The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  They got coffee and waited till Robertson arrived. He came into the DCI’s office and sat down. ‘Ellie Ross is in a safe house,’ he told Vanner. ‘We use a couple of flats. She’s got A squad protection round the clock.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Better you don’t know.’

  ‘Can I talk to her?’

  ‘She can call you.’

  Vanner looked at the silent phone on his belt. He sat back and folded his arms. Westbrook told Robertson about Vanner’s midnight phonecall.

  ‘I want to be visible,’ Vanner said. ‘As visible as I can be.’

  Robertson nodded. ‘I’ll square it with Special Branch to assign two PROT’s to you. Twelve-hour shifts. They’re used to it.’

  Vanner looked him in the eye. ‘I’d rather have a gun, Sir.’

  Robertson grinned. ‘I’m sure you would.’

  ‘I’ve got my pink ticket.’

  Robertson shook his head. ‘No-one would sanction it, Vanner. Who’s going to take responsibility for you bearing firearms twenty-four hours a day. I certainly wouldn’t.’

  Vanner finished his coffee and tossed the plastic cup in the bin. ‘You mean I have to sleep with them?’

  ‘Not in the same bed,’ Westbrook said.

  Webb came in. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Had to check something.’ He grinned at Vanner, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘You okay, Guv?’

  Vanner told him about the phonecall.

  ‘Itchy then. You tell him your bird was away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Webb nodded and looked at the senior officers. PROT then.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Westbrook stood up. ‘I’ll wander upstairs. Get somebody allocated.’

  ‘What about an SFO team?’ Webb said.

  ‘On standby. Fully briefed. If it comes to it they’ll work out a rolling plot, but we’re more likely to need the Gunships.’

  ‘Are they up to speed?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to their Skipper and briefed them as much as I can,’ Westbrook said. ‘But we don’t know who we’re looking for. A man dressed as a woman.’

  Vanner stood up. ‘I’m going back to work,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a crack team to nail.’

  ‘Wait till the PROT’s sorted out.’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘I’m going to drive from here to Wembley. I’ll be fine.’

  Robertson looked at Westbrook. ‘Get SB to send their man to Campbell Row.’

  Vanner was watchful all the way across London, particularly at lights and zebra crossings. Jimmy Crack met him at the Drug Squad office.

  ‘Rafter’s girl’s coming home,’ he said. ‘And I’ve got Pretty Boy at the wash house.’

  ‘What about the Daddy?’

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘Eilish was our best bet there. You know I’d never have figured she’d give up her brother.’

  Vanner lit a cigarette. ‘She had no idea we knew she was alibi’d did she. As far as she was concerned the only person who could save her was Stepper-Nap and that wasn’t about to happen. Thirty years concentrates the mind, Jim. Especially when you’ve got two young girls to think about.’

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Paddington Green doesn’t help. Like a world all of its own.’

  ‘Timeless,’ Vanner said. He sat back and rested the sole of his foot against the edge of the desk. ‘What’s happening with you, Guv?’ Vanner told him that James McCauley was looking for him.

  He told him that Ellie was safe but he was going on with his work as normal. ‘They’ve assigned me a PROT,’ he said. ‘He’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘So you’ve got a shadow.’

  Vanner made a face. ‘At least he’s armed, Jim.’

  The phone rang and Vanner picked it up. ‘Vanner.’

  ‘Morrison, Vanner. I want to see you in Hendon.’

  Vanner let go a breath. ‘Sir, I’ve only just got here and there’s a pile of papers to sort.’

  ‘I don’t care. Robertson’s just been on the phone from SO13. He told me what’s going on. You’re under my command, Vanner, in my division. Your actions might jeopardise other officers.’

  ‘I can work on my own.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Just get yourself over here.’

  Vanner squeezed the phone a little more tightly. ‘I’ve got a PROT on his way here, Sir.’

  Morrison went quiet. ‘As soon as he gets there then.’ Vanner put down the phone and gestured with his middle finger. ‘You should’ve seen his face, Jimmy; Morrison, when I told SO13 that I wanted positive vetting. He still doesn’t know what this is about.’

  ‘What is it about, Guv?’

