The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  She shook her head.

  ‘Acid?’

  ‘I don’t do acid.’

  ‘He’s never offered it though.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I got the possession charge dropped, Lisa.’

  ‘Don’t say you want me to thank you.’

  He finished his drink. ‘Does he ever tell you about his business?’

  ‘He says he imports things and sells them. He goes abroad quite a bit.’

  ‘Does he bring you presents?’

  ‘No. But sometimes he phones me and I bring him off down the line. Is that what you wanted to know?’

  He got up then and moved across to her. She watched him. He dropped to one knee, looked in her eyes and then reached for her hand. He took it gently, holding her gaze. She did not say anything, did not resist. He eased back the sleeve and looked at the bruising. Slowly she withdrew her hand.

  He stood up. ‘Did Terry do that to you?’

  She flicked ash in the direction of the bowl on the table.

  ‘Lisa?’

  She looked up now and a light was back in her eyes. ‘What do you care, Vanner? I’m a hooker, a Tom. I can look after myself.’

  Vanner lifted his cigarette to his lips. ‘Ecstasy and power games.’ He shook his head. ‘Nasty bastard.’

  ‘You’d know eh?’

  He could feel a tightness in his chest. They sat for a moment in silence. Lisa finished her drink and offered him the glass. ‘Get me another one. Will you?’ Vanner got up, poured a large measure and gave the glass back to her. As he did so their fingers touched. She held the glass to her chest, not looking at him. He remained where he was for a moment, then slowly, almost forcing himself, he moved away from her.

  ‘How old are you, Lisa?’ Why it mattered he did not know, but in that moment it did. She looked up at him. ‘Twenty-six.’

  Jane had left him when she was twenty-six. That made Jane thirty-seven now.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Worried about me, Inspector?’

  He did not say anything.

  ‘I don’t think so—do you? You’ve got a bulge in your pants.’

  Vanner stared at her then, eyes cold, mouth set in a line. She moved her foot back and forward along the settee, the robe riding higher on her thighs. He glimpsed the darkness of pubic hair.

  ‘Why d’you do it?’ he said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Screw people for money.’

  ‘Because I’m very good at it.’

  He swirled the whiskey in the bottom of his glass. ‘Did Terry talk last night?’

  ‘That’s not what you want to know.’ She sat up now and faced him, breasts pushing at the material of her robe.

  He looked again at her forearms. ‘What’d he do—tie you up?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘He’s a punter. Why should I like him?’

  Vanner finished his drink and lit another cigarette. ‘Bobby Gallyon know he likes it rough?’

  ‘Why would he care?’

  ‘Damaged goods, Lisa.’

  She drew on her cigarette and blew the smoke at him. ‘I’ll heal, Vanner.’

  ‘What’s the deal between them?’

  ‘I haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘Bobby bringing in the E’s?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Bobby’s into coke, Lisa. Not E’s. Terry bringing in E’s?’

  She stared coldly at him then. ‘You talking to me or just thinking aloud?’

  She stood up and her robe hung open. Vanner felt a swelling in his throat, mouth suddenly drying. He drank whiskey but that only dried it some more. She unwrapped the scarf from her neck and showed him the marks from Terry’s buckle.

  ‘He tied me to the bed, Vanner. That’s what you want to know isn’t it? Silk ties round my ankles.’ She pointed. ‘Here and here.’ She moved towards him, the robe suddenly wide. ‘He tied his belt round my neck.’ Her face was cold now, eyes dark. She was standing right in front of him. He could see her, smell her; moist, warm woman. She traced the line of his nose with one finger and dragged the nail across his lip. ‘He likes to hurt me Vanner.’

  He sat where he was, hunched to the edge of the settee. She moved her face close to his ear. ‘You didn’t come to talk about Terry giving me drugs. You already know about that. You came to find out what he does to me.’

  Still he sat there, both hands gripping his glass, the scent of her all over him. He did not say anything, eyes averted, the echo of her words in his head.

  ‘You’d like to do it to me wouldn’t you, Vanner. Dominate me. Tie me up. Hurt me. You’re here because you’re almost jealous of him.’

