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

by Robert White

  “Did you tell Rick and Des where we go?” he said.

  “No, why?” I offered.

  He shrugged, obviously not wanting to involve himself in the internal wranglings of the previous day. He simply leaned forward and removed two Glock 19s from his bag.

  He checked them both, pushed one into the waistband of his Levis and slotted the other into the glovebox.

  “Someone kill the Greek for looking for this guy Reed,” he said coldly. “Someone professional. If we go with just two, it is best to be careful, no?”

  Finding a gap in the traffic, I put my foot down. The V10 engine in the RS6 growled like a caged tiger. I turned up the Blaupunkt; Stereophonics blasted.

  “Nothing we can’t handle, JJ.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Simon had identified the guy in the pictures as ‘Red George’.

  I’d heard the name many times over the last ten years, but had never seen his face, hence my inability to recognise him. There were differing stories about how the guy had got the nickname ‘Red’. As with most of Manchester’s gangland folklore, it depended on who you spoke to. Some said it was purely down to the fact he was Russian and therefore a Communist.

  He was neither.

  Others affiliated him to an infamous Manchester United football hooligan crew that organised mass vicious brawls across the city.

  He actually hated the game and had never been to Old Trafford.

  Then, there were those who were convinced it was down to his love of the machete when fighting at close quarters, and the amount of blood he spilled.

  Close. He did like to use a knife, and was so big he could easily use his brute strength to overpower his opponents before slicing them like a Sunday roast. But the real reason for his nickname, was his love of the Russian made, Kalashnikov AK-47.

  His name was Gjergj Dushku and hailed from Kosovo. He had fought for the KLA smuggling arms from his parental home of Albania. He battled the Serbs in the Kosovan war, and when the conflict ended in 1998, he fled to Greece to avoid being tried for his part in the rape, torture and subsequent slaughter of dozens of civilians. From there he made his way to the UK, claiming asylum from the Milosevic reign of terror.

  We patted him on the head and probably gave him a council flat for his trouble.

  Now, there could have been all manner of reasons why Spiros Makris would indulge Red George and invite him into his home. After all, the Makris family were indeed gun runners, and, being Corfiot, had close connections with the Albanians whose home sat less than a mile from their island. Indeed, there was every possibility that Spiros had done arms deals with Red George, who in turn had supplied half of Moss Side with death and destruction.

  Was this the nutter that Des had suggested Spiros had upset and therefore ended up spitting out maggots in his garage?

  I wasn’t convinced.

  Why?

  Because Red George was like me. He was a hired hand.

  Lauren North’s Story:

  Colin’s house was situated on an estate of 1980’s semi-detached houses in a small town that sat between Bolton and Salford.

  I wouldn’t have chosen Walkden as my ideal place to settle, but I’d seen worse, and I supposed Colin got a lot more bang for his buck when compared with Manchester city prices.

  The house was set halfway along a short cul-de-sac. Wrought iron gates secured a small paved driveway which led to an integral garage. As with most houses in the street, Colin’s highly polished Nissan Micra sat on the drive rather than inside his garage.

  The small front lawn had been recently cut and summer flowers planted in neat rows around it.

  It appeared Colin had been using his long term sick leave to good use, at least in the DIY department.

  As I grabbed the door handle of the Audi, I turned to JJ. “I don’t think I’ll be needing the Glock on this one, mate.”

  The Turk didn’t answer, just shrugged his shoulders, pulled his own SLP from his waistband, checked it all over again, and reinserted it in position.

  I shook my head and stepped into the street.

  As I opened Colin’s gate, I noticed the neighbour’s curtains twitch. It reminded me so much of the street I grew up in in Leeds. Everyone looking out for each other.

  I had to admit, JJ did look a little on the menacing side, but it didn’t stop the rather large lady responsible for the twitching drapes barrelling out of her front door the split second I knocked on Colin’s.

