by Jeff Gulvin
She frowned. ‘You know I’m not supposed to, Sir.’
Lisa swivelled in her chair. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind.’
Bennett pursed her lips, opened the door and Ryan came in with the coffee. He placed the plastic cups on the table. Bennett held the door open. When they were alone Lisa looked at Vanner. ‘I saw you in the club last night,’ she said.
‘Did you?’
‘Never forget a face.’
Vanner half-smiled.
‘She’s very pissed off isn’t she.’
‘Bennett?’
She nodded and indicated the E’s on the table. ‘Those make me more valuable to you than to her don’t they.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Shame. She’s been watching me for weeks.’
‘In the club?’
‘The hotel.’
Vanner sipped coffee. ‘Why carry on—if you knew she was onto you?’
‘Business, Vanner. My profession. I’m very, very expensive. I have schedules. My punters aren’t just bods off the street. When I say they can see me—they expect to see me.’
Vanner leaned an arm over the chair. ‘All very professional.’
‘How else can you run a business?’
He poked a finger at the E’s on the table. ‘You take a lot of these?’
She smiled at him. ‘I’m always in control.’
‘You like control.’
‘Don’t you?’
He looked evenly at her. ‘Bobby get them for you?’
She folded her arms.
‘The Arab you were nicked with then?’
‘Don’t be silly. Arabs don’t do E’s. They do champagne and good malt whisky.’
‘Who then?’
She put out her cigarette and lit another. Vanner leaned towards her once more. ‘You don’t have to say anything. It’s up to you. But they’ve got a good case against you. It could be very serious.’
She looked keenly at him then. ‘That would depend on the judge.’
He stared at her for a moment. ‘Like to wear their wigs do they?’
‘Some of them do. Yes.’
For a moment he was lost. She held his eye. He looked right back at her, but could think of nothing to say.
‘I know the ropes, Vanner. Occupational hazard. It won’t change anything.’
‘What about Bobby?’
‘What about him?’
‘Piss him off won’t it. Man like Bobby Gallyon.’
‘He’s just a nightclub owner.’
He laughed then and shook his head. ‘Tell you what, Lisa. You’re good. I’ll give you that.’
She flicked ash in the tray. ‘I’m a lot better than good.’
For a moment they stared at one another; Vanner sat deeper in the chair. She leaned on her palm again and her eyes were big and blue and intent upon his. He felt gooseflesh rise on his cheeks. She picked up her coffee, still looking at him, and sipped it. She made a face. ‘He put sugar in it.’
‘That’s his sense of humour.’
He passed her his own coffee. ‘So how long’ve you been on the game, Lisa?’
‘The game? I’m not on the game.’
‘Tom. Hooker. Prostitute.’
She wagged her head at him. ‘Disgust you does it?’
He looked at her for a long moment and then he sat back again. ‘You like drug dealers, Lisa?’
‘Not especially. They make a living.’
‘Just a business then. Like yours.’
‘Nobody forces anyone to do anything, Vanner. It’s all a matter of choice.’
‘So it doesn’t matter that people get hurt, that families get broken up, that kids puke to death in a warehouse.’
She laughed now. ‘Sentimental bullshit. It’s a business like everything else. Supply and demand. Where’ve you been the last fifteen years?’
Vanner looked at her now. ‘Last night,’ he said quietly. ‘That guy with Bobby Gallyon.’
For the fraction of a second her eyes flickered.
‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘Tough guy now are you?’
Again he held her eye, his face very cold. ‘Punter of yours is he? I saw how he looked at you, getting all nervous over there at the table while I was lighting your cigarette. Who is he, Lisa? Mate of Bobby Gallyon’s. Do a few deals do they? What is it—he gets you at a discount?’
‘I don’t give discounts.’
He tapped the plastic bag. ‘He gave these to you. Didn’t he.’
She sucked smoke and blew it in his face. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say.’
Vanner waved the smoke away and stood up. ‘They’ve got the hotel manager for his night owl bit. You should’ve been more discreet, Lisa.’ He picked up the bag of tablets.
