THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (19 page)

Des Cogan's Story
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I awoke feeling knackered. I had been up till daft o’clock sifting through the more recent files I’d found on Joel Davies. I had to hand it to Rick; he’d done a good job on the guy. Family history, alarm codes to his house, registration numbers of vehicles, mistresses, likes and dislikes, I felt like I’d known the guy for years. Then of course there were the pictures. I now had a face to put to the name. He looked like a bear to me.

The list of Rick’s hits was lengthy, starting with Joel’s own family right down to any poor bastard that stole a gram or two from him. He had certainly ruled with fear and used Rick as his constant weapon of choice.

There was a small section on Susan but no more than her name, date of birth and mother’s name. Her maiden name had been van der Zoort. This had been highlighted in red by Rick. I presumed recently.

Susan van der Zoort. The name certainly did fit a Dutch girl and if I wasn’t mistaken the ‘van der’ bit meant she was descended from money.

One thing did puzzle me. There was nothing at all on Stern, our Dutch big hitter. I realised that it was the last job Rick had done for Joel but if he was Joel’s chief supplier Rick would have had some reference to him somewhere earlier in the text. There was none. Without doubt Stern was ‘the’ international man of mystery.

With the information that I had, the weapons, transport and now cash, I felt I was nearly ready to start work. All I needed was some bodies to do the job with. I would have much preferred to use guys from the Regiment, but Rick had few friends there after his spectacular fall from grace. And not many ever believed Rick’s theories of Army Secret Service involvement in Cathy’s murder.

The only place I could think to start was Georgie Richards and I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. Despite my misgivings about walking into a Yardie wake I had to prepare for the tasks ahead.

I needed a flat and once again my trusty Manchester evening paper gave me the information I needed. After two hours on the phone I finally had a shortlist of flats to see that were available immediately. I certainly couldn’t stay in the hotel much longer. Before I could go flat hunting though, I had to check out the cemetery where Tanya’s funeral would take place.

I’d downloaded both of Rick’s memory sticks onto my laptop and encrypted them as best I could using Windows software. I destroyed the copies, stowed the computer in left luggage and set off to Moston Cemetery.

The rain hit me as soon as I left the lobby and by the time I’d made it to the car I was soaked. I had packed some good waterproof gear for my visit and I would need it.

Moston was a downtrodden area of Manchester but the cemetery itself was well maintained and situated between two mature wooded areas. It was a big place and there must have been over two thousand graves. I parked a good distance away and walked to the gates. It was pouring, and the place was deserted except for two men who were digging a fresh grave in the south east corner of the cemetery. It had to be for Tanya. I checked where the funeral procession would enter and found a spot where I could observe without being seen. It would involve getting there before first light and, if this weather was to continue, getting very cold and wet. It had always been part of my life, sitting in holes in the ground. I actually enjoyed it.

I knew that there would be a police presence at the funeral, some uniformed and some not, so it was imperative that I did the job right and didn’t get compromised.

I was happy that I had found a good obs point, yet depressed by the sight of so many graves. They were a constant reminder that I had been surrounded by death most of my adult life, yet I had never got used to loss.

I walked back to the Audi formulating my next move. I had six flats to look at but I decided my next task would be to dump the Range Rover somewhere in town. It was just too hot and just about the only thing left that could compromise me. Once that little job was out of the way I could go and house hunt. 

The Rover was where I left it at the rear of the Woodland Hotel. I felt it was best to leave the Remington and Browning I had stored in it earlier, under the seats, and use the car as an emergency vehicle if things went pear-shaped.

She fired up first time and I set off looking for a long stay car park. I was pretty sure I’d seen a place on Portland Street on my earlier shopping trip, so I drove through the university district towards the city.

As I got to Oxford Road I knew I had company.

A dark blue Lexus saloon with two guys aboard had been with me for too long. I felt the tell-tale tingle of excitement, but also the fear of being completely alone.

I took a sharp left just before the railway station, and did a right under the arches. Sure enough the two boys were still behind.

