by Robert White
“I joined Two Para as a boy,” I said. “Imagine me, a wee skinny Scottish kid from the Gorbals, brought up more Catholic than most bishops, posted to Armagh. I remember coming home on leave and an old mate of mine, getting all hot under the collar with me about my chosen career. We’d had a few beers and he started on about Bloody Sunday and all the bad stuff that had gone on across the water before my time. Now, I was a hot headed wee shite in those days, and things could have got out of hand between us, but they didnea. I put on my coat and walked home. I turned my back because folks that have never been there, don’t and can’t understand it. They think it should be a perfect world, with no fuck ups, no bad decisions. My old man always supported my career. He was proud of me, even though I suspect he got some grief about his boy’s choice of regiment. He always told me, if you got involved in the politics of it all, it would eat you up, and he was right. I see it as black and white and leave the big picture to those in Whitehall. And this job? Well, this is a war we’re fighting, Mickey, a war that nobody knows exists, but a war, nonetheless. And, as you said, there will be casualties, collateral damage, but we need to draw some people out, to bring someone out of hiding.”
“And I’m still not allowed to know who this person is?”
I looked at the boy again and made my decision. He was right. He’d earned his stripes as far as I was concerned. The two wee boys on BMX’s would be telling some very nasty folks all about how some guy that looked just like the bouncer from The Lion, had visited the Melons cousins flat tonight. Mickey’s life had been changed forever. In that one instance, everything was now different. He could never have imagined that a crew like ours would come along, but here he was, and there was no going back.
So I told him. I told him all about Libya about Al Mufti, Yunfakh, the CIA and poor Todd Blackman. Then I told him about the Irish job, the AK’s and finally, the coffin full of cocaine.
“So Al-Mufti thinks you have all that beak?”
“Aye, well if he disnea the now, he soon will.”
“Fuck me.”
“So ye see why we have to make these boys believe we have that gear?”
“But as you aren’t actually selling anything, as you take these boys out, all you’re doing is causing a shortage on the streets.”
“In one, son. And when these boys start to lose customers, they’ll come looking for the folks they believe have the product.”
“Fuck me.”
“Ye said that already.”
Mickey thought for a moment. “I need to go home, pick up some gear, and I need to warn my ex missus.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
He blew out his cheeks. “Over a year, we don’t speak, you know how it is, but I’d hate for anything to happen to her.”
I did, but I also knew it was a bad idea.
“We have everything you need here, and I think she’s best left alone. The cops will only ask when she last saw you. Better she can tell the truth. Better she can’t implicate you.”
“I was more worried about Arti Jonas and Tony Jacket.”
“I reckon they’ll be more worried about us mate. You don’t know Rick Fuller, once he smells blood, he’s like a shark, he just keeps swimming until everything is dead.”
Lauren North’s Story:
I slipped out of my jeans and pulled on pyjamas, the night’s events still whirring around in my head. I considered that Forrest had turned out to be a good find. The last minute idea to try and turn him had been Victoria’s. I suppose all that experience of counterintelligence work had paid off.
Rick and Des had only one plan in their heads, and that was to make him talk and dispose of his body. I suppose that’s why there are different departments in the military. Either way, our new boy had done a good job.
The mission had started and once again, we were on the trail of Abdallah Al-Mufti. Despite my sometimes overwhelming desire to walk away from all of this, hand in hand with the man I had come to love, I still felt that adrenaline rush when the job got hairy and I understood just why, the likes of Sellers still sought that feeling.
She lay asleep not two metres away from me, seemingly able to switch off in an instant. The moment her pretty head hit the pillow she was out for the count.
The cots Rick had bought were narrow and uncomfortable, but, beggars and choosers and all that. Unlike Sellers, I lay there staring at the bare bulb that dangled from the ceiling overhead and it reminded me of my little flat in Leeds. In the early days after I’d split from my husband, I’d been so skint, I couldn’t afford shades for all the lamps.
