Stephen Leather - Breakout

It sounded like another of Scouse’s bullshit stories, but at least the location rang true to Harper. If you wanted to make a living as a kidnapper or were involved in negotiations with kidnappers, then South America was the best place to be. It was practically an industry there. ‘Tell me everything you can remember about how he started doing it and who he was working for,’ said Harper. ‘The last I heard of him he was doing body-guarding around London.’

‘He was away a lot but he came home to Hereford when he could, but there was always another job in the offing, so he could never stay for long.’

‘Did he see anyone else while he was home?’

‘No, of course not, he was with me.’

‘I didn’t mean any other women,’ Harper hastily added, hearing the anger in her voice. ‘I meant any old army colleagues or anyone like that? Anyone from the Regiment?’ The SAS was based in Hereford, and while Scouse had never made it into the elite special forces group, he had plenty of friends who wore the sand-coloured beret.

‘Not really. He said that the guys he had left behind in the Army were the ones who’d made the wrong choices in life, and they weren’t going to be keen to be reminded of it by him.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘When he went back nearly three months ago. He kept in touch as usual for the first three weeks he was away and then it was as if he had simply vanished into thin air. When I phoned the company to find out if he was all right, they said they’d never heard of him.’

‘Don’t be too alarmed by that,’ Harper said, trying to give her some reassurance. ‘In this line of work, company spokesmen will routinely deny all knowledge of everyone and everything, even if the person you’re asking about is sitting across the desk from them. So… how did you know who to call? Did Scouse tell you much about the company?’

‘No, he always said it was on a need to know basis and since I didn’t need to know, he wouldn’t tell me.’ She hesitated.

‘But?’ Harper said, sensing her discomfort.

‘I found the name on a letter heading in his jacket pocket. I wasn’t spying on him,’ she said hastily. ‘I was taking it to the dry-cleaners and was just checking the pockets first.’

‘A perfectly sensible thing to do,’ Harper said. ‘So what was the company name?’

‘It was called Risk Reduction. I know they’ve got an office in London, because it was an 0207 number I dialled when I spoke to them.’

‘And why have you only just called me?’

‘The number I had for you didn’t work. Then I called the Regiment and tried to speak to one of his friends, a guy I only knew as Mustard.’

‘I know him,’ said Harper. Ricky ‘Mustard’ Coleman had been in the SAS but prior to that had been in the Paras for more than a decade. ‘Well Ricky was away in the Middle East somewhere and he’s only just come back. He said he didn’t know anything but he had your number and suggested I try calling you.’ She sniffed. ‘Which is what I’m doing.’

‘Okay,’ said Harper, his mind racing. Even from the little she had told him, he was already more than half-convinced that Scouse was dead, but he let no trace of that feeling show in his voice as he said ‘Look Myfanwy, no promises, but I’ve not got much else on at the moment, so I’ll ask around and see what I can find out about him.’

‘Thank you, I’m really grateful.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t got much money, but I’ll find what you need somehow.’

‘I’m not looking for money. Scouse is one of my oldest mates. I’ll see what I can do. It might take me some time but trust me, I’m on the case.’

He ended the call and put the phone back into the bum bag. He lay on his back and began to do his sit-ups. He had known Scouse Davies since their schooldays together on Merseyside. Scouse had always been a bit of a scally and a motormouth, but he also had enough charm and humour to win most people over, even when they caught him trying to rip them off, and he was always up for a laugh or an adventure. He and Harper had knocked around together on the margins of the rough-arse streets where they’d grown up, scrapping with the local toughs and doing a bit of petty crime like shoplifting or pinching lead from church roofs.

They’d been collared by the police a couple of times but on both occasions had managed to talk their way out of it with nothing more than a caution. However, the last time they’d been taken in, the desk sergeant had given them a final warning. ‘I’m telling you now,’ he said, before he let them go again. ‘This is the last chance saloon. We’ve got your number now and if we catch you again, it’ll be straight to the Magistrates Court, followed by a spell in juvie for you. That’s if you’re lucky; if you’re not, you might find yourselves going straight off to Walton jail instead, and trust me, you really don’t want to find out what the old lags do to juicy young fresh meat like you in there.’

Harper wasn’t much deterred by the warning and when he left school soon afterwards, at the minimum age allowed and having played truant for most of the previous year, he had no academic qualifications whatsoever. However the prospect of a dead-end career in some mindless manual job in Liverpool was about as unappealing as the thought of Walton jail, and he chose instead to enlist in the Parachute Regiment. He was quickly followed by Scouse, though he was mainly attracted by the glamour of the red beret and the effect it might have on the girls in Liverpool. ‘They say all the nice girls love a soldier, don’t they?’ he’d said. ‘But I’m hoping a few of the not so nice ones might do as well.’

They had both served in the Paras, but Scouse hadn’t been an enthusiastic soldier and when it seemed he might be sent on active service operations in Afghanistan, he found a way to sidestep the active service tour with them by applying for the SAS Selection course instead. Having done very little training or preparation for Selection, it came as a surprise to Scouse, but not to anybody else, least of all Harper, when he struggled to get anywhere near the necessary standard. Scouse eventually developed a tactical injury to his ankle during the ‘Fan Dance’ - one of the multiple ascents of Pen y Fan in the Brecon Beacons in Wales that was the culmination of the first part of Selection - and failed the course. Fortunately for him, because of the SAS’s heavy commitment to the same war in Afghanistan that the rest of his Para comrades were fighting, the Regiment temporarily found itself short of troops and Scouse was retained in the SAS Training Wing’s Demonstration Troop, known to everyone in the Regiment by its sarcastic nickname of ‘Doom Troop’. They were ordinary soldiers who did jobs for the SAS, like pretending to be the enemy during exercises or attending presentations and ceremonial occasions where Army politics required an SAS presence but no actual SAS skills were needed.

After a while Scouse tried to join the Reserve, or R Squadron of the SAS that was part of the Territorial Army, but he failed that Selection too. However, as part of Doom Troop, Scouse found himself in the perfect niche position for him, ideally suited to his particular skills, or lack of them. He was not in the Regiment, but in the Demonstration Troop he was close enough to be identified with it. It gave him access to the right people, so he could hang around and mix with the real SAS guys on exercises, and have a brew and eat his lunch in the same Mess, and by keeping his ear to the ground, he could get to know all the regimental gossip and file it away for future use. He never had the beret, the pass at Selection or the badge, he had never been on any postings, nor carried out any operational duties, and he was never a member of 22 SAS. However, before long he had picked up enough information, SAS slang and mannerisms, and knew enough of the names of senior NCOs and officers, and the nicknames of some of the men in the Sabre Squadrons - the fighting troops - that when he was off base among the civilian population, he could pass himself off as a member of an SAS Squadron, something he invariably did.