by Tony Kent
Michael had used every last drop of energy fighting Hirst. He had ignored the blood flowing from the bullet wound in his right bicep. Had pushed himself further than he ever thought possible. Only the combination of fear, instinct and pure adrenaline had kept Michael on his feet. Had kept him conscious.
A combination that now disappeared.
One more step backwards. Two. Three.
By the fourth Michael could no longer focus. Could no longer stay upright. His adrenaline was used up. And so was he.
Stumbling a final time, the world went black as Michael dropped to the floor.
SEVENTY-SIX
Joelle Levy’s feet hit the ground before the Comanche had even landed.
The closest open space was at least three hundred metres from Michael and Hirst. Almost a minute on foot, in the dark across uneven ground obstructed by headstones and monuments.
Levy moved out of range of the Comanche’s propellers. Twenty metres. Far enough to be sure. She lifted the rifle to her shoulder, placed her right eye back behind the scope and closed her left. It made the world visible once again.
It had been impossible to take a second shot from the chopper. The first had been risky enough. Everything that had followed had happened too fast. Michael and Hirst were either on the floor or on top of one another in the moments that followed. Neither position allowed for a clean shot. Neither guaranteed Michael’s safety.
Levy scanned the distance. Both the spot where she knew both men had been and the area nearby. The fight had continued as the Comanche had descended, a necessary movement that had obscured Levy’s view.
Neither man had come back into her sight since that moment.
Levy covered the distance fast, fuelled by fear of the unknown. Of what Michael could be suffering at the hands of Hirst. It was a fear that disappeared as she reached the headstone that obscured Hirst’s battered body.
Levy had spent her adult life surrounded by violence. And by its results. It took her no more than a glance to know that Hirst was going nowhere. Alive or dead. Levy did not care which. Her concern was elsewhere.
‘Michael!’ Levy slid to a halt next to Michael’s unmoving body. ‘Michael, can you hear me?’
Michael was unconscious, but up close he looked in much better condition than Hirst. Levy placed two fingers of her right hand on his neck and felt blood pumping upwards through his artery.
His pulse was strong; it made survival likely.
‘Michael?’ she asked again. This time more gently. ‘Can you hear me, Michael?’
Levy examined Michael as she spoke. From his head downwards. Blood on his forehead made her search for a wound to his skull. She found it quickly. The blood came from a shallow cut close to the hairline. It was easy to find; the presence of Hirst’s two front teeth – ripped from his mouth by a collision with Michael’s head, where they were now embedded – saw to that.
Michael’s other injuries were just as obvious. His left hand was beaten and bloody. The knuckles shattered. Levy did not need to wonder what he had used to leave Hirst in the condition she had observed. The injury to his right arm was more serious. Michael’s sleeve was soaked in blood. More than there would be if the blood were not his own.
Levy looked for the injury, found it quickly and concluded that it was not life-threatening.
She turned at the sound of running footsteps. It was the pilot.
‘Is he OK?’
‘He’ll live,’ Levy called back. ‘But he’s been shot. We need bandages and whatever kit you’ve got in the chopper.’
‘And the other guy?’ The pilot indicated towards Hirst.
‘I’ll check him while you get the kit. Now go!’
The pilot turned and ran back towards the Comanche.
Six hundred metres, Levy thought. There and back. Plus time to collect the gear. Two minutes max.
She got to her feet, walked over to Hirst and dropped to her knees beside him.
The damage Michael had done to Hirst was severe. But it was not fatal. At least not instantly. Air was inflating and deflating a blood bubble below his right nostril with every breath.
Levy looked up. Towards the Comanche. The pilot was halfway there.
She reached into her inside pocket, found her handkerchief and opened it up fully. So that it covered her entire right hand.
She looked up again. The pilot was nearing the chopper.
Levy looked again at Hirst. For a moment she thought of trying to bring him round. In the hope that he would know what was coming.
There would be justice in that, she thought. But Levy did not need such perfection.
Instead she reached out, placed the handkerchief on Hirst’s bloody face and covered his nose and his mouth.
And then she squeezed.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Michael Devlin wiped through the condensation that clung to the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back at him. Stripped to the waist, a collection of scars dotted his torso.
Some were old. Some were new. And some – like the bullet wound through his right bicep – were obscured entirely by bandages.
‘You ready for me to change that dressing?’
Michael turned at the sound of Sarah’s voice. He smiled and reached out with his left arm, careful not to clip her with the plaster cast at its end.
‘Best offer I’ve had all month.’
Using just his left forearm, he pulled Sarah close, tight against his body. The water from his shower soaked her clothes, leaving her white blouse transparent.
‘Get off of me, you big injured bear.’
Sarah laughed as she pulled away. She pushed Michael back by pressing her hand against his flat stomach, just about the only spot on his torso not covered in bandages or bruises.
Michael slumped backwards. His spine resting against the sweaty bathroom wall. He forced a disappointed expression.
‘Oh, I get it. A few cuts and a few broken bones and suddenly I’m not man enough for you. Is that it?’
