THE FIX_SAS hero turns Manchester hitman Read online

  I was glad Butch was on my side.

  The street was silent. I pulled on latex gloves, leaned into the car and picked out the black plastic bag containing the charlie and the book. I took the six strides to the Transit, lifted the tailgate and dropped the lot inside.

  I nodded to Butch.

  “Let’s fuck off, mate.”

  Jimmy spun the motor around and we both jumped in. We were about to reach the T-junction and turn right toward home. I felt the bile rise in my gut. This just didn’t sit right. Jimmy knew it, Butch knew it.

  I tapped Jimmy on the shoulder.

  “Drop me here. Do a drive by in twenty and every twenty for the next hour. If I don’t show, get yourselves back to the RV, I’ll see you there.”

  Jimmy just nodded, Butch went for his door handle, but I gave him the look.

  “I’ll do this bit myself, Butch.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, resigned to driving up and down for the next hour. He was pissed off, I could tell.

  “No worries, boss.”

  I lifted a pair of NV (night vision) binos from my satchel and pulled my balaclava down over my face.

  I stepped out, gave the guys a quick ‘thumbs up’ and closed the door.

  As the Sierra sped away I dropped to a crouch and hugged the wall of the first building that formed the industrial estate.

  To my left there was a small wooded area that seemed to run all the way around the units. There had been no time to plan but I figured that I would be able to get good eyes on the Transit from the edge of the wood. I ensured that none of my kit was loose or going to fall out of any pockets of my overalls. Silence was the order of the day.

  Just for good measure I checked that my Smith and Wesson SLP was cocked with the safety on. Happy, I trod my way in the general direction of the DLB. It had, of course, entered my mind that the collectors would have viewed the drop from the very woodland I was about to enter, so I had my best eyes and ears on. The hundred meters took me fifteen minutes.

  I could feel sweat drop from my neck and dribble down my spine. Eventually I saw the streetlights that shone a pool of sodium over the DLB. I wouldn’t need the NVs, I could see everything I needed to see with my naked eye.

  Why I had returned to see the collectors? I will never know. I had been trained all my life to follow orders without question. Was it the ease with which we stole the contents of that old green safe? Was it the fact that we stole drugs rather than explosive devices? Did I think that somehow we were being set up?

  Probably all of the above.

  How it would change my life, I could never have imagined. I should have just driven off with Jimmy and Butch.

  But as I lay on my belly feeling the cold wet Irish rain seep into my black coveralls, a blond suited man carrying an expensive attaché case stood illuminated in the yellow light. In his other hand he held the plastic bag we had dropped minutes earlier. He then handed the bag to a man I knew very well indeed.

  Bootle Street Police Station, Manchester 2006.

  The big blonde behind the counter was starting to get right up my nose. She sat, bulging out of her grey uniform, safely tucked away behind two inches of bulletproof glass.

  Her make-up was caked onto her flabby lined face and looked like it might crack and fall to the floor every time she put on the false smile she saved for each customer in turn. Some of it was ingrained, orange, into the collar of her cheap, white blouse that was straining to contain her more than ample frame and a packet of Dunhill.

  I finally made it to the front of the no-hope queue. I’d been surrounded by a mixture of people, some decent souls who had given up precious time to report a car broken into or produce documents, mixed with tagged louts signing for bail and various other miscreants.

  Then, of course, there was me. Where did I fit into this smorgasbord of humanity? I’ll let you decide.

  The orange-faced woman spoke the way she looked. She had a flat northern drawl, common as coal.

  “What can I do for you?” She reached to her top pocket and fished for her Dunhill. It was obviously time for her cigarette break. I was an inconvenience and it showed.

  I had grown to actually physically dislike people who smoked. To me they are weak with no willpower. They smell.

  “I’ve come to collect my client’s car,” I said, my attempt at politeness seeming to work on the Civilian Enquiry Assistant.

