by Jeff Gulvin
He worried about Mary, but on the face of it she seemed quite strong. The strength, perhaps, of motherhood. John safe, at least in her mind. Yet it was not over. The money was still unpaid. This morning he had found his tyres slashed with a knife. What would tomorrow bring? More windows broken, more lives threatened, another petrol-soaked rag through the letterbox. The last one—thank God he had been alone in the house. He was thinking of moving Anna and his wife to his mother’s house.
Turning from the window, he caught a glimpse of Alex Hammond, watching him from his easy chair. A brief smile passed between them. Good man, Hammond: perceptive. Taught politics to the A-level students. Funny how they got on, him working-class Tory fodder and Hammond a middle-class socialist. Hammond joked about the deferential vote. Yet they were the same age and maybe, in their own way, they were as weary of their worlds as each other.
Hammond got up from his chair. Phillips turned back to the window and felt him move alongside.
‘Going to rain.’
Phillips nodded. ‘Looks like it.’
Hammond laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You know what, John: every break, every lunchtime, you stand here and stare at this window. Now either there’s something in the glass that only you can see or other things are bugging you.’
Phillips looked round at him. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘there’s something in the glass.’
They sat over two pints of bitter and Hammond wiped froth from his lips. ‘Go to the police. Make a statement. You can testify against them.’
‘I’ve been to the police. There’s nothing they can do. I can’t prove anything. The only other person who’s seen anything is Mark Terry. And I’m not bringing him into this. Christ, he’s only a kid.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know where I went wrong. I always tried to do the best for them. Anna’s okay, so far at least. But John … Those shits are killing my family, Alex. I mean for Christ’s sake—I served with the Paras in Ulster. I was a soldier. Now I’m fifty years old and there’s bugger all I can do.’
‘And John’s in prison?’
‘Remand. Norwich. At least it’s a long way from London.’
‘Heroin you say.’
Phillips nodded.
‘Is he a registered addict?’
Phillips shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What difference does it make?’
Hammond lifted his eyebrows. ‘Could make a lot. If he’s only on remand and he registers, then you might have a case to get him out of Norwich and into the care of a rehab institute.’
Phillips stared at him, not daring to acknowledge the bubble of hope in his chest. ‘You can do that?’
‘It’s not unheard of. Why don’t you try and find out?’
Phillips sat back in his chair and crossed his arms on his chest. ‘I’ve got to do something, Alex. I sleep with an axe under my bed.’
Vanner stood in the incident room. ‘Lisa Morgan, the Tom from Gallyon’s nightclub has a dozen stitches in her cheek.’
McCleod raised his eyebrows. ‘She won’t be turning any more five-hundred-quid tricks then.’
For a moment Vanner stared at him. ‘Terry’ll know we paid a visit to his ex-wife,’ he said. ‘And he’s seen me in the club.’ He looked at Terry’s photograph on the wall behind them. Then he sat on the edge of the desk and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘He goes to Amsterdam an awful lot. Less to the States, but then one good crystal can make three hundred thousand squares. That’s how much on the street, Sid?’
‘Million and a half, Guv’nor.’
‘Right.’ Vanner looked at them again. ‘Somebody get onto the DLO. It’s time we had customs involved. I also want the Dutch and US police notified. I want him tailed the next time he gets off a plane.’
‘What about the boxes, Guv?’ Pierce asked him.
‘Still blank. What we need is the pickup man. It might be more than one, but we know he’s handling cash, so I doubt it. It’ll be somebody close to the source. The only box we’ve got is Maguire’s and his mouth is zipped tight.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Somehow Terry’s using Gallyon. My guess is to launder the cash.’
He moved round behind the desk. ‘We’ve still got the Friday-night OP at the Bail Hostel. We don’t know what’s going on, but some inmates are there for mugging. We’re always being told that street crime is random. Trouble with that is—there’s a kid in Neasden with a pager watch.’ He looked at McCleod. ‘Sammy, I want you to check with all the other hostels in the area. Find out from the wardens if any of the inmates have pager watches.’
Anne looked up at him. ‘You think he’s funded this from the street, Guv?’
‘I don’t know.’ Vanner looked at Morrison. ‘But Eagle Eye is big news at the moment. I’d hate to think it was organised.’
Morrison caught his arm as he went back into his office. ‘How’s the Tom?’
‘How do you think she is?’
‘Don’t blame yourself.’
Vanner stared at him. ‘You care?’
Morrison shut the door. ‘Care has nothing to do with it. You came onto this squad with a grudge, Vanner.’
Vanner sat on his desk.
‘Do I need to spell it out? We both know we have a target but very little else. What we don’t need is our judgement being clouded by grudges. You should’ve registered or kept away from her. You did neither. Now forget about it and get on with your job.’
When Morrison was gone he picked up the telephone and dialled. ‘Jabba?’
‘Mr Vanner.’
‘Listen, Jabba. I need a favour.’
‘You know it wasn’t Tate who hit you.’
‘Yes. I know that. He’s just got a big mouth. Right?’
‘Unfortunately so. I’m sorry about that, Mr Vanner.’
‘You only told me what you heard. I need something else though.’
