THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (4 page)

Not many men are keen on shopping with anyone else. That does not mean that men don’t enjoy some retail therapy just like our female counterparts. Partners, wives and girlfriends tend to slow down the process, that’s all. I feared my obsessive behaviour was slowly isolating me from normal society, although I didn’t feel sufficiently in control to stop the process. Although I had become somewhat reclusive, shopping remained one of life’s normal pleasures that remained. These days, my idea of a good time is shopping alone, and with someone else’s money.

There I was driving along the road with fifteen grand in used twenties and Susan’s perfume still in my nostrils.

I hadn’t had any sort of serious relationship with a woman for over ten years. Past events had seen to that. Susan Davies didn’t make me want to rush into another one either. Beautiful as she was, I got the impression she was a cold fish.

There was also a nagging doubt about her that I couldn’t quite fathom.

I put it to the back of my mind. Nothing was going to spoil my fun today.

I was really going to enjoy spending Joel’s money.

Another of my newfound obsessions was cars, as you have probably gathered by now, they were very important to me. Cars, clothes, risk and making money were all I craved; that and my own personal space. I liked to be a little different but I wasn’t into flash for the sake of it.

I was in my daytime car. A near new Range Rover Sport. It was the supercharged 4.2litre V8 Jaguar powered model, nearly 400bhp of grunt. The latest computer-controlled anti-roll system made the car more suitable for on-road. Brembo four-piston front discs stopped it on a sixpence and I liked it. Good sounds inside too. I’d had a six-speaker Bose system fitted that I could connect an iPod to. Snow Patrol played as I drove. The motor was just under fifty-five grand. The bullet-proofing was another eight. You have to be careful in my job.

I pulled up at Thomas Cook’s, where I bought ten grand of U.S. dollars in draft form. The girl in the exchange posed the usual twenty questions and asked for two sets of ID. I had no problem with the new money-laundering legislation. I smiled and filled in the form. I used D.H.L. to post Mr. Colletti’s banker’s draft for $19,800 to a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. I could then move that by mobile phone later and it would be virtually untraceable.

Now, that left me five grand to play with. Where do you start when you have that kind of money to blow on whatever you want?

After all the years of wearing uniform, I had developed a liking for expensive clothes, so, first to Ralph Lauren. I spotted a nice navy two-piece suit for a meagre nine hundred and fifty quid. When you’re six foot tall you need a good tailor, and it fitted like the proverbial glove so I took it. A pair of formal plain toe Oxford shoes by Oliver Sweeney came next a snip at two nine five.

Shirts, I love shirts. As I skipped around town I found classic white cotton by Ermenegildo Zegna at a hundred and twenty quid. A blue gingham check by Alfred Dunhill, eighty-five, a couple of casual shirts at Duck and Cover for under a ton and four ties at Thomas Pink for just two hundred dabs.

That’s under two grand! I needed to look at boys toys.

Now I nearly lost my fine mood in the first store. I wanted a new mobile. The little shit in the shop was so full of bollocks about, ‘you need this, sir, and you need that, sir, you get more free minutes with this model, sir…” I could gleefully have cut his fuckin’ ears off and posted them to his unlucky parents. Did I look like I needed free bloody minutes?

Anyway, a few deep breaths and a quick squeeze of the little fella’s arm were enough to return me to my pleasant self. I think the manager was close to calling the cops, until I bought the new BlackBerry phone by Motorola at three hundred quid. I liked it. It didn’t spoil the line of my suit.

I knew I had a couple of jobs on the horizon that needed a small video camera so I picked up the new Panasonic DS 33 digital camcorder, incidentally the smallest in the world, from a little camera place just off St Peter’s Square.

With just over a grand left to spend, I stopped for coffee in Nero’s on Oxford Road and pondered dinner arrangements.

I prefer Nero’s to Starbucks, even though they allowed smoking at the rear of the shop. The coffee is better, and it feels like a coffee shop rather than McDonalds.

I was served my skinny latte by an overly camp lad with green hair. He almost hissed like snake when he pronounced his S’s delivering the company spiel of, “Any cakes or pastries, sir?”

I gave a, “No thank you.”

He added a cheeky, “Sweet enough?” as I handed over my money, which I politely ignored.

I found a comfy, if slightly worn leather armchair by the front window and sat to sip my coffee and read the paper. It was a lovely early summer day, and Nero’s windows were folded open. I people watched for a few moments. The mixture of human beings wending their way along Oxford Road on a sunny afternoon was enough to keep most people entertained.

