by Robert White
I risked a smile as I realised the bastard would want his boots, and all that money back. He could have it with pleasure.
After an uneventful drive back to Leeds I did my best to secrete the weapons and kit in the hotel room. The hire car would do me for a couple of days. My Audi back in Manchester was just too risky.
I felt the need to clear my head and went for a run. The area was hardly conducive to rural life but exercise was exercise. I’d been running for forty minutes at a steady pace. The Travelodge was close to an industrial estate. I’d passed numerous car sales pitches and warehouse premises, glaring neon signs reflected on the wet tarmac and occasional ropes of bare white light bulbs illuminated cheap Fords and Vauxhalls. Fluorescent banners boasted ‘low mileage’ or ‘one owner’. I increased my pace. I could feel my body start to relax and my breathing fell more into step with each stride. It always took me the first five miles to settle into my rhythm. Once I found the zone I could run marathon distances. I found myself running towards Chapeltown. This was the notorious red light area where The Yorkshire Ripper had plied his bloody trade. Leeds looked a rough old town to me, and coming from a weegie that wasn’t too complimentary. Thankfully it was also a place where I could disappear for a while, until I knew how Rick would fare. I turned for home at sixty minutes. I arrived back breathless and made a mental note to do more fitness work as soon as possible.
I showered, shaved and found some passable clothes to wear. I had to admit, that despite everything, I was secretly looking forward to meeting Lauren.
The helpful girl on the reception desk organised a cab for me and I set off to my arranged meeting. It was either quite a way around the ring road or the driver was taking the piss. Either way I was totally lost. I decided that it wasn’t worth the hassle to argue with the cabbie.
Eventually I arrived fifteen quid lighter and an hour early. I couldn’t be totally sure that Lauren wouldn’t have organised a welcoming committee for me so I did a full recce of the gaff before I got comfortable and settled with a pint. The place was pretty quiet for the time of night. It was called ‘The Font’ and was a typical city bar, all bare wood and mood lighting. It was three quid for a pint of Stella and I mused that it wasn’t that much of a surprise the gaff was half empty.
I found myself what looked like a comfy sofa that kept my back to a wall and gave me a good view on the entrance, and sipped my reassuringly expensive brew.
At eleven twenty-seven p.m. she arrived.
She wore a black woollen coat over her nurse’s uniform. She obviously hadn’t had time to change and looked a little harassed. She hadn’t seen me and I left it that way for a few moments until I was sure she didn’t have any company. When I was certain she was alone I stood and caught her eye.
She smiled at me, opened her coat to reveal more of her work clothes and shrugged her shoulders in apology. “Sorry, Des, I just didn’t have any time to change. The guy you came to the hospital with went into arrest just before ten.”
She took on a resigned look. “We lost him.”
The bomb had claimed its twelfth victim. “He was badly hurt, Lauren.”
She sat. “Yeah, I suppose, but he was only young, wasn’t he?”
I found a waiter and Lauren asked for a red wine. Finally we sat together and I took a good look at her. I figured she was in her mid-thirties. She could have been anything from thirty to thirty-eight. It was hard to tell. She was at least five feet ten and I was pleased to see she still wore her flat sensible shoes from work. She had dark hair that just touched her shoulders. It looked thick and shone healthily in the candlelight. Her eyes were a stunning light green and, despite her long shift, they sparkled as she spoke.
She had a touch of Yorkshire in her voice, but it wasn’t her birthplace. There was something else in the mix, a bit of a southern quality, a bit of English rose. Her tone was defiant. She took a sip of her wine and looked me in the eye.
“I haven’t got a clue why I’m here, Des. I should have gone to the police really.”
“That’s an option,” I said.
She lifted her glass and took a bigger drink. She had a full petal-shaped mouth but I couldn’t detect any lipstick. Indeed I couldn’t see any make-up at all.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It was almost a masculine gesture.
