The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘Come and stay in the week. I can run you to college.’ Terry sipped his coffee. ‘What’ve you been doing with yourself anyway?’

  ‘Just college. Working. You know.’

  ‘Nothing changes then.’ His father sat forward. ‘You know you really ought to think about what I told you. I know you think college is important and it is. But it isn’t everything, Mark. There’s other ways of learning things. What you need in this life’s an edge. No academic’s going to teach you that.’

  ‘Education’s an edge isn’t it.’ His father looked at him then and Mark held his eye.

  ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s better. Bit of fire, Mark. An opinion.’

  ‘I’ve got opinions.’

  ‘You just keep them to yourself, eh?’

  His father sat back then. ‘Things on your mind, Mark. Things you want to say.’

  Mark dropped his gaze to the empty burger carton in front of him.

  ‘Don’t stop now. You’ve only just got going.’ His father poked him with a stiff finger.

  ‘Spit it out. Come on. Have a pop if you want to.’

  Mark looked at the carton.

  ‘Come on, Mark. I know you blame me.’ He looked about the room. ‘Get it off your chest for God’s sake. Say what you want to say.’

  Mark stared at the floor, fingers entwined in his lap. His father sucked breath. ‘I can’t change the past, son. But I can help with the future.’

  ‘I’ve got a future.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘University.’

  ‘And after?’

  Mark lifted his shoulders.

  ‘Exactly. No direction. You can’t afford to wait till you get there. You need to know what you’re going to be doing after you’ve finished. You need to plan, Mark. Strategise. Find yourself a market. Make an opening and exploit it. I can help you with that.’

  ‘I don’t need any help.’

  ‘No? Do it all by yourself will you? It’s a big bad world out there, Mark. Everyone’s looking to bring you down. You’ve got to know the ropes. Know how to handle yourself. How can you learn that if you never do anything? You won’t even learn to drive. Most kids your age would be champing at the bit. You’re nearly eighteen. All you do is play your bloody computer games.’

  Mark sat where he was and looked down at the floor.

  His father sighed. ‘I’ll take you home. Like I said. You can stay in the week. Why don’t you bring a friend. There must be someone. Did you ever hear from John?’

  Mark pressed his glasses against his forehead. ‘He’s in a drug clinic in Norwich.’

  His father looked at him closely. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘His dad told me.’

  He stood over the bench where Cready had worked his magic and looked at the sheets of paper with Denny’s face printed on them. Simple but brilliant really. Colour copier onto the paper. The only bit he could not do was mix up the solution. Still, what did it cost to fly in someone like Cready. Three hundred thousand squares was a million and a half on the street. Stocks were low now though. Sooner or later he would have to work the magic himself or get back on the phone to Cready.

  He opened the last of the envelopes and piled the cash into bundles of the correct denomination. Beside it, he lay the smaller pile of Western Union slips and the statements sent over from Cready. The money was still pouring in. What had they really got when you thought about it? They thought they had him with Ringo, but they never got a look at the box. Maguire was sound enough. He knew they had pulled him. It was bound to happen sooner or later. But Maguire was out of the game.

  He was well ahead of them now. When a pawn falls you take it off the board. Maguire’s box was cold. Not so much as a sniff of a pickup. He knew that was what they needed. That’s what Vanner would be looking for, a dealer with a box so he could watch for the pickup. Sooner or later they might find one. But by then it would be too late.

  Sitting down at his computer, he loaded the accounts programme and ran a check on the numbers. Again he felt the surge of it all in his veins. Best of all was looking at the results, the bottom line profit, dotted here and there in little pockets of cash for collection sometime later. He switched programmes to the operatives and scrolled through the list of names. As he scrolled so his palms began to moisten. He stopped at the letter P. P for Phillips, John. For a long time he sat there. The past. The beginning. The end. Leaving the warehouse, he walked to the phone box and dialled The Wasp.

  Vanner parked his car in a side street near Gallyon’s nightclub and waited for Lisa Morgan. She had left a message on his answer-phone and asked him to meet her here. She had not said why. He sat in the car with the sidelights on and watched the rain on the window. Ten minutes later a cab drew up and he saw Lisa climb out of the back.

