by Robert White
He waited for the information to sink in. JJ, of course, was impassive, never having met the guy or suffered at his hands. Des raised a suspicious eyebrow.
Me? I felt sick.
“Just a fucking minute here,” I barked. “If I recall, we were told by none other than Sir Malcolm Harris, the head of MI6, and Anthony Cyril Thomson, the serving Home Secretary of this country, that Stephan Goldsmith was dead…hanged in his cell.”
Rick nodded. “We were also told, by the very same people, in that very same office that, and I quote, ‘Stephan Goldsmith has been a very reliable and informative witness’.”
I folded my arms. “And by that, you mean?”
“I mean, said Rick, obviously finding it difficult to hide his irritation. “That we were given that information by a politician and a spook. Both as reliable as a fox in a chicken run. They also happened to be in the company of a silent guy in Ray-Ban sunglasses.”
“The CIA dude,” said Des.
Rick waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s forget the CIA, and big conspiracies for a minute. At the time, I believed them too. So much so, I promised the Makris family proof that Goldsmith was dead. After all, he had murdered Spiros’s daughter trying to get information about our whereabouts. It was the least I could do.”
“So?” I asked.
“So, I obtained Goldsmith’s death certificate and handed it to the family.”
Rick stood and filled a paper cup at the cooler. He drank it in one and continued his theory.
“I believe Spiros took that document, and from that moment, began his own investigation into Goldsmith’s alleged suicide. Now, a death in police custody is not an easy thing to sweep under the carpet. It entails a coroner’s enquiry. Lots of witnesses, and a perfect paper trail, so at first, I had my doubts. After all, Spiros was a troubled soul, and I know only too well how an obsession can take over your life.”
“I still have doubts,” said Des. “It could be pure coincidence. Let’s face it, the Makris crew are no angels, eh? They’re arms dealers…that and forgers. In their game, it’s easy to make enemies. Spiros could just’ve upset some Eastern European nutter. Whoever dropped the fag packet bug was old school.”
Rick was about to speak, but Des was on it.
“So maybe, just maybe, he ripped someone off, the wrong kind of person, some Chechnyan gangster type… People get greedy, mate, even your pal Spiros.”
Rick opened his laptop and tapped a few keys. “Spiros hadn’t done a deal since his girl was killed. He was a broken man, I don’t believe he’d rip anyone off, and I don’t believe in coincidences.”
He found the document he was looking for.
“So…this is what I know to be true.
“Officially, Stephan Goldsmith was taken from Gibraltar by military aircraft. That transport landed at RAF Mildenhall.”
“That’s a US Airforce facility.” said Des.
Rick nodded “Exactly, but the Firm, not the CIA, got to him first. From there, he was taken by car to be debriefed at Canary Wharf. Of course, the Americans were pissed that they didn’t get first crack at their man, especially as technically, he’d landed on US soil. It must have been a very hot political potato, but before the Yanks could speak to him, he was transferred up north and held in the high security wing at Strangeways.”
I shook my head. “Someone of his profile would never be transferred up north. Why risk taking your prisoner long distances? He’d have been lodged in Belmarsh for sure.”
Rick nodded. “I agree, but according to his death certificate, he died in Strangeways.”
I met his gaze. “So, the Firm are at it again?”
He closed his laptop. “There is no doubt, it would take the influence of people in high places to fake a death in prison. It’s a possibility MI6 have their hands dirty again, yes.”
I took the deepest of breaths. “So where do we start?”
There was an awkward silence.
“Not we,” he said.
His words hit me like a bullet. I couldn’t believe what he was saying.
“Lauren, you need stability right now,” he began. “That, and to take some advice you may not like.”
He rubbed the top of his head with his palm.
“You need to stay here with Estelle, looking after this end. Look…you were right about that side of things. The business needs a hand on the tiller and you are the best person for the job…so.”
He looked to the boys for support.
