The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  Vanner looked at him. ‘Which makes your dealer a catch.’

  Ryan nodded. ‘Half a sheet on him. Undercover buy. He got wise and legged it.’

  ‘So you pulled him.’

  ‘We got lucky. Good snout. Geezer I nicked dealing heroin wraps from his foreskin.’

  Vanner looked sideways at him.

  ‘Straight up, Guv’nor. I knew he was dealing. But when we strip-searched him we couldn’t find anything. He was getting dressed when I noticed the shape of his helmet. Little bumps, making the skin very white—you know.’ Ryan grinned then. ‘Five wraps up his foreskin. Tiny little bubbles of clingfilm. He’d sit in his car with his flies undone, sell what he had then fuck off home for some more. Nearly got away with it too.’

  Vanner laughed. ‘Intimate search was it? I trust you got the Super’s permission.’

  ‘Didn’t need to, Guv. I just told him—either you take them out or we hold you down and we do it.’

  They moved on again and Vanner settled back in his seat. A sari-clad Indian woman stepped off the kerb and Ryan jerked the wheel to avoid her. Vanner watched the traffic in front of them. Three weeks in and the summer half over. His shoulder hurt him a little still, whenever he moved it too sharply, or first thing in the morning. His back was fine, but badly scarred. His right forearm was mended.

  Sid Ryan was a face from the past. They had both been PC’s in Tottenham, nearly ten years before. They had worked together for a year and then he had moved on. Ryan’s was the first name McCague had mentioned to him: a DS now, who had been with the squad for three years. He was the most experienced of the twenty-strong team that Vanner had inherited from Westbrook.

  ‘So you settling in then, Guv?’ Ryan said as they turned off the High Road and cut down towards the Stadium. Vanner nodded and glanced at him. ‘What was the word when you found out it was me you were getting?’

  Ryan squinted at him. ‘Well, if you must know we thought it was funny.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘Yeah. You know. What with Morrison being Division Super.’

  Vanner snorted. ‘Bit of friction in the barracks.’

  ‘Keeps things interesting doesn’t it.’

  They sat in the interview room at Neasden Police Station, with the young, black dealer sitting across the table from them. Ryan rolled a liquorice-papered cigarette and passed it across. ‘There you go, Ringo. Better with a spliff in. But it’ll do.’

  Ringo did not smile. He was very black, short-cropped hair grazing the height of his skull. He wore baggy jeans and basketball boots.

  ‘Where d’you get the squares, Ringo?’ Ryan said.

  ‘I’m not talking to you, man.’

  Vanner leaned his elbows on the table and looked him in the eyes. ‘Bit young to play the hard man aren’t you.’

  ‘I want a lawyer.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah. I do. I ain’t talking till he comes.’

  ‘Done this before have you?’

  ‘Before?’ Ryan blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘This Borstal. That Borstal. Half your life in a bail hostel. Isn’t that right, Ringo?’

  Ringo looked dull-eyed at him.

  Ryan pushed the plastic bag across the table. ‘Half a sheet of squares, Ringo. Not to mention the E’s. Must make you the main man on your block.’

  Ringo looked at the floor. Ryan leaned towards him. ‘You know one of these days you’ll do yourself a favour and talk to us. Lot of stuff in the papers about E’s.’

  ‘No one forces it down their throats.’

  Vanner looked at him then. ‘And that makes it all right does it?’

  Ringo blew smoke in his face.

  ‘You want to watch yourself, Ringo,’ Ryan said. ‘We let it out you’re an E dealer—people might think that boy in Archway died because of you.’

  Vanner tapped the squares. ‘This is new. This Denny. Very new. Suddenly it’s everywhere. That puts you in the frame.’

  ‘I just deal.’

  ‘Who supplies you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Vanner cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘You’re looking at a lot of bird, Ringo. Pretty boy like you should enjoy that.’

  ‘I want to see a lawyer.’

  They drove back to Campbell Row. Vanner lit two cigarettes and passed one across. ‘He doesn’t want to go down, Guv.’ Ryan said. ‘We tread carefully we might get somewhere.’

  Vanner nodded. ‘Who’s the brief?’

  ‘Just the duty.’