  “I think he’s out, love,” she said in the thickest Bolton accent I’d heard in a while. “Window cleaner were here ten minutes back and he didn’t get his cash.”

  I smiled sweetly but didn’t comment.

  The woman folded her arms across her considerable assets.

  “You from the prison too, then?”

  I instantly felt my hackles rise. “We are…umm…we’re from the occupational health unit actually, just checking on Colin’s welfare.”

  The woman eyed JJ with some suspicion. Even I couldn’t pass the Turk off as a health visitor, so I changed the subject.

  “So, Colin’s had another guest then?”

  The woman leaned across the fence conspiratorially. “Oh aye, yesterday morning I think.”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Or could’ve been the day before...see I like a can or two in the afternoon like, and I forget…anyway, he were from the prison I reckon. Right big bloke, all muscles, shaved head.” The woman pouted. “Ooh aye, just my type he were…massive.”

  I smiled again, feeling slightly sick.

  “And did Colin let this man in?”

  She pulled a face that told me her alcoholic afternoons made that a difficult question.

  I pressed on. “So how long is it since you saw your neighbour, Mrs…?”

  She pushed out her chest. “It’s Miss actually, Miss Morrison, like the supermarket.”

  I was losing the will to live and heard JJ mumble something in Turkish. It was my cue.

  “Really…Well, Miss Morrison, I don’t suppose you have a key to Mr Reed’s, do you? I mean, I couldn’t live with myself if something untoward had happened. After all, Colin is off work with a mental illness.”

  Miss Morrison’s jaw dropped. “Mental? You mean you think…”

  She was on the hook and I wasn’t going to let her off. I put on my best senior staff nurse face.

  “Stress is the number one killer in men Colin’s age, Miss Morrison.”

  The woman covered her gaping mouth with her hand for a moment before pointing at her front door. “Oh my…I do have a key, yes. Colin leaves it with me so I can water his plants when he’s on holiday, I’ll…I’ll go get it.”

  By the time the woman had returned, I’d visited the Audi, taken JJ’s lead and recovered my Glock. Big guys with shaved heads are never a good sign in our line of work.

  Miss Morrison lumbered her way around the fence to Colin’s front door. She too had recovered some poise.

  “I can’t let you in on your own of course. I mean, I should ask for some form of identification really.”

  JJ lifted his Ray-Bans to reveal those black eyes of his. “Open the door, lady,” he said.

  I wouldn’t have argued either.

  Miss Morrison pushed the key into the front door and it swung open on well-oiled hinges.

  I took the lead.

  The hallway had a pale laminate wood floor. Pictures of smiling children adorned spotless white walls. There was no clutter. Just as with the car and the garden, Colin liked to have everything in its place. To the left, the lounge door was open, the room empty; ahead the kitchen door was closed. On the laminate, in front of the white glossed door were three spots of bright blood.

  I turned to JJ, pointed at my eyes with fore and middle fingers, then to the claret.

  He nodded, drew his Glock and clicked off the safety.

  Miss Morrison who was almost stuck to my back, let out a gasp. I pulled my own weapon and whispered.

  “Step outsi
de, love.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  As I reached our office, Estelle was busy taking a call. I acknowledged her before slipping into the back, carrying the offending CCTV unit.

  Des was working on a shift pattern for some of our guys who were about to depart for Saudi on a shockingly boring but lucrative babysitting job.

  “Any luck?” he asked, dropping his pen and stretching his back.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve identified the guy that dropped the bug in Spiros’s litter bin, but there’s no footage of anyone at the house after that. He must have topped the Greek, managed to disable the system on the day, but didn’t have the sense to nick the fucking unit.”

  Des shrugged, “Or it wasn’t him, it was someone else?”

  I pulled the printed pictures of Red George from my bag and handed one to Des.

  “Way too many coincidences for my liking…This is our snooper, he’s a real sweetheart called Gjergj Dushku, an Albanian. Big lad, eh?

