The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘Two different days. Twice the first day, then the following morning.’

  ‘Last week?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Swann placed his empty mug on the table and sat back in the chair. He glanced above the fireplace where an old photo of Phelan, able bodied, in uniform, looked down on the room. ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Nothing. She just came across the park, sat on those swings there and watched.’

  Swann glanced at Webb.

  Phelan looked from one of them to the other. ‘She could’ve been anybody. Probably just my nerves. Shot to fuck like the rest of me.’

  There was silence after than then Webb said quietly: ‘You were right to make the call.’

  Phelan nodded. ‘DPOA,’ he said. ‘Lot of disabled RUC’s like me. Good of you blokes to come all the way from London.’

  ‘The job, Tim.’

  ‘Right.’ He moved the wheels of his chair with a little humming sound from the electric motor. ‘You looking at any female nominals right now?’

  Webb pulled a face. ‘We’re always looking, but nobody in particular.’

  He crouched by the table and patted Phelan on his withered knee. ‘We’ll make a few calls, Tim. Got mates up here. If she’s about — and something is going down — you’ll have nothing to worry about.’

  They left him then and went back outside. He sat in his chair with the front door open and watched them till they were both back in the car. Webb started the engine and Phelan closed the front door.

  ‘Poor bastard.’ Swann shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to live like that.’ He glanced at Webb, who chewed the end of a fingernail. ‘What d’you reckon?’

  Webb shrugged and put the car in first. ‘I don’t know mate. Maybe it’s nothing. Cracks beginning to show. Must get pretty paranoid living up here on his own in that state.’ He glanced back at the house. ‘Let’s make a few calls.’

  Ryan sat at Jessica Turner’s old desk and went through her client list. She had been a marketing consultant, out and about a lot. Clients. Maybe she was sleeping with one of them. An effeminate man hovered in the doorway and looked from Ryan to Pamela Richards who was flicking through a computer printout.

  ‘Can I get you coffee?’ the man asked them.

  Ryan grunted and looked back at the list in front of them. ‘CableTech,’ he said to Pamela.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Security firm in Bournemouth. Her biggest account.’ He looked from the listing to the open A4 diary Jessica had used. ‘She went down there a lot.’

  Pamela raised her eyebrows. ‘The other side of the New Forest. You want to pay them a visit?’

  They parked their Mondeo in the carpark of CableTech Security, a large square building built in red brick on the industrial estate on the outskirts of Bournemouth. Ryan flipped away a cigarette and looked up at the building. ‘Johnson?’ he said to her.

  Pamela checked her notes and nodded. ‘Marketing Director.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  From the upstairs window Ray Kinane watched them from his desk. The car, their clothes, the conversation he had had with Johnson earlier. He swivelled his chair around and tapped a pencil on his desk.

  Ryan and Pamela sat on a cloth-covered couch in reception while the blonde-haired girl behind the desk paged Paul Johnson for them. Ryan flicked through a copy of Country Life while they waited. Five minutes, then the glass-panelled door to the right of the desk swung open and a man in his late thirties breezed through. Brown loafers with tassles and cream-coloured chinos. His multi-coloured tie hung at the open neck of his denim shirt.

  ‘Paul Johnson,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Managing Director.’

  Ryan introduced them both and they followed him to the corridor. They made their way through an open-plan office and up a flight of metallic stairs to his office. His desk was in black wood and shaped like a boomerang. A flat computer screen at one end and an Apple Mac laptop in the middle of it. He moved behind the desk and gestured to the chairs opposite.

  ‘Jessica Turner,’ he said when they were all seated. ‘Unbelievable.’ He lifted his hands, ‘Just unbelievable.’

  Ryan sat forward. ‘You knew her well?’

  ‘Pretty well, yes. We worked together for two years.’ He leaned his elbows on the desk top. ‘We re-structured two and a half years ago. Management buyout. The consultancy was recommended. Jessica in particular. She was very good. This department exists largely because of her.’

  Pamela scribbled notes on her pad. ‘What exactly did she do for you?’ she asked him.