  ‘No bail?’

  ‘Not right now anyway.’

  Morrison was in Vanner’s office when they got back. He was looking at the acid squares on the desk. He looked up as Vanner came in. ‘What’re these?’

  ‘New artwork. Slippery picked up a dealer.’

  ‘Small-time?’

  ‘Half a sheet. Sort of bloke we want to talk to.’

  ‘Many of them about?’

  Vanner nodded. ‘Our patch mostly. Ecstasy too.’

  ‘Have you flagged it with the AIU?’

  Vanner just looked at him.

  Morrison stepped past him and closed the office door. Vanner looked out of the window. Thus far he had managed to avoid Morrison. But something was on his mind. He had seen it the moment McCague met with both of them in Hendon. He turned to face him and Morrison looked up. His face was closed: pale skin, green eyes, the red rash of his hair. ‘Settling in, Vanner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The squad?’

  ‘Good team.’

  ‘Been together a while. McCague thought they were leaderless.’

  ‘They were.’ Vanner leaned on the radiator.

  ‘What else are you working on?’

  ‘This and that.’

  Morrison’s eyes dulled. ‘I need to know, Vanner. It’s my job.’

  ‘You will know, Sir. When there’re things to tell you. Right now you know as much as I do.’

  Morrison moved away from the door. The room was too small for both of them, a desk, a filing cabinet, two telephones. He half-paced and stepped back again. Vanner stood where he was. ‘You went to Daniels’ trial?’

  ‘Had to give evidence.’

  ‘Went down like a lamb didn’t he.’

  ‘Mr Apologetic’

  ‘Maybe he meant it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘They’re not all bad, Vanner.’

  ‘Aren’t they?’

  Morrison folded his arms and leaned against the door. He pulled at his lip with his teeth. ‘Rumour, Vanner.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘About you. Only been back a few weeks and already a rumour. The word is—you only came back to find out who hit you.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘It’s what I’m hearing.’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to rumours, Sir. You, of all people, know that.’

  Morrison flared his nostrils. ‘You were mugged, Vanner. That’s all. It’s a Fennell Street deal. I want it kept that way.’

  ‘Not been anywhere near them, Sir.’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘They’ve not exactly come up with anything have they.’

  ‘No room for private crusades, Vanner.’

  ‘Or vendettas.’

  Morrison looked at him. ‘Just watch yourself. You’re on probation remember. You might have the Chief Super on your side. But there are others.’

  Vanner did not say anything.

  Morrison opened the door. ‘Friendly word, that’s all. You know how I play it. By the book, Vanner. Down the line. If you look good—who knows?—you might get your pips back.’

  Jimmy Crack stood at the urinal in Gallyon’s Nightclub. Next to him the bouncer zipped up. There was no one else in the room.

  ‘Who’s the blonde sort with Bobby?’ Jimmy said.

  The bouncer washed his hands. ‘Lisa Morgan. Tom. Very high-class.’

  ‘Some looker.’

  ‘Five hundred a trick.’

  Jimmy shook off the drops
and zipped up. The bouncer was drying his hands. ‘That doesn’t include the suite. Got one most nights at the Clarion. You know—off Trafalgar Square. Seven-fifty a throw. So the punter’s into her for twelve-fifty a night.’

  ‘I should hope he is at that price.’

  The door opened and two men walked in. The bouncer gave them the eye, as bouncers always do, and then he walked outside. Jimmy dried his hands.

  Back at the bar, Anne Barrington passed him a drink. ‘Not bad overtime this. Maybe I’ll get lucky and pull.’

  Jimmy glanced up at the balcony where Gallyon leaned on the rail, surveying the hubbub of his empire. ‘The looker’s a Tom,’ he said. ‘Regional plant just told me. Five hundred a time.’

  ‘Nice if you can get it.’

  ‘It very probably is.’ Jimmy looked across the dance floor and saw the blonde-haired prostitute dancing by herself. Men approached her now and again but she ignored them and they walked away.

