The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  She stood there, legs arched and firm in black high-heeled shoes, the muscles standing out against the scattered gooseflesh of her thighs. Terry felt himself stiffen. The curve of her hips, the flat of her belly, nipples hard now, erect under his gaze. She moved towards him then let her hand fall across his groin. The muscles tensed in his own legs. Lisa unbuckled his trousers then she took him in her mouth.

  Later, she moved about his bedroom, naked save her shoes. She hugged herself though it was warm. Paintings hung from the walls, huge original canvases from Japan and Mexico and Spain. Terry lay back on the bed. He sipped champagne and watched her. ‘You like my house?’

  ‘Expensive.’ She trailed her fingers over the dark wood of the Peruvian box at the end of the bed. ‘You must make a lot of money.’

  He felt himself stirring again. ‘I do.’

  ‘You do business with Bobby?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  She looked at him. ‘Would you rather I just lie back and think of England?’

  ‘I’d rather you shut up. I’d rather you came over here.’

  He strapped her ankles to his bed with two neckties, forcing her face down against the sheet. Then he took his belt and with a sneer creasing his mouth he buckled her round the neck. For a moment she gagged. He eased the pressure and then he tightened again.

  ‘I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Michael. I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  With the free end of his belt he fastened her wrists behind her back, hauling tight so her shoulder blades punched against the skin. Her head was forced right up, like a horse in a bearing rein. She tried to cry out but her voice was lost in her throat. Terry stood up, kicked away his clothes and masturbated over her face.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him and massaged her forearms where his belt had bitten her. She touched her neck where it was raw and felt the indentation of the buckle. He lay on his belly, trailing patterns in the carpet with his fingers.

  ‘You hurt me.’

  ‘You can handle it.’

  ‘You never hurt me before.’

  ‘I know you better now.’

  ‘Hurting me is extra.’

  He pushed himself up on his elbow and swigged from the glass of champagne. Then he took his wallet from where it lay on top of his discarded trousers and peeled off a ream of notes. He tossed them at her and they fluttered against her breasts. ‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘And get out.’

  Frank Weir had a drink with Morrison. Double Bacardi with ice and no coke. Morrison sipped at a pint of bitter. Weir took the gum from his mouth and pasted it under the table.’ Vanner’s got a snout called Jabba,’ he said. ‘Indian fella. Apparently Christian Tate’s been shooting his mouth off about Vanner in a Croydon pub.’

  Morrison looked at him. ‘You’re well-informed.’

  ‘I get about.’

  ‘Who’s Christian Tate?’

  ‘Brother of the bloke Vanner killed in that warehouse.’

  ‘Ah,’ Morrison remembered the properties log in Hammersmith from a year ago.

  ‘I reckon Vanner might be thinking that Tate’s behind the mugging.’ Weir looked at Morrison. ‘That’s the only reason he came back.’

  ‘I know.’

  Weir shook his head. ‘Not much of a reason for being a copper is it.’

  ‘So far he’s walked the line. And you know McCague’s behind him.’

  ‘Yeah. McCague.’ Weir sipped his drink, swirled the ice around and sipped again. ‘I was on the Squad with McCague.’

  ‘You rate him?’

  ‘Top man.’

  ‘He’s always backed Vanner.’

  ‘Vanner’s a maverick. They have their supporters. Man like McCague—solid, reliable. Someone like Vanner lets him breathe now and again.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘Vanner?’ Weir lifted an eyebrow. ‘Squaddie wasn’t he. Too gung-ho for me. You see it with the boys on 19. Guv’nors are all right, but some of the young ones …’ He twisted his lip. ‘Vanner’s one of them after all.’

  Morrison bought more drinks. He looked at his watch. He never usually drank at lunchtime. He was supposed to be home early today too. He had promised Jean he would look after the boys. But Weir drank at lunchtimes. He always walked out sober. But he liked to drink at lunchtimes.

  ‘What about the Tom?’ Weir looked sideways at him. ‘He got her registered?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he’s talking to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me very much.’

