by O M J Ryan
Fairchild turned to face Marty but remained silent, repeatedly tossing the small transmitter in his left hand as if working something through in his mind. He walked towards Phillips. He pulled his right hand from his pocket and placing it on the detective’s left shoulder, causing her to flinch.
‘It’s amazing how small technology is these days, don’t you think?’ Fairchild said, looking directly at Marty, his southern drawl more prominent now.
Marty said nothing.
Fairchild turned his attention to Buzzard. ‘Imagine if we’d had shit like this when we were in the field, Buzz – we’d have been unstoppable!’ he said enthusiastically, his right hand still gripping Phillips’s shoulder.
Buzzard nodded in silence, his eyes and gun still fixed on Marty.
Fairchild’s tone was playful now. ‘What was the plan, Marty? Were you hoping to record a confession?’
Marty nodded. ‘Something like that,’ he said flatly, already tiring of the big Texan.
Fairchild moved away from Phillips and walked casually across the room towards Marty.
‘And what were you expecting I’d confess to? White’s murder? The lady-boy’s? Rob’s? Impossible. You see, I didn’t kill them.’ He smiled and pointed his finger at Buzzard. ‘No…it wasn’t me…it was Buzz here! This crazy French-Algerian motherfucker, he killed them all.’
Marty flinched at hearing the truth about Rob’s death.
Fairchild wandered over to a cabinet that stood behind Buzzard and opened a large drawer, his back to Marty. ‘You must be wondering why your closest friend and agent of nearly twenty years would betray you?’ He turned to face his captive audience and noisily, and purposely, Marty suspected, cracked a latex glove onto each hand.
Marty felt the hate building inside him like a small fire spreading through his insides. It took every ounce of control he could muster to stop himself leaping from the chair and taking his chances with Fairchild. But the man was an expert in unarmed combat, not to mention Buzzard’s unflinching aim. Coupled with his own injuries, Marty wouldn’t stand a chance.
‘I’m sure you’re about to tell me,’ he said sardonically.
Fairchild finished putting on the right-hand glove and reached into the drawer again, this time fishing out a small black handgun before walking back across the room and taking a seat on the large couch adjacent to Marty and Phillips. ‘He was gay, Marty,’ he said with a broad smile.
Marty’s mind flashed to the video he and Simon had uncovered, but did everything he could to keep his face deadpan.
‘But then, if you saw the videos, you already knew that,’ Fairchild added. ‘You see, Marty, he was a closet fag with a wife and kids. He would have done anything to stop them seeing that video of him getting hammered like a randy dog, not to mention his macho footballer clients. They don’t take kindly to homos in that world. I mean, when was the last time anyone came out in soccer? Literally decades ago, Marty. Decades! If that video went viral – well, his life was pretty much over. No more wife and kids, no more high-paying clients. The choice was very simple; we destroy his life, or he helps us destroy yours!’
‘You bastard!’ snorted Marty, losing his cool.
‘Me? I’m not the one you should be shouting at, Marty! How do you think you ended up in a hotel room with no clue how you got there? He invited you to the Sky Lounge so White could seduce you and spike your drinks. He was the one that cloned your credit card and booked the room in your name. Of course, the beauty of using ’ludes is, they can wipe out any memories from the previous eighteen to twenty-four hours, which is why I’m guessing the whole thing was a mystery to you,’ Fairchild said effusively, waving the gun as he spoke.
‘Rob would never do that to me; not knowingly,’ Marty said.
‘Oh, he would and he did, Marty. Rob gave the police and the press the heads-up the morning of your arrest. It was thanks to him you were slashed in segregation; he told us when your lawyer would be visiting. And when you arranged to meet White’s lover at the airport hotel, Rob again provided the information, gleaned from your lawyer. You see Marty, Rob’s been pulling your strings all along.’
Though Marty did not want to believe that his closest friend had betrayed him, in his heart he knew it was the truth.
‘The fact is, Rob Woodcock destroyed your life, everything you held dear, everything you ever cared about, rather than let it happen to him!’