  ‘Do?’ He sat back. ‘Christ. What didn’t she do? She devised our whole marketing campaign when we split from our US parent.’

  ‘Security,’ Ryan said, glancing round the room. ‘What kind of security?’

  ‘CCTV. Alarm systems, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Personal?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For homes?’

  ‘No. Corporate sector. Defence we specialise in. We’re MOD-approved thanks to Jessica.’

  ‘MOD.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve tendered for air bases, that kind of thing. You know, sensitive installations. BNFL, that kind of thing.’

  ‘And Jessica helped you with that. Was she qualified?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Had she had experience of the market?’

  ‘Now you come to mention it—I don’t know. She must’ve. She was very good, Sergeant. I can tell you that much.’

  Ryan stroked his chin. ‘Did you know her personally?’

  Johnson looked at him then. ‘No,’ he said slowly.

  ‘You never met her outside work?’

  ‘Once or twice maybe. We did promotional work at hotels now and then.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  Johnson lined his eyebrows. ‘We led the things but there were others, some of my colleagues, occasionally some of hers.’

  Ryan studied him then. He wore an identity bracelet on his right wrist, no rings on his fingers. ‘You married, Mr Johnson?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  Ryan glanced at Pamela who laid her pad down on the desk. ‘The weekend Jessica was murdered,’ she said. ‘We know she spent the Friday and Saturday night with someone. She rented a cottage in the New Forest. We believe she was with a man.’

  ‘Not her husband,’ Ryan added. ‘He was in Ireland playing rugby.’

  ‘You mean she was having an affair.’ Johnson’s face was colder now.

  ‘We think so. We appealed for anybody who saw her that weekend to come forward but whoever she was with chose not to.’

  Johnson smiled then. ‘Hence the marriage question?’

  ‘Pretty good reason to keep quiet. Wife and kids in the background.’

  ‘But she was killed. Surely any reasonable man would come forward.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Ryan was watching him closely. ‘Funny old world though isn’t it. Are you married, Mr Johnson.’

  ‘No, Sergeant. I’m not.’

  ‘You’re in a relationship though.’

  Johnson sucked air through his teeth. ‘I don’t know that’s relevant. If you’re asking me whether I was having an affair with Jessica—the answer is no.’

  Ryan sat back again. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘That’s all we wanted to know.’ He looked at Pamela. ‘Thing is, Mr Johnson—we’ve been through her friends, workmates, the usual sources for these things and so far we’ve drawn a blank.’

  ‘So you figured you’d look at her clients.’

  ‘Your firm was the biggest,’ Pamela said.

  Johnson sat back and swivelled his chair from side to side. He looked from one to the other of them.

  ‘You liked her?’ Ryan asked him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Attractive?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You didn’t fancy her though?’

  Johnson coloured again. ‘I’ve told you. I wasn’t having an affair with her.’

 
Ryan looked at him. ‘Does happen though. Client relationship like that. Pretty woman. Good-looking bloke like you, working closely together.’

  ‘I’m sure it does.’ Johnson’s lips were compressed. ‘But not with me.’

  They were quiet for a few moments then Pamela said, ‘D’you mind telling us where you were the weekend of the 11th and 12th, Mr Johnson?’

  ‘I can tell you exactly where I was. I was working at home.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘I live alone, yes.’

  Ryan watched him carefully. ‘This office is pretty close to the New Forest, Mr Johnson. You can see why we’re interested.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  ‘Who else here would she speak to besides you?’ Pamela asked him.

  ‘Christ,’ Johnson said. ‘The marketing team. The sales force. The installation consultants.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Technical bods. She talked to just about everyone.’

  Ryan sat forward and made an open-handed gesture. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We’re just trying to figure out what went on. Playing away with another bloke’s wife isn’t a crime. But we need to talk to anyone who might’ve seen her that weekend.’

  ‘And because I was on my own that makes me a suspect?’

  ‘Not a suspect. No.’

  ‘But a possible? Is that what you call it?’

  Ryan sat back again.

  Johnson seemed to steel himself then and sat forward. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It’s none of your business but I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what exactly?’

