by Robert White
Our intelligence suggested that Maxi Toure was holding upwards of fifteen young women inside the club premises behind me. These young girls were held against their will, in awful conditions. We believe they had been trafficked from Eastern Europe and were destined to work as prostitutes in Manchester brothels controlled by Toure and his gang. Our remit tonight was to enter the club and arrest Maxi Toure, together with any of his gang. At the same time, our officers were to rescue those poor young women held inside the premises.
What we could not have known however, was that paid mercenaries, sent by a rival Manchester gangster, would be inside as we arrived."
Colin sounded like he would burst.
"So...A gang war?"
"It would appear so. We know that at least two members of this rival gang had managed to gain entry to the club with the intention of murdering Toure. As GMP Tactical Firearms unit were surrounding the premises, a fierce gunfight ensued inside. Although my officers were unable to prevent the bloodshed that took place in the club, I am delighted to say, that as the two gunmen exited the premises, they were arrested by my officers."
Colin was gushing. You could almost hear his tongue sliding into the copper's backside.
"And what do we know about these rival gangsters, Chief Inspector...these fearsome hit-men?"
As I sipped my brew, trying to stop my stomach from turning inside out, you could hear the boastful tone of the cop, and I would have put a tenner on the fact that Larry was pushing his chest so far out that his fuckin' designer shirt was busting at the buttons.
"I can confirm to you and your listeners, Colin... that the two men arrested outside the club were Richard Fuller and Jorin J. Yakim. Both men are well known to SOCU. They are ex Special Forces soldiers and currently work as bodyguards in the Manchester area. I can also confirm that we are looking for two other members of this team, Lauren North and Desmond Cogan, who are currently at large. I am, however, hopeful of early arrests."
"Excellent, Chief Inspector," said Colin. "And what can you tell our listeners about Maxi Toure and his men?"
Larry's shirt must have been glad of that question as the senior cop's voice faltered slightly. The bravado was gone and replaced by flat defensive tones.
"Unfortunately, Colin, there were several casualties in the gunfight. Maxi Toure has been horribly murdered, together with eleven of his men."
Colin was incredulous. "Eleven? You mean that these two ex-soldiers...erm Fuller and Yakim...have killed a major Manchester mobster, eleven of his men, and yet walked out unscathed?"
"Correct."
"And what of the trafficked women, those young girls held captive by Maxi and his men...how many were killed or wounded in the gunfight? How many innocents did these vile mercenaries kill and injure?"
You could almost hear Larry hopping from foot to foot.
"Erm...none, Colin...erm all safe and...erm...as well as can be expected...they are of course traumatised...erm...of course."
Colin's voice was full of surprise, if not a little disappointment. "None?"
"None," said Larry.
"And police casualties?"
"I am pleased to say that no injuries were..."
Colin may well have had the utmost respect for the Chief, but he was a reporter after all.
"So...let me get this right, Chief Inspector...just so our listeners can understand...These two soldiers, these two ex Special Forces heroes, have killed one of the most feared drug dealers Manchester has ever seen, along with eleven of his armed and dangerous men..."
"Yes, but..."
"And yet, they have managed to do this without causing a single...shall we call them civilian casualties?"
"Yes, but..."
"And it my understanding that a large amount of cash has been recovered from inside the premises...some two hundred thousand pounds?"
"It has...we believe..."
"So the two men didn't attempt to take the cash...to steal it?"
"We can't know that..."Larry had had enough awkward questions. "I'm sorry Colin, but I am unable to make any further comment at this time. I hope you can understand that this investigation is in its infancy and..."
I hit the 'off' button. I'd heard enough.
Rick and J.J. were alive. They were in the hands of the cops of course, but the main thing was they were alive. As the cops were looking for Lauren, I could only presume that she had escaped and was out in the city somewhere.
I tried her mobile, but it was switched off. Dropping my phone into my top pocket, I rummaged in my jeans, found my pipe and filled it. I stepped out into the chill, and the tobacco flared red against my palm as I shielded it from the elements.
How was I going to get Rick and J.J. out of this mess?
I found my phone again and dialled the only man I knew could help.
Lauren North's Story:
The three Irish rode in silence, out of Manchester and onto the M62 toward Liverpool. Once we got to the city centre, we picked up the signs for the Birkenhead tunnel and I knew then that we would be travelling via the 12 Quays terminal on the Stenna line to Belfast; the very same port I had entered by after killing O'Donnell.
We exited the river tunnel and Kristy pulled the car to a halt in a lay-by.
She switched off the engine and turned.
"Let's get girly all comfy for the sail, eh?"
I didn't like the sound of this one bit. Dougie opened his door, pushing it as wide as it would go with his foot. He stepped out into the cold, cricked his neck as if he was about to start a boxing match, leaned into the car and grabbed me. His right hand gripped my upper arm and his left took a handful of my hair.
This was the stupidest thing. I was plasti-cuffed, I wasn't going anywhere and more to the point, the car was parked on a busy well-lit road.
Dougie was not short of brawn, but brains?
