by O M J Ryan
‘It’s OK, you can come out now,’ said the now-familiar voice of the man from Liverpool.
Marty lifted his head tentatively from under the sheets and looked over the rim of the laundry bin. He finally saw the driver who had navigated his passage out of the hospital; a short, chubby, pale-skinned man with a stubbly chin, buzz cut and black T-shirt stretching over his protruding belly. His forearms were thick, covered in the green-and-blue hues of fading tattoos.
‘Is this me done now?’ he asked someone to the left side of the lorry, and Marty was more than surprised when he saw DCI Phillips, her face hidden under a navy-blue baseball cap, walk into view. Thank God!
Nodding her head, she threw a plastic bag towards Marty. ‘Put these on quickly and come with me,’ she said before turning to face the Liverpudlian.
‘So I’m off the hook, right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Tommo, you’re off the hook. But if I ever catch you with anything even remotely hot again, you’ll be back in Hawk Green in a heartbeat! Understand?’
Tommo nodded furiously before making himself scarce.
Phillips moved to the rear of the truck, watching Marty as he stepped out of the laundry bin and emptied the plastic bag of its contents. ‘Some jogging bottoms, trainers and a sweatshirt Jones organised for you. Not sure they’ll fit,’ she said.
Anything that wasn’t a blue hospital gown was good by Marty, and he grabbed at them greedily. ‘What you doing here?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell you in the car. Just get your clothes on and let’s get moving.’
‘I bet you say that to all the boys,’ Marty said, smiling.
Phillips turned and walked away in silence.
Two minutes later, Marty approached Phillips, who was leaning against a rental car, the logoed number plate giving away its identity.
‘You’d better get in the back. There’s a blanket to cover yourself,’ she said flatly.
He did as requested, and they were soon on the road.
‘Why do the switch in Burnage, of all places?’ he asked from the back seat, having recognised their location.
‘Why not?’ countered Phillips, adjusting the rear-view mirror so she could see him. ‘It’s as good as any; close to the hospital and, frankly, people round here are good at turning a blind eye; I’ve seen it often enough as a copper!’
They drove for a couple of minutes without speaking before Marty broke the silence.
‘I need to know something – what was with the newspaper hanging over the laundry bin? Why did you want me to get into that particular bin?’
Phillips glanced in the mirror and then back to the road. ‘Because it was the only one that wasn’t on CCTV,’ she replied. ‘It was specifically positioned in the blind spot. You can thank Jones for that. It was his idea.’
Marty nodded. ‘I will! By the way, Jones was very convincing in my hospital room. I really thought he wanted me banged up forever!’
‘Yeah, I’m sorry if he freaked you out. But we had no idea who might be listening in or watching. As much as Jones wants to help, he has a wife and two kids and can’t afford to end up on the outside, like me,’ Phillips said.
Marty nodded, and took a moment to reflect on his latest escape. Totally surreal.
‘So, where are we going?’ he asked.
‘The Captains Lodge Hotel on the way to the airport.’
‘The Captains? The place will be heaving with holidaymakers!’
‘Exactly! Most of whom will be in the bar. The only thing they’ll be focused on is starting their holiday as they mean to go on. Plus, I stayed there last night, so we can go straight to the room.’
Marty considered it for a moment. The idea had merit. ‘OK, so what happens when we get there?’
Phillips smiled as she glanced backwards. ‘We put into action my brilliant plan to prove you’re innocent, and that I wasn’t harbouring a fugitive,’ she said enthusiastically.
‘Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like it?’ Marty said, half smiling.
‘Trust me, Marty you will love it!’
He shook his head and pulled the blanket over his face, ‘Of course I will. I mean, based on the last few weeks, what’s the worst that could happen?’
57
The Captains Lodge Hotel stands twenty stories high, just five miles from the airport on Manchester’s city limits, a classic example of sixties concrete architecture. Thousands of excited holidaymakers pass through its small functional rooms every week. It really was the perfect place to blend in.
