The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘Aden. Where are you?’

  ‘Newcastle.’

  ‘Morrison’s looking for you.’

  ‘There’s a surprise. I lost his tail on the North Circular.’

  ‘He knows you’ve been staying here.’

  ‘What’s he said to you?’

  ‘He wanted to know where you were going.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing. I said I didn’t know.’

  ‘Did he check on you—from earlier, I mean?’

  She hesitated. ‘I covered my tracks.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘Aden, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Try and talk to this guy Black.’

  ‘What will that achieve exactly?’

  Vanner thought about that. He did not really know. Most of the way up here he wondered just why he was coming.

  ‘They never caught his attacker,’ Sarah said.

  ‘It was probably his victim’s father.’

  ‘He had an alibi.’

  ‘Of course he did.’ Vanner lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t know, Sarah. But I’ve got to do something. Morrison is breathing down my neck. They’ll make me tumble for this. I can feel it.’

  Sarah was silent then.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Morrison was in with McCague today. This evening after you’d gone.’

  Vanner gripped the phone a little more tightly. ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t know but afterwards McCague looked pretty serious. He drove down to talk to Garrod. As far as I know he’s still there.’

  ‘Morrison’s boss—Garrod?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where was Morrison today?’

  ‘I don’t know that. But he came in looking like the cat that had got the cream.’

  Vanner let go a short little breath. ‘I’d better go now, Sarah. Whatever happens, you don’t know where I am, okay?’ He hung up and ordered himself another whiskey.

  McCague sat with Garrod and Morrison in Garrod’s office on the seventh floor, overlooking the lights that reflected in the glassy stone of the river.

  ‘You have no evidence.’

  ‘Nothing hard yet, but we have a hell of a history.’ Morrison folded his arms.

  ‘It is serious, Peter.’ Garrod half-inclined his head. ‘Even if it is only supposition at this stage.’

  McCague looked from one to the other of them. ‘Not Vanner.’

  ‘Why not Vanner?’ Morrison leaned right forward. ‘Glenn’s profile fits. He’s a copper. He was a soldier. The notes. Macbeth. You can’t deny that it fits.’

  McCague looked sideways at him. ‘Profiles are fine, Morrison. But what about a motive? Even a psychopath needs a motive.’

  Morrison nodded. ‘Vanner likes guns, Sir. If we take Glenn’s analysis of the notes, once Macbeth was on a path of violence he was unable to get off it.’

  ‘That’s wonderful literary criticism, but it’s a pretty tenuous motive.’

  ‘He shot and killed a man, in D11.’

  ‘His life was in danger.’

  ‘Maybe so. But perhaps that was indicative of the pattern. All those years as a soldier.’

  ‘Perhaps. Maybe.’ McCague shook his head. ‘Vanner’s honest. He might step out of line now and again, but the man is honest. He’s up-front. What you see is what you get.’

  ‘Perfect cover for a killer,’ Morrison said. ‘Nobody would ever believe it of him. Besides, what about Daniels?’

  ‘That was different. Hell, half the Met would like to’ve done it.’

  ‘But they didn’t. Only Vanner did.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘Judge Staples? Vanner had a very public row with him, remember.’

  ‘Which makes it hardly likely he’d then go and kill him.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Vanner isn’t stupid, Morrison.’

  ‘No. On the contrary, he’s extremely clever.’

  ‘Oh for pity’s sake,’ McCague said. ‘What’s this Irish business anyway?’

  Morrison related to him exactly what earlier he had told Garrod. When he had finished McCague pushed the air from his cheeks. ‘Hawkins told you this?’

  ‘Yes.’ Morrison took off his jacket and looked very keenly at him. ‘Vanner made a suspect kneel down and then threatened to kill him. He put a gun to the back of his head. It’s exactly what this killer is doing. He tortured the other man while he was lying on the ground. No wonder the Army wanted rid of him.’

