The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘Additional members. You know we devised that for them after the Second World War. Designed to stop another Hitler rising.’

  Mark looked at him. ‘They’ve done okay haven’t they. The Germans.’

  His father grinned and patted the wheel. ‘Make good cars, son. Make good cars. What about business—economics?’

  ‘We’re comparing Keynes and Friedman.’

  ‘Are you? Money supply and all that. Full employment.’ Terry shook his head. ‘Whoever heard of full employment? Nice idea, Mr Keynes. But then that was the thirties.’ He smiled cynically. ‘All very nice in theory. But the market rules, son. The market will always rule. Supply and demand. The Chicago school of economics. Maggie was right.’

  Mark looked at him. ‘You still think so? Even after what happened to you?’

  Terry made a face. ‘One market fell and I was in too deep. All my eggs in one basket. I didn’t diversify.’ He looked sideways at him. ‘Experience, Mark. You can’t learn it from books.’

  ‘What about now?’

  ‘Different markets. Different games but the same rules. Up and at ’em again.’

  They ate dinner at the long, wooden table in front of the window, darkness closing outside. Terry looked at his son. ‘Listen, I’m going to take a shower and then I have to go out.’

  Mark looked at his plate.

  ‘There’s something I should’ve done yesterday. I have to do it tonight.’ He smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry though. It won’t be until later.’

  Mark toyed with his food.

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ Terry went on. ‘Work your playstation. Or watch the TV. There’s always a movie on Sky.’

  Terry climbed out of the shower, dried himself and went through to the kitchen. Mark was playing his Megadrive.

  ‘You seen the bottle of water? It was on the side.’

  ‘Finished, Dad. I binned it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Terry scratched his head. ‘I’ll get another.’

  He phoned for a taxi. Mark watched him from the window, the lights of London breaking the stillness on the far side of the river. His father got in the cab and he watched it cross the bridge. He mooched about the flat, TV off, thinking about his father, thinking about his mother, when they had been together all those years ago. Sometimes it felt like yesterday. Home alone again now though, with either one of them it was always home alone. But at least with his mother it was because she had to.

  Terry sat in the back of the taxi and thought about the Drug Squad asking questions. Then he thought about Lisa, how he had tied her by the neck and the wrists. Maybe he should have tied tighter.

  The Wasp drank beer from the neck of the bottle, gripping it under one curled finger and tipping it down his throat. On the TV the film played out to its inevitable conclusion, the kind of conclusion he had seen a million times before. He swore at the box and switched it off. In the next room, the girl dressed and undressed and dressed again as only girls can do. His mobile rang. He looked at it, sank more beer and placed the bottle on the floor. She appeared in the doorway. Bra and knickers. He could see the protrusion of nipple through the cotton. ‘You going to answer that?’

  The Wasp glowered at her and lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Wasp.’

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In my flat.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ninja?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aha. Girlies again.’

  His voice was chill on the ear. The Wasp scratched the rising skin on his arm. ‘What d’you want?’ he could hear him breathing. Sometimes he could hear music. But tonight only the stilted silence of the Cellnet.

  ‘Coppers on the estate.’

  ‘I saw them.’

  ‘Asking questions, Wasp. Asking a lot of questions.’

  The Wasp sat more upright. ‘You think they’re getting close?’ For a moment he could see the body of Ringo May, dying in his own blood. He looked at the bottle of beer.

  ‘Vanner thinks he’s getting close, Wasp. I’ve watched him. Gets about a lot.’

  ‘But he ain’t close enough. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What then—you want us to hit him again?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I want you to lie low.’

  ‘What d’you mean—lie low?’

  ‘Just that, shithead. Keep away from everything for a while. I want you for another job later on.’

  ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘You’ll know when I tell you. Big bonus though, Wasp.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But in the meantime I want you out of sight. That goes for Ninja too.’

  ‘But what about the pickups—the hostels and the boiler room and that?’

  ‘Leave them to me.’

  The Wasp felt a little cold. ‘You trying to phase me out of the game, man?’