I slid out of the car and hit the tarmac. For good measure I screamed. Houses weren't too far away; maybe a passing motorist would hear? This only caused Dougie to slap me about as I lay on the floor. The boot was popped open and I heard Kristy cursing Dougie for his stupidity.
"Get the fuckin' bitch in the trunk, fer fuck's sake! Aw, yer a feckin' arse, Dougie! You've been on the fuckin' marching' powder again, ain't ya? Yer a fuckin' bollocks."
Dougie was grunting and puffing like a train but he managed to pick me up and drop me into the boot. I felt instantly claustrophobic.
Then to add to my troubles, he produced a roll of gaffer tape. He gagged my mouth and bound my ankles to my wrists. This could be done in relative safety, as to any passing motorist it would just look like he was messing with the spare or rooting in the boot for something.
He finished by fondling my breasts and leering at me. I glared at him and made myself a promise. When I got free, and at some point they would untie me, I would gleefully kill the bastard.
It was as if he read my thoughts. He stood stock still, smiled and blew me a kiss.
"See you in Ireland," he said.
And the boot lid was slammed shut.
It was pitch black and I could hardly breathe. My heart raced and cold sweat trickled down the small of my back.
Once again I felt the first tears roll down my face. I prayed Rick was alive and would come after me.
If Maxi had killed him, what was the point of fighting on?
Rick Fuller's Story:
We'd made Longsight Police Station within fifteen minutes of the van leaving Maxi's club.
Once we arrived J.J. and I were herded into separate holding cells. Mine consisted of a fixed concrete bench with wooden slats, a bitumen floor, green walls and lots of graffiti.
I sat in the cold room for what seemed like an age, but in reality, it was only about forty minutes.
I couldn't help but wonder how I would cope with being imprisoned for a lengthy stretch should Larry and his crew get their way.
The door eventually swung open and a cop gestured me out. I was instructed to stand behind a li
ne so I was unable to actually touch the large counter that the custody sergeant stood behind.
He didn't look like he needed too much protection; he was a big guy in every way. Well over six feet, huge muscles, thick neck, massive hands. His uniform shirt was immaculately pressed with an ironed line that ran across the top of his shoulder blades. Only an ex squaddie would go to that kind of trouble. He had sharp grey eyes that had aggression stamped in each retina and he joined the ranks of many unfortunate young men, using a number one crew to hide his premature pattern baldness.
He barked at me. Just the usual, the same routine for every one of his customers; name, date and place of birth, address, empty your pockets, take off your shoes.
I did exactly as I was told, no point in being difficult at this stage.
The sergeant wrote down my replies on his sheet without making eye contact. It was only when the constable dropped my Sergio Rossi brogues onto the counter that he raised a single brow.
"I want them back," I said as he eyed them appreciatively.
He ignored me, looked to the constable and instructed him to bag them. Finally he looked directly at me.
"Belt?" he said flatly.
I pulled off my Joseph Turner; picked it up in Belfast for ninety quid, quite a bargain. Once again he raised his eyebrow, before nodding to the constable to place it in a bag.
"We don't want Mr Fuller hanging himself, do we now? Even with a hundred quid leather number."
"No, sergeant," added the cop.
I knew what was coming next. It would be a full strip search, the doctor would be sticking his fingers where the sun didn't shine, hand swabs taken, fingernail scrapings, the works. I would be moved to another cell with nothing but a paper suit and dark brown tea for company.
"I'd like to make a phone call, sergeant." I said, looking straight into those grey eyes.
"In good time," he offered.
I needed to give Des a chance to get things moving on the outside. I also knew the cops had no choice but give me my rights. This was not The Firm or some military prison in the back of beyond. If the cops wanted any subsequent charges to stick, they had to play by the rules, so I was undeterred.
"I think it best you call my barrister now, officer. You will find his number in my phone under Simpkins. As he will have to fly here from London, I suggest you give him fair warning. He can be a little tetchy if the locals don't play the game."
The sergeant opened his mouth to speak, but I was having none of it.
"Oh and before you start, sergeant...as it is now..." I looked at the clock behind his head "...three-twenty in the morning, I would like a hot drink and some sleep. I will not be answering any questions until I've had my eight hours and some refreshment."
The sergeant screwed up his face. I got the impression his temper was as short as mine. He turned to the constable. "Put Mr Fuller in eleven and get him some tea."
I was right about the searches and the doctor. I was also right about the need for the cops to play by the rules, and I was left alone and unmolested for eight clear hours.
That said, just a couple of minutes after midday my cell door opened and the flat-nosed detective was waiting for me. He'd changed his suit from the night before, but he was in need of a shave. Maybe he'd had a similar night's sleep to mine.
"Come on, Fuller, your brief is here."
Martin Simpkins QC was a small, tidy, organised man, with a high-pitched almost effeminate voice. He'd been Joel Davies's brief for many years. Joel had introduced me to him at a social gathering of drug-dealing psychopaths when I was in his employ. Martin had given me his card. At first I'd refused it. That was until the QC eloquently explained that in my line of work, eventually I would require a barrister that had his qualities. Those being, he had no regard for the rules of the game so long as his client got off, and in turn, paid extraordinary amounts of cash into his Swiss account.