  Vanner slowly shook his head. ‘Get me some fresh coffee eh. Then brief me on Rafter’s girl.’

  The Close Protection officer arrived and sat with Vanner in his office while Jimmy updated him on the movements of the Brit-Boy posse. The PROT’s name was Michael Wilson. He was Vanner’s height, tall and thin, a Special Branch DI. He sat in the chair under the window while Vanner and Jimmy talked. ‘I want to view the wash-house tapes,’ Vanner said, ‘and I want to lean on Eilish.’

  Jimmy looked unsure. ‘That a good idea, Guv?’

  ‘Yes. She might give us something on Stepper and more importantly it might flush out her brother.’ He squinted at Wilson. ‘You up to speed on this?’

  Wilson nodded.

  ‘What are you carrying?’

  Wilson eased his jacket back to reveal a brown leather shoulder holster.

  ‘Glock,’ Vanner said. ‘Good weapon. light.’

  Wilson nodded.

  Jimmy Crack stood up. ‘You want to view the wash-house tapes now, Guv?’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘No, I’d better go and see Morrison.’

  He drove, the PROT next to him watching every car that passed them, eyes all over the road. ‘Black wig,’ he said.

  ‘That’s been the form so far.’

  ‘I knew David Quigley,’ Wilson said quietly.

  Vanner glanced at him and drove on. ‘Dave was a good copper.’

  ‘One of the best,’ Wilson smiled at him. ‘This might get a bit personal.’

  Morrison was in his office. Vanner saw Ryan in the corridor downstairs, chatting to a uniformed WPC.

  ‘Leave the plonks alone, Slippery,’ Vanner muttered as he passed him. ‘They don’t know where you’ve been.’

  He knocked on Morrison’s door and went in. Wilson went with him. Morrison was behind his desk, blotting ink on a page. He looked up and took off his half-rimmed spectacles. ‘Special Branch?’ he said to Wilson.

  Wilson nodded.

  Morrison flicked at the door with his glasses. ‘Wait outside.’

  Wilson hesitated.

  ‘Who’s going to have a go at him here? Go on. Wait outside.’

  When he was gone Morrison gestured for Vanner to sit down. Vanner sat, looked at him and crossed his ankle on his knee. They regarded one another warily, like two old-time alley cats from the street. Morrison spoke first.

  ‘I’m not sure I want it like this, Vanner.’

  ‘Think I should sit it out at home do you?’

  ‘The thought had occurred to me. You’re putting people at risk.’

  ‘I’m flushing out a killer.’

  ‘Yes you are aren’t you.’ Morrison cocked his head at him! ‘Eaman Farrell and Cahal Barron and Brindley Cross all over again. I knew it wouldn’t rest, Vanner. Those things never do.’

  Vanner folded his arms.

  ‘You noticed how the past comes back to haunt you? How many lives have you trodden on? I can count half a dozen at least.’

  Vanner sat forward then and when he spoke his voice was very cold. ‘Has this conversation got any bearing on what I’m doing, Sir? Because if it hasn’t I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Who shot him, Vanner?’ Morrison rested both elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. ‘Who killed Thomas Quinlon?’

  Vanner started to get up.

  ‘Sit down.’

 
; ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Sit down, Vanner.’ Morrison’s eyes smarted like green fire. ‘I’m your senior officer, Vanner. You’ll sit there as long as I want you to.’

  Slowly Vanner sat.

  ‘You shot him didn’t you.’

  Vanner did not reply.

  ‘Come on. You can tell me now.’

  ‘Anything else, Sir?’

  Morrison sat upright, pushing his weight back in the chair, hands pressed against the edge of the desk. ‘Liability. I always said it. First time you get a woman who cares about you you put her life in jeopardy.’

  Vanner stood up then. ‘You want to watch your diet, Sir. All that bile’s not good for you.’

  ‘Vanner.’ Morrison stopped him. ‘You wearing a vest?’

  ‘Of course I’m wearing a vest.’ He turned then and went out. Wilson got up from where he was sitting on a chair in the corridor. Vanner ignored him, turned to his right and trotted down the stairs.

  ‘Where to now?’ Wilson asked as they got back in the car.

  ‘Willesden,’ Vanner said. ‘I want to see the sister.’