With Marty sporting a baseball cap and sunglasses once again, he and Phillips made it through the recently-renovated reception without issue and hid themselves away in a twin room on the seventh floor, overlooking the busy car park at the rear.
Feeling the full effect of his injuries, Marty lay down on the bed, his torso propped up by a couple of pillows, and fell into a deep sleep. He woke with a start some time later, 4 a.m. according to the clock radio next to the bed. Phillips was asleep in the armchair opposite, but opened her eyes as Marty coughed.
Moving across the room, she sat sideways next to his waist and leaned in close to assess the damage to his face.
‘That looks sore.’
‘You think?’ Marty replied sarcastically, immediately apologising when he saw Phillips’s reaction.
‘I’m told you’re a hero now,’ Phillips said impassively.
‘Hardly. I pulled Simon out of the car wreck, but who wouldn’t in that situation?’
‘You’d be surprised, Marty. Most would have left him there, hoping the fire brigade would do the dirty work. If you’d taken that option, he’d be dead.’
Marty considered her argument and nodded lightly. ‘I guess so.’
‘I know so, Marty. Those burns are proof.’ She pointed at the gauze covering the right side of his face. ‘You were above him when you were dragging him backwards, so shielded him from the blast.’
‘There was a couple that stopped to help, but they backed off when they realised who I was. As if I was some kind of monster.’
Phillips nodded. ‘That’s how you’ve been painted by the media, Marty. Another high-profile celebrity abusing his power!’
‘But that’s not fair! I never abused my power,’ he said dramatically.
Phillips raised her eyebrows and stared at Marty for a moment, ‘Really?’
‘No!’
‘So, in almost two decades at the top, you’ve never intentionally used your influence to damage someone else’s reputation or career?’
Silently staring back at Phillips, Marty knew he was kidding himself. Since his dad and David died, and then Becks walked out, his anger had become a living thing. Some days he felt his only release came from lashing out and hurting others. He knew it was wrong even as he was doing it, but he couldn’t control it.
Exhaling loudly, he slowly nodded. ‘I guess I have been a pretty terrible human being.’
‘Maybe, but even if you have, you don’t deserve what’s happened to you.’
Marty appeared deep in thought. ‘Have you checked social media since the accident? Maybe my “heroics” have helped my cause?’
Phillips took out her phone, opened her web history and presented it to him. ‘The crash was well documented, but the story they’re telling is that you were driving dangerously, potentially drunk, swerving in and out of cars, and hit the bridge. Nothing about pulling Simon out.’
‘How can they get away with that? Simon was driving and we were rammed off the road!’
‘If nobody witnessed it, then whoever’s behind all this can write whatever story they want.’
‘But the couple? They turned up after just a few minutes. They must have seen something.’
‘If they did, they aren’t talking, Marty.’
‘And the nurse? And Nic? They both said I’d pulled Simon from the car. How did they know that if there were no witnesses?’
‘I can only imagine the police or firemen would have mention
ed it to the paramedics when briefing how you were injured, but after the crash, the story was worldwide in a matter of minutes. A handful of people telling the truth cannot compete with the soap opera people want to be true: that you, Marty Michaels, a wealthy, powerful celebrity-turned-fugitive on a killing spree, ran out of luck and brought about his own downfall. Swiftly brought to justice by the boys in blue.’
Marty sat open-mouthed, unable to speak as he tried to process what Phillips was saying.
‘I know it’s shitty, Marty.’
‘Bollocks is what it is! I mean, I know I’ve been a bit of a bastard, but who the hell would want to do this to me?’
‘The same person that’s making me out to be a bent copper.’
‘And who the fuck is that?’
Phillips smiled. ‘I thought you’d never ask!’
58
Phillips handed Marty a thick file and returned to her position on the edge of the bed, facing him. ‘I’ve been digging through the files you gave me. Take a look at this lot,’ she said with gusto.
Marty obliged, and over the next few minutes flicked through the loose pages in silence.