“I have to say, I’m intrigued; stupid, but intrigued. I mean, a woman on her own, risking life and limb, not to say anything of her career, just to help two guys I have no connection with, both of whom could be Scarface himself. It’s not clever.”
“I told you, I’m not a gangster and neither is Rick.”
She took a large gulp of her wine and waved the empty glass at the waitress.
“So you say. Well, I suppose that’s all right then. I always trust people that have a bullet hole in their head and that are being guarded by the coppers. Not to mention someone posing as a doctor, because you’re not a doctor, are you, Des?”
“No”
“Well then.” She moved her hands around in small circles to emphasise her point.
“That’s obviously why I’m helping James bloody Bond and his Scottish sidekick.”
Her wit was mixed with genuine fear. I could see it. I smiled at her and she fell silent.
“Just give me a few moments. I will tell you the truth, I promise. I have no one else that can help me. If you want to walk away after you hear what I have to say then so be it. You can do that. I won’t try to stop you or hurt you. Do you believe that, Lauren?”
She nodded and took her second glass of wine.
I took a deep breath and began.
“Rick isn’t a gangster, he’s an ex-soldier. Rick and I served together in Northern Ireland and too many other battlefields to mention. I’ve known him for twenty-six years. He’s my best mate. He comes from Hertfordshire. His father was a soldier, as was his grandfather. Both were killed in action. He was brought up in children’s homes as a result but he was a clever lad. He could have gone to Sandhurst but refused. I met him when we were in the Parachute Regiment together. We were never the type to get involved with anything criminal. We were posted to Ireland to work in a small team the army called a multi-agency unit. Our task was to observe several IRA cells who were involved in funding the terrorists’ weapons operation. Their largest single form of income was the trade in illicit drugs. Heroin from Afghanistan, cocaine from Columbia and cannabis from Europe. Our job was to watch and listen, but when we were sure we had the main men, it was our job to kill them.”
Lauren spat wine onto her coat and rubbed it furiously.
“Shit, sorry, erm, okay, go on.”
“That has been our life, Lauren. Rick and I were the kind of men who kept the balance in terrorist wars. Publicly, governments always had to play fair. The terrorist boys could do what the hell they liked. Drugs, prostitution, extortion, torture. Shit, even when we caught them we had to pay for their legal team out of our taxes. It was a way of balancing the books. Eventually, of course, the press got hold of what they called the ‘shoot to kill’ policy in Northern Ireland and tactics changed. I went to fight another war. Unfortunately Rick didn’t.”
Lauren raised a brow. “He didn’t?”
I shook my head and felt a twinge of sadness. “Rick lost his wife. She was murdered by the organisation. The IRA. It sent him crazy for a while. I thought he would top himself. It was awful.
“Rick blamed the secret service for the death of his wife. He never believed the IRA found his home without inside help. He turned into a man who I no longer knew. Guys who leave the Regiment do things when they retire that most normal people would never envisage. They become bodyguards, sell weapons even fight for other armies as mercenaries.”
I took a big gulp of my lager, wiped my mouth and went into the hard bit. “Rick went to work for a really nasty character. He was his debt collector. They even called Rick that: ‘The Collector’.
“He’d spend thousands on cars and clothes but he w
as miserable. He had a penthouse and all the money you would ever need. He kept working, taking dirty money. He took bigger and bigger risks. Finally he needed a team to go and collect a boat from Amsterdam that had been stolen from his client. He contacted me and asked if I would help, be part of his team.
“To be honest, I was bored and needed something to do, so I agreed. Four of us went to Holland to get the boat and it all went pear-shaped. We were set up. One of our team was killed. A girl called Tanya Richards.
“The people killed by the bomb, this morning, were all her family. It was her funeral. It’s been five days since Amsterdam. In that time, Rick has been tortured, scalded with water, shot in the mouth, to all intents murdered and dumped in a deserted lane. A man tried to kill me at my home in Scotland and Tanya’s family has been wiped out by a bomb the IRA would have been proud of.”
