Deadly secrets, p.9
Deadly Secrets, page 9
Johnson’s outstretched hand was waiting for Marty as they came together. ‘How are you, Marty? You look pretty bruised and battered’
Before he could respond, Clarke barked instructions. ‘You have thirty minutes, so make the most of your time,’ he said as he and Mayhew stepped away to observe from a distance.
Nic gestured for Marty to take the seat opposite her, and both sat down in unison.
‘You’ve got to get me out of here, Nic!’ Marty said desperately.
‘We will, Marty, in time we will.’
‘Time is the one thing I don’t have in here! Keats and McCloud are trying to kill me!’ he said in an agitated whisper.
‘I know. It’s easier said than done, but try not to worry. Because of the attack, you’ll remain in segregation until the trial. Two officers will be watching you at all times. Keats and McCloud cannot get to you in there.’
‘That’s bollocks, Nic, and you know it! I’m not safe as long as I’m in Hawk Green. You have to get me out!’
‘Ruben is working on it, but the precedents for bailing murder suspects are rare and generally only happen in the most extreme circumstances.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as a vulnerable child being charged with killing an abusive parent. There’s nothing on wealthy celebrities on remand for killing a prostitute.’
Marty was shocked by Johnson’s blunt response.
‘I’m sorry, Marty, I don’t mean to be cruel, but you’re charged with a very serious crime. And even though we’re looking at every possible angle to get you bailed, you would be well-advised to focus on coming to terms with being in here until your trial.’
‘But how long will that be?’
Johnson paused for a moment before answering. ‘There’s no way to sugar-coat this, Marty. Ruben estimates we are looking at six months, depending on the prosecution’s case.’
Marty stared back wide-eyed, his mouth open but unable to form any words.
Johnson continued. ‘I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I can only present the facts as I find them,’ she said flatly.
Marty finally found his voice. ‘Six months in this shit-hole? Are you fucking kidding me? If Keats and McCloud don’t get me, then insanity will. I won’t survive six months in here, Nic!’
Johnson’s voice softened. ‘Look, as I said, Ruben is looking at every angle. He’s one of the UK’s top barristers and if there’s a loophole in the law, he’ll find it. In the meantime, try to take it one day at a time. Thinking long-term will send you mad.’
Marty said nothing as he attempted to take in Johnson’s words, before rubbing his palms down his face and changing the subject. ‘So, where’s Rob? How come he’s not with you?’
‘This visit is in my capacity as your lawyer. Rob will need to come during general visiting. I’m in the process of getting him added to your visitor list. He’ll be here as soon as he’s approved.’
Marty nodded. ‘And what is the outside world saying about me?’
Johnson again took her time to answer. ‘I won’t lie, Marty. People are not being kind, but I really don’t recommend you expend any energy on what the media thinks of this. They all have agendas and your celebrity creates news, drives page impressions, etc.’
‘What are they saying, Nic?’ Marty asked firmly.
Johnson sighed. ‘Very well. Thankfully, because you’ve been charged, no one can make any comment on the case or they’ll face contempt of court. So a lot of the media are looking through your past, dragging up old stories as they try to paint you as a man capable of murder without actually accusing you of anything specific’
Marty snorted his contempt. ‘So it’s trial by media?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Ironic really, considering how many times I’ve done it to others,’ Marty added.
Johnson nodded. ‘Ironic certainly covers it.’
Despite her initial protestations, Johnson spent the next twenty minutes walking Marty through various high-traffic media outlets and their views on his arrest and remand, punctuated by a constant stream of profanity from her client. By the time she had finished, Marty felt like a coiled spring, ready to explode.
Johnson clearly sensed his unease. ‘I did try and warn you, Marty. It’s not pretty.’
‘It’s a fucking witch-hunt is what it is!’ Marty growled.
‘Look, Marty, you know this game better than anyone. If someone else were in your shoes, you’d be doing exactly the same. Try not to take it personally.’
