by O M J Ryan
A moment later, the nurse moved towards the door and, as she opened it, Marty heard the distinctive tones of Nic Johnson. Opening his eyes, he saw his lawyer standing at the end of the bed, her tan briefcase resting in front of her on the mattress by Marty’s feet.
‘Jesus, Marty, you look terrible. Are you in much pain?’
After Rob’s betrayal, he no longer trusted Nic. ‘What do you want?’ he said curtly.
Johnson stepped around the bed and sat down in the armchair to Marty’s right. ‘I’m detecting a certain amount of hostility from you. Is everything OK?’
Marty rattled his left wrist against the metal frame. ‘I’m cuffed to a hospital bed with second-degree burns and broken ribs after some lunatic tried to kill me by ramming me and Simon off the road. So no, everything is not OK!’
‘Yes, an unfortunate incident,’ Johnson said.
‘Unfortunate? It was attempted murder!’
Johnson nodded sagely. ‘I’ve spoken to the doctors and they say your friend is stable.’
‘Do they think he’ll make it?’
‘At this stage, they really don’t know, but thanks to you he’s got a fighting chance. Another minute in the car and he’d have gone up with it. As it is, he suffered severe internal injuries as well as multiple fractures, so the next forty-eight hours are critical.’
Marty closed his eyes again. He had warned Simon to step away from all this before he got hurt, but now it was too late. God, he had made a mess of things.
‘Marty,’ Johnson said her tone softer now. ‘I need to talk to you about Rob.’
‘I know all about that bastard!’
‘You do? How? Who told you?’
‘Nobody. I saw it with my own eyes, Nic.’
Johnson looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. You’ve been unconscious for two days. How could you have seen anything?’
Marty looked at Johnson, his own expression now one of confusion. ‘I found out a couple of days before the crash. Caught him lying to me and working with the guy who was more than likely driving the car that rammed us.’
Johnson looked at the floor for a long moment before speaking. ‘So you don’t know.’
‘You’re not making any sense, Nic. What are you talking about? What don’t I know?’ Marty protested.
Johnson lifted her head and stared straight at him. ‘I’m sorry, Marty. Rob’s dead.’
Marty let out an involuntary laugh, catching himself as he did. ‘Is this a joke?’
Johnson’s body visibly softened. ‘I wish it was, Marty; I really do. They found his body in his car in Hulme a couple of days ago. The police said he’d been shot at close range in the chest with a small-calibre firearm – essentially a handgun.’
Marty blinked furiously, trying to process what he was hearing. ‘There must be some mistake, I only saw him the other night.’
‘No mistake, Marty. The police released his identity yesterday.’
Marty closed his eyes for a moment as a single tear ran down his cheek. ‘When did it happen?’
‘They found his body the morning after your accident, so I’m guessing the night before.’
A world of emotions flooded Marty – fear, anger, guilt. Rob’s betrayal had hurt him deeply, but to think his closest friend for so many years was now dead, that his kids had lost their dad, broke his heart. He was also very frightened; the people he was up against were steadily removing all loose ends.
‘I want to speak to Phillips,’ he said suddenly.
‘That’s not possible, Marty.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s been suspended,’ Johnson said flatly.
‘She’s what?’
Johnson exhaled loudly. ‘Footage of you entering and leaving her house has been all over social media for the last two days. She’s been suspended pending an investigation. The reality is, she could be looking at serious prison time for harbouring a fugitive,’ Johnson said.
‘She didn’t harbour anybody – I was with her for an hour at the most.’
‘Well, that’s not how Chief Constable Blake saw it, and he’s gone on record saying that, if found guilty, she’ll get no special treatment; that corruption has no place in the Greater Manchester Police.’
‘That snake! He’s the one who should be arrested! He’s as bent as they come!’ Marty raged.
‘I’m sorry, Marty, but people are now suggesting it was Phillips who helped you remain at large for so long.’