  He stood up then. Her words against his back, her breath on his neck. She moved around him, gown open, moisture lining her skin. ‘Want to hurt me, Vanner? Like to hurt women do you? That why your wife left you?’

  He turned then and stared into her eyes. He took a pace towards her.

  ‘That’s it, Vanner. Now we’re getting to it.’

  He stopped, fist clenched at his side.

  ‘Come on. Why not. Maybe I’ll make it a freebie.’

  He felt sweat creep on his brow. Lisa moved closer to him. She brushed her fingers over his crotch. ‘You want to fuck me don’t you. Fuck me really hard. You think that’s what women like.’

  He wanted to move, go, say something. But he just stood there.

  ‘This isn’t about drugs, Vanner. This isn’t about Terry. It’s about you.’

  And then he was pushing her back, forcing her down on the couch, fingers tearing at her robe. He brushed himself against her … neck, breasts; the nipples taut between his teeth. He kissed her hard on the mouth, deeper and deeper, one hand at his belt, the other between her legs. Then he was inside her, penetrating, forcing the faintest of gasps from her lips. She held him by his hair and looked him in the eyes while he fucked her.

  He caught sight of his reflection in her bedroom mirror as he dressed. She lay on the bed, skin flushed red, and watched him.

  ‘Why did she leave you—your wife?’

  He stared at her in the mirror. ‘That’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You did hurt her then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I was a soldier. She didn’t like it when I killed people.’

  ‘And now you hate women.’

  ‘I don’t hate women.’

  ‘Yes you do, Vanner.’

  He bent and lifted his shirt from the chair.

  ‘How d’you get those scars on your back?’

  ‘Somebody didn’t like me.’

  ‘Must be catching.’

  He looked over his shoulder at her. ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘You can put it on account. I’m sure you’ll be back.’

  Mickey Blondhair dealt Denny acid squares in the bicycle sheds at school. Black kids, white kids, Asian kids. So much cheaper than an E at five quid a square. So much easier than thieving. Different buzz all right, but a hell of a lot easier. He stood among the triple-locked mountain bikes and took a fiver a time for the squares. Party tonight. Only dinnertime and already he had fifty quid in his pocket. A couple of Bangladeshi lads smoked cigarettes at the far end of the shed and watched the school buildings for him. They were older than he was—Ranjit was almost sixteen and here he was, indirectly working for him. Ranjit looked round suddenly and signalled to him by flapping his arm up and down.

  Mickey stuffed the padded envelope down his pants. He stood on tiptoes and looked over the lip of the wall where the corrugated iron roof did not quite meet it. Walker, the PE teacher, was making his way across the playground towards them. It was almost time for the bell to go. Picking up his bag, Mickey made his way to the far end of the shed and slipped out of the gate. He shouldered the bag and walked the short distance to the other gate, then he went back into school as if he had just come back from dinner. H
e grinned to himself. Him dealing Dennies. So much easier than whacking people at cashpoints. In the pocket of his jacket, he fingered the tiny set of collapsible Tanita scales that he did not need but liked to have on him anyway. That’s what dealers carried.

  Vanner looked at Pierce. ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Not so far, Guv. We’ve been around the square but he doesn’t recognise any of them.’

  Vanner sat back and nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Keep trying. Any of the others come up with anything?’

  ‘Bream Park’s a wall, Guv. Apart from the old man it always was.’

  When he had gone, Vanner placed both hands behind his head and looked at Ryan.

  ‘Weir knows about Tate, Guv.’ Ryan looked at him as he rolled a cigarette. ‘That means the old man’ll know.’

  Vanner stared at him. ‘I didn’t even know you knew.’

  ‘Word gets around.’ Ryan pinched the threads of his cigarette. ‘You reckon it was Tate who hit you?’

  ‘He had enough reason to. Biggest grudge in my cupboard.’

  Ryan nodded. ‘Guess you’ve been churning things over in there eh?’

  ‘Bound to aren’t I.’

  ‘You still think it was more than a mugging then?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? They left my pockets alone.’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘Disturbed though weren’t they.’

