The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  Vanner sat down and placed one fist on the desktop. Morrison looked at it. ‘That’s you all over isn’t it. Saw that in you the first time we met. I might’ve been wrong about the Watchman. But I was never really wrong.’

  Vanner did not say anything.

  ‘You don’t play by the rules,’ Morrison went on. ‘You never did. This is the Met, Vanner. Not some two-bit bunch of mercenaries who make it up as they go along. You have to go by the book. Stupid little things, like details, matter. Procedure matters. Disclosure matters, Vanner.’

  Andrew Riley. Jane would have told him. Why did he think she would not?

  ‘You should have told me about Riley,’ Morrison went on. ‘I let that go. I shouldn’t have. Like a berk I cut you some slack. I tell you this now: I did it for the good of the inquiry.’ His lips soured in his face. ‘But you—you don’t give a toss about the inquiry. You only came back because somebody hit you. That’s no reason to be a copper, Vanner. That puts you exactly where they are.’ He made a sweeping motion with his hand. ‘Out there on the street, with the thugs and dealers and pimps.’

  ‘I take it I’m off the case.’

  ‘You brought it on yourself.’ Morrison shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you went into their house.’

  ‘She was my wife.’

  ‘She’s his wife now. And if he makes this official you’re history.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t suggest it?’

  Morrison was on his feet, fists suddenly clenched. ‘Get out, Vanner. Take a holiday. A long one. Go away somewhere. Anywhere out of my sight.’

  Ryan caught up with him in the car park. Vanner stopped, key in the lock of his car door. ‘What’s the story, Guv’nor?’

  ‘No story, Sid. I just fucked up that’s all.’

  He stared into the bottom of his glass. Ryan looked across at him, holding a cigarette between his fingers. ‘This going to be a wake, Guv’nor?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Handle the hangover can you? You’ve got no one to wipe your mouth when you chunder.’

  Vanner looked at him over the rim of his glass. ‘I’ve had more hangovers than even you have, Sid. And that’s saying something. They’re like war medals. You win ’em and you wear ’em.’

  Ryan sighed. ‘So, now we’ve got Weir.’

  Vanner shrugged. ‘Results man. He’s all right.’

  ‘He’s a fucking empire builder.’

  Later, glasses piling between them, Ryan smoked Camels. Vanner stared at the wall behind his head, as sober as the moment he walked in. ‘Ninja,’ he said. ‘One of the scroats who jumped me.’

  Ryan looked at him, head to one side. ‘You said they had hoods on.’

  ‘I also said one was IC1. Eyes were fucked up. How many others look like Ninja?’

  Ryan squinted at him. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘No. It doesn’t does it. If it was Ninja then it was also the other one. Why have a go at me?’

  ‘You’ve never come across them before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Maybe they just mugged you.’

  ‘Maybe the world is flat.’

  Frank Weir was in Vanner’s seat at seven the following morning. Ryan came in at eight and Weir called him into the office. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Sparkling, Guv’nor.’

  Weir half-closed one eye. ‘Nobody likes it when the Guv’nor gets switched in the middle of an investigation, Sid. Especially his minder.’

  Ryan looked at him. ‘I’m a copper, Guv. Like you. It happens. You’re in the hot seat now.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Weir sat forward again. ‘And I need you on my side. You’re the best there is in the Drug Squad. Word is the big boys are taking a look at you.’

  ‘Is that who it is?’ Ryan lifted his eyebrows. ‘Wondered who was plotted up in the house opposite mine.’

  Weir grinned at him. ‘Always the joker.’

  ‘Just blabby, Guv.’

  Weir picked up a 50/20 form from the desk. ‘I hear Phillips’ old man told a kid at college where his son was.’

  Ryan nodded. ‘Target 1’s boy.’

  Weir put down the paper. ‘I think we should have a word with him. Don’t you?’

  They found Mark Terry in a politics lesson. They summoned him from the class and sat him down in the staff room. He looked very small in the chair.

  ‘You all right?’ Ryan asked him.

  He nodded.

  ‘You and John were mates, yeah?’

  Mark was shaking. He looked down at the floor.