I was jolted back to earth by a well-known voice.

“Stephen? Stephen Colletti?”

I turned to see a thirty-something, rather rotund and balding Greek guy, dressed in a dirty green polo shirt, cheap black trousers and Asda training shoes. He reminded me of Jack Nicholson. He had gas flame blue eyes that sparkled when he spoke. I would wager he was popular with the ladies, despite his lack of hair and growing pot belly.

It wasn’t as if Spiros Makris couldn’t afford the best, I knew full well he could, he was just a tight bastard.

He didn’t wait to be invited to sit opposite me, but simply flopped into the chair. He held out his hand and I took it but quickly returned it to my coffee cup.

“Hello, Spiros.”

He looked me up and down.

“You look like a bloody tourist,” he said and laughed. As he did so his shoulders heaved up and down in the most comical fashion.

“And you look like a cheapskate forger,” I retorted, quiet enough for secrecy.

The reason Mr. Makris knew me by name was he invented it, together with my passport, driving licence, National Insurance and medical card. I even had a medical history and a work record. It was one of four separate identities he had formulated for me over the last eight years or so. I also knew he was relatively wealthy as the four ID’s cost me ten grand each and I was not Spiros’s only customer by any means.

He had a double espresso in front of him and he grimaced as he took a sip.

“Why do you bother drinking in these bloody Italian shops? Greek coffee is so much better.”

He put down the tiny cup and patted me on the knee. I sat back slightly so I’d be out of reach should he try it again. He didn’t notice.

“I saw your picture in the paper, Stephen. You need to be more careful, my friend.”

I nodded. I had amassed a small fortune over the last few years. Spiros was right; the time was fast approaching for another visit to my Greek forger and a change of scenery.

“Nosey reporters, Spiros, it only made the Manchester paper, nothing to worry about.”

I could see he wasn’t convinced.

“I saw it. Those Irish bastards have long memories, Stephen, and you know they are still active. They might have changed their name. What? They add ‘Real’ to the front. They are still bloody IRA, my friend.”

Spiros’s father had fought in the British Army in WWII. He was decorated with the George Cross for bravery in 1944. He saved the lives of three British sailors off the coast of Corfu after their boat was torpedoed. He entered the water three times under machine gun fire to pull them to safety. He had a wife and four sons, and brought them to England in the early sixties. Spiros opened a small Greek restaurant in Manchester. One son, Kostas, still ran the family business, the other two brothers’ imported olive oil. Well, it said ‘Olive Oil’ on the tin. Of course Spiros had his little side-line in identity theft and manufacture.

I drained my latte and stood.

“I know where you are, Spiros. If the shit hits the fan, I’ll come and see you.”

“Okay, Stephen, but you be careful, eh?”

I shook his hand briefly. “I will, I will.”

I lived on the Docklands in the city of Salford by choice. It was a strange place, full of business types with the odd celeb and a television studio smack in the middle. Yet on its surrounding edges was a Manchester gangland hell-hole. The oldest reported gangland battles were reported in Salford. They started knocking hell out of each other before the Mafia or the Triads were even thought of. Bet you didn’t know that one, eh?

Still, I liked it because I got good secure parking for my night-time car, and a gymnasium on the top floor meant I didn’t have to pay to sweat with a mixture of steroid-popping bouncers and bimbos with a full face of make-up in some local country club.

My apartment was sparsely furnished. I have always disliked clutter of any kind, but in more recent times it had become just another element of my obsessions. The minimalist look therefore suited my taste. I was lucky enough to obtain my floorboards from a two-hundred-year-old mill that had been demolished to make way for further development. I’d had them professionally sanded and laid throughout the apartment.

Once finished with clear varnish, they were a beautiful honey colour and gave the otherwise characterless rooms a feeling of warmth and history. All the furniture, pictures and electrical appliances were provided by Selfridges’ in-house interior designer. It worked for me. So it should, not including a Persian panel rug imported from Turkey for close on eight grand, or two La-Z-Boy armchairs I wanted for my den at a grand each, the interior decoration and furnishings cost me sixty thousand pounds.

