The Aden Vanner Novels Read online

  ‘Where’re we going?’

  ‘South. Galashiels Police have just called us. They had a shooting last night and want us to take a look at it.’ Vanner climbed into the passenger seat. Morrison got in alongside him and they drove through ice-crusted Sunday streets towards the Galashiels road.

  Morrison drove carefully, feeding the wheel through his hands as he took corners. Vanner sat next to him, taller than him, dark-featured, coiled into the seat like a cat. Morrison realised that this was one of the few times they had been out together—alone. Normally Vanner was working his own patch.

  ‘How d’you like Scotland, Inspector?’ He let the ‘Inspector’ roll very Scottishly off his tongue. If Vanner sensed the testiness he did not respond.

  ‘I’ve been in Scotland before, Sir. Many times.’

  ‘Aye, but it’s different when you’re working don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Vanner said.

  ‘Bit different to the Army all of this, though.’

  Vanner glanced at him. ‘I haven’t been in the Army for a long time.’

  Morrison nodded. ‘Don’t you miss it though?’

  ‘No.’

  Morrison cleared his throat and looked forward again. Vanner was a blank wall; no door, no handle, not even a keyhole. ‘This shooting,’ he said. ‘From what I hear it’s a bit different to your average killing.’ Vanner looked round at him again. ‘I wasn’t aware there was an average killing—Sir,’ he said. Morrison bit his lip. Vanner looked ahead of them, and pointed out a patch of ice to the right of the oncoming bend.

  Ten miles north of Galashiels Morrison slowed up and glanced at the map. ‘Should be the next left.’ They slowed considerably now, as the road weaved between high grass banks hung with trees, that dripped and steamed with the lifting of the sun. Vanner watched the road as it opened on their right; a fine layer of mist, smokelike, moved above the pastures that rolled out to the hills in the west. Turning a final corner they saw two police cars parked in a layby on the other side of the road. Morrison pulled over and a uniformed officer approached them. Winding down his window, Morrison flashed his warrant card at the man, who nodded and pointed back across the road. They saw a track that cut through the bank to the hill.

  The track was bumpy and run with the straggled ends of roots which snagged at the tyres as they climbed. At the top of the rise it levelled off and then opened into a flat-topped clearing. Two more police cars were parked, one of which had its boot open. A Scene of Crime officer, dressed in white overalls, was loading film into a camera. Beyond the police cars, lipping the edge of the clearing, a blue Ford Escort was parked at a difficult angle. The driver’s door was open and something large and sprawling slumped in the doorwell. Morrison stopped the car and they both climbed out.

  Their breath came as steam. Vanner, hands in his coat pockets, walked towards the car. Morrison stepped in a wider arc, taking in the lie of the land. Vanner was peering at the hard-baked ground between their car and the Escort. Two Forensic men were by the car and they fell back as Morrison and Vanner approached them. The weighted lump in the doorwell was the body of a man. He was stocky, lying with his face among the pedals, half in the car, half out of it. His legs were buckled at the knee. Morrison watched Vanner as he bent to squint at the body, and then he went forward himself. The man had been shot in the back of the head. Half his skull was missing. Morrison felt a little bile rise in his throat and he stepped back a fraction. Vanner stood his ground, his eyes scouring the floor of the car.

  ‘Who found him?’ Morrison asked.

  A constable stepped forward and indicated a man standing with two more officers by the trees on the other side of the clearing. A dog gambolled before him on an extendable lead.

  ‘He was walking his dog, Sir. Comes up here every morning.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Nine.’

  Morrison glanced at his watch, almost eleven-thirty. ‘Do we have a time of death?’

  The constable shook his head.

  ‘Pathologist?’

  ‘On his way, Sir.’ The constable smiled. ‘It’s Sunday. He’s probably at church.’

  Vanner was still over by the body. He walked round the car, looking at the ground. There were a number of interwoven tyre-marks cutting little tufts in the earth.

  ‘Another car?’ Morrison said. ‘You’re hopeful in this weather.’

  ‘Worth a look though.’ Vanner moved back around to the driver’s side. ‘Do we know who he is?’

  The same constable came forward and handed him a driver’s licence in a plastic bag sealed at the top with black tape.

