The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  Webb put down the phone and went with DCI Westbrook up to the sixteenth floor. At the control desk he flicked on the radio with which he could speak to any officer’s back to back anywhere in the city.

  ‘All officers BH, BS, PH, PP. This is Sergeant George Webb SO13 Reserve. We have a terrorist suspect last seen entering High Street Kensington tube station. Armed. Female. ICI wearing black jeans, red jacket. Approach with caution. All sightings report Code 33 — 40 channel.’

  He put down the set and looked over at Westbrook who was punching the keys of the computer which gave him control of every traffic camera in the city.

  The ambulance bumped up onto the kerb and Vanner moved away from Wilson. He was losing blood fast. The wound was close to the groin, and the level of blood told him a main artery had been severed. He had done his best to stop it but Wilson was growing weaker. The paramedics jumped out, green suits, plastic cases in their hands. Vanner opened his warrant card and clipped it onto his jacket pocket.

  ‘Gunshot,’ he told the paramedic as he knelt beside Wilson. ‘Hit in the leg close to the groin.’ He stopped talking. Seventy per cent of all groin shots were fatal.

  He stood back as the paramedics began to work. Traffic had almost stopped on the street with rubber neckers. The pavement crawled with onlookers. He saw one Japanese man with a video camera. His mobile rang and he flipped it open.

  ‘Vanner.’

  ‘Webb, Guv. What’s happening?’

  ‘Ambulance is here. Top of the thigh, Webby. Almost the groin, pissing blood like there’s no tomorrow.’

  ‘SFO’s on standby.’

  ‘Lot of fucking use. We don’t know where he is.’

  ‘How’d he get to you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Must’ve followed us from Wembley. Cab maybe. Whatever.’

  ‘Description’s out to every copper on the manor. Stay with Wilson. Go with him in the ambulance. Safest place for you.’

  Vanner looked down at the stretcher levelled in the puddles with the blankets and the straps thrown back. The two paramedics were lifting Wilson onto it. When he was laid out they covered him with blankets and strapped him. The amateur cameraman stepped closer. Vanner moved in front of him, upending his camera with a palm. ‘One more step and I’ll push that through your face.’

  Wilson was in the ambulance. Vanner climbed in beside him and the driver closed the doors. Seconds later they were threading through the traffic, with all sirens blaring.

  ‘Where we going?’ Vanner asked the paramedic.

  ‘Chelsea Royal. Straight down Sloane Street.’ The paramedic had the straps off Wilson and was easing his clothing from him. His hand came up against the shoulder holster and he pulled out the gun.

  ‘Diplomatic protection,’ Vanner told him.

  ‘I don’t want to know. Here. You look after it.’

  Vanner took the Glock, held it, fingers tightening about the handle. He slipped it into his pocket.

  He phoned Webb. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘SFO rolling. Scene Commander’s just arrived. We’re covering every traffic light in the city.’

  ‘We’re going to Chelsea Royal.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I want to know when you find him.’

  Vanner switched off the phone. They were almost at Sloane Square tube station when it rang again.

  ‘Vanner.’

  ‘Where are you, Vanner? I’m at Victoria station, waiting for you.’ The phone went dead.

  Vanner shifted up the cramped aisle to the driver. ‘Stop the van.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop it, I have to get out.’

  The driver pulled over and Vanner opened the back doors. He looked at Wilson, oxygen mask across his face, very blue in the lips.

  Rain fell on his head, harsh heavy spots that slapped against his scalp. He ducked inside the tube station and called Webb. Downstairs he could hear the thunder of a train arriving.

  ‘Vanner. Target just called me. He’s at Victoria station. Where’s the SFO?’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Webb put his hand over the phone then spoke in his ear once more.

  ‘Miles away. We sent them to Eilish’s.’

  ‘Webb, listen to me. Tell the Guv’nors. I’m instantly armed. Paramedic gave me Wilson’s Glock to look after.’

  Webb was quiet for a moment.

  ‘Log it,’ Vanner said. ‘Instant arming.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘I’m in Sloane Square tube. Train’s coming. I’ll be in Victoria in two minutes.’

  He raced to the bottom of the steps and jumped the east-bound train just as the doors were closing.