  ‘It’s all right, son: You got nothing to worry about,’ Weir said it kindly. ‘We know how it is to lose a mate. But we need to have a few words. You understand. We have to find out who did this.’

  Mark looked up again and touched the sleeve of his shirt to his eyes.

  ‘John’s father told you he was in Norwich. Didn’t he, Mark?’ Ryan said.

  Mark nodded.

  ‘Did you ask him or did he just tell you?’

  Mark looked at him then, eyes bunched and reddened at the edges. ‘I was worried about him. You see, I saw these three guys having a go at Mr Phillips in the car park. Back at the end of the summer term. I asked him about John then. We used to be really good mates.’

  ‘We know that, Mark.’ Weir laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘The thing is only a handful of people knew where he was. Did anybody ask you about him?’

  ‘You mean like the blokes I saw in the car park?’

  ‘Anybody.’

  Mark looked out of the window. ‘Only my dad,’ he said.

  Outside Ryan got in the car. ‘You want to bring Terry in, Guv?’

  Weir shook his head. ‘The boy’ll tell him we called. I want him to sweat. Sweating makes people nervous.’

  Mickey Blondhair did his sums. He sat on the floor of his bedroom and worked out the numbers. Then he wrote them down on the paper The Wasp had given him, and slipped the notes into the brown padded envelope. Pasting it down, he wrote the box number and the postcode on the front. Then he went outside.

  McCleod walked past the cafe, leafing through the pages of a newspaper. He watched as Mickey slid the package into the post box.

  Ninja sat in his girlfriend’s flat with the windows open. The TV flickered but he ignored it. Rain fell in sheets, splashing the inside of the sill. His sword lay on his lap: he smoothed his fingers over the blade and grimaced. The Wasp came in from the kitchen, two bottles of beer in his hands. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Chipped my fuckin’ sword.’

  ‘Where?’

  Ninja held it up to the light and The Wasp saw three little nicks, two thirds of the way down the blade. ‘Ach.’ He handed Ninja a beer. ‘Still works doesn’t it.’

  The Wasp sat down and stared at the TV. Ninja put the sword on the floor beside him then he picked it up and inspected it over again. The Wasp watched him from the corner of his eye. He shook his head. Ninja put the sword back in its scabbard and laid it on the floor. He tipped the neck of the bottle to his lips, wiped his mouth with his hand, and tipped the bottle again. He looked at The Wasp. ‘When do we get the money?’

  ‘Not till next Friday. He reckons it’ll take him that long to get it together.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  ‘What choice have we got?’

  Weir took the briefing, his first formal one since taking over from Vanner. He stood at the front with his hands in his trouser pockets. Morrison sat on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Just so you all know—DI Vanner is back at Campbell Row,’ he said. ‘No mystery. Personal interest became apparent so he could no longer be involved here. As we’ve got a second murder, albeit in Norwich, DI Weir will assist me from now on. The rest remains the same.’ He glanced at Weir. ‘Frank.’

  Weir stepped forward, flicked his gaze across their faces and cleared his throat. ‘Word from Bethel Street, that’s Norwich CID, is that Phillips died from a single stab wound. The blade was very long, per
haps some kind of sword. Good news is that the FME found two splinters in his rib cage. If we find the blade we should be able to match them.’

  Ryan said: ‘Any positive ID yet, Guv?’

  ‘Not so far. But if our two boys were there—it had to be for a couple of days at least.

  ‘They stand out a mile. Some bugger’ll’ve seen them.’ He looked at his notes on the desk.

  ‘The videotape from the security camera is being checked. It’s possible they watched from the car park.

  ‘Now. This morning Sammy clocked the dealer from Hawkswood School, posting a package. If our guess about the second tier is right then it could be to the box in Tufnell Park. We know there are two cards. If we’re to take this up the line we need the pickup man. The previous supposition—that it’ll be one and the same man for every box—is likely to be right. If I was running this operation, I’d only want one body collecting my cash. This box could give us the man. We don’t want to alert anyone unnecessarily, so for that reason we’re laying off Targets 2 and 3. If we get a positive ID from Norwich we’ll think again.’

  ‘We don’t want the weapon going walkabout, Guv,’ Anne said.

