by Jeff Gulvin
‘As it looks on TV only with fear.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Too long. Best part of four years on and off.’
‘You didn’t have to though?’
‘No. I volunteered. Must have had a death wish or something.’
McCague nodded. ‘Real soldiering though. Real enemy.’
‘Yes.’
‘You liked that?’
‘It’s what I was trained for.’ Vanner stared at the muddied top of the table.
‘I backed you, you know.’
Vanner looked from under his eyebrows at him. ‘In what?’
‘Everything. I mean, I backed you—Aden Vanner the man. Ex-Captain Vanner.’ McCague sat back. ‘A lot of people don’t like you.’
Vanner grimaced. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘A lot of people upstairs. They think they never got the whole picture. They don’t like it.’
‘I can understand that.’
McCague drained his glass and indicated Vanner’s. ‘You want another?’
Vanner passed him both glasses.
Later, lower towards the table, McCague’s lips were pursed. ‘You let me down.’
‘Don’t tell me that.’
‘You let yourself down.’
‘Don’t tell me that either.’
‘Now people are gunning for you.’
‘What about your Daniels deal?’
‘Might not come to anything. Even if it does they might go ahead and prosecute you anyway. It’ll be up to the Commander.’
McCague looked over the glass at him. ‘Why’d you do it—hit a toerag like Daniels? I thought you were tougher than that.’
Vanner looked beyond him.
‘You of all people. Soldier. Captain. Discipline. What is it, Watchman getting to you?’
Vanner shrugged. ‘I think it was just the way the little shit looked at me.’
‘Come on, Aden. You’re better than that.’
‘Am I?’ Vanner sank his drink and set the glass down hard. ‘I wonder.’
McCague dropped him at the tube station and he stepped out into the freezing November night.
‘Don’t go far eh?’
‘Norfolk.’
‘All right but stay in touch. Take your mobile or something.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And Vanner.’
‘What?’
‘Look after yourself.’
McCague drove off and Vanner watched him through the spray of spent rain that spurted from under his tyres.
He took the tube to Chalk Farm and walked up the hill through the rain. He questioned his actions as he walked, drawn here it seemed; the alternative of his own chilled and soulless flat forcing his hand. Or was it just desire, lust or something akin to it? Sarah Kennett. What was it about Sarah Kennett? He had stopped it with her before he allowed it to be anything. Nothing since he left Hammersmith. Even when he found her at Loughborough Street, nothing. And then a few days ago she had been back in his life; just there, finding him. McCague knew. That meant others must know. McCague was usually the last to find out any gossip that was filtering around the station. What a tawdry little word that was. He did not feel like gossip. Sarah Kennett did not feel like gossip. But on other people’s lips that was all that they were.
The rain battered him and he wished he had brought another jacket. Turning into Sarah’s street he saw her blue Volkswagen Golf and his spirits lifted. Then he looked up through the misty rain, blown like a sheet in the light of the streetlamps, and his heart sank again. He stared at the black rectangles of her windows.
He stopped at the bottom of her steps. Her house was a huge three-storey affair, built in Victorian times. Sarah had inherited it from her mother and she lived on the first two floors. Steps ascended to her front door from the street. The third floor was a separate flat with a separate entrance. Sarah said the tenant was hardly ever there. He was there now, however: the only light in the building drifted from the third floor window. Vanner stared up at it, curtainless; the light dull, from a desk lamp or something. All at once he thought of his own flat, cold; a room overlooking the street.
Looking back at Sarah’s blank living-room window, he wondered if she might be in the bath. That was at the back of the house and any light would not be visible from the street.
He stood where he was though, again challenging himself as to what he was doing there. He looked back along the street to where the Golf squatted. Then he walked up the steps and rang the bell. There was no answer, no thud of stairs, no sudden light from the landing. He rang again. Still no answer. He cursed silently and glanced down at her car once more. Maybe she had gone to the shops, but walking by choice in this weather?
