The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘So you can read all of a sudden.’

  ‘I can read that.’ Ninja stuck his elbow out of the window. The Wasp tightened his jacket at the neck. ‘I ought to drag you behind on a skateboard. Fuckin’ windows down, all the way from London. Don’t you ever get cold?’

  Ninja did not say anything.

  ‘Well, I tell you—I ain’t sleeping with them down.’

  Ninja felt in his jacket for his sword. ‘Told us there was a big job didn’t he. Told you he wasn’t phasing us out. You and your fuckin’ paranoia.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Where’d you learn that word?’

  ‘I know words.’ Ninja rubbed his belly. He peered out of the window. ‘Lot of trees up here ain’t there.’

  ‘Course there is, you wanker. It’s the fuckin’ country.’

  ‘Yeah, but look.’ Ninja pointed. ‘Fuckin’ hundreds of them.’

  The Wasp lit a cigarette. ‘You never been out of London then?’

  Ninja shook his head.

  ‘Some Gypsy you are.’

  He stood in front of the window, looking out over the river. Cars moved on the far embankment, the dome of St Paul’s glowing against the sky. The shower ran in the bathroom. He had the phone in his hand, the ringing tone of The Wasp’s mobile in his ear.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Wasp.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just got there. Ninja can’t read a map.’

  ‘Too late for tonight then?’

  ‘We haven’t found the place yet. We’ve only just found Norwich.’

  ‘Wasp.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Be discreet. Don’t make too much mess.’

  ‘Tell that to the Gypsy. He’s the one with the blade.’

  Sixteen

  VANNER PARKED ALONGSIDE THE river and crossed the footbridge by the Unicorn. Memories flooded back now. Himself and Kirston and Riley, three schoolmates. Drinking and talking. Boxing and winning. The cheering in his ears. The Army. The past creeping out to haunt him all over again. He wondered why he tortured himself so much. Other people had lives. Like Sid Ryan, for all of his front: he had a home and a wife and everything that went with it. But Ryan was other people. The needle was stuck in his own life.

  The clinic bordered the river. The multi-storey car park on the other side. A shopping trolley sat upturned in the water. Beyond the clinic itself, a patch of undeveloped wasteground where people fished in the daytime. Vanner paused on the bridge, tossed his cigarette into the water and went up to the door.

  He was met by Colin Mason: a skinny man with black and tangled hair, matching the moustache that covered his lips. His handshake was firm and his voice gentle. He smelled of coffee and cigarettes. He took Vanner into the office. ‘John’s taken well to the programme, Inspector. Your father did the right thing by getting him here.’

  Vanner nodded, glancing round the room at the files and the flat computer screen that lifted from one of the desks. ‘Is his father here?’

  ‘Any minute. He phoned us half an hour ago.’

  ‘Where’s he staying?’

  ‘Guesthouse by the station.’

  Vanner nodded. ‘Where’s John now?’

  ‘Day room. We’ll wait for his dad and then I’ll bring him down to the Doctor’s office. It’s quieter in there.’

  Phillips arrived and Vanner met him in the hall, face grey, bags like bruises under his eyes. ‘He’s very cagey, Sir,’ he said. ‘Been really withdrawn since the brief was here the other day.’

  Vanner nodded. ‘Mason says we can use the doctor’s office. You want to be there?’

  ‘I’d like to. If that’s all right by you.’

  John Phillips Junior sat in the stiff-backed chair against the wall. Vanner took out cigarettes and passed him one. He offered his lighter and John leaned to the flame.

  ‘So,’ Vanner said. ‘You know I’m looking for Denny. How come you know that?’

  John hugged himself, his features pinched and drawn, hair lank about his face. He motioned to his father. ‘He told me you were Drug Squad.’

  ‘You know the cartoon?’

  John nodded.

  ‘Acid and E’s. Fresh face on the street.’

  ‘Not that fresh.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I just do.’

  Vanner made a face. ‘I need to know how you know, John.’

  John looked at his father, pulled on his cigarette and sat forward. ‘The face is new. But the deal’s been going for a while.’

  ‘How long?’

  John sat back again. ‘Can you do anything about my case? That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well if you can’t—I’m not saying anything.’

