THE FALL: SAS hero turn Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 3)

by Robert White

  The woman was getting closer. Donald hopped from foot to foot. “Be reasonable here, Des. A man has needs, you know?”

  I prodded the wee jobbie in the chest. “Needs you say? I’ll show you fucking needs, pal. Remember our chat in the garden, the day Anne died? Remember you said you couldn’t put her out of her pain, because it was a sin…against the Commandments ye said…remember that, pal?”

  Donald’s voice was no more than a whisper. “Yes, I remember, but…”

  I got right in his face. “But fuckin’ nothing, Donald. Unless my bible class was seriously flawed, adultery is firmly on that list, eh?”

  The blonde reached us. “Everything all right here, Donald?” she said in a sing-song Edinburgh accent.

  I turned, and gave her a big beaming smile.

  “Everything’s fine here…Mary, isn’t it?” I held out a hand which she took. “I’m Des, an old friend of the family…did you and Donald have a nice wee holiday, hen?”

  The woman relaxed instantly. “Oh, aye, we did so, Des, thank you.”

  The girl wasn’t backward in coming forward, I’ll give her that. Attending the reading of the will of a woman whose husband you’d obviously been shagging for some time, was bare-faced cheek.

  “Barbados is lovely this time of year, Des…you should go yourself,” she cooed.

  I could have slapped her. Instead, I kept up the smile and nodded toward her ample cleavage. “Well, you’ve a bonny tan on ye, I’ll say that, Mary.”

  She placed a hand over her chest, pretended to be coy, and turned to her lover. “We need to go inside now, Donald, it’s nearly time.”

  I gave them both another look at my shiny new gnashers. “Why don’t we all go inside together eh?”

  The office was a small affair. Three chairs were set out, and a portly woman, who I knew to be Anne’s Aunt Bessie from Cork, took up one seat. The other two were obviously for Donald and me. I have to say I was shocked at the lack of other relations, but it was obviously Anne’s choice.

  Mary stood looking uncomfortable and disgruntled in equal amounts. The brief who was about to start the reading was blunt.

  “Are you a relative, Mrs…?”

  “McGowan,” said Mary, filling the gap. “No, I’m just here to support Donald… as a friend.”

  “Aye right,” snorted Bessie. The old girl was obviously as pleased to see Mary as I was.

  “Well, I’m sorry, Ms. McGowan,” said the brief stonily. “But I’ll have to ask you to wait outside during the proceedings.”

  Mary looked crestfallen, but realising she had no choice, turned on her heels and was out of the door.

  Bessie turned to Donald and gave him a look that would have turned most to salt. “A pity we can’t do the same with you…you fuckin’ bollocks,” she spat.

  I gave the old girl a smile, we all sat, and the will was read.

  Bessie had been left a portrait, some china and some silver, which seemed to please her.

  There was over thirty grand in a savings account, that was going to Donald. It seemed like he’d expected that. I reckoned he’d already spent most of it on a car and a holiday.

  Then the brief turned to me.

  “Mr Cogan,” he began, “It was Anne’s wish that the dwelling, known as Hillside Cottage and all its contents are left to you.”

  My mouth must have dropped open. Donald’s chin hit the fuckin’ rug.

  “That can’t be right,” blurted Donald, standing up, attempting to see the will itself.

  The brief was cool as a cucumber, obviously used to these kinds of antics at readings.

  “Sit down, sir,” he boomed. Then turning again to me, he said, “Copies of the deeds will be sent to your home address, Mr Cogan. The property is mortgage free and there can be no challenge to this ruling as your ex-wife owned the property outright. There is also a letter from Anne that she wished me to pass to you. I will send that along with the legal documents.” The guy stood. “That is all, and I’ll bid you all a good day.”

  Donald flew into a rage.

  “This is a damned disgrace I tell you,” he bellowed. “A disgrace I say.”

  The noise attracted Mary from downstairs and she stuck her orange face around the door.