  He phoned Webb on the line they had opened. ‘Anything from the phone tap at the sister’s?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a whisper.’

  ‘What about Ellie — she okay?’

  ‘So far. She hasn’t called you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Free access to the phone, Guv.’

  ‘You trying to tell me something?’

  Vanner switched off the phone and plugged it into the cigarette lighter to re-charge it. Then he drove down through Cricklewood, turning off at Chiselle Road toward Willesden. He phoned Jimmy Crack on his mobile. Jimmy said he would meet him at Eilish McCauley’s.

  They parked in the slip road by the park with no sign of Jimmy Crack. Vanner wound his window down and lit a cigarette. Wilson got out of the car and checked the immediate vicinity. A few minutes later Jimmy drove up and parked behind them. He climbed into the back of Vanner’s car.

  ‘Had word from Sandra, Guv.’

  ‘Who’s Sandra?’ Vanner glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Snout who housed Young Young for us. Eilish is out of the game as far as the posse’s concerned. Stepper knows her gaff was turned over.’

  Vanner leaned his elbow on the windowsill, the sun peeking from behind the clouds, warming his face. He let smoke drift from his nostrils. ‘Wonder how she’ll fare with just her dole cheque for company.’

  Jimmy looked across the road toward the brown, pebble-dashed house. ‘Got to play mother now.’

  Vanner looked back at him. ‘I’m going over, see if I can’t wind her up a little bit.’

  They all got out. Vanner led the way across the main road and up past the school.

  ‘She doesn’t know about the photos?’ Jimmy said.

  Vanner shook his head. ‘All she knows is SO13 let her go. She’s grateful enough for that.’

  ‘Why’re we going round?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘I want to look in her wardrobe. Find out what baby brother is wearing.’

  He rang the bell, Wilson standing between him and the road, watching. Nobody answered. Vanner rang again and saw a figure coming down the stairs through the glass in the door. Moments later Eilish stared in his face. Spittle seemed to form on her lip. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Well you can’t.’

  Vanner put his foot in the door so she could not close it. ‘I can,’ he said, ‘and I will.’

  Inside, she stood in the lounge staring at him. She eyed Wilson and Jimmy then looked back at Vanner. ‘Thought you were bloody clever in Belfast didn’t you.’

  ‘Shut up, Eilish. What clothes are missing from your wardrobe?’

  She stared at him. ‘You want me to take them out one by one, lay them on the floor?’

  ‘Let’s just go and look.’

  She led the way reluctantly upstairs and into her bedroom. The bed was unmade and she dragged the covers over the rumpled mess of the sheet. Vanner indicated the wardrobe.

  ‘Take a look,’ he said, ‘and no bullshit, Eilish.’

  She opened the doors wide and stared at the clothes, bulging at her from the hangers.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She placed one hand on her hip.

  ‘Look,’ Vanner said.

  She looked, thumbing through the clothes and back again. ‘Black jeans,’ she said.

  ‘He can get in them?’

  ‘He’s small.’ She looked at him. ‘You’ve seen him.’ She looked back at the clothes. ‘Blue sweat top and a shirt. White one with little flowers on it. And he’s got my red jacket.’

  Downstairs the phone rang. Vanner stared at Eilish. ‘If that’s him I want to know.’

  She picked up the phone. Jimmy and Wilson moved past her. Vanner sat on the stairs.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘What did you tell them, Eilish. And why are they in the house?’

  Eilish stiffened. ‘What d’you mean?’

  Vanner went very still, watching her, face away from him, leaning against the wall.

  ‘What did you tell them, Eilish? How come they’re looking for me?’

  ‘I didn’t tell them anything.’ She steeled herself. ‘But Tommy’s dead, Jamie.’

  ‘I know he’s dead, you bitch. All these years he’s been dead and you did nothing about it.’

  She sighed. ‘What did you want me to do?’

  ‘Something. Anything. You sent him out to them. Why didn’t you let him stay?’

  ‘Jamie …’

  ‘Just get them out of the house.’ The phone went dead and Eilish settled the receiver.

  Vanner’s mobile rang.

  ‘Webb, Guv. He’s just phoned the house.’