  Des let out a low whistle. “Yeah, he looks a proper handful. I was out in Kosovo in 1997, one of my last jobs in the Regiment. It was a horrible conflict, almost as bad as Columbia, mate. The Albanians are evil fuckers.”

  “Simon…our Egghead, who is on a better hourly rate than the PM I might add, is looking into his background for us. Apparently, he will be able to tell us the horrible bastard’s shoe size by teatime.”

  Des absently felt for his equally horrible pipe.

  “So, I take it we’re going to pay old George a visit then? See if he’s dancing to Goldsmith’s tune?”

  “That’s the plan…where’s Lauren and JJ by the way?”

  Des shrugged. “When Estelle rocked up early doors, she said JJ was waiting outside the front of the office. Said he jumped into a white Audi, didn’t see who was driving...I’m betting that was our Lauren’s RS6. Reckon she’s doing just what you asked her not to.”

  “Looking for the prison guard that allegedly found Goldsmith’s body?”

  “Yup.”

  I shook my head and began my plan to find Red George.

  Lauren North’s Story:

  I admit I’d been sceptical about Rick’s theory, but Spiros Makris was indeed dead, and now, fresh claret on Colin’s polished oak laminate did not bode well for our first possible witness to the alleged suicide of Stephan Goldsmith.

  Had the three spots been bone dry, that would have been an altogether different matter, but whoever had spilled that blood had done it fairly recently. If the big muscled visitor had been and gone, well so be it, but this was not a time to take chances.

  If Rick was right and Stephan Goldsmith was indeed alive, he would be intent on keeping the fact a secret, and equally keen on seeing our little team out of the way.

  And that was really not good.

  I shuddered as images flashed in my head, and I saw myself rolling on the cobbles of Puerto Banus, fighting Goldsmith for my life.

  I felt instantly terrified.

  Our nosey neighbour had legged it to her house and was no doubt opening her third premium cider of the day, whilst ringing the cops.

  There was no time to worry about her or them, we needed to open the kitchen door, clear the house, and get away clean.

  My right leg shook as I stood in the lounge doorway with no more than a stud wall and a wooden casing for cover. The door in question was ten feet in front of me, outward opening, handle to my left.

  JJ was in the kneel to the right of the door, tucked halfway under Colin’s staircase, his Glock punched forward and upward. He looked at me with those, lifeless pools of his and gave the slightest of nods.

  I felt sick but tucked myself in, brought my weapon to the aim and nodded back.

  JJ inched forward, keeping low, stretching slowly for the handle, all the time keeping the centre of the door covered.

  My other leg began to shake, and for the first time since the gun battle at Joel Davies’s house, I started to doubt myself.

  I knew that when JJ opened the door there would be a split second where he would be blind until he rolled to his left, so it would be up to me to deal with any threat on the other side.

  Bile pricked my throat. My palms felt so wet I was convinced I would drop the Glock. I inwardly screamed at myself to get a grip.

  Before I could worry anymore, JJ reached the handle and pulled downward.

  The door swung open, JJ rolled as I expected and by the time I’d stepped forward, he was at my right shoulder.

  Colin Reed was sitting at his kitchen table.

  A pool of thick congealing blood surrounded his chair. The room smelled like an abattoir.

  I somehow managed to keep down my Starbucks. JJ concentrated on clearing the kitchen as I stood motionless.

  I really did need to grow some… and quick.

  Colin’s bare arms lay palm up on the table. A small steak knife with a bloodied blade lay close by. His eyes were closed, mouth slightly open. He looked almost peaceful. Well, he would have done had it not been for the slits in each arm running upward from the palm, almost to the crook of his elbow. The incisions were so deep it was as if he’d attempted to butterfly his forearms. If you were determined to slit your wrists and ensure certain suicidal success, this was the way to do it.

  All, and I mean all, of Colin’s blood, was on his immaculate kitchen floor.

