The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  Vanner stood naked before the full-length mirror that misted as the bath filled. Half-turned, he could see over his shoulder and take a first real look at the spider’s legs of stitching that crisscrossed his spine. How many did McCague say—thirty-seven? His shoulder too was stitched and the plaster weighed on his arm. He stared at the grey of his face in the mirror. They told him he had lost quite a lot of blood. Maybe that accounted for the pallor. The mirror clouded and he lowered himself into the water and felt the stinging sensation all across his back. Sweat gathered in sticky globules that rolled from his brow to his lips. Through the uncurtained window he could see the height of the church spire, climbing against the moon. He closed his eyes. Anne still looked like Jane. It occurred to him then in a warped kind of way, that maybe it was why he had married Jane in the first place.

  They ate dinner in the kitchen, though still he could find no appetite. His father made small talk and Anne smiled at him. He felt uncomfortable. He always did. They knew it. Afterwards in the lounge he drank his father’s Scotch. His father sipped coffee.

  Anne came through after a while and they sat together in the silence. At ten o’clock feigning fatigue, Vanner went up to bed.

  He lay in the darkness but could not sleep. The curtains remained undrawn. He had hauled the sash window fully open so the breeze that had risen with the evening could break the silence of his room. He could hear them speaking in small voices as they went to bed, and then the house stilled into a dullness that echoed in his head. The weight of his arm was difficult. He had not bothered to re-strap his back so at least tonight his breathing was easier. He wondered if he would bleed on the sheet.

  Superintendent Morrison walked the length of the corridor and knocked on McCague’s door. He straightened the knot of his tie and tugged at the sleeves of his jacket. He heard a gruff command to enter and he opened the door. McCague looked over the desk at him.

  ‘Sit down, Andrew.’

  Morrison sat. McCague closed the file he was working on and sat back. He looked over fisted hands at him.

  ‘Settling in?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Different to CIB.’

  Morrison allowed himself a smile. ‘Back in this field. It’s what I always wanted.’

  McCague looked at him. ‘But not like this.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Come on, Andrew. I’m your Guv’nor. You can be candid with me. You fucked up over Vanner and this is a sideways shift. You know it and I know it. Why ponce about?’

  Morrison looked steadily at him. If he wanted to be jaundiced he would say that McCague was enjoying this.

  ‘I got it wrong over the Watchman Killings, Sir. I’ll admit that. But my motives were sound.’

  ‘You investigated Vanner for assaulting Gareth Daniels in an interview room. That got him suspended. Then you decided he was a murderer. You never had a shred of evidence. You took inference and supposition as fact. That’s why Garrod shifted you.’

  ‘Vanner had a past, Sir.’

  ‘So what. We all have a past. You let personal feelings cloud your judgement.’

  Morrison looked at the floor.

  ‘Vanner may be an awkward, selfish bastard, and he shouldn’t have smacked Daniels. But he’s no killer.’

  McCague pushed himself away from the desk. ‘Like I said. The past.’ He sighed. ‘We’re not here to talk about the past. You know he’s been demoted.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘And you also know he was mugged.’

  Morrison nodded.

  McCague paused then. ‘I’ve offered him the DI’s job with the Drug Squad.’

  Morrison was suddenly cold. ‘You mean the North West job?’ McCague nodded.

  ‘I don’t want him.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would.’

  ‘You asked me to be candid.’

  ‘That’s why we’re having this meeting.’

  ‘He wasn’t responsible for the Watchman murders, but he was involved with Sarah Kennett. She killed five people and then killed herself.’ Morrison shook his head. ‘Don’t you think that makes him just a little bit unstable?’

  ‘You forget,’ McCague said. ‘Vanner was a soldier. He’s seen death in Ulster and he’s seen it in the Falklands. He’ll get over it. That’s why he’s in Norfolk. If he’s hung up on anybody it’s his ex-wife—not Sarah Kennett.’

  For a few moments neither of them spoke, then Morrison said: ‘Has he accepted the job?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘No?’

  Morrison shook his head. ‘Vanner would never go back. Not the kind of man to accept demotion.’

  ‘He will.’ McCague sat back again. ‘He might not have done. But now he will.’

  ‘You mean because of what happened to him?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Vanner’ll want to find out who hit him.’

  ‘He was mugged. Hundreds of people get mugged.’

  ‘That’s not how he sees it.’

  ‘Then with respect, Sir, that makes him even more of a liability.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘And you’re happy about that?’

  ‘I’ll live with it. It’ll give him an edge. Vanner’s good with an edge.’

  Morrison crossed his leg on his knee. ‘With respect, Sir. I don’t agree with you. Vanner in the Drug Squad with a grudge is not going to help us at all.’

  ‘They’re rudderless down there, Andrew. Have been since the reshuffle. They’ve been without a DI for two months.’

  ‘What about Ellis? He’s acting DI.’

  ‘Ellis is a good skipper. But Vanner’s a good DI.’

  ‘Sounds like the decision is made, Sir.’

  ‘It is. I just wanted to let you know.’

