by Jeff Gulvin
‘Friday night,’ Vanner said. ‘We tailed a suspect to Gallyon’s nightclub. Maguire. Dealer from Barnet. Central know him from the bars in Covent Garden. He’s supplying Denny Ecstasy.’
‘Have we pulled him?’ Morrison said. ‘I don’t remember reading about him.’
Vanner sat forward. ‘No, Sir. We haven’t pulled him. I’m not pulling anyone else at the moment. We know him. He doesn’t know us.’ He glanced at Weir. ‘Milo told us about post office boxes with two cards. We know Maguire has a box in Barnet. We also know there’s a second card.’
‘But we don’t know who has it?’
Vanner shook his head. ‘The applicant for the box is the dealer. He applies for it in his own name. Fifty pounds up front for a year. If a second card is requested, it’s given out on the basis that the applicant is responsible. All that cardholder has to do is sign it and they make sure the signature matches when he collects. It’s really very simple.’
McCague said: ‘So that’s how they make the pickups. Drugs are mailed in and collected. Then the cash is mailed in by the dealer and the second cardholder collects.’
‘That’s it.’
Morrison looked at McCague. ‘Not a system we’ve come across before, Sir.’
‘Ingenious.’
‘It works,’ Vanner stated. ‘The source is never traced. We make a bust, all we get is the dealer.’
Morrison sat forward. ‘Now we need an incident room.’
‘We do. Milo changes everything.’
Morrison glanced at McCague. ‘Really is an AMIP deal.’
Vanner shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Sir.’
Weir glanced round at him. ‘Murder, Vanner. Drug Squad don’t investigate murder.’
Vanner looked back at him. ‘I think we do in this case. Milo was killed because they found out he was a snout. We know this source is new, at least in this form. He might have been on the periphery of things for a while but the Denny cartoon is a new one.’
‘Where does it come from?’ McCague asked.
‘The cartoon?’ Vanner shrugged. ‘We’ve never seen it before. It’s not been used in the States. Most of what we see over here they’ve had over there at some time.’
‘Still murder,’ Weir said. ‘My team should be involved.’
‘I agree.’ Vanner looked at him again. ‘I want them involved. The Drug Squad has other inquiries to work on.’ He looked at Morrison and then at McCague. ‘The Investigating Officer has to be Drug Squad though. It’s Ryan’s informant, killed after being set up over the crack house in Kilburn. Ryan knows the case and I know the case.’
‘But, Vanner,’ Weir said. ‘If you’re working on the murder, who runs the squad?’
‘Skipper. Paul Ellis can do it. He was doing it before I came and he’s got his Inspector’s Board coming up. I can liaise with him if I need to. But he’s been there for two years. I’ve only done two months.’ He looked straight at Morrison. ‘And it’s not as if I’ve no experience of a murder investigation. Is it, Sir?’
Morrison sat back in his chair then and touched his collar. Morning sun drifted through the window. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
McCague looked at him. ‘Why not? Makes sense from where I’m sitting.’
Weir glanced at Morrison. Morrison thought for a moment and then looked back at Vanner. ‘What’ve you got, exactly? I mean apart from two small-time dealers.’
‘The dealers aren’t small-time. Milo had half a sheet. But apart from that, I’ve got a Tom being supplied by a punter from Gallyon’s nightclub. Not just a punter—a face who spends most of his time there talking to Gallyon. We know Gallyon imports coke. That’s why Regi are staking him out. They think he’s looking at crack. That’s why the crack man from the AIU’s been involved.’
‘Maybe it’s a Regi deal full stop then,’ Weir said.
Vanner looked sideways at him. ‘When’s anyone handed anything to the Regional that they don’t have to?’
Morrison pushed out his lips. ‘Who’s the punter? Do we know him?’
‘Name’s Michael Terry. I saw the Tom last night. She confirmed it was Terry who supplied her.’
‘In the club again?’ Weir lifted one eyebrow.
‘Don’t be stupid. We know he likes her with no knickers on. He was pissed off on Friday because she had another punter, so I waited for them outside the club then I tailed them to his place. He lives in a block of flats on the south side of the river. She left at five. I followed her home. She gave me the word at five-thirty this morning.’