  ‘His name is Duncan Scott, Sir.’

  ‘Anybody we know?’ Morrison asked.

  The constable nodded. ‘We nicked him about eighteen months ago. He was convicted of Hit and Run. Drunk. Killed a little girl on the Hawick side of Gala. He didn’t stop. Fortunately a farmer witnessed it from his field and wrote down his number.’

  ‘What happened to Scott?’ Vanner asked him.

  ‘Given a year. Served six months.’

  Vanner looked down at the body. ‘Obviously not long enough.’

  The words hung in Morrison’s mind once again as Scammell turned the car into Loughborough Street.

  Vanner sat in his office, watching the packet of cigarettes that he had balanced up-ended on the top of his coffee cup. Nicholls sat, bug-eyed, the other side of the desk from him.

  ‘You okay, Guv?’

  ‘Fine, Joe. Just fine. How about you?’

  ‘Knackered. Absolutely fucked. I really ought to be sleeping by now.’

  Vanner glanced, at him. ‘Me too.’

  ‘CIB are taking their own sweet time.’

  Vanner nodded.

  They were quiet for a moment and then Nicholls sighed. ‘Nobody saw anything except you and me, Guv.’

  Vanner glanced at him and saw that he was looking at the floor. ‘And Daniels is rubbish.’

  Nicholls looked up now. ‘Something like that, yeah. An old lady is dead isn’t she?’

  Vanner nodded. ‘She is, Joe. But you trying to do me a favour isn’t going to bring her back. Besides, Daniels has the bruises.’

  ‘Just a thought, Guv, That’s all.’

  ‘Appreciated.’

  The door to the office was opened and Berry put his head around it. ‘Mr McCague said to let you know that Superintendent Morrison is here, Guvnor,’ he said.

  Vanner looked up sharply. ‘Morrison. Andrew Morrison?’

  ‘Yes, Guv. CIB. You know him?’

  Vanner did not answer. He was looking at the blank wall between them, aware of the moisture gathering on his palms.

  Morrison was waiting for him in the interview room at the end of the corridor. McCague blocked his path as Vanner came through the double doors. ‘You okay?’

  Vanner nodded and moved to one side of him. McCague watched him, face puckered as though he was going to say something else. But then his gaze slithered away and he stepped aside. Vanner strode down the corridor. At the door to the interview room he paused, reflected momentarily; then he squared his shoulders and walked in.

  Morrison sat in a chair with his arms across his chest. His cropped, red hair seemed to chafe against the rolls of flesh lining the back of his neck. ‘Sit down, Vanner,’ he said.

  Vanner settled himself across the table from them and studied Morrison’s companion.

  ‘Inspector Scammell,’ Morrison said. ‘I think you know who I am.’

  Vanner looked at Scammell; crisp white shirt, paisley tie, soft brown hair. He looked back at Morrison.

  Morrison glanced at his wristwatch then he leaned forward and switched on the tape. ‘Interview commencing at 0640 hours, Sunday November 11th, 1994. Present are Chief Inspector Vanner of Loughborough Street Police Station, Superintendent Morrison and Inspector Scammell, Complaints Investigation Bureau.’ He picked up a sheet of paper. ‘You’ve been accused of assaulting a suspect during an interview, Chief Inspe
ctor.’ He looked at Vanner impassively.

  ‘That’s your happy look, isn’t it.’ Vanner said.

  Morrison pushed out his cheek with his tongue. ‘Careful.’

  Vanner crossed his ankle on his knee. ‘By the book Morrison’. That had been his tag in Dalkeith. Only one way of doing things—the right way. Woe betide anyone who steps on the line, let alone outside of it. A year in Dalkeith together. DCI Morrison. Twelve months of niggles; the barbed word, barely concealed distrust. Walk the line, Vanner. Do things the right way and they stay done. Go your own way and people get hurt. Very often your own people. That makes you dangerous.

  Later, from McCague, Vanner had found out that early in Morrison’s career a colleague had bent the rules with a drink-drive shunt, a fellow officer whose blood sample had been left on the radiator. A year later the same thing happened again, only this time there were two of them in the car. The passenger was left in a wheelchair.

