THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (21 page)

I got myself some cottage pie and chips and was washing it down with a hot cup of tea when I got myself some company again.

This time it was most welcome.

Her name badge announced Sister Lauren North. She walked to my table and sat without invitation. She was beautiful.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she chirped.

“Not at all, hen.”

She smiled at me briefly and tucked into her meal. There was a silence until she lowered her fork and asked,

“Are you new here?”

I swallowed more tea and used my cover.

“I don’t work here, I’ve just brought a patient over from the incident in Manchester. The bomb, you know?”

She seemed fascinated.

“Oh my God, yes, terrible, isn’t it? They say it was gangsters.”

“Do they?”

“Well yes, they say that the people who were killed were Yardies,” she pushed a piece of tomato in her mouth and chewed vigorously, “and they’re gangsters aren’t they?”

Her innocence amused me at a time I needed it most. I resisted a smile.

“I suppose so.”

She ate some more, but stopped abruptly. She leaned slightly closer, a move I found most pleasing, and lowered her voice.

“We have a gangster on my ward right now,” she hissed.

I played the game.

“Really, is it Al Capone?”

Lauren looked slightly cross when she realised I was teasing her but remained undaunted.

“Well that’s what my friend Jane calls him.” She tapped her fork on her plate. ”But I know for certain he is. Not Al Capone I mean, but a gangster.”

“And how do you know that then, Lauren.”

Her eyes gleamed, she was enjoying her moment and I could smell her. She was a truly stunning creature. I just didn’t think she knew it.

“Well, there was this guy in America who tried to kill himself with a gun. He put it in his mouth, pulled the trigger, but he didn’t die of it.”

I looked puzzled.

She shook her head.

“What I mean is, this guy on my ward, well someone put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, but he didn’t die either.”

I still looked puzzled but didn’t care. She was a sight to behold.

“Gangsters poured boiling water on his legs to get him to talk, and then they put a gun in his mouth, thought they’d killed him and left him in the road. Someone found him and brought him here, no one knows who he is and…”

I stood up and I could feel my heart race. My mind slapped me down instantly. The coincidence was just too bloody obvious; too cosy.

“Where is he?” I snapped.

“What?”

“Where is this man? Can you take me to him?

“Well, I, I mean, I suppose I could.” Lauren seemed perturbed by my reaction but I couldn’t help myself. I’d left my grey man impression back in the blood-soaked dirt in Moston.

I stopped, raised my hands and took a deep breath, forcing a smile.

“I’m sorry, Lauren, what I’m trying to say is, in a very bad tempered way, would I be able to see his wounds?”

I fought my way back to regular breathing. “You see, I am writing a paper on unusual gunshot injuries.”

She seemed to relax a little.

“Erm, okay, I don’t see why not. They’ll have taken off his dressings now. I believe he’s pretty bad though. I haven’t been up yet.”

I offered my hand together with a genuine grin and coaxed her to her feet. I let myself feel good for a few seconds.

“I’ll be okay, trust me, I’m a doctor.”

She stood, brushed down her uniform with clean hands, her nails clipped short and un-varnished. She gave me a look that told me I was slightly crazy.

“I suppose I can take you then, but just for a few moments.”

We walked briskly along disinfected corridors. Lauren’s sensible shoes clicked as I spoke.

“I’m Des, by the way.”

“Really,” she said.

Lauren North's Story:

The cheek of the guy! I mean, I’d sat across from him in all innocence and told him the best bit of gossip Leeds’ side of the Pennines and he just took the Michael out of me. The next minute, he changed personalities faster than Robbie Williams on jellies.

I knew he was looking at me, as he kept one step behind me as we walked. On the plus side he was a handsome man, a bit mad maybe, even scary, but handsome. On the minus side, he was a doctor and I had made myself that solemn promise.

No more doctors.   

As we strode down the corridor towards the lift, he was talking incessantly, asking questions about the patient’s prognosis. If he was writing a paper, he certainly took it seriously.

He was a bit small for me, but well put together. Not in a muscular way but his veins were pure wire.

A rough diamond too. Not exactly your doctor type. I could hardly contain my smile. If I’d fallen over a heroic figure that regularly volunteered for duty in some war-torn African state and was writing a book on his findings, Jane would be absolutely livid.

We got in the lift.

“Where in Scotland are you from?”

He seemed impatient and distant for a second.

“The Gorbals.”

“I see, is it nice there?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” his face creased into a smile, “as you can imagine, I’ve had a traumatic day.”

I suddenly realised how damn insensitive I’d been. I mean the guy had just been to a bomb blast. He could even be traumatised himself and I was accusing him of schizophrenia.

