by Robert White
I decided that the best thing was to separate the haul into three working sections, then if one was found it wouldn’t be a total disaster.
I hid the Remington and the Browning under the seats in the Range Rover. I deposited the Mp5k and the flash-bombs in the hotel left luggage and left all the remaining kit in a suitcase in the room. All except for the SIG and a couple of magazines of 9mm of course, I didn’t feel that safe.
By the time I’d sorted all that, had a shower and changed my clothes, I was starving.
Rusholme, Manchester, is a vibrant but garish area, full of Asian shops and restaurants. It’s nicknamed ‘The Curry Mile’ and it lives up to it. There were hundreds of curry houses to choose from, and not being a local, I opted for a busy one.
The standard of grub and the service was great and I wolfed down poppadoms, mango, bhajjis, chicken vindaloo pilau rice and a pint of Cobra.
I was starting to feel better, my head had cleared and I tried to assess just what the previous couple of days had been about.
The only person capable of finding Rick so quickly was Susan. She was obviously part of David Stern’s crew. The visit from my Dutch friend was obviously a clean-up exercise. It’d happened before in Rick’s business, but it didn’t make sense to me as it was very expensive. The only thing I could think of was that the boys had come with the orders to hit Davies. Maybe topping us was some kind of punishment or warning for even having had the balls to go up against him. I had to assume Davies was already dead. The worrying thing was that it meant I was the only one left alive that knew about the Amsterdam connection.
This was all spinning around in my head when I noticed a guy at the next table reading a copy of the Manchester Evening News. Splattered across the front page was a picture of Tanya. The shot sent a wave of realisation into my head. It had only been three days since she’d been killed. I couldn’t make out any more information from where I was, and I didn’t want to risk drawing attention to myself by staring at the guy. The grey man remit suited me fine. So, I paid the bill and went to find a newsagent.
I didn’t have far to go. Four doors down, was a Late Shop. A Pakistani guy in national dress sat behind the counter playing with black prayer beads. I picked a copy of the MEN from the shelf and dropped it in front of him as I counted change.
“A terrible thing these black people running around, killing people and selling drugs,” he commented as he took my money.
A bit rich, I thought, considering over eighty per cent of the country’s heroin arrived via Afghanistan and Pakistan, but I didn’t comment.
Ten minutes later I was sitting back in the bar of the Woodland devouring the lead story and another lager.
The writer had obviously taken the information from a wire service. Second-hand words, translated from Dutch. They knew who Tanya was and that she had connections to Jamaican drug gangs. There was no mention of other casualties. Stern’s team had obviously cleaned up very well. According to the British press, this was a lone woman shot dead in Holland with no clue as to her killer. The only veiled suggestion from the writer was that Tanya had been previously associated with contract killings in the Manchester area.
I put the paper down Took a long drink and fumbled for my wee pipe. Rick hated my pipe. Well, ya wee shite, I thought, this one’s for you, mate.
I was just about to light it when I grabbed at the newspaper again. I shuffled through to the announcements section, and there, I found what I was looking for. A much smaller picture of Tanya headed a single column. Words of condolence and lists of family members followed. Then a date, her funeral was arranged for Thursday, two days’ time. It seemed I wouldn’t have to look too far for Georgie after all. I just wondered what my reception would be like.
I had just forty-eight hours before Tanya’s service and I needed to get myself organised, so I tried to put any thought of Rick’s own funeral, or where his body might be, out of my mind. I found that so difficult. Not just because we had been friends for many years, but because we had looked out for each other in the most terrible circumstances, and triumphed.
I drained the last of my pint and ordered the next with a wee whisky on the side. I was just getting the taste. Once the drinks arrived I proposed a silent toast to my mate.
I’d bet most of you reading this have had a number of people in your life that you trusted. I mean absolute one hundred and ten per cent pure loyalty. A husband, maybe a boyfriend, sister, father, or lifelong school friend?
How many times in your life have you been let down by family, friends or partner?
