The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  Webb shook his head. ‘It’s very black now.’

  Vanner felt the hairs rise on his neck.

  ‘She’s over here, Guv. We’ve got Box taking a look at her.’

  Eilish had a drink with Mary-Anne in the Drop Inn bar attached to the National. She sucked hard on her cigarette. ‘The big black bastard. Thinks he’s something special. There’s some over there who’d eat him for breakfast and not spit out the bones.’

  Mary-Anne looked at her. ‘You want to watch him, Eilish.’

  Eilish sat back again. ‘I know. I’m thinking of moving on, Mary-Anne.’

  ‘Yeah — where?’

  ‘Home maybe. Either that or the south.’

  ‘Home’s not what it was.’

  ‘How would you know? You only saw it from a cell.’

  Mary-Anne crushed her cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘Why’d you come over here?’ Eilish asked her.

  Mary-Anne made a face.

  Eilish cocked her head to one side. ‘Working again are you?’

  ‘Sort of.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘Bit of this, Eilish. Bit of that. Brings in a few quid now and then.’ She put her glass back on the table. ‘If he threatens you again — tell me eh. I know a few people.’

  Morrison chaired the meeting with Westbrook and Webb and Vanner. Frank Weir was there as was Ryan and DS Braithewaite from AMIP

  ‘We interviewed Raymond Kinane,’ Morrison said. ‘His story bore out all that Michael Case said. There was a dummy and there was a body in the back.’

  Webb looked at him. ‘There was a dummy, yes. Kinane had that from Turner. But we don’t know about the body in the car. We’ve only got Case’s word for that.’

  Morrison shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ve got Kinane’s. They cleaned her car on the Saturday morning. Traces of mud in the back. There was somebody there all right.’

  ‘It’s irrelevant now,’ Westbrook stated. ‘So the shootist tried in the New Forest first and failed. She succeeded back in London. The result is the same.’ He looked from Morrison to Weir and back again. Vanner sat silently with his arms folded.

  ‘It’s an SO13 deal now, Sir,’ Westbrook went on. ‘There’s no point in two investigations.’

  Morrison was quiet after that. He looked at Vanner and then at Weir. Ryan spoke first. ‘So we’ve wasted a couple of months then. Well there you go.’

  Weir looked at Westbrook. ‘So what you’re saying is you want to run this from the Yard now.’

  Westbrook nodded. ‘I think it makes sense. Information’s there. Vanner has clearance to be there. Simpler that way.’

  Weir stared at Vanner. Vanner did not say anything.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Westbrook went on. ‘The way things work out that’s all.’ He looked from Morrison to Weir once more. ‘We’re all on the same side after all. So long as we get a result.’

  ‘Yes,’ Morrison said. ‘So long as we get a result.’

  The meeting broke up, Vanner got up to leave and Morrison called him back. ‘I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Vanner. Every time I turn around you’re there to plague me.’

  Vanner looked down at him.

  ‘I never did trust you. I don’t trust you now. Did it ever occur to you that an innocent woman is dead because of your activities twelve years ago?’

  Vanner folded his arms. ‘I think you’re getting confused, Sir.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Jessica Turner.’

  ‘No. But you killed Thomas Quinlon.’

  Vanner did not say anything.

  ‘Unarmed, Vanner.’

  ‘Is there anything else, Sir?’

  ‘Just one thing.’ Morrison stepped up close to him. ‘When this is cleared up. Get yourself a transfer. We take bachelors in the Cayman Islands.’

  Webb was waiting for him downstairs. ‘Doesn’t like you—your Guv’nor.’

  ‘Can’t have it all can I?’

  ‘Always piss him off did you?’

  ‘Always.’ Vanner lit a cigarette and looked at the sky. ‘Any word from Box?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Vanner glanced at him. ‘She in London?’

  ‘Hammersmith.’

  ‘Figures then.’

  ‘Looking more likely isn’t it?’

  ‘Anything else I can do?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go home then.’

  Ellie came in after him, looking weary. Vanner was preparing food downstairs, music on, a glass of red wine at his elbow. He got her a Coke from the fridge and poured it into a glass.