“No, I’m sorry.” I placed the flat of my hand on my chest and took a deep breath, suddenly embarrassed.

“I’m just amazed that you want to see more injuries today.”

The lift stopped and he smiled again.

“Thank you for your concern, Lauren, I’ll be fine, now, which way?”

I walked Des to the cool, quiet ward. It was a seven-bed unit. One was empty, awaiting the arrival from surgery of a bomb blast victim.

He stopped at the entrance to the ward. Something was troubling him. I thought it might have been the uniformed police officer sitting by the patient’s bed. I stepped forward and spoke to the young constable.

“Constable, this is Dr…” I fished for a surname.

“Cogan,” Des obliged, stepping close behind me.

“Yes, Cogan,” I blurted. “He needs to examine the patient.”

I nodded at our man who’d had his facial bandages removed. A smaller dressing covered the wound on his cheek.

The policeman seemed to get the message, folded his newspaper and strolled toward the staffroom.

Then something troubled me.

I couldn’t place my distress at first, and then it came to me. It was Dr Fagan’s hands. When he had taken my hand in the canteen, they were like oak. Not like doctor’s hands at all. I knew, I’d been married to one.

“You okay?” I asked.

He just stared at the bed containing the mystery gangster. He didn’t approach, just looked.

I took his hand again, I don’t know why. I felt the strength in it and he squeezed mine in his. I suddenly realised that I’d been in this very same position many times before. Des was behaving like a relative.

“Do you know him?”

He gave no reaction.

“Doctor?”

He seemed to snap out of his dream-world but his voice was flat.

“Is it okay to inspect his wounds now, Sister?”

I looked around for any sign of the consultant or the duty matron. I began to feel very uncomfortable.

“I suppose so.”

It was the first time I had seen the patient without his dressings myself as they were removed whilst Jane and I were off duty. His facial features were severely distorted. His left cheek looked like it housed a Jaffa orange.

Des moved slowly to him but rather than start his examination, sat on a chair at the side of the man’s bed. He placed his hands to his face and rubbed his cheeks. He seemed speechless.

“You do know him, don’t you?” I whispered.

He just nodded. 

“I think you’d better go.” I said.

Des looked at me. His ice blue eyes bore into me. They didn’t plead, they demanded my attention. His voice was low and even.

“We need to talk, you and me. There’s nothing to be scared of. He isn’t a gangster and neither am I. Do you believe me, Lauren?”

I smiled nervously, not knowing what else to do. I thought about calling security, but there was something about Des Fagan that made me trust him.

He stood.

“What time do you get off work?”

“Eleven o’clock, why?”

His face changed again and he smiled. “Let me tell you a tall story over a wee drink.”

I heard myself say yes.

Des Cogan's Story:

I was in total shock. I couldn’t believe Rick was alive. The jammy bastard had done it again. Once more he had cheated the Reaper. I had to say I was over the fucking moon. Everything seemed peachy. It was the closest thing to a religious experience I had ever known. My mother would have had me down the chapel every night for a month. I almost skipped down the corridors, a big smile on my face. Then, without warning, a picture of the young boy, blown into my path by the cemetery bomb, tore into my mind. I stood still, my head swimming. I thought I might faint and sat heavily on a bench seat, my eyes squeezed tight together in an attempt to obliterate the horror.

I waited and waited until he released me. My balance was restored, my Karma.

I had a friend once. He was a Polish Airman, from Krakow. He was a very dour guy, never prone to outbursts of emotion good or bad.

One day we had all been celebrating something or other and Jack was sitting quietly in a corner with his orange juice. I sat down beside him and asked him why he wasn’t joining in the fun. It was then he explained Karma to me. He used the analogy of a pendulum, with joy at one extreme and pain at the other. He tried to keep his Karma steady with the most moderate of swings in any direction. Swing too far toward joy and gravity would ensure that an equally painful event was around the corner.

Jack was centred, literally.

My pendulum had just had a field day and Jack’s theory had proved all too correct. I regained my feet and started to get my head together. The job had taken a turn for the better but it was still a live operation. I knew what Rick would want me to do and I intended to do it.

I had no idea if I could trust Lauren, but I had no choice. She seemed a pretty sorted person but whether she would bottle it later in the day and tell her boss or the police, only time would tell.

I took a black cab from outside the hospital to the nearest Travelodge, having arranged to meet Lauren at eleven-thirty at a bar in the city centre. I sorted a hire car with the receptionist. It was delivered whilst I slept. Despite being totally exhausted, I didn’t sleep well.

