by Jeff Gulvin
‘Sir,’ Vanner said. ‘The information I have is secret and delicate. I’m only talking to you and DCI Westbrook.’
Morrison started to speak but Robertson quashed him with a downturned palm. ‘His right, Andrew. If the information is pertinent to AMIP you’ll know about it. Webb’ll show you downstairs.’
For a moment Morrison sat where he was. Weir looked uncomfortable and he rose first. Vanner stared at Morrison who held his eye, lips compressed, a bloodless line in his face. Webb held the door open for him.
When they were gone only Robertson, Westbrook and Vanner were left. Robertson shook his head as he sat down. ‘Politics,’ he said. ‘Can’t bloody stand them. Any coffee going anywhere?’ Westbrook went to the pot that Webb had brought in and poured three cups. He handed one to Vanner. ‘Now,’ Robertson said. ‘What’s this about?’
Seventeen
VANNER SIPPED HOT, BLACK coffee and looked at Robertson and Westbrook in turn.
‘February 1984,’ he began. ‘I was a captain in the Parachute Regiment.’
Robertson looked at him over the rim of his cup. ‘Go on.’
Vanner placed his cup and saucer on the edge of the desk. ‘I was part of an intelligence operation,’ he said. ‘Joint military and RUC Special Branch.’
Robertson looked at Westbrook.
‘90 Section intelligence officer,’ Vanner went. ‘We were looking at a nominal in Brindley Cross, South Armagh. Thomas Michael Quinlon. Part of an ASU responsible for explosions in Newry in ’82 and ’83.’ He paused then, remembering, a rain-filled night and the pub sign swinging on rusty hinges. ‘Quinlon got killed,’ he said quietly.
Robertson sat back. ‘And?’
‘The SB squad was comprised of four men,’ Vanner told him. ‘Priestley died of a heart attack. The others were Ray Kinane, David Quigley and Tim Phelan.’
‘Phelan?’
Westbrook sat forward and looked at Robertson. ‘Webb and Swann paid him a visit in Yorkshire last month, Sir. DPOA gave us a call from Belfast.’
‘Phelan thought he was being looked at,’ Vanner said. ‘Woman in the park. Three days on the trot. No kids with her. His bungalow looks over the green. He’s got a specially lowered window because he’s very disabled.’
‘Black-haired woman,’ Westbrook said.
Vanner nodded. ‘Your Ealing subject was shot with a Tokarev. The same gun killed Quigley in Morne in 1994.’
‘And Quigley was part of your team,’ Robertson said.
Vanner nodded.
‘And Kinane?’
‘He’s the lover who didn’t come forward when AMIP made their appeal through the papers.’
Westbrook lifted his eyebrows.
‘He works for a security firm,’ Vanner went on. ‘Clients of Jessica Turner.’ Robertson’s pager sounded and he looked down at it. ‘We’ll have to leave it there, Vanner. I’ll speak to you as soon as I can. Right now we’re going to be busy’
Weir drank Bacardi with ice but no Coke. Morrison sipped at a pint of bitter.
‘Shoot to kill,’ Weir said. ‘Vanner was involved in shoot to kill?’
‘He was an army intelligence officer attached to RUC Special Branch for six months, Frank.’
Weir made a face. ‘You mean this is about Vanner?’
‘I’d say so wouldn’t you?’
‘Why Jessica Turner?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they were really after Kinane. They’d already killed Quigley.’
Weir sipped Bacardi. ‘If they were after Kinane they’d’ve got him.’
‘Maybe. We’ll talk to him, Frank. This is still our inquiry’
Weir nodded. ‘I’ll take Ryan with me tomorrow’
‘Don’t take Ryan. Take somebody else. Ryan was Vanner’s minder in the Drug Squad.’
Weir looked at him. ‘Ryan’s sound, Andrew.’
‘Even so. Take somebody else.’
Vanner took the phonecall from Ray Kinane on his mobile. Kinane told him that he had been contacted by Frank Weir who was coming down to interview him. Vanner was in traffic, on his way from Camden Town to Victoria Street.
‘Just talk to them, Ray,’ he said. ‘You know the form.’
‘But my family?’
‘Tell them how it is. Maybe they won’t need to know.’
He heard Kinane sigh.
