by O M J Ryan
Phillips nodded. ‘You tell him you’ll be waiting by the front gate. When he lets you in, I’ll sneak through the gates as they’re closing.’
Marty was beginning to feel anxious. ‘What if they’ve got cameras on the gate?’
‘I’m sure they will, which is why you’re going in after the sun goes down. I’ll follow the car through in the shadows. I was a candidate for the armed response unit, SCO19. I’m a natural at covert operations!’ Phillips smiled.
Marty nodded. ‘OK, OK.’ He tried to psych himself up for the deadly game of cat and mouse that lay ahead.
Phillips checked her watch. ‘Right, it’s nine-fifteen, almost time. You ready?’
Marty took a sharp intake of breath to calm his rapid pulse. He had butterflies in his stomach reminiscent of his first ever radio show, coupled with a growing sense of nausea. He nodded silently and turned away for a moment, trying to compose himself, before turning back and reciting the running order of events they had planned. ‘OK, so I call him at nine-thirty to set up the meet. When I pull up to his gates, I activate my full-beam headlights in case anyone is looking down the drive, to help shield you. When you see the full beam go on, you run to the rear of the car and follow me through. I drive to the front of the house while you move to a point in the garden where you can hear me through the mic. I go inside the house, get Fairchild to confess, and as soon as he does, Jones and Bovalino arrive to arrest him and Buzzard before they kill me. That sound about right?’ he said, his tone facetious.
‘You’re going to be OK, Marty, I promise.’ Phillips patted him on his shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain. ‘Sorry, I forgot’ she said, half laughing. ‘I’ve always been a bit clumsy!’
60
As the sunlight began to fade on the horizon, Marty and Phillips leaned against the rented Ford Mondeo in silence, waiting for their ‘operation’ to start at 9.30 p.m. sharp. Marty was beginning to feel agitated and tense. Phillips was checking something on her iPhone. Sounds of a summer’s evening floated gently on the breeze. It reminded him of Rebecca: she loved this time of night, the chatter of the birds and the hum of distant traffic on journeys unknown. God, he missed her. His heart ached for his old life and his beautiful ex-wife.
‘What’s the time?” he asked Phillips.
‘It’s 9.22 p.m.,’ she said without taking her eyes off the screen.
‘Bugger it,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I’ve got enough time. Can I borrow your phone?’
Phillips shot him a glance. ‘What the hell for? We’re going in in a minute?’
‘I need to make a quick call. Please, it’s important.’
Phillips sighed and handed him the phone. ‘Make sure it’s super quick. I hate being late for an op!’
Marty grabbed the phone and walked down the road far enough so he could speak without being heard. Luckily, Rebecca had kept the same number since buying her very first mobile back in 1998, the eleven-digit code forever burned into Marty’s memory. Punching in the sequence, he hesitated for a split second but soon pressed on. A moment later, the phone began to ring. But she didn’t answer. It rang out and activated the voicemail. ‘Damn it,’ Marty said, and tried again, the outcome the same. He tried a third time, with still no answer. Deflated and feeling desperately lonely, he tried one last time.
‘Hello?’ a man said on the other end.
Marty didn’t recognise him. After many nights of drunken calls to his ex, he had grown familiar with her husband’s voice. This man was definitely not Sean.
‘Do you want Rebecca?’ the man asked, his voice flamboyant and colourful.
Marty, caught off guard, said, ‘Er, yes, I do.’
‘I’m her producer, Luke. Hang on, I’ll get her.’ A moment later, Marty heard the voice of the only woman he had ever loved.
‘Hello?’ Rebecca said softly.
Marty was stuck for words for a moment.
‘Hello?’ she asked again. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone there,’ she added to someone at her end.
‘Hi, Rebecca,’ Marty managed to mumble as he attempted to stop her from hanging up.
‘Marty?’ Rebecca said sounding surprised.
‘Hi, Becks,’ he said softly.
‘Jesus, Marty, where the hell are you? Are you OK?’
‘I thought you’d be on air?’
‘What? No, not till ten.’
‘I didn’t do it, Becks; I didn’t kill anyone.’
There was a long pause on the end of the line before Rebecca spoke again. ‘Your escape is all over the news, Marty – please give yourself up. You can’t keep running.’