  On the fifteenth floor Webb spoke to Graves, the Scene Commander from SO19.

  ‘Victoria. Target just called Vanner. He’s at the station.’

  From where he sat, Westbrook looked sideways at him.

  ‘Vanner’s armed,’ Webb said. ‘Got Wilson’s Glock. He’ll be there in two or three minutes.’

  Graves stroked his jaw. ‘SFO’s off the patch,’ he said. ‘Give me the radio.’ He narrowed his eyes as he spoke into the handset. ‘This is Bronze Commander Graves—SO19. All Trojans respond. 511 location?’

  The radio crackled and a thin voice came over the air waves. ‘Bronze Commander from Trojan 511—location Shaftesbury Ave.’

  ‘Trojan 541 respond.’

  The call came back. ‘541 stationary. Lambeth.’

  ‘Operation 13, armed terrorist. Rendezvous Point—Victoria station. Respond and contain. Bronze Commander out.’ He turned to Westbrook. ‘Nearest nick?’

  ‘Belgravia.’

  ‘Get me the duty DI.’

  Webb was on another phone speaking to Jack Swann downstairs. ‘Sterile car, Jack. Victoria station. Sterile arrest team. Now.’

  ‘Moving,’ Swann said in his ear.

  Vanner jumped off the tube train, pushing passengers out of the way; a white skinheaded youth stepped into his path.

  ‘Don’t.’ Vanner pushed him against the wall and sprinted along the tunnel. He came to the first set of escalators and raced up them, brushing people aside. A briefcase blocked his ascent and he kicked it against its owner’s legs. Then he was running again, the second set of stairs, up the middle flight, three steps at a time. He got to the main entrance hall and paused.

  He stood for a moment, breathing hard, the gun cold in his grip, hand in the pocket of his jacket. With sharp, experienced eyes he scanned the hallway for a black-haired woman in a red jacket. No-one. Nothing. He moved out into the open, walking slowly, eyes everywhere, on everyone’s face. Nothing. He stood a moment and paused again. Then he looked left to the main entrance which was humming with people as the rush hour began. Taxis hissing diesel fumes, buses pulling in and out of the coach station. He looked at his watch. Thirty-five minutes since Wilson was shot.

  Again he looked about him, eyes on stalks. No-one. He moved to the main entrance. People bunched to get out, longdistance travellers just in from the airports pushing trolleys loaded with luggage.

  Outside the rain fell in grey sheets, washing across buildings and traffic and people. Vanner stepped to the edge of the pavement and stared across at the bus terminal. On the far side in front of the office building taxis pulled up. His eyes fixed on a black-haired woman handing money over the seat. He tensed, gun still in his pocket and watched as she climbed out on the far side of the cab. Red jacket. Rain fell on black hair. Vanner took out his gun.

  Forty feet away from him. Buses moved into his line of vision, blocked it then passed. People bumping behind him, the noise of trolleys crashing together as they were discarded. People climbing into cabs to escape the rain. Across the road the woman opened her black shoulder bag. Vanner lifted the gun. For a moment she looked up and their eyes met. Thirty yards. Vanner could hear nothing save the blood in his ears. He could smell sweat and diesel and then the traffic broke in.

  ‘Armed police,’ he bellowed.

  She looked at him, beyond him
, at him again. People stepped back from him. A bus driver thumped his horn which blared out through the rain. Black bag, red coat, black hair. Vanner tensed, lifting the gun, two hands now, finger in the trigger guard, blood cold in his veins.

  Still her hand was in her bag, fumbling. Traffic noise. Had she heard his shout? Their eyes locked.

  ‘Armed police. You in the red. Stand still.’ Vanner shouted again and as he did so a trolley crashed into the rack behind him. The woman drew something black and slim from her bag. Vanner tensed and fired.

  Three shots. She buckled, body flicking back in sharp, ragged movements. Sirens in his ears. For a moment she stared at him. Women screaming. Men shouting. Only her eyes on his. She fell back, bag opening, the slim black weapon falling from her grip.

  Vanner stepped across the road and as he did so a feeling of dread stilled the breath in his lungs. He got closer, twenty feet, fifteen, ten. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blue light flashing.