‘What can I tell you, Ray? You should’ve come forward at the time.’
‘Yeah Yeah. See you, Aden.’ Kinane hung up. Vanner switched his phone off and tossed it onto the seat next to him.
He was met by DCI Westbrook, who showed him into his office. There were three DCI’s on the branch, the other off-duty that morning. They had the office to themselves. Westbrook brought in coffee and sat opposite him. ‘Myself and George Webb have been working on the Ealing killing with AMIP, Vanner. The old man wants me to work on it with you. I’d like Webby’s input too if that’s okay with you.’
‘Anybody else?’
‘DS from the SB cell.’
‘Fine.’ Vanner drank coffee. ‘Where’s Webb now?’
‘On his way in. We were busy last night.’
‘Result?’
Westbrook smiled. ‘You didn’t read about it did you?’
They waited for Webb to arrive before they began in earnest. DS King from the Special Branch cell joined them and they used the DCI’s office as a briefing room.
‘It’s got to be connected,’ Vanner was saying. ‘Quigley was part of our intelligence unit, so was Phelan and so was Ray Kinane. Quigley was killed with the same weapon as Jessica Turner.’
‘That bit doesn’t make a lot of sense,’ Webb said. ‘Not in normal PIRA terms anyway’
‘You mean same gun—different killers.’
Webb nodded.
‘We don’t know that they weren’t different killers,’ King said. ‘We’ve no witnesses for the Morne shooting.’
Webb stroked his moustache. ‘I’d put money on the bird in the park in Yorkshire being the same as the one in the Turner house.’
‘But PIRA don’t use women for stuff like that,’ Vanner said.
‘No. You’re right. They don’t.’
They were still for a few moments then Vanner said. ‘Any definite maybe’s?’
Webb looked at King. ‘We had two,’ he said. ‘Both are alibi’d for February 12th.’
Vanner steepled his fingers. ‘Nobody claimed the Turner killing.’
‘No,’ Webb said.
‘Which generally means it’s a mistake.’
Webb nodded.
‘Only in this case it wasn’t a mistake,’ Vanner said. ‘They meant to kill her.’
‘Then it isn’t authorised PIRA,’ Westbrook stated.
‘I agree.’ Vanner half-smiled, looking at each of their faces in turn. ‘It’s revenge.’
‘After twelve years?’ Webb arched his eyebrows. ‘That’s a long time to get round to it.’
Vanner squinted at him. ‘Depends where you’ve been I guess.’
The Special Branch sergeant made notes. He scratched his ear with his pencil. ‘I still don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Quigley makes sense. Somebody looking at Phelan makes sense. I guess they saw how bad he was already and decided he wasn’t worth it.’
Vanner nodded.
‘But what about the Turner woman? Surely they’d go after Kinane.’
Nobody spoke. After a while Vanner said, ‘You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.’
Webb got up from his seat and wandered to the window. ‘We need to narrow this down now. We can’t assume that it is pure revenge, or that we’re looking at only one shootist.’ He looked back at Vanner. ‘Quinlon,’ he said. ‘We need chapter and verse.’
Vanner drank with Sid Ryan in Camden Town. Ellie was working late. They had a meal in the Greek Taverna and went across the road to the pub. Vanner bought beer and they sat in a booth near the door.
‘Weir spoke to Kinane?’ Vanner said.
Ryan nodded.
‘What d
id he say?’
Ryan made a face. ‘Not a great deal, confirmed the story that Michael Case gave us so at least we know he was telling the truth. Apparently there was a dummy in the road but nobody ever found it.’
‘You looked for it though, Sid?’
‘Course we did.’ Ryan rolled cigarettes.
‘Why didn’t one of them report it,’ Vanner said, ‘the body in the back of the car?’
Ryan lifted an eyebrow. ‘They were both playing away, Guv. Get a life.’
‘Yeah. Right. Sorry.’
Vanner sipped at his beer. ‘You’re quiet tonight, Sid.’
‘Not sure what to say, Guv’nor. You’re teamed up with SO13 now aren’t you. I mean I thought I was paranoid until I saw Morrison yesterday.’
‘Morrison’s got his own agenda, Slips.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You know then?’
