by Jeff Gulvin
‘So, why didn’t you?’ She uncrossed her legs and, as she did so, her foot touched his under the table.
‘I did. Had.’ He looked in her eyes, wondering if she could see the lie in his own. ‘Then your husband’s name was thrust under my nose so I went to see him.’
‘And because you saw him you had to see me?’
He shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
She sipped again at her wine. Vanner drained his beer bottle and ordered another.
‘Why didn’t you just knock on the door?’ she said.
‘Because you left the keys in it.’
She smiled then and he smiled too. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. Must’ve scared the life out of you.’
She nodded.
‘Made a habit of that didn’t I.’
She toyed with her glass. ‘Times change, Aden. People change. We were so young. What I really needed you couldn’t give me any more.’
‘You didn’t always say that. In the early days only I could give you what you needed.’
She touched her teeth with her tongue, looked away from him, a hint of colour coursing her cheeks. ‘As you say—in the early days.’
He sat back. ‘So when did they change—the early days? When did they become later days?’
She shook her head. ‘You were always away.’
‘My job.’
‘I know.’
‘Your father’s job.’
‘I know that too.’
‘You knew how it was when you married me.’
She looked at him again, a sigh deep in her throat. ‘I did love you you know.’
Pain crushing his chest. He pursed his lips. ‘Did you?’
‘Oh, yes. Aden.’
He lit another cigarette, drew smoke, harsh and ragged into his lungs. He exhaled stiffly, looked beyond her, glass all at once in his eyes. He felt the warmth of her hand over his. He looked down. She squeezed the top of his fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Aden. So sorry I hurt you.’
‘Do you love him?’ he shot the question at her. ‘I asked you that once before and you told me he loved you.’
‘Did I? You remember?’
‘Every word.’
She finished her wine and looked at the empty glass. Again he signalled the barman.
‘What did you do when I left?’ she said.
‘I went back to Belfast and killed people.’
For a long time they faced one another in silence, her touch gone from his hand. Vanner said: ‘Do you love him?’
‘He gives me what I need.’
‘What you need?’
She lifted her head, arching her neck. ‘What is love anyway?’
‘I haven’t got a clue.’
She laughed then and he smiled, scraping the end of his cigarette round the lip of the ashtray. She cupped her face in her hands. ‘You were in my bedroom.’
He nodded.
‘Touching my things.’
He hesitated then nodded again.
‘My underwear.’
He looked right in her eyes. ‘Stockings. Bra. Knickers.’
Naked, he trawled her flesh like a lover. She lay on her back, the points of her breasts lifted to the ceiling, the black of her hair on the rug. Andrew Riley’s house. Andrew Riley’s rug. Andrew Riley’s wife. He roamed her breasts, her belly, her thighs and buried himself inside her. Eyes closed, mouth half-open; the light shining on the crimson of her lips. He moved with her, lifted her, drew her back and lifted her over again. She cupped his head, fingers like claws in his hair. He held her, arms tensed, muscle pushing at the skin; the glow of the lamp dulling the sweat on his limbs.
‘Where is he tonight—your husband?’ He lay on his back, his body long and supple and empty. She curled next to him under the crook of his arm, the weight of her—warm against him.
‘Rotary meeting.’
He laughed then and sat up. ‘Rotary? Oh, Jesus, Jane.’
She stared at him. ‘He goes every other Friday.’
‘I’m sure he does, darling. I’m sure he does.’
He looked about the room then, perfect room, perfect things; the perfect world she had created for herself. Then he stood up and reached for his clothes. She watched him, lying naked still on the rug, as if in some kind of memory.
‘You leaving?’
He nodded.
‘That’s it?’
He stopped buckling his trousers and looked at her. ‘What else is there?’
She rolled onto her side, pain all at once in her eyes. He pulled his shirt over his head and stuffed it into his trousers. He gesticulated round the room. ‘You have everything else you need.’
Nineteen
WEIR SAT OPPOSITE THE Wasp. ‘You’re in a lot of trouble.’
The Wasp watched him from under his hair, eyes the colour of coal. The duty solicitor sat alongside him, briefcase by his side, glasses pushed high on his nose. Weir looked at the pair of basketball boots in a polythene bag on the table.