  ‘We don’t know they wanted rid of him.’

  ‘We can surmise, Sir. Vanner was out within a year of that incident.’ Morrison was rolling up his sleeves, folding back the cuffs from his wrists. ‘Vanner has been involved from the start. You forget, Sir, that I was with him in Lothian. I worked with him for a year prior to that. I thought there was something wrong about him as far back as then.’

  ‘Are you sure this isn’t just some kind of personal vendetta, Morrison?’

  ‘Sir,’ Morrison smiled. ‘I’m a policeman. At the moment my job is to investigate alleged offences by other policemen. I didn’t beat up a suspect in an interview room. I wasn’t a soldier who tortured a suspect in Ulster. I’m not the one who can’t account for my whereabouts on every occasion that the Watchman killed somebody. And I haven’t been running an investigation that has turned up precisely nothing in nearly four years.’

  ‘What about the gun?’ McCague said.

  Morrison looked at Garrod then. ‘I don’t know yet. That’s the missing link.’

  ‘You think it was the gun Hawkins talked about—the one Vanner took from those Provos?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘Vanner maintains that gun went missing. He told me he thought Hawkins pilfered it.’

  Morrison pulled down his lip with his teeth. ‘I’ve checked that with the Army, Sir. The gun did go missing.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘We only have Vanner’s suspicion that it was Hawkins. We can’t be sure.’

  McCague stared at him. ‘You mean you believe a little shit like Hawkins over an officer like Vanner:’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Morrison glanced at Garrod. ‘But Vanner was very, very sure that Hawkins shouldn’t be interviewed, Sir. Remember? So much so that even you were suspicious. Don’t you think that’s just a little bit odd, given what Hawkins has told me?’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ McCague said. ‘Hang on a minute. Billy Mason, the lad who shopped Hawkins: he swore that Hawkins had a gun.’

  ‘You never found it.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he didn’t have it. It doesn’t mean he still doesn’t have it. Souvenir, is how he described it.’

  ‘We don’t know that. We don’t have the gun. We only have Mason’s word that it was ever there.’ Morrison sat back. ‘Anyway, I’m not too bothered about that particular gun. You’re right, the chances are that Hawkins did take it and that he still has it. That doesn’t change the history.’ He paused. ‘We do have the bullets that were fired by the Watchman, though. I’ve been onto Lambeth to get them to check the rifling patterns, see if we’ve seen them before.’

  ‘You mean a previous crime?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. One that Vanner didn’t check.’

  McCague sighed and stood up. ‘Morrison, if you’re pinning all this on Vanner, you better make damn sure you come up with a gun.’

  ‘With respect, Sir. I’m not pinning anything on anybody.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like it to me.’ McCague looked at Garrod. ‘I don’t like this, John. I don’t like it at all. I agreed to co-operate because, after Staples was killed, I felt your concerns might be worth something. So far you’ve given me nothing more than suspicion. I’m warning you now, I will not be party to a stitch-up.’

  Garrod scratched his head. ‘We’re not trying to stitch anybody up, Peter.’

  ‘Mr McCague,’ Morrison said. ‘N
obody wants to be proved wrong here more than I do.’

  McCague snorted then and shook his head. ‘Find me a gun, Morrison. Then maybe I’ll listen to you.’

  Ten

  VANNER WATCHED HIM HOBBLING along the pavement. Rain spattered into already brimming puddles that pushed out their borders from the kerbside. He crossed the road and limped towards the betting shop. Vanner opened the door of his car and got out in front of him.

  ‘My name’s Vanner,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Black sat in the passenger seat, his right leg thrust out with the heel at right angles to the floor. Vanner leaned against the driver’s door as the rain washed over the windscreen, rendering the street all but invisible. Black held his hands together in his lap, looking straight ahead of him. Vanner put him in his late twenties, though he was prematurely balding; sandy hair, greasy and flaking about his ears.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  Black sucked in a long breath. ‘I got hit by a car.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘You’re the policeman. You should know that already.’