  Weir shook his head. ‘Not likely, Anne. The shape of the wound is the same as the Bream Park killing. If he used it twice —I reckon he’s quite attached to it.’

  ‘What about the prints in the mud?’ China asked.

  ‘Very expensive boots. Basketball type. Over a ton a pair.’ Weir grinned. ‘Not the kind of thing that’s going to get thrown away lightly. The print is distinctive. The heel worn on the inside. The wearer walks with his feet slightly in, not knock-kneed exactly but getting there.’

  Pierce folded his arms. ‘What about Target 1, Guv?’

  Weir looked at him. ‘We know from Phillips Senior that he only told one other person about John and the rehab clinic. That was Mark Terry. Sid and I paid him a visit. He told us—he only told his father.’

  McCleod scratched his head. ‘What about the dealers from the Bull’s Head? They had as much reason as anyone.’

  ‘Picked them up already,’ Ryan said. ‘Alibis all of them. They’ve got at least a dozen witnesses who’ll swear they were in the pub on Wednesday night.’

  Weir continued: ‘We’ve got a plot cleared with the Royal Mail. We can place a boy behind the box counter.’ He grinned then, showing his teeth. ‘So, who wants to play Pat for a day or two?’

  Vanner went into System X on Oxford Street. Friday morning, quiet in the shop, only one lad in a green sweatshirt, painting models at the table. He was intent on his work and did not look up. Another lad came out of a doorway behind the counter. Vanner nodded to him and then began to peruse the hundreds of tiny figures that lined the racks below the computer screens. He studied all of the packages individually but nothing caught his eye. As he turned to the battle table in the middle of the floor, the lad from the counter came up to him.

  ‘Can I help you at all?’

  Vanner looked at him. ‘Denny.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Have you got a character called Denny?’ He took a photocopy of Denny’s face from his wallet. ‘Looks something like this.’

  The lad looked at the picture, glanced briefly along the shelves and shook his head. ‘No. Sorry. Have you seen it somewhere?’

  ‘Did you ever have one?’

  ‘Not that I know of. But I’ve only been here a year.’

  ‘Who would know?’

  ‘Head Office, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you have the number?’

  Vanner rang the head office in Manchester. He was put through to the products department, who told him that the company was ten years old and that they changed their stock lines of models as and when the computer games went out of fashion. He said that he had not known of a Denny, but he would check. Vanner said he would send him a copy of the picture and gave him his home telephone number.

  He went back to Campbell Row and bumped into Ellis. They eyed one another on the stairs.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Vanner asked him.

  ‘Hash bust. Bit of smack.’ Ellis looked at him. ‘Denny was the main event though wasn’t he.’

  Vanner said nothing. He made his way up to his office. Inside, he shut the door and the confines of the room closed about him. To his credit, Ellis had been efficient in his absence, most of the stuff they were working on was up to date. As far as Vanner was concerned he could carry on being efficient. Sitting back in his chair, he watched the clouds roll like smoke above the city. On the pad there was a message for him to call McCague.

  ‘So what happened?’ McCague asked him when he got through.

  Vanner pushed at his eyes with stiff fingers. ‘Oh, the usual. Me and Morrison.’

  ‘Told me you had a personal interest that went undeclared. Then you went into somebody’s house. Bright of you, Vanner.’

  ‘My wife, Guv.’

  ‘Ex-wife.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bloody stupid thing to do. Even for you. Morrison said you had leave owing. He reckons the pressure must be getting to you.’

  ‘Morrison’s …’ Vanner began but stopped himself.

  ‘Maybe he’s right,’ McCague went on. ‘Maybe you came back too early.’

  ‘You think I need a holiday?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘What the hell would I do with it?’

  ‘Relax. Enjoy yourself. Go and find some sunshine. That’s what other people do.’

  ‘Right. Other people.’

  ‘Vanner,’ McCague said. ‘Just so’s you know. Morrison’s more than right on this one.’

  ‘I know.’ Vanner put down the phone.

  Eighteen

  MICHAEL TERRY SAT IN the club and watched Gallyon come up the stairs. He signalled to the barman for more drinks. Gallyon came over and Terry smiled at him. Gallyon sat down. They did not shake hands.