‘So, what am I looking at? More financial records from Ganner and Luchsinger?’
‘On the face of it, yes, but with a little imagination we could be looking at proof that Delta Holdings and Frank Fairchild are behind what’s been happening to you.’
Marty looked puzzled. ‘I don’t get it. How does any of this tie Fairchild or Delta to me?’
Phillips took back the file and carefully selected a single sheet before passing it back. ‘Check the name and date on the highlighted account third from bottom.’
‘Mrs S. McAndrew?’
‘And the date?’
‘March 2012.’ He shrugged. ‘Should that mean something to me?’
Phillips chuckled. ‘It’s a good job I’m the detective. Do you remember the Manchester pathologist who killed himself a few years back?’
Marty took a moment to respond, his brow creasing as he tried to recall. ‘The little fella, the guy who worked on my dad and David’s post-mortems? Hung himself, didn’t he?’
‘That’s the one. Remember his name?’
‘Can’t say I do, to be honest. It was all a bit of a blur at the time.’
Phillips stared silently at Marty for a moment, before tapping the paper in front of him. ‘Dr George McAndrew.’
‘Jesus! S. McAndrew was his wife?’
‘Yes. As that account shows, she received a single payment in March 2012 of two hundred thousand pounds, around the time David and your dad died. McAndrew was the lead pathologist at Wythenshawe Hospital, and theirs were the last two post-mortems he performed. A day after he published the results, he killed himself.’
‘Bloody hell! So what, are you saying Fairchild killed him?’
‘I don’t think so, no. I’m pretty sure he killed himself. But as you said before, David had been sober for a long, long time. Why would he suddenly start drinking again?’
‘I honestly can’t imagine he would. He detested his old life.’
‘So, knowing that, it’s not too much of a leap to think someone could have doctored David’s blood results.’
‘McAndrew, but why?’
‘Well, going through the post-mortem report, it appears he had early onset Alzheimer’s. I can only assume he was dying and wanted to look after his wife,’ said Phillips.
‘I don’t get it. Why would anyone go to the effort of making it look like David was drunk if he wasn’t?’
‘To cover their tracks. Drink-driving offers a neat and tidy result; no need to look too closely at the car, and the killer walks away.’
‘But McAndrew, why make two hundred grand and then kill yourself?’
‘Maybe it was guilt over what he’d done or fear of what lay ahead. We’ll never know.’
‘So how do we prove it?’
Phillips stood and walked over to the window. ‘That’s just it. I’m not sure we can.’
Marty’s frustration boiled over. ‘Well, what bloody use is this?’ he shouted, slamming the list of accounts with the back of his hand.
Phillips ignored his tantrum. ‘To a judge and jury, not much. To us, it goes some way to proving Fairchild and Delta are bad people with a web of connections that keeps on growing. With so many police and government officials on the payroll, they have to be the ones pulling the strings.’
‘And what if they aren’t? What if it’s a massive coincidence and someone else is behind all this?’
Phillips turned back to face him, her expression one of resignation. ‘Well then, we’re fucked, well and truly, Marty.’
The room fell silent for a long moment.
Eventually, Marty spoke, ‘So, we have one theory based on some pretty thin evidence?’
‘Pretty much, yeah. Still, it’s more than we had yesterday,’ Phillips said brightly.
Marty moved off the bed and tentatively stretched his aching body in front of the window, shielded from the outside world by a white net curtain.
Phillips rummaged through a rucksack on the office chair opposite the bed. ‘Here it is!’ she said triumphantly.
Marty turned away from the window. ‘Here what is?’
Grabbing his right hand, Phillips placed a small bundle into his palm. Looking down, he saw a hair-thin wire, slightly bulbous at one end, with what looked like a cigarette lighter attached.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, clueless.
‘That is the latest piece of undercover recording kit as used by Her Majesty’s finest in the Greater Manchester Police, liberated by Jones not long after I was suspended.’
‘And we need this for what exactly?’
‘Recording a confession, of course!’