  She got in the passenger seat and shook the rain from her clothes. His head was thick with her scent, hair long and loose and gathered about her jawline, all but hiding her cheek. She fumbled in her bag for a cigarette and he lit it for her.

  ‘So what’s going on, Lisa?’

  She crossed her legs and her skirt rode up her thighs. ‘I’m going into the club.’

  He stared at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Michael Terry’s in.’

  Vanner looked through the windscreen. ‘Why don’t you just testify against him?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t prove anything. Come on, Vanner. You’re the copper. What evidence have I got?’

  Vanner moved his tongue over his teeth. ‘Gallyon’ll cut you in pieces.’

  ‘Not if you’re there he won’t.’

  He looked at her then and he laughed. ‘Oh, I get it. Payback time.’

  ‘Something like that, Vanner. Chance for you to redeem yourself. Play the protector you like to think you are.’

  ‘Lisa. I can’t go in with you.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve been there before.’

  He shifted himself in his seat. ‘You’ve heard of the Regional Crime Squad?’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘Well, they’ve been watching the club for months, watching Bobby Gallyon. I can’t go in there again, Lisa. It’ll jeopardise everything.’

  ‘You mean they’ll string you up by the balls.’

  ‘In a word, yes.’

  ‘Good. Let’s get going then.’

  She opened the door and stepped out into the rain. Vanner sat where he was. He watched her walk up to the corner, then he got out of the car and followed her. She was already inside when he got to the door. The two bouncers squinted at him. He moved between them and went up the stairs.

  The dance floor was half empty, just the odd couple drifting together. He looked for the Regional plant but could not see him. That was something at least. He saw Lisa having a drink at the downstairs bar. The barman looked awkward but he poured gin anyway. Vanner bought a Becks and sipped it, standing against the wall. He watched Lisa. She did not look at him. Upstairs Michael Terry sat with his arm around a black girl, in a short white dress. He had his hand resting on her thigh, a bottle of champagne between them. There was no sign of Bobby Gallyon.

  Two of the bouncers stood talking together at the exit. One of them nodded towards Lisa, who slid off her stool and made her way to the stairs. The bouncer stepped into her path. Vanner moved to the bar.

  ‘What’re you doing, Lisa?’ The bouncer looked down at her.

  ‘Having a drink, Billy.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here. How come they let you in?’

  She looked down at his crotch. ‘Used my charm, Billy.’

  ‘You’ve got to go, Lisa. If Bobby finds out he’ll kill you.’

  ‘No he won’t.’ Lisa pointed to Vanner. ‘He’s Old Bill. Touch me and he’ll have you.’

  Billy stared at Vanner. Vanner stared at Billy.

  Lisa climbed the stairs, Billy following after her. Vanner watched Michael Terry. He was laughing. He emptied the bottle of champagne and snapped his fingers
at the barman. Lisa was at the top of the stairs. Still he had not seen her.

  She walked over to his table. He looked up, saw her and his face darkened visibly.

  ‘Found a new friend have you?’

  The black girl stared at her.

  ‘What do you want?’ Terry twisted his lip.

  Lisa looked at the black girl. ‘Has he used his belt yet? Jerked off in your face?’

  The black girl got up. Terry gripped her wrist, but she pulled herself free and stumbled towards the stairs. Billy moved to the table.

  ‘Time to go, Lisa.’

  She ignored him. Terry sat where he was. Lisa leaned over him. ‘You want to see what they did to me?’

  Terry inched backwards. She pushed her hair from her face, then forced her scarred cheek up close to him. ‘Not very pretty now am I.’ As she said it, she picked up the heavy crystal ashtray and smashed it into his face. Billy was on her then, lifting her off her feet. Terry slumped in the chair, hands over his face. Blood pushed between his fingers.

  Billy marched Lisa down the stairs and across the dance floor. Vanner caught up with them at the bottom of the steps to the street. He moved between them, face close to Billy’s; big man, heavy-jowled, hair cropped close to his scalp.