  ‘Listen, Wasp. I’m doing you a favour. Vanner is nobody’s fool. Just lie low. Chill out. Enjoy some of the dosh you’ve been making. Nobody’s phasing anyone out. But stay away from it all for the moment. We need to regroup a little.’

  ‘And next Friday?’

  ‘Like I told you. I’ll sort it.’

  Terry climbed out of the taxi and paid the driver. The two doormen nodded as he passed them. He hung his coat in the lobby and moved into the bar area. Gallyon was not about. His table by the balcony, empty. Terry cursed quietly to himself and scanned the floor for Lisa. He could not see her anywhere. Climbing the stairs to the upstairs bar, he bought himself a drink and then occupied Gallyon’s spot by the rail. Quiet tonight. He glanced at his watch. Still early. He sipped vodka and watched the murmur of dancers on the floor, music low as yet, the thump thump in his ear.

  She came in, Lisa, looking for all the world as if she owned the place. Terry watched her move across the floor, watched the expressions of the punters and his mouth set in a line. He would never have thought it of her. But then the other night she had been yappy, and the night with the Arab. Smug as fuck, trying to make him jealous. Jealous. For Christ’s sake, he was paying her. Denny E’s. He cursed himself for a fool.

  He waited for Gallyon. Much as he would have liked to take her to one side himself, she was Gallyon’s property. And Gallyon was a big man. Nice to rub it with him though, shoulder to shoulder, around a table full of drinks with money going down between them. He looked again at Lisa, leaning now by the downstairs bar. Still she had not seen him. Pity about her, the sex had been ballistic.

  She looked up, caught his eye and smiled. He liked it when she smiled. Oh, he knew he was paying for it, but he still liked it when she smiled. The sensation it gave him, even now with the anger rising like sap in his veins. The tightness across his chest and the little charge in his loins. He held her gaze. Still she smiled. He did not smile back.

  Gallyon came in at ten minutes to midnight. Lisa was dancing. Terry remained where he was. As Gallyon got to the head of the stairs, Terry signalled the barman.

  ‘Michael.’ Gallyon touched his arm, adjusted the knot of his bow tie and sat down.

  ‘Didn’t expect you tonight.’

  ‘Didn’t expect it myself.’

  Gallyon squinted at him. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘A little maybe.’ Terry looked over at Lisa.

  Twelve

  VANNER STARED ACROSS THE table at Maguire. Mouse-coloured hair, clear blue eyes looking back at him. They sat in the interview room at Castle Hill.

  ‘I want a solicitor,’ Maguire said.

  Vanner cocked his head to one side. ‘Why? Nobody’s arrested you.’

  Maguire looked at him. Vanner took out cigarettes and offered him one. He took it cautiously. Ryan flipped open his lighter and Maguire cupped his hand to the flame.

  Vanner sat back in the chair. ‘You’ve got a post office box at Barnet Central.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘You know you have.’ V
anner picked up a photocopy of an application form made by Maguire seven months earlier. He pushed it across the table. ‘We know you have.’ Maguire skimmed his eyes over it, drew on the cigarette and flicked ash. Vanner folded his arms. ‘You paid for a full year. How come you’ve stopped using it?’

  ‘I don’t need it any more.’

  ‘What did you use it for?’ Ryan asked him.

  ‘Business.’

  ‘What sort of business?’

  Maguire sat more easily in the chair, the confidence returning to his eyes. ‘Mail order.’

  ‘What sort of mail order?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘Why did you have two cards?’

  Maguire flinched then and recovered himself. He leaned over the table, scraping the end of his cigarette round the rim of the ashtray. ‘I needed them.’

  ‘Why?’ Vanner said.

  ‘The business. I had a partner.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. He’s gone now anyway. Moved on. Like you said, we don’t use the box any more.’

  Vanner glanced at Ryan and then he hunched forward so his head was close to Maguire’s. ‘You’re a liar.’

  He sat back again, crossed his legs and kicked his foot lightly against the table. ‘You deal drugs, Maguire. The box was your pickup point. You posted back the cash. The second card was so someone could collect it.’

