by Jeff Gulvin
Phillips recounted it all to him, and apart from the few words he had had with Alex Hammond, he realised that this was the first time he had fully articulated the whole story to anyone. When he had finished Vanner sat back in the seat. ‘So finally you’d had enough?’
‘My daughter, Sir. It was when they messed with my daughter.’
Vanner put out his cigarette. ‘And now they’re doing you for criminal damage?’
‘Ironic isn’t it. I’d do it again though, Sir.’
Vanner thought for a moment. ‘Your lad’s on remand in Norwich?’
‘Yes. He was caught nicking cars in Great Yarmouth. Don’t ask me what he was doing there. The holiday season or something. Trying to keep out of London.’
Vanner was still. ‘My father lives in Norwich,’ he said. ‘I spent some of my childhood there.’
‘There’s a fella I work with, Sir,’ Phillips told him, ‘thought I might be able to get John out of prison and into the care of a doctor or something. Apparently it happens sometimes, if the offender’s a registered addict.’
Vanner nodded slowly. ‘It does happen now and again, yes. My father,’ he said. ‘He was a priest. He might know some people.’
Hope flared amid the liquid of Phillips’ eyes. He looked at Vanner. ‘You think he might, Sir?’
‘I can ask him. No promises, mind. It’ll depend on the magistrates.’
They sat for a while longer and then Vanner said: ‘You teach now, right?’
‘At the Tech. Kentish Town.’
‘You know a student called Mark Terry? Bright Lad. Politics and Business Studies.’
Phillips nodded. ‘I know him well. He and my boy John were mates. They were in the same year at school.’
Vanner looked at him. ‘What’s he like—Mark?’
‘I don’t teach him. But from what I remember he was always a nice kid. Bit quiet. Keeps himself to himself. Doesn’t seem to have many friends. I guess he’s a bit introverted because of what happened to him.’
‘What was that?’
‘His old man cleared off five years ago. Dumped him and his mother. They live on a council estate. The Kirstall. Right hovel it is. He used to live in Hampstead.’
‘You know his father?’
‘Not personally. I’ve seen him about the college from time to time. Why?’
‘No reason.’ Vanner stood up. ‘I’ll make a call for you, John. See what I can do.’
They shook hands. ‘If there’s anything I can do in return, Sir …’
Vanner nodded. ‘I know.’
Morrison sat on the radiator. Vanner stood on the other side of the desk, listening to the rain rattle the window. ‘You should have declared your interest, Vanner.’
‘Our interest was James Bentt.’
‘Yes, but yours was Andrew Riley.’
Vanner looked at him. ‘Another director. Bentt was on holiday. I didn’t know it was the same man.’
Morrison cocked his head at him. ‘Come on.’
‘There must be a hundred Andrew Rileys in London.’
‘You knew he was in reinsurance. You must’ve known it was him.’
Vanner looked at him then. ‘How do you know I knew that? Oh, sorry. I forgot. My past is a pet subject of yours.’
Morrison shook his head. ‘Don’t, Vanner. You don’t have the legs.’
Vanner looked at the floor. Morrison was right of course. A personal interest could get him sidelined. Not declaring it probably would. He could almost hear Weir, champing at the bit.
‘You should’ve told me,’ Morrison said.
‘I was going to.’
‘When?’
‘When I was sure.’
Morrison pushed himself off the radiator and looked through the office window. Ryan was on the phone at his desk.
‘Tell me about Friday night.’
‘We’ve got two faces in a BMW. They live on the Kirstall Estate, or at least one of them does. McCleod’s checked all the other hostels on the manor. Seven have kids with pager watches.’
Morrison looked back at him. ‘Why weren’t you here this morning?’
‘I was checking out something Jimmy Crack told me. Man called John Phillips.’
‘Oh, yes. I heard about that. Left his calling card at the Bull’s Head in Tottenham.’ Morrison studied his face. ‘Crony of yours was he?’