  ‘I know. I’m here.’

  ‘He knows you’re there. That means he can see you.’

  Vanner stared at Wilson. ‘Outside. Now.’

  Wilson was at the front door. He opened it a fraction. Vanner looked at Eilish. ‘Where’s the nearest phone box?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Think?’

  ‘Up the street. The other side of the road.’

  Vanner was on his feet, pushing past Wilson at the door. He looked up the street. Wilson got to him, hand on his arm. Vanner looked left and right, then spotted the phone box further up on the left hand side of the road. He could see that it was empty.

  He phoned Webb from the car. ‘Missed him.’

  ‘Cheeky bastard isn’t he.’

  ‘Some of her clothes are missing. Red jacket, black jeans, and a blue sweatshirt. You want to relay that to Old Street?’

  ‘Will do. Where you going now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Vanner said. ‘But I want this bastard.’

  ‘Take it easy, Guv. He’ll give you the runaround. You’ll broke up his party remember?’

  Vanner went back to the Drug Squad office and watched the video tapes from the wash house. At seven o’clock he drove home. Wilson had a drink with him across the road while he waited for his relief to arrive. Vanner did not relish the thought of a night with a stranger in his house.

  Three days, four days, five and nothing. Ellie phoned him once, ice in her voice as she spoke to him. Vanner was helpless. He could feel her drifting away from him.

  ‘What can I say, Elle? At least you’re safe.’

  ‘Safe. I’m a prisoner and I haven’t even done anything.’

  He said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

  ‘Talk to me, Aden. You got me into this.’

  ‘It’ll soon be over.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Over.’

  On the eighth day, Monday, late in the afternoon he was driving with Wilson towards the West End, the street lights casting a musty glow over the gloom of rain-washed tarmac. Two cars behind them a black cab trundled with a single occupant in the back.

  James had not phoned his sister again. Ellie had not phon
ed him. Vanner pulled over to the side of the road and looked at Wilson. ‘Going to get cigarettes,’ he said. Wilson looked at the double yellow lines. ‘Parking here are you?’

  ‘I’m Old Bill. I can park where the hell I like.’ Vanner got out of the car.

  The cab pulled over and a woman stepped out, paid the driver and moved towards the entrance to the tube station.

  Vanner bought a packet of Marlboro and some matches. When he came out of the shop a woman moved towards him from the entrance to the tube station, black jeans and red jacket. For a moment he stared at her. Black hair and too much makeup, hand in a zip-up bag off her shoulder.

  Wilson stepped in front of him, reaching into his jacket for his weapon. He had no time to draw it. The woman pulled a short black pistol and fired. Wilson crumpled like sack on the pavement. People screamed. Vanner stood for a moment, waiting for more shots, unarmed, helpless. For a second the woman stared at him, then she was gone, disappearing inside the tube station. Vanner dropped to one knee, fumbling for his phone. Wilson was breathing heavily, holding his leg at the thigh. Blood jerked in little strings from his fingers.

  ‘Vanner,’ he said as the phone was answered. ‘High Street Kensington, outside the tube station. PROT down, leg wound. Target. Black jeans, red jacket. Black wig. Ran into the station. Get me an ambulance. Now.’

  He dropped the phone onto the pavement, shouting at the crowd of shoppers to move back and give Wilson some room. Wilson lay on the ground as rain fell on him, head resting against a shop window. Blood covered his hand now, forming a dark pool on the concrete. Vanner checked the wound. ‘Just the leg?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes. Jesus.’ Wilson’s head rolled against the glass, eyes balling, colour draining from his face. Vanner pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound. Wilson cried out with the pain.

  In the offices of the Anti-Terrorist Branch Webb was on the phone to Old Street. He got Graves. ‘Operation Zero hour. Gone live. PROT’s been hit, Vanner’s with him. Target got away. Last seen entering High Street Kensington tube station. We’ve got uniforms on the move and the BTP’s been informed.

  ‘Right, we’ll roll. Any ideas where we might put him to bed?’

  ‘He might go to his sister’s but I doubt it. Keep a rolling plot till we have a location. We’ve got street camera control on the sixteenth floor. Best place for your Scene Commander.’