‘I can’t breathe,’ he gasped, dropping the weapon onto the bed as he clutched at his throat. ‘Help me,’ he spluttered. ‘HELP ME.’
Kelly picked up both his and McGill’s guns and placed them out of harm’s way, whilst Monahan began to thrash violently around the bed.
‘What have you done?’ he said, yanking the intravenous drip lines out of his arm. ‘What’s happening to me?’ His gasps for air were becoming shorter and shorter.
‘It’s called opiate poisoning, dear,’ Kelly explained calmly in her best bedside manner. ‘You may experience symptoms including itching, flushing, constriction of pupils,’ – she prised open one of Monahan’s eyelids, to see his pupils were just pinpricks – ‘followed by a lowering of the heartbeat, reduced rate of respiration, failure to breathe, unconsciousness then death.’
‘But I saw… It was thirty milli…’ Monahan croaked, unable to find the breath to finish his sentence.
‘Yes, it was thirty milligrams – but over five minutes rather than twenty-four hours. You’ve just had a full day’s dose of morphine.’
Kelly could see panic in Monahan’s eyes. ‘You’ve killed me…’
She ignored his accusation. ‘Doctor Shabazi had already pre-signed your VOD. That’s your Verification of Death proforma,’ she said, producing a triplicate A4 sheet from her nursing bag. ‘He helpfully filled it in for me the first night he examined you. We always do that in advance for expected deaths with patients in the community. It is specifically for when the cause of death is known. In your case, cancer. I just have to verify it now. There will be no post-mortem. No enquiry. Nothing at all,’ she said, taking the pen from her top pocket, clicking it, and adding her signature to the forms. ‘Now, Malcolm, all that’s left is for you to rot in hell.’
Monahan looked at Kelly, knowing in his final moments that he had broken a cardinal rule for the first time in his long military career. He had underestimated his opponent. It proved to be fatal.
89: Censored
What appeared in the Daily Chronicle bore little resemblance to what had actually happened. Connor and April reported that the kidnapped nurse Kelly Carter had been found safe and well and reunited with her family. April’s ‘world exclusive’ interview with Kelly did include that fact that she ended up running for her life with her children from a shoot-out at a safe house near Stirling. But there were many gaps in the story, as a result of the Daily Chronicle’s lawyers going through the copy with a fine toothcomb. The final report left the readers with many more questions than answers.
There was only a passing reference to the deaths of Doctor Shabazi and Kelly’s mother from two car bombs. The same could be said for Connor’s contribution about an incident aboard a boat in the Corryvrechan – it was also scant on detail and concluded with the ambiguous statement that police were looking into things. Such fleeting mentions of these incidents just added to the disjointed feel of the entire article.
Of course, this was not how Connor and April had originally written it. They had told the whole story of Government secrets on a stolen hard drive, which had been leaked to catch a mole in the security services who had gone rogue since the cover-up of the Princess Diana tragedy. But the final article that made it into the newspaper didn’t contain the information about an establishment paedophile ring, with many of the protagonists still in positions of power and influence. It also failed to detail the activities of a man who had played the part of a double agent – someone who pretended to be terminally ill and used an innocent nurse, killing her colleague and mother. All just to snare a mole.
There was also no mention at all of the mole himself, Officer Charlie McGill, who had disappeared from their final copy just as he had in real life. April and Connor’s entire piece concluded with the death of an ex-serviceman, Malcolm Monahan, from ‘natural causes’.
Connor threw the paper in disgust across the table in the Peccadillo towards April. ‘And to think I honestly believed they would have the balls to print the lot. That the Chronicle would stand up and be counted as a source of truth and justice. Instead I can’t make head nor tail of that fucking report. If it doesn’t make sense to me, fuck knows what the readers will make of it.’
Connor’s swearing had caused two elderly diners at a neighbouring table to look in his direction.
‘Well, it’s done now,’ April said, trying to defuse his temper, but only managing to pour more fuel on the fire.