  ‘News to me.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Vanner held his gaze, dominating him. ‘You dealt E’s with the Denny insignia on them. Sometimes you dealt acid. Mostly E’s though. The punters in Covent Garden prefer E’s. Cheaper than coke but not so cheap as acid.’

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

  Vanner laughed at him then. ‘I saw you. Blake’s Bar on Long Acre.’

  ‘Never been there.’

  ‘You want to see the records?’ Vanner glanced at Ryan. ‘Tell him.’

  ‘You’ve got a Golf GTI,’ Ryan said. ‘Black one. H reg. Nice wheels. Alloy right?’

  Maguire stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘We followed you,’ Vanner went on. ‘Friday night, last month. Good nights for you are they—Fridays?’

  ‘Okay. So I go to Blake’s bar once in a while. I like a drink. There’s no law against that.’

  Vanner smiled from one corner of his mouth. ‘I followed you into the gents. Two suits. Remember? I saw you deal, Maguire.’

  ‘So, why didn’t you arrest me?’

  Ryan leaned forward then, resting both elbows on the table. ‘Because it’s not you we want.’

  Vanner moved in his seat. ‘The second cardholder.’

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

  Vanner stood up then and leaned with his back to the wall. He stared coldly at Maguire.

  ‘What’s it like to be out of the game?’

  Maguire looked back at him. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you.’

  ‘You know, if you’re out of the game you must be strapped. Cash, I mean. Lot of money in E’s.’ He glanced at the watch on Maguire’s left wrist. ‘Called you on that did he?’

  Maguire shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t have a clue what you’re on about.’

  ‘He doesn’t call any more. Does he,’ Vanner went on. ‘That must really piss you off after seven months of profit.’

  ‘I told you. I’m not answering any more questions.’

  Vanner said: ‘Tell me about Michael Terry.’

  Maguire looked blank. ‘Can I go now? If I’m not under arrest then I must be free to go.’ He stood up. ‘I think I’ll go now.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Vanner moved towards him and rested his hands on the table. Maguire hovered, then slowly he sat down again.

  ‘Gallyon’s nightclub.’

  Maguire frowned.

  ‘We saw you there too. Michael Terry was there, upstairs with Bobby Gallyon. Big man Bobby. Old family. Five serious nightclubs. Not the sort of bloke to mess with. Did you deal in Gallyon’s nightclub?’

  Maguire stood up. ‘I really am leaving now.’

  ‘You should talk to us, Maguire,’ Vanner looked keenly at him. ‘Do yourself a favour.’

  Maguire shook his head. ‘Not the kind of favour I need.’

  Morrison was behind Vanner’s desk in the incident room when he went back downstairs. Jimmy Crack was talking to him. Jimmy got up from the chair, but Vanner palmed him down again.

  ‘Maguire?’ Morrison said.

  Vanner shook his head. ‘He knows what happened to Milo. He isn’t going to talk to us.’

  ‘And he’s the only other dealer we know about?’

  Vanner nodded. ‘So far.’ He sat down heavily and looked at Jimmy. ‘More hassle from Regi?’

  Jimmy glanced at him, then briefly at Morrison. ‘Burke’s okay, Guv,’ he said. ‘No damage.’

  ‘Good.’

  Jimmy looked again at Morrison.

  Vanner lifted an eyebrow. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Tom, Guv. Lisa.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s disappeared.’

  Vanner sat forward, furrows cutting his brow. ‘What do you mean—disappeared?’

  ‘There’s a new piece of furniture there now. Black girl called Isabel. The doorman told me that Lisa was in on Saturday and not there on Sunday. On Sunday this new bird is there. Sunday’s a good night for Lisa.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Jimmy sighed. ‘On Saturday night Michael Terry comes in. Apparently he wasn’t expected. Anyway he and Gallyon have a little chinwag and then Terry leaves. He doesn’t speak to Lisa. He doesn’t go anywhere near her. Later on Gallyon calls her upstairs. They go out the back together and she hasn’t been seen since.’

  Vanner parked his car outside Lisa’s building and walked into the concourse. He was aware of the sound of his feet on the flagstones. At the exterior door he pressed her bell and waited. She did not answer. He stood there and waited and waited. Still she did not answer. Then a man came down the stairs and opened the door. Vanner held it for him. The man squinted. Vanner ignored him and took the steps two at a time.

