The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘So where were you on February 12th?’

  Eilish shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’d have to check.’

  Vanner watched, stony faced through the security mirror. Eilish facing him yet not seeing him.

  ‘Come on,’ Westbrook said. ‘It wasn’t that long ago.’

  ‘I said—I’d have to check.’

  ‘You were in Ealing, Eilish,’ Webb cut in. ‘Sitting in your car with your little black gun. How’d you get that—bring a bag back on one of your trips home?’

  Eilish said nothing.

  ‘Why’ve you got a PIRA tattoo on your leg?’

  Eilish touched her thigh through the paper suit. ‘I did it when I was a kid. Kids do things like that.’

  Webb placed both hands behind his head and crossed his legs underneath the chair.

  ‘Eilish, we found a pink wool sweater in your house.’

  ‘That old thing. I haven’t worn it in years.’

  ‘A piece of the elbow is missing. When we match it to a piece we found at Jessica Turner’s house on the night she was murdered that’ll place you at the crime scene.’

  For a moment fear showed in Eilish’s face. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘When was February 12th?’

  ‘What d’you mean when?’

  ‘What day, stupid?’

  ‘Sunday.’ Webb sat forward again. ‘You still haven’t told us why you shot Jessica Turner. You killed Quigley. Why not Kinane? You had him there on the Friday.’

  ‘And Tim Phelan, Eilish,’ Westbrook cut in. ‘What stopped you killing him—some sort of warped compassion? Maybe you figured he’d had enough already, not having any legs or anything.’

  Eilish looked him in the eye. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re on about. I don’t know anyone called Quigley and I don’t know anyone called Phelan.’ She thought for a moment and then a light sparked in her eyes. ‘And on February 12th I was at a party in Brighton.’

  Behind the security mirror Vanner suddenly stared at her. Webb was talking, but Vanner did not hear him. He stared at Eilish, the clarity sudden but there in her eyes. February 12th—a party in Brighton. Brighton by the sea. Getting up from his chair he went out to his car.

  His mind was racing, all the way back to Campbell Row. He had thought of ringing Jimmy Crack instead of going himself, but he would still be on his way back from Winchester.

  China was the only one in the squad room. ‘Where’s everyone?’ Vanner asked him.

  ‘Plaistow, Guv. Amphee plot.’

  Vanner nodded. He went to the Exhibits cabinet at the back of the room and opened the second drawer. Jimmy Crack’s photographs were bound by a rubber band and sealed inside a clear plastic sleeve. For a second Vanner stared at them. China was watching him, a quizzical expression on his face. Vanner took the pictures through to his office, where he opened them. His heart sank as he looked at the date inscribed electronically on the bottom as the camera took the photograph. 12.2.96.

  He looked very carefully at the picture of Eilish standing between Young Young and Stepper-Nap. Stepper had his left hand draped over her shoulder, hand all but across her breast. On his wrist was a big fat rolex. Vanner thought for a moment and then took the picture downstairs to the Financial Investigation Unit. Dave Starkey was sitting at his desk. He smiled as Vanner walked in.

  ‘Hello, Guv. What can I do for you?’

  ‘The microscope thing, Dave. The one you use for checking notes and stuff. Is it about?’

  Starkey took him through to the mini lab in the back office and Vanner handed him the picture. ‘The watch,’ he said. ‘I want to know what time it says.’

  Starkey played around with the focus and then bent closer to the lens. ‘Ten to twelve,’ he said. ‘Have a look for yourself.’

  Vanner went back upstairs and for a long time he sat in his chair. Eilish with Young Young and Stepper-Nap, dark, the lights of the pier and the sea in the background. She couldn’t have killed Jessica Turner. The phone rang on the desk and he picked it up. Jimmy Crack, voice interrupted by the hiss and rattle of the mobile line.

  ‘Jimmy. Where are you?’

  ‘Just left Winchester. She’s on the move, Guv. We’ll tag her all the way and hope that customs don’t stop her on the way back.’

  ‘Can’t we make sure they don’t?’

  ‘The way they’re acting at the moment—you must be joking.’

