by Jeff Gulvin
Sarah shook her head, a quizzical expression running between her eyes. ‘You sound very sure.’
‘The real killer wouldn’t call us. The letters were all the publicity he wanted, and they were for justification not gloating. Was there a typewriter in Hawkins’ house?’
‘No. There wasn’t a gun either.’
Vanner nodded. ‘Reliable tip-off. Do we know who it was?’
‘No.’
‘What’s Hawkins saying?’
‘Nothing. He hasn’t even given us his name.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Downstairs. The old man wants you to interview him.’
‘Does he.’ Vanner eased himself off the desk. ‘Where is he?’
‘On the phone to the Home Office.’
Vanner moved towards the door. ‘Who shot the dog?’ he asked, turning back to her.
‘I did.’
‘Went for you did he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Must have been a good shot. Charging dog in the dark.’
Sarah smiled. ‘Lucky. It just went off. Stupid really. I feel a bit of a prat.’
‘I never knew you could shoot.’
‘I did the course. I was frightened of guns so I thought it would help.’
He remembered how they met. ‘I hope I didn’t get you into bad habits.’
McCague met him on the way upstairs. He looked tired but he was smiling. ‘Loads of Press calls, Aden. I’ve referred them all to you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘The Today programme wanted you this morning. I talked to them.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told them we were interviewing a man in connection with the Watchman killings.’ He pointed behind them. ‘I think every paper in the country has people camping on our doorstep.’
For a moment they looked at one another, McCague holding Vanner’s eye fiercely, as if daring him to speak.
Vanner smiled. ‘Home Secretary pleased?’
‘Happier than he was, Aden. Happier than he was.’
‘You want me to interview Hawkins?’
‘It’s your case.’
‘Sarah Kennett says he’s not talking.’
‘Not so far.’
‘No gun?’
McCague handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Prepared statement,’ he said. ‘An appeal to the man who tipped us off, to call us again in confidence. We’re going to need him.’
Vanner took the paper rather gingerly and scanned it. Then he looked up at McCague and pursed his lips.
‘Go on,’ McCague said. ‘Your public awaits you.’
Vanner sat across the table from Hawkins, who slumped in his seat with his arms flattened across his chest. Nicholls placed the tape in the machine and flicked the switch. He glanced at his watch. ‘Interview commencing 12:32, July 9th 1994. Those present, David Jonathon Hawkins, Detective Chief Inspector Vanner and Detective Sergeant Nicholls.’ He opened a packet of cigarettes and shook one out. He offered the pack to Hawkins. Hawkins stared straight at the wall between his and Vanner’s head.
‘Smoke, Jo?’
Hawkins ignored him.
‘Is your name David Jonathon Hawkins?’ Nicholls asked.
Silence.
‘The suspect refuses to speak.’ Nicholls said aloud. He glanced at Vanner. ‘You’re entitled to a solicitor, Jo. Would you like us to call one?’
Again Hawkins kept silent.
Vanner suddenly threw back his head and laughed; genuinely, from deep in his belly. ‘He’s not the Watchman.’ He stood up and lifted his jacket. ‘He didn’t kill anyone. He made a few hoax calls to make himself feel important, that’s all.’ He walked to the door. ‘Book him for wasting our time, Joe.’ He closed the door behind him.
McCague came down to the Incident Room and went into Vanner’s office. ‘What’s going on?’
Vanner looked up from the file he was reading. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Hawkins.’
‘Nothing.’ Vanner looked down again. McCague slapped the file hard against the desk. Vanner stared at it, then very slowly he looked up.
‘Listen.’ McCague’s face was puffy. ‘He is our only suspect.’
‘He’s a hoaxer.’ Vanner stood up and faced him. ‘I know him. I’ve commanded him in the field. He’s crazy enough, but he hasn’t got the discipline.’
‘You arrogant bastard.’ A vein lifted in McCague’s neck. For a minute Vanner thought he was going to hit him. McCague let go a quivering breath and rested his fist on the desktop. ‘Listen, Vanner. If you don’t interview him I’ll relieve you of this case and hand it to somebody else.’
