by Robert White
Always one for a plan, Rick just pointed at the picture of The Anson and waved away my concerns.
“If you two keep yourselves to yourselves, you’ll be fine.”
“Oh aye,” I said. “That’s just fine and dandy. It’s okay for them to knock the fuck out of the Scottish lad eh? It will make a change from fuckin’ Sky Sports for the wee boys.”
“Now you’re being awkward,” said Rick. “You’ll have Lauren as back-up.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Awkward, am I? Well, how about this then? How about you go into the boozer with JJ, and me and Lauren wait outside in the car?”
It was Rick’s turn to shake his head. “Can’t do that,” he said.
“Why?” asked a very uptight Lauren.
Before I tell you what he said, let me point out that he was deadly serious.
He laid his palms out flat.
“Firstly, Jimmy and Kevin may recognise me from back in the day…and anyway, no one would ever believe I lived on a council estate.”
Lauren North’s Story:
I wanted to slap him. Just who did he think he was?
JJ sat and smiled to himself. If it had been a joke, it may have even been funny, but Rick had no idea he’d just insulted us. To him it was just…obvious.
I closed my mouth and gritted my teeth.
Rick ploughed his furrow regardless. “Okay so, Jimmy always visits the Anson on a Wednesday night,” he began. “He’s captain of the pub darts team and never misses a match.”
Des was incredulous.
“You’re thinking of doing this tonight, aren’t ye?” He checked his watch. “In the next two hours?”
Rick nodded.
“That’s fucking crazy, pal,” said Des. “We don’t even know what this guy Jimmy looks like. Do you have a mugshot?”
“No,” said Rick flatly. “But Egghead says he looks like an older version of him out of Oasis.”
Des shook his head, “Fuck me…Liam or Noel?”
Rick pulled his face. “I don’t fucking know, both of them maybe. He’s all mop-haired and John Lennon glasses. Always wears an army-style jacket with lots of pockets, neck full of tatts, bad attitude, stupid walk.”
Des stood, he wasn’t a happy bunny, and I knew why. “Oh, that’s great. A big fucking help that is.
Is this gaff, a City or United pub?”
“City, I think,” said Rick.
Des laughed. “Hah! So, half the fuckin’ customers will be dressed like the Gallagher brothers, and walk like they’ve shit their pants. The other half will be a mixture of shaven-headed nutters with shiny black tracksuits and rolled gold accessories, mixed in with skinny crack heads who are barred from every other pub in the north of England.…how the fuck do we ID the wee bastard, when half the pub resembles his description?”
“You won’t be able to miss him,” said Rick. “He’ll be with cousin Kevin, who’s a skinny little runt with dyed black hair, and a guy called Paddy Devlin, the London’s bodyguard. Paddy is a big fucker with a carrot top. Ex 2 Para.”
As if it wasn’t obvious what a shit job this was already, Rick added,
“You’ll need to avoid Paddy like the plague, he’s a very nasty piece of work and is always armed. Kevin won’t be a problem. Apparently, he’s that skinny he’ll stand out like Buddy Holly at a Meatloaf convention. That said, he is known for attacking guys when their backs are turned.”
Des scratched his head. “I dinnae know about this, pal…How far away will you and JJ be? How long do we have to hold onto this wee shite before the cavalry arrive?”
“Four minutes.” he said.
Des eyed his best friend for a moment.
There was no doubt that Rick intended to go ahead with his plan, and there wasn’t the slightest uncertainty that Des and JJ would simply find a way to achieve it.
That said, even I knew four minutes was way too long.
“You need to halve that,” said Des. “Even if Lauren covers big Paddy and the skinny lad, I’ve still got to overpower Jimmy, who after about ten seconds is going to realise that this is a kidnap and not a hit. He’s going to kick off…I want you there in two minutes max.”
Rick instantly nodded his agreement, then turned to JJ. “We’ll just have to risk being closer.”
JJ shrugged at the obvious and went back to playing with his knife.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All my training told me we needed more time. Feeling rather jelly-legged again, I did my best to focus on the real issues.
“Are you really suggesting we do this without any preparation, Rick? I mean, even you must agree that we need to see the layout of the pub; entrances, exits, stairs, just basics. And I’d want a physical check of the area outside the venue too for any obstacles, that kind of thing. We wouldn’t want to be dragging Jimmy to the car by his ankles and run straight into fucking big hole the council had dug that afternoon, would we?”
He remained impassive.
I shook my head in disbelief. “Come on, Rick. You know standard operating procedure would call for at least three exit strategies in case it all goes to hell in a handcart, I mean, what if…?”
At that, he stepped in.
“We haven’t time for any what ifs.”
“Oh, come on,” I barked. “What’s the hurry? Why not next Wednesday? Do the job right for God’s sake. We’ll still get to George, still get Goldsmith.”
Rick held the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and squeezed his eyes tight as he began.
“Because we have no time, Lauren. I reckon that Goldsmith has instructed Red George to eliminate everyone who had any part in the investigation of his so-called death.”
I held out my palms. “And where is your evidence of this?”