There were three bedrooms. One I slept in, one was an office-cum-den for my business (the money had to appear to come from somewhere!) and the last I used as one large walk-in wardrobe. I removed all my purchases from their packaging, folded it all neatly and threw it in the compactor before any traces of paper plastic or pins could fall on the floor and force me to vacuum the whole apartment. I then ironed the shirts and ties, polished the shoes and put them all in the correct place.

After a long shower and a shave, it was time to dress for dinner. I had a date with the rest of that five grand. I sipped my second glass of Chablis. It was refreshing and suited my mood as I wandered around my wardrobe.

When people buy something new most like to wear it that day, I was no different. Therefore, I laid out the Ralf Lauren suit I had bought that afternoon.

I changed my mind twice about the shirt and plumped for a Valentino, powder blue with a button-down collar. A dark red tie from Burberry completed the picture.

I stuck my old SIM card in my new Motorola and I was ready.

On the stroke of eight my security phone buzzed. I drained the last of my wine and killed off the Libertines from the stereo. As I lifted the receiver, a small black and white image appeared on a screen on the phone. I pressed the button to allow my guest entry. She strode straight to the underground parking area, without coming to the flat. I took the lift and arrived to find her leaning against the white paintwork of my prized night car. I’ll tell you all about the Aston when we have more time.

Her seemingly endless legs protruded from the briefest red mini dress. I hadn’t seen it before but to me it looked like a DKNY. Her black skin shone with the Tisserand oils she always applied. Her shoes were as red as the dress, delicate straps and a four-inch spike, definitely Jimmy Choo. Terribly uncomfortable, but she knew I loved them. She dressed the whole thing up with a very chic charcoal wrap from Giorgio Armani I had bought her for her birthday last year.

“Hello, Tanya.” I took her hand. She gently pulled me toward her and kissed me briefly on the mouth.

Without a word, she pulled me closer still and kissed me harder. There seemed urgency to her actions and I had the feeling that, should she want sex there and then, I may not have a choice in the matter.

When it came to Tanya, I was all for going with the flow. After all, she was one of the few people on the planet that I could allow to touch me without feeling physically sick. Fuck the new suit, or the risk of scratching the classic motor. If Tanya wanted to romp over the bonnet, there and then, it was going to happen, and bollocks to the security cameras.

Tanya had other ideas and drew away quickly, teasing me. She was of Jamaican origin. Very tall and slender with fantastic muscle definition. She worked hard at her body. It showed. Her voice was deep, with the thick ‘Yardie’ street accent when she pleased. “Slow, man, you too eager. It be a long night, you take it easy, baby.”

Her natural drawl was never hidden when we were alone. Only once in public did her accent become mid-Surrey and businesslike. She slid her long fingers down the centre of my spine and displayed perfect white teeth.

“I got a surprise for you, sweetie.”

I was definitely all ears. I always liked Tanya’s surprises. Small round Yoji Yamamoto glasses appeared from a Chloe clutch bag. She slipped them on and virtually purred.

“We goin’ in style tonight, man. I got new wheels. I’m driving.”

She strode away and I followed. I watched the shimmer of her muscular legs in the half-light. With the movement, I caught a glimpse of a slip under her red dress. She was wearing something underneath. It aroused my curiosity.

Later, when we were alone, I knew I would find out exactly what it was. Patience always was a virtue.

Within a minute we were out of the underground garage and in the cool evening Manchester air. The late sunshine had turned the city crimson. It was my favourite time of day.

Jaguars have the nickname ‘The Big Cat’. Recent publicity involving Spice girl types and Manchester United footballers have raised the profile of Jaguar’s newer models.

They make good motors, for sure, but the new models just couldn’t hold a candle to what was in front of me. Pure unadulterated world class.

The 1962 Series 1 E-Type drop-head sports car in British Racing Green paint gleamed in the fading sun. Top down, black leather interior with cream trim by Connolly, what more could a guy want? I slid into the passenger seat and smelled the Wilton and walnut mixed with summer evening air. Everything was original, even the valve radio. Perfect. As Tanya slipped in next to me and fired her up, I was no longer sure if I was in Salford or heaven.

That sound. Nothing sounds like a Jag.

The drive to Solo’s, my favourite restaurant in the city, was a sheer pleasure. Who needs drugs? This was better than coke, speed or ‘E’.

We parked. Tanya didn’t even bother to lock the Jag. She’d left the top down too. No chance of rain. No chance of anyone stealing it either.