  ‘I need a holiday,’ she said, sitting down at the table.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  She took a long pull at her Coke. ‘Have you spoken to Anne?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Shouldn’t you?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘When I’m ready’

  She got up and went to the stove. ‘What’s cooking?’

  ‘Chicken.’

  ‘Smells good.’

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s no vegetables.’ He caught her up in his arms then. ‘You know for somebody in the medical profession you have a shit diet.’

  She pushed him away. ‘No I don’t. I have all the vitamins I need.’

  ‘Right. Out of a bottle.’

  ‘Listen, Vanner. With your track record for nicotine and alcohol you’re in no position to comment.’

  Vanner laughed then and tried to catch her again. ‘Take me upstairs and fuck me,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘Too tired. I’m going for a bath. Call me when dinner’s ready.’

  Later, Vanner left the food to simmer and went upstairs to the bathroom. The door was open and steam drifted onto the landing. Ellie lay back in the water, bubbles over her belly, the red of her nipples just rising above the water. She looked at him where he stood at the door.

  ‘You haven’t told me what’s going on. How come you’re spending so much time at the Yard?’

  Vanner looked at her then and considered. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

  ‘Secret is it?’

  He made a face. ‘Delicate.’

  ‘Too delicate for me?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Why don’t you try me?’

  He leaned against the wall and sipped his wine. ‘It’s to do with the murder in Ealing in February’

  ‘The one Sid’s working on?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So how come you’re involved now? I thought you were doing a crack deal or something.’

  ‘I am. I was. I’m sort of seconded.’

  ‘To whom?’

  He thought before answering. ‘It doesn’t really matter, Elle. It’ll be sorted soon.’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake. Talk to me, Aden. If I can’t share your job what can I share? You don’t have anything else.’

  He sighed and looked at the floor. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m working with the Anti-Terrorist Branch. The Ealing shooting wasn’t in isolation. There’s other people involved.’

  ‘Like you.’ Her face was suddenly very serious.

  He nodded.

  ‘How?’

  ‘That’s not important. Basically whoever killed her has Irish links, possibly PIRA links, hence the Anti-Terrorist Branch.’

  ‘And you used to be a soldier — is that it?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  She shook her head. ‘Sort of. Maybe. God I love these conversations, they’re so open and honest and normal.’

  Vanner went to the door. Ellie called him back. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The other night when you were out late I …’ She broke off. It seemed so silly now. ‘Oh it’s nothing really. I was having a bath and felt a bit weird. When I went through to the bedroom a man was watching me from outside.’

  Vanner looked down at h
er. ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know do I. When I looked down he left.’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘Probably knows you get undressed with the curtains open, Elle. Shut them next time eh.’

  George Webb phoned him three days later. He was in his office in Campbell Row, his mind anywhere other than the crack investigation which with the loss of Eilish McCauley had all but ground to a halt.

  ‘Guv’nor, it’s George. Can you get over here right away? There’s something I want to show you.’

  Vanner put the phone down, got his coat and went out to his car. At the Yard he showed his warrant card to the gateman and was ushered into the underground carpark. Webb met him as soon as he got out of the lift.

  ‘What you got, Webby?’ Vanner asked him.

  ‘Two things, Guv.’ They walked to the DCI’s office. ‘Number one Mary-Anne Forbes is alibi’d. She was in Belfast the weekend of the 12th. Box snout spotted her at a christening party. She didn’t come back to London till Tuesday morning.’

  ‘So we’re back to no-one again.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Webb pushed open the door to Westbrook’s office. Westbrook was at his desk, leafing through a selection of photographs.

  ‘These came in from RUC this morning,’ Webb said.

  Vanner sat down and Westbrook passed him the pictures. Vanner laid them flat on the desk before him and began to peruse. Thomas Quinlon, long black hair and wild green eyes. He remembered him vividly. He moved on, Quinlon with Mary-Anne Forbes with auburn hair scraped back from her face. The next one, Quinlon and a youth he did not recognise. Quinlon had his arm around the boy’s shoulders, pointing at something in the distance. Vanner moved on. Quinlon with two others he did not recognise. Then Quinlon with a lean, thin-faced man with weak hair and narrow eyes. Cahal Barron the informant.