Rick locked eyes with me and slowly laid out his stall. “I reckon Goldsmith discovered Makris was investigating his so-called suicide…He sends George to top Spiros, but that wouldn’t be enough for Stephan. He would want more insurance. That means the silence of any possible witnesses Spiros may have contacted.”
JJ opened his knife with a flick of his wrist. “Colin Reed is the first witness, yes? Like he was going to be our first.”
“Exactly,” added Rick. “And if we don’t act now, there could be other innocent victims; prison officers, paramedics, doctors, even undertakers may be on the list.”
Nodding toward JJ in appreciation, Rick added, “We know that an old Albanian torture technique using a machete type knife was used to cause Reed’s slow death. What we don’t know is what the poor fucker told his tormentor, but you can bet that he would have given any names he knew.”
Rick squared himself.
“Look…the murders of Makris and Reed are definitely the work of Red George…Gjergj Dushku, a UK resident since the Kosovan war in ’98 and as dangerous a man as you are likely to meet.
“As far as I knew, he was a freelancer. But according to our friend Egghead, he’s recently been working for Jimmy London.
“Now, our George speaks fluent Russian, Polish and Albanian…handy to have around in the stolen car game eh? He’s also built like a brick wall and was trained by the KLA.
The description from the neighbour points to him being at Colin Reed’s gaff one or even two days before we discovered his body. We could confirm that by showing his picture to Miss Morrison, but I think we have the answer already. I believe with every day that passes, George will be out there looking to cross off another victim. I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t ask any of you to do this, if I didn’t truly believe there is no other option.”
He caught my gaze again. His eyes were full of passion and determination. “This is not just about Goldsmith, Lauren, Spiro’s kid, or even me. It’s about saving those poor sods who just get up for work every day at Strangeways jail. We have to do this, and we have to start tonight.”
There was a long silence and some knowing looks, but what was there to say? Rick was right.
&n
bsp; I wandered over to the weapons table where the Scot was sorting himself out.
“I’ve done this a time or two,” he muttered, pushing the two spare magazines he’d loaded into the inside pockets of his coat. “No prep, no plan.”
“And?” I asked, out of earshot.
“Normally goes to shit,” he said quietly, checking the safety on his Sig and finding it a home in the waistband of his jeans.
“Bit warm for a leather jacket, isn’t it?” I asked.
Des smiled; he was his usual dry self, “Probably right, but, unlike yourself, I’ve no choice. I’m not walking in The Anson carrying a fucking handbag. As there is every chance my teeth, that I’ve not long since paid a small fortune for, will be all over the pub floor within an hour or two, the last thing I need is to give the fuckers an excuse to inflict any further damage eh?”
He smiled and squeezed my shoulder, appearing relaxed. This was good, as I felt anything but.
I’d gone cold turkey all day. I felt sharper, but my hands shook as I opened my bag.
The ASP that I’d used on the streets of Ireland sat on the large table laid out with other weapons. I remembered giving Fat Barry a few good cracks with it whilst playing prostitute on Linen Hall Street. I also clearly recalled how Siobhan, the young prostitute, had repaid me for saving her a beating. Alongside it was a neat looking silver-coloured Colt SLP with a pearl inlay grip. I’d not seen it before, but it was small, just a six-round mag, and it felt good in my hand. After a quick check, it went in the bag alongside the expandable baton and some loose 9mm.
Rick wandered over.
“You got everything you need?” he asked.
I managed a smile for him. This was no time for anger or argument. He was never going to change, whatever the occasion, however dark things got.
“I suppose we have,” I said.
He handed me a set of keys. “Good...good. Those’re for a red Golf GTI. It’s parked on the Arndale, Floor 3. Registration is on the fob.”
I nodded and studied his dark eyes. They weren’t cold, they were just… elsewhere. Would there always be this distance between us?
“We never got that dinner,” I said gently.
His face softened and he bit his lower lip. Something flashed in those chocolate pools of his. “No,” he said. “Maybe next time, eh?”
Having no answer, and feeling suddenly tearful, I turned to Des.
“Come on you, let’s get a move on, or Jimmy will be in the boozer before us.”
The car was exactly where Rick said it would be. It was a bit of a wreck and smelled of cigarettes, but once on the road it was quick and nimble to drive. The main point being, it was disposable.
With no map or navigation system, I had to drive the route from memory. I think Des was as surprised as me when I pulled into The Anson’s car park without a single U-turn.
The reason I’d wanted a walk-through of the job became obvious the moment we arrived. Half the carpark had been taped off by contractors, who had left for the day. There were piles of rubble everywhere, and a mechanical digger and a generator were chained to a solitary lamp post. This was apparently a bid to stop them from being stolen during the night.
Two huge skips, one full, the other empty, blocked the main entrance of the pub.
“Dinnae worry about the skips,” said Des, reading my thoughts. “It only means our man will have to come in through the side door over there. I reckon he’ll park here, near us. That gives us fifty feet or so in which to take him.”
I looked at the cloudless sky. Manchester was experiencing an early heatwave.
“That’s if he’s driving at all. He could walk here, it’s a nice evening for it.”
“Maybe,” said Des. “Like most of these jobs, hen, it’s a wait and see.”
