by Jeff Gulvin
Morrison came down the stairs. ‘We’re making progress, Sir,’ Weir told him.
‘I heard.’ Morrison glanced at Ryan. ‘Mailing address?’
‘Company called Sven-Lido.’
‘Do we have his name, this biker?’
‘Jackson. Damien Jackson.’
‘What about the address? What happens to the stuff that’s delivered?’
‘Get’s collected, Sir,’ Ryan told him. ‘Cyclist. Smog mask, helmet. Never takes it off.’
Morrison sat down. ‘So now we watch and wait. Anything more from Norwich?’
‘We’ve got two bodies on the video tape,’ Weir said. ‘Not very clear, the cameras are high and it was dark. About eleven —eleven-thirty the night before. The tape’s being sent over. We’ll get it down to the lab.’
Morrison smiled then. ‘Results. Not before time.’ He glanced at Weir. ‘Change of face—change of fortunes.’ He looked then at Ryan. ‘Sometimes it happens that way. Eh, Sid?’
Ryan had a drink with Jimmy Crack. ‘Fucking Morrison gets right up my nose.’
‘Don’t let him bug you. He needs the result like all of us.’ They sat down at a table and Ryan flipped beer mats. ‘You seen the Guv’nor, Jim?’
‘Nope.’
The door opened and Vanner walked out of the rain. Ryan said: ‘You better get him a pint.’
Vanner sat down and Jimmy placed a beer before him. Vanner ran his fingers over the glass and wiped them on his jeans. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s the story?’
Ryan looked at Jimmy, who grinned.
‘Come on, boys,’ Vanner went. ‘This is how it was when I beat Weir for IO. Cosy chats with the lads. Now it’s the other way round.’
Ryan told him what they had discovered about the mailing address and the tapes from Norwich. Jimmy told him about Terry’s sudden and abrupt departure from Gallyon’s nightclub. Vanner hissed air through his teeth. ‘Got himself in a corner. Now he’s lost his cleaner.’ He lifted the glass to his lips. ‘The artwork,’ he said. ‘It’s not Denny.’
Ryan scratched his head.
‘I mean not as in D E N N Y,’ Vanner went on. ‘It’s D E N I.’ He explained all that he had discovered from System X and when he had finished Ryan cocked one eyebrow.
‘I thought you were on leave, Guv’nor.’
‘I am.’
‘Sort of busman’s holiday is it?’
‘I never did like the sun.’
Vanner drove home and parked his car. His house was dark. He wondered why he was surprised. It was always dark. There was one message on his answerphone. He pressed ‘play’ and listened to it. ‘Aden. This is Jane. I think we need to talk.’
Her voice. The first words save sorry in eleven lonely years. He closed his eyes, rewound the tape and played it back. Then he rewound it once more and listened all over again. He could not call her back. How could he call her back?
He sat in the darkness and waited for the phone to ring. He did not know how long he waited, but he waited. The phone did not ring. Still, he sat there and looked at it. After a while he wondered why he sat there at all. He got up and went down to the kitchen. It occurred to him then that his kitchen was in the basement just like Jane’s, only hers was crisp and clean and white and his had a cooker, a sink and a draining board. He poked about in the fridge, found nothing, and went back upstairs again.
He bought a bar meal and ate it in a corner. When he was finished he sat back with his eyes closed and heard her voice again. He saw her in his head, wrapped in a towel—only it was not her face. It was Lisa Morgan’s face and it was scarred.
He doodled. Sol-Deni V, a character from somebody’s imagination. An unwritten name on the street. He shook his head, piecing it all together. But some of it did not fit. He bought another beer and carried it back to the table. He looked down at his scribble, Weir and Morrison thick as thieves in his head. He was losing. Maybe he had lost already. Maybe he should just up and go and take the time that was owing. But go where? Norfolk, alone in the cottage with only his memory for company. He looked again at the name on the slip of paper, curling before him on the table. He took up his pen, lit a cigarette and doodled afresh. He shifted letters, moved them around, rolled them into one another and separated them out again. And as he did so, idly at first, the letters took on new meaning. He listed them in capitals at the top of the page and then shuffled them again. When he was finished he laid down the pen.