‘It’ll take more than that, Michael Devlin.’ Sarah glanced up and down. At the plaster case on Michael’s left. And at the wet bandages on his right arm. ‘But what use are you to me when your hands aren’t working, eh?’
Michael roared with laughter at the answer. A genuine laugh. And a relieved laugh.
The separation from Sarah had been short. Just over twenty-four hours physically, a little more emotionally. Yet it had been the hardest of Michael’s life. He had lost. He had suffered. In time he would grieve. But right now – with Sarah beside him – Michael was happy.
As if she could read his mind, Sarah placed her hand on Michael’s cheek, raised herself up on to her toes and kissed him softly on his lips.
‘Now, come on,’ she said as she lowered herself to her normal height. ‘Let’s look at that dressing.’
SEVENTY-EIGHT
‘You didn’t have to come to court today, Jenny. Honestly. I’d have understood.’
It was 9 a.m. on Monday morning. Two hours since Sarah had expertly changed the dressing on Michael’s bicep. Fifty-two since Michael had confronted and beaten Hirst.
And sixty since Draper had been kidnapped.
Draper and Tina Barker had been found by Levy just moments after Hirst’s death. Both were restrained but physically unhurt. Still, it was a near miracle that she had made it to the Old Bailey Bar Mess on the second Monday of Simon Kash’s trial. And that Michael was here to meet her.
Draper shook her head as Michael spoke. She took a sip from her coffee cup before replying.
‘He didn’t hurt me. Just a big old bruise on my head. And my wig covers that.’
‘Injuries aren’t just physical. What you went through was traumatic. You can’t just rush back from something like that. You don’t need to.’
Draper made a point of looking from Michael’s left hand to his right arm, and then to his injured head.
‘You’re telling me I shouldn’t rush back. What about you? You lost Derek Rei
d. Your family went into hiding. You came, alone, to rescue me and Tina. And you ended up shot and beaten as a result. And I’m rushing back?’
‘It’s different for me. I have to stick with the case. If I don’t, it ends and the trial starts all over again. I can’t go. But you can. Please. Take the time. Take care of yourself.’
Draper smiled and shook her head again. Then she reached out for the bottled water that sat next to her cup. She opened it and held it up to Michael.
‘You need a drink?’
‘Yes,’ Michael replied. ‘Yes please.’
Draper lifted the bottle to Michael’s mouth, tilted it back and poured the cold water past his lips. Two large gulps. Then she set the bottle down.
‘Now tell me, Michael Devlin QC. How do you plan to take a drink after I’ve gone home to recuperate?’
Michael did not answer.
‘Exactly. You’ve got a broken left hand and a right arm you can’t move. You need me here, Michael. If only for things like that. And after what you did? For me? What kind of a friend would I be if I left you to fend for yourself?’
Michael opened his mouth to respond. Nothing came out. Draper had him beat. She had turned his own words – his own actions – against him.
Michael smiled. The discussion was over.
‘So, what’s the news on Hirst?’ Draper asked. It was a change of subject. But only just.
‘I’m off the hook,’ Michael replied. He looked down at his broken hand as he spoke. ‘Joelle Levy confirmed it yesterday. He died from the fight, and my actions were deemed reasonable.’
Draper did not speak immediately.
‘It’s better that way,’ she finally offered. ‘Can you imagine if we’d all had to go through a trial on this?’
‘A trial I could take. But he deserved to die.’
‘Then he got what he deserved.’ Draper paused before speaking again. ‘Thank you, Michael. For coming for me. I don’t know any other man who would have done that. Who could have done that.’
‘You need to thank Levy,’ Michael replied. ‘If she hadn’t shown up Hirst would have killed me. No doubt about it.’
‘I have thanked her. And now I’m thanking you.’
‘Then don’t mention it. Please.’
Draper nodded in agreement. Michael’s intent was clear. The conversation was over.
And just in time.
‘What the bloody hell happened to you?’
The question came from Peter Epstein QC. Called out as he approached Michael and Draper from the rear of the Bar Mess.
Both looked up, confirming where the question was directed. Michael rose to meet Epstein’s approach.
‘Way too long a story, Pete,’ Michael replied. His tone allowed for no follow-up. ‘Are we good to go this morning?’
‘Not exactly, Michael, no.’
Epstein stopped as he reached them, giving Michael the once-over.
‘What do you mean?’ Michael asked. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Oh, it’s far from a problem, old boy,’ Epstein replied. ‘Not for your chap, anyway. We’re dropping the case against Simon Kash. He’ll be free to go in a couple of hours.’
Michael took just a moment to process the information. Sure, the case had gone well. Very well. But this was still unexpected.
‘Why?’ It was all Michael could think to ask.
‘The case was getting weaker against him every time you bloody stood up. By the end of Colliver’s evidence we were going to need a miracle to get you convicted.’
‘But still, Pete. I didn’t have enough for a half-time submission. You could have used Darren O’Driscoll against us when he gave evidence.’
‘I haven’t finished, Michael. You see, O’Driscoll is changing his plea. He’s going to plead guilty, and he’s doing it on the basis that it was Colliver – not Simon Kash – who committed the murders with him.’
‘And you’re going to accept that?’ Michael was confused.