  ‘They were, but only by a car.’ Vanner shook his head. ‘Beating was planned, Sid. Systematic. You get to know the difference.’

  Ryan lit his cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘You want to pay the ex-Mrs Terry a visit?’

  Vanner nodded and got up.

  Ryan drove, Vanner next to him, bunched up in the seat. They headed east towards Kentish Town. ‘Guv’nor, far be it for a lowly DS to give advice—but you want to watch it with Tate. If he squeals harassment—Morrison’ll have a new IO for this deal before you can spit.’ Ryan looked sideways at him as he said it. Vanner stared at the traffic through the windscreen. ‘It isn’t Tate,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘I can feel it.’ He shifted his position. ‘Went down there the night Milo was killed.’

  ‘I thought you were with a bird.’

  ‘Chance’d be a fine thing. I sat in the Black Bell pub in Croydon and watched him with his cronies. He’s milking the old days, Sid. You know: South London hard man whose brother was shot by a copper. Bunch of kids around him.’

  Ryan nodded. ‘Maybe you ought to let it alone then, Guv.’ He shifted gear. ‘Maybe you were just picked on. It happens. Hell, who needs a motive in this day and age. Lot of shit goes down where you got smacked. You’ve got Somerstown and all those Bangladeshi boys. White kids in Euston, just across the road. You take a chance wherever you go. Lad got stabbed for just being there. They never nicked anything from him either.’

  Vanner glanced at him. ‘You think that’s how it was?’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘Well it wouldn’t be the first time. Would it?’

  Vanner looked forward again. Maybe Ryan was right. Maybe they all were. With all the random, motiveless violence in this city they were much more likely to be right than he was. He did not want to admit it though. It had been his reason for coming back. But then was that really the case? Or was it the only way he could justify the ignominy of taking a step backwards. Maybe his father was right. Maybe McCague was too. No other place to go, and this way, at least, he felt as though he could deal with it.

  They drove along Leith Road and Vanner glimpsed a scrawl of white paint on a wall. 868,000 empties in the UK. Homes for all. The building behind it was derelict. Ryan parked the car outside a row of shops, across the road from the Kirstall Council Estate. This whole area was a warren of flats, some high-rise, some only five floors but spilling out to the street in either direction. The estate was bordered by a small side road of terraced houses which cut an L-shape into the bowels of the station. Beyond the houses an old factory had been split into industrial lofts where young girls churned out cheap Indian saris for some obscene rate per hour.

  The ex-Mrs Terry lived in Montgomery House. It was the first block that bordered the road. Vanner and Ryan stood by the car and Ryan gestured to the telephone box. They walked up to it and Ryan checked the number. He came out and nodded to Vanner.

  ‘Let’s get a cup of tea,’ Vanner said.

  They bought two tall mugs of tea from an Indian woman in the cafe directly across from the estate. Three Irishwomen, with half a dozen teeth and two shopping trolleys between them, smoked cigarettes until the air was thick with it. They coughed and cackled like witches, grey hair faded to blonde by cheap dye and nicotine. Vanner sat with his back to them and stared across at the buildings. The tables were chipped and old and as cheap as the tea before them. On one wall a picture, a small symmetrical water-colour. He stared at it: empty beach, calm blue sea and a paradise isle in the distance.

  Ryan sipped his tea and spooned in more sugar. ‘You reckon she’ll tell him, Guv?’

  Vanner shrugged. ‘Depends on how much she hates him. We don’t even know if she sees him.’

  ‘We don’t exactly have much do we. Pierce’s witness is a waste of space.’

  Vanner looked at him. ‘At least we’ve got him. That’s a first for Bream Park.’

  ‘What have we got though really? Couple of geezers getting into a jam jar at four in the morning. So what. No one sleeps on that estate.’

  ‘One black and one white. Long hair.’

  ‘A million geezers, Guv’nor.’

  ‘You always this cheerful, Sid? Or is it only when you’re with me?’

  They climbed stone steps to the fifth floor of the first block. From somewhere in the belly of the building House music blared. Vanner could hear the sound of a baby crying. The stairs stank of beer and no sunlight, the walls sprayed over with paint. From the balcony of the fifth floor they could see the windows of the loft units, the whirr of sewing machines lifting from within. Number 40 was the second-last door on the landing. Vanner checked the slip of paper in his pocket and pressed the bell.