SOL-DENI V—SVEN-LIDO.
In his house the phone was ringing. He heard it as he unlocked the door. Seven rings and the answerphone would click in. He picked it up at the sixth.
‘Vanner,’ he said.
Silence, the sound of somebody breathing and then her voice in his ear.
‘Aden. It’s Jane.’
His knuckles whitened about the phone. ‘Hello, Jane.’
Again a silence and this time it stretched.
‘This is really difficult,’ she said at last.
The breath broke from him and he leaned against the wall. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’
‘Can I see you?’
‘Why?’
‘You came to see me. You frightened the life out of me, Aden.’
‘You told Andrew.’
‘Of course I did. He’s my husband.’
He was silent again.
‘Aden. Let’s meet. I can’t just leave it like this.’
Can’t you? He thought. No last word. You leaving me. Not me leaving you.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘If you want to.’
‘Neutral ground. Restaurant. Pub maybe.’
‘Where?’
‘What about the West End?’
‘Okay.’
‘Any suggestions? I don’t know many places.’
Vanner thought for a moment and then he smiled. ‘What about Blake’s bar on Long Acre?’
‘Okay. Next Friday. About eight?’
‘I’ll be there.’
He put down the phone, went up to the bathroom and washed his face. He stared at himself in the mirror, the look in his eyes haunting him. Dark eyes, dead eyes, bereft of any feeling and yet burning up with it. Downstairs again, he picked up the phone and called Ryan at home.
Terry sat in darkness, the lights of the city tracing the horizon before him. St Paul’s glowed in its floodlights. He chewed his nails, the silence of the room deafening him. No edge. No Gallyon. No Isabel. Just the silence that broke from inside him. He lifted the little coloured dwarf from the table and squeezed it hard in his hand.
Ryan went down to the incident room, the hum from the Holmes Suite in his ears. China was there with Anne and Jimmy Crack. Weir was in his office on the phone. Morrison was nowhere in sight.
‘You going to the plot in the Strand, China?’ Ryan asked him.
China nodded.
‘Wait a minute. Will you.’
Ryan went into Weir’s office and Weir put down the phone. ‘Result, Slips. We’ve got a positive ID on Targets 2 and 3 in Norwich. Waitress from McDonalds. She saw them there on Tuesday.’
Ryan nodded. ‘Got something else for you, Guv.’
Weir looked at him. ‘What?’
‘System X. The shop where Mark Terry works. One of those space model war games places. You know computers and that.’
‘What about it?’
Ryan sat down and leaned his elbows on his knees. ‘The artwork, Guv. I did a bit of digging. There is no Denny. Not as in DENNY anyway. It’s DENI.’
Weir moved to the edge of his seat.
‘The face on the squares. The cartoon. Comes from a character called Sol-Deni V,’ Ryan went on. ‘Made obsolete four years ago.’
‘What kind of character?’
‘Warlord, General …’ Ryan flapped out a hand. ‘Strategist. Boss man. Whatever.’
‘And Terry’s kid works there?’
‘Yeah. He paints the models. And guess who taught him to paint?’
‘His old man.’
‘E
xactly.’ Ryan folded his arms. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘Sven-Lido. It’s an anagram of Sol-Deni V.’
The following Wednesday, Weir stood with Morrison and Ryan in the offices of the Financial Investigation Unit at Campbell Row, David Starkey was leafing through the papers on his desk before them.
‘Results of the Inquiry Order?’ Weir said.
Starkey nodded. ‘Sven-Lido’s only a trading style. In itself it tells us nothing.’
‘What d’you mean a trading style?’ Weir asked him.
‘It’s not a company in its own right. It’s so and so trading as Sven-Lido.’
‘So who’s it affiliated to?’
‘We don’t know. You don’t have to register trading styles.’
Weir sat back and folded his arms. ‘So it doesn’t tell us anything then.’
‘Not in itself.’ Starkey licked his lips. ‘But, we’ve checked Terry’s history. Every company he’s ever had a connection with.’