‘If I can help.’
‘If we win there’s a bonus. Four figures at least.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘You ever hear of Denny?’
‘Ecstasy and acid. Good stuff apparently. New face on the block.’
‘I need a dealer, Jabba. I’ve had two. One’s dead and the other one’s rabbit. I need one who doesn’t know I have him. D’you think you can find me a name?’
‘Time, Mr Vanner. And money.’
‘You can have the money. I can’t give you the time.’
Thirteen
VANNER STOOD IN THE doorway of the Banca Di Roma on Gresham Street in the City. Across the road was a pair of double doors, one of which stood open. He could see a marbled hallway beyond. It was lunchtime and the narrow street was choked with people; business-suited men and perfectly manicured women. A few of them glanced briefly at him as they passed. He looked again at the open double door. Thrimble and Grace, a gentleman’s tailor, crowded it on one side and The Last Wine Bar on the other.
He crossed the road and paused, looking beyond the inner glass door to the foyer. The lift jutted out, blocking half his view. An antique table was placed neatly against the other wall, a mirror rising above it. He read the list of company names that occupied the board to the right of the lift. Glendale & Watts were on the second floor.
The stairs were narrow, curving tightly in a spiral with barely enough room for one person to walk. On the second floor he came out onto a landing, much the same as the ground floor with the lift butting up to the wall. The door to the office faced him, the name of the company, plaque-like, in the middle of it.
For a moment he remained where he was. Andrew Riley. A personal, undeclared interest and Weir waiting in the background. He shook his head at himself, thought about Lisa Morgan and narrowed his eyes. Then the years rolled back, eleven of them and a lifetime of friendship before that. How many times had he dreamt of stumbling across Riley? Nothing premeditated—that would bear out all that they said about him—but just happening upon him. He used to think about it in the night, when the ache in his gut chewed at him as he led his men through Divis.
‘Andrew Riley,’ he said.
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Inspector Vanner.’ He pulled out his warrant card and dropped it on the desk.
‘North West London Drug Squad.’
She sat up straighten ‘He’s not in right now.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At lunch.’
‘Where?’
‘He’s with clients.’
‘Where?’
She hesitated, glanced at the desktop, then looked up at him again. ‘I’m not sure. Next door, I think.’
Vanner took his ID back from her and slipped it into his pocket. He looked beyond her then, to the nameplates on the doors. ‘What about Mr Bentt?’
‘He’s on his honeymoon.’
‘Simon Smith?’
‘Away on business. Mr Phelps is at lunch with Mr Riley.’
‘How long will they be?’
‘Shouldn’t be very long. They’ve been gone over an hour.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll wait then.’
He sat in the high-backed chair across from her and lifted his ankle over his knee. He kept his hands in his pockets and watched her. He knew he made her nervous. She kept shifting in her seat, scribbling now and then on her pad. The phone rang and she lifted the receiver almost gratefully. When she put it down she offered him coffee. He refused.
He sat for half an hour before he heard voices from downstairs and then the lift began to rise. His pulse quickened fractionally. The lift stopped. The doors slid open and four men came out into the foyer. The receptionist rose from her desk.
‘Andrew. There’s someone to see …’ Her voice dribbled away as Riley looked round at Vanner. His face lost its colour.
Vanner got to his feet. They were the same height only Riley was heavier, his belly flopping over the belt of his trousers.
‘Aden.’ Riley forced a smile.
‘Andrew.’
Riley turned to his colleague. ‘John, take our guests into the boardroom will you. I’ll be along in a moment.’
Riley’s office was spacious and lined in oak. Twin leather chairs faced his leather topped desk and a fuller, deeper chair beyond it. Riley moved to the chair so that the desk was between them. He touched the knot of his tie then offered Vanner his hand. ‘Been a long time,’ he said.
Vanner kept his hands in his pockets.
Riley sat first. Vanner lowered himself into the chair opposite and looked at him.
‘What can I do for you, Aden?’ Riley’s voice was brusque now, businesslike. ‘Is this a social call? Only I’m rather busy with clients …’
Vanner took his card from his pocket and moved it over the desk with one finger. Riley picked it up and his eyebrows arched. ‘Drug Squad? I don’t understand.’
Vanner leaned forward. ‘Tell me about the secondhand plant business, Andrew.’
Riley sat back, visibly pushing his chair away from the desk as if he needed the extra room to breathe.
‘Caterpillar dump trucks,’ Vanner said. ‘Komatsu. Ford New-Holland. Tell me about fire-damaged plant.’
Riley played with his cuffs. ‘James Bentt deals with that. I never get involved.’
‘James Bentt isn’t here.’
Riley made an open-handed gesture. ‘Well, what did you want to know?’
‘Where does it come from?
‘Damaged plant? From all over the world.’
‘What happens to it?’
‘As far as I know it goes to auction.’
‘Merricks.’
‘Generally. Yes.’
‘Amsterdam? The States?’
‘There’s a smaller one here. But those are the main ones, yes.’
‘But you know about it before it gets to auction.’
‘We deal with insurance companies throughout the world, Aden. Sometimes we deal with their loss adjusters.’
