by Jeff Gulvin
The foreman climbed up next to him and directed Ryan to the tank. ‘It’s diesel,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t run on petrol.’
‘Whatever.’ Ryan worked on the cap, gloved hands to protect him against the freezing cold of the metal. ‘Stiff as a stallion,’ he moaned. The foreman watched him. ‘Empty right?’ Ryan said. ‘Can’t ship ’em with gas in?’
The foreman nodded.
Ryan freed the cap. A tube of rubber was fastened to the spring and extended down into the tank. It was flexible like gas hose. Ryan looked at the foreman, who was frowning. ‘Not normal then.’ Ryan wound in the hose. It was weighted at the end. Reaching down, he took hold of a cylinder of plastic, eighteen inches long. The cap was sealed in rubber and bound thickly with tape.
They found a second one in the other tank and took them to Terry’s office. He stood there in silence as one of the Customs men took a knife to the tape and unscrewed the cap. The cannister was stuffed with plastic bags. The bags were full of tablets.
Vanner knocked on Mickey Blondhair’s door. Rain fell in sheets. He got no answer and knocked on the door again. He was supposed to be at home. His mother was supposed to be at home. Vanner pressed the bell now. Still no answer. He shook his head and went back along the balcony. Outside the café, he waited in his car with the rain pressing against him. He sat in silence, coat buttoned, and stared at the wall of the building.
Ninja coughed blood. He stared at it, muddy against the palm of his hand. His gut burned. Nothing since that shitty sausage this morning. He leaned in the door of the boiler room. Outside the rain fell like ice, but it freshened the fire in his skin. From here he could see the railway and beyond that the High Street and the neon sign of McDonalds. What he wouldn’t give for a burger. Fuck it. Maybe he should just stroll down there and buy one. Then he saw the lights of a police car cut the intersection beyond the station, and he moved back from the door.
Weir and Ryan faced Terry. He sat clutching himself on the other side of the table. The twin cannisters of Ecstasy lay before him, wrapped in plastic and tagged. Ryan flicked cigarette ash. ‘Denny E’s,’ he said. ‘Or at least they would’ve been when you stamped them.’
Terry glanced at him. ‘Is my solicitor here yet?’
‘He’s coming.’
‘I’m not saying anything till he gets here.’
Ryan looked at Weir, then back at Terry again. All at once he thought of Milo lying in his flat, staring at his own dried blood with one arm twisted beneath him. ‘We found them in your diggers.’
Terry shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about them.’
Weir stretched and stood up. ‘Tell us about Sven-Lido.’
‘What?’
‘Sven-Lido. You know where Damien drops off the cash.’
‘I’ve never heard of Sven-Lido. And I’ve told you: I’m answering no more questions until I see my lawyer.’
Weir switched off the tape. ‘We can wait,’ he said.
The others were back in the incident room. Weir walked down with Ryan, and China handed them coffee. Spirits were high. Jokes flying. Morrison was on the phone. Starkey was making notes at a table. Ryan moved alongside. ‘What you got, Dave?’
‘Owns a boat down in Southampton. Not huge but big enough. Moors it on the Hamble. Member of the Yacht Club. Everything.’
‘What else?’ Ryan sat down and put his feet up on the table.
‘Two cars. Merc and a TVR. You know the grunty kind. V8.’
‘HP?’
‘All bought and paid for.’
He showed Ryan the papers he was looking at. ‘This is an FHR. MTI, his import company.’
‘What’s an FHR?’
‘Financial History Report. Barclays Bank.’ He pointed to the figures. ‘There should be more than this.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘The stuff he buys. The diggers, dump trucks and that. It’s expensive. His costs are high. The sale price will be too.’ He scratched his head. ‘Not enough going through the account to pay for all he’s got. Should be more than this.’
Weir stood with Morrison in Vanner’s office. ‘We’re waiting for the brief,’ he said. China tapped on the door. ‘Phone records are on their way, Guv. The yard. The flat and his mobile.’ Morrison glanced at China. ‘What did you find at the flat?’
‘Nothing.’ He held up the painted dwarf. ‘But we found this in his car.’