‘And?’
‘He’s been about. His main business now is a sole proprietorship—MTI. Michael Terry Imports. We can get very little on that other than the bank details. There’s no accounts listed because it’s not a limited company. The bank don’t hold any because he doesn’t borrow.’ He pointed to the paper in front of him. ‘We checked with Companies House, and he’s a director of seven other companies. Six we’ve discounted. They’re effectively run by other people. He just draws a dividend.’
‘What about the seventh?’
Starkey smiled. ‘Now that is interesting.’ He tapped the papers in front of him. ‘Company called Calgary Holdings. It was dormant until two years ago and it was known as Catskill Ltd. But then it was reactivated. A name-change was registered, the registered office changed too. Bank accounts going again.’
‘Bank accounts?’ Morrison looked at him. ‘I thought bank accounts were closed if a company was dormant.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Starkey lifted his shoulders. ‘As long as a company hasn’t been struck off the register they can hold a bank account. Anyway, two years ago this Catskill became Calgary Holdings. Calgary Holdings has a number of subsidiary companies. None of them seem to trade very heavily. But the balance sheets of Calgary Holdings are strong.’ He paused. ‘Well, I say balance sheets—there is only one.’
Morrison scratched his head. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘It’s been reactivated for two years. There should be two sets of accounts. But they had an eighteen-month period for their first year.’
Ryan cocked an eyebrow. ‘Eighteen months for a year. That makes a lot of sense.’
Starkey grinned at him. ‘Puts off the tax-man, Slips. In this case just as well.’
Morrison sat forward. ‘Why?’
‘Because the assets on the balance sheet are properties. It’s a property rental company.’
‘So what’s significant about that?’
‘The properties don’t exist.’
Morrison looked at Weir, who looked in turn at Starkey. ‘So what’re you telling us, Dave?’
‘That the company’s turning money over which is listed as investment income. Only there are no investment properties.’
Ryan picked up the set of accounts and leafed through them. ‘How do you know?’
‘Bank gave me a list. They asked for it when the account went into overdraft for a while. They didn’t have a charge on any of them. They just wanted to know what they were.’ He made an open-handed gesture. ‘I checked them out. None of them exist. Terry’s pushed money through his account. It’s not cash. It’s clean enough, and there’s not much of it considering. But he’s putting it through as rental income only there’s no properties to get rent from.’
Morrison drew his brows together. ‘What can the bank tell us about Terry?’
‘Nothing. They’ve never met him.’
‘What d’you mean they’ve never met him?’
‘Everything’s done by letter. They don’t need to meet him. He’s got no borrowing facility.’
‘What about the overdraft you talked about?’
‘Blip. One-off, Guv. The property list reassured them. Couple of weeks—the account was back in credit.’
Weir leaned on the desk. ‘I don’t see how any of this links up with Sven-Lido,’ he said.
‘The registered office of Calgary Holdings,’ Starkey said. ‘It’s the mailing address in the Strand.’
McCleod opened the parcel that was placed in the box by the Tufnell Park staff. Five bundles of used notes. Quickly he counted. Ten thousand pounds. He picked up his mobile phone.
The Wasp sang as he sprayed his dreadlocks with hot water from the shower. It dribbled into his mouth, making him gurgle. The girl watched him from the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. ‘What’re you so happy about?’
The Wasp switched off the tap and picked up the towel from the chipped enamel of the radiator. ‘I’m in a good mood today.’ He winked at her. ‘You ought to make the most of it.’
Ninja waited for him, sitting on the raised wall above the arch at the front of the building. The Irish hags, who frequented the café opposite, were cackling away together on the corner. Ninja looked up as The Wasp came down the steps. The Wasp nodded across the road. ‘Don’t fancy yours much?’ he said.
Ninja did not smile. ‘I’m coming with you.’
The Wasp squinted at him then. ‘Don’t be silly, man. We’ve been through that. You’ll only scare the girl behind the counter.’
Ninja rolled his good eye at him, lifting it so most of the white was visible. ‘You fuck me and I’ll kill you.’
‘When you gonna learn to relax?’