He thought about pressing the bell again but if she was going to answer she would have done by now, so he went back down to the street. At the corner he took one more peek at her windows, but only the darkness looked back at him. Glancing at her soaked and silent car, he walked back to the tube and took a train for Liverpool Street Station.
Four
MORRISON DROPPED HIS SONS at school and watched until they were beyond the gate and huddled with their friends under the watchful eye of a teacher. He liked these times, though they were few and far between. They reminded him of what was pure in the world. He allowed himself a few minutes more, watching them when they thought he had gone, observing the spontaneity of his own flesh and blood. There was a sense of nobility about it that pleased him.
Scammell stood up from behind his desk as soon as he walked in.
‘Chief Super wants to see you, Sir,’ he said. Morrison looked at him, his hand still on the door handle. Something in Scammell’s face unnerved him.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t know, Sir. He just said as soon as you got here.’
Garrod was seated behind his desk when Morrison strode through his open door.
‘Andrew. Good. Close the door.’
Morrison did as he was asked and then turned. Garrod’s face was clouded.
‘Sir?’
‘Vanner,’ Garrod said. ‘Gareth Daniels has dropped the charges against him.’
‘He’s done what?’
‘Sit down, Andrew.’
‘He’s withdrawn his complaint against Vanner,’ Garrod went on, when Morrison was seated. ‘His brief called me this morning and said that Daniels had nothing but remorse for his actions, carried out when he was high on drugs. He said any hiding that Vanner gave him was justified.’
Morrison clenched his fist on the desktop. ‘He’s trying it on. What’s his plea going to be, manslaughter?’ He shook his head. ‘When I interviewed him he was sober as a judge and spitting blood.’ He stopped talking and thought for a moment. ‘McCague,’ he said. He remembered the short conversation in McCague’s office. Garrod waved a hand at him.
‘You’re right. They’ve done something. Said something.’
‘They’re taking us for fools.’
Garrod nodded. ‘Don’t worry. Vanner is still suspended. They’re just trying to keep it internal, that’s all.’ He sighed. ‘McCague rates Vanner, Andrew. He’s trying to protect his man.’
‘He shouldn’t be. Not in these circumstances. Vanner’s guilty. He knows it. We all know it.’ Morrison inched forward in his seat. ‘Surely we’ll still go to the CPS, Sir.’
‘We could.’
‘We must. Beating up a suspect is about as serious as it gets.’
‘I know.’
‘Christ!’ Morrison gesticulated. ‘If we all went about doing it we’d have chaos. Anarchy.’
‘I know.’
‘And what about the public?’
‘They’ll be on his side. Daniels killed a defenceless old lady, remember.’
‘But the press, Sir.’
‘They’ll be on his side too.’
‘For a while. All the time it suits them. Then all at once the term Law and Order will spring up and they’ll castigate us for
double standards.’
Garrod sat back. ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to speak to the Commander.’
Morrison looked at him for a moment, wondering if the time was right. ‘Actually, Sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Vanner.’ Morrison opened his briefcase and took out a brown paper folder. He laid it on the desk before Garrod.
‘What’s this?’
‘A few notes I’ve put together.’
Garrod raised one eyebrow. ‘What sort of notes?’
‘Probably best that you read them, Sir.’
Garrod shook his head. ‘I’ve got meetings all day today. I haven’t got the time. You better tell me.’
Morrison drew in a breath. ‘Loughborough Street, Sir. I’m concerned as to the causes.’
‘Explain.’
‘Well sir, it’s the Watchman investigation.’
‘You think there’s a link? Come on, Andrew. An old lady was beaten to death for her purse. I could think of a hundred coppers that would’ve swapped places with Vanner.’
‘I know that, Sir. But I was there remember, at the very beginning. In Lothian.’
Garrod was staring at him. ‘What’re you saying?’
‘I’m saying—I was wary then and I’m wary now.’
‘Of Vanner?’
‘Yes.’
Garrod steepled his fingers. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you think…’
‘No, Sir. Not think. Not yet anyway. Feel. I mean Vanner beat that kid systematically. There was no blind rage in it. It was clinical.’
