The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  Outside on the landing he phoned Vanner. He was transferred to the answer machine. ‘Fuck you, Guv’nor,’ he muttered. ‘Never there when I want you.’

  Vanner had moved to a table. Tate was sitting at the bar now, a group of lads around him. Every now and then one or other of them would glance over Tate’s shoulder at Vanner. Big man: the original hard man of old. Then Tate turned and looked at him. Vanner raised his glass. Tate slid off his stool and pushed his way through the drinkers towards him. Vanner sat straight-backed, glass held loosely, and watched him every step of the way. Tate stopped at his table and rested both fists on it. They looked one another in the eye.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘You’ve got a big mouth. I’m just seeing if that’s all you’ve got.’

  ‘You want to watch what you say. You want to watch where you drink.’

  Vanner stared at him. ‘Somebody had a go at me. I thought it might be you. But now I’m here—I don’t think you’ve got the bottle.’ He looked beyond him then to the gathering at the bar and creased his mouth into a shallow smile. ‘Frankie. Now he had the bottle. But Frankie’s dead isn’t he.’

  Tate stared coldly at him. ‘I could call this harassment.’

  ‘Could you?’

  ‘Yeah. I could. You know I report to Croydon Nick twice a month. Got myself a tame probation officer. I might just tell him about you.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that. From what I hear you like to talk.’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip.’

  ‘Maybe not but I do.’ Vanner emptied his glass and stood up. He looked again to the bar.

  ‘Glory days,’ he said. ‘All you’ve got left isn’t it.’

  He drove home and thought about Tate standing across from him. Too small. Nothing wrong with his eyes. When he got to his house he replayed the messages on his answerphone. He listened to the crackle and then Ryan’s voice from his mobile. ‘Guv’nor. Phone me. Somebody killed Milo.’

  He parked his car next to Ryan’s on the Bream Park Estate. An ambulance squatted with its lights flashing and half a dozen uniforms moved about in the doorways. He saw Morrison’s Granada between two patrol cars. He showed his warrant to the uniforms and climbed the stairs. He followed the corridors into the bowels of the building and came out on Milo’s landing. Ryan leaned against the window, smoking a cigarette. He looked up but he did not smile. ‘In the flat, Guv’nor. I could smell him through the letterbox. Must have been dead for days.’

  Vanner glanced towards the open doorway. ‘SOCO?’

  ‘SOCO. AMIP. The whole bloody shooting match.’

  ‘AMIP?’ Vanner looked back at him.

  ‘Major incident isn’t it. Weir came down with the old man.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me on the mobile?’

  Ryan looked at him. ‘I did, Guv’nor. Switched off wasn’t it.’

  Vanner felt in his pocket. He had switched the phone off before he went into the pub. He had forgotten to turn it back on. Ryan sucked on his cigarette. ‘Sorry to spoil your evening.’

  Vanner stepped across the threshold. Morrison stood in the doorway to the sitting room. The ambulancemen were lifting the brittle form of Milo onto a stretcher. The stink hit Vanner. Morrison looked round at him. ‘You took your time.’

  Vanner ignored him. He moved to the doorway and a white suited SOCO stepped aside. The floor was caked in dried blood and intestine. Vanner looked at the excrement near the chair.

  ‘Always do it on the floor.’ Morrison shook his head.

  ‘A few days at least.’ Weir’s voice from behind him. Vanner turned. Weir stood in the kitchen doorway, chewing gum.

  Vanner turned back to the sitting room. The carpet, thin and ill-fitting, was bunched where the body had been. One of the chairs had been moved back. A brown, empty beer bottle lay on its side on the table. A forensic man was dusting it. Vanner scanned the room: nothing in it save the table, two ruined chairs and a broken-down TV set. Weir was talking to one of the SOCO men. He pointed to the excrement.

  ‘That do us any good?’

  The SOCO man made a face. ‘DNA?’

  Weir nodded.

  ‘There’s DNA in it, yeah. But not his. Or if it is his—it would take a year and a day to find it. The DNA would be that of what he’s eaten.’

  Vanner listened to him. Then he bent lower and looked at the faeces. Taking a pen from his pocket, he scraped the nib through the pile. He felt Weir’s gaze on his back.

