The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘Of course we got the sword.’

  The call into the Communications Room at Scotland Yard. Male voice, low in the sergeant’s ear. ‘I’m phoning from the Kirstall Estate in Kentish Town. There’s some trouble in Leith Place. I think someone’s breaking into a building.’

  ‘Right,’ Sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘If I can just have your name.’

  The phone clicked dead in his ear.

  Two uniformed officers from Kentish Town drove along Leith Road by the estate. They turned right into Leith Place.

  ‘Which unit?’ the passenger asked.

  ‘Didn’t say. We better check them all.’

  ‘Looks quiet enough.’

  They drove to the dead end, swung the car round and parked. Then one by one they checked the entrances to the units. At the green door they stopped. The passenger looked forward. ‘That padlock’s loose,’ he said. Standing back a few paces, they shone their torches the height of the building. Nothing. No movement or light or sound.

  The stairs opened onto a huge loftlike space, with a door in the far wall. They bathed the floor with torchlight and then the driver found the light switch. A desk stood in one corner with a computer screen on top of it. The driver moved closer. He saw a pile of padded envelopes and alongside them an empty bottle of spring water. He bent and opened the top drawer. A pile of papers and two unopened watches. They looked at one another.

  They moved more cautiously now, across the floor to the door in the end wall. One of them stood back. The other one twisted the handle. Inside, the atmosphere was thick, choked almost, like a weight in the air. They found a long, flat table. Half a dozen photographic development trays were stacked on top of each other. A metal rule alongside. At the far end was an old-fashioned washing mangle. They glanced at one another, then moved to the trays. A torn sheet of blue absorbent paper lay in the top one. Denny’s face stared up at them.

  The following evening Vanner sat in the pub across the road from his house. He had the Gypsy but still had no answers.

  ‘On your own then?’ McCague leaned on the bar beside him. ‘Guinness,’ he said to the barmaid, and eased himself onto the stool next to Vanner. The legs creaked under his weight.

  ‘You got the Gypsy,’ he said. ‘His nose is broken. Glasgow kiss was it?’

  ‘He came at me with a sword.’

  ‘Reckon it was him who whacked you?’

  ‘Him and the other one, yes.’

  ‘The Wasp.’ McCague shook his head. ‘Ninja and The Wasp. Right pair of amateurs.’

  ‘They managed to kill two people.’

  ‘Got caught though didn’t they.’

  ‘Only after they did it.’

  McCague watched the Guinness settle. ‘The blade matches the splinters in John Phillips’ rib cage.’

  ‘Finished then.’

  ‘We’re waiting for DNA.’

  ‘The shit he took on the floor.’

  ‘We’ll match it with blood from his nose.’

  Vanner glanced at him then. ‘And Terry?’

  ‘Denying everything. Won’t say a word about Gallyon.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Are you?’

  ‘We’ve got him for it anyway.’

  ‘For the drugs. Yes.’

  ‘And the rest.’

  Vanner frowned at him. ‘That’s all circumstantial.’

  ‘He doesn’t know it yet, but we got his phone records this afternoon. The night Milo was killed, The Wasp’s mobile was phoned from Terry’s flat. Two days before Phillips was stabbed it was phoned again. Silly mistake to make. He should’ve used a call box.’

  Vanner sat back and lit a cigarette. ‘Result then.’

  ‘Sorted. Going to look very good. Major source off the street.’

  Vanner smiled then, only not with his eyes. ‘Morrison’ll be laughing. Back in line for promotion.’

  McCague frowned at him. ‘He’s a good copper, Vanner. He always was. Okay, he made a mistake. But we’re all entitled to one.’

  McCague bought whisky and they moved to a booth. Vanner tapped the table methodically with the edge of a beer mat.

  ‘You came back too soon, Vanner. This all got too personal.’

  ‘It is personal.’

  ‘So you keep saying. But you don’t know it was them.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘How? You never saw them.’

  ‘I saw Ninja’s eyes.’

  McCague cocked his head at him. ‘It was dark, Vanner. You said yourself they wore hoods. And when I left you—you were barely able to stand.’

  ‘It was them.’

  ‘Not Christian Tate? At one time you thought it was him.’