  511 Trojan jerked to a halt and the three officers got out. Three 9mm pistols. Two MP5 carbines.

  The driver was on the radio. He saw Vanner with a gun and a body lying on the road by the bus stop. People milled everywhere. Cars were arriving from all sides. The wail of sirens filled the air.

  An armed officer moved towards Vanner from the car, short black rifle extended like part of his arm.

  ‘Armed police. Stand still.’

  Vanner heard him. He looked again at the woman. Not James McCauley. No gun, just a large open handbag and a small leather encased umbrella, the kind that springs open at the press of a button.

  He half-turned toward the officer.

  ‘Stand still.’ The command split the air. People stared at him. He half-turned again.

  ‘Do not look at me.’

  ‘I’m D …’

  ‘Do not look at me.’ The officer was ten feet from him now. Vanner could almost smell the adrenaline through the rain.

  ‘Keep your hands away from your body and look straight ahead of you. Do not move. Do not turn around. If you look at me I will shoot you.’

  Vanner bit down on his lip, then turned his head to his left and stared into the eyes of a young, dark-haired man wearing black jeans and a sweatshirt on inside out. He carried a bag over his shoulder. His face was reddened and his hair tousled and as he stared Vanner realised he was smiling.

  ‘Keep your hands away from your body.’ The command came again.

  Slowly, with no jerky movement, Vanner extended his arms at his sides, the right one heavy with the gun. He was still looking to his left and stared deep into the dark eyes of James McCauley. Not a woman, no wig now. No red jacket, only short dark hair and a smile creasing his lips. The woman he had shot was an innocent. Feel my pain. The words rang in his head.

  ‘Now.’ The ARV man was speaking again. Vanner could do nothing. Say nothing. Nothing he said would make any difference. He was an armed man and there was a woman bleeding to death on the kerbside. The crowd grew larger, easing away from him like the leper he had become.

  ‘Do exactly as I tell you. Do it only when I tell you. Do not move sharply and do not look at me. Keep your hands well away from your body.’

  Vanner lifted his arms higher still and stared at James McCauley. McCauley stared at him. From the corner of his left eye he could see a second ARV with officers training their weapons on him.

  ‘Now.’ The officer behind him was talking again. ‘Right leg. Kneel down slowly.’

  Vanner did as he was commanded.

  ‘Place the gun on the ground. Place it. Do not throw it.’

  Vanner put down the gun. James McCauley looked as though he was laughing. Vanner’s gaze twisted to the woman he had shot. Another ARV officer was on one knee with a first-aid kit in his hands. Vanner saw a box of tampons lying open, spilled from her handbag. The officer tore the paper off one with his teeth and plugged the hole in her chest. Vanner knew the pad would expand and soak up the blood.

  ‘Stand up.’ The armed officer was talking to him again.

  He stood.

  ‘Now. Step away from the gun.’

  Vanner stepped back.

  George Webb got out of his car on the other side of the bus terminal for Heathrow and quickly took in the scene. He saw two ARVs and he saw Vanner in front of him. An ARV man was tending an injured woman before him.

  Vanner spotted him, opened his mouth to call out and closed it again. The ARV officer was moving closer to him. Webb caught his eye and Vanner flicked his gaze towards McCauley, who was watching it all with his arms folded, black bag hanging from his shoulder. Webb frowned. Vanner flicked his eyes again and Webb tried to follow them.

  ‘Right leg again,’ the ARV man commanded. ‘Kneel down.’

  Vanner hesitated.

  ‘Do it.’

  He dropped to one knee. Webb was scanning the crowd. He saw James McCauley in profile.

  ‘Left leg. Kneel down.’

  Vanner did as he was asked, puddles under his jeans, the cold soaking into his flesh.

  ‘Now. Fall forward onto your palms and lie flat.’

  Vanner looked one last time at Webb, then fell forward, face twisted to his left. Now James McCauley was looking straight down at him.

  He could feel the weight of the people. Pressmen and amateur photographers and tourists getting a taste of London they never dreamed they would see.

  Vanner thought of Ellie in the safe house. He stared at McCauley’s face. He could feel the armed officer right behind him now. George Webb was moving through the crowd.