  ‘John.’ His father looked sharply at him.

  Vanner held up his hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said.

  He looked at the boy again. ‘You were arrested in Yarmouth, John. I can make no promises.’

  ‘Then, I don’t talk. But think about it. What’s a couple of cars compared to a major source? I can give you his name. The face behind the face. But if I do I get off this deal. Then I get protection till you’ve picked him up. I also get immunity from anything else that shows up.’

  ‘Such as?’

  John pinched the end of his cigarette. ‘I can take you back at least three years with Denny.’

  Vanner watched his face. ‘How it began you mean? Street gangs. Robbing people at cashpoints. Handbags that kind of thing.’

  ‘I can give you it all.’

  ‘You know about the watches then. The bail hostels.’

  ‘Don’t know nothing about hostels.’

  ‘You were involved though?’

  ‘In the beginning I was.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘All you want is Denny. He’s the source isn’t he.’

  Vanner looked at him with his head on one side. ‘Maybe I don’t need you, John. Maybe I have suspects of my own.’

  ‘Then why’re you here?’

  ‘Curiosity!’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  Vanner offered him another cigarette. ‘I’ll say some names. You can nod or shake your head.’

  ‘No way. I’m saying nothing till I know I’ve got a deal.’

  ‘How do I know you know?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  Vanner lit the cigarettes. ‘Three years you say?’

  ‘Small-time then. The face came later.’

  ‘Last summer.’

  ‘I don’t know when. But I already knew the name.’

  ‘Kirstall Housing Estate.’ Vanner said it quickly and John looked at the floor. He stood up and flicked ash in the direction of the table. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘You know I know. Get me off and I’ll talk to you. I’m not saying any more.’ He walked to the door and went out.

  Phillips sat forward and made an open handed gesture. ‘Never knew he could handle himself like that.’

  Vanner glanced at him. ‘He’s a heroin addict, John. Been hanging around dealers long enough to know the score.’

  ‘Can you help him? He’s telling you the truth, Sir. I know when he’s lying.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. But I can’t make any promises. You just keep him here. Make sure that he stays inside.’

  Phillips looked keenly at him then. ‘You think he’s in danger?’

  ‘No. Not while he’s here. But you need to know, John. Whoever’s behind this Denny—has already killed one person.’

  Vanner stood up and Phillips touched his arm. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘They dropped the charges against me. The CID at St Anne’s.’

  ‘Really?’ Vanner raised his eyebrows. ‘How come?’

  Phillips looked at him then. ‘I don’t know. But the landlord withdrew his complaint. Maybe somebody had a word.’

  Ninja and Wasp sat in McDonalds. They had found the clinic, parked the stolen Tra
nsit and gone in search of food. Ninja licked mayonnaise from his fingers. ‘How’re we going to get the bastard to come out?’ he said. ‘We can’t just go in and cut him.’

  The Wasp was watching one of the waitresses swabbing the floor. ‘He’s a smackhead ain’t he. Bet he comes out at night, sits by the river there and has a little drink. Can’t come off that stuff without something. And he can’t stay inside all the time.’

  ‘What, so we just sit and wait do we? Could take fuckin’ forever.’

  The Wasp shrugged. ‘We got to do it, man. Bastard knows doesn’t he.’

  ‘That ain’t our problem.’

  ‘Ten thousand quid, you fuckin’ wanker.’ Wasp bit into a Big Mac and talked as he chewed. ‘Besides, if he’s a problem to the man then he is to us ain’t he. If the man gets pulled then sure as shit we will.’

  ‘What about the pigs though? They saw us in Neasden.’

  ‘We don’t know they were pigs.’

  ‘What was it then—a fuckin’ picnic?’

  ‘That’s London, Ninja. Relax. We’re in Norwich remember.’

  Ninja ate his chips. ‘Oh, what the fuck,’ he said. ‘Maybe we can dump him in the river.’

  ‘Ten grand, Ninja. Paid fuckin’ assassins.’

  Ninja made a face, and picked at the meat in his teeth. ‘Still don’t know how we’re going to do it. What if he don’t come out. Ain’t like Ringo is it. Any fucker can just wander in there. Nobody gives a shit.’