  Vanner stood up and looked at the red-brown mess on the nib. He moved to the white-suited SOCO. ‘Get a bag,’ he said. ‘Some of this is blood.’

  Weir stood by the chair. ‘Your snout was he, Vanner?’

  Vanner turned. ‘Ryan handled him.’

  ‘Just Ryan? No co-handler?’

  ‘I managed it.’

  Weir smiled. ‘Did you?’

  Vanner ignored him. He looked at Morrison. ‘Incident room?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s a Drug Squad murder.’

  Morrison picked teeth with his finger. ‘So it would seem,’ he said.

  Vanner felt a chill brush the back of his neck. He knew Weir was watching him.

  ‘Castle Hills the nearest nick with a Holmes Suite.’

  ‘Already on the move.’

  ‘IO?’ Again he felt Weir on his back.

  ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning. Be in my office at nine.’

  Michael Terry dropped his son off at the edge of the Kirstall Estate. ‘Sorry it’s been so short, Mark. I know you normally stay but there’s things I have to do tonight.’

  Mark nodded and opened the door. His father laid a hand on his arm. ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Want me to walk you up?’

  ‘I’m seventeen, Dad.’ He got out of the car and his father drummed the steering wheel.

  ‘See you in a couple of weeks then. I’ll be in the States for a few days. But I’m home for the weekend if you need me.’

  Mark nodded and closed the door.

  He walked up the flight of steps to his landing. The Wasp leaned in the stairwell with a girl on his arm. He smiled at Mark, showing the white of his teeth. ‘Hey, college boy.’

  Mark started to move past him, but The Wasp blocked his path. ‘Daddy’s car? Very nice.’

  Mark looked at the floor. The Wasp poked him in the ribs with long fingers. ‘Buy you an ice cream did he?’

  Mark stepped by then and The Wasp laughed in his ear.

  Vanner sat in his car on Bream Park, Frank Weir’s face in his mind. Morrison and Weir went way back. He knew Morrison was about to give the murder to AMIP and make Weir the Investigating Officer. Nine o’clock in Hendon. If he was to avoid that then he needed an edge, something more than he had. And what did he have? One dead informant, Maguire, the dealer from Barnet and Lisa Morgan the prostitute. He thought back to the interview room, her eyes on his, the certainty in her voice, and her hand cupped about his as he lit her cigarette in the nightclub. He thought of the man with Bobby Gallyon, Michael Terry, the look on his face when their eyes met. Lisa’s reaction this morning when he had asked her about him.

  Taking his notebook from his case he looked up her number and dialled. No answer. He sat and he thought for a moment. He glanced at his watch. He needed the edge before the meeting with Morrison. He started the car and drove to Gallyon’s nightclub.

  He sat in darkness, at his desk in the warehouse with only the light of the computer in front of him. He had spoken to The Wasp, who jokingly informed him of Mickey Blondhair’s desire to switch from the street to dealing. He thought hard about it now, rolling the cursor down the line of figures that represented Mickey’s contribution to the team. For a thirteen-year-old he was good. He virtually ran the Boiler Room Gang. He was the one with the watch. Such ingenuity, versatility. Not just the cashpoint stuff or the women on buses, but the burglaries. That had been his own idea. His team had gone as far north as Hamps
tead. They made the bail hostel gangs look like amateurs.

  He sat back, rocking on two legs of the chair and switched on his headphones. Who would run the Boiler Room? That would be a question for Wasp. Not a bad idea perhaps to move Mickey on, especially after the last incident at the cashpoint. A good haul, but messy and apparently a witness. School, though. So far he had avoided schools. Although it filtered down. His dealers were half-sheet men. They had their own networks beneath them. He did not know who bought and then sold on. He did not care. He had his market and beyond that, well, other people had theirs.

  That was the way of things. Business rolling on. The pyramid working its way downwards. He had avoided the dirty stuff, smack and crack and so on. Acid was good because a crystal went a long way and the squares were easily posted. He could vary the jiffy bags with normal envelopes, a variety of shapes and colours so as to avoid suspicion in the boxes. E’s were more difficult but the profit outweighed the risk. And of course if they were caught, the box was registered to the dealer. Just one more name to replace.