I’d done my advanced driving course in a Range Rover. The police instructors called it the mobile jelly mould because of its handling characteristics, but if you drove it right it performed well enough.

I couldn’t be sure if the guys were police or not. I was about to find out.

I floored the accelerator and burst out of a line of traffic heading toward the Palace Theatre. The car behind mirrored my move and stuck to me like glue. There was no attempt at defensive driving from my pursuers so I dragged the Remington from under the seat. I knew it was loaded and the safety was on. I needed to lose these guys quickly and with the minimum fuss. The idea of slotting them both in the middle of a Manchester street was a non-starter.

The lights ahead were red and there were two lines of queuing traffic. I batted down the outside of them and flew through the junction against the lights. I missed a taxi approaching from the left but clipped the front of a green saloon that was travelling a little quicker. I heard the sound of brakes and a blaring horn, but I was off and away. The Range Rover was an automatic and the engine screamed as the gearbox went into kick-down.

The damage to the car seemed superficial and it handled itself through the next junction as I took a hard left over the tram tracks and toward Piccadilly. I looked in the mirror and saw the Lexus was still there, but it sported some damage to the front. I kept my foot firmly on the floor. As I reached seventy mph he closed in on me. I hit the brakes hard.

The Lexus slammed into the back of the Range Rover and my seatbelt cut into my chest, winding me. I hit the accelerator again and with some difficulty pulled the Rover off the car behind. The Lexus was a write-off and I could see that one of the guys inside was badly injured. The driver was fighting with an air bag. I knew I had them, but was also aware of the growing crowd of shoppers staring in my direction. I could have walked over to the pair and taken my revenge there and then. I also decided that it was too risky to try and lift one of the guys. It would have been ideal. Information was king in the game I was playing. But I had a nosey crowd and with camera phones being so popular I buggered off quick sharp.

The virtually undamaged Rover bubbled away in the middle of the road. Within thirty seconds I was off and walking. I’d lost the car and worse still the weapons inside. The police would find the car, and them, very soon. It had turned into a very bad day before I could even make a start. Within hours the police would find my fingerprints and some fibre samples from my clothes. They may even find some DNA.

I didn’t have a criminal record so they had nothing to match the prints to; it just meant that I had to stay out of trouble for the rest of my life. Not easy in my game.

I caught a cab back toward the Woodland Hotel. I jumped out a couple of hundred yards from the place and bought a baseball cap and a scarf. Then I did a recce before risking entering the lobby. I had changed my appearance sufficiently with the hat and scarf so as to put off any snoopers with just a description of me. I packed everything I had and paid a final visit to reception to pay my bill. It had to be there and then. I needed another safe place.

My mind turned to the Lexus as I collected everything I’d stored in the left luggage. The boys weren’t coppers. That was for sure. The place would have been teeming with the squad as soon as the chase started if it had been coppers. If I had been followed by a police surveillance team there would have been at least two other vehicles in the tail and I wouldn’t have noticed them till the team did a hard stop on me. That’s the way they worked.

No, they were definitely not the law. I did have a sneaking suspicion that one of the two boys had a radio earpiece but I couldn’t be sure. Would Stern’s boys be tooled up with shortwave comms? How did they find the Range Rover so quickly?

I put it all to the back of my mind and concentrated on stowing my kit. I had to find somewhere quickly and prepare for the funeral. It was three p.m. I had twelve hours to be on plot.

Lauren North's Story

High Dependence Unit, Leeds General Hospital.    

The mystery patient appeared to be more popular than ever. Two surly detectives had been to see the consultant neurosurgeon in charge of his case around four p.m. The specialist had told the officers that there had been no change in the man’s condition and that the prognosis of them ever being able to talk to him was fifty-fifty at best. The dour-looking men looked even more upset when they left.

I was on a twelve-hour shift, due to finish at three a.m. and Jane was busying herself with the collective nightly medication for the unit. As I walked past her desk she hissed at me to stop.

“What’s going on with the Invisible Man?”

