The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  Ryan nodded. ‘The path runs round to the front.’ He flicked ash from his cigarette.

  ‘We’ve checked with the houses behind. Somebody reckons they heard a car start up and pull away.’

  ‘Quickly?’

  ‘Not especially’

  They followed the path around the church then, Webb walking slowly, checking the ground, checking the wall of the church. At the front he moved onto the pavement and walked up and down the road, looking in the gutter.

  ‘Been a hundred cars parked there since, Webby.’

  Webb looked back at the church.

  ‘We talked to the vicar,’ Ryan told him. ‘See if he heard or saw anything.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘He was away that night. But about a week before he remembered seeing a woman on her own in one of the pews. Church door is always open.’

  ‘Did he talk to her?’

  ‘Just to say hello. Thought she needed her privacy.’

  Webb nodded slowly. ‘Description?’

  ‘He couldn’t really remember. Scarf over her head.’

  Webb glanced at the church once more. ‘Take a look shall we?’

  They went inside. A single aisle with rows of pews either side. At the far end the pulpit lifted with a gilded lectern set over it. The altar was covered in white cloth with gold stemmed candles set at either end. A stained-glass window depicting an image of St Andrew shouldering a ship was fixed in the far end wall. They walked the length of the aisle and the vicar came out of the vestibule. He recognised Ryan and smiled.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said.

  Ryan introduced Webb as a colleague.

  ‘Have you had any joy?’ The vicar’s face was lined, mouth set in an arc, grey hair swept back from his forehead.

  ‘We’re making some progress.’

  ‘The woman you saw,’ Webb asked him. ‘Two weeks beforehand?’

  ‘About that yes.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘Just a few words. She looked as though she wanted to be on her own.’

  ‘Had you seen her before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And since?’

  The vicar shook his head.

  ‘Any accent?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  Webb nodded. He glanced to the vestibule door and then back the length of the church. At the far end two bell ropes dangled over the font. ‘Did you see a car?’

  ‘Not one that I noticed specifically’

  ‘Certain people in the street said they saw a red Toyota on the Friday before Mrs Turner was killed,’ Ryan said.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember. I wasn’t around much that day.’

  Webb looked again at the ropes and nodded to the metallic spiral staircase that lifted alongside them.

  ‘The belfry?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘There’s a window up there isn’t there. I noticed from outside.’

  ‘A very small one yes. Very grimy I’m afraid. We don’t get much call to go up there.’

  ‘I’d like to take a look.’

  The vicar smiled and waved his hand. ‘Be my guest, Sergeant. There’s a trap door. Be careful though, the boards are a bit creaky.’ He cast a short glance over Webb’s stocky frame. ‘There’s not much room up there.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  Ryan and Pamela waited at the bottom of the steps while Webb climbed on his own. They were very narrow and curled tightly arc after arc until his head was below the dusty wooden trap door. Holding the rail with his left hand he pushed on the trap door and was surprised at how easily it lifted. A woman could have done it.

  The door leant against its own hinge in the vertical and Webb pressed his frame through the hole. The boards were indeed creaky and he could see the floor through the gaps in them. He climbed up and knelt in the dust, shining his pencil-light torch into the gloom. Getting his bearings he saw the twin bells. He clambered on until he was upright.

  Below him the vicar stood with Ryan and Pamela. ‘I need to know the last time anybody was up here,’ Webb called down to them.

  ‘Goodness. Weeks ago.’

  ‘How many weeks?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Before the weekend of the murder or after?’

  ‘Oh, before I would say. Yes, definitely before.’

  Webb looked into the floor space, no more than six feet at the most. Footprints in the dust, messy, as if somebody had moved around to get comfortable. There was one that was reasonably clear. He estimated the shoe size in his head. From the angle he was standing he could tell that the window looked out over the Turner house. He had his observation point.

  On the ground once more he looked at the vicar. ‘Under no circumstances can anyone go up there,’ he said. He looked at Ryan. ‘You got any tape in the car?’

  Ryan shook his head.