Vanner looked at him evenly. ‘If that’s what you want, Sir.’
‘Well, the investigation doesn’t exactly benefit from your full commitment at the moment, does it.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ Vanner sat down again. ‘He’s not even talking. What have Forensic got us? We’ve no weapon. No typewriter. We don’t have a single witness. He’s taking the piss, Sir. He’s taking the bloody piss.’
McCague sat with Vanner. Hawkins stood against the far wall of the interview room, his hands in his jeans pockets. His close-cropped hair prickled over his scalp and he flexed his arms involuntarily.
‘Where were you on the night of June 4th?’ McCague asked him. Hawkins stared at him but did not reply.
‘Were you alone? Were you with a woman?’
Again Hawkins ignored him.
‘Do you want a lawyer?’
Silence.
‘You should talk to us, Jo.’ McCague offered more gently.
‘Why should he?’ Vanner butted in. ‘He hasn’t done anything but waste a bit of my time on the phone.’ He looked back at Hawkins and shook his head. ‘He’s been kicked out of the Army, dumped by the only family who would tolerate him. Now he’s on the dole with time on his hands. The only skill he has is thumping people. He’s got less brains now than those he was born with. He’s taking the piss. Taking the piss out of me.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s been nursing a grudge for ten years. Remember that, Hawkins? Your first day in Number 1—when I made you feel like a Jessie in front of the men? My men. They were my men weren’t they? You found that out. Thought you were a hard man till you joined Number 1.’
‘Shut up you bastard.’
‘Aha!’ Vanner said, turning to McCague. ‘A tongue. Limited vocabulary but a tongue for all of that.’
Hawkins bristled at him and Vanner stood up. He moved around the table. ‘Ten years, and all you’ve amassed is a grudge. Your kind should never be in the Army. You don’t have a place there. The best thing they ever did was to dump you.’
‘They didn’t dump me.’
‘Served the twenty-two years did you?’
Hawkins bit his lip.
‘They had you marked as far back as ’82. Why d’you think you were handed over to me?’
‘I was still in when you left, remember. Or did you leave? And how did they ever let you join this lot?’ Now Hawkins grinned. ‘But then again—one more pig at the trough.’
McCague sat where he was, arms folded, watching both of them squaring up to each other.
‘Where were you on the night of June 4th?’ he asked again.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘What about January 12th?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘When did you leave the Army?’
Hawkins looked at him. ‘1989.’ He returned his stare to Vanner. ‘Five years after him.’
Vanner sat down again. ‘Why did you make the phone calls?’
‘How d’you know I did?’
‘Because we taped your voice. It doesn’t take an expert to match them.’
Hawkins tightened his lip.
‘June 4th.’ McCague leaned the flat of his arms on the table. ‘Where were you—at home?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Have you got a girlfriend?’
‘None of your business.’
> Vanner cocked his head at McCague. ‘D’you think it’s likely?’
Hawkins took a step towards him then and Vanner half-rose from the chair.
‘Sit down, Mr Hawkins.’ McCague growled the command. Hawkins hesitated and then sat. He leered at Vanner.
‘February 10th 1993,’ McCague said. ‘Where were you?’
‘How should I know.’
‘Do you own a car?’
‘No.’
‘Where’s the gun?’
Hawkins’ face discoloured. ‘What gun?’ ‘We know you have a gun.’ Hawkins shot a glance at Vanner. ‘Prove it.’
‘We will.’ McCague leaned over the desk at him. ‘Believe me, we will.’
Vanner stood at the bar with Sarah Kennett. Smoke drifted over them from the table where three men sat talking about racing. Sarah watched them disinterestedly while Vanner questioned the landlord.
‘He comes in on Thursdays.’
‘Giro day.’
‘Yeah, I reckon.’
‘On his own?’
‘With his dog.’
‘Does he drink alone? Has he got any friends?’
The landlord shook his head. Sarah leaned towards him. ‘No one? He’s always on his own?’
The landlord scratched the hairs on his forearm. ‘Blimey. I don’t really know him. He’s hardly what you call one of me regular punters.’
