by Jeff Gulvin
He watched them, seated on a bench. Father gone. Alone now. He thought momentarily of Ellie, back at the house with Anne and he realised how little he knew her.
They buried his father on Maunday Thursday. The cathedral was full. The school choir sang. Anne cried. Ellie cried. Vanner helped lower the coffin into the ground and long after everyone else had left he stood alongside with the wind twisting the roots of his hair. Eventually the presence of the gravediggers broke in on lost thought and he turned and walked away.
When he got back to the house all the guests had gone. Anne and Ellie sat in the twin rocking chairs by the kitchen fireplace. Easter weekend stretched before them. Vanner put his head around the door and caught Ellie’s eye. ‘Going to make a phonecall,’ he said.
In the hall he dialled Jimmy Crack’s mobile. ‘What’s happening?’
Jimmy seemed surprised to hear from him. ‘You okay, Guv?’
‘Yes.’
‘Funeral was today, wasn’t it?’
‘Just got back. What’s happening?’
‘Eilish has met with Stepper-Nap.’
‘You spoke to her?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And?’
‘He knows she was lifted.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not a lot. He didn’t tell her the crack was candlewax.’
Vanner thought for a moment. ‘We’ll need to keep an eye on her.’
‘Thought occurs to me, Guv,’ Jimmy said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Old Stepper might think we switched the wax for crack. Her prints were on the sandwich box weren’t they? It’d be all we’d need.’
Vanner bunched his eyes. ‘Either that or Irish coppers are stupid. He’s got something to think about, Jim.’
‘He should be busy anyway,’ Jimmy said. ‘Rafter’s baby mother’s coming in with gear. We’ve got the plot set up.’
Vanner was quiet for a moment. ‘I’m going away for the weekend, Jim. Few days to myself. You’ve got my number if you need me.’
‘I’ll try and leave you alone.’
‘Thanks,’ Vanner said and hung up.
Ellie touched his hand as he sat down beside her. Anne was making tea. She looked pale but collected. Vanner watched her move about the open kitchen and for the first time in a long while he was reminded of his ex-wife.
‘You okay?’ Ellie asked him.
He nodded, looked at the snakes’ tongues of the fire and saw his father’s face in them. ‘You want to come away with me, Elle?’
‘When?’
‘This weekend.’
Ellie looked at Anne.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘I’ve got friends coming over. Do you two good to spend some time together.’
Ellie looked at Vanner. ‘Where?’
‘Yorkshire.’
‘Why Yorkshire?’
Vanner sat back, resting his hands on his thighs. ‘There’s someone I need to see up there.’
‘Who?’
He glanced at her. ‘Just an old friend. Besides, I’m in no mood to go back to London.’
‘You want me with you?’
He looked at her again. ‘Do you want to come?’
Tension between them, he knew she felt it but could do nothing about it.
‘Maybe you need to be alone,’ she said.
Anne looked at him then. ‘Do you think you should be alone, Aden?’ she said. The concern stood out in her eyes. Vanner smiled, then clasped Ellie’s tiny hand in his. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
They booked into the Nags Head Hotel in Pickhill, busy, an early season cricket team in the bar. The landlord apologised for the noise and Vanner told him not to worry about it. He and Ellie had a room in an annexe away from the hubbub of the main building. The room was small but neat with an en suite bathroom. Vanner lay on the double bed and watched the TV, mounted on the wall while Ellie took a bath. Ben Hur, Charlton Heston in a chariot race and lepers and the death of Christ and water. Vanner watched listlessly, trying not to think about his father. Ellie came through wrapped in a towel. He turned the sound down on the TV while she dried her hair.
They ate in the bar that night, Vanner glad of the noise and the distraction of men drinking loudly. It reminded him of the past; fondly, with his father. Later, after they had made love he lay in the darkness with her alongside him, warm yet distant against his flesh.