  A man in a white grandad shirt under a black box jacket walked across the dance floor. Slim, not very tall, but an attitude about him that made people move aside. Jimmy watched as he went up the stairs. Halfway up he glanced across the floor, caught the Tom’s eye and nodded to her. She lifted her hand in reply. At the head of the stairs the man shook hands with Bobby Gallyon. Jimmy Crack watched as they sat down at Bobby’s table.

  Michael Terry drank a Bloody Mary and watched Lisa on the dance floor. Even from here she aroused him. Gallyon was talking to one of his doormen, at the head of the stairs. Terry stood up, drink in hand, and leaned over the rail. On the dance floor below him a man approached Lisa and he smiled to himself as she rebuffed him. A moment later she looked up, caught his eye and Terry tapped the face of his watch. She nodded, once, then went back to her dance.

  Gallyon came back, signalled to the barman and sat down.

  ‘Busy night?’ Terry said.

  ‘Not bad.’

  The barman set more drinks before them. When he had gone Terry said: ‘I’m going to Amsterdam this week.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Selling well then.’

  ‘You know it’s selling well.’

  Gallyon nodded. ‘When does the next load arrive?’

  ‘In my yard on Wednesday.’

  ‘And the price?’

  ‘Price is good.’ Terry looked over the dance floor once more.

  ‘You like Lisa. Don’t you,’ Gallyon said.

  Terry looked back at him. ‘She keeps me amused. Must be good for business.’

  ‘A fixture.’ Gallyon nodded. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Tonight I’ll do you a favour.’

  Terry lay back on the bed and watched as Lisa peeled herself out of the dress. Arched back, hair falling across her shoulders. She stood there in suspenders and high heels, giggled at him then sat down in the chair. She jiggled the string of pearls that fell between her breasts, then crossed her ankle on her knee. Terry sat up. ‘Come here,’ he said.

  She just looked at him, the pearls between her teeth now.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  She stood up, hands on her hips, naked save the black of her stockings. Terry made a grab for her and she danced back, shaking her head. She moved to the bathroom door.

  She knelt in the shower and gave him a blow job, water falling over them. Terry stood rigid, hands knotted in the mass of her hair, he kept her eyes upturned to his. Still wet, he walked her over to the bed and made her lie face-down. He moved his weight on top of her, probing between her legs with stiff fingers. He spoke with his mouth close to her ear.

  ‘You like it up the backside don’t you.’

  ‘No.’

  He pushed himself against her. ‘I said, you like it up the backside don’t you.’

  ‘It’s extra.’

  He pushed her face into the pillow. ‘Darling. I can afford it.’

  Later, body still moist, he lay on his side on the bed. Naked, Lisa sat on the floor, looking at the small white tablet in her hand. ‘Funny face,’ she said. ‘What a funny face.’

  ‘Funny ha ha or just funny?’

  She shrugged her shoulders, popped it into her mouth and swallowed some champagne. Terry touched her hair, then he curled his fingers into it and pulled her up from the floor. She cried out. He smiled, twisted her head round and pushed her face into his groin.

  The Wasp watched Sammy Johnson leaning against the car-park wall with his mates. His hair flopped over his eyes as he laughed.

  Ninja watched him too and ran his thumb along the edge of his sword. The Wasp glanced at him. ‘We ain’t going to cut him, man.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Break the fucker’s arms.’

  They saw Sammy take a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, flip open his Zippo and cup his hands to the wind. The Wasp curled his lip. ‘Look at the wanker. Thinks he’s fuckin’ big-time.’

  Ninja shifted in his seat. ‘Let’s just smack him and go.’

  Vanner unlocked his front door and stepped into the cold, silent hall. A pile of letters looked up at him. He stepped over them and went downstairs to the kitchen. There was no furniture. He had none. The house was a purchase that had come upon him all at once when he had returned to his flat at Christmas. He had realised he did not own anything and for some reason it mattered. He had walked up the road one day, on the way back from a meet with Jabba, saw the board, looked in the windows and bought it. There was a Greek Taverna on the corner and a pub directly opposite. Camden Town. Why not?

  In the kitchen he bent to the fridge. A single pot of yoghurt on an otherwise empty shelf. Standing up again, he closed the door and then plugged in the kettle. He unplugged it again and went back upstairs. The lounge was empty, his feet echoing on the stripped wood of the floor. All the floors were stripped. Maybe that was why he had bought it. Upstairs, he tossed his jacket on the bed. Apart from a hanging clothes rail, bought from a closing-down shop sale, the bed was his only furniture. He took a shower, got dressed again and crossed the street to the Taverna.