  ‘My boys working out okay on the Milo deal?’

  Morrison looked sideways at him. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  Weir grinned then. ‘What about the Gallyon connection? From what I hear Burke is one unhappy man.’

  Morrison moved in his seat. ‘There’s always politics with the Regional. Unfortunately I find myself allied to Vanner on this one, Frank. I need a result here. Career is on hold till I get one.’

  Samantha Clay looked all of her forty-eight years. She had shortcut hair dyed to auburn and crow’s feet bunched at her eyes. She sat on a leather couch with her feet drawn up and sipped tea from a china cup. Vanner sat opposite her. Ryan in the seat alongside. Vanner stirred his tea. ‘Thank you for seeing us,’ he said.

  ‘My pleasure, Inspector. I don’t think I’ve ever been visited by the police before.’

  ‘First time for everything,’ Ryan said.

  She looked at him and smiled, then she picked up Vanner’s card where it lay on the coffee table. ‘Drug Squad?’ She lifted her eyebrows. ‘I gave all that up years ago.’

  ‘You’re the one,’ Ryan said.

  Vanner put his cup and saucer on the table and looked at her. ‘You know a Michael Terry, Ms Clay?’

  Her face clouded and she sat up straighten ‘I did.’

  Vanner cocked his head to one side. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Your tone. Not a happy memory?’

  She looked at him then, and gathered her blouse where it was loose at her neck. ‘Why’re you asking about him?’

  ‘You see him now?’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But you did.’

  ‘Once upon a time. Why d’you want to know?’

  Vanner glanced at Ryan. ‘Just routine. A few questions that’s all.’

  She looked again at his card. ‘What’s he done exactly?’

  Ryan moved in his seat. ‘We don’t know that he’s done anything.’

  ‘No? Then why’re you here?’

  ‘His name’s cropped up in an inquiry.’

  She looked at him and smiled. ‘And that’s all you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’ Vanner asked her.

  ‘Years ago.’

  ‘Not recently then?’

  She shook her head. ‘What’s all this about, Inspector? You think he’s dealing in drugs?’

  Vanner looked away from her. ‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to get some background on him. You know—talking to people he knew.’ He opened his hands.

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘He used to be my stockbroker.’

  ‘Advised you on investments?’

  She looked back at him. ‘I used to make money, Inspector.’

  ‘Not any more?’

  ‘Something else I gave up.’

  Vanner sipped tea. ‘You had a purely professional relationship?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

  Vanner smiled. ‘What did he do for you, exactly—the investments, I mean?’

  She tipped back her head, hand touching her neck. ‘He was a good broker. Used to work with another man, James somebody. He left the company though. Went off on some other venture. Reinsurance or something.’ She shook her head. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘How long ago?’
Ryan asked her.

  ‘When I first met him? Eight years.’

  ‘He left the City didn’t he,’ Vanner said. ‘Why did he do that? I thought brokers could print money in the eighties.’

  ‘They could. He was always very ambitious though. I think he wanted a higher profile than just a dealing house. He went into property.’

  ‘Along with the rest of the world,’ Ryan said. ‘Tell me about it. Negative equity and all.’

  Vanner said: ‘He was into property in a big way?’

  ‘He was for a while. All went horribly wrong though. Some of those deals in the docklands. Plc’s were tumbling.’

  ‘We arrested him,’ Vanner said. ‘Fraud Squad.’

  ‘He claimed it wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘Defrauding shareholders?’

  ‘His back was to the wall. He was just looking to survive.’

  ‘At someone else’s expense.’

  She looked at him. ‘That’s the nature of business, Inspector. Every winner has a loser. Sometimes the rules got forgotten.’

  ‘Maggie’s farm.’ Ryan shook his head. ‘Mind if I smoke, Ms Clay?’

  She indicated the ashtray.

  Vanner crossed his ankle on his knee. ‘So Terry had a property company?’

  ‘He had a dozen companies, Inspector. I think he liked the feeling of power it gave him.’