  Mickey Blondhair dealt Denny E’s at school. An Asian boy stood next to him and rolled one between his finger and thumb. ‘Fifteen quid?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Ain’t got the fuckin’ dove on it. How do I know it ain’t shit?’

  ‘You don’t need the dove. This is the best.’

  The boy curled his lip at him. ‘You’d know would you?’

  ‘You don’t want it. Fuck off.’

  The boy paid him and pocketed the tablet.

  Mickey watched him walk away. So much better than thieving. Pushing up his sleeve, he glanced at the face of his watch. Ten more minutes until dinnertime was over. There would be more yet. There was a rave by the railway tonight.

  He was right. Two sixth-form girls made their way over to him, one of them smoking a cigarette. She dropped it on the ground as she got to him and blew the smoke in his face.

  Across the road in the car, Anne and China watched him. ‘Little sod,’ Anne said. China focused his lens. ‘Come on, Sunshine. Look at me.’

  Mickey did not see them. He did not know they were there. He was concentrating on his trade. He wished he could bring out the little scales. Look real good with the scales. The girls hovered in front of him. He could smell them. He loved dealing to sixth-formers: when they bent down he could see their tits. ‘Fifteen quid, girls. You got it?’ The blonde one, Rachel whatever her name was, pushed strands of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Not bad is it—contaminated? I don’t want to die.’

  ‘Don’t take it then.’ Mickey withdrew his hand. ‘Or better still don’t drink too much water.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Respect.’ Mickey felt in his pocket.

  Vanner leaned on Morrison’s desk. ‘He knows who Denny is.’

  Morrison looked up at him, tapping his lip with one finger. Frank Weir sat in the other chair. Vanner had driven down from Norfolk and had gone straight to see Morrison in Hendon. He had interrupted their meeting.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Why call me up there?’

  ‘How does he know?’ Morrison indicated the vacant seat next to Weir. Vanner sat down, took out his cigarettes, caught Morrison’s frown and put them away again.

  ‘I think he was involved at the beginning. He confirmed what we know about the street gangs, the organisation. They were probably very small-time then, the bottom rung of somebody else’s ladder. He told me that Denny was at least three years old as a market before the face came on the scene.’

  ‘Always Ecstasy and acid?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Vanner glanced at Weir. ‘But he was a friend of Terry’s son. Maybe the gangs were going first and Terry saw the opportunity when he was on the Kirstall. I mean, let’s face it—it’s a scam. Like something from Oliver Twist.’

  Morrison looked at Weir. ‘What do you think?’

  Weir scratched his head. He glanced at Vanner and switched the gum from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Sounds about right. How did the Phillips kid get into smack?’

  Vanner lifted his shoulders. ‘How does anyone get into smack? One thing leads to another. It’s eighty quid a gramme, so he took to nicking cars.’

  Morrison sat back in the seat and placed his hands behind his head. ‘What does he want?’

  Vanner looked at the floor. ‘To walk away from the charges he’s on.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Car theft in Great Yarmouth. Ten other offences to be taken into consideration.’

  Weir sat forward. ‘That won’t be easy.’

  Vanner looked at Morrison. ‘Do you want to talk to them—or shall I?’

  Morrison leaned his elbows on the desk. ‘I’ll do it, Vanner. Diplomacy was never your strong point.’

  Vanner nodded and stood up.

  ‘And talking of diplomacy. I had Burke on the phone yesterday afternoon. Apparently the Tom, Lisa Morgan, went back to Gallyon’s nightclub and hit our target with an ashtray.’

  Vanner lifted one eyebrow. Morrison squinted at him. ‘She said she had a copper with her, some sort of protection.’ He paused. ‘You know anything about it?’

  ‘Didn’t the Regional plant spot the face?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t working.’

  Vanner shrugged. ‘Lisa’s up for it, Sir. She was probably winding them up.’

  ‘You haven’t seen her then?’

  ‘Not since the last time. No.’

  He opened the door. Morrison stopped him again. ‘One other thing. The new dealer. The schoolkid.’

  ‘Second tier. We’re watching him.’