‘I know that, Becks, but I’m innocent, and tonight I’m going to prove it to the world!’ he said firmly.
Rebecca’s voice was soft but brimming with concern. ‘Marty, what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to get the killer of White, Rochelle and Rob to confess!’ he said firmly.
‘Marty. Let me come and get you. I can help tell your story.’ Rebecca’s voice betrayed her fear as it jumped up an octave. In a perverse way, it gave Marty a sense of comfort; she still cared enough to worry about him.
A wave of calm rolled over him. His voice was even when he spoke. ‘Becks, please don’t worry about me. When I’m done, you’ll know the truth.’
‘Please, you don’t have to prove anything to me.’
‘I don’t have a lot of time, so please just listen. I need to tell you how sorry I am for driving you away…’
‘Please, Marty, don’t…’ Rebecca cut across him.
‘For once in your life, listen to me!’ Marty shouted and Rebecca was suddenly silent. He pushed on. ‘I’m sorry for the way things ended. I know I lost the best thing that ever happened to me when you left. When Dave and Dad died, a piece of me did too. The good piece. The caring, human, real me burned in that car with them. What was left behind was the shell I am today; a drunk arsehole eaten up by anger. That anger made me bitter and twisted, and I’ve gone out of my way to ruin other people’s lives. I started to take pleasure in seeing other people’s misery. Well, karma has finally paid me back; the hunter has become the hunted.’
‘Oh Marty, I am so sorry…’ Rebecca interjected.
‘Don’t be, Becks! The last three weeks have been hell. But in a strange way, I’ve found the old me – the Marty who just wants to live; the Marty who appreciates life and doesn’t care about money, fame or power; the Marty who believes in justice and doing the right thing. Whatever happens tonight, Becks, please remember me that way.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Please look after my mum; she’ll be lonely. I want her to remember the real me, not the bullshit they created.’
‘Marty, you’re scaring me.’
‘I gotta go, babe…’ He said it without thinking; it was the name he had always called her when they were together. ‘I love you, Becks,’ he added.
‘I know you do,’ Rebecca said softly as Marty moved to end the call. Inadvertently, he turned it into a FaceTime connection, revealing the sad but beautiful face of his ex-wife on the screen in front of him.
‘I never was very good with technology,’ he said, smiling, and gave her a wink before ending the call.
A moment later, Marty returned to the car and handed Phillips’s phone back to her.
‘Better now?’ she said sarcastically.
‘All good.’ Marty nodded, his nerves starting to jangle.
61
Marty pulled the car up to the big wooden gates and, flicking his headlights to full beam, looked around, trying to spot Phillips. But he couldn’t see her. He took a deep breath and watched the iPhone’s screen for a moment as it slowly processed the sequence of numbers and eventually connected. Marty lifted the handset to his ear and waited as four rings went by before it was answered.
The male voice on the end, heavily accented in a mixture of Middle Eastern and French, said, ‘Hello?’
Marty hesitated.
‘Hel
lo?’ the man said again.
Marty managed to control his nerves and finally spoke, just as the man was about to hang up. ‘Hello, I’d like to speak to Frank Fairchild,’ he managed to say.
‘Mr Fairchild is not available. Goodnight,’ the man said.
Marty spoke louder now as the man attempted to end the call. ‘Tell him it’s Marty Michaels, and that if he still wants to buy COMCO, he needs to hear what I have to say. I’m outside the gate and ready to talk.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘Wait,’ the man said, and pressed the mute button. Thirty seconds passed before the man returned. ‘Follow the drive and park outside the front door,’ he said gruffly, and a moment later, the gates began to part in front of Marty.
He moved the car forward, continuing to glance in his rear-view mirror for signs of Phillips as the long, curved drive opened up onto Fairchild’s palatial home, which looked more New York Hamptons than Alderly Edge. He prayed she had made it through, otherwise this was all for nothing.
As he brought the car to a stop, the double-height front door opened and Buzzard – the man Marty had seen with Rob in Manchester and in the background of the sex tape – moved out onto the illuminated stone steps. He was wearing a dark suit and white shirt open at the collar, and his jet-black hair was gelled back against his head. Marty opened the car door and the man signalled for him to follow as he stepped back inside the house, where he waited with both hands in his pockets.