  Police stations are full of people like her these days. I mean a copper once dealt with you, even a sergeant sometimes; someone with a smart uniform and an equally smart haircut, someone with experience of life, who cared for his profession and the public.

  Now, I was faced with an overweight, useless blonde who couldn’t wait to get away from her post so she could indulge in her habit. What was the country coming to?

  The assistant picked up the phone, smiled, and dialled. She looked me up and down and I’m sure she arched her back to accentuate her huge breasts just for my benefit. She made me feel like having a shower.

  “What name is it?”

  I slid my business card under the glass. She took it, looked me in the face briefly and then, the light came on in her head. I found the process mildly amusing, a mixture of discomfort, fear and loathing etched across her face.

  I managed a smile and kept up the polite manner.

  “I’ve written the registration number of the vehicle on the back of the card. I take it that is all the information you need for now?”

  She shot me a look that I’ve recognised often since my change of employment and I knew it would take time. It always did. The authorities liked to inconvenience people in my line of work, even if it was just a little thing like taking an hour to produce the impounded car. Then they would insist I produce the insurance certificate to show that I had the right to drive it legally. I always carried this together with a letter and the registration document from the owner.

  It was unusual for me to be collecting cars these days. I mean, any of my client’s employees could have done this minor task. It was the unfortunate driver of the said vehicle that was my real duty for the evening. Jimmy, currently in the cells, wouldn’t be driving any of my client’s cars again. He’d been caught with ten grams of my client’s cocaine after being stopped by a traffic copper. No one steals from Joel Davies, especially his bugle.

  I found a vacant plastic seat and checked for recent chewing-gum deposits before sitting on it. I did my best to relax but police stations made my teeth itch.

  A young woman with two small children was sitting opposite me. She’d be no more than twenty years old. Some people have no fucking idea, do they?

  I looked at her. She’d probably been told that if she got pregnant there’d be a council house or extra cash off the old King Cole. Either that or she had the misconception that some scally would stick by her if she had a kid by him. Calm him down, make him get a job and stop thieving.

  She’d get more joy from the council, that was for sure.

  The woman smiled at me. She had a pink mini skirt half way up her backside showing horrible, mottled legs. Her shoes looked like she had played a full Premiership season in them. One of her kids, a little boy in full Manchester United kit walked over to me. He stood and stared. He’d be about three or four. Worse still, he had an inch long strand of green mucus dangling from his left nostril. The mother let out a stupid giggle.

  “Come ’ere, Wayne! Leave the man alone.”

  This has always got my goat. Parents seem unable to understand why childless adults don’t fawn at the sight of a toddler or new-born. Just because they themselves have chosen to procreate doesn’t mean we all have to oblige, does it?

  The boy ignored his mother. She leaned forward and grabbed the kid by the shoulder. Her movement revealed a tattoo on her left breast. It was some kind of flower or butterfly, the kind that every teenage girl seemed to have. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she had her navel pierced either. I mean, what is piercing all about? Why does a sensible
human being have a lump of tacky jewellery poked through every available flap of skin? I’ll laugh my bollocks off when I start to see the first grannies queuing for their pension with a stupid brass ring through their tongue.

  The kid was pulled backwards and the girl’s voice raised an octave. “Fuckin’ sit down when ya told!”

  Classy.

  She looked over again and resumed her inane posed smile. She had a canine tooth missing which completed the picture. Then, of course, she realised that half her left breast was exposed and pulled at the grubby sleeveless sweater that barely held them in place. I didn’t think the embarrassment was faked.

  “We’re here to see his dad.” She nodded at the even grubbier Wayne.

  Why should I be interested? What possible need did I have for this information? I wanted my client’s car. The recovery of his property was my main concern, that, and to speak to Jimmy one last time. I had already devised my plan of action regarding Jimmy. I’d spent years of my life watching men like him but that’s another story.