  ‘Barron,’ he said. ‘I know him.’

  ‘Yeah. Double-sided player. Lucky to survive as long as he has.’

  Vanner nodded. ‘That what you wanted to show me?’

  ‘Keep going.’

  Vanner turned the next picture up. Quinlon with the youth again and on the other side a girl. Young, much younger than Quinlon, pretty white-skinned face and long red hair. For a moment he did not recognise her. Then all at once it dawned on him. ‘That’s Eilish McCauley,’ he said.

  Webb snaked his tongue across his lips. ‘Is it? I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘I am.’ Again Vanner looked at her face. Two weeks ago he had been seated across the table from her at the Antrim Road RUC station. She was older, but the features had not altered and her hair was still long and very red. Webb came alongside him.

  ‘Look at what she’s wearing,’ he said.

  Vanner looked and frowned and looked again.

  ‘The sweater,’ Webb said. ‘It’s pink.’

  Vanner laid the pictures down very deliberately.

  ‘AMIP lab liaison found a piece of pink angora wool at the crime scene in Ealing,’ Westbrook said.

  Vanner stared at him. ‘Quinlon was married with three brats. We always thought he was over the side with the Forbes girl.’ He looked again at the photos. ‘Who’s the lad?’

  ‘Box don’t know. They can only identify Quinlon.’

  Vanner looked at the young face of the boy. ‘I suppose it could be her brother.’

  Webb sat down again. ‘Think about it, Guv. McCauley. You had her pegged as a donkey for your crack team in Harlesden. Irish connection. Crack in Belfast or whatever. Cumman na mBan on her thigh. If she was running gear over what was she bringing back?’

  Vanner looked at him. ‘Shagging Tommy Quinlon?’ He made a face. ‘Why twelve years?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I think we ought to ask her.’

  Eilish lay asleep in her bed, alone tonight at least. James was restless. The moon bright against his curtains, normally hidden under the crackling of false light from the streets. He lay on his back, aware of the time ticking on and on and sleep a million miles from him. Since Eilish had got back from Ireland he had seen none of the gang. He did not know what had happened, only that she had been nowhere near the border. He had phoned the Liverpool Ferry on a whim and discovered his sister was booked on the Belfast crossing. He remembered the holdall from the last time. Maybe something had gone wrong. The phonecalls since she got back, another male voice. Tell her Jimmy called. Who the hell was Jimmy?

  A noise outside. He rolled onto his side, pushing his weight up onto his elbow. Footsteps. Moving to the window he drew aside the curtain and looked out. His eyes balled. Cars at the park end of the road. Four of them, men in black suits running towards the house. The next thing he knew the front door crashed and men were in the hall, shouting. James dashed onto the landing.

  ‘Stand still. Armed Police.’ Torchlight in his face and behind him Caran’s voice crying out. He wanted to call to her to tell her it was all right but he could not. Two black-suited men in gas masks were on the stairs, machine guns pointed at his chest.

  ‘Lie down. Now. Lie down on the floor.’

  James fell forward to his knees. The first man was at the head of the stairs. The light came on in Eilish’s bedroom and she appeared at her door. James looked helplessly at her.

  He sat in the lounge with both the children on his knees, their arms about his neck, their cries ringing in his ears. Vanner looked down at him. ‘Make them be quiet,’ he said.

  James stared into his face. ‘Oh yeah. And how am I going to do that?’

  ‘Think of something.’

  Vanner stepped back into the hall, past the SO19 men who secured it. Outside a hire car had been brought up, paper over the seats and polythene sheets over that. Webb and Westbrook stood in the hall in coveralls, plastic booties over their shoes. Sterilised completely, both of them.

  In the kitchen, a female Anti-Terrorist officer also in blue overalls assisted Eilish with the paper suit she had unwrapped from sterilised plastic. Eilish stared beyond her at Vanner. ‘What the hell is this about?’