  ‘Hard man shooting his mouth off. It happens. Remember Jo Hawkins?’

  ‘How could I forget.’

  ‘Lots of so called hard men like to crack on about hitting a copper. I killed Tate’s brother. Tate is away and when he gets out I get hit. Can’t lose can he.’

  McCague looked long and hard at him. ‘You know you ought to take that holiday.’

  Weir stared into Terry’s face. ‘We have your phone records. Twice you made calls to The Wasp.’

  ‘I’ve told you.’ Terry kneaded his eyes. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Come on.’ Weir arched his eyebrows. ‘The Wasp. Black. Dreadlocks. Hangs out with a white boy called Ninja. He’s got dreadlocks too. Come on, Michael. You know them.’

  ‘I don’t know them.’

  ‘They live on the Kirstall Estate. We have them both in custody. The Wasp we can place at both scenes. The other one, the Gypsy …’

  ‘I don’t know who you mean.’

  ‘The Gypsy,’ Weir went on, ‘he left us his calling card. Know what I mean? Took a crap in the middle of the floor.’

  Terry stared at him.

  ‘You didn’t know he did that?’ Weir sat back. ‘Happens all the time. Takes a lot of adrenalin to kill someone.’

  He took a stick of gum from his pocket, unwrapped it and put it in his mouth. ‘You’re in a lot of trouble, Michael. You’re looking at twenty years.’

  Terry stared at the ceiling.

  ‘You can help yourself.’ Weir moved very close to him. ‘Give us Bobby Gallyon?’

  Terry rested his forearms on the table and looked at Weir out of red and broken eyes. ‘I can’t give you Gallyon.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Terry took a breath, glanced at his solicitor and shook his head. ‘Okay. Okay. Lisa Morgan. I gave her Ecstasy. I bought it from an Irishman in Covent Garden. I liked the woman on E’s. It was fun. All right, I admit it. But that’s all it was.’

  Weir looked at the table top.

  ‘One of your men must’ve picked her up,’ Terry went on. ‘And I guess she informed on me. They ended up in the club.’

  ‘She had her face cut open.’

  ‘I didn’t do it.’ Terry stared wide-eyed at him. ‘You think I’d do something like that?’

  ‘You told Gallyon though.’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d cut her.’

  ‘What did you think he’d do—pat her on the head?’

  Terry sat back again and raked his hair with stiff fingers. ‘Look. I’m telling you the truth. You’ve got the wrong man. I didn’t do any of this. Somebody’s set me up.’ Weir raised one eyebrow. ‘Like who exactly?’

  Terry opened his hands.

  ‘Gallyon laundered your cash. Why go down alone? Give me Gallyon and I can help you.’

  Terry shook his head, face like parchment, lined and grey and suddenly very old.

  ‘Come on, Michael. We’ve got a bogus company registered at a mailing address where drug money was delivered. We’ve got phone records which prove you called the killers prior to both murders. We’ve got a warehouse used as an acid factory. We found a bottle of water with your fingerprints all over it.’

  Terry stared at him then and gooseflesh broke out on his arms.

  ‘Give me Bobby Gallyon.’

  ‘I can’t.
’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I can’t.’

  ‘Won’t, you mean.’

  ‘Look. All I did with Gallyon was sell dump trucks.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘Because he had the right contacts.’ Terry looked at him then. ‘You say you have a bottle of water?’

  Weir nodded.

  ‘What kind of water?’

  ‘I don’t know. Spring water. What does it matter what kind? It’s got your prints all over it.’

  Terry reached for the plastic coffee cup. It was empty. ‘I sold plant through Gallyon,’ he said. ‘We shipped it to South America. Diggers. Dump trucks. Big stuff. Two, three hundred K’s worth a time.’

  ‘Why South America?’

  ‘Gallyon’s got contacts there.’

  ‘What kind of contacts?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I know is that you sell from South America.’

  ‘Sell where?’

  Terry tightened his lip.

  ‘Sell where?’

  ‘Iraq.’

  Ryan drank with Vanner. ‘Result, Guv, whichever way you look at it.’

  ‘Charged is he?’

  Ryan nodded. ‘You know there was a computer in that warehouse with a list of all the dealers on it. Had a password but the eggheads cracked it.’ He grinned then. ‘We’ve even got him for selling trucks to Iraq.’