He looked at Morrison. ‘Terry was a property man in the late eighties. We nicked him for defrauding shareholders in 1990. I’ve spoken to Holborn. He only got a slap but it’s form.’
McCague caught up with him outside. ‘You know how close you were to Weir being the Investigating Officer?’
‘Tell me about it.’ Vanner walked down the stairs. ‘Why d’you think I tailed some Tom halfway round London last night?’
McCague took his arm. ‘You did well in there. Without that name, Morrison had a case for Weir.’
‘You’re on my side then, Sir.’
‘No sides, Vanner. Just logic. What you said makes sense. Weir’s team are Weir’s team mind you, so you might have to deal with the politics.’
‘Been doing it all my life.’
Michael Terry made a phone call. He stood before his open balcony, with a breeze coming off the river to flick at the skirts of his dressing gown.
‘James. Sorry to ring you on a Sunday, but I wanted to let you know the two Cats came in.’
‘Were they what you wanted?’
‘Spot on.’
‘Just make sure it’s reflected in my fee.’
‘Don’t I always. Listen, there’s a big deal coming up. So I need some more in a hurry.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise anything.’
‘Well, keep them coming and I’ll close my account with the auction.’ Terry laughed and put down the phone.
Vanner drove into the Bream Park Estate, fatigue plucking his eyes. Ryan’s car was there and two marked pandas. He crossed the car park and found Ryan at the head of the stairs. He looked bleary-eyed, unwashed hair hanging about his ears. He was holding a plastic binliner.
‘You okay?’
Ryan made a face. ‘Hate losing a snout.’
Vanner opened his cigarettes and Ryan took one from him. ‘Smoking too much,’ he muttered. ‘Wife’s giving me gyp.’
‘SOCO turn up anything?’
Ryan looked up at him. ‘Good job you peeked at the shit, Guv’nor. To coin a phrase they’d have dumped it.’
‘Blood,’ Vanner said.’
‘Not much. But enough.’
‘A start then.’
Ryan nodded.
‘Anything else?’
Ryan opened the neck of the binliner. Vanner looked inside and saw a single surgical glove.
‘Always the way, Guv. Think they’re clear because they wear them and then they go and dump them. Found this in the bin at the bottom of the stairs. There’s blood on it. Wiped, but not properly. If we’re very lucky we’ll get a print from inside.’
Vanner felt himself relaxing. He sat down the steps, arms over his knees. ‘Had to fight off Weir,’ he said. ‘Morrison wanted AMIP to do it all.’
‘So you’re the IO?’
Vanner nodded. ‘We’ll split the team, Sid. You and me and one or two of the others. The rest of it will be AMIP.’
They watched as the pathologist stripped off his gloves. Milo lay on the table in front of them, eyes closed now, body unbuckled.
‘So what killed him?’ Vanner said.
‘Sword, I would say.’
‘Sword?’ Thin and curved and arcing through darkness towards him.
‘Not full-length, but a long blade anyway.’
‘Could it have been a knife?’
‘I don’t think so. The cuts are extremely deep and they’re tattered at the edges. Hav
e a look, you’ll see.’
‘I looked already.’
‘The angle isn’t right for a knife,’ the pathologist went on. ‘The killer would have to be standing much closer to him and if he did that then the shape of the lacerations, their depth, would be different. No, I’d say it was a sword of some sort.’
‘Curved sword?’ Vanner said. ‘Like a … I don’t know —Samurai maybe?’
The pathologist looked over his glasses at him. ‘I would say it was certainly curved.’
Later that afternoon, Vanner was talking to Sergeant Piatt at the incident room. He was a local man from Castle Hill, the office manager for the inquiry. Morrison came down the stairs. The girls from the Holmes Suite were gathered. Vanner had his team. Ryan, Anne Barrington, China, the bodybuilder and the ginger-headed McCleod from the Drug Squad. Five AMIP detectives, bossed by a skipper called Wainwright. Vanner and Piatt followed Morrison into the office at the back of the room.
Morrison looked at his watch. ‘Right, let’s get started,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a meeting with the Child Protection Unit at three-thirty.’ He looked at Vanner. ‘What d’you want in the docket?’