‘Yes, it is done and newspapers are done,’ he said, his voice growing louder. ‘We’re screwed. We’ve been screwed by the Internet and screwed by Leveson. Now we’ve been left neutered and toothless. Publish and be damned, my arse.’
April could feel other customers’ stares boring into them. She wondered what it would be like to be young and fiery again. She hadn’t got het up over anything in a long time.
But Connor looked like a broken man as he stared vacantly at his front page. ‘I used to love newspapers. Now I can’t fucking stand them.’
April finished her breakfast in silence, leaving Connor to his thoughts. She couldn’t help think that her colleague was right.
90: Nanny-cam
‘Got him,’ the auxiliary nurse Cathy said, barely able to contain her glee when she called April using the number on the business card the reporter had left her.
‘Who?’ April asked, flummoxed as usual after just arriving in the broom cupboard to start her day.
‘The fat bastard. Jim Drury. I’ve got him on camera.’
The penny finally dropped. ‘Cathy?’
‘Aye.’
April was pleased she had remembered her name. ‘What have you got exactly?’
‘Right, I don’t know anything about technology.’
‘That makes two of us,’ April replied.
‘But my son Colin does. He works in IT. Anyway, I’m telling him how one day I would love to catch that pervert abusing the patients when he says, “Get a nanny-cam, Mum.” Now I haven’t a clue what he’s on about. But sure enough he clicks on his Internet thingy, and up comes a bedside clock that is really a secret camera. He says it’s really popular in America for catching nannies smacking kids or old dears being abused in homes by their carers. Now, I thought, I can’t afford that – it’ll be a fortune. But guess what? It was only £20, including post and packaging. How can anyone make technology that cheaply?’
‘I have no idea,’ April said genuinely.
‘Anyway, Colin buys it for me and sticks a dee-lay in it. What’s that called again, Colin?’ Cathy asked, bringing Colin into the background of the conversation.
‘A memory card, Mum. I think your memory needs an upgrade.’
‘Did you hear that?’ Cathy said. ‘Cheeky swine.’
‘I have a cheeky swine in my office too,’ April said.
‘Anyway, I knew the fat bastard had taken a shine to a new patient. She was a petite wee thing, no match for that big lump of lard. I just knew he would try it on with her because I know what he gets up to. The patients tell me. They’ll say that he has been touching them up. I took it to my supervisor more than once. But he said that without proof, it’ll just be a mental patient’s testimony against a long-serving medical professional. “Professional”, my arse. The man’s a pervert. He’s disgusting. Can’t even wash himself. Wears the same uniform all week even though his own colleagues have complained about his personal hygiene. But he plays the weight card. Got his union to say he’s being picked on for his obesity. Everyone knows how to play the system these days, don’t they?’
‘Not everyone. I wouldn’t know where to start,’ April conceded.
‘Aye, true. Me neither. Anyway, I plug the wee clock in and put it on the cabinet by this wee lassie’s bed. Colin told me to point it in the direction where I think Fatty would be standing if he gets up to any funny business during the nightshift. The next day I start my shift at seven in the morn
ing and this wee lassie is all agitated after he’s been looking after her, so I know something’s happened. I unplug the clock and put it in my bag to take home for Colin here and… we got him.’
‘Recorded on camera?’ April asked.
‘Aye.’
‘That should be with her now, Mum,’ April could hear Colin saying. A new email appeared in April’s inbox, containing not only the ‘highlights’ of the secret camera footage, but also some helpful freeze-frames showing the abuse, clear as day. In one of them the nurse is gripping his patient’s breasts tightly.
‘Like to see how he wriggles his fat arse out of this one,’ Cathy said. ‘Maybe he’ll claim he was giving the patient CPR for a heart attack.’
‘I doubt that explains grabbing her breasts,’ April said in disgust, looking at the pictures.