  ‘Iraq?’

  Ryan nodded. ‘You can’t sell to Iraq, Guv. DTI get shitty about it. Trucks could be used for shifting weapons. Anyway, that’s what Terry reckons him and Gallyon were doing. We can’t get Gallyon on the cash. But Regi are picking him up regardless. He’ll only get a slap, but it’s better than nothing. Their plot’s knackered anyway.’ He finished the last of his drink. ‘Told you didn’t I. The ones who do their own stuff—always the easiest to nick.’

  Vanner looked at the table. ‘Why the street kids though?’

  ‘He’s nicked, Guv’nor. Let it go.’ Ryan shook his head. ‘Why anything? Why Sven-Lido? Why kill Milo? Why do any of them do anything? Because they can. At least we’ve got the bastard.’

  Vanner went home to his empty house and closed the door behind him. A brown envelope lay on the mat. He picked it up and carried it downstairs. When he opened it an old catalogue fell out. It was from System X. He sat at the worktop and flicked through it.

  He came to the picture and stared. Sol-Deni V. Strategist. General. Commanding an army of wasted lives from the street. Corruption to fight a corrupt empire. He shook his head and smiled. Sol-Deni V. Not just a face now, but the rest; the cloak and the hood in three prongs, pointed and stiffened and sharp. And then he remembered where he had seen it before. Slowly a chill crept over him. He looked back at the text. An army of wasted youth. Sol-Deni V. Roman numeral. Five. The Fifth.

  He took a pen from his jacket. SOL DENI V. He began to move the letters. Hairs rose on the back of his neck. He stared at what he had written.

  SOL DENI V—DEVIL SON

  Twenty-One

  VANNER DROVE TO LOUGHBOROUGH Street, the lights of a city in his eyes. He met Sergeant Jackson in the charge room.

  ‘Guv’nor. Long time no see.’

  ‘Hello, Jack. How goes it?’

  ‘Quiet night. So far.’

  Vanner nodded, glanced at the cells and remembered. A year ago, longer now. A lifetime seemed to have passed. He looked back at Jackson. ‘You remember Gareth Daniels?’

  Jackson made a face. ‘How could I forget? Never lost a prisoner. Thought I might that night.’ He grinned then. ‘He’s away now anyway. Took it on the chin in the end. All lost and young and very apologetic.’

  Vanner looked beyond him. ‘Certainly worked with the judge.’

  Jackson squinted at him then. ‘You’re not here about him are you?’

  ‘As it happens, I am.’ Vanner leaned on the desk. ‘His property records. You still have them?’

  ‘It’s all on the system.’

  ‘Figured that one out have you?’

  ‘Did the course, Guv’nor.’ Jackson got up from his seat and led the way into his office. He sat down in front of the computer. ‘What did you want to know?’

  ‘I want a list of exactly what he had in his pockets.’

  Michael Terry lay in darkness. Above him he could see the roof of the cell. A drunk muttered softly to himself through the wall by his head. Every now and then he would cry out. Terry was still shellshocked. None of anything registered, except a bottle of water.

  Vanner drove to the Technical College in Kentish Town. Parking his car, he made his way into the building and climbed the stairs to the Electronics Department. Mid-morning: a number of classes were changing and teenagers with book-laden arms filed past him. On the third landing he looked out over the concourse area and saw a familiar figure, locking his bicycle at the gate. Mark Terry shouldered his bag and made his way to the building. Vanner watched him, all the way to the door.

  He found John Phillips putting his books away. The lab about him was empty. He looked old and drained and empty.

  ‘John.’

  Phillips looked up, his eyes tightened and then he looked down again.

  ‘I called at your house,’ Vanner said. ‘Your wife said you were here. I didn’t expect you to be back …’

  Phillips rested a hand on the table. ‘Work, Sir. Life goes on doesn’t it.’

  ‘How’s the rest of the family?’

  Phillips inclined his head, drawing breath into his chest. ‘They’re okay.’ He snapped the fastener on his briefcase.

  ‘We’ve got the ones who did it.’

  ‘I heard.’ Phillips looked to the window. ‘Mark Terry’s father.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d like to have a word with him.’