Marty let out an ironic chuckle. ‘What a load of shit – I stayed off the radar because I have half a brain and managed to stay one step ahead of them.’
Johnson nodded. ‘Look, I know it doesn’t look good for you right now, but I promise, you can trust me.’
‘Really? Because about four hours after I told you I was going to meet Rochelle, she ended up dead and I was running for my life!’ Marty snorted.
Johnson raised her hands. ‘I swear to you, Marty, the only person I told was Rob – and that was against my better judgement. He was worried about you and insisted I tell him. I really didn’t think it could hurt. Why would it? He was your closest friend?’
Marty shook his head in disbelief. ‘So Rob set me up.’
‘I’m afraid it certainly appears that way. Look, I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out of this, I promise,’ Johnson said.
Marty lay back into the pillow, suddenly aware of his injuries and the sheer weight of his own body. ‘It’s pointless, Nic. Whoever’s behind this wants me in prison or dead, and now there’s no one to stop them. DCI Phillips was my last hope, and knowing how deep this corruption goes, she’s as screwed as I am – well and truly.’
54
It took Marty fifteen minutes flat to bring Johnson up to speed on everything he and Simon had been up to in the last few days, and by the time he had finished he was exhausted. Johnson sat quietly taking notes on a yellow legal pad nestled in an expensive-looking leather case, nodding as she did so. When he was finished, Johnson assured him she would investigate everything he had shared, and would be in touch soon. She would also be in constant contact with the hospital in case they tried to move him back to prison without telling anyone. Marty required protective custody, and only her expensive legal team could ensure that, apparently.
After Johnson had left the room to head back to her offices in the uber-trendy Spinningfields district, Marty closed his eyes and allowed himself to listen to the sounds of the room around him: the rhythmic beats and tones of the machines monitoring his vital signs. Eventually he drifted into a dreamless sleep.
It was some time later that he woke with a start, convinced he was falling. His heart jumped so powerfully in his chest it caused him to cough. He must have been asleep for some time; the room was now cloaked in darkness. A feverish sweat covered his body, and his blue gown was saturated at the neck. Rubbing his right hand along the back of his head, he felt a thick wetness on his palm, a stark contrast to the dryness of his throat.
‘She’s awake!’ a spiteful voice said from behind his head in a South London accent. Marty recognised it immediately, and instinctively tried to pull himself up off the mattress to face Detective Sergeant Jones. But his cuffed hand ensured he was unable to see him. Frightened, he waited for whatever was coming next.
‘I knew Phillips was wrong to trust your bullshit story,’ Jones hissed from the darkness, the soundtrack of the machines adding an eerie edge to his words. ‘Always been a soft touch, that one. But not me. I had you pegged right from the start. From the moment I collared you at the Metropolitan, I knew you were a predator that needed to be caged.’
Marty breathed deeply as he attempted to steady his racing pulse. When he spoke, he sounded calm, but the reality inside was very different. ‘Don’t you think a man deserves to see his killer?’
Jones laughed. ‘Kill you? Me? I’m not here to kill you, Marty. I’m a copper, I don’t kill people; I protect people,’ he said as he moved to Marty’s right and into his line of sight for the fi
rst time. ‘But thanks to you, everybody thinks I’m corrupt,’ he added, unfolding a copy of the Manchester Evening News in front of Marty’s face. The front-page headline read: TOP COP HARBOURS DOUBLE MURDER SUSPECT above a picture of Marty and Simon talking to Phillips in her kitchen. The photo had clearly been taken from the rear of the house, probably with a telephoto lens, given the picture’s grainy quality.
Jones pulled the paper away, folded it into the shape of a baton, and continued talking as he moved around the room, smacking the paper into the palm of his hand rhythmically as he did so. ‘Thanks to you, another good copper’s life and career are in tatters, and me and Bov are guilty by association. Technically, both banned from this hospital – they think we might help you escape! I had to ask an old friend to look the other way just so I could get past your security detail outside the ward.’