  But other conundrums. Vanner knew about Maguire. He would have to think about that. And Mickey Blondhair, with his imitation of Ninja. Maybe he was best moved on. He could consider it promotion. The Wasp could supply him. Switching off the machine, he went downstairs in darkness and out onto the street.

  Vanner sat behind the wheel of the car, across the street from the club. He watched the two bouncers at the door and then Lisa came out with a wrap around her shoulders. Terry held her arm and one of the doormen flagged down a cab. Vanner started his engine. He drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting in his lap. The cab cut through the traffic ahead of him. They drove east. He followed them through the City and down towards the river. They crossed on Blackfriars Bridge and for some reason Vanner thought of Roberto Calvi, God’s banker, hanging from the end of a rope. On the south side of the river the cab pulled over beside the Express Newspapers building and Lisa and Terry got out. Vanner stopped the car and watched them cross to a block of apartments.

  He had no way of knowing which apartment they had gone into but something about Terry’s attire told him the view would be over the river. Getting out of his car, he walked to Gabriel’s Wharf and looked down into the oil blackness of the water. Somewhere in the middle of the river a refuse barge chugged west under the bridge. The breeze lifted and Vanner buttoned his jacket to the collar. He lit a cigarette and flicked away the match. It died before it hit the water. He smoked in silence, watching the traffic on the far embankment. The dome of St Paul’s dominated the City. Leaning lower on the rail, he looked down between his feet. Then he turned and glanced at the building. He could see windows; huge, opaque: some of them were lighted, some of them were not. He could make out no figures against them.

  He thought about Michael Terry, inside somewhere with Lisa Morgan. For a moment he wondered what he was doing to her and he shook the thoughts away. Who was Michael Terry? Gallyon imported coke from Colombia. The RCS were watching him. Jimmy Crack was watching him. Something told Vanner that this Michael Terry had given the E’s to Lisa. Maguire had been in the club however. Maybe she scored off him. But would Maguire, a small-time Irish dealer, supply E’s in Gallyon’s club? Maybe Gallyon supplied. Maybe Terry got them from him. But everything SOU had on Gallyon told them that he only dealt with cocaine. E’s were a whole different ball game. And acid, most of the Denny label was acid, a different market again. He looked back at the river and knew he was clutching at straws. But tomorrow he needed an edge and he had to know if there was one.

  Back in the car he dozed. At nearly five in the morning he was awakened by the dieseled rattle of a cab. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and squinted at the apartment building. He saw Lisa come out of the revolving door. The cabbie was out of his seat. On the fourth-floor balcony, a man stood in his dressing gown.

  Vanner followed the cab back across the river then west on the Embankment. They skirted Pimlico and West Kensington and the cab finally pulled up outside a squared block of flats in Chelsea. He saw no money change hands. Lisa stepped onto the pavement and moved past a red, chequered barrier towards the apartments. Vanner got out of his car. He followed her into a silent, square concourse in the middle of the block. The flats rose on four walls around them. Lisa was at the door to the right. Vanner stepped out of the shadows.

  Her apartment was on the third floor, softly furnished in white peach. Vanner stood in the middle of the lounge with his hands in his pockets. Lisa tossed her keys onto a small table and yawned. ‘You look like a policeman,’ she said.

  He did not smile.

  ‘You sat out there all night?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Don’t you have a home to go to? No wife? I normally see coppers with wives.’

  He squatted on the edge of the settee. Lisa sat down in the chair opposite, kicked off her shoes and eased her feet beneath her. ‘Drink, Vanner?’

  ‘Got any Irish whiskey?’

  ‘Darling, I’ve got everything.’ She indicated the cabinet set into the wall and Vanner fetched a bottle of Jameson. He poured two glasses and handed one to her.

  ‘So talk, Vanner. If that’s what you came for …’

  He sat down again and looked at her. Her skin flushed red at her throat, the heat of the room perhaps. He could make out the height of her breasts beneath the material of her shirt. He looked briefly at the floor. ‘I need to know who gave you the E’s, Lisa.’

