by Jeff Gulvin
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I’m not asking that. Quinlon was unarmed though?’ Morrison moved closer to him, leaned an arm on the top of the gate. The heifers shied away. ‘I’m a copper, Eamon. Like you were. I’m not here to ask you about coppers.’
‘What then?’
Morrison gazed out across the lough. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘When you were out on those patrols—on surveillance—were you alone?’
‘What d’ye mean—alone?’
‘I mean the Army were with you right?’
‘Aye. Had to be. I guess I can say it now peace has broken out.’ Farrell tapped his foot against the gate. ‘There was an IO, Intelligence Officer, attached to every unit. Every six months it would change. When their tour ended.’
Morrison nodded. ‘You had the same one for six months?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So he would’ve been out with them that night—GSquad, I mean?’
‘Oh aye. I wasn’t on that night mind.’
‘But you know what happened?’
Farrell looked at the mud on his boots, hands bunching in his pockets. ‘Sure I do. Shot the wee man, didn’t they. Supposed to have run through a roadblock but that was just bullshit. There was no roadblock, and besides, when they got him he was on foot.’
‘But the Intelligence Officer would’ve been with them, would have been party to anything that happened?’
Farrell nodded. ‘That was the way it worked.’
‘Shoot to kill,’ Morrison muttered aloud. ‘D’you remember who he was—the officer that night with GSquad?’
Farrell looked at him for a long moment, then slowly he nodded.
Morrison took the cassette recorder from his pocket. Farrell’s eyes widened. Morrison laid a hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right, Eamon. I’m only interested in the soldier. Would you tell me who he was please—the IO for GSquad?’
Farrell forced the air out of his mouth.
‘Please,’ Morrison said.
‘He was a captain. Young guy. Hard case.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Vanner.’
Vanner parked the car and walked the short distance to Sarah’s house. Glancing up he saw that the windows were blank, but above them a light burned in the flat. He looked at his watch, seven o’clock. Wearily he climbed the steps and fished through the letter box for the key. The heating was off. Obviously Sarah was not expecting to be home very early. He shivered in the stillness and flicked on the hall light. In the kitchen he turned on the oven and then found the thermostat and the comforting hum as the central heating clicked on.
He took off his coat and hung it over the bannister, then went back to the kitchen and boiled the kettle. He was stirring hot water into a mug of coffee when the phone rang in the hall. He ignored it. It rang three times and then the answerphone took over. Sarah’s voice played over the tape and then he heard his own name.
‘Vanner. This is McCague. Why the hell haven’t you phoned me? If you’re there pick up the phone.’ Vanner stood where he was, spoon in hand looking at the swirl of froth in the mug. He heard McCague breathing, then a curse and the line clicked dead. The tape reset itself.
Vanner took his drink through to the living room and sat down. He closed his eyes and lifted his feet to the coffee table. Sarah’s things surrounded him: her cushions, her curtains, her choice of wall covering. The candles all different shapes and sizes, colours and patterns, scattered about the fireplace. Getting up, he unscrewed the cap on her whisky bottle and poured a shot into his mug. He sipped at it, sitting hunched up now in the chair.
A few moments later he heard the sound of the key in the front door and Sarah called out to him.
‘Aden?’
‘In here.’
She came in, her arms full of shopping bags. Vanner stood up and took them from her.
‘When did you get back?’
‘Just now. Long enough to make this.’ He nodded to the coffee. ‘D’you want one?’
She shook her head. ‘Any messages on the machine?’
‘I haven’t listened. McCague just called for me though.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘No.’
She took off her coat and laid it over the chair. Then she rested her palm against his chest and kissed him. ‘Do you live here now? I see you found the heating.’
‘I’ll pay the bill.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’m only joking.’
All at once he felt awkward. ‘I’ll go back to my own place. They must be giving you hell at Loughborough Street.’
‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ She went out into the hall. Vanner followed her with the bags.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starving. Why don’t I take you out? Sort of thank you for putting me up?’