Unsurprisingly, there were no outdoor tables or pleasant sun shades outside The Anson. Over time, they had probably found their way into the various back gardens of the locals. Even so, pitched between our car and the door were half a dozen youths lolling about drinking pints, soaking up the last of the evening sunshine. They all sported skinheads, black tracksuit bottoms and the essential gold chains. The hot weather ensured that they had removed their T-shirts revealing skinny arms and sunken chests.
Clocking us instantly, they stopped their banter, and took a long look at our red GTI.
Des pushed open his door, looked over at me and raised his eyebrows.
“Showtime,” he said.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I always knew my old Escort van would come in handy. I hadn’t used it since I’d had to transport one of Joel Davies’s employees back to his flat and throw him off his balcony. He’d been riding around in his boss’s 911 and putting Charlie up his nose he hadn’t paid for.
Big mistake.
I seemed to recall that unfortunate soul was called Jimmy too. Our new shiny Jimmy was much richer, but equally stupid. If everything went according to plan, I knew exactly what was about to happen to new Jimmy, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
We needed a safe place to deal with our car-stealing murderer, and I’d asked the only person I could trust outside the team for help, Kostas Makris.
The Greek had given me the keys to one of his industrial units in Haigh Park, Stockport. It gave us a nice easy run from the pub, straight down the A6 through Levenshulme, a left at Heaton Chapel, and we’d be there. Well that was the plan.
The unit itself was on a self-contained site and didn’t run twenty-four hours. Kostas said it was nice and quiet with no security or CCTV to worry about.
We could interrogate Jimmy there without interruptions.
My initial idea was to park out toward the Apollo, but Des was right, we needed to take a chance and get closer to the pub.
We tucked the van in nice and close to Saint Chrysostom’s church, just off the Anson Road. I estimated we could be on the Anson carpark within ninety seconds.
I don’t know where he’d got the idea from, but JJ had decided that there was the chance that things may go wrong. Rather than an SLP, he’d brought an MP7 along with him, one kindly recovered from the O’Donnell conflict by the Firm and dropped at our DLB. Pushed into the inside pockets of his leather were two spare mags and a suppressor. I considered he could do enough damage with his knife, but with the H+K he could take out the whole fucking estate. With the suppressor fitted, the MP7 would be as quiet as his blade too.
I’d opted for my personal Sig Sauer 1911 Fastback as it didn’t stick in your back whilst driving. We both carried hoods and plasti-cuffs in our back pockets. These were intended primarily for Jimmy of course, but, should any nosy kids on BMX’s come sniffing about, it would be a way of keeping them quiet for an hour.
I checked the time, and felt mildly irritated that I’d not changed my watch. Glowing perfectly on my wrist was one of my latest purchases, a very nice TAG Heuer Carrera, a snip at £4,500.
In all the excitement, I’d forgotten to swap it for a more workmanlike unit.
JJ noticed my annoyance. He pulled out the twenty-quid phone I’d insisted all the team carried. The screen announced 19:03.
“I have the time,” he said with a smile. “I think you leave this very nice watch in the glovebox, no? Things may get a little rough.”
Des Cogan’s Story:
The wee laddies blocking our entrance to the Anson were nothing to worry about. As we closed on the crew, the thick sickly smell of weed hung in the air. I noticed one pass a joint to the other, and he openly pulled on it, laughing as he did so.
I thought it unlikely that the local boys in blue would be turning up to arrest these errant youths any time soon.
When the cops visited pubs like the Anson they would be mob-handed, and it would be out of absolute necessity, not to bust some kids for smoking a joint.
I’ve never been one for drugs myself, apart from the legal variety that is, but one thing I will say about cannabis users, once they’d had a smoke, they were fucking useless in a fi
ght.
As we approached the lads, they moved without issue. The closest guy had eyes like slits and wore a big smile as we went by.
“I wouldn’t leave that Golf there, man,” he said.
I turned to him and gave him my finest welcoming Glasgow look.
“I think it will be fine, pal…especially with you boys looking after it.”
The kid looked blank for a moment, before nodding fiercely as the penny dropped.
“Oh yeah, man…sure…we’ll be here, man.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “I knew you were good boys.”
Lauren smiled to herself and shook her head as she stepped into the pub.
“You are a bad man, Des Cogan,” she said.
I ordered a pint of Stella as I knew the Guinness would be shit. Lauren opted for the same. The sight of a woman drinking pints was a daily occurrence in the Anson, however one that looked like Lauren North was a different matter.
The room was already half-full with early evening drinkers. There was more of a mix than I’d thought. A good few old boys with their halves of mild, rubbed shoulders with the expected meatheads and Oasis doppelgangers.
No one seemed to notice us, except the half a dozen women of varying shapes and sizes that populated the bar. They jealously watched Lauren’s every move.
I’ve been in some rough pubs in my time, and one thing I learned is, don’t mess with the girls. The women in places like these are worse than the blokes.
Two girls in particular eyed Lauren with something between envy and hatred. They muttered to each other. I couldn’t hear, but could guess.
Lauren had clocked them too.
“The two sweethearts in the corner are lovely eh?”