  Vanner sat in the spring sunshine in a deckchair. His father was digging out flower beds, in his wellington boots. Anne brought Vanner a cup of coffee and sat down on the bench beside him. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Getting there.’ He glanced across at his father. ‘How’s he?’

  ‘He’s okay. He misses you though, Aden. I know he’d like to see more of you.’

  Vanner looked back at her, clearly, unflinching and yes she reminded him of Jane. Hair pulled back, the height and beauty of her face still evident despite her fifty-odd years.

  ‘You find it difficult being around me don’t you, Aden.’ She said it flatly, no hint of emotion or testiness in her voice. He opened his mouth to deny it, but then he closed it again. She smiled from deep in her eyes. ‘Why?’

  He could not answer her. He looked beyond her to his father, who leaned on his fork and studied the ground at his feet.

  ‘You make him happy,’ Vanner said.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You know you do.’

  ‘We have a nice life now he’s retired. He still locums of course. But it’s quiet up here and we get along. He misses you though. He’s seventy-two now.’

  ‘You mean his time is running out?’

  ‘Not just his, Aden. Yours.’

  Vanner looked towards his father again. ‘He’s not ill or anything is he?’

  ‘No. He’s as fit as ever. But you’re his only son.’ She shook her head. ‘You know you’re both so alike.’

  Vanner smiled then. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  They were quiet for a moment and then she said: ‘I remind you of Jane, don’t I?’ Pain in his chest. He sat forward and placed his cup back on the saucer.

  ‘Have you never tried to see her?’

  ‘She’s married, Anne. What would be the point?’

  ‘D’you know where she lives?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s been such a long time.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right. It has.’

  Day died over the city and two boys played eight-ball pool in the Neasden Road Bail Hostel. A third boy rolled a cigarette in a corner. Every now and then he would glance out of the window.


  ‘You should’ve seen the cunt.’ The red-haired boy bent low over the table, the glint of adrenalin still in his eyes. ‘Nearly shit himself when I wave this fuck-off blade in his face.’

  ‘How much d’you get?’ the other boy asked him.

  ‘Hundred.’

  ‘Shit. A ton? In one hit?’

  ‘Yep. What about you?’

  ‘Twenty-five. All fuckin’ day. Two buses and a tube train for that. Cost me more in fares.’ He lowered his voice as the warden walked past the open door. ‘Some old bag on the top deck. Last one of the day. Twenty-five quid and a bar of fuckin’ chocolate.’

  In the corner a bleeper sounded and the lad with the cigarette glanced down at the face of his watch. A number flashed on the panel. He looked up at the others. ‘Give me your dosh then. They’ll be here in a minute.’ He stood up and moved to the door. There was no sign of the warden. He hitched at baggy jeans with his elbows and looked back across the room. ‘Come on, Sammy. I’ll nip out while Michaels isn’t looking.’

  The red-haired kid fished eighty pounds from his pocket and passed it over. The other one looked up at him. ‘Thought you said a hundred.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So where’s the rest?’

  ‘Pocket money. He can afford it.’

  The other lad looked at him, shook his head and then shrugged. ‘Your funeral,’ he said.

  Pocketing the money, he moved back to the window and saw a grey BMW pull up in the car park. ‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘Sammy. You make sure the old git’s not about. I’ll take this across.’

  The red-haired boy went out to the kitchen.

  The boy with the money ran to the car park and crouched down on the passenger side of the BMW. The window was wound down. Ninja leered at him from out of his good eye. The boy shrank back a little. He always did this close. The left eye was a mass of whitened pupil with scars crisscrossing the lids. His right earlobe was missing. The Wasp leaned across, holding a small, padded envelope in his hand. ‘What you got?’

  ‘Hundred and five.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Bloody good.’ Again the boy looked at Ninja, arm hanging out of the window, a cigarette burning between black-nailed fingers. The Wasp took the cash and passed over the envelope.

  ‘Respect.’ The boy stood up, hesitated and glanced back at the hostel. ‘Hey, Wasp,’ he said. ‘Sammy’s holding out on you.’

  The Wasp drove towards Cricklewood. Ninja counted the money. ‘That’s seven hundred,’ he said. ‘Only Archway to go.’

  The Wasp nodded. ‘Pretty good for the day.’ He glanced at Ninja. ‘Sammy fuckin’ Johnson. You’d think he’d know better by now.’

  The bleeper sounded on Wasp’s wrist. He pulled over beside a phone box. Leaving the engine running and Ninja sat in the car, he dialled the number on the watch face.

  ‘Wasp?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We’ve just done Neasden. Only Archway to go.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Seven hundred and a few.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘One thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kid in Neasden. You know—Sammy Johnson. He’s holding out on us.’

  The voice in his ear went cold. ‘Maybe you’ll sort that for me.’

  Vanner stayed a week with Anne and his father and then the confines of their house became too much and he knew he had to move on. He met his father in the drive, sorting some rubbish from his car. He looked up as Vanner walked over. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t stay here.’

  His father rested his hand on the roof of the car. ‘You’re not fit enough to look after yourself.’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  They looked at one another. ‘You can’t go back to London.’