  ‘Don’t be smart,’ Vanner said quietly. ‘I don’t think it suits you.’

  Black looked between his knees. ‘A few years ago. I thought it was the kid’s father but he was supposed to have been somewhere else.’ He looked at Vanner. ‘I stole a car you see. When I was drunk. I killed a girl on a crossing. Smashed her to pieces.’ His knuckles cracked as he tensed the fingers of his right hand. He looked down at his stiff leg again. ‘Stupid. Bloody stupid. I only got a year. I wouldn’t have cared if they’d thrown the key away.’

  Vanner believed him; the emotion clutching at the words was tangible. He gestured to the leg. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Nine months after I got out. I was coming home from a darts match.’ He glanced at Vanner. ‘I play darts.’

  ‘In pubs?’

  He nodded. ‘I drink orange juice.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Black closed his eyes. ‘I was walking home, had said goodbye to my mates. I was crossing the road. No, I had crossed it in fact. This car came round the corner and clipped me. It happened so quickly I thought it was an accident. But the driver didn’t stop and it was only when I was lying on the road that I realised it’d been deliberate.’ He broke off. Tears were forming in his eyes. He turned to Vanner again. ‘I was sorry you know. I am sorry. I’m not a killer. I was just young and drunk and very very stupid.’

  ‘And your leg?’

  He snorted. ‘I’m alive aren’t I.’

  Vanner asked him where it happened.

  ‘Baker Street. The corner of Willow Road. It’s the Welland Estate on the road out to the airport.’

  Vanner nodded. Leaning across him he opened the passenger door. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

  Black looked at him. ‘Will you want to see me again? Only—the days are bad enough, you know?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I have what I need. You can go now.’

  Black pulled himself back into the rain and limped away. He passed the betting shop and crossed the road without looking back.

  The corner of Baker Street and Willow Road was on the very cusp of an ill-thought-out housing development that looked as though it had been built in the seventies. Square boxes with half-sloping, half-flat roofs which seemed to buckle into one another like meccano that did not quite fit. Vanner parked the car and stepped out into the drizzle.

  He paced the road from one side to the other, looking at the corner, looking at the faint camber; checking the distance to where the road curved out of sight one way and climbed the hill the other. Silent street. Silent past. Silence.

  He phoned Sarah. ‘I found Robert Black.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing really. He told me what happened to him.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Walking home one night. He crossed the road where he lived and a car came round the corner. It nicked him, enough to shatter his right leg. The driver didn’t stop. He swears it was deliberate. He walks with a permanent limp now.’

  Sarah was quiet for a moment then she said, ‘He’s alive though.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he said.’

  ‘What’re you going to do now?’ she asked him. ‘McCague is looking for you. So is Morrison. McCague’s been asking me about you.’

  ‘What’s he said?’

  ‘He wants to know where you are. He knows I’m seeing you, Aden. He actually asked me if I thought it was wise.’

  Vanner grinned. ‘Did he, now? And what did you tell him?’

  ‘I said I wasn’t sure.’

  He fell silent.

  ‘He wants to talk to you, Aden. Badly.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘He’s hardly going to tell me.’

  ‘No.’ Vanner thought for a moment. ‘Maybe I’ll phone him.’

  ‘I think you better. He’s still on your side.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘I think so. Why don’t you phone him and see?’

  Vanner remembered their session, drinking whiskey and chasers. He asked what Morrison was up to.

  ‘Old Street again, checking your D11 days. He’s also spoken to Hawkins.’

  ‘Hawkins?’ Vanner straightened from where he leaned against the glass.

  ‘Yes.’

  His mind was working. ‘What did he want to see Hawkins about?’

  ‘I don’t know. He went on his own. I only found out today. It was yesterday, before he went down to see Garrod with McCague.’