  ‘Leave her,’ Vanner said. Billy half-closed his eyes, then looked beyond him to Lisa.

  ‘Bobby’ll remember this.’

  ‘No he won’t.’ Vanner stepped into his space. ‘He’ll forget.’ He flapped his warrant card under Billy’s nose. ‘If anything happens to her—I’ll be coming back.’

  They walked round the corner and Vanner took hold of her arm. ‘You satisfied now?’

  She walked away from him and looked up at the sky, rain falling on her face. ‘You should thank me, Vanner. You can look in the mirror again.’ She stopped then and looked across the street. A pale-coloured Mercedes was parked in the spaces reserved for the club. Lisa crossed the road.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  She took off her high-heeled shoe.

  ‘Lisa.’

  She started at the nearside wing and scraped the heel of her shoe the length of the car. Then she turned and started again. Vanner caught hold of her arm.

  ‘Enough. All right. Enough.’

  She laughed in his face. ‘I haven’t even got started.’

  She pulled away from him and put her shoe back on. A taxi came round the corner and she flagged it down. Vanner watched her go. Then he looked at the car. The paintwork was totally ruined. Something under the windscreen caught his eye. He moved closer. Something small and brightly painted perched on the dashboard. He rubbed the rain from the glass. A dwarf. He was looking at a model of a dwarf.

  Saturday morning and he stood in Oxford Street with buses pushing the length of the road. Across from him, Mark Terry sat in the window of System X and painted model figures. Vanner dropped his cigarette in last night’s puddle and crossed over.

  He looked down at the table. Mark leaned forward, dark hair falling across his glasses, tongue stuck to his lip while he concentrated on the strokes of the brush. After a moment he looked up.

  ‘Hello, Mark.’

  Mark looked blankly at him.

  ‘The copper at your mum’s house.’ Vanner bent down, hands on his knees and looked at the figure he was painting. ‘You’re very good you know.’

  Mark shifted his shoulders.

  Vanner sat down next to him, watching his brushstrokes, the steadiness of his hand. He wondered what it would be like to have a son.

  ‘How long’ve you been doing this?’

  ‘Since I was fifteen.’

  ‘Collector are you?’

  ‘I was. Too old for it now.’

  ‘Pocket money?’

  ‘What?’

  Vanner gesticulated around them. ‘The job. Pocket money.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Right.’

  ‘Who taught you to paint?’

  ‘Taught myself.’

  ‘Can you draw?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Get it from your mum do you?’

  ‘Dad.’

  Vanner nodded. ‘And how is your dad?’

  Mark looked at him then. ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘Not seeing him today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You tell him we were at your house?’

  ‘Might’ve done.’

  ‘Where is he today? I thought you stayed with him on Saturdays.’

  ‘He’s away this weekend. He goes away sometimes.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Amsterdam.’

  Vanner called Ryan at home. ‘Give Customs a bell, Sid. Terry’s on the hoof. Took a flight to Schiphol this morning.’

  ‘Already done. I’m way ahead of you, Guv’nor.’

  ‘Nice to know you’re on the ball.’

  ‘One thing, Guv. Customs noticed.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Got a bloody great plaster on his face, right under the eye. Looks like somebody hit him.’

  Vanner grinned and switched off his phone. Almost immediately it rang again.

  ‘Vanner,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Vanner.’

  ‘Jabba. Where are you?’

  ‘At my restaurant. Have you had your breakfast yet?’

  Jabba had a restaurant on Holloway Road. He worked it with his wife and five sons. In his spare time he was a property developer, a hosiery manufacturer and the best fence of precious gems Vanner had ever arrested. They sat across from one another in the kitchen, eating samosas and drinking thick, black coffee. Jabba talked with his mouth full, trailing spiced crumbs down his chin. He looked at Vanner from over the rim of his glasses.

  ‘So sorry about the other fellow, Mr Vanner. My sources got it wrong.’