‘That’d be really nice.’
‘Let’s go then. What d’you fancy—Indian?’
The phone rang again as they were going out the door. Sarah hesitated and Vanner propelled her before him.
‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘Whoever it is they’ll wait.’ Down the steps he glanced along the road. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘Miles away. No spaces.’
‘We’ll take mine.’ He opened the door and smiled across the roof at her. ‘See your tenant’s home. Always seems to be here when I’m not.’
‘I haven’t seen him,’ she said.
‘Well he’s home.’ Vanner glanced up at the window, but it was dark. ‘Well he was earlier.’
Sarah smiled wearily at him. ‘I expect he has a life, Aden.’
Vanner walked into Loughborough Street at twelve o’clock the following afternoon. Joe Nicholls was at the desk with the duty sergeant.
‘Joe.’ Vanner nodded to him and stepped past.
‘The old man is looking for you.’
‘Still? Hasn’t he anything better to do?’ Vanner stopped and glanced back at him. ‘I’m on my way up there now. How’s Morrison? Solved the Watchman murders yet?’
Nicholls looked warily at him. ‘He thinks he has, Guv.’
‘Ah,’ Vanner said. ‘Better watch my back then.’
Nicholls did not smile. Vanner shrugged and went on through to the corridor.
Upstairs he knocked on McCague’s office door and received a gruffer than usual invitation to enter. McCague looked up and scowled at him.
‘Where the bloody hell’ve you been?’
‘I’m suspended, Sir. Remember.’
McCague was on his feet. ‘Don’t be clever, Vanner. Where’ve you been?’
‘Around.’
‘No you haven’t. We’ve been looking for you. I’ve been calling your flat every five minutes. I’ve even knocked on the bloody door. You’re never there.’
Vanner was silent.
‘Why didn’t you call me? I’ve left messages on Sarah’s answerphone. She must have passed them on.’
Vanner put his hands in his pockets. ‘She hasn’t seen me.’ He looked evenly at McCague now. ‘Garrod called you in, then?’
‘He didn’t call me in. I went to see him.’ McCague sat down again. He loosened his tie at the collar. ‘Besides, how do you know that if you haven’t been seeing Sarah?’
‘I didn’t say I hadn’t been seeing her. I said—she hadn’t seen me.’
‘Not funny.’ McCague shook his head. ‘Not even close. Christ, I used to think I knew you.’
Vanner said nothing.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Why didn’t you stay in touch? Answer my calls? You’re supposed to do that when you’re suspended. You’re not supposed to just go walkabout.’
Vanner took out his cigarettes. ‘I’m here now.’
McCague calmed then. He placed both hands on the desk before him and the gruff expression softened a little at the edges. ‘Morrison has your balls and he’s planning to hang you by them.’
Vanner was a
ware of a little ice at the top of his spine. McCague’s face was closed. His words a statement of fact.
‘Where is he?’
‘On his way back from Belfast.’ McCague watched him. ‘Proper little ferret he’s being. I’m beginning to wish I’d never let him look at the files.’
‘Why did you?’
‘Had to.’
‘Did you?’
McCague looked away from him. ‘I thought so. If you want to know I thought he’d poke around a bit and then back off. I thought co-operation might help you with the assault charge.’
‘Morrison was never going to just “back off”, Sir. He’s been after me for years. I knew him in Scotland, remember. He never did like me very much.’
‘Maybe he has a point.’
Vanner sat down. ‘It’s an opinion.’
McCague dropped his gaze.
‘Has he got any evidence?’
McCague looked up again. ‘He doesn’t have a gun.’
‘That’s because there isn’t one.’
‘Isn’t there?’
Vanner pushed out his lips. ‘No.’
‘There was though.’
‘When?’
‘Belfast. You took it from the Provo you tortured.’
Vanner stared at him. ‘I didn’t torture anyone.’
‘No? That’s not how Amnesty International would see it. Wounded man, deliberately stepping on his leg. Man on his knees, pistol to his head. My God, Vanner. Why don’t you just paint pictures?’