Terry’s solicitor had grey hair and circular, gold-rimmed glasses. He sat next to Terry with his briefcase on the table. Weir showed Terry the acid square from the hostel.
‘You supplied Ecstasy and LSD with this logo. It’s Sol-Deni V, a character from System X. Where your son paints little models.’
‘You left him,’ Ryan said then. ‘Your son. When he was twelve. Dumped him and his mother and ran off with a floozy. How come you started going to see him again after three years of nothing?’
Terry looked coldly at him. ‘I’m his father.’
‘You were his father when you legged it.’
Weir leaned on his elbows. ‘You started seeing him again because of where he lived. You figured on a nice little supply of dealers. Bung them each a pager watch. Fifty quid for a post office box and you’re dealing all over the city.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Vanner watched the Kirstall Estate, darkness falling with the rain. He could smell the Gypsy through the gloom. He lit another cigarette, the inside of the car clogging with smoke. He stared at the kids messing about by the arch. Then it occurred to him —why did Terry need kids? Mickey Blondhair cutting up people at cashpoints. The robberies from the hostels. Stake money? Surely he had enough stake money.
‘Calgary Holdings.’ Weir faced Terry, who dragged fingers over his eyes. His shirt was loose, tie ragged about his neck. Ryan pressed one more butt to the ashtray.
‘I’ve never heard of Calgary Holdings.’
‘It’s your company. This is a copy of the registration document. Once upon a time it was Catskill Ltd.’
Terry sat forward then, picked up the page and stared at it. His eyes slowly widened.
Ryan said: ‘That’s your signature.’
Terry looked at him. ‘I didn’t sign this.’
‘It’s your signature.’
‘Yes. But I didn’t sign it. Catskill’s been dormant for years.’
Weir shook his head. ‘It’s alive and well and for the past two years it’s been Calgary Holdings.’
Terry glanced at his solicitor. ‘I’ve never seen this before. I did not sign this paper.’
The solicitor pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘I’d like a moment with my client now please.’
‘Not yet.’ Weir pressed himself towards Terry. ‘Tell me about Bobby Gallyon.’
For a moment Terry went white. ‘I don’t know him.’
Ryan laughed then. ‘You’ve been seen with him. In his nightclub. You know—where you used to pick up Lisa Morgan, the Tom you screwed on E’s. The same Tom who won’t work again because she fell over and cut her face.’
‘What was it with Gallyon—he clean up the cash for you?’ Weir jabbed out the question.
Terry closed his eyes, then he folded his arms and looked at his solicitor. ‘I’m not answering any more questions.’
Vanner was dozing. A shout across the road jerked him upright. Very dark now. He sat up and wound the window down. Two kids were chasing each other through the estate. He pulled back his sleeve and looked at the illuminated face of his watch. He got out of his car, and saw Mark Terry walking up the ramp to the stairs. Vanner almost called out to him, but stopped himself. Mark walked with his head down, bag over one shoulder.
Mickey Blondhair’s mother opened the door. Vanner showed her his card. ‘Detective Inspector Vanner,’ he said.
She looked weary, eyes blackened into hollows against the white of her face. ‘What d’you want?’
‘You were out today.’
‘Shopping. I have t
o go shopping.’
‘I want to speak to Mickey.’
‘He’s not here.’
Vanner looked along the balcony. ‘Well, if he’s not—when I come back tomorrow, I’ll have him banged up so fast he won’t have time to get dressed.’
‘MICKEY.’ She called over her shoulder.
Vanner stared at him, sitting on the edge of the worn-out chair with the TV silent but flickering still in the corner. Mickey avoided his eye, the stud in his nose reflecting the light from the lamp.
‘Ninja,’ Vanner said quietly.
Mickey looked up at him.
‘Where is he?’
Mickey looked away.
‘He’s here isn’t he, Mickey? Somewhere on the estate?’
‘I don’t know.’
Vanner glanced at the TV. ‘Scared of him are you?’
‘No.’
‘I would be. Psycho like him, running around with a sword.’
‘The one with the eye.’ His mother shivered in the doorway. Vanner glanced at her, then looked once more at Mickey. ‘You know where he is. Don’t you.’
‘No.’
‘I think you do. Tell me, Mickey, where would the Gypsy hide out?’
