The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  The warder looked at him. ‘I can’t leave you alone with him.’

  ‘Yes you can.’

  The warder shook his head. ‘He doesn’t want to be on his own with you. Said so himself.’ He looked apologetic. ‘Sorry.’

  Vanner looked at Daniels, sitting with his feet pushed out under the table and his arms folded. The innocence of childhood. The guilt-ridden lamb from the courtroom. When questioned about Vanner assaulting him, he had been specific in his view that it was no more than he deserved. Sympathy from the jury. Acceptance from the judge. Now he just sat there with the same truculent expression Vanner had witnessed through a cell door a year ago. He sat down opposite. ‘Treating you well are they?’

  Daniels avoided his eye.

  Vanner watched him for a long moment and then he sat forward. ‘Got what you wanted then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Clever. Very clever.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘Course you do.’

  Daniels looked at him then as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘I don’t have to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes you do. You can’t quite help yourself. Just one time. Set up something like that and then get to gloat about it in the flesh.

  What kind of a buzz does that give you?’

  Daniels looked away from him.

  ‘Makes you a bit of a player doesn’t it.’ Vanner leaned his elbows on the table. ‘I suppose you know your mate John is dead.’

  ‘Never had a mate called John.’

  ‘Yes you did. You were in the same class at school. You and him and Mark. Funny how things go. Mates one day, enemies the next.’

  Daniels glanced at him again. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘It could happen to you. Word to the right face in here. Find you one day, hanging from your pyjama cord. Poor lad killed himself.’ He stared right in the eyes. ‘But you learned to keep your trap shut didn’t you. Saw the benefits. Few years and you’re out. What’re you going to do, the pair of you—start it up again?

  ‘March the 4th,’ he said. ‘That’ll be a date you don’t forget.’

  Daniels was looking at the wall. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Somewhere there’s money tucked away for you. That’s why you keep your mouth shut. The firm looking after its own. Read a lot of books on the Mafia did he? Bright boy like that. Business and politics. Ended up with quite an army.’

  He leaned more closely towards him. ‘Stitched up his old man—big-time. Were you in on that part?’ He sat back once more. ‘I have to say you did well. Wonderful little scam. Pity about the kids dying at parties. But then what’s another body? Tell me, Gary. Where does he put your money?’

  Daniels looked over at the warder. ‘I’d like to go now please.’

  The warder took a step towards them and Vanner lifted his hand. He looked into Daniel’s face. ‘Sol-Deni V,’ he said. ‘You had a little model in your pocket. The night we arrested you. That what you used for the pattern?’

  Daniels looked at the warder.

  ‘Mark can draw can’t he,’ Vanner went on. ‘He’s got a really steady hand. I’ve watched him in the shop on Saturdays. How long did it take him to get the hang of the signature?’

  Daniels lifted his eyes to the ceiling, then he pushed back his chair from the table. He signalled to the warder and stood up. Vanner sat where he was. Daniels looked at him and then offered him his hand. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Vanner. I’m glad you came. No hard feelings I hope.’

  Vanner stood in the Governor’s office. ‘Behaving himself is he?’

  The Governor looked over steepled fingers at him. ‘Model prisoner so far.’

  ‘I’ll bet he is. How long will it take to get the phone records?’

  ‘March you say?’

  ‘Particularly the 4th. And the few weeks beforehand.’

  ‘You can have them in a couple of days.’

  On the street outside, he lit a cigarette and pulled so hard on it he felt dizzy. He coughed and flicked it away. He walked, alone, through the grey streets of South London. The impassive face of Daniels at eighteen was almost terrifying. At a pelican crossing, he spotted a café over the road and he waited for the traffic to slow. On a billboard hoarding opposite, the face of Leah Betts looked down at him. He could not prove this. He knew he would never be able to prove it. Morrison had his man. Weir, had his man. Even Sid Ryan thought he had his man. An Ecstasy source removed. The PR would be wonderful.