Vanner gave the action sheets to Ryan. ‘Where’s Jimmy Crack?’ he said.
‘On his way, Guv.’
Vanner looked at the AMIP team. The skipper he knew, Weir’s man. That meant Weir would know every step they were taking. Probably Morrison’s idea. Just in case he stepped off the line. Nice to know he had such confidence backing him up. Jimmy Crack came down the stairs and unclipped the mobile phone from his belt. Vanner went over to him. ‘Everything sweet with the big boys?’
Jimmy grinned. ‘Oh wonderful, Guv. The Super’s pissed off. Reckons the whole thing’s connected. Should be a Regional job.’
He took his seat and Vanner moved to the front. Gradually the hubbub of conversation died down. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘For those of you in AMIP who don’t know, I’m DI Vanner. The Drug Squad team are Slippery, Sam, China and Anne. Introduce yourselves.
‘The victim was Milo,’ he went on. ‘Pseudonym. He was Slippery’s snout. Ringo May. Eighteen.’ He watched their faces. ‘So far we have a glove with blood on it. It went to the lab this morning. We hope to match the blood to the body and get a print from the inside of the glove. The murder was on Bream Park as you know, which means witnesses will be few and far between. That being said, the AMIP team’ll do the rounds. You’ve all got your action sheets.’ He paused again. ‘The Doc thinks Milo was killed by a sword. Long-blade, thin and curved. His-belly was ripped open. Death from organ damage and blood loss.’ He paused. ‘So who do we know with a sword?’
He scanned their faces. ‘We also have excrement left on the floor. You’ve all seen it before. Adrenalin pumping. Nice to know he was human at least. He looked again at their faces. ‘We’ve found traces of blood in it. Piles, maybe. Whatever. Anyway it’s in Lambeth for DNA. It’ll take a while, but we might get lucky. The name on the street is Denny,’ he went on. ‘Apart from Milo we have one other dealer. Irishman called Maguire.’ He broke off for a moment. ‘You’ve seen the Denny cartoon. We’ve got it on acid squares and E’s. We don’t know what it means or where it comes from. It’s new though, which makes the dealers close to the source. In other words—a pretty flat organisation. In my opinion that counts Bobby Gallyon out as the source.’ He glanced at Jimmy Crack. ‘There is a connection however. We’ve got a face who’s close to Bobby, and we know he supplied E’s to a Tom called Lisa Morgan. For those of you who don’t know the Gallyon family, they import coke. The RCS have been looking to nick them for years. The word is Gallyon’s trying to introduce crack to the white community, to spread their operation to the lower end of the market. They’re not known for E’s or acid.’ He paused again. ‘We might get some political flak over Gallyon. Regional’s pissed off because we’ve been stomping all over their plot.’ He nodded to Jimmy Crack. ‘007 here’s going to liaise, make sure feathers don’t get too ruffled.’
He went on to tell them the rest of the story. ‘AMIP take the estate,’ he finished. ‘Anne and Sammy—Maguire. We’ve asked the Post Office for a list of the boxes where they’ve issued two cards but they can’t give us one. The two cards are only listed on the relevant file. We’ve got surveillance today and tomorrow. After that it’s up to us.’ He stopped talking again. ‘As I said, it might be a long haul. The suspects are tenuous to say the least. But that’s just how it is. You know the form. Platty’s Office Manager. Use the 50/20’s for intelligence info and get it fed into Holmes.’
Ryan and China followed him into the office. ‘You two,’ Vanner said. ‘I want chapter and verse on Michael Terry. I want to know who he is, what he does and how he does it.’ He closed the door behind them.
John Phillips junior chewed the end of a hotdog roll and wiped mustard from his lip. The food lay heavy in his gut but he knew he had to get something inside him. He stood by the wrinkled metal of the ‘Wild Mouse’ with his feet deep in the sand. Children squealed above him. He felt weak, sick all at once in his stomach. He sat down on the wall and dipped his head between his hands. He could not believe he was back here so soon. The last one had been easy but the bastards in the arches were getting wise to him. Three hundred quid. Barely enough for a score. Now he was broke again and worse than that, the last of his gear was gone. He could not stay in London. The mob from the Bull’s Head were going to break his legs.