  Vanner stared through the window of the phone box, where two young kids were looking at his car across the street.

  ‘What’re you going to do, Aden? Are you coming back to London?’

  ‘No. Not yet. I’m going to stay up here for a while.’

  She was quiet; then, ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. If they’re looking for me in London, I think I’d better stay here.’

  ‘Aden?’ Her voice trembled a little.

  ‘I’ll ring you.’ He put down the phone and went back to his car.

  Morrison drove towards the New Forest, tapping the wheel in time to the radio. Outside, the December sun shone crisp and clear, setting the withered branches of the trees to burnish as if with gold. He found he was looking forward to Christmas; the boys would be home and they would all be together for a while. He had a few days leave due which would spread nicely between Christmas and New Year. Hopefully he would have all this sewn up before then and would be free to relax completely.

  Garrod was on his side now. That had been a struggle, but it was nice once in a while to see just how far his reputation had stretched. Not a shred of tangible evidence yet, but the Chief Super was on his side. Circumstantial, yes: Vanner’s past, Daniels; his lack of an alibi on no less than five separate occasions. But that in itself was nothing like enough and Garrod knew it. Yet he was clearly sufficiently behind him to side with him over McCague.

  It was pleasing. Pride, he believed, was not a vice he suffered from overtly; but sometimes he allowed himself a smile at such recognition. He had been there before; had proved himself time and time again. Oh, he knew what they called him, but that was how he played it and his results spoke for themselves. Even someone like McCague had to admit it.

  Was there any malice towards Vanner? Was any of this personal? He had asked himself the question more than once. Vanner disturbed him, it was true. He always had with his silent superiority. The Army, that was the difference between them. One would have thought discipline would have been the watchword (even for Vanner) with that kind of background. But the gun made the difference. Morrison had always thought so: give a man a gun and you have a different man. He had always been against the police being armed, even in the days before CIB when Jean really worried about him.

  He left the M3 and drove due west towards Bournemouth. Ironically, he thought, the gun was the difference now. A missing gun. A Browning 9mm pist
ol. Hawkins’ tale revisited him: there was malice there, a grievance on Hawkins’ part, certainly. Vanner had really humiliated him, dressing him down in public, and people of his mental capacity found forgiveness hard to come by. He wanted to have a go at Vanner, that was for sure: he had partially succeeded with his inept attempt at hoaxing him. But the account at the farmhouse was real enough; the detail had been too exact, too well recalled for it to be anything else. He thought about it now: Vanner with a pistol pressed to another man’s skull.

  Leaving the main road he drove south towards the seaside town of Milford. He had only been here once before, years back when the boys were still very young. Driving in now, coming upon the little car park in the centre of the town with the smell of the sea in the air, the memories flooded back to him. Good times, family times. The four of them with time on their hands and laughter between them. It brought a smile to his face.

  Major Radley’s house was something like he had imagined it: Tudor style and a bit of a sprawl, just the upper storey and the pitch of the roof visible behind the stone wall that surrounded it. The gates were of wrought iron with some kind of family crest as their central feature. Morrison stopped the car and wound down the window. An intercom box buzzed to his right.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Morrison to see Major John Radley,’ he said. The gates clicked and then swung soundlessly inward, revealing a gravel drive lined with half-height conifers.

  Radley had worked with Vanner after he left the Army, that one year of twilight that nobody could really account for. He had found out about him from Vanner’s original boss in the Met, Neville Standish; now a Chief Super in Hackney. Standish had been in Special Branch when Vanner came out of the Army, and it had been he who ultimately recruited him. Needless to say he had been frosty as hell when CIB turned up on his doorstep.

  He parked the car in front of a set of large French doors at the side of the house. One of the doors was opened and a tall man of about fifty stepped outside. He was wearing a green, fishing style vest and Wellington boots. Morrison switched off the engine and climbed out. From somewhere behind the house a dog barked. The man crunched over the stones and held out his hand.