the room, hugging herself. She moved in front of him, walking to the window and back again.
‘Nobody’s out there,’ he said.
‘Not now maybe. But they will be. Tonight. Tomorrow night. The next day.’
‘Do you want me to call the police?’
‘And tell them what?’
Exactly, he thought. And tell them what? That three men had scattered his papers in a college car park, that they had threatened him. Only Mark Terry had witnessed it and he was not going to bring him into this. And then his impotence hit him, and for an instant he could look back over fift
y long years and wonder how he ended up sitting here. A whole lifetime had passed. His lifetime. A career. Two careers. First the Army and now lecturing. A wife, two children, an ageing, infirm mother and an inert fear in his gut that ate at him day by day. He looked again at his wife, sitting now, perched on the arm of the settee. Wearily he stood up. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
She followed him into the kitchen. He boiled the kettle, settling the bags into the brown, earthenware teapot and reaching for the cups and the sugar. She got milk from the fridge and fetched a spoon from the drawer. ‘It’s Anna I worry about. I wish you hadn’t told me about Anna.’
He looked round then, as the kettle began to hum behind him. ‘Don’t worry about Anna. I’ll watch out for Anna.’
‘Oh, yes. And how will you do that? Every minute of the day—how can you?’
Again the feeling of helplessness. He turned his back to her, squaring his shoulders. He felt her touch then, between his shoulder blades and for a second the tension went out of him. He turned, took her in his arms and held her very close to him.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Honestly. It’ll all be okay.’
‘If only we knew where he was. I hate not knowing where he is.’
He was not listening to her. His mind was wandering, back to younger days when he wore a uniform and could face situations like this. Things had been different then. In those days there was only him and his mates, one looking out for the other; half a dozen blokes to watch your back while you and half a dozen others watched theirs. So much easier then: the rules were there and the adrenalin alone was enough.
‘John?’
He looked down at her. ‘Sorry. What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ She pulled away from him and emptied the contents of the kettle into the teapot. ‘I was saying I wished we knew where he was.’ She placed the cosy over the pot and rattled the cups in the saucers. ‘I just don’t understand it, John. Why us? Why him? Why any of it?’
He could hear the sobs rising in her voice and he half reached out to comfort her. But then he realised there was no comfort and slowly he drew back his hand. She splashed pale tea into cups. ‘He was always such a good boy. How did it end up like this?’
John Phillips Junior squatted in the disused warehouse and felt the breath of wind off the sea. Through the cracks in the door he could see the lights of the dock and the weight of the container ship that sprawled the length of the quayside. It was cooler now it was dark and he could think a little more clearly. He sat on an upturned wooden crate and his coat lay on the floor beside him. Half-hidden amongst the folds was a length of rubber hose and a fully-charged syringe.