On Saturday morning Ellie took the car and went shopping in Bedale, just a little further up the Al. Vanner had coffee in the bar and smoked a cigarette and then he walked the short distance to the green and Tim Phelan’s bungalow that overlooked it. He paused on the road outside and looked up. A large, particularly low window dominated the front of the house. From where he stood Vanner could see the flickering images of a TV set. He went up the drive and rang the doorbell.
Half a man in a chair answered it, thin black hair and overlong moustache, perhaps grown to take your eyes from the bits of him that were missing. Legs gone at the knees, stumps barely extending over the edge of the chair, one arm gone and half the shoulder. Vanner looked down at Phelan. Phelan did not say anything. It was twelve years since they had seen one another. He drew up his eyes at the corners as if memory eluded him and then his face softened and recognition slowly settled.
‘Vanner.’
‘Hello, Tim. I’ve come to buy you a drink.’
Vanner walked alongside the electric whirr of the chair as Phelan guided it across the road to the door of the pub. There was a step that Vanner helped him over and they went into the public bar with the flagstone floor. A fire burned in the grate and one or two of the cricketers looked as though they were embarking on a pre-match session. Phelan settled his chair to the right of the fire and Vanner went to the bar for drinks. One man, tall, a pint of bitter in his hand stood in his whites with no shoes on. Vanner looked him up and down.
‘Bit early for cricket isn’t it?’
The man grinned. ‘Annual event,’ he said. ‘Touring side. We always come here for a match before the season starts.’
‘Where you from?’
‘Nottingham. Playing the pub team.’
Vanner nodded and glanced at the green and yellow hooped cap on the bar at the drinker’s elbow. The insignia looked like a bird with a club and a ball. Vanner lifted an eyebrow.
‘Cuckoos,’ the man explained. ‘What we’re called.’
‘No nests.’
‘What?’
‘Cuckoos,’ Vanner said. ‘Use other birds’ nests.’
‘Exactly’ The man made an open-handed gesture. ‘We’ve got no home ground.’
Vanner bought the drinks and took them over to the table.
‘Cricket match,’ Phelan said.
‘First of the season. Be bloody cold this afternoon.’
‘Where they playing?’
‘Masham.’
‘How far is that?’
‘Couple of miles.’
‘I’ll take you if you want.’
Phelan’s eyes lit up. ‘You got a car?’
Vanner grinned. ‘How else d’you think I got here?’ He sipped his beer. ‘Girl I’m with is shopping in Bedale. She’ll be back later. I’ll take you over to watch.’
Phelan raised his glass to Vanner and drank. He set it down again and wiped froth from his moustache. Vanner looked at him. ‘You don’t get out much then?’
‘No.’ Phelan looked down at himself. ‘Seem to spend all my time in front of the box.’
‘What about your mates?’
‘All across the water. DPOA are good, mind. They keep in touch.’
Vanner nodded. ‘Billy Callaghan told me you had a visitor.’
‘Visitor?’
‘In the park.’
‘Oh her.’ Phelan drank again, a longer draught this time and looked at the beer in the glass. ‘Felt a bit of a prat about that. Three times mind, the same woman. I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘Two fellas came up from London.’<
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‘SO13?’
Phelan nodded. ‘Good lads. Soon as I got in touch with the DPOA the call went out.’
‘Look after our own, Tim. Always did.’
‘Aye.’
Vanner offered him a cigarette and lit it for him. ‘Tell me about the woman.’
Phelan twisted his lip. ‘What’s to say. Youngish. Thirty maybe. Black hair. The thing that bothered me was—she sat in the park opposite my place on three separate occasions. She had a good look at me, I know, and there were no kids with her.’
‘Tell you what,’ Vanner said quietly. ‘I’d’ve called someone too.’
‘Yeah?’ Phelan looked hopefully at him, eyes broken up at the edges. ‘You don’t think I’m a fool then. Not just the cracks beginning to show?’
Vanner looked closely at him then. ‘Tim,’ he said, ‘if anyone had good reason for the cracks to show it’d be you.’
‘Aye, maybe right enough.’
Vanner shook his head. ‘Only they aren’t.’ He leaned on the table. ‘Quigley got shot in Morne.’