  Ryan was with him when the phone records came in from Wandsworth. March 4th. He knew he would find it and he did. A call from the Wandsworth Prison payphone to Mark Terry’s house. He showed it to Ryan. ‘I’m right.’

  Ryan looked at it and scratched his head. ‘So he called him. Doesn’t prove anything. You said yourself —they were good mates from school.’

  ‘I know.’ Vanner took the sheet of paper from him and screwed it into a ball.

  ‘The evidence against Terry’s rock solid, Guv.’

  Vanner looked up at him. ‘You really think it’s him?’

  ‘Yeah. I do.’

  ‘So you think all this is just me looking for a reason?’ Ryan opened his hands.

  He sat there long after it got dark, hunched in his seat like the dwarf he had seen on Michael Terry’s dashboard. The office outside was silent. Everyone else had gone home. He picked up the phone and dialled Hendon.

  ‘Morrison.’

  ‘Morrison, this is Vanner. There’s things we need to talk about.’

  Morrison looked at his watch. ‘I hope this won’t take long, Vanner. I’m due at a dinner party tonight.’

  Vanner looked at him.

  ‘I thought you were on leave anyway.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Other people go away, Vanner. They rest. You know—relax.’

  Vanner sat down across from him. Morrison sat back in his chair, the red of his hair like a low fire on his scalp.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

  Morrison laughed at him. ‘Take the holiday, Vanner. You’re getting to be ridiculous.’

  ‘Your evidence is circumstantial.’

  Morrison sucked at his teeth. ‘This is going to take a while isn’t it.’

  Vanner sat back once more. ‘It’s not Terry. It’s his son.’

  ‘His son?’

  ‘Yes. They have the same initials. They’re both M. A. Terry. You only need initials on company figures. The bank account was already open. No need for anyone to see anyone. Particularly with no borrowing. He only needed to forge the signature.’

  ‘Vanner, I haven’t got the time …’

  ‘Listen to me.’

  Morrison compressed his lips.

  ‘Mark Terry works in System X,’ Vanner said. ‘Sol-Deni V was a character from five years back. He was a victim of the environment he was brought up in. Greed. Arrogance. Ruthless competition. He was dumped into it. Just like Mark Terry. To survive he had to adapt to his surroundings. Just like Mark Terry. He was good at it. Not at first, but in time. He was educated. He used what he found around him, an army of wasted kids. The long-time losers of the society he lived in.

  ‘He looked around him, saw the game, and then he fought back from the street. Mark Terry used to collect the models. He knew all about Sol-Deni. He sat in that shop week after week and painted figures. He was good at painting, good at drawing. He learnt it from his dad. His dad had dumped him when he was twelve. He went from Hampstead to the Kirstall Estate. He didn’t see him for three years. Long time to brood that. Long time to plan. Long time to think about getting even.’

  Morrison looked sour. ‘You’re fantasising, Vanner.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Mark Terry was friends with John Phillips. There was a third member of the team, but I’ll come to him in a moment. Terry and Phillips started this. The third member knew The Wasp. The Wasp knew the kids on the estates. Some of them ended up in the hostels.’

&nbs
p; He sat forward again. ‘One of the things that doesn’t add up here is the hostels. Why would Michael Terry bother with street kids? He’d only do that if he needed stake money. He was making cash from his sales to Iraq and wherever else he was selling. He and Bobby Gallyon had a great deal going. James Bentt’s information. Access to the goods before they ever got to auction. What did he want with street thieves?’

  Morrison was watching him more closely now. ‘Think about it.’ Vanner said. ‘He didn’t need a stake. He didn’t need to bring in E’s or acid or anything else for that matter. His son went abroad with him. To Amsterdam. E’s are everywhere in Amsterdam. Anton Cready’s set up acid lines in Amsterdam. He must have made the contact there. It wouldn’t have been difficult. You can get the gear anywhere. Cready’s an acid man from the sixties. He’s known all over the world. But no one’s been able to nick him.’

  ‘The evidence, Vanner.’