‘We’ve both been in the Army, if that’s what you mean.’ Vanner sat down. ‘He’s been terrorised by heroin dealers from that pub. His fourteen-year-old daughter was abused by them. You’ve got kids, Sir; How would you feel about that?’
Morrison blanched slightly. ‘I wouldn’t take the law into my own hands.’ He touched the knot of his tie. ‘Anyway that isn’t important. What’s he got to do with us?’
‘He teaches at the Technical college where Target 1’s son goes. He knows him well. He and his own son were friends.’
‘So?’
‘So, we have another perspective on Terry. I thought it worth pursuing.’
Morrison leaned his backside against the desk. ‘This thing with the broking house,’ he said more quietly: ‘in your opinion—will we need to talk to them again?’
Vanner looked at him then. He had been waiting for the word to come. Sorry, Vanner. Off the case. Enter Frank Weir. Then he realised that now was not the time to shift him. They were beginning to get somewhere. The incident room had gelled to the point where the team were pulling for one another. Any them and us friction was long past. Morrison was too good a policeman to disrupt things unless he really had to.
‘If we do—I’ll send someone else.’
‘Do that, Vanner.’
Ryan opened the door and they both looked round at him. ‘What is it?’ Morrison asked. Ryan grinned then. ‘Result, Guv’nor. That was the Lab on the blower. The shit we found in Milo’s flat. There was blood in it. Lab reckons whoever left it has a duodenal ulcer. He’s bleeding. If it gets any worse he’ll start puking it up.’ He looked from one of them to the other. ‘It fits the Gypsy. The street for most of his life. He eats crap food and does a bit of gear.’ He paused. ‘The blood gives us DNA.’
Vanner stood on the pavement and looked at his watch. Ten forty-five. The pub doors were shut but unlocked. He went inside and closed both doors behind him. One man, cleaning the surface of the bar. He stopped polishing and stared at Vanner.
‘We don’t open till eleven.’
Vanner moved towards him. He could see the split in the bar where Phillips’ axe must have rested.
‘I said, we’re not open yet.’
Vanner moved up to him. He was squat, all but bald, a few traces of wispy black hair clinging in desperation about his ears. ‘You the landlord?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Vanner showed him his warrant card.
The man squinted at the card and then he seemed to relax. ‘Come about the bastard who messed up my bar have you?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Vanner stared at him. ‘I’m Drug Squad.’
The landlord’s eyes flickered.
Vanner looked beyond the line of hand pumps. ‘You’ve got a hole in your bar.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘I take it you’re insured.’
‘Yes. But …’
‘You know, if I were you I’d make a claim and put it down to experience. Be a talking point for years. Good crack for your punters.’ He paused then. ‘You see we know who your punters are. And you know what—we don’t like them very much. Come to think of it—we don’t like you very much.’
The landlord shook his head. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘Can’t do what exactly?’
‘Threaten me.’
‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’ Vanner lifted one eyebrow. ‘You’d know if I was threatening you. You see, I’d say something like: if you go on with your complaint then maybe I’ll take an unhealthy interest in your pub. I’ll have the TSG and sniffer dogs and great big coppers all over th
e manor. I might even close you down.’ He paused and upturned a palm. ‘You see I’m bound to find something.’ He leaned then on the bar. ‘Understand the difference? All we’re doing is having a chat.’
The landlord chewed his lip. Vanner pushed himself away from the bar. ‘Oh, one other thing,’ he said. ‘I reckon you can tell the three shitheads they ought to cut their losses. If they haven’t got the message already then maybe it’s time that they did.’
The man seemed about to say something. He looked at the hole in the bar and then his body sagged.
‘I enjoyed our little talk.’ Vanner opened the doors and set them back on their hooks. ‘You have a good day now.’
That evening he phoned his father. He had not spoken to him since August.
‘How are you, son?’ his father asked him.
‘Busy, Dad. Incident room stuff.’
‘Ah. I understand.’ A fractured pause between them. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I need a favour.’
‘Ask.’