“Me, Des and JJ will look after this little matter. It shouldn’t take too long, no more than a week or two, and you can get the business back on track while we’re away.”
I wanted to punch him. I wanted to hurt him. Did he not understand this was the very last thing I needed?
My right knee bobbed up and down at a rate of knots, my mouth as dry as a bone.
I licked my lips.
“I didn’t ask for fucking well-meaning advice, Rick, I asked where do we start? What is the first job?”
Rick sniffed and shook his head. “I don’t think so, Lauren.”
I eyeballed him. We were like two boxers waiting for the bell to sound. “Well I fucking do think so, Rick. You are not going to do this to me.” I pointed an accusing finger. “I’m telling you, I can still function, so…just stop pretending to be my fucking shrink and tell me what is the first objective in this fucking…investigation?”
He cricked his neck, left then right. At the second attempt it cracked, loud enough for all to hear.
“That would be to locate the prison officer who allegedly found Goldsmith dead in his cell,” he said quietly.
I nodded furiously, swallowed acid in my throat and tapped my chest a little too hard with my finger. “I’ll do that.”
Standing on ferociously wobbly legs, I reached the door and turned.
“And you will not be fucking taking this away from me.”
Des Cogan’s Story:
There was a long and disconcerting silence as we listened to Lauren slam about in the outer office. Estelle did her best to make pleasantries, but to no avail. Finally, we heard the front door open and then close with an earth-shattering bang.
She was gone.
Having a spooky feeling that the mood needed a wee lift, I looked at my watch.
“Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m ready for a beer or two. How about we have a nip over to The Thirsty Scholar?”
My old pal Richard was troubled. Lauren meant more to him than he was letting on. In a way, it was good to see him show some emotion again. After all, the last time he’d known love, Gazza was making a fool out of Scottish defenders at the Euros.
He visibly pulled himself together.
“No…no beer for me, I need to get that CCTV unit over to Egghead and access the footage…besides, it’s only eleven-thirty, and…”
I cut him off.
“Aye right. That baw-faced shite Egghead will still be in his pit dreaming about circuit boards and stuff, so you can forget about him for a wee while. And anyway, my body clock has never recovered from that two weeks we had in Benidorm circa 1986, so to me, it’s constantly two hours ahead of GMT.
“That makes it, half-one in the blistering sunshine pal. The Spanish clock has controlled my drinking habits for over twenty-years.”
Rick was about to argue, but I was in again.
I lowered my tone. “Look, I know Spiros was your pal and all, but the whole crew have had it rough lately. Look at the state of you. You aren’t getting any younger, this isn’t the old days.”
I pointed at his gut.
“You’re still struggling just to jog and walk down steps, mate. Come on, take a breather. You need one.” I motioned in the direction of the front door. “And so does that wee lassie.”
Rick scratched his head.
“You think I should call her and see if she wants to join us?”
JJ and I were in unison.
“No!”
The Thirsty Scholar was
a funny little boozer which sat under the arch of the railway bridge that ran over Oxford Road adjacent to the station. Smack bang opposite was the very swanky Palace Hotel, and although the Scholar boasted a stone floor, a vegan menu and seventeen draft beers from around the world, I considered not many of the hotel’s guests ventured inside.
Personally, I quite liked it.
Rick took a sip of his Red Stripe, sat back in his seat, scratched his head with both hands, and with more than a hint of sarcasm said, “Well my chat with Lauren went well, eh?”
I couldn’t help myself. “You always were a useless twat when it came to women, pal. I never really understood how Cathy put up with you.”
There was the merest hint of his prickling temper. I figured I was still the only man alive who could mention his wife’s name without getting a smack in the mouth for my trouble.
Time heals, they say, and there was the merest hint of a smile as he remembered her.
“I know what you mean, Des. I think it was because we were opposites you know? She was so chilled out all the time, nothing fazed her. I just spent my whole life being wound up like a clock.”