  “Is everything alright, Donald?” she asked worriedly.

  I stood, pushed past the blonde and said, “Everything is fucking peachy, Mary.”

  Lauren North’s Story:

  When I saw my white Audi RS6 parked outside the rehab centre, my stomach did a little flip. I’d had to hide the car away after we used it to chase the three Irish through the streets of Manchester. The boys obviously deemed the car useable again, but as glad as I was to see my most expensive purchase to date in pristine condition, I was even more thrilled to see Des and JJ leaning against it.

  Rick struggled with his luggage as he negotiated the steps to the car. Neither Des nor JJ moved or offered to help him. They both knew he was still in pain and his injuries were causing him grief. Nonetheless, they watched him fight with his matching Louis Vuitton numbers, pointed, made very un-PC cracks about old men and cripples, and smoked. I was unsure which annoyed Rick most, but I was glad the boys were on form.

  My single case and I fared better than the big fella, as my physical injuries were in far better shape than the inside of my head. The grand steps negotiated, I was hugged by both boys, and told how good I looked.

  I eyed them both suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice?”

  JJ shrugged. “You want we call you cripple too?”

  Rick was at my shoulder, “Fuck off, JJ…” He turned to Des. “and you …you Scotch twat…”

  The Scot was beaming, secretly bursting that he had his best pal back. “Now, now, less of the ‘Scotch.’ As you well know, Scotch is a fiery wee tipple named thus by you Anglophiles, unlike the correct term for us superior beings, which is Scot or Scottish.

  ‘Scotch’ has no bearing whatsoever on the fine race of people living north of the wall that Italian bloke built…So fuck off yersel, ye bollocks.”

  Rick dropped into the back seat, slammed the door like a petulant child and muttered away to himself. If there was something I’d learned about Richard Fuller, it was that until he was back in physical shape, he would be murder.

  I gave Des a second look. He was looking well…really well. He’d dropped a few pounds, sported a tan, he’d visited a barber, and wasn’t wearing his usual Marks and Sparks numbers.

  I cocked my head. “You are looking…fit, Desmond.”

  He smiled to reveal his new, now permanent teeth, after he too had suffered at the hands of Dougie McGinnis.

  “I have been getting some in, like.”

  JJ pushed forward and gave me a theatrical wink. “Desmond has joined a gym,” he said.

  I raised an eyebrow. The Scot was an unlikely health club member. “A gym?”

  Before Des could explain, JJ was in there like swimwear with the gossip. “Lauren, this place is more than a gym, it is health club, private health club, many women there, you know what I say?”

  I locked eyes with the Scot. “I see, and has our celibate Scottish friend been making use of all the facilities at this club?”

  Des smiled, his natural embarrassment almost hidden by his pride.

  “Actually, it was Grace, JJ’s missus, who suggested it like. I think she was gettin’ fed up with me loiterin’ round at their place.”

  I heard Rick bellow a huge ‘Ha!’ from inside the car.

  Des ignored the grump.

  His smile fell away. “She kindae told me I should be out living a bit, you know? After everything with Anne and that, she said it was time for me to meet new people.”

  “She’s right,” I said.

  Des’s smile returned and lit up his face. I couldn’t help but love him.

  “Well,” he said. “I did, I joined, and it’s no’ bad.”

  I looked into his sparkling eyes.

  How could such a lovely kind guy not have s
omeone?”

  Rick knocked on the window of the car and gestured us to hurry.

  And how come I always pick the difficult one?

  I ignored Mr Happy.

  “And…and have you met anyone?”

  Des pulled up the collar on his polo shirt.

  “I may have been a trifle fortunate in the female company department of late.”

  I hadn’t seen Des since we left Birmingham for Farnborough, and it was so good to see him smile.

  However, JJ was listening intently, and couldn’t help himself. “She a stripper,” he gabbled.

  Even Rick couldn’t contain himself at this news. He opened the car door and descended into howls of comic laughter.