  Vanner was silent.

  ‘What’s happening your end?’

  ‘It isn’t Eilish, Jimmy.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Can’t be. The night of the party with the Brit-Boy posse. The photos remember? February 12th, Jim. Eilish was in Brighton.’

  Vanner put down the phone, looked at the pictures once more then scooped them into a pile and thrust them back in the envelope. Getting up, he placed them in his jacket pocket and went back to his car. On the way to Paddington he phoned George Webb. ‘What’s happening with the suspect?’

  ‘Sticking to her story about Brighton, Guv. Reckons she was there until Monday.’ Webb laughed. ‘Trouble is she can’t give us a single name who’ll verify it.’

  Vanner put his mobile down and drove. Of course she couldn’t. They were all crack dealers. But that did not change the fact she was alibi’d.

  Webb and Westbrook were both in the canteen when Vanner got back to Paddington. He found them at a table drinking tea, bought himself a cup of coffee and sat down.

  ‘You look happy,’ Webb said.

  Vanner produced the photographs from his jacket pocket and laid them out in front of them. He tapped the date at the bottom right-hand corner. ‘Eilish McCauley’s alibi’d,’ he said.

  Webb stared at the pictures. ‘A party,’ he said. ‘Is it Brighton?’

  ‘That’s the pier.’ Vanner looked again at the one with Stepper-Nap and Young Young. ‘That’s the Daddy from the Harlesden crack team I’ve been working on,’ he said. ‘His watch reads ten to twelve. The tall, skinny one is Young Young. He shot Jimmy Carter.’

  Webb put down the picture. ‘No wonder she can’t produce a witness.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to does she?’ Vanner took out cigarettes, looked up at the no-smoking sign and cursed under his breath.

  ‘So not Mary-Anne Forbes and not Eilish either.’ Westbrook pushed a hand through his hair.

  Vanner looked him in the eye. ‘PIRA don’t use women shooters. Never have.’

  Webb leaned on his elbows. ‘But the pink sweater matches. We’ve had the report back from Lambeth.’

  ‘Somebody else with access. Somebody who might wear false fingernails.’ He paused. ‘And maybe a wig.’

  ‘The brother,’ Westbrook stated.

  ‘What about the prints from the ESLA lift?’ Vanner looked at Webb.

  ‘Could fit a man’s foot. Although he was wearing flat-soled women’s shoes. There’s always a margin of error.’

  ‘It has to be James,’ Vanner said. ‘Who else could get in her wardrobe?’

  Webb stroked his moustache. ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know’ Vanner stood up. ‘Let’s pick him up and ask him.’

  On the landing Westbrook paused. ‘He’s armed.’

  ‘There was no gun in that house except the Uzi in the coal bunker,’ Webb said. ‘If it is him he’s got the Toky stashed someplace else.’

  ‘SO19?’ Vanner said. ‘We could get an ARV over there.’

  ‘We’ve got pink tickets,’ Westbrook said. ‘We can get weapons from here.’

  ‘Do it then. Save time.’

  They took Vanner’s car and headed west towards Willesden. ‘You want to give Old Street a bell just in case?’ Webb said. ‘See if they’ve got a Trojan in the vicinity?’ They were close to Roundwood Park. Vanner looked at Westbrook. ‘We’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘He’ll have the kids with him.’

  ‘Better get hold of a social worker then, unless we release Eilish.’

  ‘Not ye
t,’ Vanner said. ‘Not till we know exactly what we’ve got. We can get a plonk out from Harlesden nick in the meantime.’

  They pulled up outside the house. No lights showed round the curtains. Vanner looked at Westbrook. ‘They should be back by now. I gave him the all clear hours ago. Kids finish school at three thirty.’ He got out of the car and they followed him up the path to the front door.

  ‘I’ll take the back.’ Webb checked his Glock 9mm pistol and holstered it again. ‘Give me a minute.’

  He disappeared around the back of the house and they waited. Then Vanner lifted his fist and knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He knocked again, then peered into the gloom of the hall through the letter box. He let it flip closed and straightened up. ‘House is empty,’ he said.