  The door was opened, but only as far as the chain would allow. ‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice. Vanner could barely make her out in the darkness ‘Jennifer Carr?’

  ‘I don’t need a loan.’

  ‘I’m not selling one. Police, Ms Carr.’

  The door was opened fully and the woman looked up at him. Dark hair, tousled about her face, the cords of a dressing gown drawn tightly about her.

  ‘What is it—not Mark? Nothing’s happened?’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘Nothing’s happened, Ms Carr. We’d just like a few words with you. That’s all.’

  She ushered them through to the lounge. It was neat if sparsely furnished. A photograph of a dark-haired boy dominated the mantelpiece. He was not smiling.

  ‘I work nights.’ She yawned, easing the hair from her face.

  ‘We got you up?’ Ryan said. ‘Sorry.’

  She flapped a hand at him, yawning still. ‘Don’t worry about it. Mark’ll be home for his lunch soon anyway.’

  ‘Your son?’ Vanner nodded to the picture.

  ‘Yes.’ She hugged herself. ‘Can I get you tea or anything?’

  Vanner shook his head.

  She went through to put some clothes on. Vanner scanned the lounge. It was tidy enough but he could see traces of damp crawling under the window frame. Ryan was looking at the photograph. Vanner glanced at the furnishings. Two armchairs, an old settee. TV and video. Ryan looked over at him. ‘Where did they live before?’

  ‘Hampstead.’

  She came back through, wearing jeans and a light pullover. ‘If it’s not about Mark then what is it about?’

  Vanner showed her his warrant card. ‘I’m DI Vanner, Ms Carr. North West London Drug Squad.’

  She eyed him then, taking half a step back. ‘Mark’s not into drugs. He’s a very bright boy. He goes to college. He wouldn’t be into drugs.’

  ‘We’re not here to ask you
about your son,’ Vanner said. ‘We want to know about your husband.’

  ‘I don’t have one.’ She sat down and indicated for them to do the same. Ryan squatted on the edge of a chair. Vanner stood with his back to the window.

  ‘You were Mrs Terry though. Mrs Michael Terry?’

  She nodded. ‘For my sins.’

  ‘His name’s cropped up in an inquiry. It’s just routine,’ Vanner said. ‘A few questions.’

  ‘What’s he done?’ Eagerness chafing her tongue.

  Vanner looked at her. ‘Like I said—it’s just routine.’

  ‘He’s a bastard. Biggest shit I ever clapped eyes on. He’s a bully and a liar and a cheat.’

  She dropped her gaze. ‘Sorry.’

  Ryan looked at her. ‘He left you?’

  She nodded. ‘Went bust. Lost everything. Home, cars, the lot. He left us, yes. Me and my twelve-year-old son. We went from a five-bedroomed house in Hampstead to this. He cleared off with some tart from a record company who was old enough to be his mother. Now he lives in a penthouse in Blackfriars, just so he can keep an eye on the City. What else d’you want to know?’

  Vanner looked at Ryan. ‘Where d’you work, Ms Carr?’

  ‘I clean offices in the West End. Six nights a week. It just about keeps us going. What with that and the family credit.’

  ‘He doesn’t give you money?’

  ‘He gives Mark money. Now. CSA finally got to him.’ She stared at the window. ‘For three years he didn’t even set eyes on him. Then one day he swans in here with an armful of presents as if nothing has happened. He always did think he could buy his way into everything.’

  ‘How does Mark get on with him?’

  ‘I think he hated him at first. But every boy needs his father.’

  She stood up then and went to the mantelpiece where she picked up the photograph. ‘He’s the only decent thing that Michael Terry’s been involved in. He’s a good boy. Bright. You know he’s way ahead of his class.’

  ‘What does he study?’

  ‘Business and politics and maths. He’s going to get A’s at A-level. Then he’s going to university. His father’s no more than a barrow boy.’

  She replaced the photograph. ‘You haven’t arrested him again then?’