‘You’ve been talking to Hawkins.’
‘Morrison has.’ McCague shook his head. ‘Jesus. No wonder you didn’t want him brought in.’
Vanner flinched. ‘Reliable witness is he, Hawkins?’
‘Are you telling me he lied?’
‘I’m telling you he saw what he wanted to.’
‘So you didn’t do those things?’
Vanner was silent, looking through McCague for a moment. He said: ‘When you’re on a tour—when someone tries to blow up your platoon and you find the bastard—sometimes you get a little rough. I was a soldier. We were fighting a war.’
McCague half-nodded. ‘What about the gun? Hawkins said it was a Browning.’
‘It went missing.’
‘You reported it as such?’
‘Of course. It was Belfast for Christ’s sake.’
‘What happened to it—the gun I mean?’
Vanner shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I think Hawkins took it. It’s the one Mason saw.’
McCague took a cigarette from Vanner’s packet. ‘That’s what I told Morrison. It’s what Mason told us.’
Vanner was quiet for a few moments. He watched McCague carefully. ‘What was Morrison doing in Belfast?’
‘I don’t know. But he’s on his way back now and he wants to talk to you. He wants to talk to Garrod first and then he wants to talk to you.’
Vanner stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.
‘Where’re you going?’ McCague half-rose.
Vanner frowned at him. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then I’m going home, Sir.’
‘Your flat?’
Vanner hesitated.
‘Sarah Kennett’s?’
‘Probably.’
‘Why don’t you go to your flat?’
Vanner cocked an eyebrow.
‘Don’t you like your flat?’ McCague made a face. ‘Maybe we ought to take a look at it.’
Vanner could feel his heart beating. He rested his fingers lightly on the desktop. ‘Would you like a key?’
McCague exhaled heavily. ‘You’ll have to see Morrison.’
‘Then I’ll see him.’ Vanner went to the door.
‘Vanner.’
He half-turned.
‘Up till now I’ve been on your side,’ McCague said. ‘But I’ll tell you something. If you’re bad—I’ll be standing with Morrison.’
‘Why Aden?’ Sarah asked him. ‘As opposed to A-i-d-a-n, I mean?’
Vanner lay with one arm behind his head, feeling the sweat glisten over his thighs. She lay across him, the weight of her breasts on his chest. Shafts of morning crept round the curtains.
‘I was born there. In the Yemen. My father was chaplain to the Army base. It was my mother’s idea I think.’
‘I’ve never heard of it—Aden, I mean.’
‘It’s not exactly the tourist capital of the world.’ He stared at the ceiling, feeling her watching him. Her hair tickled the skin of his throat.
‘How was Newcastle? You haven’t really told me.’
‘I told you about Black.’
‘What else though? You were there two days.’
Lightly he stroked her hair. ‘I found an old article about the amount of Hit and Runs there had been up there.’
‘A lot?’
‘A few. Five in six years or so.’
‘That’s a lot.’
‘Enough for someone to write a feature about it.’
‘Did you get a copy?’
He nodded. ‘Three children. Two adults. Youngest was a girl. Three-year-old. Meggie Hamilton. Cute little thing she was.’
Her eyes were no longer on his face.
‘Sarah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You okay?’
She hesitated. ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Just a three-year-old, that’s all. Terrible waste of a life.’
‘Yes.’ Vanner lay back again. ‘The Hamilton intrigued me. I went to the hospital. Took a look at the death certificate. Meggie’s father’s name was John.’
Somebody rang the doorbell. Sarah sat up and reached for her dressing gown. Vanner looked puzzled. ‘What time is it?’
‘Twenty to eight.’
‘Over-zealous milkman?’
She grinned. ‘I don’t have it delivered.’ She wrapped the robe about her and tightened the cord. Vanner reached for his jeans. He heard Sarah answer the door as he buttoned his shirt and then he heard men’s voices. He moved out onto the landing and Sarah looked up at him.