‘Like the killings.’
Morrison made an open handed gesture.
Garrod looked doubtful. ‘Evidence?’
‘I have none, Sir.’ Morrison lifted his shoulders. ‘It’s a hunch. I’ve been a copper a long time. I’ve had hunches before and I’ve been right.’ He stood up. ‘Vanner has a history. It’s pretty murky in places. He was a hard man. Always in the real wars. Then all of a sudden—resignation from the Army. A year out of the picture and then us. I don’t feel as though we’ve ever had the full SP so to speak.’
Garrod looked cautiously at him. ‘What’re you asking me, Andrew? If it’s for a CIB investigation of the Watchman killings the answer is no. Not unless you have firm evidence which links Vanner to them.’
Morrison shook his head. ‘I’m not asking for that, Sir. Not at all. It’s just as I’ve said. I know the man. He has a history of violence. He killed somebody when he was in D11. Within a few months he moved on. Armed Response is generally a career in itself. It makes me wonder, that’s all.’
Garrod chewed his lip and stood up. He faced out of the window. ‘I can’t sanction anything, Andrew. You know that.’ He paused, hands gripped behind his back. ‘If, on the other hand, you want to do a little surreptitious digging on your own …’ He turned and cocked one eyebrow. ‘Loughborough Street are playing silly buggers … If nothing else I suppose it’ll make them sweat a little.’ He sat back down in his chair. ‘But I don’t want to know about it. Understand?’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘I’ll speak to the Commander about the assault. I’m sure he’ll want to mull it over before making a decision about sending the file up.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ Morrison smiled and got up.
‘Andrew,’ Garrod checked him. ‘Watch yourself. You’ve no recourse to me, remember. McCague is pretty tough—and he’s a Vanner man.’
June, two weeks after the Jennings murder and frustration stalked the incident room. Vanner had seen it before; in police stations, in army barracks after a colleague and friend had been shot or killed or maimed by terrorists. Frustration that boils away at you until you don’t know where to look any more. Nicholls had seen it too, etched into the face of his boss; Vanner’s face, hidden from most, but after three years of working together Nicholls could read the signs.
They faced one another in Vanner’s office, the emptiness of the investigation prowling between them.
‘It’s not even worth bringing Bob Lind in, Guv,’ Nicholls was saying.
‘The girls’ father?’ Vanner shook his head. ‘He didn’t do it. Not unless he got a liking for Brownings three years before his daughters were killed.’
Nicholls sat back. ‘You know what? I’ve not been here before.’
Vanner looked at him. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean here. Four years and fuck all. There’s always something. At the beginning everything looks pretty much lost and you have that bit of panic. But experience teaches you that there is always something. A hair, body fluid, blood. Somebody sees something. Somebody remembers something. A mistake.’
Vanner smiled. ‘Less than one in nine crimes ever get solved, Joe.’
Nicholls wagged his head. ‘Not these sort of crimes, Guv.’ He grinned then. ‘Except maybe this one.’
‘What’ve we got?’ Vanner said, rocking back in his chair. ‘Four shootings. Scotland, Highbury, Brighton, and now Muswell Hill. The same gun, we know that much.’
‘Browning,’ Nicholls said.
‘Army pistol.’
They exchanged a glance. Vanner went on: ‘Hit and Run, Scotland. Right of silence, Highbury.’
‘Right of silence. Is that how we’re referring to it?’ Sarah Kennett stood in the doorway. ‘A man beats his baby daughter to death in a flat and because he refuses to speak he walks. No evidence. No witnesses. Girlfriend won’t testify. He just keeps his mouth shut and walks.’
Vanner looked up at her. ‘Hello, Sarah.’
She eyed him. ‘Why’re we even looking for this guy? He’s doing us a favour. I mean who cares? I’m damn sure Joe Public won’t thank us for catching him.’
‘Sarah.’ Nicholls shot a stiff glance at her.
