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

by Robert White

  I heard his footsteps fade, stop, and then ever so slowly turn and re-climb the stairs. As they came closer my pulse raced until finally, the door opened.

  Rick stood there for the longest time. I wanted to run to him, to wrap my arms around his neck, to kiss his face, to tell him how I felt, but nothing came. I was as stone.

  He walked the last steps to me, bringing him intimately close. I could feel his breath on my face, smell him. He raised his hand, wiped my tears, and kissed me.

  “Come on,” he said. “It’s been a tough day…Let’s go.”

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  Me and JJ used the Escort to drop Kevin’s body in a spot where it would be found easily, whilst Rick and Lauren picked up a third car we’d left close to the unit.

  Within the hour, we were all back in the lock-up.

  Lauren stitched me up and dispensed some painkillers, but my head still banged like a bass drum on Orange Day Parade.

  That said, Rick was preparing grub and it smelled delicious. Home cooked food had not been high on my list of priorities of late, so my stomach rumbled in anticipation. Considering our shit position, Rick looked relatively pleased with himself as he drained pasta over the sink.

  Despite the late hour, we were all ready to eat. The adrenaline rushes had subsided and our bodies were telling us that it was time to refuel.

  Lauren tapped away at her laptop.

  She suddenly stopped typing and held up her hand, like some school kid with the right answer,

  “Erm…Rick…guys…erm…oh shit, oh no!”

  We all huddled around her, squinting at the screen.

  “What is it?” asked Rick impatiently.

  Lauren shook her head slowly. “An email from Rupert Warwick.”

  “Rupert who?” I asked.

  “The guy from the Manchester Evening News, the reporter who gave me Colin Reed’s name, the guy who was investigating prison suicides at Strangeways.”

  “And…what about it?” asked Rick.

  “Red George,” she began. “No wonder he’s left the country…Colin Reed wasn’t the first on his list …he was the fucking last.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Red George had all the time in the world to find the people he’d been searching for. I had failed to think the way I needed to, and once again, missed the obvious.

  Lauren had it in one. Reed had been given the Albanian torture treatment, not because he was the first, but because he was the final victim. It was a warning to anyone Goldsmith may have missed, and a final attempt to find out further names.

  I read the email for the second time.

  In addition to Colin Reed on the 13th June, three other people who had worked at Strangeways had seemingly committed suicide over the past days:

  June 9th, Len Blakely 42yrs (Hospital Orderly)

  June 11th, Jenny Simmons 31yrs (Police Surgeon)

  June 12th, Mark Cross 23yrs (Prison Officer)

  Quite rightly, Rupert Warwick would have his reasons to be doubtful about the initial conclusions of the police reports; the prison officers’ union may be up in arms; and Rupert’s readers would be outraged, yet I knew nothing would be done…not yet anyway.

  I knew that every official statement would describe each demise as a terrible loss to society. Yet, even though the crime scenes were essentially forensically flawed, officially there would be no suspicious circumstances.

  Why?

  I found my mobile, and dialled the number from memory.

  It was answered in seconds.

  A familiar cultured voice answered. “Ah, Richard…finally.”

  “Hello, Cartwright,” I said.

  The spy came straight to his point.

  “Richard, you really must be more prompt when replying to my messages.”

  I was about to complain, but he was already on a roll.

  “Richard, the most insecure devices ever known to mankind are the computer and the mobile phone, and I am appalled that both appear to be your regular mode of communication. However, time is indeed of the essence, therefore, I shall be brief.

  I need to see you urgently. I have booked you into the Prince Alexander Suite, Claridge’s… tonight, and yes, I am fully aware of the current hour. That sporty little number you bought recently will have you there sharpish…so your arrival time will be, say 0230hrs. Use the valet parking. Your personal butler is called Francis. You can trust him.”

  The phone went dead.

  Lauren positively scowled.

  “Cartwright...what has he to do with this…I thought we were away from all that shit?”