‘Well, this time I want to make sure there are no excuses. I want that bastard in jail. He’s been doing this for years and getting away with it. I am giving these photos to you first, April. He is on day shift today and finishes at 7pm. He likes to leave bang on time, no matter what’s happening on the ward. I’ll even tell you what car he drives and where he parks. But tomorrow morning, I am taking these photos to the police. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ April said gratefully, as that meant she could front up Nurse Drury about the abuse pictures and get them in the paper before he was even arrested. The paper wouldn’t be able to publish the images after he was charged as they would be deemed sub judice, preventing him from getting a fair trial.
‘Just make sure everyone knows his face. I never want that beast to be left alone with vulnerable young girls again.’
‘I shall,’ April promised. ‘And thank you, Cathy.’
April thought about all those high-society abusers who had gone unpunished. But now April could do her little bit for the victims. She forwarded the email to her news editor, picked up her jacket and coat and walked over to his desk. She would explain Cathy’s story. Then she would meet a photographer to confront a sex offender.
91: Double-crossed
‘Fucking horse-wanking, sheep-shagging, twatting arseholes,’ was all Connor heard as he answered the call from DCI Crosbie.
‘Something up, Bing?’ Connor asked, as bewildered as ever by the cop’s profanities.
‘Not to mention that little cock-sucking, double-crossing toerag.’ This part of the detective’s foul-mouthed rant made Connor’s ears prick up.
‘By which you mean Amy Jones?’ the reporter tentatively asked.
‘Yes, Amy fucking cow-face cunting Jones.’
Connor couldn’t contain his glee. ‘So the honeymoon is well and truly over?’ he asked, with his fingers crossed.
‘Damn twatting right it’s over and so is my career. The little snitch bitch did me over.’
Connor’s face dropped. ‘I told you she was dangerous.’
‘Aye, but you said that while I had my cock in her mouth, Elvis. No man is going to listen to rational advice while he’s been sucked off.’
‘What did she do?’ Connor asked, trying to drive the conversation away from the detective’s cock.
‘She ratted on me. Started sleeping with my slippery, shit-arsed superior. His pillow talk extended to asking who her police sources were and, hey presto, up pops my name from the little fuck.’
‘Have you spoken to her? Asked her why.’
‘Sure did. As soon as I was frog-marched out of the call centre I called the little cunt. She said I was about to get sacked anyway so I would be of no use to her. Imagine that. She just told me straight. What a shit she turned out to be.’
‘How did she know you were about to be sacked?’ Connor was curious now.
‘My dickhead boss must’ve told her.’
‘So it wasn’t just leaking stories. You’d done something else?’ Connor asked.
‘Aye. Maybe,’ DCI Crosbie replied, a few octaves lower.
‘Which is it, Bing? Aye or maybe?’ Connor probed further.
‘Aye. I was up for gross misconduct for something else. But I couldn’t help myself,’ the detective replied defensively.
‘What couldn’t you help, Bing?’
‘Okay, despite what they’d all been hoping I’d do, I have never dropped one fucking swearword while speaking to a caller. Some minor muffing miracle, I know. Then there I am one day, being the professional call-handler that I am, when a call comes in from some old fucker saying he thinks someone is trying to break into his neighbour’s flat. He starts banging on about his eyesight being shite or some pish, but he’s pretty certain he saw someone force a window on the ground floor and disappear inside. I’m just about to get the bizzies round to bust some bollocks, when I ask for the old bastard’s full name.’ Crosbie had to stop talking as his voice began crackling with laughter.
‘What was his full name, Bing?’
‘A Mr Ian Martin Cumming.’
‘And what is wrong with that?’
‘Don’t you get it? Ian Martin Cumming? I.M. CUMMING. Fuck me, I couldn’t speak from laughter. I was pissing myself. What do actors call it again?’
‘Corpsing.’