‘Those put you in Norwich on the 12th. They put you at the scene of a murder.’ He placed both elbows on the table. ‘You want to start by telling me where your friend is?’
The Wasp looked at the floor. Ryan lit a cigarette. He snapped the match in two and dropped it in the tinfoil of the ashtray. He looked at the solicitor. ‘You’ve reminded him how the courts will view his silence?’
‘I have.’
‘So maybe you should tell him to talk to us.’
Weir said: ‘Are you the one with the sword or is that your mate?’
‘Ninja.’ Ryan blew smoke. ‘The Gypsy. Haven’t seen him since he was a kid.’
The Wasp looked at him now and Ryan nodded. ‘Nasty little sod even then.’
‘On September the 15th you were on the Bream Park Estate,’ Weir said. ‘You paid a visit to Ringo May’s flat. When you left he was dead.’
The Wasp shook his head.
Weir sat back. ‘You were there.’
‘Not me.’
‘You’re not listening to me are you. We know you were there.’
The Wasp looked suddenly less sure of himself.
‘Oh, you wore the gloves,’ Weir said. ‘That was bright enough. Only you dumped them after you left. Now that was very stupid.’
The Wasp watched him carefully.
‘Ringo May’s blood. You didn’t wipe it off properly.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.’
Weir smiled then, only his eyes were cold. ‘Yes, you do. You see we took your fingerprint from the inside of the gloves. You didn’t know we could do that. Did you?’ He looked at the solicitor. ‘He really should talk to us you know.’
The solicitor leaned forward then. ‘Would you like to give us a minute?’
Morrison was in the incident room when Weir and Ryan went down. Morrison looked at Weir. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Brief’s having a word with him. So far he’s not said anything. We’ve just told him about the print from the glove though. So maybe now we’ll get somewhere.’
‘And Norwich?’
‘Tape’s crap. But we’ve got the boots and the waitress at McDonalds. It’s enough.’
Morrison nodded. ‘We need the other body.’
‘We’re looking for him.’
‘I want the dealer picked up as well. The kid. Mickey Tomlinson.’
Fifteen minutes later, Pierce came down the stairs and called to Weir. ‘The brief says he’s ready to talk now, Guv.’
Weir and Ryan went back to the interview room. Ryan switched on the tape. ‘Interview recommencing at 17:32.’ He sat down next to Weir and looked at The Wasp. ‘Feeling more like it now?’
The Wasp folded his arms, unfolded them again and sat back. ‘So I was there. Doesn’t mean I killed him. I didn’t kill nobody.’ Weir clasped his hands together. ‘We’re listening.’ The Wasp looked at his solicitor, who nodded. ‘Ninja killed him. I was there. But it was Ninja what did it. He cut him up with a sword.’
‘Samur
ai sword?’ Weir said.
The Wasp nodded. ‘Half-length.’
‘Fond of it is he?’
‘Pride and fuckin’ joy.’
‘Where does he live?’
The Wasp shrugged. ‘He don’t live anywhere much. He’s a Gyppo. Roams about a bit.’
‘Roams where exactly?’
The Wasp shrugged his shoulders. ‘Could be anywhere.’ He looked again at his solicitor. ‘I didn’t want to kill Ringo. I thought we’d just frighten him. Maybe rough him up a bit. That’s all.’
Weir narrowed his eyes. ‘Who told you to kill him?’
The Wasp was silent.
‘Your own idea then?’
‘No.’
‘Who then?’
‘I don’t know who he is. Just a fella who calls. He talks to Ninja not me. Ninja’s the main man. I just drive the car.’
Ryan scratched his chin. ‘The mobile phone in your flat?’
‘Ninja’s.’
Weir glanced at the watch on his wrist. ‘He contact you with that?’
‘Who?’
‘Whoever’s behind the cartoon.’
‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘Come on, Wasp.’ Weir looked coldly at him. ‘Do yourself a favour. You telling us it was your idea to kill him? Just now you said you were ordered.’