Simpkins had not been sleeping either. In the eight hours I had been lying on a sliver of plastic-covered foam the police laughingly called a mattress, Martin had been collating every snippet of information that the cops had disclosed to him, together with anything else his considerable team of private detectives and stable of informers could divulge.
He lifted a pile of papers and chopped then down on the desk to neaten the edges. Everything about the man was neat. He was one of the few people I could spend time with that didn't set off my OCD.
"Well now, Richard," he began. "This is not a pretty picture, is it?"
There was no point in fucking about. After all, Martin's hourly rate was extortionate.
"I don't care if it's pretty, Martin. All I need to know is, can you get me out?"
He raised a smile.
"Of course; how silly of me to even consider small talk, Richard. I'd forgotten how impatient you are. Do you still suffer from the inability to be touched? I remember you had an issue with it?"
I couldn't stop myself from barking at him. "Martin!"
He didn't flinch of course. Anyone who let his small frame, delicate hands and feminine voice lull them into some kind of sense of security were to be quickly found out. He was as tough as old boots and did not scare easily. Martin Simpkins QC had spent a good part of his life working for some of the most dangerous criminals on earth. He'd developed a mental toughness that was a match for any man.
"Don't shout, Richard! You know it upsets me. I've been forced to fly here on some disgustingly cheap airline, surrounded by ghastly drunken women. I've been subjected to a café that had never heard of Eggs Benedict, let alone decent coffee, and the Greater Manchester Police are not known for their hospitality. So, my dear friend, please be patient."
I nodded and waited...patiently.
Martin opened his laptop and began to type.
"My man Reynolds," he began, "a very resourceful chap, has acquired the CCTV footage of you buying what looks suspiciously like a kebab from what is laughingly described as a restaurant on Stockport Road last night...not like you, Richard. I have to say your standards have fallen significantly if you are dining at such establishments. I had you down as a low carb man."
I gave him a scornful look, but remained silent.
Martin returned a mischievous grin, knowing exactly why I had been standing outside 'I Love Kebab'.
He spoke and typed at the same time.
"The footage also shows you being attacked by two men, one of whom appears to be armed...correct?"
"Correct."
"Ah...good... So you were taken to this chap...erm...Maxi Toure's ...erm...establishment, against your will?"
"Yes."
More typing.
"And your colleague?"
"J.J...yes, the same."
"And once inside these...erm...premises, you were subjected to threats of violence?"
"We were."
Martin pushed the laptop away and removed his round gold-framed glasses that I knew were formed from plain glass and merely for effect.
"And the poor Ukrainian prostitutes being debriefed upstairs will confirm this?"
"They will."
"So of course, you had little option other than to act in self-defence, Richard?"
"No option at all," I said.
"Good...let's stick to that in the interview then."
He stood.
"What about your opposite number, this J.J. chap, who is looking after him?"
I shrugged. "We've been kept separate since we arrived...how about you sort him, Martin?"
He raised his eyebrows quizzically.
"I'll pay."
Once I had agreed a fee with Martin, he knocked on the door of the interview room; an indication he was ready to be released. A surly constable opened up and allowed him out. Martin disappeared into the depths of the police station in search of J.J.
Ten minutes later, I was led back to my cell by a skinny young cop. I was unsure if it was a nervous issue or if he was just bored, but he seemed more interested in his feet than ensuri
ng I did as he requested.
He certainly couldn't be bothered with the upkeep of his uniform or boots. He looked like he'd slept in his shirt and from the look of his Doc Martins, he'd just come in from a muddy kick-about. He shuffled behind me with his hands in his pockets, only removing them to check his mobile for any Facebook activity.
Once he'd unlocked my cell, I stepped inside to be greeted by my breakfast. The cops had obviously delivered it the moment I had left for my meeting with my brief. I took a quick look at the congealed egg, beans and a slice of random meat that may have passed for a rasher of bacon sometime in the early sixties. I picked up my plastic mug of over-brewed tea and discovered that it too was stone cold.
"We deliver it at twelve," muttered the cop, doing a fair impression of a petulant teenager who had just been forced to cook breakfast for his parents.
"Can you get me a hot brew or not?" I asked as politely as I could muster.
"Yes, he can," said a southern accented voice.
The kid moved away from my cell door, and in stepped Larry. He wore a good suit and a fake smile.
"Go get him a coffee, son...get me one too...and look sharp."
The kid couldn't have looked sharp if his life had depended on it. He gave Larry a scornful look and shuffled off in search of the kettle.
Larry shrugged his shoulders. "He's young, he'll learn."
I didn't agree, but kept my own counsel.
Larry joined me on my bunk and sat too close for my liking.
He was a confident boy, too confident.
Once he was settled, he didn't bother with any preliminaries; he went straight for the throat. "You're fucked this time, Fuller," he said. "Bang to rights, you are." He rubbed his hands together like an excited child and began his list of proposed charges.
"Murder...conspiracy to murder...possession of a prohibited weapon..."
I wasn't about to make a comment. Martin had been very specific. "Unless I'm there, don't say a word, Richard."