  Vanner sat on the edge of a bench. Shouting echoed on the landing. Vaguely, Phillips glanced at the door.

  Vanner said: ‘When John was at school he and Mark were friends right?’

  ‘I already told you that.’

  ‘Was there anyone else?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean—who else was he mates with? Was there anyone specifically?’

  Phillips looked at the desktop. ‘John had a lot of friends.’

  ‘I mean somebody in particular. Maybe someone who was mates with Mark as well.’ Phillips looked back at him. ‘Nobody I can think of.’ Vanner scraped fingers over the wood of the bench. ‘How is he—Mark, I mean?’

  Phillips shrugged. ‘Seems to be handling it. Just getting on with his work. Bright kid that. Go a long way he will.’

  Vanner stood up and offered Phillips his hand. ‘Take care of yourself, John. I’m sorry it ended this way.’

  Lisa wore jeans and a T-shirt, hair pulled back from her head. She held a coffee cup and looked at him from the doorway of her kitchen.

  ‘Just can’t keep away. Can you, Vanner?’

  ‘I haven’t come for that.’

  ‘No? What then?’

  He stood there, suddenly impotent. In a way he ought to thank her. She had been instrumental in him facing down a past that had plagued his emotions for almost a third of his life. She sipped at the coffee, blue eyes on his.

  ‘They’ve arrested Michael Terry,’ he said.

  ‘They?’

  ‘I got taken off the case.’

  ‘Indiscreet were you?’

  ‘After a fashion.’ They looked at one another. ‘Terry’s going away.’

  ‘You want me to be grateful?’

  He shook his head. ‘I just wanted you to know.’ He paused then. ‘Gallyon’s been nicked as well.’

  She looked up sharply.

  ‘Not for anything major I’m afraid. Or at least not major enough. Apparently, he and Terry were selling dump trucks to Iraq, routing them through South America.’

  She looked blankly at him.

  ‘It’s illegal.’

  ‘What will he get?’

  ‘A fine, knowing his brief.’

  She sat d
own on the settee. ‘So Mike Terry was a drug dealer.’

  ‘He’ll lose everything,’ Vanner said, as if in consolation. ‘His flat, his yard, the lot. None of it has any real borrowing against it. He says he got his money because Iraqi plant is a cash business, but there’s a pile of evidence against him. He can’t prove he didn’t get his assets from drugs,’ he opened his hands, ‘so he loses them.’

  ‘And you win, Vanner.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Course you do.’

  ‘No longer my case, Lisa.’ He took a breath and exhaled heavily. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I mean about everything. If I’d stayed away you’d never …’

  She quashed him with an upraised palm. ‘I told you before: don’t say you’re sorry when you’re not.’

  He looked at the floor and then he turned to go. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

  She touched her cheek. ‘So, this wasn’t for nothing then?’

  He half-lifted his shoulders.

  ‘Pretty poor consolation. Considering I didn’t want to be involved in the first place.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’ll survive. Don’t pretend you care.’

  For a long moment they looked at one another. ‘Goodbye then, Lisa.’

  ‘Bye, Vanner.’

  He opened the door and left.

  He stood at the barred window of the visitors’ room at Wandsworth and tapped his upturned packet of cigarettes on the sill. Pigeons gathered in a cluster on the roof opposite. His back itched. This morning in the shower, the scar tissue raised against the heat of the water. Gareth Daniels, schoolmates with Mark Terry. John Phillips’ words from the clinics. It fitted. Like the pieces of a puzzle in his mind. Sven-Lido was not a piss-take. Neither was Calgary Holdings. They were part of a little trail, sort of insurance policy. Ryan’s words: The easiest dealers to nick are those who do their own stuff. Mark Terry did not do his own stuff, but his father gave it to prostitutes. The irony hit him then. Terry had bought Denny E’s from Maguire. That was his statement to Weir. He knew now it was true.

  Behind him the door was unlocked and Daniels walked in, followed by a prison warder. Vanner looked at him, slightly built, blond hair, one time shaved to his ears, but longer now and dripping before his eyes. The warder marched him to the table and he sat down. Vanner moved across to them. ‘I want to talk to him on my own.’