Marty kept his eyes locked on Jones, expecting an attack at any moment. ‘So, if you’re not here to kill me, why are you here?’ he asked, afraid of what the answer might be.
‘I’m here to ensure that you know, without any room for doubt, that I’ll do whatever it takes to protect Phillips; she’s one of us. She tried to help you because she believed you. The fact they think she’s corrupt is laughable. When she told us about your story, we warned her to be careful. But she will insist on doing things by the book. Foolishly she took your concerns about Blake to another senior officer. Next thing we know, she’s the one being accused of corruption and harbouring a fugitive.’
‘But she said she wasn’t going to Blake!’
‘And she didn’t. Instead she tried Blake’s deputy, Collins, hoping he would want to use it against him. He didn’t. Instead, Phillips got hung out to dry.’
‘I really had no idea that would happen.’
‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’ Jones sneered. ‘That’s you all over. No idea how your actions can wreck the lives of others.’
Marty suddenly remembered Freddie Tate.
‘Now you listen to me, Marty-fucking-Michaels. If you do anything to prejudice her case, hurt her, or drop her further in it, there is nowhere they could put you or lock you up where you’d be safe from me and Bov. Do you understand?’
Marty nodded his agreement. ‘Look. I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t kill White or Rochelle. I was set up! There’s a video taken by White that I’m certain shows the real killer.’
Jones turned to face Marty now, his interest piqued. ‘You still have a copy of the videos you showed to Phillips?’ he asked, his voice quiet.
Marty nodded. ‘Yes. Well, at least, I did when I left her house that night. The memory stick should be in the small front pocket of my jeans.’
Jones flashed an awkward smile and shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t hold out too much hope of ever seeing that again, Marty. Everything you touched will be in the hands of the forensics team by now,’ he said as he headed towards the door.
Marty’s heart sank; his final thread of hope was gone.
Jones opened the door and waited a moment for the blinds on the inside to stop rattling before delivering his parting shot. ‘Do you know the irony of all this, Marty? You’ve spent your whole adult life chasing the news: hunting people, exposing secrets and ruining countless lives – and to what end? You now find yourself handcuffed to a hospital bed surrounded by coppers, with every detail of your sordid existence filling pretty much every column inch of the local rag. What a total waste of life,’ he said as he threw the folded-up paper at Marty’s chest. ‘I’d check out page seven if I was you. You may find it interesting,’ he added, and left the room.
Marty stared at the closed door for a long moment as the blinds once again rattled, before carefully picking up the paper with his bandaged right hand and clumsily thumbing through to page seven. What greeted him caused him to double-take. Underneath a headline reading, MICHAELS OUTSMARTED THE COPS TIME AND TIME AGAIN, was a small handcuff key Sellotaped to the page along with a yellow Post-it note that read: ‘When the alarm sounds, take the fire door to the left of your room, head for the basement and get in the laundry bin. Destroy this note.’
Marty laughed loudly and kicked the end of the bed in celebration. ‘You bloody beauty!’ he said as, right on cue, the fire alarm rang out.
He greedily grabbed the key to unlock his left hand and began pulling the IVs from his arm; he had no time to waste.
55
As the alarm wailed loudly, Marty, barefoot and wearing only his blue gown, peered cautiously out into the corridor, which appeared empty. His police guard had walked right towards the nurses’ station at the other end of the ward and was gesticulating wildly at the round-faced nurse who had been in Marty’s room earlier. Glancing quickly to his left, Marty spotted the emergency exit door a couple of metres away. Checking left and right one more time, he made a run for it as best he could and bundled through the door in one noisy movement, thankfully drowned out by the screech of the fire alarm. He waited for a moment, but aside from the ear-splitting noise, everything appeared quiet.