The Wasp spoke slowly. ‘I said, Ninja was ordered. Not me. I didn’t know till he did it.’ He looked at Ryan. ‘You saw Ninja when he was a kid right?’
Ryan nodded.
‘Then you know he’s a fuckin’ space cadet don’t you.’
‘You telling us you just went along for the ride, Wasp?’ Ryan cocked an eyebrow at him.
‘And what about Norwich,’ Weir said. ‘The clinic by the river. Another warning gone wrong?’
‘Ninja likes blood.’ The Wasp shook his head. ‘Man has a sword. What d’you want me to do—take the fucker off him?’
Ryan shook his head. ‘Wrong, Wasp. Wrong. In Norwich one of you held him. Marks on his face, bruising on his collarbone and shoulder. The other one stabbed him. Had to be that way—the sword stuck in his ribs. We found chips from the blade in the bone.’
The Wasp looked again at his solicitor, then he looked at the floor.
‘Mickey Blondhair,’ Weir said. ‘You supplied him from your box. Too young for one of his own?’
The Wasp said nothing.
‘We’ve watched him dealing Ecstasy at school. You supplied him, Wasp.’
‘No.’
‘He posted cash to your box.’
Ryan stretched. ‘Tell us about the hostels, Wasp. The more you talk the better it’s going to be.’
The Wasp scratched his head. ‘How much worse can it get?’
‘Not much. But it could get a little bit better.’
‘Time’s time. Don’t matter how much.’
‘Tell yourself that when you’ve been watching the bars for ten years.’
The Wasp twisted in his seat and looked at Weir. ‘I don’t know nothing about hostels.’
‘Come on. You can do better than that. We’ve got photographs of you in Neasden. What were the hostels—breeding ground for dealers? Street kids nicking for Denny acid and E’s?’
The Wasp made a face. ‘I told you. I just drive. Ninja does the rest.’
‘But you helped. Like with John Phillips for instance?’
He shook his head. ‘I already told you, I thought we were going to mess them up a bit that’s all. That’s why I was holding him. Just trying to scare him a bit.’
‘Wrong again, Wasp.’ Ryan was shaking his head. ‘You knew you were sent to kill him. He knew who Denny was didn’t he. No other reason to be there.’
The Wasp shook his head. ‘You got it wrong, man. Ninja maybe. But not me. Ninja did all the talking.’
Ryan looked at the ceiling. ‘Okay then. So how come you’re collecting ten thousand pounds from your post office box?’
The Wasp opened his hands. ‘It ain’t my box. It’s Ninja’s. I just do the signing. Ninja, he can’t read or write. So he gets me to do it.’
‘The box is registered to your address.’
‘Yeah. Because he don’t live nowhere. I just told you.’
Weir stood up, paced to the wall and leaned one hand against it. ‘Who’s behind the cartoon?’
The Wasp shrugged.
‘You never met him?’
The Wasp tapped his wrist.
‘The watches?’
‘Yep.’
‘You’ve never seen him?’
‘No.’
‘Ninja?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
Outside in the corridor, Ryan shook his head. ‘Nobody’s seen Denny, Guv. Without that we can’t lay anything on him.’
‘Dealing we can. We’ve got the delivery boy. We can prove a link between the boxes and the mailing address. On top of that we’ve got Calgary Holdings.’
‘Not murder though. Even if we know somebody ordered them to do it we can’t prove it was him.’
Vanner waited for Ryan in the pub on the corner of his road. He sat with his back to the booth and thought about Jane. The pain was gone. And yet—Lisa Morgan. Here he sat having finally closed down a section of his life after eleven useless years, and the price felt like someone else’s.
Ryan came in, rain on the shoulders of his jacket. Vanner signalled to him and he came over. ‘We nicked The Wasp,’ he said.
‘And the other one?’
‘Not yet.’
Vanner pushed out his lips. ‘Is he talking?’
‘He is now. We can put him in Milo’s flat. His prints match the one we lifted from the glove.’
‘Norwich?’
‘Boot print. Walks with his knees close together. Hundred quid’s worth of trainers.’ He made a face. ‘Vanity. Always gets you in the end.’
‘Good you don’t have to worry then.’