Mickey looked at the TV. Vanner switched it off. ‘Look at me.’
Mickey gaped at the floor.
‘I said, look at me.’
He lifted his eyes. He had to: Vanner dragging his gaze from the carpet. ‘It’s over, Mickey. He can’t hurt you. Now. Tell me. Where is he hiding?’
Mickey watched him. He wanted to look away but Vanner held him where he was. Outside, a train rumbled into the station.
‘Come on, Mickey.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Okay. Where might he be then?’
Mickey glanced at his mother. All the swagger was gone from him. He looked back at the floor. Still he was silent, lips bunched together. Vanner stood over him. Mickey looked up, looked down again. Still Vanner stood over him.
‘I’m going to stay here till you tell me, Mickey. You need to tell me. You’re in so much trouble you really need to tell me. He’s a killer, Mickey. Give up a killer and the court’ll remember you did it.’
Mickey shook his head, then all at once he sighed. ‘Boiler room,’ he mumbled. ‘He used to come to the boiler room.’
Ryan sat in the half-dark of the incident room with Weir and Morrison and Jimmy Crack. ‘He blanched when I mentioned Gallyon,’ Weir was saying. ‘Hasn’t said a dicky bird since.’
‘Terrified.’ Jimmy looked at the floor. ‘Gallyon’s warned him off.’ Ryan yawned. ‘When do we get the phone records?’ Morrison looked at his watch. ‘Sometime in the morning.’ Ryan nodded and stood up. ‘I’m going home then,’ he said.
Vanner moved his car into the side road and parked it outside the Art Workshop. He switched on his mobile and dialled Ryan’s number. The phone rang as Ryan got to his car. He cursed and almost switched it off. ‘Yeah?’
‘Sid.’
‘Guv’nor.’ Ryan yawned.
‘Keeping you up.’
‘As a matter of fact you are.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘We nicked Terry. Got him with a shitload of E’s.’
Vanner looked at the roof of the Kirstall Estate. ‘You ever wonder why Terry would use kids to nick on the street?’
‘Not now, Guv. I’m knackered.’
Vanner laughed softly. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘Going home for some shut-eye.’
‘Meet me at the Kirstall Estate.’
Ryan shook his head to clear it. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I think I’ve found the Gypsy.’
Ryan met him in the side road. Vanner leaned against his car and dropped his burning cigarette. The rain had stopped falling, but it was replaced by ice on the wind that cut Ryan’s flesh to the bone. He looked at Vanner then at his watch. ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’
‘Ninja,’ Vanner said.
‘Where?’
Vanner pointed to the roof, darker than the sky above them. ‘Boiler room at the top.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Mickey Blondhair told me.’
‘That little gobshite. He kept his trap shut with Anne. How come he told you?’
‘He knows it’s over, Sid. Wants the best deal he can get.’
Ryan got his baseball bat from the boot of his car. ‘You not tooled up, Guv?’ Vanner shook his head.
‘Good job I’m here then.’
‘Pretty good in a fight are you?’
‘Me—fight? I can’t fight, Guv’nor.’ He shifted the weight of his bat. ‘But I spoil it for those who can.’
They climbed the stairs to the roof. A final corridor then the iron steps to the boiler room. At the end of the corridor Vanner stopped. ‘Give me your bat,’ he said.
Ryan looked at it, then shrugged and passed it over. Vanner closed his fingers over the shaft. ‘I’m going to go in on my own. You wait here and stop him if he comes out.’
‘Tell you what, Guv.’ Ryan leaned on the balcony. ‘If he comes out and he’s still got his sword—I’ll just wave him past.’
Vanner left him in the darkness and moved across the roof. The wind tugged at his face, the buildings falling away on all sides. He gripped the bat in one hand, flexed the fingers of the other and felt the hairs rise on his neck. As he got closer, he saw a dim light creeping from the boiler-room door. There was no handle, just a broken clasp of metal where the lock had been. He took hold of the edge of the door in his left hand. One long breath, then he wrenched it open.