Having everyone in the same house was strangely comforting, yet as I pondered the day’s events, my body tired, but my mind still very much awake, an overwhelming feeling of foreboding crept up on me and wouldn’t let me be.
A myriad of dark thoughts swirled around my head, and I was unable to drop off. Sliding out of bed, I shuffled quietly towards the door and clicked off the light. Plunged into darkness in an unfamiliar room, I felt like a blind person without their stick or dog, arms out, feet slowly feeling the way. Finally, I made it back to my cot. As I sat, the screen on my phone lit the room.
My stomach did a little flip as I checked the message.
Call me, now. Larry x
Staring at the screen, I swallowed hard, gritted my teeth and deleted the text.
Fuck you, Laurence.
If sleep hadn’t been forthcoming before, it was now an impossibility. I started by scolding myself in my head. First for my stupidity. Then my lack of morals.
Feeling ever so slightly like my mother, I moved on to the starkly disturbing changes in Larry’s behaviour. His depression at being suspended, his genuine angst at the deaths of innocent people at the hands of Siddique Al-Mufti and finally, the shockingly embarrassing proposal and the dreaded napkin.
My phone flashed again.
I’m watching you right now. You look so pretty. Larry x
I thought I was going to be sick. My heart pounded. How could he possibly have found me? How could he know where we were? I rolled off my cot and walked to the bedroom window. My legs were like jelly, my hands shook. Reaching for the curtains, I opened them a centimetre and pushed my eye against the gap. The narrow street outside was deserted.
No one was in sight.
He’s playing with your head, Lauren. Fuck him, there’s nothing he can do to you.
Except, I didn’t feel as confident as my thoughts. I shuffled back to my bed, sat on it for a moment, gave up all thoughts of sleep, pulled on a robe, and made for the bedroom door. If I was going to spend the night awake and feeling sorry for myself, I figured that I might as well do it with coffee.
I clicked on the kitchen light and filled the kettle. Forrest was sleeping on the couch in the lounge and his gentle snoring somehow made me feel slightly better. After what seemed like an age the kettle did its job, and I sat at the small table with both hands wrapped around my cup. As I took a sip, I felt my phone vibrate in my dressing gown pocket.
I asked you to call me. Larry x
Now, I’ve never been easily spooked, but as my phone began to ring, I felt a shiver down my spine.
I gripped the set, accepted the call, and felt my anger rise.
“What do you want?” I hissed.
“That’s no way to greet your lover now, is it?” said Larry, calmly.
I couldn’t help myself.
“One night, Larry. One fucking, stupid night. A mistake. Don’t you get it? People do it all the time. They go out, drink too much and end up in bed with the wrong person. Grow up and get over it.”
I killed the call, dropped my phone on the table and my head in my hands. Finally, I sat up, took a big breath and blew out my cheeks.
Get yourself together.
A good sentiment, yet as I brought my cup to my lips, I noticed
my hands were still shaking. There was to be no let up. My phone flashed again.
Don’t be cross. You need me more than you know. Larry x. PS. I like the top you wore tonight.
That did it. I thought my head would burst. I picked up and dialled.
“I see I finally have your attention,” he whispered.
“What’s this about, Larry? What do you want from me?”
“I want you to be my wife. I told you so. I love you. We are meant to be together.”
“But I don’t love you, Larry. I told you that, remember? And writing obscure threats on napkins won’t endear me to you, either.”
He was silent for a moment, then, “Things will be different once… once he’s out of the way, you’ll see.”
“What? Who? You mean Rick? Are you threatening us both now? What has happened to you, Larry? You’re just not functioning.”
Again he went quiet, but I thought I heard a low pained sigh.
“Ah, but I am functioning, Lauren. I see everything so clearly now. Fuller lives by the sword, and so he shall die by it. He’s up to his old tricks again, isn’t he? I saw you all tonight on the Flat Iron’s CCTV. Very sloppy work. There was a camera on the entrance. I suppose that you will say it was pure coincidence that you were present, but… I know better.”