  I held up a hand. “Like I said, there was always the possibility that the Firm or the CIA had done a deal with Goldsmith and that he had been in their protective custody at some point. Cartwright is just a hired hand like the rest of us. I need to find out what he wants.”

  Des strode to the kitchen, dumped a mountain of pasta and Arrabiata sauce on a plate and cut the room silent. “And the old boy got you home alive, Lauren, eh? It’s only fair we find out the script.”

  I played peacemaker.

  “He got us all back, Des…Anyway, he wants me, in London…asap.”

  Lauren shot Des a look, stood and walked over to me, searching me with her eyes. “And this is about Goldsmith?”

  “I think so, yes.” I said.

  “If it isn’t,” said Des, his mouth full of pasta. “Ma dick plays tunes.”

  There was no time to return to my apartment, therefore I was forced to select my mode of transport and clothes from what was available in the lock-up.

  My chosen vehicle was one I’d not driven in years. It had lounged in the corner of the lock-up, covered in linen, for almost as long as I’d owned the premises.

  In 1998, when I’d won her in a game of poker, she was worth a couple of grand. Today, nine years on after a total restoration, well, add another zero. The 1988 Porsche 944 Turbo S was a future classic. A vehicle that wouldn’t be out of place in Mayfair, yet quick and comfortable for my motorway trip. Indeed, pleasurable enough to keep me awake.

  Finished in stone grey metallic with black leather trim, the Turbo S was one of a limited run of cars based on the Cup Racers M030 option code. An uprated turbo, gearbox and shocks, a limited slip diff to cope with the extra power, together with 928 S4 four pot upgraded brakes ensured it went like a scaled cat, and stopped on a sixpence.

  The German marque gleamed under the glow of Manchester’s sodium lighting as I pushed her toward the M60 and did my best not to think of Lauren, of Larry, and most of all, of Stephan Goldsmith.

  On a positive note, I’d managed to pack a charcoal Paul Smith two-piece, and white button-down collar Thomas Pink shirt that I’d left in my lock-up wardrobe.

  However, I was forced to travel in chocolate Duck and Cover Chinos and a cream Ralf Lauren Polo.

  Claridge’s would just have to understand.

  The hotel itself stands on the corner of Brook Street and Davies Street in Mayfair. It opened in 1812, then called Mivart’s. Since then it had been rebuilt and now boasts a hundred and ninety-seven rooms with just eleven suites. Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn are listed amongst its celebrity guests.

  The moment I pulled up outside, a valet took charge of the 944 and I strode into the lobby. A very attractive Eastern European receptionist had barely time to greet me before Francis, my personal butler, was at my shoulder.

  “Good morning, Mr Fuller,” he beamed, grabbing my bag from my hand. I wasn’t too concerned as it contained nothing but clothes and toiletries. I’d decided on borrowing Lauren’s little silver Colt, the pistol she’d put to such good use outside the Anson and it sat, somewhat uncomfortably, velcro’d to my right ankle.

  “Please allow me to show you to your accommodation.”

  Francis was extremely tall, maybe six foot six, lithe, dark-skinned and definitely of African origin, yet he seemed accent-less.

  My suite, the Prince Alexander, was just under a hundred and fifty
square meters in size.

  Drinking in the sheer opulence of the sitting room, I couldn’t help but recall the house I lived in as a kid, a two up two down job, at best half the size of this very hotel room.

  I had everything a wealthy man could ever need, including a full size Broadwood grand piano. Stepping over to it, I lifted the lid and tapped a key or two.

  Although Francis didn’t let it show, it was obvious I wasn’t Elton John.

  “Should you wish to play, sir,” he said. “The hotel will supply complimentary sheet music for all ability levels.”

  “I don’t think you would have my level,” I muttered half to myself, closing the lid.

  Francis had the unnerving habit of holding a permanent beam on his face.

  “Quite,” he said through perfectly whitened teeth.

  Desperate to please, he added, “Maybe sir would like a drink or some other refreshment, I realise you have had a long drive. There is complimentary champagne.”

  I walked over to him and dropped my hand on his shoulder.