Marty was trying to process what Fairchild was saying, but had so many questions. ‘But the money? The Swiss bank payments? Why pay someone you were blackmailing?’
Fairchild stood up now and leaned towards Marty, the gun just in front of him. ‘Oh, I wasn’t always blackmailing him. No, when I first met Rob, it was all very civilised, actually. You see, I’ve been hatching this plan for revenge ever since you got in my way with the Fontaine takeover. Your fucking preaching and posturing all but killed the deal and cost my associates a lot of money. You made me look powerless and I can’t have that, Marty – not in my world. I have a well-earned reputation as someone who can fix any situation, problem or person; but not you, it seemed. If I was going to remain the top man in my business, I needed to find a way to get to you – and on a grand scale – to really make my point.’
‘You’re crazy!’ Marty said.
‘Maybe,’ Fairchild said, smiling. ‘So I pulled in a few favours from some old friends at the agency, who hacked into your phone and those of your closest associates. Various bosses, that lawyer of yours, your agent. It really is amazing what people talk about when they think no one is listening. It became evident Rob was having a little trouble with his finances, not to mention his big secret. Turns out he was being blackmailed by a young man he’d had a relationship with. The boy had lied about his age, saying he was twenty-one when actually he was just sixteen. When Rob found out the truth, he ended it. But the kid would not leave quietly and threatened to go to his wife – unless, of course, Rob paid him for his silence. Seeing the opportunity, I used my influence to make that issue go away. He was naturally very relieved. So relieved, in fact, that he never bothered to ask how I knew about his problem in the first place! He believed all I wanted in return was to get close to you to help me get the inside track on buying COMCO – which, in a way, was true. He was happy to let me do that, so I put him on the payroll with a monthly retainer and I became his client. However, the real reason for getting close was to work out the best way to destroy you,’ Fairchild said, staring deep into Marty’s eyes.
Marty held his gaze.
Fairchild straightened and moved next to Buzzard. ‘Anyway, when your father and producer died driving your car, I couldn’t hide my disappointment it wasn’t you. He didn’t react too well to that. Told me he wanted out and dropped me as a client. Stopped taking calls, blanked emails, etc. I needed more leverage; and all it took was a hot boy and a video camera—’
‘Did you tamper with my car that night?’ Marty cut across the big Texan.
Fairchild smiled and glanced at Buzzard, ‘Now why would you think that?’
‘Because David was seven years sober. There’s no way he would have driven my dad home drunk.’
‘You read the coroner’s verdict, Marty. It was death by drink-driving,’ Fairchild said nonchalantly.
‘The blood results were faked!’
‘And who would do a thing like that?’
It was clear Fairchild was enjoying the exchange.
Marty could feel the hate growing inside him. ‘George McAndrew, that’s who – his wife was on your fucking payroll!’
Fairchild was clearly impressed. ‘My, you have been busy, haven’t you?’ he said, glancing at Marty and Phillips in turn. ‘Did you come up with that theory all on your own, or did the good detective here help you?’ He pulled the tape noisily from her mouth.
‘We know it was down to you. You killed them both and we’ll prove it!’ Phillips said breathlessly.
Shaking his head, Fairchild laughed dramatically, then walked across
the room and leaned in close to Phillips’s face. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. ‘You’ll prove nothing when you’re dead, sweetheart,’ he said, and held his face next to her left ear as he sniffed her hair deeply. ‘Women always smell so wonderful, wonderful!’ he said loudly.
Marty’s eyes followed Fairchild as he straightened and walked towards the deck to stare out over the pool, glowing in the garden. Buzzard had not moved an inch.
‘So, because I stopped you from buying Fontaine, you wanted to kill me?’
‘Pretty much,’ Fairchild said without turning around.
‘But you killed David and Dad by mistake?’
‘Unfortunate, that one.’
‘So why not just kill me back then? You clearly had the muscle to make me disappear.’