So he was back in this grockle filled, godforsaken place where nobody knew him and people were careless with their ears. He shivered again, despite the height of the sun. He thought about the car park. He hated fucking car parks, but the last one had been a cinch. He had to do it: his hair was filthy, his clothes filthy and this time he needed a big one. If he could just get a decent set of wheels, they’d have to pay him a wedge and then he’d be flying again. He looked out to sea, his stomach settling once more. Just this one and then maybe he’d quit.
Getting up, he felt in his pockets. The last of his change had gone with the hotdog. He shivered again. Extending his hands in front of him, he looked at how they were shaking. He hugged them under his armpits.
He wandered the sideroads along the seafront, trying to figure out whether or not to wait until later. Tonight was no good, the car park would be closed. It would have to be in daylight. And if it was in daylight, it might as well be now. He shook his head as he wandered nearer the centre. Never do the same place twice. At least not the same car park. So he wandered the streets and looked for other options.
An hour later he stood across the road from the car park, leaning with his back against the blacked-out window of the sex shop. The steps leading up were directly across the road and the weight of the levels ran out to span the dual carriageway. He pushed himself from the window and his heart began to thump. He crossed the road to the steps, and he went through the door, a policeman came out of the music shop.
He climbed to the third level. Last time had been the top, but that was open and he did not want to risk it again. He stood in the stairwell as shoppers passed him and he scanned the ranks of parked cars. Nothing stuck out immediately. He felt in his pocket for his keys, closing his fingers over the metal. It concentrated his mind, made him focus beyond the ache in his guts and the ripple of blood in his veins.
He moved among the cars massed side by side, hunks of quiet metal, dulled in the poor light that drifted through the open sides of the car park. Astra. Cavalier. Nothing to entice him. He made his way deeper into the lanes then something caught his eye. Soft-top BMW. 325 in red.
Behind him, the policeman stepped out of the stairwell.
John crouched by the side of the car. He touched the rim of the hood. He had a knife in his pocket but that would make his two grand fifteen hundred and he needed every penny. He worked away at the window.
Inside. The alarm going off and he was at the dashboard. Sudden footsteps behind him. He looked into the face of the policeman.
‘Lost your key did you?’
Vanner pushed an empty trolley around the supermarket. Friday night men trailed after their wives with their children trailing after them, while tins and milk and bread and beer were stacked into the metal cask of their trolleys. He browsed among vegetables, picking up some pre-wrapped broccoli and putting it back again. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored walls which dipped over the display cases. He could smell Lisa Morgan and it bothered him. A young couple moved behind him, laughing, pushing the trolley between them, loose arms about one another as if the supermarket was some kind of delicious aphrodisiac that surpassed all else on a Friday. Outside it was dark already, days growing ever shorter. He stared at the vegetables. A harassed-looking woman with greasy hair chastised her three children. He watched her. She stared for a moment before moving on. Leaving his empty trolley where it was, he walked back out to the car park.
The traffic was in his face. He listened to the news but all he could hear was the bickering of politicians and he switched the radio off. Tonight Jane was in his mind and he was sick of her. Nearly eleven years and still she could haunt him. Maybe if he had seen her again, replacing the last image he had of her, alone in their house on the base, when she sat there with tears in her eyes and a packed suitcase in the hall. Hair pulled back; gathered at the back of her neck so her face was full and high and perfect. Apart for the glistening of tears, that was exactly how she had looked the night she had seduced him in front of her father’s fire.
Now she was married again, to Andrew Riley of all people, the best man at their wedding. Betrayal, bitter still on his tongue.
After Jane had gone he had remained there long enough to climb the stairs, look one last time at the rumpled mess that had been their bed and the remnants of the belongings she had left behind. A few of her clothes, oddments, some of the things he had bought her. He had gone downstairs then, closed the front door and got on a plane to Belfast. He had never been back. As far as he knew she had never been back. When the house was cleared he was sent a bundle of her belongings which he burnt, unopened, in a dustbin while the rest of the barracks was sleeping. That had been it. From then until now, nothing. Eleven years and he was left with an unfinished memory.