  ‘I can make up a sign if you like,’ the vicar offered. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Somebody’s been up there,’ Webb told him. ‘I can’t tell how recently yet. But I’ll get my gear.’ He grinned at the vicar. ‘Do that sign for me eh?’

  Outside, Ryan lit a cigarette and breathed out heavily. Webb grinned at him. ‘I’ll get to work up there,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll organise the ESLA lift. After that I want to talk to the pathologist.’

  Young Young lifted uneasy fingers to the swelling of his jaw and swore very softly. He stood in the bathroom at Carmel’s flat and looked at his bruised and battered face. ‘So damn pretty,’ he muttered. Pain shot through his gums as he peeled back swollen lips to inspect the gaps in his teeth. Little Bigger had told the truth at least, one in front was missing and two molars on the left. Bloodied holes, shattered nerves in white where the teeth had broken off. His shoulders sagged as he closed his mouth again and stared malevolently into half-closed eyes. His ribs pricked him every time he breathed and each step was agony. Turning on the tap, he splashed cold water over his face and left blood on the towel as he dried it. From the floor of the living room he collected his ruined coat and went out to his car. From across the road Jimmy Crack watched him.

  He followed at a distance as Young Young drove south on Old Oak Lane before cutting left under the railway and down past the scrubs. He parked on East Acton Lane and limped into the amusement arcade. Jimmy slowed and slipped his sunglasses over his eyes as he cruised past. Young Young stood in the doorway with the lad who gave out change from the booth.

  Vanner met Jimmy in the Irish Pub near Campbell Row. He was sitting at the bar sipping Caffreys and thinking about his father. Jimmy came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Hi, Jim. Miles away.’

  ‘You looked it, Guv. Things on your mind?’

  Vanner shifted around on his stool. ‘This and that. What’s happening?’

  ‘Young Young. Somebody gave him a battering.’

  Vanner ordered him a beer. ‘Jimmy Carter’s boys.’

  ‘I reckon, yeah.’

  ‘War with the Irish in Harlesden?’

  ‘What, Stepper-Nap?’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘Not if he can help it.’

  ‘What then?’

  Jimmy sipped lager. ‘I don’t know, Guv’nor. Young Young went after Holden Biggs on his own. Biggs was bad-mouthing him. It was personal. He just picked the wrong venue to slap him.’ He licked the froth from his moustache. ‘Maybe Stepper gave him up?’

  ‘Young Young?’

  Jimmy shrugged. ‘Maybe they came to an arrangement. Stepper’s got enough trouble with Pretty Boy, the last thing he needs is someone like Carter on his back.’

  ‘A deal then?’

  Jimmy shrugged. ‘You told me yourself—shooting up Jimmy Carter’s place is enough to get you killed. Young Young only got a kicking. Something must’ve gone down.’

  ‘Maybe we ought to watch Carter.’

  ‘We haven’t got the manpower.’

  Jimmy finished his beer and ordered two more. ‘There’s something els
e, Guv. Immigration belled me this morning—Plug and the smiling assassin are going to spin Carmel’s gaff. She’s holding for Stepper again.’

  Vanner lit a cigarette and thought about it for a moment. ‘If they’re going to spin her we might as well take the opportunity to have a word.’

  Young Young made his way through to the back room where Stepper-Nap sat with Bigger Dan. Stepper drank thick, black coffee and chewed on chocolate biscuits. ‘You ain’t so pretty no more.’

  Young Young leaned in the doorway and held his ribs. ‘It took four of them with bars, man.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Stepper sat forward in his chair and dipped another biscuit in his coffee. ‘You should’ve left Biggs alone.’

  ‘Biggs had a mouth.’

  ‘He did. But that don’t mean you close it in Jimmy Carter’s place.’

  Young Young touched his cheek. ‘I don’t give a fuck, man. Who’s Carter anyway? I’ll kill him when I’m fixed.’

  Stepper-Nap shook his head, a sneer twisted on his face. ‘You a fool, man. You real fuckin’ stupid.’

  Young Young thinned his eyes.