‘This is important,’ Sarah prompted. ‘We’re investigating a murder.’
The landlord squinted at her. ‘I know. You’ve been looking for that fellow who’s been doing your job for you.’
Vanner stared at him. ‘You think our job’s to execute people?’
‘It bloody well ought to be. Good hanging’s what half those blokes need, not some cosy little cell with a telly.’
Vanner sighed. ‘Just try and remember. Is there anyone at all?’
‘Hang on a minute.’ The landlord lifted the flap and walked over to the table where the horse fanciers were gathered. Vanner tapped the bar with the edge of a paper beer mat. After a few moments the landlord came back again.
‘Mason,’ he said. ‘Billy Mason. He lives on Collingwood Street.’
Eight
MASON OPENED THE FRONT door wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and grubby T-shirt that barely stretched over his belly. Vanner stared at him. ‘Billy Mason?’
‘Yes.’
‘Chief Inspector Vanner.’
Mason sat on the settee, clutching himself. Sarah sat in the only armchair, a rickety affair with scraped wooden armrests. Vanner stood in the doorway, eyes roaming the tattered interior of the sitting room.
‘He definitely had a gun,’ Mason said. ‘A pistol. I saw it. We were on the balcony of his flat. There were kids down below, you know in the playground.’
‘Kids?’ Sarah said.
‘Yeah. Teenagers, you know. Joyriders, he called them. Said it would be fun to kill one of them.’
‘And did he?’ Vanner said quietly.
Mason looked towards him. ‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s when you called us?’ Sarah asked him.
He nodded. ‘He talked about others. He talked about how their brains spattered when he put a bullet in the back of their heads. He was in the Falklands. He killed Argies. Showed me pictures.’
‘Photographs?’ Vanner said.
Mason nodded. ‘Yeah. The Falklands.’
‘Bit of a hero for you was he, Billy?’
Mason coloured and looked between his feet. ‘He was all right. We had a drink now and then.’
‘You listened to his stories?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Full of action were they—colourful?’
Mason moved his shoulders. ‘He had a gun.’
‘We didn’t find it.’
‘Well he definitely had one. I saw it. It was real.’
‘Where did he keep it?’ Vanner moved closer to him.
‘In a box under his bed.’
Sarah glanced at Vanner. ‘We didn’t find anything, Billy. Not a trace.’
‘He must have hidden it then. He had one. I saw it.’
‘It’s not Hawkins is it,’ Sarah said quietly. They were in the car, driving back to Loughborough Street. ‘You were right.’
Vanner nodded.
Sarah gazed out of the window. ‘How come you were so sure?’
‘I told you. I know him of old.’
‘Was there a gun?’
‘Yes.’
She looked round at him. ‘How d’you know?’
He pushed his lips into a shallow smile. ‘Because I think he stole it from me.’
She stared at him.
‘Belfast. 1983. I picked up a pistol from a suspect. It went missing.’
‘Then …’
He shook his head. ‘Not the one, Sarah.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because the Army still has the firing pin. I took it out you see. Precaution. I used to be careful like that. The gun went missing but the Army still has the firing pin.’
Hawkins was still not talking and McCague was growing more and more exasperated. He stalked about the station like a wounded bear, eyes curled back into the fleshy red of his face. His tie dangled, his bulk dominating every corridor, every room of the building. The media were pressing for some kind of a statement. They were camped outside the building in the morning and still there in the evening. Hawkins had been in custody for twenty-four hours.
Vanner leaned in the doorway of the interview room as Hawkins was marched back down to the cells yet again. McCague came out behind him.
‘Twenty-four hours, Sir,’ Vanner stated.
‘I can sanction another twelve.’
‘It’s a waste of time.’
McCague looked dully at him.
‘You know it is. We’ve nothing on him. He made a few hoax calls. There’s not one shred of evidence against him.’
‘What about the gun?’
‘We don’t have the gun.’
‘Mason said there was a gun.’
Vanner nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s not the gun.’
