The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  He got up from the mattress. All this work and still only a mattress. He found his phone, crushed out the cigarette and dialled. Funny how he needed to talk tonight. Three days but now he needed to talk.

  Ninja lay in the darkness, all the windows were open and the night blowing into the room. He lay on his back, naked; no blanket covering him. Next to him the girl slept, shrouded in the duvet. The phone rang beside him. He pressed the button and listened.

  ‘Hey, babe.’ The Wasp. Who else would call him at this time. ‘Whatcha doing?’

  ‘Just lying here.’

  ‘Fuckin’ cold tonight.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yeah. You sleeping?’

  ‘No. Just lying.’

  ‘You got pussy with you?’

  ‘Julie.’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘She’ll do.’

  ‘Whatcha thinking about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The Wasp said: ‘So much blood in that dude,’

  ‘Lotta blood.’

  ‘Fuckin’ everywhere.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Think there’ll be anyone else?’

  ‘To kill?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Maybe. You keep thinking about it uh?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Can’t get it out of my head.’

  ‘You got a woman with you?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Black or white?’

  ‘White, man. You know I like it white.’

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘Great tits.’

  ‘She asleep?’

  ‘Put to sleep, my man. Put to sleep. Three times tonight. Can’t seem to get enough.’

  ‘You or her?’

  ‘Me. Just can’t seem to get enough.’

  ‘Go to sleep, Wasp. Give your dick a rest.’ Ninja switched off the phone.

  Vanner sat with Ryan, watching the address for Maguire. So far they had seen nothing. The surveillance team were occupied with AMIP, so they had set up the plot themselves.

  Ryan chewed on a roll. ‘Easiest ones to nick are the ones who do their own stuff,’ he said. ‘They get careless. Habit gets to them and they fuck up.’ He looked sideways at Vanner. ‘I told you this before?’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘I think he’s too clever for that.’

  ‘You think so? Maybe he thinks he is. I reckon he thinks he is. Got himself a smart little setup going. That might be his downfall.’

  ‘How many dealers d’you reckon?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘All of them with boxes. All of them with watches.’

  ‘If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.’

  ‘Maguire’s box is in his own name.’

  ‘So is Ringo’s.’ Ryan finished his roll. ‘Buck stops with them, Guv. That’s the game.’ He looked forward again. ‘Here we go.’

  Across the road a slim, brown-haired man stepped out of the front door of the flats and walked towards a black GTI Golf. Vanner screwed up his eyes. There was something familiar about him. Ryan started the engine. Vanner lifted the radio. ‘Control from 2–1. Target on the move.’

  ‘Received, 2–1.’ The voice crackled back at him.

  ‘IC1,’ Vanner said. ‘Blue shirt, chinos, brown shoes. Driving a black VW Golf.’ He read out the number as Ryan pulled out from the kerb.

  They followed him to Blake’s Bar. Friday night, early, the streets thick with August drinkers. They stood at the bar drinking beer from the bottle. Ryan leaned with his back against the wood. ‘Loads of Totty, Guv’nor. I might get a move to Central.’

  They watched two women in short skirts, seated at a table by the window, a cold bottle of chablis between them. They were laughing, heads close, sharing Friday night jokes. Maguire sat on a stool a few feet from them and chatted to the barmaid. Vanner watched him: good-looking, about thirty, blue Irish eyes, a heavy gold band on his right wrist. On his left, a watch with a pager.

  He smoked soft-pack Marlboros and sipped Becks from the bottle. Every now and then he would glance about the room, catch an eye, then look back to his beer. Nobody approached him. Vanner looked for likelies.

  After about half an hour, Maguire slid off his stool and cut a path for the toilets. Ryan watched now. Vanner watched. Two men left their girlfriends and backslapped their way after him. Vanner pushed himself away from the bar. ‘Taking a leak,’ he said.

  Maguire stood at the urinal. The other two alongside him. Nobody spoke. Vanner moved beyond them into the cubicle. He heard one move off the stand and then the sound of water running. He flushed the chain and walked out. Maguire was gone. The other two were laughing.

  Ryan said. ‘Anything?’

  Vanner took the fresh bottle of beer from him. ‘I think so.’

  ‘You didn’t see?’