How could I not agree?
Over the following three hours, we got steadily pissed and talked more shite than should be allowed.
More worrying, and much to our vegan landlord, Martin the Mod’s consternation, JJ had ordered a bottle of Jameson.
By five o clock, he was halfway down it. I think Martin considered calling the cops when the Turk pulled his knife from his back pocket and began to clean his nails with the razor-sharp blade.
I pushed a twenty in the Mod’s pocket and read him his horoscope.
Nobody likes a grass, eh?
JJ slid the knife away as swiftly as a magician with an ace of spades, and leaned in. “You know, when I was in the army, I never had a woman?”
“You were a vegan?” slurred Rick.
I bawled laughing. “No a fuckin’ vegan…Martin the Mod’s the vegan…you mean a virgin.”
“That’s what I said,” Rick pointed.
JJ’s eyes flashed. “Don’t make fun. I was good boy until I meet my Grace.”
Even I turned my head at that one. Despite the pock marks and scars, JJ was a good looking fella, and it would never have occurred to me that Grace would have been his first lover.
Then I thought for a moment. “You know; Anne was my first too.”
JJ sank another Irish. “See, is not so crazy.”
I couldn’t argue. “Yer right there, pal…Grace is a fine woman, you’re a lucky man, you have a nice family, JJ... very nice.”
Rick spoke half to himself, half to his empty beer glass. He wasn’t drunk, but he’d consumed just enough for him to let that notorious guard down a notch. In ten years, he’d never admitted once to being lonely. There had never been an ounce of emotion. Until now.
He looked at us both in turn. With the hint of a slur in his voice, he said, “I still miss her, you know?”
Lifting JJ’s bottle from the table, he poured whiskey into his empty beer glass. “Cathy, I mean… you know what I’m sayin’? I mean, I miss her every single day. The weird thing is, for weeks now, the dreams have stopped. The dreams that have haunted me for ten years and more, they’ve gone,” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. Since her death, I’ve never gone longer than a day or two, without one.”
He sipped the whiskey. “Now, even they have left me.”
He caught my eye, and suddenly, he was that lanky kid I’d met in Belfast, who looked too skinny to carry his gun.
“I know this is going to sound crazy to you,” he muttered. “But I even miss the nightmares.”
He took the rest of the spirit in his glass, grimaced and sat back as if exhausted by the effort of telling his short tale.
I stood. “Well I reckon it’s time I nipped to the little boy’s room…so, lads… whose round is it?”
Rick held up a hand and nodded, eyes at half-mast. “That will be me.”
I staggered to the loo, pushing past students, mixed with a more mature crowd who’d just finished their shift, edging my way through the swathes of midweek normality.
I did what I had to do before standing at the solitary sink to wash my hands. A polished plate of stainless steel was screwed to the wall above it. This makeshift mirror would not be smashed by drunken revellers.
As I plunged my hands under cold water, I peered at my distorted reflection. The lines on my face were deeper, grey hairs dominated where brown had once reigned. Lauren was right, we weren’t soldiers or troupers anymore, we were middle-aged men playing a dangerous game. Yet I wasn’t willing to let it go.
Not just yet.
Lauren North’s story:
How dare they? I mean, come on, I know I’m not quite on point, and maybe I did go over the top in the meeting, but couldn’t they just cut me a bit of slack?
Not only that, I knew they’d gone to the pub without me, and that hurt.
I walked through town to the library and spent three hours looking for any articles relating to the death in custody of Stephan Goldsmith, together with any clue as to the identity of the officer that had found his body.
The sum total of my search revealed two column inches on page five of the Manchester Evening News. The headline was obviously written with a more prominent position in mind, ‘Another unexplained Strangeways fatality.’
The reason for the lack of column inches was obvious, the writer didn’t even have the name of the ‘deceased,’ and described him only as, ‘a prominent drug trafficker of Dutch origin’.