‘And then of course there’s possession. If you fancy a chat we could think about the possession.’ He peeled a card from his wallet. ‘That way you might not go down.’
She parted her lips a fraction. ‘Oh, I always go down, Vanner.’
Mickey Blondhair sat in the boiler room and blew smoke rings. Ninja sat opposite him, cross-legged, looking at the short, curved sword resting against Mickey’s thigh.
‘Cut your toenails with it do you?’
‘You ain’t the only fuckin’ knife man.’
Ninja looked round at The Wasp. The Wasp grinned. Ninja’s own sword poked from under his jacket.
‘Competition for the Gypsy.’
‘Bollocks,’ Ninja said.
Mickey flattened his cigarette. ‘You a real Gypsy?’
Ninja levelled his eye at him.
‘Caravans and that?’
Ninja stood up. ‘No air in here,’ he said.
Mickey watched him go and then looked back at The Wasp. ‘Don’t like rooms do he?’
‘Don’t like anything much.’
‘Is he a Gyppo?’
‘Yeah.’ The Wasp lit the joint he was rolling, sucked at it and passed it across. ‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘I don’t want to thieve no more.’
The Wasp peered from under his dreadlocks at him. ‘What you saying, man? You want out? There is no out. You know Sammy Johnson?’
‘Neasden Bail Hostel.’
‘That’s right. Well he wanted out’. We broke his fuckin’ arms.’
Mickey smoked the joint and looked back at him. ‘I didn’t say out, Wasp. I just said I don’t want to thieve no more.’
The Wasp looked at the sword. ‘What the fuck d’you buy that for then?’
‘I liked the look of it. Okay?’
They were quiet for a moment. Mickey relit the joint and passed it back.
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘Deal.’
The Wasp laughed.
‘Don’t laugh at me.’
‘Where the fuck would you deal?’
‘School, you arsehole. At school.’
Eight
VANNER WENT HOME AFTER he left West End Central. When he got there he phoned Jimmy Crack. ‘Sorry to bother you at the weekend, Jim.’
‘No problem, Guv’nor. What’s up?’
Vanner looked out of the window. ‘Gallyon’s nightclub. You told me you look out for faces?’
‘That’s right.’
‘D’you ever notice a bloke sitting upstairs with Gallyon?’
‘He sees a lot of people, Guv’nor.’
‘About my age. Black hair. Well dressed.’
‘Oh, him. Name’s Michael Terry. Imports plants over at Dartford.’
‘Big mates with Gallyon?’
‘Don’t know. 6 nicked him five years ago though. Fiddling shareholders or something.’
‘Regional boys got a flag on him?’
‘No. They think he’s there for the Tom.’
‘Thanks, Jim.’ Vanner put down the phone.
Michael Terry picked his son up from Kirstall Estate. ‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he said. ‘I
got held up this morning.’
Mark shrugged his shoulders.
The Wasp watched them from his window. Terry glanced up at him, then opened the door of his Mercedes and got in. He sat for a moment and looked at his son, hunched uncomfortably in the seat alongside him. His hair fell over his eyes. Pity about the glasses, made him look so awkward. That came from Jennifer’s side of the family. Her old man—blind as a bloody bat. Maybe he should buy him some contacts.
They drove south, a flat silence between them. ‘You’re not working today then?’
Mark shook his head. ‘They’re redecorating the shop.’
‘They can afford to be closed? How much do they pay you?’
Mark did not laugh. His father eased the wheel through his hands and sighed. ‘D’you fancy coming over to Dartford with me? I’ve got a load in I want to look at.’
They drove through the city and headed out towards the East End. ‘You know you can bring a mate over one Saturday if you like,’ Terry said. ‘You’re always on your own, Mark. I never see you with anyone.’
Mark shrugged his shoulders.
‘All you do is sit at the bloody computer. Haven’t you got any mates? What about John? You ever hear from him these days?’
Mark shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen him in ages.’
‘Used to be good mates didn’t you? We had a laugh when he slept over.’