  Jimmy would be shitting himself down in the cells. The elation of the coke would have worn off and he would be on a massive downer. He could choose to run, of course. If he did, I’d find him. I always find them. I’d always hated the Jimmys of this world. Useless individuals placed on earth solely to irritate the law-abiding public by being a fat bully. If you were going to be a criminal, at least have some class.

  “They locked him up last night.” The young woman was still intent on making conversation and I snapped back from thinking how nice it would be to see Jimmy shake.

  “He weren’t doin’ nothing. They’re always pickin’ on him.”

  She gaped at me intently. I suppose a good scrub, a trip to a decent dentist, and she wouldn’t look too bad. Born on the wrong side of the tracks, she had only one way to go.

  “I seen your picture in the paper.”

  Recent publicity had caused me some problems. Accusations of bribery and jury tampering by some meddling journalist, coupled with some long distance mug shots, had raised my public image slightly in the Manchester area. I didn’t care for any publicity. I liked to go about my business quietly.

  “You’re mistaken, love.” My tone was less of a correction, more a statement, more ‘mind your own business’. She looked like she’d got the message.

  Looking very nervous, she stood and brushed greasy bleached hair from her face. She held out a shaky hand.

  “Karen, I’m Karen Wilkinson.”

  I leaned forward and reluctantly took it. I value my personal space highly. Why do people insist on touching you? I know how that sounds. You’re thinking I’m psychotic. What about friendship? Family?

  I haven’t any family. I never will have, and my one friend left alive by the PIRA is a miserable-faced jock, so why the fuck should I allow anyone to encroach into my personal space? It makes perfect sense to me.

  I do, of course, have physical contact, but it is mainly an unpleasant experience for all concerned.

  Her hand was clammy. She gave me the impression that it had taken a lot of guts to approach me and she shook slightly. As I held it I noticed track marks on her forearm.

  Another Manchester bag head. This particular Karen was probably one of the many skinny prostitutes walking around Piccadilly each night, blowing businessmen between jacking up.

  Still, some of the people I’ve associated with this last ten years probably sold her the smack. It would make me a man of double standards if I were to lambaste the drugs trade. The trade in narcotics has been around as long as Man himself and morals were not my strong point anymore. Wealth was. I made my living collecting debts and settling scores for the drug-dealing elite so I suppose Karen’s habit had helped pay for the new D & G overcoat I was wearing. I had to remember that.

  “Hello, Karen.” I let go of her hand as quickly as possible and pointed to the kid. “How old is Wayne then?”

  She seemed to relax a little. “Four, five in March,” a pause, “his dad is Stuart Wilkinson. Do you know him?”

  This is it, you see? When you’re noted for assisting the odd person of dubious character, every two-bit thief thinks or says he knows you. Worse, they expect you to know them.

  “No, sweetheart. I’ve never met him.”

  “Oh.”

  She looked disappointed and lapsed into a very welcome silence. I became so bored that I began to read the old wanted posters dotted around the waiting room. Despite their curled up edges and cigarette smoke stained pictures, I still recognised some faces. Some of the guys were inside. The law had done their bit, probably with the help of Crimewatch UK, or some super-grass.

  Grasses.

  I’ve seen many of those. In my previous employment I used them to my advantage. These days, one of my tasks is to deal with people who may inform on my clients. Informers have a short lifespan in the higher echelons of the drug trade.

  My eyes settled on one particular poster. It was a plea for information, a picture of a fresh-faced young woman stared out at me. She was missing and her family had not seen her for two years. She looked like Cathy might have done when seventeen or so.

  Finally a young-looking uniform appeared from behind the counter and broke the spell, and I was grateful.

  I knew he wouldn’t be the last copper I would have to deal with. He would be the document reader, another inconvenience. The ‘Jack’ or detective would be next. Probably a DI or above, make me feel important, put on a face, fake friendliness maybe.

  The uniform must have been a probationer, I mean brand new. He was bricking it more than Karen the bag head.