  Stepper glanced at Bigger Dan who filled a seat, his hands stretched over the weight of his belly. He looked back at Young Young. Young Young said: ‘When I’m fixed up I want us to go after Carter.’

  Stepper-Nap stared at him. ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard, man.’

  ‘You really that fucked up?’ Stepper tapped his skull. ‘You stay away from Jimmy Carter you hear. We stay away from him. Think yourself lucky a kicking’s all you got.’

  He shook his head. ‘You trying to fuck up everything I been working on. You got no brains, Young Young. And you don’t listen.’ He stood up then, six inches shorter, but broader, flat faced with dark snarling eyes and wide, flaring nostrils. ‘I been working this gig for years. I got me a fine operation. I got all the connections, man. I got Jamaican brothers in my pocket and I got the Irish in my pocket. We don’t need no wars, baby. Can’t you get that through your stupid fucked up head?’

  And then Young Young knew what had happened to him. Stepper-Nap had handed him to Carter. They had a deal going and he was part of it. He shallowed his eyes and clutched at his ribs through his jacket. ‘I’ll see you around, man,’ he said. Then he turned and shuffled out of the door.

  George Webb sat with Jack Swann in the Special Branch cell on the fifteenth floor of Scotland Yard. The SB sergeant scrolled through images on the computer. Nominals. Webb sat with his legs crossed under the chair. The sergeant looked at him. ‘You sure it’s a woman?’

  ‘They are. False nail. Black hair. Pink angora wool. I haven’t seen the pathologist in person yet but I’ve read the report. Could easily be a woman.’

  Swann sniffed. ‘PIRA don’t have close-quarter shootists who’re women.’

  ‘No,’ the sergeant said. ‘They don’t. And they haven’t popped anyone over here for years.’

  ‘Who’s possible?’ Webb said. ‘We need some definite maybe’s. The weapon was a Toky PPW. Been used over the water.’

  ‘Different shootist,’ Swann said.

  They looked at the screen as the DS went through the most likely female names on file.

  ‘What did the body have to do with Ulster?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Webb said. ‘As far as the AMIP team can tell anyway.’

  ‘What’re they doing?’

  ‘Trying to trace the party she was shagging the weekend it happened, but he won’t come forward.’

  ‘Obviously married then.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Swann looked out of the window. ‘PIRA haven’t claimed this, Webby?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mistake.’

  Webb nodded, then he looked at the Special Branch sergeant. ‘Who were they really after?’ he said. ‘And why use a woman?’

  The DS sat back again and let go of the mouse. He sipped from his mug of cold coffee. ‘False nails and pink wool.’

  ‘Between five-six and five-nine. Shoe size between five and eight. That’s big for a woman.’

  ‘Long black hair.’ Swann squinted at the computer screen and Webb looked up at him.

  ‘The bird in the park in Pickhill.’

  Outside he bumped into Westbrook, who was coming out of the DCI’s office. ‘What’s happening?’ Westbrook asked him.

  ‘SB’re looking at nominals, Guv’nor. They’ll get on to Box and RUC SB and maybe 90 Section.’

  ‘She had no connection with Ulster.’

  Webb made a face.

  ‘So who were they really after?’

  Ten

  ELLIE MOVED ABOUT THE WARD, administering medication to ageing, saggy men in striped pyjamas. She hummed as she worked, thought about Vanner and felt withered eyes on her flesh. She was used to it, part of the daily routine. At least it gave them something to look forward to. One old man gaped dejectedly into the plastic tablet container.

  ‘Come on Mr Wilkins. You have to take them.’

  ‘I don’t want to take them.’

  ‘Come on. They’re not that bad.’

  He thrust the little cup at her. ‘You take them then.’ He folded his arms and looked at her out of liquid blue eyes, the veins broken up in his nose. Ellie shook her head at him.

  ‘If you don’t take them I’ll grind them up and inject them.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘Needle in your bum.’

  The old man looked beyond her then and she turned and saw one of the new cleaners leaning on the shaft of her mop. Black hair and high cheekbones, a little over-done with makeup. She smiled at Ellie and then at Mr Wilkins. ‘There’s two of us now,’ she said.