Mark looked round at him. ‘He’s doing drugs, Dad. I think he’s in some kind of trouble. I saw three blokes having a go at his father—right inside the college.’
His father frowned. ‘I didn’t know his old man worked at your college.’
Mark nodded. ‘Teaches electronics.’
Terry stopped the car outside the yard, under the shadow of the Queen Elizabeth Bridge. He got out and looked at the sky, where dark clouds were gathering at last.
‘Nice if it rained,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen any all summer. Still, summer’ll soon be over and then we’ll all complain.’ He unlocked the chains on the twelve-foot iron gates, and pushed them open. He looked back at Mark. ‘You want to drive the car in?’
Mark looked at the steering wheel.
‘Go on. You can do it.’
Mark shook his head.
Terry rested a fist on the roof. ‘It’s easy. Automatic. You just put it in Drive and press the pedal.’
‘No. It’s all right. You do it.’
Terry shook his head and climbed back in the car. He drove inside and parked by the two-storeyed portakabin. ‘I’ll teach you to drive if you want me to.’
‘I’ve got my bike, Dad.’
‘I know you’ve got your bike.’ His father hissed air through his teeth. ‘But you’re old enough to drive. I could teach you. Not in this. We’ll get a smaller car. One with normal gears.’
Mark lifted his shoulders. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
They got out of the car and Mark looked across the yard at the two Caterpillar dump trucks, their cabs still blackened by fire. ‘Are those the new ones?’
‘Yes.’
‘They just came in?’
His father nodded. ‘Shipped over from Amsterdam.’
‘You go there a lot. Don’t you.’
‘My business, Mark. You know the auction’s in Amsterdam.’ Terry took out a cigarette.
‘I’ll take you again if you want.’
‘I’ve got to go to college, Dad.’
Terry looked at the sky. ‘Whatever.’ He climbed the steps and unlocked the upper cabin door. Mark wandered towards the trucks. ‘Don’t mess about with them, Mark. You’ll only get yourself filthy.’
Vanner drove through the West End. He cut his way through cabs and buses and took all the short cuts to Westminster. He crossed the bridge and followed the South Embankment to Lambeth Road and headed for the belly of the city. It was beginning to get dark. Not long now and the nights would start to draw in. Further south the traffic eased and he listened to the radio. Lisa Morgan filled his mind and he felt himself begin to stir. He wondered if she would phone him.
He thought about how she cupped his hand with hers when he lit her cigarette in the club. He thought about the scent of her skin as he stood next to her, body still hot from her dancing. He thought about how she had looked at him, head to head, unflinching in the interview room. Then he thought about Morrison, watching his every move.
He took the A23 and came down Streatham High Road. Here the memories of Tate were vivid. Hard, South London family. Not in the old days’ class, but classy enough, he supposed. One dead and two away. Only one of the two was out now. Jabba had been on the phone. Apparently Tate had been shooting his mouth off. Vanner fingered his shoulder and drove.
He came down Purley Way and stopped at the lights, then he made a left turn and drove past the Waddon Arms. Harrison’s Rise was a few streets away and he looked for somewhere to park. Switching off the engine, he sat in the steadily dwindling twilight and watched. There were a few people about. On his right an off-licence. On the corner a chippy with people queuing out of the door. He assumed the chips were good. Tate’s street was the first turning right. Vanner got out of the car and slipped on his jacket. The nights were definitely cooler now. No stars above the street lights. If they were lucky it might even rain. A woman pushed past him with a toddler straggling behind her. He watched her turn right and after a few moments he followed.
From the corner the road lifted steeply. He could make out a couple of small business premises on his right and across the street the houses climbed sharply. Number 1 was the first house on the left. Light stole from behind the curtains of the front room. The phone rang on his belt.
‘Guv’nor. It’s me.’
‘Hello, Sid.’
‘That Tom give you a bell?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Too early I guess. You think she will though?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I reckon she fancies you, Guv.’
‘Ha bloody ha.’