  Ryan squinted at her then. ‘You don’t like him do you?’

  ‘Not very much. No.’

  Ryan glanced at Vanner. ‘We don’t like him either. Or at least we don’t think we do. Trouble is we don’t really know him. What we need is someone who can tell us about him, I mean what he’s like as a bloke.’

  She picked up Vanner’s card once more. ‘Is he dealing drugs?’

  ‘We don’t know. But we’d really like to find out.’

  For a few moments nobody spoke, then Vanner said: ‘Were you involved with him?’

  She looked at the floor. ‘For a while I was, yes.’

  He nodded. ‘We don’t want to pry into your private life, Ms Clay. But if there’s anything you can tell us …’

  She did not say anything.

  ‘He went bust didn’t he.’

  ‘Not exactly. He was never declared bankrupt or anything.’

  ‘He lost all his money though.’

  ‘He lost everything. House in Hampstead. Cars. A boat. You name it.’

  ‘And then he came to you?’

  Again she looked away from him. ‘He left his wife and child. I always regretted that.’

  ‘You had a relationship then,’ Ryan said it gently.

  She tugged her lip with her teeth. ‘For a while we did, yes.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ Vanner asked her. ‘What’s he like as a person?’

  She looked him in the eye. ‘He’s a class-A bastard. The very worst kind. He’s a user. Manipulator. Liar.’

  ‘He lied to you?’

  ‘Of course he lied to me. Soft words in my ear. The kind of thing a silly, forty-year-old woman falls for.’ She sat back again. ‘He smoothed his way into my life, my house, my bed. Left a wife and child to fend for themselves. Then—when he got what he wanted—he was gone. Nothing. Zilch. Kaput. Just upped and walked away.’ She laughed. ‘Oh, I should’ve seen the signs. He walked away from his family with not so much as a backward glance.’ She looked down at the floor.

  Vanner watched her. ‘How did he get started again?’

  ‘I funded him. I mean totally. I was so stupid. I handed him money on a plate. He set himself up and off he went. He has a yard in Dartford with no mortgage. Well if there is one it’s small. I think he borrowed against the cash I gave him at first, but he seems to have moved on since then.’

  Vanner looked at Ryan.

  ‘He got back in touch with his friend. The one I told you about. Apparently between them they came up with some scheme. Importing stuff I think. I don’t know much about the business. But he seems to have done pretty well.’

  ‘You ever see him now?’ Vanner said.

  ‘No. I haven’t laid eyes on him since he walked out of my house in 1991. We were together for only a year.’

  ‘The friend’s firm,’ Vanner said. ‘Does it have a name?’

  ‘I’ve got a card somewhere. I’ll get it for you before you go.’ She looked at Vanner then.

  ‘What’s he done, Inspector?’

  Vanner looked back at her. ‘We really don’t know yet.’

  ‘His wife and kid,’ Ryan said. ‘You say he just dumped them?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the bit I regret the most. But then again—if it hadn’t been me it would’ve been somebody else.’

  ‘D’you know where they are now?’ She looked at him then. ‘Kentish Town. Some ghastly council monstrosity. One of those fifties estates. Warrens of flat running everywhere.’

  Back in the incident room, Vanner looked at the business card Samantha Clay had given him. Glendale & Watts Reinsurance House. The name ‘James Bentt’ was inscribed underneath. He handed the card to Ryan. ‘See what you can find out,’ he said.

  ‘The estate, Guv,’ Ryan said. ‘Where Terry’s wife and kid live. She told us it’s in Kentish Town.’

  Vanner nodded. ‘Milo made a call to a box in Kentish Town.’

  ‘He did, yeah. Just after we set him up.’

  Vanner went through to his office and sat down. He thought about Samantha Clay and he thought about Michael Terry. A few minutes later Ryan pushed open the door, the business card in his hand.

  ‘James Bentt’s on his honeymoon, Guv. A month in the Caribbean.’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘All right for some.’

  ‘There’s other directors though. You want to speak to them?’