Jane had christened the patient with the film character’s nickname due to the facial bandages which all but covered the man’s face.

“Nothing,” I replied, knowing that there would be a follow up from my friend. She leaned forward with a conspiratorial tone. 

“I told you he was a gangster. Detectives, eh? Under guard and now detectives.”

“Don’t go making a mountain out of a molehill, Jane,” I said sharply.

Jane knew I disliked policemen, especially detectives.

“I think you have a soft spot for our invisible friend, Lauren.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well what did the coppers want then?”

“I don’t know, they saw the specialist and he told them his prognosis and that was it, they left.”

Jane looked crestfallen at the lack of gossip and went about her duties filling syringes.

From my station desk, I sat and stared at the man lying there, in the half light of the ward. I watched as his guard stood, stretched and shuffled toward the staffroom. When I was certain the young copper had gone for his break, I stood and walked to the end of his bed.

Our mystery man was surrounded by the best of modern technology. His heart rate, blood pressure and breathing were constantly monitored. He was nourished by intravenous drips. He had been heavily sedated when he arrived, but within twelve hours he was breathing unaided without any ventilation or sedation. His pupils reacted to light but he was totally unresponsive to any other action. My mind worked overtime.

He held no possessions. No clothes and no jewellery. Most patients, even if they had no visitors at all, had some possessions. A watch or a diary, anything at all. This guy had zilch. The police had taken his shirt away for forensic examination. I’d overheard one of the detectives talking about finding two blood types on it. His trousers, underwear and socks had been removed by the burns unit and incinerated. 

Then I noticed he was wearing a wedding band. A plain gold band, the simplest of rings. I walked to him, sat next to his bed on a plastic chair and spoke in quiet even tones as I did with all my brain-damaged patients.

“Hello, and how are we feeling today?”

I didn’t expect a response and got none.

I imagined who he might be. My mind wandered and fancied he would have a beautiful wife, and, for some reason, money. Almost absently I said to myself, “Where is your wife, mister? What is her name?”

Nothing.

“I’ll bet she misses you. I bet she’s worried.”

I took hold of his hand and cradled it in mine. It was smooth and his nails had been manicured. I mused that they were in better condition than my own. The ring was clean and on further examination I realised that it was only present as it couldn’t be removed. His hand was swollen from some trauma and the ring was tight. There were lesions on his wrist. He’d been bound.

“I wonder why she hasn’t visited you?” I spoke my thoughts under my breath, watching for the return of his guard.

His one visible eyelid flickered slightly, common with all patients, and I looked at him closely for the first time.

He was a big man, broad shouldered and powerful. He carried no excess weight at all. He looked like he had a gym membership somewhere and used it well. Despite his obvious desire to look after himself and the very expensive manicure, he had never bothered with the fashion of waxing his body. He had a hairy chest and I almost smiled at myself for thinking Pierce Brosnan or a younger Sean Connery was wrapped in those bandages.  

I decided that someone must be missing the man. “Someone important, I think.”

The burns to his legs were severe looking. I was no expert on burn injuries but I thought he may need grafts to repair the damage. One thing I had decided. This was not an appalling accident. He’d been tortured terribly. I lifted the dressing near to his right ankle and saw that his feet had been tied as well as his hands. My mind whirled. What kind of person ends up this way? Was he a gangster after all?

As I sat contemplating my mystery man, his consultant appeared at my shoulder.

“Any change, Sister?”

Mr Kahn was an imposing figure. He was a Sikh, well over six feet topped with a pure white turban that matched his starched coat. He was a most respected neurologist, but a terrible bore.

“Are we expecting a change, sir?”

Kahn crinkled his nose, pushed his glasses back toward his eyes and then stroked his impressive beard. “This is a most interesting case, Sister. I have only ever seen one more like it in my entire career. A most interesting scenario indeed.”

I was even more intrigued. Kahn’s reputation for boring the pants off anyone who would listen had spread around the whole hospital. So much so that he rarely had the opportunity to tell his war stories. I bit the bullet as my curiosity got the better of me.