We forgive our family, even close friends and lovers can be forgiven. But when it came to the relationship between Rick and me, forgiveness took on a whole new meaning. In the field I could rely on Rick without question. Outside the field he was a fuckin’ nightmare.
Let me put it this way. It was Christmas 1980, we were young squaddies and had home leave; we’d both just passed the first stages of selection. We had seven fantastic days before we would be off to the Far East for jungle training.
We were driving from Hereford to Greenock to spend the holidays with my folks. Rick’s family, well, his mother and father anyway, were dead. He had been brought up in care and he had bad memories of all holiday times. For weeks before he’d been giving me the big sob story about being alone at Christmas and Hogmanay. So, I got my folks to agree to take in another mouth. Not an easy task, I can tell you, especially as my dad never forgave the English for Culloden and Rick kicked with the wrong foot, if you know what I mean like. Anyway, off we set in my pride and joy, my Ford Cortina Mk1V. It was metallic bronze with a beige vinyl roof and I thought I was the dog’s bollocks in it. Rick had persuaded me to let him drive.
We must have stopped fifteen times on the way up to Scotland; fifteen different pubs and a pint in each one. Suffice to say we were so pissed that the staff in the Roe Buck, about ten miles south of Carlisle, finally refused us a drink.
Not before Rick had found a pretty girl to talk to. When we walked back outside, we found six local lads sitting on my car. One was the boyfriend of the girl. Rick, who before he met Cathy was a notorious womaniser, had been chatting up the wrong lassie. A fracas ensued. Rick and I got seven bells kicked out of us as we were too pissed to walk, let alone fight. They also kicked fuck out of my Cortina.
To make matters worse, the coppers turned up and nicked us for scrapping and being drunk. The MPs picked us up from Carlisle Police Station and kept us in the brig at Preston until New Year’s Day.
My mum and dad didn’t speak to me for near on six months and I got fined two weeks’ wages. To add insult to injury, it cost me two hundred quid to get my car fixed. It was never the same and I sold it on my next leave.
Yeah, that was Rick for you.
Bastard he was.
You wouldn’t believe how many times we laughed our bollocks off over that tale whilst we were banged up by the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment. On New Year’s Eve one of the MPs sneaked us a bottle of scotch into the cell. We sang Fields of Athenry and told old jokes till our sides split.
I picked up my whisky.
“Cheers, pal.”
I have to say I awoke a little fuzzy. My first task was to find somewhere to live that was safe so I could store my kit more securely. I had no idea how long this job would take. I also needed a motor for daily use. I decided that despite Max’s Range Rover being hot as the proverbial, it was too big an asset to lose, so I would only use it in an emergency. Still, I had to stash it somewhere, it couldn’t stay where it was and neither could I.
I’d had my breakfast and lots of coffee so I turned to the trusty MEN again to look for a car. I gave myself a budget of a grand and looked for a big, quick saloon with lots of tax and test. The last thing I needed was to be compromised by the local police just for having a dodgy tax disc.
I circled a couple of old 2.0 lt. Audis and a newer Mondeo and got on the mobile. The Mondeo was a clocked ex-taxi and the kid selling it got right up my nose. If someone
is going to talk shite to me, they’d better make it good. I’d lived in it.
The first of the Audis was a cracker. An old boy called Henry was selling it and he’d looked after the car like it was a favourite child. I wagered that the car had never exceeded the speed limit in its whole life. It was up for twelve hundred pounds in the paper and I’d turned up with the intention of paying the grand that I’d allowed myself. The truth was the old boy took me into his house, made me a brew and took me for the whole twelve hundred. The car was worth it and he was a good old chap.
After talking to a number of machines and even more Indian call centres, I sorted third party insurance cover on the car. Once I was all legal I drove back to the hotel. It was always worth taking the time over small details like car insurance. The amount of jobs that I’d seen compromised by coppers chasing Regiment observation cars for petty shit didn’t bear talking about. Once in the car park I removed the stickers from the back window of my new purchase. You would be surprised how many people ID a car by silly stickers and I’d never had a dog, even for Christmas.