  Des scowled. “She’s no’ a stripper!”

  For a briefest moment, my heart went out to the Scot. I was just about to feel sorry for him and admonish the other two for being so cruel, when Des burst into fits of laughter himself.

  “She’s…she’s… a professional lap dancer.”

  Des cupped his hands suggestively in front of his chest and |I got the picture.

  The banter continued as we drove. It felt good to have the team together again. More to the point, I felt good.

  After an hour of motorway, the car fell quiet and I reached over to Rick and took his hand.

  He didn’t flinch, now, I felt marvellous.

  The lads dropped me at my flat. I stood stock still at the garden gate whilst my car disappeared out of sight, leaving me with nothing but the birdsong for company.

  I listened for a moment before setting off along the path to the front door, dragging my case with me. Within three strides, I began to shake. By the time I made the porch, my legs were jelly and it took three attempts for me to punch in my entry code.

  My pulse was banging in my head, my breathing equally rapid, and I knew I was having a panic attack. People who have never experienced this phenomenon are lucky. Even though you know what is happening, and the chances are you’re physically fine, within seconds, your body convinces you you’re fucking dying.

  As my legs appeared to have given up the ghost, I clambered the stairs on my hands and knees, leaving my suitcase in the hall. Struggling to open my flat door, I dropped my keys for a second time and cried out in frustration.

  Finally, I was inside.

  Doing my best to control my breathing I staggered to the kitchen for a glass of water. Eventually remembering I’d turned off all the utilities before I’d left the last time, I fumbled with the stop cock under the sink.

  The water ran grey for a few moments before the glass filled with clear liquid. I drank greedily.

  Peering out of the kitchen window, I hoped against hope the view would relax me. The front lawn had been cut, the gardener had potted pansies, yet all I imagined were men in suits with guns, talking into radios and pointing toward my flat.

  I stepped away, found my bag, and inside it the small packet of pills given to me by my doctor. I threw two into my mouth and finished the remaining water before wandering to my bed.

  Within minutes, the drug did its job, and I slept.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  The drive seemed to take forever, but I was finally home. I’d had to find alternative accommodation after Goldsmith and his crew managed to sell my old apartment on the Quays, but after weeks of searching, I discovered a stunning three-bed penthouse in Bowden. It was a fully managed house within a house, enclosed in what had been a country manor, a great lock and leave.

  I loved the roof terrace and the fact it had secure parking for the Aston and MV Augusta.

  The décor, however, was far too fussy.

  Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers and as my budget had been limited to £450,000, I couldn’t complain.

  The moment I stepped inside, I changed into my running gear and set off to take in the sights of Devisdale. I was particularly pleased with my latest Asics runners, they had a lime green flash which matched my Nike joggers perfectly

  My doctor had insisted I should jog every day. He, however, didn’t have to go through the pain, which was shocking even on the flat. Negotiating steps…don’t even mention steps.

  I ran as hard as I could past Denzel House, which had once been owned by a guy who died fighting the Zulus, and followed the tracks that ran through the historic grounds. Bowden Wakes had been held here since the seventeenth century. Heading out toward the forest, I turned up my iPod and found encouragement from Don Henley’s Boys of Summer.

  Running made my problems feel small and insignificant against the towering history that surrounded me.

  I fell into the rhythm of the ex-Eagles drummer and drank in the warm early evening air. The pain in my hip faded and I hit autopilot.

  My mind, however, took me back to another place. To the night all this got started.

  To May 1997.

  Cathy had been gone six months, and I’d run north, to Manchester. I was a drunk, and a paranoid one at that. I needed to hide, just as much as I needed to seek.

  My shrinking bank account was not going to cover the bills so I needed a job. But before I could even consider sticking my head above the parapet, I knew I had to buy a new name, passport, driving licence, National Insurance number, the lot. Once I had that, I could work under the radar.

  Five grand later, I had become Stephen Colletti, but the Greek who’d sorted it all out for me had cleaned me out.