  ‘Who are they?’

  Ryan looked at the note in his hand. ‘Bloke called Phelps, another called Simon Smith and a guy called Andrew Riley. You want me to talk to them or d’you want to wait for Bentt?’

  Vanner was looking beyond him. He held out his hand for the card. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said.

  Eleven

  VANNER SAT ON THE floor in the hallway of his house with the telephone between his knees and James Bentt’s business card in his hand. Outside the workmen were packing up for the day. He phoned Lisa Morgan. He stared at Bentt’s office number but he phoned Lisa Morgan. ‘It’s me, Lisa. Vanner.’

  For a moment she was silent and theft she said: ‘What do you want?’

  He stared at Bentt’s card. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Michael Terry.’

  She was silent, then: ‘You asked me for his name and I gave it to you.’

  ‘I know. But I need to talk to you again.’

  ‘Talk to somebody else.’ The phone clicked dead in his ear.

  He waited a few minutes and then he called her back. ‘If you want to book some time—why don’t you just ask?’

  ‘Not that kind of time.’

  ‘That’s the only time I do. If it’s conversation you want get a wife.’

  ‘I had a wife.’

  ‘She left you? You surprise me.’

  He was silent, then: ‘Are you working tonight?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  He paused. ‘I want to see you, Lisa.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing more to say, Vanner. We had a deal. I kept my part. Now leave me alone.’

  He parked his car in the permit zone and locked it. Cold tonight, stars lifting above street lights, seizing the sweat of a city. His footsteps sounded hollow as he made his way beyond the barrier. Behind him, he could see the lights of the upstairs gym and the bodies pumping iron inside. In the concourse he pressed her bell.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Vanner.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘I said, go away.’

  He pressed the bell again, waited a few moments longer and then the door clicked in front of him.

  She had le
ft her front door ajar. He let himself in and closed it. Music drifted as part of the atmosphere. Even from the hall he could smell her. She sat in a chair, dressed in a lightweight bathrobe. Her hair was piled on her head and a silk scarf wound about her throat. She stared at him. He stood there, awkward under her gaze.

  ‘What d’you want Vanner? You said you would leave me alone.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He sat down opposite her.

  ‘No you’re not. Don’t say you’re sorry when you’re not. You’re not the kind of man to be sorry.’

  He sat back and unbuttoned his jacket. It was very warm in the room. The atmosphere with a slightly rarefied quality to it, damp almost, the remnants of a bath perhaps. She picked up a brandy glass and sipped from it. He studied her; face closed, eyes full of darkness.

  ‘I want you to tell me about Terry,’ he said.

  ‘There’s nothing more to say. You asked if he gave me the tablets. I told you he did.’

  He looked at her then: face still, eyes intent upon his. He looked away again.

  ‘If you want to fuck me just say so. I’m sure we can work something out.’

  ‘I don’t want to fuck you.’

  ‘Just as long as you’re sure.’

  He looked at her again. She had half-lifted one knee, drawing her foot up the settee towards her, the robe fell away from her thigh.

  He poured himself a drink and stood by the empty fireplace. He watched her holding her glass, slim painted fingers, long and fine and delicate. He took out his cigarettes and shook the pack at her. She nodded. He lit two and handed her one. She took it without speaking. As she did so, the sleeve of her robe slipped up her arm and he saw purple marks, stretching down to her wrist.

  He sat down and indicated her arm with his glass. ‘Terry do that did he?’

  She looked away from him.

  ‘Last night was it? Likes it rough now does he?’

  ‘What he likes is none of your business.’

  ‘No? I think it might be.’ He stared at her for a moment. ‘Did he talk to you?’

  She looked him in the eye. ‘He fucks me. He pays for it. He’s not there for conversation.’

  ‘So he says nothing.’

  ‘I just told you.’

  They were quiet for a moment, Vanner watching the naked skin of her thigh. She smiled at him then, cocked her head slightly and touched her lips with her tongue. He looked away from her. ‘Has he offered you any more E’s?’