He felt the heat, the stench of old sweat. The Gypsy squatted between two pipes. For a long moment they faced one another. Vanner showed him the bat. From inside his coat Ninja lifted his sword; one white eye, one dark eye fixed on his face. Slowly he rose to his feet, the sword in both of his hands. Vanner stared at him. ‘I’m a policeman,’ he said. ‘You going to put that down?’
Ninja shook his head.
Vanner tested the weight of the bat. Ninja stretched to his full height, long matted hair hanging beyond his shoulders. He wore a combat jacket and jeans. For a second Vanner was in Ulster. He shifted the bat, sliding his hand all the way to the handle. Ninja stepped over the pipe.
And then he came at him, leaping almost, across the space between them. Vanner stepped to the side, the blade falling towards his head as it had done once before; only he was drunk then and there had been two of them. Now he was sober and the baseball bat was part of him. Ninja passed. Vanner parried and the blow jarred up his arm. Ninja fell back. Then he came again, and this time, a guttural cry in his throat. Vanner tingled: every sinew, every muscle. Ninja swung the sword and Vanner blocked, forcing him back. Ninja fell away, lost his grip on the sword, regained it, and crouched like an animal. Vanner stood his ground, the bat in both of his hands now.
‘You can still put it down.’
Ninja shook his head.
Ninja came again, frontal this time, thrusting the blade like a rapier. Vanner moved aside, tripped on a pipe and fell. The bat clattered away from him. And then Ninja was on top of him. Vanner forced a fist into his face, the white of the dead eye in his. Ninja rolled. Vanner rolled and crashed against the water tank.
He reached the bat, on one knee. And the Gypsy was at him again. He swung the sword, left and right and up and down like a warrior. Then he gripped it with both hands and came again. Vanner lifted the bat and the blade rattled against the tank. Ninja lost his grip, reached for it and Vanner tripped him. And as he did so, he brought the bat down very hard. Ninja cried out. From the corner of his eye, Vanner saw Ryan standing in the doorway.
Ninja rolled. Vanner was after him, kicking away the sword. He dropped the bat and then he was lifting him, two hands at his collar, hauling him to his feet. Ninja spat at him and Vanner tasted blood. He butted him in the face. Ninja cried out, both hands to his nose. Vanner hit him again, fists this time, left and right to the body. Ninja
fell to the floor.
Then Ryan was on him, hauling his hands behind him and wrapping the handcuffs about them. Blood on Ninja’s face. Blood in his mouth. He coughed and spat more blood on the floor.
‘Not very well are you,’ Ryan muttered.
Ninja lay slumped against the pipes, his arms twisted behind him. Ryan picked up the sword and opening his lighter, he ran the flame the length of the blade. ‘Guv,’ he said.
Vanner came over and Ryan pointed out the nicks in the blade. Vanner looked at him.
‘Two minutes,’ he said.
Ryan stepped outside.
Vanner squatted down next to Ninja and gripped a handful of hair. He twisted his face to the light. ‘On March 4th you and The Wasp had a go at me.’
Ninja looked dully at him, the breath ragged in his throat.
‘I want to know why.’
Still Ninja looked at him, blood on his lips, blood dripping from his nose. Vanner twisted his fingers deeper into his hair.
‘I’ll ask you again: why?’
Ninja squinted now, darkly, out of one good eye. The other a mass of dead flesh.
‘Fuck you,’ he said.
They locked him in Ryan’s car and smoked against the chill of the night. Ryan looked at Vanner, face closed, eyes tight in his skull. ‘Should’ve got the TSG.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Never mind.’ Ryan looked at Ninja. ‘You realise I’ll have to go back with him.’
Vanner nodded and tossed away his cigarette. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
They booked him into the custody suite and the duty sergeant summoned a doctor. Ryan went home. Vanner finished up and found Weir outside in the corridor.
They looked at one another. ‘I thought you were on leave,’ Weir said.
Vanner took out a cigarette. ‘I found the Gypsy for you.’
He met Morrison at the top of the stairs. ‘Ryan tells me you picked up the Gypsy.’
Vanner nodded.
‘Apparently he needs a doctor.’
‘He didn’t come very quietly.’
Morrison shook his head. ‘You’re supposed to be on leave.’
‘I’ll take him back again shall I?’
Morrison stepped back, eyes cold in his face. ‘Did you get the sword?’