“So, we’re not allowed to go for a quiet drink anymore, Larry? Is that it? We live in a police state? Did your little tape show us breaking any laws?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I already know, Larry. We went for a drink and two men came in the pub and started shooting… simple. You should be out looking for them, not harassing me. And on that point, if you ring me again, or message me, I’ll make a formal complaint to your Chief Constable.”
I heard him laugh down his nose. “No, you won’t. You won’t ring anyone or make any complaint because you are part of this.”
“Part of what? Some junkie gets shot by other junkies in some random pub, and it’s our fault?”
“Why did the doorman leave with you?” he said.
That threw me. He would have seen Forrest walking out of the door sandwiched between Rick and Des and he would have noticed that he didn’t return. I had to think quickly.
“You mean Michael?” I asked, as calmly as I could.
“Forrest, yes. We know he works for Big C Securities.”
“Did,” I said. “That’s why we were in the pub, Larry. To speak to him about a job. He applied for CP work, and now he’s our employee. Nothing more sinister than that. He’s an ex Para, just the kind of guy we like on our books.”
“An ex Para with form,” countered Larry.
“Look,” I said losing all patience and warming to my tale. “Michael Forrest declared his conviction on his application. He’s a good guy who needed a break. Now, if we’re done?”
“Not quite,” he said.
I waited.
“Where are you staying? You’re not at home, I checked.”
So he was stalking me after all. I went for the jugular.
“Don’t ring me again, Larry, or I mean it, I’ll complain to your seniors. Or worse still, I’ll mention it to Rick, and that would be very messy.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Do you want to take that chance?”
He closed the call.
I stared at the blank screen for a while, waiting for the next call, but it didn’t come. Finally, feeling much better about the whole scenario. I poured what was left of my coffee down the sink, climbed the stairs to bed, and slept like a baby.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
“So you told Mickey everything?”
Des stood munching on a bacon sandwich, looking out of the kitchen window, into the back yard.
“Not quite everything, pal, just enough to keep him in the loop. He’s a good boy, mark my words, we’ve fallen on our feet there. Finding Mickey was a bit of luck, I reckon. I mean, he’s streetwise, he knows the area and he’s got urban combat experience. It’s a no brainer.”
I’d always trusted Des’ judgement, and from what I’d seen of Forrest, there was no reason to stop now. He’d done the job we’d asked. He’d been calm under pressure and helped the team with a solution, so he was in.
My only issue with new people was one of their motivation. Someone had been feeding information about my whereabouts to third parties for months. Yes, there had to be a bigger fish somewhere and Cartwright knew it; but there was also a mole on our side of the pond, and new faces were always an itch that were difficult to scratch.
“Okay, pal,” I said, tucking into my own breakfast. “Just keep an eye though, eh?”
“Ne bother,” said Des. “So, are we going to stay holed up fe a while or what?”
I shook my head.
“No, mate, we’re not. We go straight for Jonas and Jacket, take them and their product off the street. That will shake the tree. We need to move faster than I thought.”
“Because?”
“Because, I think Abdallah may already be in the country… Look at this.”
I scrolled my phone.
“Cartwright has sent me this via email overnight, copied from The Buxton Gazette, published yesterday. It’s about the Transit we fired up on the moors. Some young hack by the name of Paul Willets, has been snooping around the crash site, and The Prince O’ Wales in Ancoats.”
“That Siddique was a cruel bastard,” muttered Des. Still hurting from the loss of Maggie. “I’d slot him again in a heartbeat.”
I nodded, understanding his pain.