Marty slammed his hand down on the table in frustration, drawing disapproving looks from Mayhew and Clarke. He raised his hand by way of apology before lowering his voice to almost a whisper. ‘I do take it personally, Nic. This is my life going down the toilet. I’ve worked too damn hard to get to the top to just sit back and let them destroy me. You have to get me out now so I can defend myself!’
Johnson placed a reassuring hand on Marty’s across the table. ‘Ruben is doing everything he can to make that happen. In the meantime, keep your head down and watch your back.’
Marty nodded as Mayhew and Clarke arrived.
‘Time’s up, Michaels,’ Clarke said curtly, and both men stepped back to allow Marty to stand. He shook Johnson’s hand and turned, stepping out into the main visitors’ room. There was a flurry of movement from the booth to his right as someone lunged towards him, screaming, ‘Die, you fucking nonce!’ In an instant, agonising pain flared in his neck below his right ear and, instinctively, he raised his arms in defence as his attacker kept coming, forcing Marty to the floor before Mayhew and Clarke managed to pull Marty free and two other offices had restrained his attacker.
Marty felt hot blood running down his neck and onto his torso. He raised his right hand to stem the bleeding, and realised his wrist was also pumping out thick, almost black, blood onto the floor. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered before passing out.
According to the consultant in charge of Wythenshawe A&E, Marty had been incredibly lucky, even joking he should buy a lottery ticket before remembering his patient was an inmate of Hawk Green and making his apologies. The double-bladed weapon used in the attack had severed veins in his neck and wrists but somehow missed the main arteries in both. Thirty-four stitches later, he sat on the edge of the hospital bed in the treatment cubicle, bandaged and awaiting transport back to the prison infirmary. Mayhew and Clarke watched on in silence.
News of his attack had already made it into the public domain, and a nurse just starting her shift updated Marty on the large crowd of paps and journalists congregating outside. She had a kind face and her green eyes sparkled under her thick auburn fringe.
‘Love the show, Marty,’ she said in a soft Scottish accent. ‘Looks like a stitch-up to me – no pun intended,’ she added, and winked before heading off in search of her next patient.
Marty allowed himself a smile. Maybe not everyone in the world thought he was guilty.
Clarke’s phone beeped. ‘Right, the van’s here,’ he said, louder than necessary in the confined space, before cuffing himself to Marty and gesturing for Mayhew to lead them out.
Moving through the maze of corridors, they passed a number of patients in dressing gowns and slippers wandering the corridors at a snail’s pace in stark contrast to a host of visitors in such a rush to get to their final destination. They barely flinched at the cuffed celebrity in their midst. If only the waiting media pack would have the same ambivalence.
As they approached the exit, Marty spotted a couple of uniformed police officers waiting to escort the party to their transport and braced himself for a repeat of the scrum he had experienced at the Metropolitan Hotel.
He was not disappointed. Stepping out into the summer sun, he raised his left hand to shade his eyes as the noise erupted. Unlike Bovalino and Jones, neither Clarke and Mayhew nor the police officers had any desire to be the centre of attention and barged their way through the mass of bodies grappling for a shot of the prisoner. An assault on the senses ensued. Even in the bright sunshine, Marty was dazzled by the rapid-fire camera flashguns thrust in his face as shouts and taunts overwhelmed his ears. Silently coaching himself to stay calm, he did his best to block out the noise, staring straight ahead as they moved ever closer to the safety of the prison van, waiting to take him back to Hawk Green.
With just a few steps left to the van, a sudden surge of bodies knocked Clarke off balance, causing him to fall onto the concrete path. Marty, attached to him, was dragged to his knees. Blind panic ensued and Marty cried out as people began to trample over his legs and feet, but Clarke was not a man to lie down for long. Using his muscular frame to great effect, he dragged himself and Marty back to their feet as the two police officers and Mayhew stepped in to push back the crowd.
A moment later, Clarke virtually lifted Marty into the van, jumped in behind him and slammed the door on the mini riot outside.
He was safe, for the time being at least.