  “Francis, pal, we both know, that on this particular occasion, everything here is complimentary, so, with that in mind…inside that case you are holding is a suit and shirt, I’d like them pressed and brought back to my room…Is there a gym in this place?”

  Francis was already removing my clothes from the bag. “Yes, sir, of course, our Spa and Techno Gym are situated on the top floor. You will find a mixture of cardio vascular and resistance machines, together with a selection of free weights…it’s comp…”

  “Complimentary, yes, I guessed that, Francis. Good…I’d like breakfast in my room at eight-thirty. That will be bran cereal with a fresh ripe banana and skimmed milk, a four-duck-egg omelette, no cheese, with green pepper and tomato, fresh orange and a double espresso.”

  Francis looked relieved that I’d given him something to do that he was comfortable with.

  “Certainly, Mr Fuller.”

  He made for the door, my clothes over his arm; as he opened it he turned, rummaged in his inside pocket, removed an envelope and dropped it on a nearby table.

  “Your instructions, sir,” he said, his smile gone.

  I read Cartwright’s handwritten note, showered in my very impressive bathroom and slipped between the deliciously crisp sheets.

  As usual when things were difficult, I slept like a baby.

  Waking before my 0630hrs alarm, I pulled on my training gear and found the lift to the rooftop gym. It was sufficient for my needs, although the heaviest free weights were 25kg.

  I was alone, except for a young red-haired woman who ran 10k on a treadmill at a very respectable pace. Under normal circumstances, despite her excellent figure, she wouldn’t have registered, but as I was about to meet one of London’s top spies, the chances were he would have someone keep an eye on me, even in the gym.

  Red was a spook.

  I returned to my room to complete my ablutions. Francis had laid out my suit and shirt on the newly made bed, whilst breakfast was warming under solid silver domes.

  It was excellent, and I ate wrapped in the softest of bathrobes whilst watching the BBC morning news, none of it good.

  Slipping down in the comfiest chair ever, I closed my eyes again.

  By 1145hrs, I was dressing and my butler came calling.

  “Sir, the dress code for luncheon in the reading room requires a tie. I noticed that you had neglected to pack one, so I took the liberty of bringing a selection from our shop.”

  I tied my brogues.

  “And just how did you know I would be taking lunch, Francis? Did you read my ‘instructions’ perhaps?”

  The guy straightened his strikingly tall frame.

  “Certainly not, sir. Although, I am party to all bookings made in the private dining area and, of course, the identities of the diners.”

  I took a swift look at the selection of neckwear. “I’ll take the Salvatore, thank you, Francis.”

  His manic smile reappeared. “Excellent choice, sir.”

  By 1230hrs I was shown to a private table in Claridge’s Reading Room. Cartwright was already in place, his sharp blue eyes matching his hand-tailored Saville Row suit.

  There was a hint of a smile.” Richard, it’s good to see you looking so well. How’s the wound?”

  I sat. “I’m as well as can be expected, Cartwright.”

  “I’d considered inviting you to my private club,” he said. “But they have a new luncheon chef. French, I believe. Garlic before dinner is unnecessary, don’t you agree?”

  “Awful,” I managed.

  “So,” said the spy, spreading his Le Jacquard Français napkin, and spectacularly missing the irony. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have taken the liberty of ordering for us both, Cornish crab salad to start, followed by truffle ricotta tortellini.”

  “I’m hungry,” I said.

  Cartwright gestured toward Francis, who was standing discreetly out of earshot.

  “We need a drink, my man,” said the spy. “Two Sapphires… easy on the tonic.”

  I leaned in and positively snarled, unable to contain myself, “If you are going to tell me that you had something to do with keeping Stephan Goldsmith alive, I think you should make them large ones.”

  As you might expect from an MI6 agent who had lived beyond his sixtieth year, Cartwright was unimpressed by my aggression. He studied my face for a moment.

  “Stephan Goldsmith was a very useful asset to Her Majesty’s Government, Richard.”