  ‘Shut up, Eilish.’

  ‘I’ve a right to know what this is about. Coming into my house in the middle of the night.’

  Vanner just looked at her.

  ‘You,’ she hissed. ‘You’re a lying bastard.’

  Vanner folded his arms and leaned against the door.

  ‘Candlewax,’ she said. ‘Fucking candlewax, you lying cheating bastard.’

  Vanner nodded to the clothing. ‘Put the suit on, Eilish and be quiet eh?’

  In the bedrooms domes lay on the beds, drawers were open and the contents laid out on the windowsills and the carpet and on Eilish’s dressing table. One officer was rummaging through her wardrobe. He stopped as his eye caught something, then he lifted it out. Vanner stared at a pink wool sweater.

  The officer handed the sweater to him and Vanner turned it over in gloved hands. He checked the back, the front and the sleeves. At the elbow of the left one the wool pattern was fractured. Vanner handed it back to the officer, then a thought struck him and he went into the bathroom. He flicked through the contents of the shelf above the sink, then opened the medicine cabinet. A flat cardboard box caught his eye. He lifted it down. Hair dye. Raven-black.

  Downstairs Eilish was guided between Webb and the female sterilised officer to the back of the waiting hire car. James sat dumbfounded in the living room. Westbrook was talking to him.

  ‘Is there somewhere you can take the children?’ he said.

  James looked bug-eyed at him. ‘What are you doing with my sister?’

  ‘Arresting her.’

  ‘Where’s she going?’

  ‘Paddington Green police station.’

  ‘I want to talk to her.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  The children started crying once more.

  ‘Is there anywhere you can take them?’ Westbrook repeated. ‘We’re going to turn this house inside out.’

  ‘What the hell are you looking for?’

  ‘Is there anywhere you can take them?’
/>
  James blinked and blew out his cheeks. Caran nuzzled his neck like an animal. ‘The priest,’ he said, ‘Father Joe Sheehan. Willesden Green.’

  ‘Phone him.’

  Sheehan arrived fifteen minutes later in his car. Eilish was gone already, the crime scene team were beginning to strip the house. James watched from the doorstep, holding both the girls close to him. Westbrook stepped up to the priest. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Westbrook,’ he said. ‘Eilish McCauley has been arrested and her brother says that you might look after the children.’

  The priest stared at him, then at James. ‘Please, Father,’ James said.

  ‘Of course.’ The priest beckoned him. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

  When they were gone Vanner stood in the hall and surveyed the work of the crime scene team. They left nothing to chance, every chair pulled inside out, every piece of furniture all but taken to pieces. The carpets started to come up, the loose linoleum in the kitchen. They worked quickly and efficiently. Westbrook grinned at him. ‘Very good aren’t they?’

  Eighteen

  EILISH MCCAULEY SAT IN the interview room at the high security cell block at Paddington Green police station. The paper suit rustled as she crossed one leg over the other. Westbrook and Webb sat opposite her. Vanner watched through a two-way security mirror. He could hear every word that was said.

  ‘I’m allowed a phonecall,’ Eilish said. ‘I know my rights. I’m allowed one phonecall.’

  ‘You’re right. You’re allowed one phonecall.’ Webb stood up, winked at Vanner through the glass and left the room. He came back a few moments later and plugged a phone into the socket in the wall by the door. Unwinding the cord, he set the phone before her.

  ‘Who’re you calling?’ he said.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her name’s Mary-Anne.’

  Webb nodded slowly. ‘What’s the number?’

  She gave it to him and he dialled. A woman’s voice answered and he passed the phone to Eilish.

  ‘Mary-Anne. This is Eilish. You’ll never guess where I am.’ She stared in Westbrook’s eyes as she said it. ‘Paddington police station. I’ve been arrested by the Anti-Terrorist squad. Yeah, me. Stupid fucks eh. Get me a lawyer, Mary-Anne. Wait a minute.’ She held the receiver away from her ear and looked at Webb. ‘Where’s my kids?’