  Vanner nodded. ‘A warehouse by the estate rented by M. A. Terry. Why would his father do that? Sven-Lido. A name-change on a dormant company. Mailing address. A bunch of dodgy accounts.’

  ‘Fingerprints on a bottle, Vanner. The phone calls to The Wasp’s mobile.’

  ‘The Wasp.’ Vanner sat straighter. ‘Resident of the Kirstall Estate, where Mark Terry lives.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Those two calls came on a Saturday night. Right?’

  ‘No. One did. The other was in the week.’

  ‘You’re right. I forgot. That weekend Terry was in Amsterdam. Mark must’ve stayed in the week. Did you ask Terry where his son was on the night of those calls?’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Because he was there in the flat with him.’

  Morrison sat forward. ‘Vanner. This is all supposition. What evidence have you got?’

  ‘I’ve got a catalogue from System X.’

  ‘That’s evidence?’

  ‘Sven-Lido’s an anagram of Sol-Deni V You know what else it spells?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘Break up the letters again—they spell Devil Son.’

  Morrison looked at his watch. ‘I’m late, Vanner.’

  ‘There was a third body.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He’s in Wandsworth Prison. I visited him. It was just like old times.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gareth Daniels.’

  Morrison shook his head.

  ‘When we nicked him for killing Eileen Mitchell he had a model of Sol-Deni V in his pocket,’ Vanner said. ‘I knew I’d seen it before, but the face on the squares was just that—a face. Without the rest—I didn’t recognise it.’

  Morrison was quiet for a moment and then he smiled. ‘You know something, Vanner. I wonder if you’ve thought about seeing the doctor. There’s nothing more stressful than carrying a personal grudge.’ He sat forward. ‘Eats away at you. Believe me. I know.’

  Vanner stared at him. ‘I got hit by Ninja and Wasp.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ He leaned forward. ‘Gareth Daniels was the third member of the team. He recruited The Wasp and in turn Ninja and so it went on. Trouble is, like John Phillips, Daniels liked to do the gear himself. With Phillips it was smack. Daniels E’s and acid and whatever else he could lay his hands on. He was high as a kite when he hit Eileen Mitchell. That’s why he got away with manslaughter.’

  ‘You’re not telling me anything, Vanner.’

  ‘Daniels got put away. He kept his mouth shut, but for that he wanted a favour. He’s also receiving money.’

  Morrison looked at him. ‘You can prove that?’

  ‘No. But it’s somewhere. Safety deposit box maybe. Cash piling up for when he gets out.’

  Morrison started to get up. ‘I don’t have time for this.’

  ‘Remember how he dropped his assault charge against me? Remember how meek and mild he was in the dock, all tears and apologies and innocence? The night I was hit on Eversholt Street, Daniels phoned Mark Terry from Wandsworth.’

  Morrison stood up. ‘None of this proves anything. So he made a phone call. You said just now they were friends.’ He leaned his hands on the desk. ‘Listen, Vanner. I lost my way once because of you. I’m not going to do it again. Nothing you’ve told me holds water. All you have is supposition based on your own desire to get even. They mugged you. That’s what they did, Vanner. They mugged you.’

  He lifted his coat from the peg. ‘Michael Terry’s been charged. We’ll get a conviction. It’s a result, Vanner. A good one.’

  Vanner stood up then and looked at him. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘A result.’

  Morrison pointed his finger, stiff, like a dagger at him. ‘Don’t make waves.’

  Vanner moved to the door. ‘I hope you enjoy your dinner.’ After Vanner had gone, Morrison sat down again, still holding his coat in one hand. For a long moment he stayed there. Soon he would be late for dinner. He had better phone Jean. Vanner’s face assaulted him; grim, cold, dark eyes that penetrated until you bled. He would be glad of the move when it came. He looked at the neat, closed file on his desk and stood up. He paused and half-lifted the cardboard cover. Then he shook his head and let it drop again. Switching off the light, he went out to his car.