‘Half-know. Weir wouldn’t take me to interview Kinane. I think that was Morrison’s idea. Party politics. He took Braithewaite instead. What I’m telling you is second-hand.’
Vanner lifted his foot to the other seat and rubbed his knee. ‘I’ll tell you, Slips. Morrison thinks I was involved in a shoot-to-kill policy in South Armagh in 1984.’
‘That’s what this is all about then?’
Vanner nodded.
‘Then why kill Jessica Turner?’
Vanner scratched his head. ‘I don’t know. The rest makes sense, but the pattern breaks there. Why go after her and not Kinane? He was the guilty party in their eyes.’
‘Revenge then?’
‘I don’t think PIRA are behind it. It’s their methods and it’s their weapon. But a Toky is not what they’d normally use for a hit. It’s a personal protection weapon at best. The killer is probably a paid-up member but PIRA aren’t officially behind it.’
‘Lone wolf then?’
‘I’d say so, yes.’
‘That doesn’t tell us why they shot Jessica Turner.’
‘I know.’ Vanner finished his beer and got up to get more. When he came back Ryan was looking thoughtful.
‘What’re 13 doing now, Guv?’
‘Looking for nominals.’
‘Again? They’ve done that already.’
‘They didn’t know then what they do now. They’re dragging files from RUC. They should be over in the morning. Then maybe we’ll get somewhere.’
Ryan nodded, looking at him with a strange light in his eyes. ‘Thought occurs to me, Guv.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If this is about revenge—someone’s looking at you.’
Eilish McCauley sat in Stepper-Nap’s Mercedes on the Chalk Hill estate in Wembley. From the paper shopping bag on her lap she took doughnuts and two cans of Coke. She handed one of each to him.
He stared coldly at her. ‘So what did you tell them, little girl?’
Eilish stopped, her teeth embedded in the doughnut. She sucked sugar from her lips. ‘Who?’
‘The Irish coppers. Who else?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t tell them anything.’
Stepper laughed then, a cruel sound, from way back in his throat. ‘Don’t dis’ me, girl. Nobody walks away from a kilo of crack.’
‘I did.’
‘Yeah. But why?’ He laid a cold hand on her shoulder and squeezed fingers into the muscle along her collar-bone. ‘Must’ve given them plenty to walk out of that one.’
Eilish was cold now, his hand alien on her flesh. She laid the unwanted doughnut in her lap. ‘I didn’t say anything, Stepper. They gave me bail.’
‘Signed papers did you?’
She looked at him.
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
He forced air from between his teeth. ‘Oh, Eilish, Eilish. You know what I do to people who stiff me. You ever seen what happens to people who snitch?’
She was shaking now. ‘I swear. Stepper. They let me go because I’ve got kids.’
‘Bullshit, girl.’ He was staring at her now, coal-black eyes. ‘I’ll tell you why you walked shall I?’
She did not reply.
‘Shall I, Eilish? Shall I?’
‘Go on then — why?’
‘Because there wasn’t any gear.’
Now she stared at him. ‘What d’you mean — no gear? I carried a kilo of crack for you.’
‘No you didn’t. You carried a kilo of candlewax.’ He leaned across the seat, face so close that she felt his breath on her face. ‘Nobody rips me off, Eilish. Not you or any of your kind.’
She stared at him, mouth open, mind working. Vanner and McKay and the Belfast Drug Squad. She forced her lips together.
‘When I sell for forty-five grand I get forty-five grand. Jimmy Carter’s cut was five grand at best. Nobody steals from me, Eilish. I don’t care who they are. They get in touch with you—you tell them no deal. They want do deal with Stepper-Nap—they pay first. You dig?’
She had her hand on the door. ‘You mean you got me to go over again, to leave my kids again, for a lump of fucking candlewax.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ Again he leaned toward her. ‘When you sleep with me, babe—you sleep with me—not some two-bit bum who works for me. You dig that, honey?’
She opened the door but Stepper caught her hand. ‘When I find out what you said—I’m going to peel your skin off.’
‘Thomas Michael Quinlon,’ King, the Special Branch DS said aloud. Webb sat next to him, watching the computer screen as he scrolled.