‘Ha ha.’ Ryan looked at Vanner’s pint. ‘You going to get me one of those or is this info for free?’
Vanner placed a pint of lager in front of him. ‘We’ve got a positive ID from McDonalds,’ Ryan went on. ‘It puts them up there together. The print puts The Wasp at the scene.’
‘Tape any good?’
‘No. He’s admitted it though. Brief knows we’ve got him by the balls. He’s trying to make out it was the other guy, the Gypsy. Reckons he thought it was just going to be a bit of a scrap.’
‘Will that stand up?’
‘Will it fuck. When we lifted him he was collecting ten g’s from his post office box.’
Vanner looked across the bar. ‘Doesn’t give you Terry though.’
‘Not yet. But we’re getting there. Sven-Lido. Sol-Deni V. Dave Starkey’s been doing his bit. Accounts, the bank and that. Terry’s got a company called Calgary Holdings that gets rental income from property investments that don’t exist. It’s registered at the address in the Strand.’
Vanner sat forward then and furrowed his brow. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Why use Sven-Lido. The same mailing address? Why doesn’t he just paint pictures?’
Ryan lit a cigarette. ‘Taking the piss, guv. He likes the wind up. I’ve told you: pop too much stuff and your brain gets fucked. It’s a game isn’t it.’
Vanner frowned at him. ‘You reckon that’s all it is?’
Ryan yawned. ‘You’ve seen him, Guv. Seen how he plays it up. He really thinks it’s funny. Anyway, I don’t really care. Just as long as we nick him.’
Vanner sat back, resting his hands on his thighs. ‘Weir must be delirious.’
Ryan squinted at him. ‘You should leave the fanny alone.’
‘The fanny, Sid, was my wife.’
He sat alone. Ryan had had the one beer and gone home. It was late. He was tired and he thought it was time he reminded his family who he was. Maybe he was right. Mentally, Vanner shrugged his shoulders and told himself it was no longer his proble
m. It was Morrison’s problem and it would be Morrison’s result.
But it was his problem. Ninja and The Wasp had attacked him with a bat and a sword, when he was drunk and weak and helpless. He still did not know why. It was the only reason he was sitting here at all. And more than that, all through this investigation, he had known that somewhere he had seen the Denny cartoon before. But he could not remember where.
Ninja squatted like a pygmy in the boiler room. He hugged his belly where the pain burned like acid. Steam lifted from unlagged pipes by his feet. He watched the door out of his good eye, sword unhoused by his feet. He had not eaten since yesterday. He was not hungry. He thought about cutting up The Wasp.
Morrison sat in the incident room with Starkey and his colleague from Financial Investigation. Starkey tapped the papers in front of him. ‘No mortgage on the flat. That’s three hundred thousand at least. The yard is the same. He sat back and ran hands through his hair. ‘He’s asset-rich, Sir. Gearing is next to nothing.’
Morrison pursed his lips. ‘Then he’s making a hell of a lot out of plant—or he’s being a naughty boy.’
‘Customs watching his yard?’
Morrison nodded. ‘Two boxes of engine parts came in last Friday.’
‘From the States?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Amsterdam?’
‘Bought two Used Diggers two weeks ago. They’re two hundred K each when they’re new.’
Starkey yawned and stood up. ‘Nothing from the mailing address?’
‘Nothing’s been collected.’
‘Maybe you should’ve waited before nicking The Wasp.’
Morrison shook his head. ‘Had to take him out, Dave. Ten thousand pounds in the box.’
McCleod looked at the gold stud in Mickey Blondhair’s nose. ‘That hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Not at all?’
‘No.’
‘How’d you pick your nose?’
‘Like this.’ Mickey stuck a finger in his nostril.
Anne leaned on the table. Mickey’s mother and social worker sat behind him. His young mother looked old: pale skin; weak, mousy hair.
‘Mickey,’ Anne said quietly. ‘We’ve got you for dealing Ecstasy and LSD in your school. We’ve also got you for slashing a man’s knees at a cashpoint.’ As she said it, his mother thinned her eyes. ‘You’re thirteen years old. It doesn’t have to be like this. If you help us—then maybe we can help you.’