  “May I see the insurance and registration d...documents for the v...vehicle, sir?”

  Again, some people in my profession and position enjoy making life difficult for all law enforcement, it’s completely counter-productive. One day when I’m out driving in my car I could come across this spotty kid, so I always try to be nice, very nice.

  “Certainly, officer, I think you will find everything in order.” I handed over the documents from a plastic folder and tried the pleasant approach again.

  “Officer, I have been waiting quite some time now. Is there a possibility..?”

  “Well, well, well...”

  The new voice was the Jack, the detective, the one I knew would come. I had no intention of being nice to this guy though. He wore a dark blue suit, probably Burton’s, off the peg special, eighty-nine quid in the sale, all set off with a pair of cheap unpolished shoes. He needed a haircut. When he spoke he needed the same dentist as Karen.

  “You still doing Joel Davies’s dirty work, pal?” His accent was pure Salford and he tossed his head back as he spoke, the way some men do when they are trying to get one over on you. He was trying the hard case routine. Not a nice way to be greeted, was it?

  I raised my voice just enough for the spotty uniform and civilian counter assistant, who had returned from her legal addiction break, to hear. I felt like a broken record.

  “I’m here to collect a client’s car and speak to the driver. Is that going to happen today? Or do I get to speak to someone with authority and dress sense?”

  The Jack was not perturbed by my show; he put me in the same box as any other common criminal. That was a fair one as far as I was concerned. I’ll let you decide for yourself too. He continued his hard knock approach.

  “Don’t think you can speak to our Jimmy ’till we’ve finished with him. You have no pull in here, mate.”

  I shrugged and turned away from the bad suit. I was losing patience. Time was money; in my case, a lot of money.

  “Just get me the Porsche and be quick about it.”

  I could feel his hatred behind my back. He muttered something, but coppers can’t slag you off these days. Not in public anyhow. It was enough to get my goat and I felt my fists clench. Then he stood very close. I turned and our noses were barely a foot apart. I lowered my voice so only he could hear.

  “You think you hate me, don’t you? St
anding there in your cheap suit and dirty shoes? But you don’t understand hate, detective. Not real hate or pain or sorrow. I could teach you, detective, teach you all about it.”

  I leaned even closer and my voice became a whisper. “How long would it take me to get to your nice cosy home, detective? Do you drive to work? Wife? Kids?”

  The Jack was about to snap and punch me.

  I took a step away and brought my tone back to normal.

  “Just as I thought, detective, you don’t understand those things. I could show you all about them but you wouldn’t care for the experience.” I turned away again, my tone sharp and demanding. “Get me the car.”

  A full hour later, I stood in the cool, dim, underground police garage. Nestled like a rose between two thorns, was my client’s Porsche 911 Carrera. It had Guard’s red paint and white leather interior with red pipe. It was eighty thousand pounds of pure unadulterated Joel Davies penis extension. Either side of the German flagship were knackered white police Astras.

  The Porsche’s private plate was a mistake. I would have mentioned it to my client but he wouldn’t listen. He had no taste. The white leather was a big giveaway; the white leather and that stupid number. Anyone with any taste would know a Guard’s red 911 has to have black leather trim with cream pipe. Otherwise, it looks like a pimp’s car. Well, I suppose that’s how he partly bought it. Maybe it did make my client feel bigger downstairs when he drove it.

  The shaky copper with the skin problem from earlier handed me the keys. “I’ll open the garage doors, sir.”

  I pulled out a fifty-pound note and pushed it into his uniform shirt pocket. “Thank you, constable.”

  He knew he should complain; he didn’t want the money. It was against his principles. It was wrong, illegal, but he was far too scared to say so. I had him. He was on the payroll. I made a note of his collar number in my head. Mine forever.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  ‘Shaky’ was staring at the fifty sticking up from his shirt pocket, at nineteen years old, a full day’s pay.

  He spoke absently. “Geoff.”