‘Active 1980 to 1984, wanted for causing explosions in Newry in 1982 and Londonderry RUC station in 1983. Also suspected of shooting an Orangeman in Ballymena in July 1981.’ He pushed his chair back and looked at Webb. ‘Shot dead by C 1-2 in 1984 at Brindley Cross. Unarmed and on foot. Running through a roadblock.’
Webb stroked his moustache and looked him in the eye. ‘Shit happens,’ he murmured.
The DS looked back at the screen. ‘He worked with Seamus Malloy in Armagh. Never came over here.’ He sat forward then and stared at the screen. ‘Look at this,’ he said.
‘What?’
The DS tapped the screen. ‘Female cell member, put away right after Quinlon got shot. Nine years for conspiracy to cause explosions. Got out in ’93.’
‘Mary-Anne Forbes,’ Webb said. ‘Picture?’
The DS pressed a button on the keyboard and a digitised image spread over the screen. She had long black hair.
Vanner sat in the squad room, drinking tea with Jack Swann. ‘Phelan seemed like a good man,’ Swann said. ‘Webby and I spent a couple of days up there just to make sure nothing was happening.’
‘And it wasn’t?’
Swann shook his head. ‘We’d have known if it was.’
Webb stuck his head around the door. ‘Guv’nor?’
Vanner looked up.
‘Going for a beer. You want to come along?’
Webb and Vanner took Webb’s car to the Spanish bar in the West End. Webb drove.
Vanner glanced behind at the bomb gear strapped in a bag on the back seat. ‘Always carry that stuff with you?’
Webb nodded. ‘Boot’s full too. First call out if something goes bang.’
Vanner shifted the magnetic blue light by his feet and dropped the window a fraction. The traffic was thick round Victoria station, buses and taxis clogging up the carriageway.
‘Never drink near the Yard then?’ Vanner said with a grin.
‘Would you?’
Vanner shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t have a Christmas party either.’
‘Just gatecrash everyone else’s.’ Webb pulled into the outside lane and overtook the taxi in front of them. ‘Westy’s going to join us later,’ he said. ‘Thought we’d chat over a beer instead of back at the Yard. Too much going on.’
‘You’re busy then?’
‘We’re always busy, Guv.’
They parked outside the bar and wandered down the steps. The barman grinned at Webb and started setting up some tapas. Webb or
dered Spanish beer for both of them and settled himself on a stool.
‘Local then?’ Vanner said.
‘Been drinking here for years.’
Vanner nodded to the staff. ‘Know what you do?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Look after you then?’
‘They do.’
They drank out of brown bottles and Vanner picked at the tapas. ‘We’ve got a possible,’ Webb said quietly. The bar area was empty save the two of them and the barman polishing glasses. Vanner lit a cigarette and broke the match in two. His mobile sounded on his belt and he unclipped it.
‘Vanner.’
‘Jimmy Crack, Guv.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Just spoke to our girl.’
‘Eilish?’
‘Blown out, Guv’nor. She said if she ever hears from me again she’ll make a formal complaint.’
‘Ah,’ Vanner said. ‘Cottoned on at last.’
‘Spitting blood. Stepper’s threatened to skin her.’
‘Then tell her to give him to us and we’ll put him away.’
Vanner put the phone away. Webb was eating potato pieces with a cocktail stick.
‘Eilish?’ he said.
‘McCauley. Remember her?’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Women’s wing of the IRA tattooed on her leg.’
‘Non-player, Guv. Somebody’s patsy that’s all.’
Vanner nodded. ‘The gear she was carrying turned out to be candlewax.’
‘Somebody on a wind-up.’
‘Harlesden posse. Jimmy Carter was involved.’
Webb lifted his eyebrows. ‘Nasty.’
Vanner ordered more beer and tucked into the potatoes himself. ‘Possibles, Webby?’
‘Oh yeah, right — SB got some information this afternoon. I was checking it with the DS while you were talking to Swann.’
‘Likely?’
‘Definite maybe.’ Webb leaned closer to him and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Mary-Anne Forbes.’
Vanner thought hard, the name was familiar. Then he remembered. ‘Quinlon, the Newry bombs.’
‘Right.’ Webb wiped his fingers on a serviette. ‘She was arrested three months after Quinlon’s death. Did nine years for conspiracy. She got out in ’93.’
‘I remember her,’ Vanner said. ‘But she had auburn hair.’