In front of him, a large sign informed him he was on the fourth floor. Without looking up, he moved as quickly as his broken body would allow down the concrete stairs. They felt cold underfoot. In less than a minute, he had reached the bottom of the stairwell and a sign marked ‘Basement’. He opened the door partially and peered through the small gap onto a large concrete slab elevated above the ground; a loading bay. Opening the door farther, the area appeared deserted aside from a collection of laundry bins that covered the ground from the edge of the loading bay back to where Marty was standing now. ‘Get in the laundry bin’, Jones’s note had said, but which one had he meant? Marty stepped out through the door and surveyed the area, trying to decide which. It was then that he noticed another copy of the same edition of the Manchester Evening News hanging over the top of one of the bins. Moving closer, he saw the now-familiar headline: MICHAELS OUTSMARTED THE COPS TIME AND TIME AGAIN. He smiled, confident this was no coincidence, and climbed painfully inside, pulled the used sheets over his head, and waited.
Finally, the ear-splitting tones of the fire alarm relented, and Marty was suddenly aware of his own breathing, heavy and laboured under the sheets. His poor heart couldn’t take any more of this fugitive lifestyle; he was too old for this shit.
The noise of heavy metal shutters opening startled him, and he took a deep breath, holding it whilst a truck backed into the bay, the reversing alarm echoing loudly around the big space. The engine died. A door slammed. A moment later, he heard the sound of the truck’s hydraulic gate dropping onto the concrete, followed by the rattle of laundry bins rolling across the concrete floor and into the back of the vehicle. The process repeated five or six times around Marty until finally he felt his bin wobble as someone grabbed either side firmly.
‘If you can hear me, tap the side of the bin,’ said a man’s voice in a whisper laced with a thick Liverpool accent.
Marty did as requested.
‘Do as you’re told and you’ll be OK. Stay quiet and keep your head down. If we’re caught, you’re on your own, lad. Tap again if you understand.’
Marty repeated the process, and the bin was suddenly on the move, Marty presumed being rolled inside the back of the truck. A second later, the hydraulic gate closed, and a moment after that, Marty heard the man climb into the cab and close the door up front. The engine roared into life and they were on the move.
The truck moved slowly for a few minutes before coming to a stop, the hiss of the brakes echoing through to Marty, who instinctively tightened his body, wondering what was happening outside. He held his breath and, not for the first time in the last week, prayed silently to a God long forgotten.
The Liverpudlian’s voice seeped through from the opening behind the driver. ‘You watching the Derby this weekend, Decka?’ he said cheerfully, no hint of nerves in his delivery.
Marty’s heart pounded and he closed his eyes as he tried to regulate his breathing
, quietly.
‘No. It’s our Candy’s wedding, so I’m on strict instructions – no football,’ a second man said, his voice a lazy Mancunian drawl, as if every word was a prisoner.
‘Sod that! You can’t miss the Derby. You need to get that app on your phone, you know the one Jimmy was talking about the other night – the dodgy streaming,’ the Liverpudlian replied. It was evident these two men knew each other well.
‘I need to get one of them smartphones first, though,’ the second man added, before his radio crackled into life, an inaudible burst of conversation Marty couldn’t hear.
‘Echo three to base – no sign here, all clear,’ said the second man.
‘What’s up, Decka?’ The driver’s voice seemed to crack slightly, sounding nervous now.
‘Apparently that pervert off the radio has got out of his room and they’re locking the building down, trying to find him,’ he said.
‘Bloody hell!’
‘I know. That’s all we need. The coppers’ll be all over this place in a few minutes, throwing their weight around, telling me security’s not good enough. The arrogant pricks!’ he added venomously.
‘The last thing I need is the filth searching my van. I’m out of here!’ said the Liverpudlian.
The second man sounded distracted and agitated now. ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ he said as he moved away.
A moment later, the truck roared into life and they were on the move again. Maybe God is listening after all, he thought.
56
Five minutes after leaving the hospital, the lorry came to a sudden stop. A moment later, the tailgate deployed once again. With no clue as to what was going on, Marty kept his head low and waited for whatever was coming next.