Marty tentatively, and somewhat painfully, moved through the front door. The first thing that struck him was the opulence and scale of the building: it was enormous. The reception hall felt cavernous with sweeping staircases on either side of the opposite wall leading to a mezzanine balcony.
Buzzard kept his eyes fixed on Marty. Up close, he was surprisingly tall, probably six-five, and clearly still very athletic. His face was fearsome, the right side heavily scarred and most of his right ear missing. Thick wrinkles forged in the heat of desert warfare surrounded his black, soulless eyes. He wore a well-maintained beard, and a single diamond stud earring decorated his remaining left lobe.
‘Put your arms up and spread your legs,’ he said, his accent more French than Middle Eastern up close. ‘I need to check you for weapons.’
Adrenaline rushed through Marty’s body as he imagined what Buzzard would do if he found the tiny microphone fixed to his chest and the transmitter positioned carefully in the crack of his backside. Slowly, he followed the order. Buzzard stepped forward and proceeded to expertly, and surprisingly gently, frisk him, starting with his arms, then his shoulders, his broken ribs – causing him to grimace – before running his hands down his legs. Marty waited as Buzzard stood up and slowly patted his chest from behind. He held his breath and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Nothing happened. Buzzard stood behind him for at least ten seconds without saying a word. Finally the big man spoke. ‘OK, you’re clean.’
Marty exhaled just a bit too loudly as Buzzard stepped to his front and turned to face him. The movement caused his suit jacket to billow, revealing a gun big enough to take out an elephant. Marty wondered if it had been a deliberate move to remind him what was at stake; funnily enough, nothing had ever been clearer.
Evidently satisfied, Buzzard ushered Marty into an enormous lounge room. With a retracted glass wall and polished oak floorboards, the lounge appeared to morph into the outdoor decking that covered the patio, and a cool evening breeze flowed easily through the house. Beyond the decking was the rear garden and an outdoor pool, the lights of which gave off a soft blue hue. Out on the decking, a man, who Marty recognised from Laura’s files as being Fairchild, sat on a plush outdoor sofa, looking relaxed as he read a book and sipped what appeared to be Scotch. Finally – Frank Fairchild.
As Buzzard and Marty approached, the man looked up. ‘Mr Michaels, good evening,’ he said with a broad smile, and stood to greet his guest. ‘Will you join me in a Bourbon?’ he asked, his American accent rich and melodic. Texas, thought Marty.
He knew from Laura’s research that Frank Fairchild was forty-eight years old, around six foot two, and built for action as contradicted the corporate life he now lived. He had movie-star looks, his clean-shaven face chiselled and lightly tanned, accentuated by his salt-and-pepper hair, which was cut short and deliberately messy. He wore a cream linen shirt opened loosely at the neck over crisp navy blue cotton shorts, and his long muscular legs ran into a pair of tan-coloured espadrilles. His heavy metal watch glistened in the light from the pool.
‘No, I’m good, thank you,’ Marty said flatly.
‘Quite right too,’ Fairchild said with a wink as he held up his own glass. ‘This stuff’ll kill you!’ he added before draining the remaining whisky.
Marty said nothing, fearing his voice would betray his raw nerves.
‘Another one please, Buzz, and then you can finish up for the day,’ Fairchild said as he handed Buzzard the empty glass before ushering Marty to join him on the sofas. Marty attempted to sit without exacerbating his injuries; easier said than done, and not unnoticed by Fairchild.
‘Your injuries look pretty painful, I must say. Mind you, that was a nasty accident you had, wasn’t it?’ he said. Marty, who had finally found a comfortable position, chose not to respond. Fairchild continued. ‘God, I love this time of night in the summer. Britain is like nowhere else on the planet on nights like this,’ he said passionately as Buzzard returned with his drink before disappearing into the house without a word.
Fairchild took a swig of the whisky and savoured it awhile, eyes closed, before opening them and locking his gaze on Marty. Finally, he spoke. ‘So, Mr Michaels. Is there a reason I’m now harbouring the UK’s most wanted man?’