  Vanner shook his head.

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘I thought I’d go to the cottage.’

  Slowly his father lowered the boot lid and crunched across the gravel towards him.

  ‘You sure that’s wise, Son?’

  ‘I need the peace, Dad. I need to be alone.’

  They stood together on the step and watched him loading his bag into the boot of the car. Anne looked across the roof at him as if she understood. Vanner smiled at her. His father drove him to the village and dropped him outside the shop. He switched off the engine. ‘Power’s on and everything, Son. There’s plenty of wood for a fire. We spend a few weekends there, Anne and I.’

  Vanner nodded.

  ‘You got your phone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His father pushed out his cheek with his tongue. ‘I’ll probably pop across—see if you’re all right.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Vanner got his bag from the boot. His father started the engine and nodded to him through the open passenger window.

  ‘Thank Anne for me. Will you, Dad?’

  ‘Of course. Take care, Son.’

  Grass bent to the wind across the headland. Waves kicked into bone-coloured horses that sculled the lip of the beach. A few people walked dogs. Vanner stood with his bag between his feet and looked out to sea. His gaze was dragged momentarily across the line of the shore to the lighthouse and beyond, where the land was split by sugarbeet fields and his father’s chalet stood on its own. Sarah Kennett had died there: thrown herself off the cliff rather than face trial for the Watchman murders and spend the rest of her days in Broadmoor. They had been lovers for a while, but she had never replaced Jane. He bent his eyes to the sun and stared out to sea once again.

  He sat in the chair with his jacket still buttoned as the darkness drifted against the window that faced the sea. Beside him, unopened, lay his bag and the small parcel of food he had bought from the shop. In his unplastered hand he held a whiskey glass. On the floor at his feet, the bottle stood with the top off. He stared into his reflection as it grew in the darkness of the window. He glanced at the fire, empty save the murmur of ash. When he came for Sarah there had been candles. No candles now. No dripping wax. The floor had been covered with photos. As he sat there he saw them again.

  Later, in the bathroom he dried himself carefully and inspected his wounds. His shoulder was healing. With each day that passed there was more movement. His back would be bitten by scars forever. Beneath the plaster cast his arm itched. He got dressed again and went back to the fire he had lit in the lounge. Salt-crusted wood hissed and smoked in the grate. He poured a large measure of whiskey and lit himself a cigarette. Then he took his mobile phone from his jacket.

  ‘Jabba?’

  ‘Mr Vanner. How’s the back?’

  ‘You heard then?’

  ‘Word gets about. I thought you had gone away for good.’

  ‘No,’ Vanner said. ‘Just for a while.’ He paused then: ‘Jabba?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want to find out who hit me.’

  He sat down beside the fire and put out his cigarette. Jabba had been his best informant for years. They went way back to when he was just a PC. The word would go out and the word would come back. With Jabba it always did. He finished the whiskey, thought about another then put the lid back on the bottle. He picked up the mobile again and dialled McCague’s office. He got no reply so he tried him at home. This time McCague answered.

  ‘It’s me. Vanner.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Getting there.’

  ‘How’s your father?’

  ‘He’s all right. Listen. The DI’s job in the Drug Squad.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I want it.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘You know why then?’

  ‘I figured.’

  ‘Is there any word from Fennell Street?’

  ‘Not a whisper.’

  ‘They interviewed the two from the pub?’

  ‘It wasn’t them. Whole bunch of witnesses. Stayed in the bar till closing time.’
>
  Vanner nodded to himself. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I’m fixed.’

  ‘One thing I didn’t tell you, Vanner.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your Divisional Super. It’s Morrison.’

  Three

  VANNER SAT AT HIS desk with July heat beating at the window. Two sheets of blue absorbent paper lay before him and six hundred faces stared up at him. Half the face was human, white, blue-eyed; the other half was red, the grinning face of the devil. Somewhere he had seen it before, but he could not remember where. Ryan looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Denny,’ he said.

  Vanner looked up at him. Longish brown hair, sharp blue eyes.

  ‘Nothing till three months ago and suddenly they’re everywhere.’

  ‘Who’s Denny?’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘Fuck knows. That’s what the kids call them.’

  ‘Where does it come from?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘E’s as well as these?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And it was this type that killed the lad at the rave?’

  Ryan nodded.

  Vanner stood up. ‘I think we should talk to your dealer.’

  They left the Drug Squad office on Campbell Row and drove through Wembley, traffic choking the High Road. ‘There’s a few cartoons that we know already, Guv,’ Ryan said. ‘Fiver a square. Small-time most of it. But the market’s growing again. E costs you fifteen, twenty quid a tab’. Acid isn’t Ecstasy. But it’s cheaper.’

  Vanner thought about the squares pinned on the office wall.

  ‘Hearts, strawberries, the test-tube twins,’ Ryan went on. ‘Ren & Stimpy’s quite new. But we know it’s been around in the States. We’ve found it in Australia as well. Denny, we’ve never seen before now. We’ve checked across the water, but they haven’t seen it. Nothing as far as we know in Holland. So the source of the artwork is here.’