  She shook her head at him. ‘And there’s me thinking you wanted conversation.’

  He looked at her, hair on fire, a light in the depth of her eyes. She yawned then and lifted her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Been a long night?’ he said.

  She widened her eyes at him. ‘Very long, Vanner. Good and long and slow.’

  For a while they sat in silence. ‘Have you always been into drugs?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Robbery. Murder. Armed Response.’

  ‘Guns. You know you look like a gun man.’

  ‘Do I? And what does a gun man look like exactly?’

  ‘Like you, Vanner.’ She lit a cigarette and tossed him the packet.

  ‘I need to know, Lisa.’

  ‘So you say’

  ‘It’s that guy you were with tonight isn’t it. Michael Terry.’

  She got up from the chair and sipped her drink, one hand on her hip. ‘What’re you looking for, Vanner? An informant? Snout. Isn’t that what you call them? You pay them don’t you?’

  ‘If you like.’

  She laughed then. ‘You couldn’t afford me. Either way you couldn’t afford me.’

  He rolled the glass between his palms. ‘Lisa, tonight we discovered a dealer lying in his flat with his guts ripped open.’

  ‘Dead was he?’

  He stared at her. ‘He was no more than a kid.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘He was killed by whoever supplies those tablets we found on you.’

  Her face sobered then. ‘All the more reason to tell you nothing.’

  He looked beyond her. Hendon awaited him with Weir and Morrison together, in less than four hours. ‘Did he pop much tonight—your man?’

  ‘Only me, darling.’

  Vanner felt inexplicably wounded. She shook her head. ‘Just a job, Vanner. Hand job. Blow job. Any old job you want to pay for.’

  Vanner stared at her. ‘Oh yeah. How much?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. I said: how much?’ He stood up and they faced one another. Lisa looked at the floor. ‘Sorry, love. I’m not working tonight.’

  ‘No? Tired are you?’

  She looked him in the eye. ‘Absolutely fucked.’

  Vanner stood where he was for a moment. He could smell her. For a second he imagined Terry with her. He pushed his hands into his pockets and moved to the door.

  ‘You know an Irishman called Maguire? Comes to the club. Was in the other night.’<
br />
  ‘Lots of people come to the club.’

  ‘Does he know the punter you were with?’

  ‘How would I know, Vanner? I don’t know him.’

  ‘Brown-haired guy. Earring, wears a gold band on his wrist.’

  ‘No bells ringing.’

  He opened the door. ‘Terry always goes upstairs does he? Always chats with Bobby?’

  ‘You tell me, darling.’

  ‘He doesn’t dance.’

  ‘I’ve never seen him.’

  ‘He doesn’t dance with you?’

  ‘He’s a punter, Vanner. I don’t dance with punters. I fuck them.’

  He looked at her standing there, head to one side, feet slightly apart. ‘Thanks for the drink, Lisa.’

  ‘Vanner.’

  He turned back from the door.

  ‘Don’t follow me any more.’

  He rested his shoulder against the door frame. ‘I’m not following you, Lisa. All I want to know is whether Terry gave you the E’s. You tell me and I’ll leave you alone. If you don’t I might just follow you.’

  She held his eye. Then she looked at the floor and pushed out her lips. ‘You’re a bastard aren’t you, Vanner.’

  ‘The very worst kind.’

  She stared at him for a moment. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘he gave me the E’s.’

  Nine

  VANNER CLIMBED THE STAIRS to Morrison’s office at three minutes after nine. McCague was there. Vanner allowed himself a smile. Morrison covering his back. Weir poured coffee.

  ‘Come in, Vanner,’ Morrison said.

  Vanner glanced at Weir and nodded to McCague. He sat down in the vacant chair.

  ‘Coffee?’ Morrison offered.

  Vanner shook his head. Weir sat down next to him, crossed his ankle on his knee and stirred black coffee.

  Morrison steepled his fingers. ‘I had a phone call at home this morning, Vanner,’ he said. ‘Superintendent Burke of the Regional. He wanted to know why 2 Area Drug Squad are messing up his plot.’

  Weir sipped his coffee. McCague sat with his hands clasped.