Tanya and her two brothers ran all the coke and grass into Moss Side. If you don’t already know the area, let me advise you. Don’t get caught there after dark. In the late nineties, Manchester got the nickname ‘Gunchester’, simply due to the level of gun crime in Moss Side. Tanya Richards and her family played no small part in that problem.

No one with any sense at all steals anything from the Yardies. The Jag would be there when we came out.

Solo’s had a reputation for fine European cuisine. Situated off Deansgate Lock, it was nestled between Manchester’s trendiest bars. Fortunately it was avoided by the local paparazzi, and therefore Manchester’s soap stars. A double blessing, if you asked me.

I approved of the service and the fact it was small and personal. They knew me and what I liked. The tables were sufficiently far apart as to observe privacy. Bach filtered through the air.

Each place setting was exquisite and boasted nineteenth-century silverware in a cardinal pattern, the makers mark stamped in the spoon bowl. Cream linen napkins with a damask rose to one corner lay to the left of each diner. Riedel crystal wine glasses completed the classic setting.

Tanya was a vegetarian, so the chef cooked a special entrée and main course for her. She was finishing her pumpkin with red curry as she spoke.

“I have a problem.” She wiped her full lips with the linen napkin, “I need you to sort it for me, baby. I can’t do it myself; a black girl would stand out too much and cause major drama.” 

I listened intently. This story sounded profitable and if I was to do as Spiros had suggested earlier, and relocate, I was going to need all the money I could get. She continued, “Our boys sent a courier to the other side of the tracks to collect some very special produce. Not a great deal, five grand’s worth, a sample. We never received the gear.” Her accent slipped and her tone turned menacing. “The
bombaclat
steal our cash too. Our boy was found yesterday by the law, with his head caved in. He was my cousin.” She reached across the table and took my hand. It actually felt good. “Stephen, this has got to be put right.”

I felt myself nodding slowly. You see, what Tanya meant by ‘the other side of the tracks’, was Salford. Not the part where I lived, but the estates where those ancient gangs began their brutal trade. If Moss Side was the black ghetto of Manchester, then Salford was the white. Being black, her chances of recovering her brother’s investment and revenging the untimely demise of her cousin, quietly and without fuss, would be near impossible.

Tanya and I were in the same business. The collection and delivery business; she hadn’t trained in the military, but I could vouch from experience, she was a very fine operator. We had met several years earlier when we were providing security for two high-flying dealers of different skin colours. Hers was buying, mine selling. When the deal was done they celebrated, we talked and the rest was history as they say. Anyone who has underestimated Tanya due to her sex is probably dead.

Don’t get me wrong. We were far from lovers. Like I said, I had been unable to hold down any kind of relationship for a long time. I was married once and that was enough for me. This was fun sex and money. We had the same taste. Neither of us asked questions, it wouldn’t have been professional, and for some reason my head had allowed this one woman to become close. The mind is a strange thing, eh? No, I wasn’t in love but it was probably as near as I could ever get. Knowing Tanya, it wouldn’t do wonders for your life span if you messed with her head. Maybe that was the reason I allowed her to get physically close to me. Maybe I’d just got addicted to danger and dangerous women.  

Her eyes took on a cold look as she spoke, “You know if my brothers had their way it would be a bloodbath. They want revenge for our cousin.” She softened for a second and stroked my face with a red talon that matched her dress perfectly.

“You know me, I’m into subtlety, baby.”

Her expression changed again. “The shit that is responsible thinks he is protected in his little pork chop kingdom. I want you to show him he isn’t and that he can’t fuck with us.”

She picked up a brandy balloon and warmed the liquid with her large hand.

“But I want it so just his boys know we have taken action, not the whole fuckin’ world.”

A drop of the Rémy dangled from her lip. She recovered it with her tongue, which looked unusually pink against her beautiful coffee skin.

The mixture of her beauty and dangerous persona made her incredibly attractive to me. I felt a stirring sensation in my groin.

Still business came first. “It’ll cost you fifteen, plus half of what I recover,” I said without any emotion.

She took on a look that I knew only too well.

“Do it for ten and I’ll let you drive the E-Type to my place.”

It was time to go.

I’m not going to tell you the bedroom antics. What I will tell you is, I drove the car and I got my fifteen plus.

Oh, the slip, remember I mentioned the slip under her dress? It was a deep burgundy crochet and lace by Janet Reger. If you wanted one for your wife they’re two hundred and twenty-five quid.

Worth every penny.