Lauren was dumbstruck.
“So the people with the boat in Amsterdam, killed all those poor people?”
“Possibly”
“And the man who tried to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you, erm, did you…?”
“Kill him? Yes, Lauren, I had to.”
She looked blankly at me and bit her lip. The story wasn’t going well.
“And what about the fourth person that went to Amsterdam? Is he okay?”
“She,” I spat, “Susan Davies, wife of the infamous Joel Davies. Well, our Susan was an altogether different matter, Lauren.”
As I let the tale unfold, Lauren seemed to relax a little. I talked until the early hours. We were the last people to leave and, as I promised, I told her everything I knew. Death, drugs and all.
We were both a little tipsy by the time we stood waving down a taxi. Lauren hugged herself against the cold. Her pale face began to show pink extremities. She turned to me.
“I’ve been thinking,” she slurred, “if I’m going to help you, we have to have a cover up.”
I laughed. “You mean a cover story.”
She stamped her feet. “Yes, one of those. I mean my friend Jane will cotton on in an instant if you just keep turning up all over the place. So, we have to have a cover up, erm story.”
“And what will that be?”
The taxi pulled up and she jumped in. I closed the door for her and she wound down the window to speak.
“You’ll have to be my boyfriend,” she giggled.
The taxi drove away, leaving me warm as toast on the pavement.
Lauren North's Story:
My head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton-wool as I walked into the ward the next day. Despite being definitely tipsy I had found it near impossible to sleep with all the information ticking over in my head.
No matter how I looked at it, the two men, one a patient, and one a fake doctor, were criminals. They had been working for a drug dealer and had killed people. You could dress it up any way you wanted but as far as I was concerned that was the truth.
So my decision should have been straightforward. No mystery, no second thoughts, but I was having them. Was it because Des was one of the most fascinating men I’d ever met? Was it because every time he brushed my hand with his last night I shivered inside with excitement?
He scared me to death. I mean, he was so cold about killing. It was black or white. Him or me. No thought for the law or family.
And yet he was so gentle and kind. He genuinely cared for his friend, the man lying in front of me in the cool ward, battered and scarred.
But it was the cold light of day. The candles were out and those twinkling blue eyes were somewhere else. I knew I needed to grow up, get a life and find a man who wasn’t a criminal. I needed to go to the police. That was it, decision made.
First though I had to change Rick’s dressings.
He had a new constable sitting by the bed and I asked if he could leave us during the procedure. I figured my tale of international drug running and gangsters would be wasted on the probationer and could wait until I ended my shift. He gladly went off toward the staffroom and I drew the screens around my patient.
I lifted the sheet from the bed to reveal Rick’s legs. One was damaged from the kneecap whilst the other was from mid-thigh. He must have suffered terrible pain. Des believed that whoever did this was trying to find out where his house was in Scotland. If this had happened to me? My God, I couldn’t even start to imagine his agony.
I was removing the second dressing when I saw Rick’s fingers move. It wasn’t just a reaction to the pain of having the dressings removed. He’d cupped his hand upward and was beckoning me. His eyes were closed, I looked to his monitor, but it was normal, no sign of any change, but his hand continued to coax me toward the bed. I stood, motionless for a while my own heart was racing. I found some courage and sat at his side. My hands were shaking.
He opened one eye. His left was still swollen shut.
“Where is he?”
His voice was quiet and hoarse, distorted by his injured mouth.
“Who?”
“The man who was here with you yesterday. Where is he now?”
“You were awake yesterday?” I frantically looked around to ensure that there were no gaps in the screens. He moved his body slightly as if he’d waited an age to do so.
“Yes, now where is he?”
Now the cat was most definitely amongst the pigeons. All my good work and sensible decision making went right out of the window as I heard myself whisper, “He’s here in Leeds. I know everything. Des told me last night. Now, be quiet. The guard is back.”