  Vanner stared at Morrison now; small yet stocky, so self-assured with his perfectly knotted tie and his smoothly shaven face. Morrison looked back at him out of pale green eyes that smarted now and then like a tom-cat.

  ‘Shades of the past,’ Morrison said.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You want to talk about the past?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Scammell interrupted. ‘Chief Inspector, you’ve been accused of assault. Gareth Daniels is in hospital. His nose is broken.’

  Vanner snapped his head round. ‘Is that all? Eileen Mitchell is dead.’

  ‘Tell us what happened, Vanner,’ Morrison said. ‘What did you do to him?’

  ‘Obviously not enough.’

  Morrison wagged a finger. ‘Don’t make it any worse than it is.’

  Vanner sat back. ‘I hit him three times. Punched him in the face. Before that I gave him back the baseball bat so he could defend himself. The same bat he used to beat Eileen Mitchell to death.’

  ‘Allegedly.’ Morrison frowned at him.

  ‘What happened then?’ Scammell asked him.

  Vanner looked from Morrison’s face to his. ‘Sergeant Nicholls came in.’

  ‘Did he pull you off?’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘I only hit him the three times. I didn’t need pulling off.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Nicholls called DC Berry. Berry got the doctor for the kid and Nicholls took me back to my office.’

  ‘So nobody witnessed it—the actual assault?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you recall what exactly you were doing when Nicholls came in?’ Vanner shook his head. ‘Daniels claims you attacked him.

  ‘I did. I threw him the bat and then I hit him.’

  ‘He claims you just launched straight into him without warning. He claims you were punching him uncontrollably.’

  Vanner looked at Morrison. ‘I don’t do anything uncontrollably.’

  Morrison stood at the window watching the light stretch outside. Scammell had gone to fetch them some tea while they waited for Sergeant Nicholls. He could still feel Vanner, his presence in the room, though he had left it ten minutes ago. He watched the beginnings of the morning break in through the cloud and the rain that fell in sheets once more. It was cold in the room and he could feel the flesh rise on his arms. Vanner: what was it about the man that assaulted just about all of his senses? Dark hair, dark eyes, dark face. Tall and lean. So bloody sure of himself. DCI Vanner. Such a swift climb. He had only been in the Force nine years. Soldier. From the streets of Belfast with a gun to the streets of London without one. How could he deal with that? He didn’t though, did he? D11 with a gun and a dead man in a warehouse. Parachute regiment. The élite. Judge, jury, executioner. The type of bloke who can beat up a civvy in Aldershot and walk away from the charge.

  He thought back to the file he had read long ago. He wished he had taken a copy but that would be a breach of the rules—and how could he preach it down the line if he was not up to his own code? Besides, he did not need to read it again. He knew Vanner. Army as an enlisted man at sixteen. Three years as a squaddie then Sandhurst. The hard way. Captain at twenty-three. The Falklands War. Goose Green. Ulster. It grated with him.

  Scammell came in behind him and Morrison accepted a cup of tea. He sipped at it, turned to the window, and his thoughts returned to the killing once more.

  After they had left the hilltop outside Galashiels he had let Vanner drive. He remembered how he had wanted to watch him, observe him at close quarters.

  ‘What do you think?’ he had said as they turned north once more towards Edinburgh.

  ‘I’d like to see what SOCO shows up.’

  Morrison nodded jerkily. ‘So would I, but what do you think?’

  Vanner looked sideways at him. ‘Professional.’

  Again Morrison nodded. ‘That’s the word I would’ve used.’

  Vanner drove more quickly now; the sun had lifted and the ice gave way to a flaked slush at the edges of the road. ‘No discernible tyre-marks.’

  ‘Up there?’

  ‘Too icy. Like you said, the ground is too hard for anything fresh to show up.’

  ‘There was another car up there though,’ Morrison said.

  ‘Had to be. You can’t pin it down from the marks though.’

  ‘Motive?’

  Vanner shook his head. ‘Too early to tell.’

  Scammell cleared his throat and Morrison turned. ‘Sorry, David. I was miles away.’ He sipped his tea. ‘What do you think of Vanner then?’