‘Aden?’
‘Who is it?’
She answered him with a lift of her eyebrows.
Vanner walked down the stairs in his bare feet, tucking in the folds of his shirt. Morrison stepped into the hall, followed by Scammell and a third man. Vanner recognised him as the man across the street in the car.
‘Vanner,’ Morrison said. ‘Thought we’d find you here.’ He eyed Sarah stiffly.
‘Mob handed.’ Vanner shook his head. ‘Hardly your style, Morrison.’ He glanced from Scammell to the other man and back again.
‘We want to talk to you, Vanner. You know DI Scammell already. This is DS Matthews.’
Vanner stared at him. ‘What d’you want to talk about?’
‘Lots of things actually. Not here though.’ Morrison paused. ‘Loughborough Street.’
Everybody seemed to be gathered as they took him down, Morrison making a great show of marching him past the Incident Room to the interview rooms down the corridor. They were all there: Berry, Joe Nicholls. Vanner glanced at them as he passed. ‘Gathered the troops then, Morrison? Everyone here but Sarah.’
‘DC Kennett’s no longer on the investigation, Vanner. She hasn’t been for a fortnight.’
Vanner was stunned. Sarah had mentioned nothing about it to him.
They sat him down in the very interview room where he had hit Daniels. His expression was not wasted on Morrison.
‘Thought we’d make you feel at home.’
‘Decent of you.’
Only Scammell stayed with him. Matthews remained outside. Morrison carefully unfastened a fresh tape and slotted it into the machine.
‘Do you want representation?’
Vanner looked darkly at him. ‘Am I being cautioned?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then I don’t want representation.’
Morrison looked at his watch. ‘Interview commencing at 08:50, Monday 21st
December. Present are DCI Vanner of Loughborough Street CID, and DI Scammell and Superintendent Morrison, CIB.’ He smiled at Vanner. ‘I want to know where you were on the night of June 4th 1994.’
Vanner folded his arms. ‘At home.’
‘Which is where?’
‘Number 2 Connaught House, Tennison Road, London.’
‘Can anybody verify that you were there?’
‘No.’
Morrison continued in the same vein, every murder from Lothian in 1991 through to the judge the previous month. Vanner found his lack of an alibi suddenly vaguely disturbing. He could see Morrison was enjoying himself. Whatever story the man peddled about just doing his job and all the usual stuff was rubbish. He was relishing every minute of this. He asked him about the investigation, the letters, the leads that were never there. Then he started to talk about Hawkins and the Army and Ulster. As he did so Vanner could see the extent of the picture he had built up. But as Morrison talked and Scammell watched him for his reactions, Vanner realised that circumstance and supposition formed the extent of Morrison’s case, and he started to relax. He sat with his arms folded, rocking himself on two legs of the chair.
‘This is it?’ he said after a while, cutting Morrison off in mid-sentence. ‘What’re you hoping for—some kind of confession?’
Morrison stared at him. ‘We think you’re guilty, Vanner. We think it’s you who’s behind these killings. We think you started it in Lothian and you’ve kept right on with it until now. What perfect cover for you—the investigating officer. Trouble is, Vanner, you’ve got a history of violence.’
‘I was a soldier.’
‘Exactly. And then a policeman.’ Morrison paused. ‘After a brief spell in between when you did a bit of freelancing with John Radley.’
Vanner nodded. ‘Ah, you’ve spoken to Radley. And Standish—did you speak to him?’
‘Of course.’
Again Vanner nodded. ‘And my motive?’
Morrison looked from under his brows at him. ‘Revenge. Justice. A throwback to your Ulster days.’
Vanner watched him very carefully then. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Now we’re getting to it. All your old suspicions, Morrison. My God, they must’ve weighed you down—carrying them round all these years.’
Morrison was smiling at him, only not with his eyes. ‘Daniels,’ he said.
‘That isn’t related.’
‘We think it is. We think that’s when you slipped.’