Fairchild turned to face Marty. ‘You took their deaths badly. The word was you were drinking so much in the aftermath that your pretty little wife was on the verge of leaving you. You being a highly-strung ‘performer’, I thought you might save me the trouble and kill yourself. Sadly, as evidenced by your presence here today, that wasn’t the case.’
‘You’re a piece of work,’ Phillips said, turning her head towards Fairchild.
‘Thank you,’ he said enthusiastically.
‘So where does COMCO fit into all of this?’ Marty asked.
‘Drugs,’ Fairchild shot back. ‘Or more accurately, lots of drug money. You see, I’m very well connected in South East Asia, have been ever since my days in the agency. In fact, it turns out I’m one of the world’s biggest distributors of heroin and I need lots of different accounts and transactions to clean the money that kind of trading generates. The only reason I got into Delta in the first place was the need to look legit. Buying COMCO fills a hole in my distribution and banking network, and as an added bonus, the British government fully supports non-doms paying as little tax as possible. I like that.’
‘Jesus, Simon was right,’ Marty said, barely audible.
Phillips cut in. ‘So why set Marty up for the murder of White and Rochelle? Why go to all that trouble?’
‘A couple of reasons, really. Marty was the prize asset of COMCO. With him as the poster boy, the share price was ridiculously high. Killing him would’ve made him a martyr with little impact on the stock. Ruining him destroyed the share price in a matter of days, meaning the terrified shareholders are now ready to accept a much lower price than the business is actually worth.’
‘Which you are more than willing to offer…’ Marty added.
Fairchild smiled and flashed his perfect white teeth. ‘Naturally,’ he replied, chuckling to himself. ‘And, if you want the whole truth, framing you was actually a lot of fun, Marty; all part of the game,’ he said as he reached down to pick up Phillips’s phone. ‘I love winning; love it!’
Marty was lost for words. A game?
‘What’s the access code on this thing, sweetheart?’ Fairchild said without looking at Phillips.
‘Go to hell,’ she replied defiantly.
Fairchild glanced at Buzzard, who remained vigilant and completely focused, his gun trained on Marty’s head, before turning slowly to face Phillips. ‘Now, now, Jane. Considering your position, you should be doing everything you can to get on the right side of me,’ he said casually as he moved next to Marty, staring straight at her. ‘Tell me the four-digit access code,’ he demanded more forcefully as he placed his gun against Marty’s kneecap, ‘or I’ll put a bullet through his knee right now.’
Marty tried to look unfazed, but failed as his eyes widened and his leg instinctively flinched.
‘I’ll count to three, Jane,’ Fairchild continued. ‘One…two…’
‘OK! OK! Jesus! OK! It’s just a phone, what do I care? Zero, one, one, seven,’ Phillips said quickly.
Fairchild tapped in the code and flashed a smile. ‘Thank you. Now, where is Twitter on here?’ he asked himself as he wandered back over to Phillips and pressed the gun heavily into her kneecap. ‘Got it! OK. Marty, username and password please?’
‘For what?’
‘Your Twitter account, Marty, Twitter!’
‘Why do you want to access my Twitter account?’
Fairchild let out an exasperated breath. His right hand still pressing the gun into Phillips’s knee, in one lightning quick movement he lifted his left elbow and smashed it down onto the bridge of Phillips’s nose, causing her to scream out in pain as blood quickly poured down her face. ‘Just give it to me. Or your pretty little friend here won’t stay pretty for long.’ He coldly yanked Phillips’s head back with his left hand so Marty could see the damage inflicted as she coughed up blood.
Marty gave him what he wanted. ‘At Marty Michaels five,’ he said quickly before adding the password, ‘Becks eighty-one, capital B.’
Fairchild smiled. ‘Can’t let go of that ex of yours can you, Marty?’ he said as he accessed the account and began typing, narrating aloud. ‘“It’s time for my final performance. Tonight I finish this and my legacy will be complete.” That should do it,’ he said, laughing, and placed the phone back on the table in front of Phillips. He then pulled a flick knife from his back pocket and, in a flurry of movements, sliced through the detective’s restraints. ‘See, Jane? It pays to be nice to me,’ he said returning the knife to his back pocket.