  ‘Why it wasn’t me with her that weekend.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘Because I’m gay, Sergeant.’

  Back in the incident room they saw Morrison and Weir deep in conversation in the IO’s office. The door was closed. Fuller got up from his desk. ‘Any joy with the client, Slips?’ Ryan shook his head and flicked through the information sheets on his desk. ‘Only real possible was the marketing director and he turned out to be a shirt lifter.’

  Weir opened the office door and called to him. Ryan left his desk and went through. Morrison’s face was dark, brows knitted heavily together.

  ‘No joy with CableTech, Guv’nor,’ Ryan said. ‘Johnson turned out to be gay.’

  Weir ignored him and motioned to the empty chair.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Ryan said.

  Weir sat down again and clasped his hands together. ‘We’ve had a call from the Gun Room in Lambeth, Sid.’

  ‘And?’

  Weir did not reply; instead he glanced at Morrison.

  ‘Gun’s been used before,’ Morrison told him. ‘July 1994. An off-duty Special Branch Officer was killed in Northern Ireland.’

  Ryan stared at him.

  ‘They found him floating in Spelga Dam with a Tokarev slug in his rib cage.’

  Nine

  VANNER DROVE BACK FROM Norfolk very early on Monday morning. He had meant to be back on Sunday night but his father was weaker so he phoned Ellie and told her he would stay another night. He left before it was light, his father still sleeping. Anne got up to make him a sandwich which he knew he would not eat. He drank coffee then stepped outside onto a frosted gravel drive and scraped ice from the windows of his car.

  ‘Nearly April,’ he muttered. ‘You’d’ve thought it would be warmer by now.’

  ‘Cold up here, Aden. Always was.’ Anne hugged her dressing gown closely about her.

  ‘Don’t catch cold, Anne. Go inside.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Thank you for coming. I know how much it meant to him.’

  He paused then, and flicked frost from his fingernails. ‘I thought he’d be better than he was,’ he said blankly.

  ‘Don’t worry too much, dear. He’s stronger than he looks.’

  But he had looked so pale, so thin in the face, the skin all loose and sagging about his neck. The deep coal of his eyes had dulled to a liquid lead and his hair was weak and loose on his scalp. ‘Shouldn’t he be in hospital?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She half-lifted her shoulders. ‘You know what he’s like, Aden.’

  ‘But he’s had a heart attack. He should take more care.’ Vanner opened the driver’s door. ‘I’ll come again soon,’ he said.

  Driving back he was plagued with the kind of memories he had dismissed for years. Thoughts of his childhood with no mother, when there had been just him and his father and the army for company. It seemed so long ago and yet this weekend, sitting with his father, still so much unsaid between them, he was haunted by images of the past. His father tall in dust-covered khaki, moving more easily amongst his men than any man of the cloth had a right to. The way he drove the battered Willis Jeep with no windscreen. Even now, driving back down the M11 with the dawn lifting to his left he could hear the crashing of the gears and the whispered curses as dust caught his father’s face.

  That face was old now, worn out almost. They had talked but not as either of them intended. The odd word, ‘How’s that girl?’ his father had said.

  ‘The same. Still doesn’t drink or smoke.’

  ‘Or eat foreign food.’ The old face had cracked in a grin.

  ‘She doesn’t even eat vegetables. Takes vitamin pills instead.’

  His father had lifted one gnarled hand then and gripped his with it. ‘Look after her, lad. She’s a good one.’

  And that was all that had really been said between them, a father’s worry for his son. A son whom he had watched alone for too long. Too caught up in the past. And now as he drove Vanner missed Ellie. He missed her like he had not missed a woman since Jane. And that missing had been painful like a bitter taste in his mouth. This was different, a fondness he had thought himself incapable of. He could see the green of her eyes, the way she half-looked at him out of the corners when she smiled. He missed the warmth of the bed they now shared. Maybe he could talk to her.