Marty nodded. ‘Mr Fairchild, I have something you want, and you have something I need.’
Fairchild flashed a smile. ‘Frank, please. And what might those two things be, Marty? Can I call you Marty?’ he asked, but it was clear he wasn’t asking permission.
Marty sat back in the chair in an attempt to appear at ease, but the exact opposite was in fact the case. In all his years, he had never felt so nervous, and he was struggling to calm his racing pulse. Still, he knew that, to have any chance of opening him up, he had to get Fairchild talking. ‘I have evidence of widespread corruption that implicates Delta Holdings and key members of the British government, the Greater Manchester Police, members of the board of COMCO and even the prime minister. If I go public, you can forget your purchase of COMCO, which, considering the lengths you’ve gone to to keep me out of your way, is not something I think you want to have happen.’
Fairchild smiled, but his eyes remained cold. ‘And why do you think anyone will believe you, Marty, considering your recent activity?’
‘Maybe they will, maybe they won’t; but even if none of it sticks, it’ll shine a light on what is a very dodgy deal. Your close ally, the prime minister, will have to go, meaning you lose your cosy trading deals, and the stink around it will mean the deal between Delta and COMCO could never go ahead. Why would a man like you take the risk?’
Fairchild nodded, and took another swig of the whisky. ‘So, what do you want, Marty?’
Marty took a long breath before replying. When he did, his words almost stuck in his throat. ‘Cash, plain and simple.’
Fairchild smiled broadly now. ‘Cash? I have to say, that’s a surprise coming from an upstanding man like yourself, but hey, cash is king after all.’ He took another drink. ‘How much does it cost these days to buy the formerly incorruptible Marty Michaels?’
‘Two million sterling, transferred to an offshore bank of my choosing,’ Marty said without hesitation. ‘Two million and I disappear forever. I hand over all the evidence I’ve gathered, and you get COMCO without any interference.’
Fairchild cocked his head at a slight angle and stared at Marty before reaching into the pocket of his shorts and pulling out a USB drive Marty instantly recognised. ‘And what if I already have this evidence you�
��re talking about in my possession? What if, after your very unfortunate car accident, my associate Buzzard was on hand at the hospital to retrieve the USB he so carelessly missed at the airport hotel?’ He laid the memory stick on the table between them, a broad smile appearing on his face.
Marty’s eyes darted to the drive and back to Fairchild. ‘What makes you think I didn’t make a copy?’ he said, trying to appear unfazed.
Fairchild sat back and cradled the thick tumbler in both hands now, his eyes still locked on Marty’s. ‘Oh, I have no doubt you made a copy, and I have no doubt that Detective Chief Inspector Phillips fully intended to use it. But, you see, that’s the thing with evidence. It’s only any good if someone actually sees it, and I’m not sure she’ll be showing it to many people when she’s dead.’
Marty flinched despite his best efforts to appear calm and together.
‘You don’t really think I’m stupid enough to let DCI Phillips roam around the grounds of my house whilst you do your best to distract me, do you?’ he said, swigging from the tumbler and pointing with his index finger for Marty to look behind him.
Attempting to appear in control, Marty swivelled his body. The sight of Buzzard holding a gun to Phillips’s head greeted him. Her eyes were wide, her mouth was gagged with tape, and her wrists were bound in front of her with cable ties.
‘It looks like you’re running out of options, Marty Michaels,’ Fairchild said smugly, toasting him with his glass. ‘And I’m pretty sure I just saved myself two million pounds!’
62
Not for the first time in the last three weeks, Marty felt like he was living his life inside a movie script as he sat on a chair in Fairchild’s enormous lounge room facing DCI Phillips, who was on a matching chair. Her hands were still tied in front of her and the tape remained in place over her mouth. A large smoked-glass coffee table separated them, and Phillips’s iPhone lay on the table in front of Marty. To his left stood Buzzard, motionless, his oversized gun trained on Marty’s head. Directly behind Phillips, Fairchild stood with his back to the room, staring out onto the pool and the garden beyond. His right hand was in his pocket while the left cradled the small listening device Buzzard had just removed from Marty’s underpants and chest. Ironically, the room was silent apart from the soundtrack of the summer’s evening floating in from outside.