I couldn’t see the policeman, but I heard him sit on the chair just outside the curtains. I was faced with the choice of pulling the screen aside and telling all to the constable, or keeping my mouth shut. To this day, I don’t know why I decided to keep quiet, but, I did just that.
I knew the procedure of re-dressing Rick’s burns would be extremely painful. For a comatose patient, it was not a problem, but conscious, he would need serious pain relief. I couldn’t obtain any drugs from the pharmacy without announcing to the world that Rick was awake. Therefore he would have to bear it in silence.
As if reading my mind, he looked at me and nodded slowly.
My hands trembled as I began. I could barely imagine what he was feeling. Each tiny movement must have been agony as I removed his old dressings, piece by piece. Each step, each section of gauze removed part of his damaged skin with it.
It was the longest thirty minutes of my life. Rick remained silent throughout. I found tears too persistent to prevent.
When I had finally finished I drew the curtains to be greeted by the guarding policeman.
“You look pale, love, late night last night?”
I did my best to stop my hands from trembling. “Something like that, Constable.”
I scurried to the loo to be sick.
I sat in the ladies’ cubicle for what seemed like an age. Everything that had happened to me over the last twenty-four hours twisted my neck muscles and made my head pound. My hands tingled and my stomach felt empty, yet bloated all at the same time.
Des excited me. I had to admit that to myself. He treated me like a woman, but an equal. Something I’d forgotten in the years since my divorce. The violence was so real though. I recalled the night out in Manchester when Jane and I had discussed the identity of our mutual patient. How we had laughed at the prospect of having some kind of celebrity on our own ward. Now it was all too factual. These were cold and calculating men in a world, the likes of which Jane and I had only ever read about or seen in the movies.
This was Robert Di Nero and Al Pacino territory. The pair may have been soldiers first and foremost, but I couldn’t kid myself that they weren’t breaking the law. The man lying in the bed in my ward had been subjected to the most horrific torture. I couldn’t understand how could another human being could be capable of such vile behaviour. What fuelled them and drove them to torture? Was it drugs, money, power? Yes, power, the only thing really importa
nt to men.
Money itself was not enough. Power was absolute. With power you could change the world.
I cupped my chin in my hands and stared at the toilet door. Des had told an amazing tale. It was like an episode of Spooks or something.
The murder of Rick’s wife had been the catalyst for all this grief. Had that one event not occurred, Rick would probably be raising a family in some southern coastal resort and Des would be resigned to catching fish. There would be no gangsters; no drugs and no murder left in either them.
Could I really buy into that? And where to now? That was my next question. What was the next instalment in the saga?
I was returned swiftly to reality with a firm knock on the cubicle.
“You all right, Lauren?”
It was Jane’s voice.
“Yes, I’m fine, I just felt a little sick, that’s all.”
I opened the cubicle door. Jane stood in the fluorescent glare, arms folded, looking concerned. I knew her emotion was genuine, but there was another motive to her seeking me out.
Scandal. She lived for it.
I couldn’t tell her, that the reason I felt sick was Rick, our international man of mystery was wide awake. So, I would just have to tell her something about Des and hope it placated her fixation for gossip. I managed a weak smile.
“I had a few too many wines last night.”
Jane looked suspicious. “Oh that’s where you were then. I was ringing your mobile half the night. I was worried. You never switch it off normally.”
“I’m sorry, Jane, I was in such a rush, I never switched it back on after work, and I went straight out.” I felt my face colour. Jane was on to me like a rash.
“You’ve met a man, haven’t you?”
There was a trace of sadness in her voice, as if she had been dreading the moment when I would meet someone. She did her best to hide it but failed. She brushed herself down mentally and smiled.
“Tell me all about him.”
I walked to the sink to scrub my hands.
“He’s called Des and he’s a doctor,” I blurted, finding myself, ever so slightly deeper in the plot. Jane threw her hands into the air in a manner any lay preacher would have been proud of. “Oh Lord, another doctor!