‘I know. Just before the ceasefire.’
Vanner licked his lower lip. ‘What about the others?’
‘Priestley’s dead. Heart attack. Just after he retired last year.’
‘Kinane?’
‘Don’t know. I think he’s over here somewhere.’ Phelan cocked his head to one side.
‘You think something’s going on, Aden?’
Vanner sat back and pressed his shoulders into his neck. ‘Don’t know, Tim. But Quigley was killed with a Tokarev. That’s PIRA PPW. Right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The same gun was used to kill a woman in London on February 12th this year.’
Phelan stared at him. ‘Who was she?’
‘Name was Jessica Turner. There’s an ongoing murder investigation with SO13 involved. But the victim had nothing to do with Ulster.’
‘PIRA wouldn’t use the same gun with the same shootist, Aden. You know that.’
‘I know. They also don’t have girls doing the close-up stuff. But the killer in London is female. They found size-seven shoe prints from an ESLA lift, a false fingernail and long black hair.’
Phelan was very still after that. ‘Nobody got lifted for killing Quigley,’ he said.
‘I know’
Phelan tasted the beer on his lips and looked at Vanner’s cigarettes. Vanner passed him another one.
‘Could be nothing,’ he said.
‘Probably is.’ Vanner sat back again and looked at the cricketers as they filed out to their cars. ‘Nobody’s had a go at me.’
Phelan squinted at him then. ‘You’d be hard to find.’
‘And it’s been twelve years.’
‘But you thought you’d check.’
Vanner nodded. ‘Would anyone back home have an address for Kinane?’
‘I imagine so. I’ll make some calls when we get back.’
Vanner drove back to London with Ellie on the Sunday night. In his pocket he had Raymond Kinane’s address and telephone number. He intended to call him when they got home. Ellie watched the taut lines in his face. ‘You okay, Aden?’
He nodded.
‘Why did you want to see that man?’
Vanner looked sideways at her. ‘No reason.’
She stared at him then. ‘Don’t be stupid. We went all the way to Yorkshire to see him.’
‘No we didn’t. We went to Yorkshire to spend a few days together. Tim was only part of it.’
‘You wanted to see him, Aden. I don’t understand why you won’t tell me why’
He drove on, traffic becoming more bunched as they got closer and closer to London. ‘It was just something that came up when I was over the water. You don’t need to worry about it.’
She folded her arms. ‘Don’t need to worry about it. Jesus, you never talk to me. Your father died for Christ’s sake and you’ve not said a word about it. Am I part of your life or not?’
The words stung him, tinged with the memory of other voices. He ground his teeth together. ‘Not now, Elle. Please.’ She shook her head very savagely and stared out of the window.
Vanner phoned Sid Ryan when he got back. ‘Me, Sid,’ he said when Ryan answered.
‘Hello, Guv. Sorry about your old man.’
‘Yeah, thanks. Listen, Slips. What’s happening with your Ealing inquiry?’
‘Same as before. Nothing.’
‘What about your man with the dummy and the body in the back of the car?’
‘Same story.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No.’
‘SO13?’
‘They don’t tell us anything, Guv’nor. You know that.’
‘But they think your body was a mistake. Right?’
‘Yeah. Why the interest?’
‘Not sure, Slips. Just something I picked up when Jimmy Crack and me were over the water. I’ll let you know if it comes to anything.’
‘Whatever.’ He heard Ryan move the phone from one hand to the other. ‘What happened with the donkey?’
‘She thinks she’s looking at a ten stretch for intent. Kilo and a half of crack.’
‘And is she?’
‘Hardly. Crack was melted-down candlewax.’
Ellie went back to work the following morning. Vanner’s silence, although something she had seen before, disturbed her. The death of his father; no words, no tears, just that little bit more silent than before. It plagued her all morning, how little she knew this man and—how quickly it seemed now—she had abandoned her home for his.