Phillips rubbed her wrists and flexed her fingers as the blood returned.
Fairchild strolled casually across the room and stopped behind Marty. He pressed the gun painfully against the back of Marty’s head. ‘Do you know what the world will think when they read that tweet, Marty?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘They’ll wonder what you mean by “legacy”.’ He cocked the gun, then pressed it harder into the back of Marty’s head. ‘Then they’ll see what you did here – in my house – and everything will become crystal clear.’
Marty tried to appear calm, unsuccessfully, as the heavy gun dug painfully into the base of his skull. ‘What are you talking about?’
Fairchild continued. ‘The world will finally see you for what you are: a deranged man caught up in a seedy world of revenge and betrayal. You will reach new levels of fame! Marty Michaels – the man who strangled his lover during sex and killed her partner in a jealous rage. Sadly, his agent discovered what he had done, so Marty killed him too, murdering him with the same gun I have in my hand right now—’ He pushed the cold metal farther into the base of Marty’s skull to make his point. ‘—before coming after me, Frank Fairchild, the businessman trying to buy his beloved COMCO, breaking into my home and shooting my head of security as he tried to protect me…’
‘What?’ Marty managed to say before Fairchild pulled the gun away in one rapid movement. A deafening explosion erupted next to his left ear.
The smell of gunpowder filled the air. Marty watched in horror as Buzzard slumped to the floor, dark red blood oozing from his stomach across his white shirt.
Phillips screamed and Marty’s eardrum felt like it would burst with the ringing white noise that consumed it.
Fairchild continued without missing a beat. ‘…after which he tried to kill me.’ He crouched down directly behind Marty, speaking into his right ear. ‘Luckily, though, DCI Phillips, despite her suspension – good cops never give up, blah blah blah – had followed him. And thank God she had, because she saved my life. But – in doing so, our heroine tragically lost hers…’
A split second later, Fairchild stood and fired another shot, this time at Phillips. A look of shock crossed her face, then she fell backwards onto the floor, her body suddenly deflated and shapeless like a ragdoll’s.
Fairchild’s tone was playful now, almost childlike, as he walked over to the prostrate figure of Phillips on the floor. ‘Oh dear. It looks like you’ve killed a police officer,’ he said, turning to face Marty. ‘All that’s left for me to do is to wrestle the gun from your hand – and kill you in self-defence.’
Buzzard groaned from his position as a dark red pool of blood began to creep across the
floor.
Marty was in shock. The piercing pitch rang through his left ear as his gaze fell on the dying man. ‘You shot your own man! You killed an innocent woman in cold blood! A fucking police officer!’ he shouted, leaping from the chair. He rushed to Phillips’s prostrate body. Dark red blood oozed from under her chest.
‘Casualties are a necessary consequence of warfare,’ Fairchild replied, his voice void of any emotion.
Marty turned his gaze back to Fairchild now. ‘You’re an animal, pure evil!’ he spat.
Still holding the gun in his gloved hand, Fairchild strolled casually across the room to a large desk before sitting down on the big leather office chair and opening a laptop. He laid the gun down next to him as he began typing.
‘I’m neither of those things, Marty; I am, in fact, a certified sociopath,’ he said calmly. ‘The CIA’s full of them.’
Marty looked on helplessly as dark red blood pooled around the left side of Phillips’s body.
Behind him, Fairchild continued his monologue. ‘You see, an animal acts on instinct. An act of evil requires emotion, a calculated and complicit decision to go against any empathy you may feel for another living thing. Whereas, for me, every move is calculated to deliver me the optimum outcome. I have no empathy and feel nothing when I take a life; it is a mere necessity to keep me in front of the next man. I am not evil, Marty; I am a highly-trained assassin who realised that killing someone in the boardroom is just as primal as killing someone in the jungle.’