“Really?”

“Yes, when I studied in the USA I came across an identical injury. The man was dead, of course. It was a suicide case.”

“Oh.” I said, blankly. 

“The poor man in question had parked his car in a McDonald’s car lot to watch his estranged children enter there. His wife had prevented him from visiting them after a very messy divorce, you see. He had lapsed into a severe depression and he was on strong medication. He watched his children enter the burger bar, saw that they looked happy and smiling without him, and decided to end it all. I suppose he felt they didn’t need him. Very sad, you know.”

“So what happened?” I mentally rapped my own knuckles for seeming too keen. Kahn looked a little surprised at my enthusiasm, but continued.

“The man took a handgun and, intending to end it all there and then, put it into his mouth. So!”

Kahn pushed his index and middle fingers into his own mouth to demonstrate and then attempted to speak.

“I’m sure you have seen this many times on the movies, Sister?”

I nodded furiously, completely enthralled with the story. I could barely hide my glee at the thought that Jane was missing this.

Kahn removed his fingers and sat on the end of the bed, carefully avoiding the man’s burned feet.

“Now then,” he smiled. “At this point, the poor man lost his courage. He didn’t want to die after all. He lost control and started to weep. The trouble was there were parents and children entering the restaurant who could see all this. They reported the man’s behaviour to the police. Within minutes the LAPD were there and surrounded the man’s car. As the first officer leapt from his patrol vehicle the man panicked, pushed the weapon back into his mouth and pulled the trigger. BOOM!”

Kahn laughed as he saw me flinch at his description of gunfire but quickly became animated as he continued his tale.

“The police officers were just as hyped up as the man in the car. Hearing the gunshot, and fearing for their own safety, they fired on the man’s vehicle. Six officers in all emptied their weapons into that poor man’s car.”

“Bit pointless,” I quipped.

Kahn shook his head from side to side and made a strange pouting shape with his mouth as if sucking an imaginary sweet.

“Not at all, Sister; you see when the post mortem was carried out, the cause of death was found to be a direct hit to the man’s heart. Yes, the man had placed his own weapon into his mouth, but when he pulled the trigger the bullet struck his wisdom tooth and exited through his cheek.”

Now I was enthralled.

“Really and he would have lived?”

“Definitely. Indeed, as I was to learn, the behaviour of a bullet is not as straightforward as you might think. The man would have lived and he was not alone. In the USA there are over ten examples of this type of injury.”

I closed my mouth as I was beginning to feel like a fish.

“And our man here?”

Kahn shrugged.

“He has been deliberately scalded with liquid and then someone decided to finish him off. Whoever his tormentors were, they obviously don’t read
The Lancet
or they would know what we do now.”

He belly laughed as if this was the funniest thing on the planet and I made a note to myself never to date a doctor again.

“Will he regain consciousness?” I pressed.

“It is possible. You see when the bullet struck this man’s tooth, the velocity and power of the impact would have been massive. Similar to brain injuries suffered by casualties of high speed motorcycle accidents. He may do, but what state he will be in, if and when he does, is in the hands of God.”

I was about to ask another question when the young constable that was charged with the man’s protection returned. Kahn nodded courteously at the officer and left. As he did he tapped the bridge of his nose with his finger.

I somehow didn’t need reminding to stay mum.

“Good evening, Constable.” I said primly.

The young guy wasn’t interested. He was bored.

“Just been for a brew,” he muttered.

I walked back to my desk and sat tiredly. Jane was over in a flash.

“What’s happening then?” she hissed.

“Nothing, Jane.” I pulled off both shoes and rubbed my feet. I wasn’t really listening. I had so much going on inside my head.

“Awww, come on, Lauren.”

I looked at my friend and lowered my voice.

“Okay, he’s been shot in the mouth.”

Jane nearly burst but managed to keep her voice to a whisper.

“I told you! I bloody well told you, he’s a gangster.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Maybe, my arse, he’s Al Capone.”

We both laughed like a pair of schoolgirls.

The policeman didn’t notice.