  Webb came round the path and made a face. ‘No-one home?’

  ‘The priest’s,’ Vanner said. ‘Maybe they’re still there.’

  They drove to Father Sheehan’s house and he answered the door himself. Vanner looked him in the eye. ‘Is James McCauley here?’

  Sheehan looked flustered. Behind him, from the kitchen they could hear the sound of children’s voices.

  ‘Is he here?’ Vanner asked again.

  The priest shook his head. ‘He collected the children from school and then brought them back here. Said the house was still upside down.’

  ‘The house is fine,’ Vanner said. ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About four.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Said he was going to check on his sister. I haven’t heard from him since.’

  Vanner glanced at Westbrook then back at the priest once more. ‘Will you be okay with the children?’

  The priest raised his eyebrows. ‘For how long?’

  ‘I don’t know. The house is fine, Father, and James has been nowhere near his sister.’

  ‘It’s very important we find him,’ Westbrook put in. ‘If you can’t handle the kids we can get a social worker.’

  ‘Social worker? I don’t understand.’

  Vanner leaned against the door frame. ‘James isn’t coming back, Father. And at the moment Eilish is still being held.’

  ‘I’ll look after the children. I’ve got my housekeeper to help me.’

  Westbrook took out his business card and handed it to him. ‘We’ll notify social services. If you need anything just call.’

  They left him then and drove back to Paddington. ‘How’d you want to play this?’ Vanner asked them.

  ‘James has gone walkabout,’ Webb said. ‘I’ll get back to the Yard and do some digging with SB. See if I can’t come up with a background. He was only a kid when Quinlon was shot, couldn’t have been more than fifteen.’

  Vanner stared at him then. ‘Twelve years to grow up.’

  Webb took his car back to Scotland Yard and Westbrook and Vanner went down to the interview room.

  ‘What’s his motive?’ Westbrook said musedly. ‘We’ve nothing on file to suggest he’s a player.’

  ‘Maybe his sister can tell us.’

  ‘You want to let her know she’s clear?’

  ‘Not yet. If she thinks she’s walking we’re nowhere.’

  ‘She knows she’s alibi’d.’

  ‘No she doesn’t. She knows she didn’t do it. But she also knows that nobody from the posse’ll come forward and say so.’

  Eilish was brought back to the interview room with her solicitor. She saw Vanner and curled her lip at the corner. ‘Mr Candlewax. What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Sit down, Eilish.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you.’ She looked at Westbrook. ‘Where’s your little mate? I’m not talking to him.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Westbrook repeated.

  She sat, arms folded, legs thrust away from her under the table. Her solicitor sat down and unfastened her briefcase. Westbrook switched on the tape confirmed the time and sat back. ‘You say you were at a party in Brighton on the night of February 12th.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘But nobody can verify it. Why not?’

  Eilish pressed her lips together and looked at him.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I hardly know them.’

  ‘But you stayed all night.’

  ‘Yes. I told you that already’

  ‘So where did you stay exactly?’

  ‘Friend’s house.’

  ‘So the friend can verify it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not my friend. Friend of a friend.’

  Vanner lit a cigarette. ‘Complicated isn’t it?’

  She ignored him.

  ‘Eilish,’ Westbrook continued. ‘We’ve got a pink wool sweater from your wardrobe with stitching missing at the elbow. The missing piece of wool was found at the scene of a murder which took place on Sunday 12th February. How do you explain that?’ He said it openly, an easy expression on his face.

  Eilish rubbed a hand across her mouth. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who else had access to your clothes?’

  ‘Nobody.’ She stopped. ‘Well the kids I suppose and James.’

  ‘Your brother,’ Westbrook said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell us about James,’ Vanner said.

  She looked at him then, again curling her lip. ‘I’m not telling you anything.’ She turned to Westbrook. ‘I want him out of the room.’

  ‘He stays.’

  ‘Then I’m not saying anything else.’ She folded her arms once again.

  Westbrook glanced at Vanner who scraped back his chair. He walked out of the room and into the next one, then settled himself behind the mirror.