  Ryan chewed a stick of Weir’s gum and watched the red bristles on the back of Morrison’s head. He had that gnawing feeling in his gut as they parked on Victoria Street just up from Westminster Abbey. They were on their way to the Yard. That morning Morrison had phoned the Anti-Terrorist Branch.

  ‘Just what we need,’ Ryan muttered. ‘SO13 stomping all over the plot.’

  Morrison craned his neck. ‘The gun’s been used in Ulster, Sid. We don’t have any choice.’

  ‘I know. I know. But I’ve worked with them before, Sir. Nicked this geezer trying to run dope to Belfast. They sent a body down, he went through all my files and waltzed back up here with them. I never saw them again.’

  Weir glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t worry, Sid. They’ll keep us informed on this one.’

  They passed the armed uniform standing on the corner and made their way behind the DTI building. Morrison led the way into the foyer and Ryan glanced at the eternal flame as he always did. They all had their warrant cards flipped open in the pockets of their jackets. Morrison spoke to the uniform behind the desk. Ryan took his gum from his mouth and pasted it under the counter, then the lift doors opened and George Webb came out into the foyer. He looked at Ryan and grinned.

  ‘Hello, Slips,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’

  Ryan introduced Weir and Morrison to him and they stepped inside the lift. ‘So where do you two know each other from then?’ Weir asked Ryan.

  ‘Paddington. Uniforms together years ago.’

  Weir glanced at Webb. ‘How long’ve you been with the branch?’

  ‘Seven years, Guv’nor.’

  Ryan glanced at Webb then. ‘You getting close to anyone for Canary Wharf?’

  Webb just smiled at him.

  Outside the lift, Webb swiped his card through the magnetic slip and the door opened. He led the way past the Commander’s office. The Commander glanced up at them from where he talked on the phone. Webb paused outside the Superintendent’s office and stuck his head round the door.

  ‘AMIP team, Sir,’ he said.

 
The door opened fully then and Superintendent Finch appeared, a bull of a man with all but no neck and hair grazing his skull like Morrison’s. They shook hands. ‘Andrew,’ Finch said. ‘How goes it in 2 Area?’

  ‘It was fine till this thing blew up,’ Morrison said to him. Finch glanced briefly at Weir and Ryan. ‘We’ll use the DCI’s office,’ he said.

  He led the way round the corner and they walked past the squad room. Jack Swann appeared and nodded to Webb. Beyond the Special Branch cell, Webb went into the DI’s office. The rest of them went to the next room where Finch held the door open.

  Two desks stood empty and Finch motioned for them to sit down. Ryan wandered to the window and gazed out over the city. Behind him Webb came in with Westbrook, the DCI.

  ‘Come in, John,’ Finch said to him. Westbrook grinned at Ryan. ‘Hello, Slippery. Looking for a transfer?’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘AMIP, Guv’nor. I already had one.’

  Westbrook nodded. He had been Ryan’s DI at the Drug Squad before Vanner took over.

  Finch sat forward in his seat. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What’ve you got?’

  Morrison spread fingers on his thighs. ‘The murder in Ealing on the 12th March,’ he said. ‘Close-quarter shooting. Three shots to the head. Jessica Amanda Turner. The cartridges came from a Tokarev.’

  Webb lifted one eyebrow.

  ‘Gun Room at Lambeth sent them over the water,’ Morrison went on. ‘NIFSL came back with a killing in the Mountains of Morne in July 1994. David Quigley. RUC Special Branch. Off duty.’

  Nobody spoke for a few moments. Westbrook ran a hand through his hair. ‘What’ve you got so far?’

  Morrison looked at Weir, who sat forward. ‘Not a great deal. Married. No kids. Husband was playing rugby in Ireland when it happened.’

  ‘Ireland?’ Westbrook cocked his head to one side. ‘Where in Ireland?’

  ‘Cork somewhere.’

  ‘He got any Irish connections?’

  Weir looked at Ryan.

  ‘Haven’t asked him, Guv.’

  ‘Ask him,’ Westbrook said. He looked at Webb and then Finch. ‘We haven’t had a PIRA close quarter over here for years.’ He sat back. ‘Are you looking at anyone?’