by Robert White
My stomach complained and I again realised that I hadn’t eaten. I took a bite in the nearest café before shopping for a laptop computer.
I managed to find something that would suit me fine for under five hundred pounds including a small printer, all the time thinking about what might be in the Bergen and what secrets were on the sticks in my pocket.
By five p.m. I was back in my hotel room with Rick’s possessions spread on the bed and the laptop charging in the corner.
Indeed his boots were at the bottom. When I saw them I said a Hail Mary for the first time in years. It was followed by a good dose of Catholic guilt.
The Bergen had obviously been an emergency pack for him, which for some reason he’d very recently turned into his last bequest.
As a result I now had another couple of weapons, a .222 rifle and ammunition, plus a little six round pistol, and some medical supplies including morphine.
There was ten thousand pounds cash, a bag of solid gold coins and two sets of car keys, both unmarked.
Having the keys was one thing, collecting the cars was another, as I’d yet to find anything related to Rick’s lock-up.
The laptop brought me from my thoughts by announcing in a metallic voice that the battery was fully charged. I sat the machine on the dressing table and inserted the first memory stick into a USB port. I tapped in the password, ‘Roebuck’, and the encrypted files became visible. There were dozens relating to the Regiment, MI5 and 6. Most names I had no recollection of, except one, Charles Williamson. I clicked on his folder and several other files appeared. They seemed to be code names. They were tagged as you might expect military operations to be named. Desert Storm etc. I knew of Williamson, he had an infamous military background. He’d commanded troops in Ireland, Bosnia and Iraq. He was known as a real hard case.
For some reason, known only to him, Rick was convinced that Williamson had a hand in the shooting that led to Cathy’s death. It was an obsession that ultimately led to Rick’s resignation from the army. Rick’s mental state was shot in those days, and the date that the files were last modified suggested that they hailed from those dark and terrible times. I remember calling in on him in the summer of 1997. I found him in a shit tip bedsit just outside Brighton. He hadn’t washed or shaved in weeks. The room was acrid and its grime-filled carpet and walls were covered in photographs and pages of scribbled information relating to Colonel Williamson and the secret services.
He was manic.
His powerful frame was thin and hunched. A small two-ring stove remained useless in one corner. A filthy fridge contained seven full bottles of vodka. His eyes that once burned with fight and intelligence were yellow and dead. He was a tortured soul in every essence.
I’d tried long and hard to turn him around. Colonel Williamson was one of the good guys. A hard case yes, old-fashioned yes, a womanising big-drinking bully yes. But he was Queen and Country before all and would never have done a deal with the IRA.
Rick had convinced his shattered brain and body that there was a conspiracy against him. Nothing I could say would change his mind, and there was nothing he could say to change mine.
Grief did terrible things to him.
I visited him when I could.
Then, four months and seventeen days after the shooting, he disappeared.
I didn’t see or hear from him again for thirty-two months.
He shook my hand as Stephen Colletti at a charity garden party in aid of Manchester Mothers against Gun Crime. I was doing close protection for some second rate government official. I tell you, I nearly fell over.
He was fit and tanned, even fitter than I’d remembered. He wore an expensive suit, and I noticed he’d had lots of dental work. The Hollywood smile didn’t fool me though, it didn’t reach his eyes. He left a sliver of paper in my palm with his mobile number and a message.
Thought I was dead, eh? it said.
I scanned the rest of Williamson’s folder. One file looked out of place, but I decided old soldiers could wait, and changed sticks.
I opened a can of Guinness I’d bought at the local off-licence, lit my pipe, inserted the second stick and began to read.
As I scanned yet more of Rick’s delusional theories, the name of that strange Williamson file, wouldn’t leave me. ‘Hercules’ Pillar’.
Lauren North's Story:
Revolution Bar Manchester.
Jane and I sat in the ‘Rev,’ sipping the first drink of many. The third Friday of every month had religiously become the ‘girls’ night out’ for our unit. Six qualified nurses between twenty-eight and thirty-nine were scattered around the trendy vodka bar. I looked about and realised we were all lacking a little designer class for such heroin chic surroundings.
Dianne and Audrey went for the bare midriff with false tan look; Philipa went with the ‘I’m totally desperate’ ensemble of miniskirt and high boots and Carol wore the same little black dress she wore every bloody month. Jane always squeezed into something two sizes too small for her voluptuous form, which made her huge bosom look freakish, and I wore a trouser suit I bought for my sister’s thirtieth. She is now thirty-seven.
The Revolution sat on Oxford Road, just a short walk from the railway station. The tall steps and the cobbles were a bugger in stilettos, but it was a fun place to start our Monthly Mancunian Mission.
A mission of alcoholic forgetfulness with deeds best forgotten by Monday. We all got a return ticket for the train from Leeds. Most of us would make that journey. Some, usually the same ones I might add, found solace in the arms of other equally desperate thirty-somethings, dressed in equally desperate fashion faux pas.
The ‘Rev’ as the locals called it, was a newly refurbished affair. The building itself was quite old and the Victorian ceiling roses and plaster covings were still visible. A Japanese DJ played funky house and the sickeningly thin waitresses pushed drinks promotions.