Ryan chuckled. ‘Looker though eh. I don’t care what the plonk said. That’s what you call a strip-search.’
‘What else is new, Sid?’
‘Just thought I’d let you know—I’m going over to Bream Park.’
Vanner looked at the sky. ‘That a good idea?’
‘Milo, Guv. Bastard still hasn’t called me.’
‘It’s early days, Sid. Breaking all the rules.’
‘I’ll pretend I’m a dealer. Always worked before. Besides, I’ve got a bad feeling. I need to know what’s happening.’
Vanner was quiet for a moment. ‘You going on your own?’
‘I can handle it. Unless you want to come.’
Vanner looked again at Tate’s house. ‘No can do.’
‘On a promise are you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I hope she’s good, Guv’nor.’
Across the street a man came out of Number 1. Vanner stepped back around the corner. ‘She’ll do, Sid. She’ll do.’ He switched off his phone and slipped it into his pocket.
Tate walked ahead of him. He watched him cross the dual carriageway and head towards the church. At the corner Vanner paused. Tate crossed the road and went into the Black Bell pub.
Ryan drove to Bream Park. He stopped in the car park and locked the door very carefully. A group of kids stood in the doorway to C block. Ryan turned up his collar.
Vanner watched Tate playing pool with a black man with dreadlocks. Vanner stared at him; Hoods coming off, hair flying in the rain. He remembered it now. The last thing he had seen. The bar was crowded with Saturday night drinkers. The benches outside were full. He could see the pool table however: Christian Tate bent over it, sizing up a yellow striped ball for the bottom corner pocket. His partner chalked the end of his cue. Vanner ordered a pint.
Tate potted the ball and played on. His mate sat down on a stool. Vanner watched Tate, the way he moved, the way he bent over the table. He was tall enough. One of them had been white. But then aga
in the eyes. What had it been about the eyes? Tate missed the black, leaned for a moment against the table and then stood up. He looked straight at Vanner. Vanner looked straight at him. Tate moved to the stool while his partner set about the spotted balls on the table. Vanner raised his glass to his lips. He drained it, looked again and Tate was back at the table. Vanner placed his glass on the bar and waited for the landlord to finish serving the man next to him. He looked back at the table. The game was over and the black man was stuffing money into the slots. Tate chalked his cue and watched him.
Vanner’s pulse lifted. Many a pub in the past, many a dark and lonely night. London, Edinburgh and before all of that—Belfast. He took out his cigarettes and lit one. Still Tate watched him. The black man framed the balls with the triangle and set himself to break.
Ryan stood outside Ringo May’s door and knocked. The landing was empty. From downstairs he could hear the sound of an engine revving. He knocked again. No answer. ‘Come on, Milo. You fuck.’ He knocked again, then he crouched down on the floor and lifted the flap on the letterbox. The smell hit him. He stiffened, sniffed again and then he stood up. All at once he was cold. All at once the sounds from the estate banged in his head. He moved back from the door and thought for a moment. Then he lifted his foot to the wood.
Slowly Vanner drank his second pint and slowly Tate and his mate played out their second game. The black guy was watching Vanner now, a moment ago their heads had been together. So now there were two of them. Vanner felt the adrenalin begin to flow. The scars on his back seemed to throb, but it might have been in his head. He put out his cigarette, shook out another and lit it. Tate sat on the stool and watched him.
Ryan caught the full force of the stench the moment the door gave. The hall was in darkness. He fumbled along the wall for a light. He found a switch and the bulb glimmered dully. The door to the sitting room was open. Milo lay on the floor in dried and crusted blood, one arm thrust beneath him, his eyes open and staring.
Ryan took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. He moved closer and looked down at the almost-naked body. The flesh was open and chafed on his belly, the skin punctured and lifted. Ryan stared, blinking against the reek that lifted from the body. Broken and blistered flesh, the weight of his entrails buckling him to the floor. He looked about the room: a beer bottle lying on its side on the table. Another smell mixing with the bloated and gaseous flesh. On the floor by the chair, a pile of dried-up excrement.