‘I don’t see why not. O’Driscoll will only plead if we let Kash go completely and if we re-open our enquiry into Colliver. And after your cross-examination of the man, well, Colliver seems as likely a suspect as anyone else. So why the hell not?’
Michael tried to think of something to say. It was difficult. Perplexing.
He should have been happy. They had won. Simon Kash would walk free. But something about it did not make sense.
Epstein seemed much less concerned.
‘Levitt knows all about it, anyway,’ he explained. ‘So he wants us in court at 9.45. To get it all sorted before the jury arrives. I’ll see you down there.’
He left without another word.
Michael turned to Draper. Still shocked by the turn of events. Draper looked just as surprised.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s . . . that’s . . . you know. Actually, I don’t know what that is.’
‘Me neither,’ Michael replied. ‘And I need to get my head around it. Would you go down and give Simon the news? And tell him I’ll be down to see him afterwards?’
‘And what are you going to do?’
‘Me? I’m going to find Matt Cole.’
SEVENTY-NINE
‘Mr Devlin. Jenny. I honestly can’t thank you enough. I . . . I . . . I just can’t believe this has happened. I can’t believe I’m going home.’
Simon Kash sat in his usual seat. Across the table from Michael and Draper. His back to the interview room door.
Draper smiled. She seemed genuinely happy that justice had been done.
She reached out and gripped Kash’s hand.
‘It’s the right decision, Simon. The right decision. You should never have been in here in the first place.’
Kash returned the smile before turning to Michael.
‘Mr Devlin, you were amazing. This would never have happened without you. It really wouldn’t. I’m not sure how I can ever repay you.’
Michael returned Kash’s gaze. He stared deep into his eyes, as if seeing them for the first time.
‘You could fill in some blanks for me, Simon.’
Michael’s voice did not share Draper’s good humour. Kash looked surprised.
‘Erm, OK. I don’t really understand, Mr Devlin. But I’ll try. What is it you want to know?’
Michael sat back into his chair.
‘What I want to know, Simon, is what the hell happened here? Because this doesn’t make sense to me. No sense at all.’
‘What doesn’t?’ Kash sounded confused. And nervous.
‘O’Driscoll’s decision. At least insofar as it affects you.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘It’s his basis of plea, Simon. I can understand why he would plead guilty. The evidence against him is fairly compelling. And I can understand why he’d want to take Terry Colliver down with him, after the evidence Colliver gave. But what I can’t understand? It’s his insistence that the prosecution stop the trial against you. That they let you go. It’s his insistence that he would only plead guilty on that condition. Why, Simon? Why would he do that?’
‘Because I’m innocent, Mr Devlin.’
There was a certainty in Kash’s voice. A strength that had never been there before.
‘So what?’ Michael was not accepting the answer. ‘He’s a stone-cold killer. A ruthless bastard. You’ve told us that yourself.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was bullying and manipulating you throughout this whole thing, wasn’t he? Right up until I got you moved away from him. Until I had you moved to a different prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why would a person like that suddenly do you a favour? Why would he suddenly do the right thing by you, after you’d let me off the leash? After you’d let me attack him in front of the jury?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I prosecuted him better than Peter Epstein ever did. It was my cross-examination that left him with no option but to plead. A cross-examination that was d
one on your behalf and which makes you the one that convicted him. And yet he’s suddenly doing you a favour. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I . . . I . . . I can’t explain it if you can’t, Mr Devlin. You’re the smart one. If you don’t understand it then—’
‘Stop it, Simon.’ Michael’s voice was firm. An instruction to be obeyed. He had finally had enough. ‘Stop the act.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. You know exactly what I mean. I’ve spoken to Darren O’Driscoll’s barrister. And so I know why Darren changed his plea. I know why Matt Cole was so ineffective against Colliver on Friday; why he didn’t suggest that it was you and Colliver who killed the Galloways. I know why you’re walking out of here today.’
Kash looked shocked. Shocked and afraid. As nervous as Michael had ever seen him.
Draper stepped in.
‘Michael, I don’t know what this is about but please. You shouldn’t be acting this way to—’
‘To little Simon?’ Michael interrupted, his voice filled with disdain. He turned back to Kash. ‘Come on, Simon. It’s over. Whatever happens, you walk. So cut the shit.’
‘Mr Devlin, I don’t . . . I don’t . . .’
Kash did not finish the sentence. He stopped himself. For a moment he was silent. Lost in his own mind. And then he did something that Michael alone had expected.
He broke into a broad, arrogant smile.
Both Michael and Draper looked on as Kash pushed himself back into his chair. As he adjusted his posture. Subtle movements. They made him seem taller. Older.
Kash did not glance towards Draper. Instead he kept Michael’s eye.
‘When’d it stop, then?’ The voice was deeper. The accent more pronounced. ‘When’d you stop believing?’
Draper looked from Michael to Kash. Then back to Michael. It was clear she could not understand what she was witnessing.
‘Later than I should have,’ Michael replied. ‘But I’ve had a lot going on.’
‘So it seems.’ Kash nodded towards Michael’s injuries. ‘So what did Darren’s brief tell you?’