  Westbrook sat forward in his seat, elbows resting on the table. ‘See,’ he said. ‘Gone. Now—what’s he like—your brother? How come he lives with you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Always has.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know. What’s it matter? Since our parents split up.’

  ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue and I don’t give a toss.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Ireland.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Little town just south of the border.’

  Westbrook sat back again. ‘You were there in July of 1994,’ he said.

  ‘Was I?’

  Westbrook nodded. ‘You all were. You, your kids and your brother. Holiday was it?’

  ‘Must’ve been.’

  ‘Did you go north?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Day out—to Morne maybe?’

  ‘I’ve been to Morne. But we didn’t go that trip.’

  Westbrook cocked his head at her. ‘Spent the whole time together did you?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  He leaned closer to her. ‘Eilish, on July 17th 1994 a man called David Quigley was shot dead at Spelga Dam. The gun the killer used was the same gun that killed Jessica Turner on February 12th of this year, the night you claim you were in Brighton but your pink jumper says otherwise.’ He looked very keenly at her. ‘That’s two killings, Eilish. Two murders.’

  She opened her hands at him, eyebrows arching. ‘I don’t know anything about either of them.’

  Westbrook toyed with the pencil he had laid out on the pad before him. ‘You’re a member of the Provisional IRA aren’t you?’

  She looked him full in the eye. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Then how come you’ve got that tattoo on your thigh?’

  ‘I told you earlier. I was young when I did that. We all do stupid things when we’re young.’

  Westbrook shook his head. ‘We think you’re active, Eilish. We think you bring things back from your drug smuggling trips.’

  ‘I don’t smuggle drugs.’

  ‘Where’d the fifteen grand come from then?’

  She stared at him. Through the mirror Vanner watched the expression in her eyes. ‘What fifteen grand?’

  ‘Come on, Eilish.
’ Westbrook shook his head. ‘You really think I’m stupid. We found it behind your bath. Used notes, fifties and twenties. Wrapped up in clingfilm.’

  ‘Coke money, Eilish. Crack money. That’s what Vanner thinks.’ He slanted his eyes then. ‘Or is it other money?’

  She looked at the floor between her legs.

  ‘Where did you get the gun?’ Westbrook asked.

  ‘What gun?’

  ‘The Tokarev you shot Jessica Turner with.’

  ‘I never shot anyone.’

  ‘What about the Uzi?’ he went on. ‘That yours too?’

  ‘What Uzi?’

  ‘We told you. The one we found in your coal bunker.’ Westbrook looked at the notes Vanner had made for him. ‘Young Young had an Uzi didn’t he, Eilish. Did he get the Tokarev for you—or did you bring it back in a bag you weren’t supposed to open?’

  Eilish looked at her solicitor. ‘I’m not answering any more questions.’

  ‘Fine,’ Westbrook said. ‘We’ve got enough evidence anyway. Fifteen thousand pounds you can’t account for. We’ve got your sweater at a murder scene when you claim you were elsewhere but can’t produce a single person to prove it.’ He stood up. ‘We don’t need any more.’

  Westbrook looked at the solicitor. ‘You better tell her about the thirty years. She’ll be a grandma before she gets out.’

  Vanner went home. The house was empty. A message from Ellie telling him that she had gone back to Shepherds Bush for the night. He stared at the note on the table, an emptiness opening inside him that he had thought he could not feel any more. He sat down at the kitchen table and re-read the message. She had not been home for even one night in the past two months. All at once he thought of his father, but now his father was dead. Picking up the phone he dialled her flat and got her answermachine. He did not leave a message.

  Upstairs he stood for a long time under the shower. The emptiness of his house seemed to echo in his head above the hiss and rush of the water. He leaned both hands against the wall and bent his head to the torrent. He stood there until the shower ran cold, then he got out and dried himself.

  Downstairs, he made a cup of coffee, lit the umpteenth cigarette of the day, thought about quitting and smoked it in silence. James McCauley’s face in his mind, young and vulnerable, incongruous with the venom of his flame-haired sister. He recalled the first time he had seen him, in the park with those two half-caste girls. He wondered who their father was.