  I’d seen dozens of ‘slit’ wrists in my previous life as a nurse. Leeds had been full of young drug-dependent street people who regularly found their way to A&E on a Friday night with everything from a slight graze to wounds that needed stitching. I’d even witnessed the PM of a young woman who’d been successful in her quest. She had copied the Hollywood stars by drinking a bottle of Scotch, lying in a hot bath and slicing her veins open with her unfaithful husband’s razor.

  Even so, I’d never witnessed any kind of self-harm that had been carried out with such gusto.

  JJ reappeared from clearing the rest of the house. For some reason, he checked the washing machine, but there was no time to ask why.

  “We go now,” he said, pulling his Aviators from his head and covering those eyes of his. “I think the fat lady from next door will call the cops, yes?”

  I shook my head. The Turk was definitely lacking in the odd social skill.

  “I think it’s a good thing that poor Miss Morrison didn’t nip in to water Colin’s plants after a few cans of Strongbow eh?”

  I pointed at Reed’s corpse. “Have you seen this, JJ? I mean, you’re the man in the know when it comes to knife wounds. I’ve seen enough in my time, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  He grabbed me by the elbow.

  “Yes, I see,” he said. “I see everything…I also hear police siren…let’s go.”

  As he pulled me along the hall, I was drawn back to the grotesque scene at the kitchen table. Colin Reed at peace?

  No, Colin Reed… posed.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Our newfound and very attractive secretary was waving a post-it note above her head like a linesman on Fergie’s payroll.

  She smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “You have a message, Mr Fuller.”

  This spoiled my mood further, so I ignored the information for a moment.

  The fact that Lauren had deliberately gone against my wishes was irritating to say the least. Add to that, JJ had trotted along with her, without so much as a ‘by your leave’. This saw me particularly tetchy.

  “Have you any idea where Lauren went?” I asked.

  Estelle checked her nail polish and rudely spoke to her fingers.

  “Sorry, no.”

  My temper got the better of me. “Give me the note,” I barked, and snatched it from Estelle’s hand.

  Estelle jumped in fear.

  I shook my head in disbelief. “Oh don’t be so fucking sensitive…who’s it from?”

  Estelle’s face showed all the signs that she was about to cry.

  I figured I’d gone too far.

  She
recovered a little too quickly. Jutting her chin, she raised her voice, her secretary accent slipping to reveal her actual broad, flat Mancunian.

  “I told him right, you’d just walked in and you would be two shakes yeah, but he hung up and just left his number… didn’t leave a name…posh bloke, he was.”

  Scanning the note, I didn’t need a name, I recognised the number immediately.

  Estelle questioned my parentage under her breath and with a flourish, dropped the plastic cover over her desktop monitor. She then stood, smoothed down her skirt, collected her bag from under her desk, and stepped around it until she was inches from my face.

  Was she going to do one?

  Oh yes, but not quite yet.

  “No one…” she started. “And I mean nobody speaks to me like that…and you,” she spat. “Mr ‘big I am’ Rick Fuller, can stick your job.”

  She prodded me in the chest with a scarlet nail to accentuate each last word.

  “Up… your…fuckin’… arse.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  Des wandered into the front office, pipe in mouth, lighter in hand, headed for the street.

  “Dickhead,” he said, and stepped into the sunshine.

  I stood in the office like a fuckin’ naughty schoolboy whilst he gave himself lung cancer on the pavement outside.

  Finally, he returned, the smell of tobacco, following him like the Grim Reaper. I stood, eyeing the offending post-it.

  Des was not pleased. He gestured toward the offending yellow note.

  “So, what’s so fuckin’ important that you lose our secretary for it?”

  I didn’t get chance to answer, it was his turn to go off on one. He pointed towards the street.

  “That Estelle was a good girl, you big fuckin’ bully. While you were getting your bollocks rubbed by private nurses down south, she held this place together. Me and JJ were like headless chickens when it came to the admin side. Estelle worked all fuckin’ hours…and now…you’ve fucked things up…again!”