‘Bloke I know down here—his son’s on remand in Norwich Prison. Name’s John Phillips. He’s a heroin addict. I want to try and get him out, maybe into a clinic somewhere. If he’s registered it happens sometimes.’
‘What did you want me to do?’
‘You’ve got some contacts haven’t you. Maybe you could have a chat. Go and see the boy maybe, see if there’s anything you can do.’
‘Yes, I could do that.’
‘I’d appreciate it, Dad.’
His father was quiet for a moment. ‘You should come and see us more often, Aden. Anne misses you.’ Which meant he missed him. At that moment Vanner missed him too. There was so much to be said between them.
‘I will come, Dad.’
‘What about Christmas this year?’
Christmas. That lost time between December and January when the world stopped for some and ran away with itself for others. ‘Haven’t even thought about it.’
‘Will you be working?’
‘I don’t know. I guess it depends on the inquiry.’
‘Difficult one is it?’
‘Liable to drag on.’
‘I see.’
Vanner bit his lip. ‘I’ll do my best, Dad. It’d be nice to get away for Christmas.’
‘See what you can do then.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll work on this other business and give you a ring in a few days.’
‘Thanks.’ Vanner put down the phone.
The cyclist pulled onto the pavement and rested his bike against the wall. He pushed his helmet back and wiped the grime from his face, then readjusted the smog mask. Careful to lock his bike, he pressed the buzzer on the doorpost. Up one flight of stairs with the empty bag lying across his shoulder, he came to the small reception area. An Asian girl sat reading a magazine.
‘You’re new,’ the cyclist said through his mask.
She nodded.
‘Sven-Lido.’
She got up and went through to the back room. He waited, lightly tapping his half-gloved fingers on the desktop. She came back with a sheaf of padded envelopes bound in two elastic bands. She handed them to him. He thanked her and stuffed the envelopes into his bag. Then he went outside to his bike.
Andrew Riley poured himself a large measure of Bells and watched as evening drifted over the city. James and the others had gone home. A good day today, the Japanese deal finally closed which would make the last quarter look very good indeed. So good he’d have to talk to the accountants.
Vanner was in his mind. He sipped the whisky. Eleven years of silence and then suddenly there he was, large as life and sitting in his office. To walk in like that and see him after all these years, enough to give an older man a heart attack. That night he had gone home and looked at Jane: the beauty in her face, the depth of her eyes and the fire that still burned in them. He had not told her about Vanner.
He remembered when he had been best man at their wedding, he had known it would not last. What she saw in Vanner had been transient. Explosive, yes. A challenge, certainly. But explosions fade. Challenges are taken up and conquered. Vanner was the stuff of the immediate, not of the duration. He had known it then and he had bided his time. Oh, he knew he had wanted Jane the first time that he saw her. And his betrayal had begun at hers and Vanner’s wedding. The life they had now, the home, the friends: he had imagined such a life with her all those years ago when first she had married Vanner. But he did not plot it so much as wait for the inevitable.
It had not been difficult. Vanner in Belfast all the time, with his men—his foolishly precious men. Jane on an Army base, in married quarters, for God’s sake. Whatever was Vanner thinking of. An open invitation for a girl like that. He had been around. That much was deliberate. But, he told himself, it was as much for her as for him. And then when the time came, after Vanner got back from the South Atlantic, a visibly changed man, it was only a matter of when.
But the man unnerved him. Once he had called him friend and no matter how he tried to justify it, the taint of betrayal lacquered his shoulders. That was how Vanner had seen it. How else would he? It was true what he had said the other day: he had waited, wondered, lain awake at night and thought about getting into his car or getting out of it or going to the office and finding him there. But Vanner had melted away. Stayed in Ulster. Fought terrorists or whatever it was he did there. That was until last year when suddenly he was thrust at them out of the front of a newspaper, when those hit and run drivers were being executed.