When not devouring pepper vodka and cheesy nachos, our job was to run the Leeds General Infirmary HDU. The High Dependency Unit was hated by some. If patients ever regained consciousness, it was a bonus. Most didn’t, severe brain or spinal injuries saw to that.
Over half of our patients died within a week of arriving on HDU. I suppose you could call it depressing. Maybe, but I enjoyed talking to the patients and caring for them. I really believed they could hear me and that in some way I was helping them. Jane had been my closest friend throughout my nursing career. We had worked the unit together for five and a half years. The night turned into a mix of good old gossip and a mountain of vodka. It was difficult not to talk shop at the best of times but the week had seen some interesting events and Jane and I were putting the world to rights, whilst the guy from the land of the rising sun played Café Del Mar and Dianne and Audrey got chatted up by two guys with even stronger self-tanning moisturiser.
All the fuss was over one new patient and I knew all the staff had been whispering about him. Two days earlier, a male had been admitted to HDU in a flurry of police activity. His face was heavily bandaged, so much so, that only one eye was visible. He had undergone reconstructive surgery to his mouth and face and was being fed intravenously. Both his legs were badly scalded. He had suffered some kind of brain damage and was comatose. Hospital consultants were assessing his condition.
The thing that intrigued Jane and me was the constant police supervision he got. Okay, most of the time it was a young copper who just sat and drank tea by his bed and tried to chat me up, but with the prognosis of the patient being poor, I presumed that the cops weren’t expecting him to escape. They were expecting someone to finish the job.
Jane and I ran through all the possibilities as to the poor man’s past, whilst finishing the last glasses in a tray of shots.
“I bet he’s a gangster,” chirped Jane as she waved over to a bright orange stick-like waitress to get two complimentary slammers.
“Bit old,” I said, “he must be in his late thirties. Most English gangsters don’t last that long.�
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I could see Jane was surprised by my level of knowledge, when it came to organised crime in the north of England. “I read a lot of crime novels,” I shouted over the din. “Funny it’s not in all the papers though.”
Our waitress and free slammers arrived on cue. She placed the free shots on the table. Jane downed the first and gave me a cheeky wink.
“He may be over thirty, but what a bod, eh!” She gave me a comedy nudge in the ribs and I smiled happily.
“You have a one track mind, love.”
She pulled her top down over her ample hips and straightened her hair with a bright red fingernail.
“Well we can’t be all like you, Lauren. I suppose you want us all to act like ladies around you, do you?”
She grabbed at the empty shot glass, which for some reason had been bright blue, and inspected it. She giggled mischievously.
“They’ve started calling you Miss Iron Knickers in the canteen.”
Pulling at my arm, Jane reached in for privacy, smiling wickedly. “I mean you haven’t had a bloke in years! I’ll tell you, love, if I looked like you I would be getting a damn sight more action than you are at the moment.”
“I’m happy,” I replied through a fixed, ‘I’m going to kill you’ smile.
“And...I don’t need a man to be happy!” I shouted just a little too loudly.
I was sure a mere child of less than twenty viewed me with pity from his leather pouffe. Jane arched her back and surveyed every single guy in the room with the expertise of a hawk.
“Well I bloody well do, and I’m hoping tonight is the night!”
Jane let out her trademark guffaw and I recalled why I loved her so much. Jane was fun, always smiling, always the same. Whenever I had needed her, she’d been there. And, my God, had I needed her the last four years. I smiled back at her and gestured to a geeky looking guy at the bar.
“He looks interested.”
Jane’s head nearly swivelled off completely. She turned to me and leaned across the table so our faces were close.
“Not much to look at, but did you see the package in the jeans!”
We both broke out into fits of laughter. The shots took hold and the tone of the conversation got lower and lower. I knew Jane better than anyone and I also knew that we would go home alone this Friday, just as we had every Friday.
Jane talked a good game but, like mine, it was a lonely one.
Des Cogan's Story:
I awoke feeling knackered. I had been up till daft o’clock sifting through the more recent files I’d found on Joel Davies. I had to hand it to Rick; he’d done a good job on the guy. Family history, alarm codes to his house, registration numbers of vehicles, mistresses, likes and dislikes, I felt like I’d known the guy for years. Then of course there were the pictures. I now had a face to put to the name. He looked like a bear to me.
The list of Rick’s hits was lengthy, starting with Joel’s own family right down to any poor bastard that stole a gram or two from him. He had certainly ruled with fear and used Rick as his constant weapon of choice.
There was a small section on Susan but no more than her name, date of birth and mother’s name. Her maiden name had been van der Zoort. This had been highlighted in red by Rick. I presumed recently.
Susan van der Zoort. The name certainly did fit a Dutch girl and if I wasn’t mistaken the ‘van der’ bit meant she was descended from money.
One thing did puzzle me. There was nothing at all on Stern, our Dutch big hitter. I realised that it was the last job Rick had done for Joel but if he was Joel’s chief supplier Rick would have had some reference to him somewhere earlier in the text. There was none. Without doubt Stern was ‘the’ international man of mystery.