  Vanner saw Mark Terry get off his bike by the steps to his mother’s flat. He called out to him. Mark stopped, looked round and Vanner crossed the road. He leaned on the wall, lifted his hands and clapped.

  ‘Very clever, Mark. Very, very clever. Your mother out all night and you with time on your hands. Tell me: what did you do with the money?’

  Vanner opened his coat. ‘It’s all right, Mark. You can talk to me. I’m not wired or anything.’ He let his coat drop again. ‘Where’d you find out about Cready—on a little trip with your dad?’

  ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘Hitting me would be Gary’s idea wouldn’t it. I mean—you’re too clever for that.’

  Mark looked away from him. ‘I’m late,’ he said.

  Vanner paced around him. ‘Why d’you leave all the names on the computer? Unnecessary that. Those boys were loyal to you.’

  Mark looked at him then. ‘There’s no loyalty in business.’

  ‘Ah. You do talk. No loyalty in business. Learn that at college did you?’ He stopped pacing. ‘Don’t you care about your father? He must be a very bewildered man. What did you do—take a bottle of water from his flat—plant it over there?’ He pointed towards the warehouse. ‘He’s going to be gone forever, your dad. You know—you only get one.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have done what he did.’

  ‘You mean dump you and your mother?’ Vanner moved closer to him. ‘Is that what it’s about, Mark? Revenge? Or did you just look about you, see what the world was like and play the game yourself. Sol-Deni V. Isn’t that what he did?’

  He sat on the wall and folded his arms. ‘Is that how it was —business rather than revenge? Was the revenge just a nice little sideline? Little bit of insurance, sort of underwriting your risk.’

  Mark did not answer him. Vanner cocked his head to one side. ‘You learned a lot from your dad didn’t you, Mark. Business. Politics. Revenge. You looked at what he did and then you did it yourself. Only you did it better.’

  Mark said nothing.

  ‘But killing people, Mark. John Phillips. What’s it like to kill your friends?’

  Mark looked at him coldly. ‘There are no friends in business, Vanner. And business kills people every day. Union Carbide: they killed people in Bhopal. Governments kill people. Our government kills people. They killed a whole bunch of them in the sixties: revoked the British passports of Ugandan Asians—retrospectively. That meant they couldn’t come here. Idi Amin was pleased. He got to massacre them all.’ He wheeled his bike a little closer. ‘I learned that in politics.’

  Vanner stared at him. ‘You made the call to Holland didn’t you. Set up the tip-off with the Dutch police. Tell me: what d’you do for an encore?’


  Mark lifted his bike to his shoulder. ‘I have to go now. My tea will be ready.’

  Vanner stood on the ramp and watched him climb the steps. ‘I’m going to watch you, Mark. You’ve been a naughty boy. Naughty boys get punished.’

  At the landing Mark paused and looked back. ‘No they don’t. The clever ones walk away. He smiled and looked out across the estate. ‘The game’s over. Face it, Vanner. You lost.’

  Acknowledgments

  In researching this novel the author was accorded access to various units of the Metropolitan Police Force. He would like to thank those concerned for their assistance and confidence.

  A special thanks to Paul Cox

  Close Quarters

  An Aden Vanner Novel

  Jeff Gulvin

  For Amy and Chloe,

  my daughters

  I’d like to say a special thanks to my agent and friend, Ben Camardi, whose support, consistency, and advice has allowed my career to keep rolling when it looked like the roads were closed.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Acknowledgments

  A Biography of Jeff Gulvin

  One

  RAIN FELL IN BRITTLE rods that broke against the windscreen. Jessica drove sitting hunched forward in the seat with the wipers flicking back and forth before her eyes, mist on the inside of the glass. The clock on the dashboard read nearly seven thirty. She knew she would be there before him.

  Cars passed her on the outside lane as she slipped off the motorway and dipped down the slope to the Cadnam roundabout. Headlights shone suddenly fierce in the mirror as a car braked hard behind her. She pulled onto the roundabout, followed the road under the motorway and turned left into the forest on the old B road. The car behind followed her.