Marty laughed. ‘And who exactly is supposed to be giving us this confession?’
‘Fairchild.’
‘Fairchild? Are you serious?’
‘Deadly,’ said Phillips.
Marty shook his head. ‘How? How?’
‘Simple. Using your considerable skills as an interviewer, you get him to tell you what he’s been up to.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say that? I’ll get him on the show tomorrow,’ Marty said facetiously.
Phillips dropped into the small armchair next to the window, folded her arms and stared at Marty intently. ‘OK, smart-arse. How many celebs and politicians have you managed to get under the skin of in the last fifteen years? Hmmn?’
Marty thought for a moment. ‘Well, it’s hard to say. I’ve kind of lost count.’
‘Exactly! So why is it so ridiculous to think that you could get Fairchild to confess?’
Marty took his time to answer. ‘Well, when you put it like that, I guess it’s not. But you’re forgetting one thing – to get him to open up, I need to be in front of him.’
‘Agreed and you will be. The plan is, I’ll drive you to his house tonight!’ Phillips said confidently.
‘What? Are you mad?’
‘You said it yourself, Marty. The only way to get him to talk is to speak with him face to face.’
‘So, what? We just drive up to his house, ring the bell and start talking when he answers the door?’ Marty shot back sarcastically.
‘Pretty much. You tell him you want to meet to make a deal. Money for White’s documents. He takes the bait and you go to work wearing that,’ she said, pointing at the wires in his hand. ‘That bit on the end is a super-powerful directional microphone, capable of picking up any noise directly in front of it, as long as it’s within a ten-metre range.’
‘Any noise?’ he said, twisting his face. ‘How are we supposed to get clarity on Fairchild’s voice if it’s picking up everything else? It’ll be a mishmash of every sound in the room.’
Phillips’s smile returned. ‘I’ll calibrate it from the receiver, which also acts as a recorder.’
Marty was confused. ‘So how do you calibrate it? Isn’t it going to look a little bit suspicious if he’
s talking to me and a copper is sat recording him?’
‘Funny, aren’t you?’ Phillips said, half-laughing now. ‘No. The mic and the receiver have a range of one hundred metres. As long as I’m in the grounds of the house, I can pick up the signal. When he starts talking, you just need to make sure you’re in front of him. I can then pick out his voice. Once it’s locked in, he’ll be the focus of everything we hear.’
Marty listened intently as he inspected the tiny kit in his hands more thoroughly. He had to admit, the idea had some merit but was essentially crazy: virtually impossible. Still, he had nothing to lose at this stage. ‘Well, it looks like we have a plan that couldn’t possibly go wrong,’ he said, his voice brimming with sarcasm. ‘As my dad would say, in for a penny, in for a pound.’
59
‘So, you’re clear what you have to do?’ Phillips asked Marty as she tested the range of the receiver and the direction of the microphone taped to his chest, just below the neckline of his black Adidas sweatshirt.
They had stopped a few streets away from Fairchild’s Alderly Edge home, and were now standing on the pavement next to the hire car.
‘I’m going to call Fairchild on the number programmed into your iPhone here,’ Marty said, raising the handset so the screen and number were visible to Phillips. ‘How did you get his house phone, by the way?’
‘Found it in a document on the USB,’ Phillips replied.
‘Seriously? That’s lucky!’
‘No luck involved – I’m a bloody good detective,’ she added proudly.
‘And you’re sure it works? That it’s current?’
Phillips nodded. ‘Yep, I called the other night, pretending to be one of those marketing companies asking for Mr Fairchild. Whoever answered was not at all interested in whatever I was selling. It works all right.’ Phillips pressed on. ‘So when you get through, then what?’
‘I’ll tell him I want to meet face to face to make a deal – enough money to get me out of the country and start a new life. In exchange, he gets the remaining copies of the sex tapes plus the bank details that connect Delta Holdings to government and police corruption. I’ll tell him that if he doesn’t give me what I want, the data goes to the police in exchange for a deal.’