  His response was exactly as expected, but it still hit me like a train. I took a moment and did my best to keep my voice level.

  “A fucking asset?”

  Cartwright waited for Francis to put down our G and T’s and resume his post.

  “Yes, Richard, you really must start to look at the big picture.”

  I took a sip of my ice-cold drink, the bitter gin intensifying the already tart taste in my mouth. “I’m listening.”

  Cartwright drained half his glass.

  “Look, Stephan’s father was very close to the Americans, I mean, any deeper in bed and a divorce attorney would have been required. He had been party to some of the most clandestine CIA operations that had ever taken place internationally, including sorties into the UK, particularly Northern Ireland. They trusted him far more than they trusted us Brits. Therefore, we were keen to establish if, in more recent times, the Yanks had shown the same amount of faith in Stephan as they had in his infamous father. It turned out they had, and therefore, it was essential that we got to him before the CIA could ‘persuade’ Goldsmith the younger to join them over the Pond.”

  “I thought we were allies, the Americans and us?”

  “We are, old boy.”

  “Just not that friendly?”

  “It’s a long story that goes back a long way, Richard, and one we haven’t time for today. The fact of the matter is, we did get our man, he did give us what we wanted and in turn, we gave him a… a new start.

  “You faked his death.”

  “Suicide, old boy. Smoke and mirrors as they say. We were quite pleased with the result, actually. The Americans were fucking furious.”

  The spy finished his drink and waved his empty at our butler.

  “And that was that, Richard; no one would ever have been the wiser; until…until someone started snooping about where they weren’t wanted.”

  “Someone?”

  He gave me a disappointed look. “You, Richard…You… you and your sense of misplaced bloody loyalty. It was you who persuaded that poor girl at the Registry to obtain a copy of Goldsmith’s death certificate wasn’t it?”

  “Not me…”

  The spy turned down his mouth in derision, his tone changing in an instant. “Don’t fuck with me, Fuller. The moment that document was accessed the alarms went off in Canary Wharf like a fucking air raid siren, and I knew it was you.”

  I did my best to hold onto my glass. My anger rose to boiling. “Don’t fuck with you? I can’t
believe I’m hearing this, Cartwright. Goldsmith was an animal, a vicious, murdering, drug dealing, child killer…And you…you and your Saville Row cronies decided to do a deal with him, didn’t you? You sat in your air-conditioned, bulletproof offices and decided that what Goldsmith knew was more important than what he’d done.”

  Cartwright shrugged.

  “And your problem is what, Richard? The British Government have done deals with ne’er-do-wells since time immemorial. Let’s face it, in modern history, Saddam Hussein, and Mohammed Abu Minyar Gaddafi spring to mind immediately. Not forgetting that Mrs Thatcher was a close friend and confidant of General Pinochet. As I recall, they used to take luncheon together at this very table, the little sweethearts.”

  A history lesson wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.

  “Oh, alright then, so because it’s been done before, you figured it was good practice to sponsor another murdering psychopath?”

  Two more gins arrived. Cartwright leaned forward, hands animated. I sensed the point was coming.

  “As soon as we knew the death certificate was compromised, it was standard operating procedure to move our asset. I had one of our chaps pay him a visit…to tell him about the issue and make the arrangements.”

  “And?”

  “And …well, maybe we had taken our eye of the ball somewhat and we found that Goldsmith had forged a good business for himself. Together with a man you know as Red George, he’d carved out a nice living in stolen cars. The bottom line was, he wasn’t prepared to leave his location. He said he wanted to stay put, and, more worryingly, he intimated that he would deal with the issue himself.”

  “And?”

  “And we, of course, informed Mr Goldsmith that his preferred course of action was not advisable.”

  I gulped my own drink, suddenly needing fuel. “So why not just slot him? Stop him from ‘dealing with it,’ killing poor Spiros and all those other innocent people...you could have topped the bastard and walked away, but you didn’t. Why was that, Cartwright? Were you still hopeful he would furnish you with more titbits about the Americans? Is that it?”