‘That’s the bastard. Corpsing. So anyway I’m corpsing so bad that I failed to put the housebreaking call through, didn’t I? Meanwhile Mr Cumming is not fucking amused, I can tell you. Even when he starts asking for my shoulder number, to put a complaint in, I can’t talk because I have totally lost the fucking plot by this time. So someone takes over the call. But by the time we get a unit round to his neighbour’s flat, not only has the housebreaker fucked off, but he’s battered the old homeowner senseless too.’
‘Shit.’
‘Shit, indeed,’ DCI Crosbie agreed. ‘But at least I was worth another story for Arsehole Amy. She’s just phoned me for a comment on how I feel about laughing at an old-age pensioner reporting a crime while his elderly neighbour is being beaten to a pulp. I am well and truly fucked, Elvis.’
‘You are,’ Connor agreed. ‘I can’t even do your side of the story to counter hers, as your version is actually worse.’
‘I know. Anyway, I’m suspended on full pay for the moment while they investigate a wilfully-neglecting-police-duty charge. Although I wasn’t doing it wilfully, I was just literally pissing myself.’
‘Not much of a defence, is it, Bing?’
‘Not really. Anyway we should meet up for a beer sometime if you fancy it, while I still have some money or before they lock me up.’
‘Will do, Bing. Will do.’ Connor ended the call with a frown on his face. He feared his sweary detective had finally come a cropper.
92: Romeo
‘Where are you off to? Got a date?’ April asked as she packed her bag to head off and confront the pervert nurse.
‘Just off to see how wee Kat is getting on. Going to take her up a present,’ Connor said, brandishing a Hamleys bag.
April raised both eyebrows.
‘Don’t give me that look,’ Connor said.
‘I’ve said nothing,’ April protested.
‘You don’t have to. Your chubby wee face says it all.’
‘I just think you’ve been seeing quite a lot of them both. I don’t know if I’d be so keen to hang around a man who nearly drowned my first-born.’
‘I know. But Anya just dismisses it any time I try to bring it up. It’s as if seeing your daughter being thrown into a whirlpool by a secret agent is just one of those things. Maybe it is in Russia?’
‘How is Kat getting on?’
‘She’s got a chest infection. Something to do with the damage to the lungs from the seawater. They’ve got her on prophylactic antibiotics. But apart from that she’s fine. You’d never know anything had happened. They’re made of tough stuff these Russkies.’
‘Well, give my love to her. And I hope you’ve got something for the mum too in that bag, Ro
meo.’
‘No. I haven’t. Thought it might seem inappropriate.’
‘You nearly got her daughter killed, you skinflint. The least you can buy her is a bunch of flowers. Go into Markies on your way there.’
‘I will do,’ Connor said as he headed out. But he already had something else for Anya.
93: Plop
April found Nurse Jim Drury’s four-by-four Jeep in the hospital’s staff car park. It was just as Cathy had described: large, filthy and clapped-out. A bit like its owner, April thought to herself. The Jeep was technically on private grounds, meaning Jack Barr would need a long lens to snatch the nurse while standing on the pavement in a public area. The reporting team wanted to make sure they did everything by the book, lest they receive a complaint via IPSO – the Independent Press Standards Organisation, which was set up in the post-Leveson era – by either Nurse Drury or his NHS trust.
April hoped Cathy would be okay. She would hate for her to lose her job, but the auxiliary nurse was a determined little soul and nothing would stop her from trying to nail the sex offender on her ward.
April perched her backside on the bonnet of her purple Daewoo, with the suspension sagging in protest. She had reluctantly taken the car into a friendly mechanic who had got her doors opening and closing again so she didn’t have to use the hatchback in an ungainly fashion. Her mechanic had also urged her to buy a new car, which April thought was just a terrible waste of money as it didn’t take long before all her vehicles looked as banged up as the poor old Daewoo.
She sat eating another chocolate éclair from the hospital ‘restaurant’ and had a caramel latte listing at a crazy angle on the bonnet beside her. Generally, she hated doing stake-outs as many were utterly useless affairs because they were often from the most erroneous tip-offs.
Wicked Leaks Page 24