‘When I’ve been paid.’
‘Today’s Friday. He’ll pay.’
‘Well, he better fuckin’ had.’
The Wasp wagged his head at him. ‘You know what your problem is? You don’t trust anyone.’
‘I don’t trust you, Wasp. Maybe you should remember that.’
The Wasp shook his head. ‘You ain’t going to spoil my party, man. Wait here and I’ll be back in half an hour.’
‘Longer and I’ll be looking for you.’
McCleod saw him come into the post office. The Wasp was smiling at everyone. He sauntered across the floor and leaned on the sill, the other side of the glass. He looked at McCleod, face losing its smile. Then he pushed his card under the glass.
‘You got a package for me?’
‘Wait a minute.’ McCleod avoided his eye. He took the card and went into the other room. The Wasp leaned on the counter and looked about him. People queuing. Old ladies waiting for pensions.
McCleod came back with a large jiffy bag in his hands. He set it down on his side of the counter. The Wasp licked his lips. McCleod took the form and slid it across to him.
‘Sign please,’ he said.
The Wasp picked up a pen and scrawled. McCleod took the paper back from him and inspected it. Then carefully he checked the signature against that of the card. He caught sight of the pager watch on The Wasp’s wrist. Opening the glass panel, he handed him the package.
‘Thanks,’ Wasp said. ‘Have a nice day.’
McCleod nodded. He watched him wander back across the floor and then he lifted his radio.
Ryan climbed out of the car, Pierce and China with him. They saw The Wasp come out of the post office and they moved up behind him. China stepped round in front of him. The Wasp stopped, stared in his face for a second, and then made a dive for the road. Ryan floored him, grabbing him round the middle and bundling him onto the tarmac. The Wasp rolled, the package still in his grasp. Pierce ripped it out of his hands and Ryan sat on his chest. ‘You’re nicked,’ he said.
From the doorway of the electrical goods shop on the corner, Ninja stood and watched them.
Vanner sat at the table and waited, a bottle of Becks before him. He looked at his watch. Eight-fifteen already. He looked out of the window. Perhaps she would not come. Perhaps this was just her way o
f winding him up still further. He toyed with the bottle of beer, opened but still untouched. Then he saw her, moving between the black metallic bollards. She stepped into the bar.
He could smell her; the scent under the arch; the scent on the clothes in her bedroom: the scent he remembered of old. He did not say anything, did not rise from his seat as she sat down opposite him. She took off her coat and laid it behind her and then she turned and looked at him.
‘Hello, Aden,’ she said.
‘Hello, Jane.’
Stiffened silence. Eleven wasted years. He looked at her face, eyes, hair. He looked away, half-lifted his bottle and then he looked back at her. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘I’ll have a dry white wine please.’
Vanner signalled the bar.
Her wine came and she sipped it. He could see the imprint of her lips on the glass as she set it down. He took out his cigarettes, shook the packet and offered one to her.
‘You still use these?’
‘Sometimes.’ She took one and he lit it for her. His hand was steady. She looked in his eyes then and blew a trail of smoke at the ceiling. She crossed her legs and he heard the rustle of silk. Her suit, two-piece in pale blue, was expensive and neat and everything that said everything about her now. He sat back, put the match to his own cigarette and trailed smoke from his nostrils.
‘Why did you come to the house?’
Such a simple question. But one for which he had no answer. He moved in his seat, feeling his trousers sticking to him at the thigh. The air had died in the bar. The murmur of other people’s conversation. The movement of bodies at the door. He could feel them, half-see them. ‘I had to,’ was all he could say.
‘You had to?’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘After eleven years?’
He did not say anything. He had nothing to say. He held her gaze more evenly now and the thudding had stilled in his chest. The sureness of old was back in her face, full lips about the cigarette, dark-painted nails, and slim fingers. A charm bracelet in gold graced her wrist, drifting over her palm where she held the stem of her glass. He could sense every inch of her. Her face sought his for an answer. Little lines in her skin: he had not noticed them before. ‘I avoided you, Jane. I didn’t want to see you. I wanted to move on. Forget.’