‘And what do you do with the information?’
‘It’s not illegal.’
‘Did I say that it was?’
Riley drummed his fingers on the table. ‘James has a few clients in that business. He advises them of job lots. It gives them an edge in the marketplace.’
‘And they pay you a fee?’
‘That’s our business. We lay off risk for a fee.’
‘Money in it.’ Vanner looked round the room.
‘We get by.’
Vanner looked back at him then. ‘Tell me about your clients.’
‘I can’t, Aden. That’s confidential. Client confidence is everything.’
‘Tell me about one client.’
Riley looked at him.
‘I bet that’s not difficult. You can’t have too many clients in that business. If you did they wouldn’t have an edge.’
‘You’re talking about Michael Terry.’
‘We arrested him for fraud in 1990. James Bentt worked with him in the City.’
‘He did, but that was a long time ago.’
Vanner stared at him then. ‘How’s Jane?’
Riley coughed and sat forward. ‘Look, Aden …’
‘What does Terry do?’
‘I don’t know him, Aden. As far as I know he buys plant.’
‘You tell him about deals going down. Fire damage. Water damage. Sabotage.’
‘There’s an element of that. Some of the more aggressive environmental groups.’
‘You mean people who prefer trees to roads.’
‘There’s a lot of them about.’
‘So it’s a good business then.’
‘I think so.’
‘Terry makes a lot of money?’
‘I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?’
Riley sat back again and looked at his watch. ‘Look. I’m sorry, Aden. I have a meeting to chair. Those two gentlemen you saw. They’ve come all the way from Japan. I can’t let them wait any longer.’
Vanner sat back. ‘Terry buys damaged plant, ships it to Dartford, repairs it and ships it on again. Where does he sell it?’
‘I really wouldn’t know.’
‘What’re the good markets?’
‘You’d have to ask James. But as far as I know—South Africa. Israel. The Middle East, although there’s DTI restrictions in some countries.’
‘What about South America?’
‘It’s a market.’
‘Terry supplies there?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. All we do is advise him of potential purchases.’
‘Bobby Gallyon?’
‘Don’t know him.’
‘Does James Bentt know him? Michael Terry does.’
‘Aden, all James does is advise Terry on deals. What he does thereafter is nothing to do with this company. What we do is not illegal.’
‘You don’t mind dealing with a man convicted of fraud though.’
Riley sat back once more. ‘Anyone can make a mistake, Aden. You should know that.’
Vanner thinned his eyes. ‘How is Jane?’
‘She’s fine.’ Riley opened his hands. ‘Aden, I’m sorry. I …’
Vanner stood up. ‘I’ll want to talk to Bentt when he gets back.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I haven’t got the answers yet.’
‘Look, if Terry’s into drugs—I can assure you we know nothing about it.’
‘Did I say he was into drugs?’
Riley held up his hands.
Vanner moved to the door. He heard Riley get up behind him. ‘Aden.’ He turned. Riley had a tense expression on his face, the muscles suddenly heightened.
‘You know it’s funny,’ he said. ‘Jane and me … you being a soldier and everything …’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, I always thought …’
‘Thought what?’
‘That maybe you’d come after me.�
��
Vanner looked at the floor for a moment, then back in his eyes. ‘Maybe I will,’ he said.
John Phillips took the phone call in the staff room. Lunchtime was about over, only he and a handful of other lecturers were there. It was Mary, his wife. He could hear the tears in her voice.
‘What is it, love?’ he asked gently.
‘It’s Anna.’
‘What about her?’
‘They had a go at her, John. Outside the school.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s here. One of the teachers drove her home.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s very very upset. We’re both very upset.’
He found them in the kitchen when he got home. The front door was double locked and the curtains drawn across the living-room window. They were sitting at the table with the blind pulled down over the back door. Anna looked up as he came in and she started to cry once again. He took her in his arms. ‘It’s all right, love. I’m here now.’
When she stopped trembling he helped her back to her seat. His wife stood up wearily and leaned against the sink. Phillips sat down in the chair she had vacated, still holding both his daughter’s hands in his own. ‘You okay now?’
She sobbed once and nodded.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘I went to the shop for some crisps,’ she said.
‘On your own?’
She nodded. ‘They were waiting for me.’
‘Who were?’
‘The one with the bad teeth. And the other two with motorbike jackets.’
Phillips compressed his jaws. ‘What did they do?’ he asked quietly.
‘They started swearing at me. Horrible, disgusting words. They said all the things they’d like to do to a little schoolgirl. One of them kept trying to lift up my skirt.’
Phillips glanced over his shoulder at his wife. Her face crumpled in red. He looked back at his daughter, trying to keep the stammer from his voice. ‘Did they hurt you?’
‘One of them kept flicking my hair. He showed me a knife. He told me he was going to cut off all my fingers. He said they were going to follow me every day until you gave them their money.’
Her father took her hands in his again and then released them as if suddenly his impotence made him unworthy. He stood up, moved around the kitchen, trying to keep a lid on the anger that built and built inside him. His daughter looked at him. ‘Dad. They said they know where Nan lives. They said they were going to pay her a visit.’