But this. He looked again at Vanner’s card, deliberately left for him perhaps as some permanent reminder of his responsibility for the past. Drugs and Michael Terry. Bobby Gallyon, he knew of now. James had told him about the man after he got back from his honeymoon. According to James, Terry knew Gallyon of old. He had acted for the family over their share dealings when he and James worked for the same stock-broker. James had been uneasy even then, everyone knew the rumour as far as the Gallyons were concerned. But Terry liked to sail close to the wind. The thrill of it all was what drove him. James had no idea Gallyon was involved with Terry now. Or at least, he said he hadn’t.
Riley had been unsure about getting involved when James approached the board with Terry’s plan for the trucks. Vanner was right about the ethics of his past. Terry had approached James when he resurfaced a couple of years after the fraud inquiry. But as James had said: the past was the past and the fees were potentially huge. Terry had shown him fresh, unencumbered stake money and a decent freehold in Dartford.
He himself had been aware of the market of course, but only vaguely. The firm dealt with the big insurers worldwide. Loss adjusters were part of it. Risk and reward: the old underwriting adage. But Terry had been right: buying early, before the auctions, gave someone an edge. And there was a hell of a fee in it. But this Gallyon getting involved. Thank God he had never met the man.
It occurred to him then that, according to James, Terry spent a lot of time abroad. Amsterdam. Didn’t drugs come from Amsterdam? Those youngsters dying at parties. Ecstasy. Didn’t Ecstasy come from Amsterdam? And the States. What, four—five times a year to check on his supply of spare parts. Not only that but South America. James had looked into it, and he found that everything Terry did with Gallyon was routed through Colombia. Cocaine came from Colombia.
The fees had been good though, and all it cost them was a little bit of information. But it’s funny how the mind is concentrated when a ghost from the past suddenly slaps the words Drug Squad across the desk at you.
James had agreed to break the arrangement with Terry, tell him about Vanner’s visit and put an end to it now. There was money enough to be made and he could not afford to jeopardise anything with Jane.
And Vanner’s resurgence brought that old buzzard home to roost. She missed it, the fire. Fire was her nature. Oh, she needed the money, the house, the cars and everything that went with it. Eating in the best restaurants. Accounts at Harrods and Selfridges.
She needed it, was born to it. But it did not replace the fire in her that was only sated by someone dangerous like Vanner. He thought the children would change her, but she was what she was. There had been lovers. A husband could always tell. He didn’t mind really. None of them could match him for his ability to keep her. And she needed keeping. She knew it and she knew he knew it too. That, more than anything else was what kept them together. But now, Vanner, back as if from the dead. What if he tried to see her?
Fifteen
VANNER SAT IN THE incident room with Ryan. They looked at one another. Pierce’s witness had been in but he could not positively identify either Ninja or The Wasp. Ryan sat forward. ‘Maybe we should pull the Gypsy.’
Vanner looked at him. ‘I want whoever’s behind it. We pull him now—we won’t get him.’
Ryan rubbed his jaw. ‘Everything’s very quiet isn’t it. He obviously knows we’ve clocked them.’
Vanner bought coffee from the machine and stood in the corridor watching the rain pressing the window. John Phillips had got his son into a drug rehabilitation centre in Norwich. His father had organised it. He really ought to visit his father. Christmas loomed on the horizon and he knew he would be stuck for excuses. He wondered at himself then. What else would he do, sit and brood in London? At least in Norfolk there would be someone to drink with.
He thought about Lucas Street in Chelsea. After eleven years he had finally looked her up. The desire to go over there. To stand maybe on her street, and have a look at the life she had now with Riley.
Michael Terry came out of James Bentt’s office and kicked the bottom of the door. He thought by going to see him he could sort this. He needed the edge Bentt gave him. But the other directors were there and he had lost before he went in. That tight bitch Lisa. God, he wished they had killed her. He still had not told Bobby.
He picked Mark up from college and they went to McDonald’s together. Terry watched him sucking milkshake through a straw like a child. He leaned forward. ‘Don’t make such a racket, Mark. You’re seventeen.’ Mark wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this weekend,’ Terry said. ‘But something just came up and I have to go away.’
Mark moved his shoulders.