  ‘Couldn’t. Only three pans. I had to go in the box.’

  Ryan looked at the two men now back at their table. ‘They look happy enough.’

  ‘Watch them,’ Vanner said.

  Ryan watched but saw nothing. Maguire lifted his cigarettes from the bar and went back to the street.

  In the corner he watched Vanner. He had not been this close before and the thrill of it fluttered in his chest. He sat on his own, drinking beer, hair slicked back from his face. He had spotted Maguire, seen him go to the toilets, seen those two jerks follow and then Vanner after that. Vanner was cannier than he looked. Where had they got Maguire? Vanner and Ryan left. They finished their drinks, said goodnight to the barmaid and walked after Maguire. In the corner he shook his head and smiled.

  Maguire made his rounds. As he moved from bar to bar he was picked up and watched. Vanner and Ryan waited in the car. At midnight he got back in his Golf. They followed him north and west, up to Euston Road and round Regent’s Park. He stopped outside Bobby Gallyon’s nightclub. They watched him go inside. Vanner drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  ‘Regional plot, Guv.’

  Vanner nodded. ‘I’m going in anyway.’

  Ryan looked at him. ‘On your jack?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Who clubs it on their own on a Friday?’

  Vanner thought for a moment. ‘Who’ve we got on the plot?’

  ‘Jackie.’

  ‘Jackie?’

  ‘Jackie, Guv. You know—B team, Jackie.’

  Vanner picked up the phone. ‘Jackie? This is your Guv’nor. What’re you wearing tonight?’

  It was much cooler now, the stars climbing over the city. Vanner left Ryan with the car and met Jackie outside Gallyon’s. She wore leggings and a baggy T-shirt. The doormen eyed them. Vanner returned the look and they went inside.

  Terry climbed the stairs to the upstairs bar, a stack of cash in his pocket. He looked for Lisa but could not see her. Getting a taste for that girl. Maybe it was what she did with a champagne bottle after they had finished drinking it that appealed to him. The barman mixed him a Bloody Mary. Gallyon stood by the rail and nodded to him. Terry brought his drink over and looked down on the dance floor. He saw Maguire sitting alone at a table.

  ‘You’re becoming a bit of a regular,’ Gallyon said.

  Terry sipped vodka. ‘Might as well mix business with pleasure.’

  The music jarred. Vanner bought Jackie a drink and they stood together at the bar. Maguire sat at the table right under the stairs, talking to a couple of men. Vanner scanned the room and felt the gaze of one of the bouncers: squat man, short-cropped hair. He stared at Vanner. Vanner leaned into Jackie’s neck. ‘Regional plant,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t look. Over by the door. Cropped hair. Knows we’re job and not happy about it.’

  Maguire was on his own again. Vanner looked upstairs and saw Bobby Gallyon looking down at the dance floor. A slim, good-looking man stood next to him, drinking what looked like tomato juice. Black box jacket. White collarless shirt.

  Maguire moved from his table and leaned on the bottom of the banisters with his beer bottle res
ting against his lip. He was watching a woman dancing on her own, red-blonde hair, wearing a white silk shirt over black, skintight leggings. Upstairs Gallyon and the dark-haired man were seated at a table, their heads close. Vanner hugged Jackie.

  ‘Something going on up there.’

  She followed his gaze. ‘Do we know him?’

  Vanner shrugged.

  The downstairs bar got crowded as the last drinks of the evening were being ordered. Vanner got up from the table where he and Jackie were sitting. ‘Get you a drink,’ he said. ‘Upstairs.’

  Gallyon was still sitting with the dark-haired man. Vanner moved past them to the bar. He ordered the drinks and watched. The good-looking girl from downstairs was seated on a stool next to him. Every so often the dark-haired man with Gallyon would glance across at her. Vanner paid for the drinks and slipped his wallet back into his pocket.

  ‘Got a light?’ She looked into his face and smiled, holding a white filtered cigarette between scarlet painted fingers. Vanner flicked his lighter. She steadied his hand with hers, looked again in his eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Pleasure.’ He picked up the drinks and turned. The dark-haired man was watching him.

  Gallyon tapped Michael Terry’s arm. ‘Don’t get jealous. She’s a working girl.’