  ‘What I expected. God knows why he did it though. Blown a whole career in three minutes.’

  ‘Been there before,’ Morrison muttered.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Scammell sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. Morrison furrowed his brow but said nothing.

  ‘He’s been heading up Operation Watchman for a while now,’ Scammell said. ‘That must be frustrating. No conviction I mean. Not a whole lot of leads. How long has it been going on?’

  ‘Nearly four years.’ Morrison was looking out the window again. It was not called Watchman originally, the phrase had been coined much later and by the press. The Galashiels killing remained an isolated incident for a year. Then Highbury, Brighton and finally Muswell Hill back in the summer. He himself had moved into CIB by then, promoted very soon after Galashiels in fact. Vanner had worked on the case with the Lothian boys until the Highbury killing in 1992. McCague’s special unit had picked it up after that. Odd thing about Highbury though, Vanner was in London when it happened. Afterwards he transferred down and the whole inquiry was shifted to Loughborough Street.

  ‘Must be getting to him, Sir,’ Scammell was saying. ‘Four murders. No conviction. The press on his back and everything.’

  Morrison wheeled around. ‘That’s no excuse, David. You know that. Violence in an interview room. A brawl in a police station. He’s a senior officer for God’s sake. He ought to know better. Besides he was right earlier. He never does anything uncontrollably. It doesn’t stop him doing it, but he always has a reason.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Scammell flicked ash from his cigarette. ‘D’you believe him?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘How it happened?’

  ‘I don’t think it matters. Do you?’

  Vanner loosened his collar and watched the rain against the window. Behind him in the outer office he was vaguely aware of the shift changing, and the stilted silence that descended as the word began to spread. Momentarily he was back in that room; last night, this morning, whenever it had been. There was no time to it. That boy. Baseball bat, the blood of the old woman barely dry on it. He felt again the rage inside him. Sudden, bloodied violence; a burst of unaccountable energy. One, two, three. Punches. Hard, jagged punches. The boy’s head jerking back. The sudden surprise in his face, and the clatter of wood as he lost his hold on the bat. McCague’s face before Morrison arrived: the incredulity in his expression; the de
spair behind his eyes. And Morrison. Andrew Morrison from Lothian. Vanner leaned the flat of his forehead on the window and cooled the heat in his flesh.

  He stood in McCague’s office with his hands behind his back, heels all but together as if he were back in the Army. McCague looked weary, helpless; as if he suddenly had no hold on his life. He ground a cigarette into the ashtray and shook out another.

  ‘Look at me,’ he muttered. ‘I packed these things in.’

  Vanner did not say anything.

  ‘Morrison.’ McCague shook his head. ‘Of all the Supers in CIB—why did it have to be Morrison? “By the book”. If ever anyone was made for CIB, he was.’ He took up his lighter and then laid it down again with a sigh. ‘Sit down, Aden. For God’s sake.’

  Vanner sat, gratefully; exhaustion pushed against the edges of his being. ‘Has he gone?’

  McCague nodded. ‘He and Scammell have gone round to Berry’s house to interview him.’

  Vanner looked up. ‘He wasn’t here?’

  McCague shook his head. ‘His wife was ill. I let him go.’

  Vanner managed a smile. ‘I bet that pleased Morrison.’

  They looked at one another and McCague smiled. ‘If it wasn’t only ten in the morning I’d suggest a drink.’

  ‘Is Morrison going to send a file to the CPS?’

  ‘What do you think?’ McCague toyed with his lighter again. ‘Why’d you do that, Aden? You of all people. My God, you know how this is going to look. The boys upstairs will pickle my balls in a jam jar.’

  Vanner thought about it. Why had he done it? A face, sparking some inexplicable memory. He could not put words around it. ‘What happens to me now?’ he said.

  ‘You’re suspended.’

  ‘Can I go home?’

  McCague nodded. ‘Stay around though, eh?’

  Vanner paused at the door. ‘Morrison will want me to sweat.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everyone must have their day.’

  Vanner left the office. He walked quickly down the stairs and almost knocked over Sarah Kennett. She took his arm and he paused.

  ‘Is it right what I’m hearing?’ Her face was upturned to his. Vanner nodded.