After two hours of tossing and turning I took the hire car and drove back to my last hotel in Didsbury, Manchester. I nervously picked up all my kit and drove back to Leeds, which would have to be my base for a while. Rick was my first priority. Fuck Davies and Stern. I needed my mate back in action.

I risked a smile as I realised the bastard would want his boots, and all that money back. He could have it with pleasure.

After an uneventful drive back to Leeds I did my best to secrete the weapons and kit in the hotel room. The hire car would do me for a couple of days. My Audi back in Manchester was just too risky.

I felt the need to clear my head and went for a run. The area was hardly conducive to rural life but exercise was exercise. I’d been running for forty minutes at a steady pace. The Travelodge was close to an industrial estate. I’d passed numerous car sales pitches and warehouse premises, glaring neon signs reflected on the wet tarmac and occasional ropes of bare white light bulbs illuminated cheap Fords and Vauxhalls. Fluorescent banners boasted ‘low mileage’ or ‘one owner’. I increased my pace. I could feel my body start to relax and my breathing fell more into step with each stride. It always took me the first five miles to settle into my rhythm. Once I found the zone I could run marathon distances. I found myself running towards Chapeltown. This was the notorious red light area where The Yorkshire Ripper had plied his bloody trade. Leeds looked a rough old town to me, and coming from a weegie that wasn’t too complimentary. Thankfully it was also a place where I could disappear for a while, until I knew how Rick would fare. I turned for home at sixty minutes. I arrived back breathless and made a mental note to do more fitness work as soon as possible.

I showered, shaved and found some passable clothes to wear. I had to admit, that despite everything, I was secretly looking forward to meeting Lauren.

The helpful girl on the reception desk organised a cab for me and I set off to my arranged meeting. It was either quite a way around the ring road or the driver was taking the piss. Either way I was totally lost. I decided that it wasn’t worth the hassle to argue with the cabbie.

Eventually I arrived fifteen quid lighter and an hour early. I couldn’t be totally sure that Lauren wouldn’t have organised a welcoming committee for me so I did a full recce of the gaff before I got comfortable and settled with a pint. The place was pretty quiet for the time of night. It was called ‘The Font’ and was a typical city bar, all bare wood and mood lighting. It was three quid for a pint of Stella and I mused that it wasn’t that much of a surprise the gaff was half empty.

I found myself what looked like a comfy sofa that kept my back to a wall and gave me a good view on the entrance, and sipped my reassuringly expensive brew.

At eleven twenty-seven p.m. she arrived.

She wore a black woollen coat over her nurse’s uniform. She obviously hadn’t had time to change and looked a little harassed. She hadn’t seen me and I left it that way for a few moments until I was sure she didn’t have any company. When I was certain she was alone I stood and caught her eye.

She smiled at me, opened her coat to reveal more of her work clothes and shrugged her shoulders in apology. “Sorry, Des, I just didn’t have any time to change. The guy you came to the hospital with went into arrest just before ten.”

She took on a resigned look. “We lost him.”

The bomb had claimed its twelfth victim. “He was badly hurt, Lauren.”

She sat. “Yeah, I suppose, but he was only young, wasn’t he?”

I found a waiter and Lauren asked for a red wine. Finally we sat together and I took a good look at her. I figured she was in her mid-thirties. She could have been anything from thirty to thirty-eight. It was hard to tell. She was at least five feet ten and I was pleased to see she still wore her flat sensible shoes from work. She had dark hair that just touched her shoulders. It looked thick and shone healthily in the candlelight. Her eyes were a stunning light green and, despite her long shift, they sparkled as she spoke.

She had a touch of Yorkshire in her voice, but it wasn’t her birthplace. There was something else in the mix, a bit of a southern quality, a bit of English rose. Her tone was defiant. She took a sip of her wine and looked me in the eye.

“I haven’t got a clue why I’m here, Des. I should have gone to the police really.”

“That’s an option,” I said.

She lifted her glass and took a bigger drink. She had a full petal-shaped mouth but I couldn’t detect any lipstick. Indeed I couldn’t see any make-up at all.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It was almost a masculine gesture.

“I have to say, I’m intrigued; stupid, but intrigued. I mean, a woman on her own, risking life and limb, not to say anything of her career, just to help two guys I have no connection with, both of whom could be Scarface himself. It’s not clever.”

“I told you, I’m not a gangster and neither is Rick.”

She took a large gulp of her wine and waved the empty glass at the waitress.

“So you say. Well, I suppose that’s all right then. I always trust people that have a bullet hole in their head and that are being guarded by the coppers. Not to mention someone posing as a doctor, because you’re not a doctor, are you, Des?”

“No”

“Well then.” She moved her hands around in small circles to emphasise her point.