The name and title, ‘Rupert Warwick, Chief Crime Reporter,’ sat in bold print below the text that told me next to nothing.
Okay, Rupert, let’s see what you really know.
I rang the paper.
“Rupert Warwick is on holiday,” I was told in no uncertain terms.
“So how do I contact him? I have a story he will be interested in.”
The woman on the other end of the phone would have done a great job in a doctor’s surgery, but at a paper desperate for news stories, this was not her true vocation in life.
“It’s against company policy to give out personal information, madam, I’m afraid you will have to wait until he returns from leave.”
I couldn’t hide the irritation in my voice. “And when might that be?”
Mrs Helpful spoke down her nose. The longer the call went on, the more she appeared to relish her task of being unhelpful.
“Unfortunately,” she whined, “I am not at liberty to divulge that information either, you see…”
I ended the call in frustration. It was only as I uttered a few choice expletives, that I realised just how hushed the library was.
Sitting opposite me was a middle-aged man dressed in tweed. He gave me a withering look, and gestured toward a nearby sign. It sported a picture of an ancient mobile phone with a bold red cross through it.
I pocketed my Samsung, smiled at him, and held up both palms in mock surrender.
He didn’t smile back; my day was not going well.
I figured that I had one last card to play. Most big business have their own email server, so, as I stepped into the Manchester sunshine, I wrote a quick message to [email protected]. There was a slim chance that I had the right link and that as Rupert was a ‘chief crime reporter,’ he would be the conscientious hack type and have his work phone with him. I headed the message ‘Urgent’ hit the ‘send’ button and set off towards Deansgate and refreshment.
Finding an empty table in the sun outside Mocha a coffee and chocolate lover’s paradise just off the main street, I plonked myself down, ordered a grande latte and watched Manchester’s well-heeled go about their business. My Columbian drink was delivered by a handsome boy who temptingly left the cake menu alongside it.
I was about to give in the delicious offerings, when my phone buzzed.
I opened the email icon and found a message from our diligent reporter Rupe
rt. It read: Re: info on Strangeways death, very interested, call 0778992351, Rupert.
As I was using my work mobile, I had no intention of using Goldsmith’s name, or divulging any other information over the network. It was bad enough that all calls, text messages and locations were logged by the phone companies, but having no choice, I sent him a text and hoped he’d take the bait: Meet me in Mocha, off Deansgate, now, Lauren.
I didn’t have long to wait for a reply:
On way, how will I know you? Will you be carrying a newspaper? Lol.
Well, at least he had a sense of humour, something I was in need of. I played along:
Outdoor table, ponytail, Gucci glasses.
Twenty minutes later, Rupert sat down alongside me and failed miserably to hide the top to toe examination of my figure. I wouldn’t call it lecherous, more…appreciative.
As I was feeling a little lacking in self-confidence, it was quite nice. It’s always baffled me how some women found the equivalent of the builder’s wolf whistle demeaning. For me, it’s always given me a little lift, that, ‘well, you’ve still got it girl,’ feeling.
Each to their own, I suppose.
Anyway, Rupert was more Harry Potter than Harrison Ford, so ticked none of my boxes. He was however, passionate about a string of suicides that had occurred at the high security wing of Strangeways prison.
We talked for close on an hour. I spent as much time being vague about the prisoner’s pressure group I was allegedly part of, as he did examining my cleavage. He wasn’t a fool, and quickly realised I was giving him zero other than a nice view and a coffee.
However, I did come away with the name of the guard who’d found Goldsmith dead in his cell.
Colin Reed.
Result.
Now all I needed was to find him.
One thing Rupert had been right about; I would get nothing from the prison itself. I came away from the crumbling old jail with something amounting to a flea in my ear, and a deep sense of foreboding. Strangeways was a ghostly place. It had been an executioner’s prison and the bodies of convicted murderers had once been buried in unmarked graves within the prison walls.