‘Let her speak, Joe,’ Vanner said. ‘Someone needs to voice what everyone else is thinking.’
‘Letting off steam, Sir. Sorry,’ Sarah said.
Vanner held up his hand. ‘Don’t apologise. You’re more than probably right.’ He grinned. ‘At least they can’t get away with not talking any more.’
Sarah smiled then and asked what she had come in originally to ask: whether either of them wanted coffee. They both said they did and she went off to the machine.
The telephone rang on Vanner’s desk. He picked it up. ‘Vanner.’ For a moment there was nothing. Vanner narrowed his eyes. ‘Chief Inspector Vanner. Can I help you?’
‘Vanner.’ The voice deep and guttural in his ear. ‘You’ll never catch me, Vanner.’ The phone clicked dead. For a moment he sat where he was and then he put down the receiver.
Nicholls looked at him. ‘Sir?’
Vanner sat back, still hearing the voice. Something way back, something from the past. He could not place it. He shook his head.
‘Somebody,’ he said. ‘You’ll never catch me. He said: “You’ll never catch me”.’
Sarah returned with the coffee on a small plastic tray. Vanner and Nicholls still sat across the desk from one another, staring at the silence of the telephone. Sarah put the coffee on the desk.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
Nicholls stirred first. ‘Phone call just now—for the Guvnor.’
Sarah looked at Vanner. ‘What sort of a phone call?’
‘A man.’ He shrugged. ‘He said we’d never catch him.’
Sarah sat down in the vacant chair and pushed long fingers through her hair. Nicholls was watching Vanner’s face.
‘Our man?’
‘Could be.’ Vanner frowned. ‘The voice though. I’ve heard the voice before.’ He thought back; voice, face, voice, face. Blank. He stood up, shaking his head. ‘I’m going out for a while. Joe, get a tape set up on that phone.’
Vanner waited in the foyer, where a receptionist beat out time on a word processor, and looked out onto the blistered tarmac of Harley Street. The sun was directly overhead and the whole street was brilliant with it. Vanner had no sunglasses and his ey
es felt as though they were permanently screwed back in his head. The white pillars of the building opposite seemed moist almost with sweat.
‘Chief Inspector?’
Vanner turned. The receptionist smiled. ‘Dr Glenn is free now. You can go straight in.’
Glenn sat behind a polished mahogany desk, scribbling something with a bulky blue fountain pen. His head was bent forward, thinning black hair thickly lacquered and combed straight down to his eyes, where chunky-lensed spectacles hovered at the end of his nose. He waved a hand towards a seat and Vanner relaxed into it. After a moment Glenn sat back, smiled and pushed the glasses up the height of his nose.
‘Hello, Aden. Brought me another one have you?’
‘More’s the pity.’ Vanner passed him a brown A4 envelope.
‘Pictures?’ Glenn said.
Vanner nodded. ‘Not pretty.’
Glenn sliced open the end of the envelope with a letter opener. ‘When are they ever pretty?’
He leafed through the first few pictures quite quickly and then paused. ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Back of the head. One bullet. Chinese-style.’
‘Exactly.’
Glenn gazed momentarily out of the window. ‘Did I ever tell you the Chinese authorities make the condemned’s family pay for the bullet?’
‘You did,’ Vanner told him.
Glenn laid the pictures aside and took off his glasses. Gently he massaged the bridge of his nose where it was red.
‘What d’you think?’
‘I’d have to see the place.’
‘It’s the same as the others. Clinical. Exact. Nothing for Forensic.’
‘Nothing?’
‘One black thread from an acrylic pullover.’
‘Where did they find that?’
‘On the hall wall near the door. He must have leaned against it.’
‘But that’s all?’
Vanner nodded. Glenn cocked his head to one side and got up from behind his desk. He walked to the window and fingered the Venetian blinds.
‘Awful hot today, don’t you think?’
Vanner grunted.
‘No witnesses?’
‘A roomful of statements, but no real witnesses, no.’
‘The gun wasn’t silenced?’
‘Not even by a cushion.’