With the information that I had, the weapons, transport and now cash, I felt I was nearly ready to start work. All I needed was some bodies to do the job with. I would have much preferred to use guys from the Regiment, but Rick had few friends there after his spectacular fall from grace. And not many ever believed Rick’s theories of Army Secret Service involvement in Cathy’s murder.
The only place I could think to start was Georgie Richards and I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. Despite my misgivings about walking into a Yardie wake I had to prepare for the tasks ahead.
I needed a flat and once again my trusty Manchester evening paper gave me the information I needed. After two hours on the phone I finally had a shortlist of flats to see that were available immediately. I certainly couldn’t stay in the hotel much longer. Before I could go flat hunting though, I had to check out the cemetery where Tanya’s funeral would take place.
I’d downloaded both of Rick’s memory sticks onto my laptop and encrypted them as best I could using Windows software. I destroyed the copies, stowed the computer in left luggage and set off to Moston Cemetery.
The rain hit me as soon as I left the lobby and by the time I’d made it to the car I was soaked. I had packed some good waterproof gear for my visit and I would need it.
Moston was a downtrodden area of Manchester but the cemetery itself was well maintained and situated between two mature wooded areas. It was a big place and there must have been over two thousand graves. I parked a good distance away and walked to the gates. It was pouring, and the place was deserted except for two men who were digging a fresh grave in the south east corner of the cemetery. It had to be for Tanya. I checked where the funeral procession would enter and found a spot where I could observe without being seen. It would involve getting there before first light and, if this weather was to continue, getting very cold and wet. It had always been part of my life, sitting in holes in the ground. I actually enjoyed it.
I knew that there would be a police presence at the funeral, some uniformed and some not, so it was imperative that I did the job right and didn’t get compromised.
I was happy that I had found a good obs point, yet depressed by the sight of so many graves. They were a constant reminder that I had been surrounded by death most of my adult life, yet I had never got used to loss.
I walked back to the Audi formulating my next move. I had six flats to look at but I decided my next task would be to dump the Range Rover somewhere in town. It was just too hot and just about the only thing left that could compromise me. Once that little job was out of the way I could go and house hunt.
The Rover was where I left it at the rear of the Woodland Hotel. I felt it was best to leave the Remington and Browning I had stored in it earlier, under the seats, and use the car as an emergency vehicle if things went pear-shaped.
She fired up first time and I set off looking for a long stay car park. I was pretty sure I’d seen a place on Portland Street on my earlier shopping trip, so I drove through the university district towards the city.
As I got to Oxford Road I knew I had company.
A dark blue Lexus saloon with two guys aboard had been with me for too long. I felt the tell-tale tingle of excitement, but also the fear of being completely alone.
I took a sharp left just before the railway station, and did a right under the arches. Sure enough the two boys were still behind.
I’d done my advanced driving course in a Range Rover. The police instructors called it the mobile jelly mould because of its handling characteristics, but if you drove it right it performed well enough.
I couldn’t be sure if the guys were police or not. I was about to find out.
I floored the accelerator and burst out of a line of traffic heading toward the Palace Theatre. The car behind mirrored my move and stuck to me like glue. There was no attempt at defensive driving from my pursuers so I dragged the Remington from under the seat. I knew it was loaded and the safety was on. I needed to lose these guys quickly and with the minimum fuss. The idea of slotting them both in the middle of a Manchester street was a non-starter.
The lights ahead were red and there were two lines of queuing traffic. I batted down the outside of them and flew through the junction against the lights. I miss
ed a taxi approaching from the left but clipped the front of a green saloon that was travelling a little quicker. I heard the sound of brakes and a blaring horn, but I was off and away. The Range Rover was an automatic and the engine screamed as the gearbox went into kick-down.
The damage to the car seemed superficial and it handled itself through the next junction as I took a hard left over the tram tracks and toward Piccadilly. I looked in the mirror and saw the Lexus was still there, but it sported some damage to the front. I kept my foot firmly on the floor. As I reached seventy mph he closed in on me. I hit the brakes hard.
The Lexus slammed into the back of the Range Rover and my seatbelt cut into my chest, winding me. I hit the accelerator again and with some difficulty pulled the Rover off the car behind. The Lexus was a write-off and I could see that one of the guys inside was badly injured. The driver was fighting with an air bag. I knew I had them, but was also aware of the growing crowd of shoppers staring in my direction. I could have walked over to the pair and taken my revenge there and then. I also decided that it was too risky to try and lift one of the guys. It would have been ideal. Information was king in the game I was playing. But I had a nosey crowd and with camera phones being so popular I buggered off quick sharp.
The virtually undamaged Rover bubbled away in the middle of the road. Within thirty seconds I was off and walking. I’d lost the car and worse still the weapons inside. The police would find the car, and them, very soon. It had turned into a very bad day before I could even make a start. Within hours the police would find my fingerprints and some fibre samples from my clothes. They may even find some DNA.