  ‘There’s something else about him.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘His description fits the Alan Boyd assault.’

  Vanner looked back at him. ‘I know.’

  Ryan was rolling a cigarette when he went in. Vanner squinted at him. ‘Getting late in the month is it?’

  Ryan passed him the roll-up and pinched tobacco between his fingers for another. ‘We’ve got a box in Tufnell Park, Guv.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone called John Smith.’

  ‘Who the hell’s he?’

  ‘That’s what I wondered. He lives on the Estate. The address is Carlton Bishop’s.’

  Vanner smiled. ‘The Wasp. We still watching him?’

  ‘We were, Guv. But he seems to have gone walkabout. Him and the Gypsy both.’

  Vanner narrowed his eyes.

  The Wasp stood in the shadows of the car park. Ninja was further down the path, almost to the far bridge, the other side of the river from the clinic. The Wasp looked behind him to the rising grey of the flats. He frowned. A lot of lighted windows. He looked again at the clinic and swore softly to himself. ‘Come on, you fuck. Not another night in this carrot crunching shit-hole.’ Ninja was making his way back towards him. The Wasp skinned his eyes and tried to penetrate the gloom on the far side of the river.

  They had seen him today, spent the afternoon watching. Last night he had come out for a smoke with one of the others, but he had stayed close to the wall and they had not been able to get near him. Ninja was going spare. If he did not come out tonight then he would flip and go in after him. But this afternoon they had followed him into town, where he had gone into an off-licence and come out with a bag. Wonderfully predictable, smackheads. He had come back to the clinic from this side, jumping the fence to the wasteland by the underground car park. They had watched him stuff his package into the bushes that lined the bank. It was only a matter of time.

 
‘Any sign?’ Wasp asked as Ninja walked up to him. Ninja shook his head. The Wasp looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. ‘We’ll get down there,’ he said. ‘Wait in the underground car park.’

  They climbed the fence, The Wasp watching the flats behind them. Ninja dropped first and skittered down the bank, almost falling into the water. The Wasp landed next to him; feet deep in the mud. He grabbed Ninja’s collar and hauled him up. They made their way over to the car park and took cover behind a pillar. A few cars were still parked, like squat, metal sentinels against the black of the night. The Wasp shivered and pulled the zip high on his jacket. He took out his cigarettes and lit one. Ninja laid a hand on his arm.

  John Phillips made his way round the edge of the building and slid down onto the mud of the wasteground. He looked back, shivered and hugged himself. Then he bent down and pulled his bottle from where he had hidden it. He had been doing well, only cigarettes and coffee until that lawyer showed up with his glum face and his words of misery. Until then he had believed his father, started to believe Colin, that maybe there was some end to this after all. But after the bloody lawyer and then the copper —deal-making. He spent his whole life making deals. And Denny. How could he shop Denny? He unscrewed the cap on the bottle.

  They climbed out of the shadows towards him, dark against the dark. He stood with his back to them, lifted the bottle to his lips and swallowed.

  The Wasp cupped a hand round his mouth. The bottle slipped and landed with a slap in the mud. Phillips gurgled. The Wasp grabbed him tighter: one hand on his mouth, the other on his arm. Phillips struggled, tried to call out, but The Wasp pinched his cheeks together. And then Ninja lifted the sword. The Wasp felt warm blood on his fingers. Phillips’ body went stiff and Ninja ripped out the blade. The Wasp pushed him into the river.

  Vanner dreamed of Lisa. Michael Terry with a knife on her throat then drifting against her cheek. But then it wasn’t Terry—it was him. He woke with her blood in his eyes. He could hear rain against the window. His head thumped as if he had been drinking all night. He got up, showered and dressed.

  He stood under the arch that backed onto Lucas Gardens and the church. Rain fell in ribbons across the parked cars in front of him. He leaned against the chilled brick of the wall. Diagonally across the road, he could see the front door of number 73. Royal blue paint, not a chip or blemish in sight. The house, like those on either side of it, looked like a two-storey terrace. But he could see that the attics had all been converted and he knew there would be basements. Four-storey house in Chelsea. She had got everything that she wanted.