That night, we’d cleaned the scene, piled the bodies of Maggie and Siddique Al-Mufti in the Transit and set it alight. Cartwright had been insistent, and I took some grief for carrying out his orders. Just as we’d thought, it had burned itself out on the desolate moors and was only discovered the following day. We knew the driver had taken a single round to his back and Siddique had a hole in his skull where Des had practised his DIY skills, but with a little interference from The Firm, those two small matters should have been overlooked and, let’s face it, after a ferocious blaze like that, there wouldn’t have been much left to examine. However, it appeared that Mr Willets was not so easily dissuaded. For a paper like the Buxton Gazette, this was big news.
I gave Des a sorrowful look and began to read aloud.
“The article is headed, ‘Woodhead Bodies Mystery,’ I said.
The Scot sat heavily on his chair. “Go on, pal,” he said. “Get it over with.”
I nodded. “It says: ‘As a result of a painstaking investigation, this paper can now reveal the identities of two of the four badly burned bodies recovered from the fatal road accident on the Woodhead Pass. Victim one is Margaret Jane Bracewell, 43 years, of Ancoats, Manchester. The second is identified as Siddique Al-Mufti, a US national. It is understood that the ferocity of the blaze forced the coroner to make his identifications by the use of dental records.’”
Des raised his head.
“But Yunfakh members don’t have…”
“Dental records,” I finished. “I know that, so we have to ask, who’s fed this Willets kid the intel?”
Des shook his head ruefully. I kept reading.
“’The cause of death in both cases is unknown, although the coroner stipulates that the victims had suffered serious injuries and therefore may not have been alive at the time of the fire. In each case, open verdicts have been cited. The identity of the driver and front passenger remain a mystery.”
I cocked my head.
“Here is the interesting bit, he goes on… ‘This case still leaves many questions unanswered. This reporter understands that until her untimely death, Ms Bracewell had been the landlady of the Prince O’ Wales pub in Ancoats, and on the night of the fatal crash, two further incidents occurred at the premises. The first was a report
of criminal damage, and the second, the building being left insecure. It is now understood, that the police arrived at the latter incident to find a forced entry and Ms Bracewell missing. There are also unconfirmed reports that bloodstains were found at the bottom of the stairwell leading to the landlady’s accommodation, suggesting a violent struggle had taken place. A source close to the investigating team has also intimated that Ms Bracewell’s body was found, not in the front, but the rear of the transit van, which begs the question, had Margaret Bracewell been abducted? And just who is Siddique Al-Mufti?”
“Aww fuck,” said Des.
“There’s more, mate… ‘The Serious and Organised Crime Unit…”
“For that, read our pal Larry,” spat Des.
I snorted.
“In one, but wait for it…. The SOCU have issued a brief statement on the matter, it reads: ‘Greater Manchester Police are currently liaising with the Derbyshire force regarding a recent incident involving a burnt out vehicle and the alleged abduction of Margaret Bracewell from the Prince O’ Wales pub, Ancoats. Ms Bracewell suffered multiple fractures prior to the blaze and foul play cannot be ruled out. The SOCU are eager to speak to a man who had recently visited the premises and struck up a relationship with the victim. He is described as a white male, aged forty to fifty years, 5’8” tall who speaks with a Scottish accent. This man could be armed and dangerous and should not be approached by the public. Anyone with any information… blah blah.’”
Des curled his lip, unable to hide his temper.
“Some fucker is playing silly buggers,” he said. “A quick chat with any of the regular drinkers in the Prince could have come up with that info.”
I nodded. “But as the guy you slotted at the bottom of the stairs couldn’t just get up and walk away, we have to presume that someone cleaned the scene. As it was half a job, my money would be on Siddique’s men. Either way, Simpson has nothing. He’s fishing. Anything to get to our team, or more importantly to him, Lauren. I reckon he just wants me out of the way, so he has a clear run at her. He’s a lovesick puppy, nothing more.”
“He’s fucking dangerous,” said Des taking a gulp of his tea. “He knows that the location of the pub is close to the Blackman murder site, and he’ll have put two and two together. He’ll be on our backs before we know it. He could drop the dime to that reporter and name me if he wanted.”