  ‘I want her.’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  Terry stared at him.

  ‘She’s busy tonight.’ Gallyon nodded over his shoulder and Terry looked round. An Arab in a Jermyn Street suit had sidled onto the stool next to Lisa. She had her hand on his thigh. Terry finished his drink and got up. ‘I’ll see you, Bobby,’ he said.

  Vanner watched him go, down the stairs, face dark. He glanced at Maguire as he passed him and stalked across the dance floor.

  Vanner looked back to the balcony. The girl with the Arab raised her glass.

  Lisa took the pile of notes from the table, flattened them and folded them into her bag. The Arab lay on the bed, nothing on but his socks, a drink-sodden smile separating his beard. Lisa zipped up her bag and started to unbutton her shirt.

  Downstairs in the foyer two Vice Squad officers from West End Central were talking to the night manager. ‘Room 202,’ Jenny Bennett tapped her warrant card on the reception counter. The Manager looked at her.

  ‘It’s occupied.’

  ‘I know it’s occupied. It always is.’ She smiled at him. ‘Lisa Morgan. Prostitute.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Collins, her male counterpart, took the warrant from his jacket pocket. ‘Yes you do. Every night you let her in, different room, different punter. She gives you a nice little kickback. You see we’ve been watching you.’

  Colour slipped from the Manager’s face.

  ‘Now,’ Collins said. ‘We can do this very quietly, or if you like—we can make a fuss.’

  Fifty padded envelopes lay on the table against the far wall. The door to the back room was ajar and the faint smell of alcohol clouded his head. Weeks now and still it lingered. He sat at the table and put Denny’s face onto E’s with the pharmaceutical stamp.

  He looked at his watch. Three o’clock already. He should never have begun this. But he needed to think, and while he thought he might as well work. The thrill and yet the disturbance from earlier plagued him and he knew sleep would not come. A pity, there was so much to do in the morning. When he was finished with the stamp, he folded bubble wrap round the batches of tablets and slid them into the envelopes. Then he wrote the box numbers and postcodes on each one and marked them off on the computer.

  Maguire was in his head. That smug Irish fuck. My God but he loved himself. There he was large as life, dealing in the toilets with Vanner from the Drug Squad watching him. How had they got Maguire? He must have got careless, nothing like success to breed complacency. What separated the great from merely the good.

  Vanner was becoming something of a thorn in his side though. First Ringo and now Maguire. No doubt they would employ the same tactic, watch the box for a pickup. They must know about the two cards, Ringo and his flappy mouth, permanently closed now at least. He sat there and thought it through. If he were Vanner he would look for the second cardholder. One dealer was nothing. They could pick them off one by one but it did not get them any further. No, it was the collector they wanted. A risk with Damien Jackson over Ringo’s box, but he had had to know. The fifteen hundred was irrelevant but the information was not. He had got away with it once, but would he do so again? He knew he needed to be vigilant. If he had not been out tonight, he would not have seen Vanner. The knowledge gave him an edge. But he would have to consider Maguire.

  Saturday morning, and Vanner stood before Morrison’s desk in Hendon. Morrison had papers stacked neatly in front of him. The desk was neat, the twin pen and pencil set mounted in silver. High-backed chair. The files all tucked carefully in order on the shelving behind it. Even the window was clean. Vanner thought of his own office and sat down.

  ‘You went to see Alan Boyd.’

  ‘Alan who?’

  ‘You know who I mean.’

  Vanner looked at him.

  ‘Had his knees slashed at a cashpoint.’

  Vanner folded his arms. Morrison’s gaze was keen, green eyes slanted, chin stuck out as if he was enjoying himself. ‘You also went to see the witness. What d’you think you were doing?’

  Vanner looked at him now. ‘There were similarities between that attack and mine.’

  ‘Vanner, these were kids. The witness will have told you as much. It was a mugging. Random. Like yours.’

  ‘Random.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just another street crime.’

  Morrison threw out a hand. ‘You know it was. Listen …’ He pointed at him then. ‘Mugging is nothing to do with you. Boyd is nothing to do with you. Tufnell Park are dealing with it. They don’t want DI’s from the Drug Squad poking their noses in. Do I make myself clear?’