  Costas was there as usual, whistling as he poured cold beer into a frosted glass. Outside, the orange of street lights reflected off the roofs of the cars. Vanner ate Moussaka and Greek cheese, and drank two more bottles of beer. He could see his new, empty house from here. When he was finished eating he smoked a cigarette and watched the comings and goings from the pub.

  Good to have Slippery as his DS. He could mind for him. No doubt he would need to. The rest seemed able enough. Drug Squad, good men on the street. McCleod would be on his side, as would China. Kevin Davies too. Ryan had said as much. Ellis was the one maybe. He would need to watch Ellis. The other DS, with his Inspector’s Board coming up. No doubt he had had his eye on this job.

  Morrison. He smiled to himself. Nice to see the little bastard floundering. Tables turned by McCague. He could have laughed aloud at the irony. Garrod had lost him pretty quickly after the CIB debacle. Sideways shunt and everybody knew it. Unblemished career, suddenly with a great big stain on it.

  Michael Terry was speeding. Not in his car, in his head; mind racing as he counted the notes on the table. Two nights on the trot. Five hundred a time. Jesus Christ. Was it worth it? He looked down at the naked shape of Lisa, lying on her side with half an arm tucked under the pillow. Her hair fell back from her face. Silly fucking witch. Funny how she disgusted him afterwards.

  He took the lift downstairs and studied himself in the mirror. Looking good, he told himself. Looking very good. He waited in the lobby while the doorman found a taxi. He sat in the back as the cabbie cut down through the West End and headed towards the river. Vodka and wine mingled in his head and he could smell Lisa Morgan on his clothes. A police car was parked along the Haymarket. Two uniforms were talking to a couple of likely looking lads in green, nylon bomber jackets.

  In his flat he poured another vodka and stirred in tomato juice. He drank
it, standing against the height of the window which filled the wall, overlooking the river. He could see Gabriel’s Wharf and the back of the Sea Containers building and beyond it the glass of the water. He loved to stand here on nights like this, with his sacks emptied and his head buzzing. He liked to watch the lights on the water, listen to the traffic rumble over Blackfriars Bridge. He could see St Paul’s and the city beyond it. Five years ago he had nothing.

  Vanner scraped his face, then finished with a splash of cold water. Outside a car’s horn hooted. Drying his hands, he went to the window. Ryan had his car parked in the middle of the road and was rolling a cigarette on the roof.

  They sat in the charge room at Neasden. Ryan looked over at him. ‘No furniture in your place then?’

  ‘Haven’t got round to it yet.’

  The Custody Sergeant brought Ringo out. He looked bleary-eyed and lonely. Vanner glanced at Ryan. ‘His brief seen him yet?’

  Ryan nodded. He stood up as Ringo got to them. ‘Another night on the tiles? Told you before about that.’

  They sat in the interview room. Vanner looked Ringo in the eye. ‘D’you want your solicitor here?’

  Ringo shook his head. Ryan rolled a cigarette and he looked hopefully at it. Ryan stuck it between his own lips, lit it and drew the smoke in hard. He talked as he exhaled. ‘Not much sleep last night then. Sarge out there tells me you had a right bunch of hooligans in. Sang all night did they?’

  Ringo said nothing.

  Vanner leaned forward. ‘Get used to it. Prisons are very noisy.’

  Ringo wet his lips with his tongue. ‘I don’t want to go away,’ he said.

  Vanner looked at Ryan and then back at Ringo again. ‘Little bit late for that isn’t it?’

  Ryan passed Ringo the cigarette and he sucked greedily on it. Vanner kept on staring at him and the hunted look grew in his eyes. Ryan sat back in the chair and tapped his lighter on the table top. ‘Maybe there’s something we can do, Guv’nor?’ he said.

  Vanner shook his head.

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘No.’

  Ringo glanced at Vanner. ‘I could help you.’

  ‘How?’

  Ringo shrugged. ‘I could tell you things.’