  The barman brought them their drinks. Gallyon took his glass and held it slack-handed, elbow resting on the arm of his chair. He stared at the cut under Terry’s eye.

  ‘I hear you had some trouble.’

  Terry touched the stitching. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  Gallyon nodded slowly.

  ‘Where’s Isabel?’

  ‘She’s not in tonight.’

  ‘No?’ Terry could not keep the irritation from his face.

  Gallyon shook his head. ‘You won’t be seeing her again.’ As he said it, he sat forward and plucked the freshened glass from Terry’s grasp. He put it down very carefully on the table. Then he looked at Terry, a deadness in his eyes like a shark before it bites. ‘You’re barred, Michael. I don’t want to see you again.’

  ‘What?’

  Gallyon leaned very close to him then. ‘You brought a Drug Squad copper to my club. That wasn’t part of the deal.’

  Terry was aware of an ache in his gut as if his bowels were suddenly loose.

  ‘That’s nothing, Bobby. I …’

  ‘I did some digging, Michael. Thought it best to check.’ Gallyon wrinkled his lip. ‘You lost me my best fixture in. years. Isabel isn’t a patch on her.’

  ‘Look, Bobby. You can’t …’

  Gallyon jabbed him with an index finger, suddenly hard in the throat. ‘Shut up, little man.’

  ‘But, South America …’

  ‘Don’t promise what you can’t deliver.’

  Terry’s eyes widened and Gallyon slowly nodded.

  ‘Word gets about, Michael.’

  Terry sat where he was, suddenly completely lost. Gallyon’s face was closed. ‘Now. Get out of my club.’

  Terry half-rose.

  ‘One more thing.’

  Terry looked back at him.

  ‘You’re on your own. You finger me in this—I’ll carve you up and feed you to my fish.’

  The following morning Jimmy Crack sat with Weir and Ryan. ‘Something went down, Guv.’ Jimmy glanced at Ryan as he said it. This was the first he knew about Vanner’s removal. Weir w
atched him. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t know exactly. Regional plant told me. Terry and Gallyon and then Terry with his marching orders. They escorted him out of the club.’

  Ryan crushed the plastic coffee cup in his hand. ‘Gallyon knows something then.’

  The phone rang on Weir’s desk. He picked it up and spoke for a few moments, then he put it down and lifted his fingers to his chin. ‘That was McCleod,’ he said.

  ‘Envelope just came in. Five hundred quid in cash.’

  Vanner was in the shower when he heard the phone ring. He bowed his head to the water and closed his eyes. The answer-phone would kick in. McCague’s last words were in his skull, rattling around like the water on his flesh, harsh and evident and correct. McCague was right. He had messed it up. Morrison would win. His kind always did. He and Weir would get their result and Morrison would be a player again.

  He towelled himself dry and listened to the voice on the answerphone. It was the products man from System X. There never was a character called Denny. Vanner felt his heart sink. Then it lifted again. Not Denny as in D E N N Y. But four years ago there had been a Deni. Sol-Deni V to be exact. A warlord and strategist in the Renus Four Meridian, some intergalactic war zone of the imagination. Vanner rubbed at his hair with the towel. Sol-Deni V. Half devil, half human. The products man said he would try to dig out an old brochure. Vanner reset the machine.

  Ryan followed him, black leather jacket and long hair hanging from under the lip of his crash helmet. He rode an old blue Honda. Ryan drove on his own. Up ahead was a bike. It would take over if he lost him in traffic. He watched while he waited for the lights to change in Marylebone. The second cardholder. This morning he had collected Mickey Blondhair’s money.

  Late that afternoon, he sat in the incident room with Weir and Jimmy Crack and some of the team from AMIR

  ‘He made three pickups from boxes and then delivered to the Strand.’ Ryan rubbed his face. Weir looked at the paper in front of him. ‘Sven-Lido?’

  ‘The company he delivered to at the mailing address.’

  Weir passed the paper to the girl standing next to him. ‘Get it fed into Holmes, love.’

  Ryan stretched. ‘What about Norwich?’ he said.

  ‘Getting there.’ Weir stood up and took off his jacket.