She went about her duties in a daze and at twelve o’clock she went down to the canteen for her lunch. Anne, the cleaner, was sitting at a table on her own, apron on, drinking a cup of coffee and looking out of the window. Ellie watched her from the queue at the counter, black hair, hanging over her face, a sort of lost air about her. She was not really in the mood for her company after the events of the previous week, but Anne always sat at a table on her own and if she did not speak to her then who would. She took her tray and sat down opposite. Anne smiled at her, replaced her cup on the saucer, lipstick marking the rim.
‘How are you?’ she said. ‘You look tired.’
‘I shouldn’t be. I went away for the weekend.’
‘With your boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Yorkshire.’
Anne nodded. ‘I always liked Yorkshire.’
‘Bedale’s nice. I went shopping in Bedale.’
‘Where did you stay?’
‘Place called Pickhill.’
‘Don’t know it.’
‘Aden wanted to see somebody there.’
‘Aden?’
‘Aden Vanner. My boyfriend.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry’
Ellie started her lunch and then pushed the plate away. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she said.
Anne looked at the food. ‘You should eat you know.’
‘I know. Just can’t face it.’
Anne touched her hand then. ‘What’s the matter?’
Ellie looked at her. Her lover, boyfriend, whatever, shot dead by policemen. She thought of Tim Phelan then and the reality of what had happened to so many people over so long came home to her.
Her pager sounded and she unclipped it from her belt. Lifting it to the table top she looked at the face. CALL ME. 0973 883721.
‘What is it?’ Anne asked.
Ellie showed her the message. ‘Aden,’ she said. Anne looked at the face of the pager.
‘Mobile?’
Ellie nodded.
‘Everyone carries one these days.’
‘Yeah. Except me, Anne.’ Ellie stood up. ‘I need to find a phone.’
In the corridor she phoned Vanner’s mobile. ‘It’s me, Aden.’
‘You at lunch?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right. What did you want?�
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‘I’m going to be very late tonight. I’ve got to go down to Bournemouth to see someone.’
‘Shall I cook?’
‘No, don’t worry about it. I’ll pick up a carryout somewhere.’
‘Okay.’
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I’m distant. It’s just my way … my way of dealing with things.’
‘It’s okay, love. I understand.’ Ellie held the phone very close to her ear. ‘See you when you get in.’
Back at the table Anne was preparing to leave. ‘Everything all right?’ she said.
‘Yeah. Just going to be very late that’s all. Got to go to Bournemouth or somewhere.’
Anne looked at her and smiled. ‘Lucky he bothers to tell you. Wouldn’t occur to most men.’
Vanner sat in his office in Campbell Row and telephoned Ray Kinane’s home number. He looked at the clock on the wall. Four thirty. No point in going all the way down there if he was not in. He waited as the phone drilled in his ear. Four rings, five, six. Then a woman’s voice answered.
‘Mrs Kinane?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aden Vanner. Friend of your husband. Is he in?’
‘Not right now.’
‘Will he be back later?’
‘Should be. He’s normally home by six thirty.’
‘I haven’t seen him for a while, Mrs Kinane. We were colleagues in Belfast years ago. Can you tell him I phoned? I’m in your area tonight. I’d like to see him, a drink or something maybe.’
‘I don’t think he’s going out, Mr Vanner. I’ll tell him. Can he call you back?’
‘I’ll be on a mobile. Tell you what — I’ll call him.’ Vanner put down the phone and went out to his car.
He drove south west along the M3, traffic very thick at the junction with the M25. He listened to PM on the radio. Habit of his father, the five o’clock news every afternoon on Radio Four, whether he was driving or not. Politicians, newscasters, letter writers, their words drifted through his head until they became just a babble and he switched the radio off and drove on in silence. The past grew up in his mind amid the red and white of car lights. Quigley, Phelan, Priestly, that left Kinane and himself. Probably nothing, he told himself. Probably just coincidence.
Kinane lived at Three Legged Cross, more Verwood than Bournemouth, on the edge of the New Forest. Vanner left the M27 and headed west on the A35 before calling again from his mobile. Kinane answered almost immediately.