  Her front door was closed. He knocked, lightly at first; but when the door was not answered he knocked louder. ‘Lisa?’ He listened, ear close to the wood. ‘Lisa?’

  She did not answer him. He knocked again, much louder this time. ‘Lisa?’

  A door along the corridor opened and a woman looked out. ‘Can I help you?’

  Vanner moved towards her and she shrank back. He fished his warrant card out of his pocket. ‘Police,’ he said. ‘Number 14. D’you know if she’s in there?’

  ‘Well, she was earlier. Poor girl. Bandage on her face.’

  Vanner went very still. ‘Thank you,’ he said and turned back to the door.

  He waited until the woman had gone back into her apartment and then he knocked again. ‘Come on, Lisa. It’s me, Vanner. Open the door.’

  Still no answer.

  ‘Lisa.’

  ‘Go away, Vanner.’ Her voice from the other side of the wood. Vanner leaned with his fingers pressed against it.

  ‘Come on, Lisa. Let me in.’

  ‘Just go away.’

  He stood back, folded his arms, unfolded them and stepped forward again. ‘Come on Lisa. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ve had enough talk, Vanner.’

  ‘A minute. Just give me a minute.’

  The door clicked and then it was opened the length of the chain. Lisa’s face was framed against the light from inside. Vanner thinned his eyes. Her right cheek was covered by a heavy gauze bandage, taped down with plaster.

  ‘Lisa …’ he started.

  She looked at him, then slowly she peeled back the bandage. Her cheek was swollen and blue and lined with ugly, black stitching. For a long moment they stared at one another.

  She sat down in the lounge. Vanner stood before her. The curtains were closed. ‘Can I get you a drink or something?’

  She shook
her head.

  ‘Who did it, Lisa?’

  ‘I fell.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you care, Vanner.’ She lifted her gaze to accuse him.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Michael Terry.’

  ‘No, Vanner. You. You wouldn’t leave me alone.’

  Again he looked away from her. ‘I was just doing my job.’

  ‘Yeah. And so was I.’

  He stood up, sat down again, made an open-handed gesture. ‘Terry saw Gallyon. Gallyon took you outside. Testify, Lisa. Give me a statement and we’ll pick up Bobby Gallyon.’

  ‘Grow up, Vanner.’

  She got up then and poured herself a drink. She stood with one hand cupping her waist, resting her elbow as she sipped from the glass. Vanner lit a cigarette and watched her.

  ‘I can help you.’

  ‘Like you did before?’ She hissed air through her teeth. ‘Coppers. Jesus. You’re a sad bunch.’ She looked at him then. ‘You’re no better than he is. You want to fuck me again? Come on, Vanner. Let’s fuck. That’s what you and me do.’

  He sat in darkness on the floor of his unfurnished lounge in his unfurnished house in Camden Town. Smoke eddied from the cigarette between his fingers. The emptiness of the room closed about him. A half-filled whiskey glass squatted between the bridge of his legs. He stared at the wall. Jane was in his mind, Jane and Lisa Morgan with her face ruined for all time. Her words rang in his head.

  He crushed out the cigarette, burning the ends of his fingers. He lit another, smoked it in the silence, drank his whiskey and poured another. For a moment he closed his eyes and the scars seemed to lift on his back, as if in some wasted display of sympathy. Jane and now Lisa. The same all over again. From his back pocket he took out his wallet and from his wallet he took James Bentt’s business card.

  John Phillips stood at the window of the staff room and sipped coffee. Clouds littered the sky, grey and black, hiding the sun as if to echo his mood. Behind him, the hubbub of the other lecturers drifted in monotone. He stared out of the window, the weakness of the afternoon preceding the weight of the night. John was on his mind. Last Thursday, the grey of Norwich Prison, looking down on the city from a hilltop. He looked awful, withdrawn, face pinched and bitter: his eyes bunched in darkened hollows of fear. Cold turkey and prison. God alone knew what he would do in there, anything and everything, with anyone and everyone, just to get his hands on some dope.