I strolled into the hotel reception, hands in pockets and head full of questions. I booked myself another three nights’ accommodation with the singularly attractive receptionist who seemed to work twenty-four hours a day. I figured that would be enough time to find a flat of some kind.
Once again I settled into the cosy bar and had a pint.
Before I had drained half of it, my thoughts once again turned to Rick. It wasn’t the fact that he was dead, it was that his body would be lying in a ditch somewhere. The old habit of bringing home your mates was hard to break. I had scoured my old copy of the MEN for any news of a body turning up in suspicious circumstances and bought a new early edition but there was no news of my old buddy.
I lit my pipe and tried to think of a plan of action that would still keep my cover. I couldn’t go to Rick’s flat as Stern’s guys could be watching it. I knew Rick had a lock-up somewhere in town, but I’d only ever been there the once and it was dark then. I hadn’t a clue where it was.
I was getting all frustrated when my mobile vibrated in my pocket.
As God is my witness my heart leapt when I saw Rick’s number appear in the text message box. Every hair on my body stood up. My hopes were quickly dashed when I saw the time stamp on the message was two days old. Living in the back of beyond meant my message service was sometimes days behind. It had been sent the morning after we got back from Holland. The content of the message, though, puzzled me.
It read: 8565490*54333
I racked my brains trying to think what it meant.
I was never any good at solving puzzles but took out my own mobile and stared at the keypad. If I was in such a hurry or it was dark, what could these characters mean?
I took out my pipe and wrote the figures out on the top of my paper. Was it a phone number? The star could have been meant to be a 7 or an 8 or a zero so I changed it to an 8 as a guess. It still didn’t make sense.
A balding man in a business suit was at the next table reading The Times. He looked up at me and obviously saw my puzzled expression.
“Difficult clue, old chap?”
“Kindae,” I replied. I couldn’t see the harm so I showed him the figures at the top of the page. He wrinkled his brow for a while and then spoke.
“Is it something to do with a map?”
“What makes you say that?”
The man leaned forward. “Well, if it wasn’t for the zero it would be a map reference.”
I looked at my mobile keypad again and, yes, if Rick had meant to type a space rather than zero, it would be a map reference.
I thanked the guy and rushed to the lift.
Once in my room I poured over a large scale map of the area.
856549 854333
If I had it right, the reference was in a country park area just outside Bolton called Belmont. It was maybe fifteen miles away. It had to be worth a look.
I gave my new car a spin but got lost a couple of times until I used the GPS. It took me forty-five minutes to find Belmont Country Park. Had the circumstances been different I would have noticed more of its beauty. It was one of those wild early summer days where the wind chilled the air yet the sun shone and made everything clean to the eye. I pulled the car onto a picnic area car park that had police signs plastered around warning of car crime in the locality. I looked at the GPS and figured the exact spot the numbers referred to would be about half a mile from where I was standing. I pulled on a sweater and set off to walk.
I walked around a fine looking reservoir and started the climb. Other than a couple of fishermen the place was deserted.
I began to notice all the beer I’d been drinking as the walk got steeper. I could feel my breathing labour and I started to push myself a little. Finally I found what I was looking for. It was an old well with wooden boards over the top of it. It had probably been the local farmers’ only supply when it was dug. I looked about to see if there were any walkers in the area and when I was happy, removed the first board, prising it up with my knife.
I shone a Maglite inside but the darkness defeated the beam and I could see nothing. Then I noticed a nylon rope fixed to the side of the wall. I pulled on it. It was heavy as hell, nearly as heavy as my suitcase full of gear. This had to be Rick’s stash. Five minutes of sweating and looking for snoopers and I had the item in my hands.
It was Rick’s old Bergen from his Regiment days and I felt a pang of sorrow as I noticed the small changes he had made to the shoulder straps. I remember calling him a pussy when I’d seen the extra padding he’d added to save his blistered shoulders during selection. I re-fixed the boards on the well top and stared at the Bergen. I suppressed the urge to open it there and then and opted to strap it on and tab back to the car.