‘Yours?’ McCague shook his head. ‘Sarah Kennett told me. You know, Vanner, every day that passes I find out just a little bit more about you.’ Dark circles sagged beneath his eyes like melting ice. ‘You make huge suppositions.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well,’ McCague flapped out his hand, ‘we won’t know unless we find it, will we?’ He pushed past. ‘Find the gun, Vanner. Get everybody on it. Hawkins isn’t very bright. It’s probably somewhere obvious. We have twelve hours.’
Vanner unfolded his arms. ‘It won’t …’
‘Don’t.’ McCague sliced the air with the flat of his hand. ‘Damn it, Vanner. You keep on being this bloody sure of everything and I’ll start suspecting you. We know he’s a squaddie or copper. You’ve been both of those, remember.’
Vanner shook his head. ‘I’ll put that down to fatigue, shall I, Sir?’
Mason looked helpless: his hands stuffed like bunches of cloth into his jeans’ pockets, pulling the waistband that bit lower down his backside. Sarah looked at him, her nostrils slightly flared, foot tapping the linoleum floor of the kitchen.
‘Where else did you go, Billy?’ she said again. ‘There must be somewhere.’ Mason gazed about Hawkins’ flat; the army pictures, the maroon beret, desperately trying to think.
Sarah glanced at her watch. ‘Less than ten hours, Billy. And then he walks. Do you really want him on the street?’
Mason went white. ‘He doesn’t know it was me who shopped him, does he?’
Sarah pulled a face and walked over to him. Lightly, she rested her hand on his shoulder. ‘He hasn’t heard it from us, Billy. Put it like that.’
‘But?’
‘He’s not stupid. He knows somebody tipped us off.’
‘Oh God.’ Mason rolled his eyes.
Vanner stepped forward. ‘Think about it, Billy. Where did he go?’ Mason ran
his tongue around his mouth. ‘His dog,’ he said. ‘He walked the dog.’
‘Where?’
‘The park.’
‘Which park?’
‘The one over by the station.’
‘Belfry Park?’ Sarah said.
‘That’s right, yeah,’ Mason frowned. ‘Nowhere to hide a gun though. There aren’t even any trees.’
Vanner stared at Hawkins across the table. The tape recorder wound on in the silence.
‘Why’d you hide the gun?’ he said. ‘You always kept it under your bed.’
‘Mason.’ A little smile broke from Hawkins’ lips.
‘Really wound him up, didn’t you?’
Hawkins was grinning now. ‘Fat bastard.’
‘You knew he’d call us. That’s why you hid the gun.’
Hawkins said nothing.
‘What is it,’ Vanner leaned back in his chair, ‘pissed off that the Army finally saw sense and dumped you? Thought a little bit of publicity would be good?’ He sat forward again. ‘Where’s the gun?’
Hawkins folded his arms.
Vanner glanced from him to his solicitor. ‘Have you instructed him to keep silent?’
The solicitor lifted his eyebrows. Vanner did not wait for an answer.
‘You didn’t kill anyone, Hawkins. And certainly not with that gun.’
Hawkins squinted at him then and Vanner nodded. ‘So it was you then. I thought it must be.’ He stood up and switched off the tape.
McCague leaned back in his office chair with his fingers in his eyes.
‘Let Hawkins go,’ Vanner said. ‘But charge him with wasting our time first. If we do that publicly he loses. He didn’t do it, Sir. I’ll bet my life the gun he has is the one I took from a Provo in 1983. It’s missing now because he’s been lifting our leg from the start. He knows we’ve got no evidence. He knows that as long as he keeps quiet we’ll have to let him go. That way he wins. He’ll get everything he wanted. A pop at me. His name in the papers. And the notoriety of the fact that maybe he is the Watchman. Christ, somebody will pay the little bastard a fortune for his story. He’ll haunt us for years.’
McCague looked up at him then.
‘I’m right,’ Vanner said. ‘You know I am.’
McCague got up and wandered aimlessly to the window. He leaned his elbows on the sill and looked down at the street below, where a whole flock of reporters were still gathered on the pavement. ‘Can’t we move them on,’ he muttered. ‘They’re causing an obstruction.’