  He scowled, shook his head and swallowed the pills.

  Ellie pushed the trolley back to the nurse’s station and the cleaner went back to her mop. They exchanged a wink and a smile.

  Later in the canteen Ellie sat drinking tea and staring at the wall. She was thinking about Vanner again, this past weekend. His father was weaker than before and it troubled her. She had seen the fear in Vanner’s eyes. They had only been together a few months but she could tell he was disturbed, a sensation in his face as if time was all at once running out.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  She started, then looked up at the face of the cleaner. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was miles away’

  The cleaner smiled and nodded to the empty chair on the other side of the table. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Ellie sat back in her chair and the woman sat down opposite her.

  ‘Glad to get the weight off my feet.’ She had a hint of an Irish accent.

  ‘You’re new aren’t you.’

  ‘Relief. I’ve only been here three days.’

  ‘Ah right. The contract.’ Ellie shook her head. ‘You all seem to come and go so much.’

  ‘That’s the way of it these days. They don’t pay very much.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Ellie finished her tea.

  The woman offered her hand then. ‘I’m Anne,’ she said. ‘Mary-Anne actually. But everybody calls me Anne.’

  ‘Ellie.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name. Short for Elizabeth?’

  ‘Eleanor.’

  ‘Even prettier.’

  ‘Everyone calls me Ellie.’

  Anne sipped at her coffee and Ellie noticed her hands, short-fingered with bitten-down nails. As if suddenly self-conscious Anne placed her hands in her lap.

  ‘You’re Irish,’ Ellie said quickly.

  ‘You noticed. I’ve lived so long over here I thought I’d lost my accent.’

  ‘They say you never do — lose it I mean. If you move when you’re an adult. Children, they lose theirs but not adults.’

  Anne smiled. ‘Have you got any children?’

  Ellie shook her head.

  Anne sipped again at her coffee. ‘You live in the nurses home?’

  ‘Flat in Acton.’

  ‘That�
��s a long way to travel every day.’

  ‘Not far on the tube. I was in Hammersmith before.’ Ellie finished her tea. ‘Anyway I spend most nights at my boyfriend’s.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Camden Town.’

  ‘Just down the road.’ Anne finished her coffee and smiled. ‘Oh well, I better get back to it.’

  ‘See you about then.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Ray Kinane met Paul Johnson, the marketing director of CableTech Security in the carpark. He was on his way to a customer in Camberley. Johnson had just arrived and was lifting his artwork case from the boot of his car.

  ‘Delta?’ Johnson asked him.

  Kinane nodded. ‘Site assessment. They like the price in principle. It’ll depend on the configuration.’

  ‘You think there’ll be any problems?’

  ‘Logistically,’ Kinane shook his head, ‘nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope we get it then.’

  Johnson shouldered his bag.

  ‘Those two coppers the other day,’ Kinane said. ‘Jessica Turner?’

  Johnson nodded. ‘They think she was with somebody the weekend she was murdered. Somebody who wasn’t her husband.’

  ‘You?’

  Johnson grinned. ‘They thought it might be. We spent a lot of time together.’

  ‘And was it?’ Kinane cocked his head to one side as he said it.

  Johnson smiled quietly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘They coming back?’

  ‘Unless they want to talk to just about everybody in sales, marketing and your department I don’t think so.’

  Kinane watched him walk to reception. He thought briefly of his wife and children and then he got in his car.

  At eleven o’clock that night Young Young sat in his Rover outside Eilish McCauley’s house. He was parked on the school side of the road, nursing his bruises and his hatred of Stepper-Nap. They had some kind of a deal going with Carter. And the only way Stepper could swing that kind of thing was to use Eilish so the bitch must be in on it too. He was glad now that he screwed her. He hoped Stepper-Nap knew, the fat bastard. He drummed fingers on the steering wheel for a moment then he got out of the car.

  James opened the door the length of the chain. Young Young leered at him through the gap. ‘Where’s your sister?’