  I’d worked some doors, but was drunker than most of the punters, which didn’t go well.

  Finally, I’d got a break and bumped into a guy I’d done a couple of ops with back in the day. He gave me the number of an agency who wouldn’t ask too many questions, and as a result, I got some body-guarding work. Nothing big or clever, but, I was thankful for small mercies and all that. As I’d been drinking straight from the bottle most days, and topping up in the local bars at night, I was lucky to be in work at all. The job paid the rent and put clothes on my back, so it was good enough for me.

  By the night in question, I’d done eight or nine babysitting jobs for them, and been dry for almost a month. Sobriety, however, did little for my irrational behaviour, and away from work, I spent countless hours frantically searching for any information that might draw me closer to the man responsible for Cathy’s death. The man, who I now know, was Patrick O’Donnell.

  This night, I was in the Hacienda club on Whitworth Street West, Manchester.

  I’d been given the job of guarding some no-mark actor, Ronald Cruise, (no relation.) Ronnie, as he preferred, had heard from his posh mates in London that Manchester was as rough as a bear’s backside, so his ‘people’ booked me, to carry his man bag. It paid okay, but nowhere near enough.

  My, would-be ‘soap star,’ had been recording a bit part for ITV in Salford, and wanted to visit the so-called ‘iconic’ Hacienda venue, so he could tell his luvvies in London how fucking ‘cool’ he was. He was one of those people back then who used his fingers to make stupid quotation marks as he spoke. I instantly hated him and wanted to cut his throat.

  I remember the place was a shithole. It had been something to do with Tony Wilson back in the day. Allegedly, New Order’s record sales had kept the place afloat for a while, but recent, well-publicised violent incidents had all but finished the place.

  As it turned out, I was about to deliver another.

  This was the night that I took my first steps into the criminal underworld, a place I was to stay for another nine, very profitable years. Thinking about it, that £450k I’d just spent on a flat in need of decoration, came from those ill-gotten gains.

  A major contributor to those very coffers was a man called Joel Davies.

  To most of the outside world, he was a bona fide businessman; an antique dealer of international renown. His business made him millions, yet Joel had a dark side. He supplied cocaine, amphetamine and cannabis to a major part of the city of Manchester.

  This too made him rich.

  It also made him very fucking dangerous.


  I didn’t know who he was when he arrived in the Hacienda that night. It was obvious he was a face, as the door staff almost kissed his arse as he walked in. Add to that, he was dressed in a pale pink Armani silk suit, and flanked my two flat-nosed knuckle-draggers.

  I instantly got the picture. The only thing missing was the word ‘gangster’ tattooed on his forehead.

  To be honest, I was so bored watching my actor pal chewing his own face off after he’d dropped his third E, I really didn’t give a fuck.

  It seemed every player in the bar knew who Davies was, and what he did, except of course, my TV star chum, who is completely off his head.

  The DJ sticks Billy Jean on the decks, just as Joel walks by, and my dumb bastard actor only throws half a pint of Strongbow and black over his pink number whilst trying to fucking moonwalk.

  There was momentary chaos as Knuckle-dragger One started to dab the incandescent Joel with a bar towel and number two launched himself in the direction of my charge.

  Now, my client may have been a twat, he may have been talentless, and he certainly couldn’t moonwalk, but nonetheless he was my twat, and I was being remunerated to ensure his physical safety.

  I chopped number two Dragger to the throat, and he went down gurgling like a drain.

  I then did what all good bodyguards do, grabbed my useless actor by the neck, got him to the door and pushed him outside into a waiting cab.

  Job done?

  Oh no.

  By the time the taxi sped away, both Joel’s muscle boys were on the pavement and within touching distance. To add to my woes, it was looking like one of the bouncers fancied it too.

  Three to one in a street fight are never good odds. I realise that in the films, the hero usually manages to win the day using all his Kung Fu moves, but actually, three six-foot-five lumps, onto one, often means the solitary chap gets a kicking.