  Vanner stood up. ‘Is that everything, Sir?’

  Morrison sat back. ‘I’ve told you already, Vanner. I don’t need a loose cannon in my division. You do any more of this and I’ll shift you.’

  Ryan met him at Campbell Row, a sloppy grin on his face. ‘Good night with Jackie, Guv?’

  ‘Not in the mood, Sid.’

  Ryan followed him into his office.

  ‘Anything from the post office box?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Ryan folded his arms. ‘We do have a development though. Central again. Vice this time. We’re due down there now. I’ll tell you about it on the way.’

  They drove down to West End Central. ‘High-class Tom,’ Ryan said. ‘Real looker apparently. Ought to be a diversion at least.’

  Vanner glanced at him.

  ‘Clarion Hotel. Off Trafalgar Square. Every bloody night.’ He shook his head. ‘D’you know how much a suite there costs? Five hundred a night. That and the trick. She’s got some serious punters.’

  They were met by Collins and Bennett. Collins sat down with Ryan. ‘Tasty as they come, mate,’ he was saying. ‘Tasty as they come.’

  Jenny Bennett glanced at them. ‘She isn’t that bloody tasty. I did the strip-search remember.’

  Collins looked to the ceiling. ‘Denny Ecstasy?’ Vanner said.

  Bennett nodded. ‘Three tablets. White with a face marked on them. I’ll get them from properties,’ she said. ‘She’s in Interview Room 2 when you want her.’

  She left them then and Collins looked at Vanner. ‘She’s pissed off, Guv. We’ve been after this one for weeks. Scam running at the hotel. Night Manager taking back-handers. Owners have been trying to stamp it out, so we’ve had a body in there watching.’

  ‘Who is she—the Tom?’

  ‘Lisa Morgan. Works for Bobby Gallyon.’

  Vanner stared at him. ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘Slim. Reddy-blonde hair. Drop-dead gorgeous.’ Vanner glanced at Ryan. ‘Let’s go and say hello.’

  She sat with her hands clas
ped on her knee. Slim, willowy, a mass of red-blonde hair. Vanner stood behind the chair opposite her and she met his eyes, face intent but expressionless. Ryan pulled back a chair. Bennett stood by the door with her hands behind her back.

  ‘I’m DS Ryan,’ Ryan said, ‘and this is DI Vanner. North West London Drug Squad.’ Lisa was not looking at him. She continued to stare at Vanner, her face tilted, haughty almost. Vanner looked back at her, the height of her cheekbones, the fine line of her nose, the fullness of a mouth without lipstick.

  Ryan said: ‘This is an informal interview, Lisa. But if you want you can have a solicitor present.’

  ‘I don’t need a solicitor.’

  Vanner took out cigarettes. He offered the pack to her and she shook her head. Not once had she looked at Ryan. Bennett placed the plastic bag, sealed at the neck with a twistlock, on the table between them. Vanner picked up the bag and fingered it carefully. Three Ecstasy tablets. ‘Where did you get these?’ he said.

  She did not say anything.

  ‘I’ll ask you again. Where did you get them?’

  Still she did not say anything.

  Ryan yawned. ‘Not much of a conversation.’

  She looked at him for the first time. Then she looked back at Vanner. ‘Could I have some coffee please?’

  Vanner glanced at Ryan and he stood up. Lisa spoke without looking at him. ‘Black,’ she said. ‘No sugar.’

  When he had gone Lisa picked up Vanner’s open packet of cigarettes and lit one. She fanned out the match and dropped it in the ashtray.

  ‘You know,’ Vanner said, ‘you could help yourself if you want to.’

  She leaned her elbow on the table, her chin in the palm of her hand. ‘Oh. And how could I do that?’

  ‘Well …’ Vanner started.

  ‘Arrest is an occupational hazard in my profession, Vanner.’ She looked him hard in the eye. She knew her business. It was as if she wanted him to know that she knew it.

  He sat back in the chair. She did not take her eyes off him. So sure of herself, not in any cocky or arrogant way, just a total awareness of her situation and exactly what she could do about it. Bennett looked over her shoulder at Vanner, hawkish. Vanner glanced up at her. ‘Could you leave us alone for a moment?’