“That’s obviously why I’m helping James bloody Bond and his Scottish sidekick.”

Her wit was mixed with genuine fear. I could see it. I smiled at her and she fell silent.

“Just give me a few moments. I will tell you the truth, I promise. I have no one else that can help me. If you want to walk away after you hear what I have to say then so be it. You can do that. I won’t try to stop you or hurt you. Do you believe that, Lauren?”

She nodded and took her second glass of wine.

I took a deep breath and began.

“Rick isn’t a gangster, he’s an ex-soldier. Rick and I served together in Northern Ireland and too many other battlefields to mention. I’ve known him for twenty-six years. He’s my best mate. He comes from Hertfordshire. His father was a soldier, as was his grandfather. Both were killed in action. He was brought up in children’s homes as a result but he was a clever lad. He could have gone to Sandhurst but refused. I met him when we were in the Parachute Regiment together. We were never the type to get involved with anything criminal. We were posted to Ireland to work in a small team the army called a multi-agency unit. Our task was to observe several IRA cells who were involved in funding the terrorists’ weapons operation. Their largest single form of income was the trade in illicit drugs. Heroin from Afghanistan, cocaine from Columbia and cannabis from Europe. Our job was to watch and listen, but when we were sure we had the main men, it was our job to kill them.”

Lauren spat wine onto her coat and rubbed it furiously.

“Shit, sorry, erm, okay, go on.”

“That has been our life, Lauren. Rick and I were the kind of men who kept the balance in terrorist wars. Publicly, governments always had to play fair. The terrorist boys could do what the hell they liked. Drugs, prostitution, extortion, torture. Shit, even when we caught them we had to pay for their legal team out of our taxes. It was a way of balancing the books. Eventually, of course, the press got hold of what they called the ‘shoot to kill’ policy in Northern Ireland and tactics changed. I went to fight another war. Unfortunately Rick didn’t.”

Lauren raised a brow. “He didn’t?”

I shook my head and felt a twinge of sadness. “Rick lost his wife. She was murdered by the organisation. The IRA. It sent him crazy for a while. I thought he would top himself. It was awful.

“Rick blamed the secret service for the death of his wife. He never believed the IRA found his home without inside help. He turned into a man who I no longer knew. Guys who leave the Regiment do things when they retire that most normal people would never envisage. They become bodyguards, sell weapons even fight for other armies as mercenaries.”

I took a big gulp of my lager, wiped my mouth and went into the hard bit. “Rick went to work for a really nasty character. He was his debt collector. They even called Rick that: ‘The Collector’.

“He’d spend thousands on cars and clothes but he was miserable. He had a penthouse and all the money you would ever need. He kept working, taking dirty money. He took bigger and bigger risks. Finally he needed a team to go and collect a boat from Amsterdam that had been stolen from his client. He contacted me and asked if I would help, be part of his team.

“To be honest, I was bored and needed something to do, so I agreed. Four of us went to Holland to get the boat and it all went pear-shaped. We were set up. One of our team was killed. A girl called Tanya Richards.

“The people killed by the bomb, this morning, were all her family. It was her funeral. It’s been five days since Amsterdam. In that time, Rick has been tortured, scalded with water, shot in the mouth, to all intents murdered and dumped in a deserted lane. A man tried to kill me at my home in Scotland and Tanya’s family has been wiped out by a bomb the IRA would have been proud of.”

Lauren was dumbstruck.

“So the people with the boat in Amsterdam, killed all those poor people?”

“Possibly”

“And the man who tried to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you, erm, did you…?”

“Kill him? Yes, Lauren, I had to.” 

She looked blankly at me and bit her lip. The story wasn’t going well.

“And what about the fourth person that went to Amsterdam? Is he okay?”

“She,” I spat, “Susan Davies, wife of the infamous Joel Davies. Well, our Susan was an altogether different matter, Lauren.”

As I let the tale unfold, Lauren seemed to relax a little. I talked until the early hours. We were the last people to leave and, as I promised, I told her everything I knew. Death, drugs and all.

We were both a little tipsy by the time we stood waving down a taxi. Lauren hugged herself against the cold. Her pale face began to show pink extremities. She turned to me.

“I’ve been thinking,” she slurred, “if I’m going to help you, we have to have a cover up.”

I laughed. “You mean a cover story.”

She stamped her feet. “Yes, one of those. I mean my friend Jane will cotton on in an instant if you just keep turning up all over the place. So, we have to have a cover up, erm story.”

“And what will that be?”

The taxi pulled up and she jumped in. I closed the door for her and she wound down the window to speak.

“You’ll have to be my boyfriend,” she giggled.

The taxi drove away, leaving me warm as toast on the pavement.