  ‘Place your hand, right palm upward into the middle of your back.’ The command came, less loud now, but close and chilled, clipped tones, the sort of voice you listened to.

  Vanner moved his arm and stared into McCauley’s face. McCauley smiled down at him. There was perhaps twenty feet between them.

  ‘Left hand, palm upward into the small of your back.’

  Vanner did as he was asked.

  ‘Now, interlock your fingers.’

  Vanner entwined them and then felt a knee in his neck. One hand gripped both of his, imprisoning him completely. He wondered how many times he had completed the procedure himself in his days with D11. He felt the rush of blood as plastic handcuffs secured him.

  George Webb moved towards the second ARV where the Duty DI from Belgravia had assumed command. Webb took his warrant card out of his pocket and flipped it open over the breast pocket of his jacket. He stepped up to the driver of the Armed Response Vehicle.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Webb,’ he said. ‘SO13 Reserve. Man in black jeans, blue sweat top and black bag.’ He saw the driver glance, scan and see him. He looked back in his eyes. ‘He’s Provisional IRA, armed with a .62mm Tokarev. The man you’ve just detained is DI Vanner of 2 Area Drug Squad.’

  The driver’s face fell.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Webb went on. ‘Nothing you can do about it now. Safest place for him is in the Trojan.’

  He looked round then and saw McCauley moving away from the arrest scene towards the station entrance. He thought for a moment. ‘Bronze Commander Graves,’ he said. ‘SFO Blue team is here somewhere. This is his operation.’ McCauley was almost inside the station. ‘Take this number down.’ Webb gave the driver his mobile number. ‘I’ll keep the target under surveillance. Keep this phone line open.’

  Twenty-One

  WEBB FOLLOWED JAMES MCCAULEY into the station. McCauley walked briskly now, cutting his way through the crowds to the ticket office, where he fished in his pocket for money. Webb stood behind him, one person between them and watched as he bought his ticket. McCauley moved off again, bag across his shoulder, hand in one pocket and wandered to the information boards that hung above the concourse. He looked up at the departure information and then moved off in the direction of platforms 15–19. Webb’s mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Westbrook. What’s happening?’

  ‘I’m following McCauley. He’s no longer in disguise, wi
g and make-up gone. Carrying a black bag. He’s still armed.’

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. He’s heading for one of the platforms between 15 and 19.’ Webb watched McCauley striding out ahead of him now. ‘18,’ Webb said, then McCauley moved right. ‘19. He’s boarding a train at platform 19.’

  ‘Okay. Keep with him, Webby. We’ve got the SFO team on the way. Graves is here. He’s with the BR people now. I’ll let you know what we decide to do.’

  Webb switched off his phone and followed McCauley onto the platform.

  Vanner sat in the back of the first ARV. He rubbed his wrists and accepted the cigarette from the man who had secured him.

  ‘Sorry about that, Sir,’ the officer said.

  Vanner stared ahead of him. ‘You were doing your job. You saw a man with a gun.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The officer ducked out of the car again and spoke to the driver. Vanner was watching the paramedics lifting the prostrate form of the woman he had shot into the back of an ambulance. He wondered who she was, who her family were, whether she would live or die.

  Westbrook came over to the car and looked in at him. ‘You okay?’

  Vanner did not reply, He sucked hard on his cigarette and exhaled stiffly. Then he looked at Westbrook. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘McCauley’s on a train bound for the coast.’

  Vanner looked forward again. ‘It was raining,’ he said. ‘Noise. Traffic everywhere.’ He looked into Westbrook’s face. ‘I shouted a warning. Twice. I shouted at her twice. She didn’t listen, kept on inside her bag.’

  Westbrook straightened. ‘We’re interviewing, Vanner. There’s bound to be people who heard you.’

  Vanner nodded grimly.

  Sergeant Graves, the SO19 scene commander was at the British Rail Rendezvous Point he had set up, talking to the controllers of the station. He looked at his wristwatch. ‘How long till the train leaves?’

  ‘Three minutes.’

  Graves nodded. ‘Now many coaches?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Do you want us to delay it?’

  Graves considered for a moment, then he picked up the phone and called Webb.