  Vanner, smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ The thing he liked about Jabba was that when he did something it was never by half measure. He had cousins and brothers and uncles all over London. Most of them were bent in one small way or another, and through his network, Jabba was the best snout he had ever had. He had arrested him when he was a PC, almost ten years ago. Last prisoner—next informant. That was how it had been.

  Jabba’s wife came over with a tray of biscuits. She came back again with the coffee pot, then Jabba ushered her away. Vanner watched her go, then looked across the table again. ‘You have something for me?’

  Jabba sucked the food that was stuck in his teeth. He snapped his fingers and called out something that Vanner did not understand. A boy of fifteen or so appeared through the door of the store room.

  Jabba put his arm round his shoulders. ‘This is Danny. My son,’ he said. ‘Danny is what we call him in English.’ He smiled widely, hugging the boy to him, showing all of his teeth. Vanner lifted his fists to his chin. Jabba clapped his son on the back and sent him away again. ‘He’s a good boy, Mr Vanner. Eyes and ears in his head. He goes to school near here. He told me a little story.’

  Vanner sat further forward in his seat as Jabba told him how his son had watched a young boy dealing acid squares at school. Some of his friends had bought them. Jabba was at pains to point out that his boy was a good boy and he would not dream of buying the squares. But he had seen them, little scraps of paper with a red and white face printed on them.

  Vanner sat back, his heart high in his chest. He looked at Jabba. ‘The boy, Jabba. The boy dealing. What did he look like?’

  ‘White boy, Mr Vanner. Blond hair. One of those studs in his nose.’

  Vanner stood with Ryan and the others in the incident room. ‘We’ve got a kid dealing Denny acid at Hawkswood School. He’s got blond hair and a gold stud in his nose. He’s thirteen. Name is Mickey Tomlinson.’

  ‘Second tier, Guv’nor?’ Ryan said.

  Vanner made a face. ‘He’s far too young for a box. So yes, he must be second tier.’

  ‘But maybe he’s supplied by a boxholder.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

  He sat down o
n the desk. ‘He’s the first we’ve heard of in a school. But he lives on the Kirstall Estate.’ He broke off and looked at Anne. ‘We know that there are no boxes with two cards in Kentish Town. Hawkswood’s in Tufnell Park. Get onto the Post Office, Anne. Find out if there’s a box with two cards.’

  Anne got up and went over to her desk. The phone was ringing in Vanner’s office. He looked at the others. ‘I want this kid watched. I want it round the clock if we have to. What we need is his dealer.’

  He stepped into his office and picked up the phone. John Phillips spoke in his ear.

  ‘Hello, John.’ Vanner sat down. ‘How’s it working out for your boy?’

  ‘Fine. Well as far as the programme’s concerned anyway.’

  Vanner frowned. ‘There’s a problem?’

  ‘Not with the place. Your father really did us proud.’

  ‘But?’

  He heard Phillips sigh. ‘His solicitor was in yesterday. And it doesn’t look good. John’s very depressed.’

  ‘What did he say—the brief?’

  ‘Well, we were hoping that the programme he’s working would stand him in good stead, what with his age and everything. But the solicitor says the CPS are going to push for the maximum. John’s got a record. He’ll do a couple of years at least.

  Vanner was quiet for a moment. ‘He’s only a lad. With remission he’ll serve less than half.’

  ‘Still too long. I’ve never seen him so down. I don’t think he can hack it inside, Sir. He’ll be straight back on the stuff.’

  ‘I don’t know what more I can do. He stole cars. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘I know, Sir. But he’s looking for someone to help him.’

  ‘A deal?’

  ‘Something like that. He asked me to have a word with you.’

  ‘What about? Yarmouth arrested him. I’m not sure I can make any deals.’

  ‘Well listen at least anyway. You’re Drug Squad right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does the name Denny mean anything to you?’

  The Wasp took the map from Ninja and turned it the other way up.

  ‘You stupid one-eyed fuck.’ He worked his finger over the page and then scratched his head. ‘Help if we knew where we were.’

  Ninja looked out of the window. ‘Norwich.’ He pointed to a sign post. ‘We’re there.’