Despite the over-indulgence of the last couple of days, all the running I had done in Scotland stood me well for the task. Anyone who has tried to carry forty kilos plus weight for any distance would tell you it’s bloody hard going, and it took me twice as long to get back to the car as the outward journey.
Finally, I dropped the Bergen in the boot of the Audi and opened the top. For all intents and purposes I looked like a rambler changing my clothes or shoes.
Sitting on the top of whatever was beneath was a letter. It had my name rank and serial number hand-written on the front.
It was Rick’s handwriting and I could feel that the envelope was well filled. I’m not sure how to explain the feelings that I was experiencing as I sat in the car opening the letter. Anger and bitterness flowed through me one moment, closely followed by deepest sorrow and affection. The whole clutter of extreme emotions made my hands shake as I removed the sheaf of paper from within. The letter had been written the day before we left for Amsterdam.
I felt like I’d raised the dead.
Dear Des,
The chances are if you are reading this, I am already dead.
I decided that if the shit really hit the fan one day then I needed to sort out my affairs.
Having so many names and passports made it difficult to walk into a solicitor’s and make a will, so this is mine.
You are my only real family and everything I have is now yours. At the end of this letter are all the details you will need to access numbered bank accounts together with the deeds to my houses and the registration documents of all my vehicles. You are now a very rich man. I know you’ll spend it wisely. You always were the sensible one.
The two memory sticks contained in this envelope contain intelligence reports I’ve assembled since leaving the Regiment. They are encrypted. The password to unlock the files is the name of the pub we got thrown out of in Carlisle that fated New Year.
If, for any reason, you need this information, use it carefully.
I know what I’ve become these last few years. The only time I’ve felt alive was when crazy jobs were offered to me. It would seem that I took one too many. I should have known better.
We used to be quite alike, you and I, Des. You with Anne, your fish, and that bloody pipe. Me, fixing up the old cottage in Hereford and looking to start a family with Cathy.
In those days all I could think of was her, and having a son. Then she was taken from me.
If it hadn’t been for you, I would have blown my brains out that weekend. It was at that point our lives changed and I went on a mad obsessive spiral while you stayed strong.
I suppose this is an apology for turning into an arsehole.
A rich arsehole nonetheless.
Treat yourself to a new fishing rod with my cash.
Rick.
PS: No fancy funerals. My boots are in the bottom of the Bergen.
Tears pricked my eyes, and I looked around the car park feeling embarrassed. I felt like a boy who had been given the cane at school and had cried when the others had stayed firm.
Then I remembered my father at James McAfee’s funeral. He knew he could have been burying his own blood that day, but he’d been strong. Death was just part of life. If you had faith, then it was a natural progression, God’s will. I pulled myself together and tried to think of Rick and Cathy united again.
I read the letter twice more and then flicked through the pages, somehow hoping that there was some kind of mistake. I popped the two memory sticks in my top pocket, memorised what I had to and burned the letter there and then. I watched the paper curl up and blacken on the floor at the side of the car. Eventually the wind took the weightless fragments and there was nothing. It felt like some kind of ceremony.
I set off driving in no particular direction, trying to get my head in gear. Until I had read the letter there was one small part of me that wasn’t completely sure Rick was dead. Now it was definite. I was even more determined to get to the bottom of the Amsterdam job, and to find Rick’s killer.
I would need a computer, and from the figures I’d seen on Rick’s paperwork, it would seem that I could now afford one.
After several detours due to my lack of concentration, I found myself back in Manchester city centre. I parked the Audi close to the Arndale, the site of one of the IRA’s biggest mainland bombs. It seemed that, financially at least, the Irish had done the people of the city a favour as new structures gleamed in the sunshine. Much of Manchester’s newfound wealth stemmed from that incident and numerous expensive penthouses and apartments lined my route.