24
Marty’s bail was confirmed at 4 p.m. on Monday 1st June, too late to process his release the same day. Johnson had visited Hawk Green that morning, under tight security, to share the good news; Ruben had agreed a deal with the CPS to allow Marty out on bail. Johnson believed the uber-ambitious Josh Lei wanted to make an example of Marty in court to supercharge his career trajectory. Given the two serious assaults since his remand, if Marty died in prison, Lei’s opportunity would die with him. The terms of the deal were simple and required him to remain at home under permanent curfew, which was just fine by Marty; there was nowhere else he would rather be.
After spending another lonely, sleepless night in segregation, a sneering Governor Morrell informed Marty of his release schedule at 7 a.m. Tuesday, and an hour later he was handed over to his court-appointed guardian, Nic Johnson.
Marty was dressed in the blue suit and white shirt he had worn to court four days earlier. His shoulder-length hair was wet and combed back against his head, his neck and arms tightly bandaged.
A large steel door opened and he stepped painfully into the public reception area. Nic greeted him.
‘Marty, how are you?’
He ignored the question and moved past Johnson as if looking for something, his mind elsewhere, before turning to face his lawyer. ‘Where’s Rob?’ Marty asked abruptly.
‘He thought it best I come alone; less chance of the media linking us to you.’
Marty nodded silently, as if satisfied by the answer, but his face betrayed his true feelings. ‘So, it’s not the case he’s distancing himself from a damaged client?’
‘Marty, it’s not like that at all, I can assure you,’ Nic said smoothly.
‘Really? You don’t think it’s odd that, as soon as I’m suspended from my million-pound job and publicly humiliated, my agent and so-called best friend suddenly goes AWOL, leaving me to rot in this hellhole? He then decides it’s in my best interests for him not to turn up when I’m released. Hardly the actions of a committed agent and friend, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Marty, it’s nothing like that, honestly. You are front-page news right now and everybody knows Rob is your agent. We both figured you’d have more chance of getting out of here without a full press pack if I came alone. Your release will become public record at 9 a.m., so if we move quickly, we can get you home before the mass media get hold of the story. Rob will meet us at your house later.’
Marty nodded, unconvinced, as Johnson raised her left arm, gesturing towards the exit. ‘Come on; let’s get you out of here.’
25
Just before 9 a.m., with the help of the temporary security firm standing guard at the main gates, Nic effortlessly swept past the now-depleted press pack outside Marty’s Prestbury home. The blacked-out rear windows of her S-Class Mercedes made it impossible to catch a glimpse of her passenger, huddled in the back of the car.
With the big gates firmly locked behind them, Marty and Nic retreated to the security of the house. She busied herself with calls whilst Marty took a red-hot shower, attempting to wash away the events of the last few days in Hawk Green Prison. Standing with his face directly under the hot stream of water, he finally dared to curse the men who had so brutally attacked him twice in a week. He’d had a lucky escape. Anger rose up inside him like a volcanic eruption; picturing their sneering faces, he wanted revenge. And he would show no mercy.
Placing his hands flat to the marble walls of the wet room, he pressed his forehead against the cold surface and stared at the water swirling around his feet, his jaw locked in a painful clench as he struggled to deal with the torrent of emotions flooding his mind. He closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths and let out a long, guttural scream as he repeatedly slammed the side of his fist against the wall, over and over again. He screamed louder and louder until he could scream no more and, eventually, exhausted and broken, he slumped slowly and painfully to the floor and cried like a petrified child as the hot water bounced off his battered, heaving body and blood from his weeping wrists swirled around his feet.
Half an hour passed, and when it seemed his tears had finally run dry, he painfully lifted himself off the wet room floor, turned off the shower and dressed in his white towelling robe. He dried his hair roughly and pulled it back against his head, tucking his wet locks behind his ears, before limping slowly down the big sweeping staircase to the ground floor of the house, gripping the bannister tightly with each step.
Marty could hear two people talking. He assumed Rob had arrived, and readied himself to share his feelings on the current ‘distancing’ strategy. Following the voices, he eventually found Nic in the lounge room, but no Rob. Instead, she was talking to Marty’s personal physician, Dr Clive Pickering.
‘I invited Dr Pickering over to change your dressings and give you a once-over,’ Johnson said calmly, as if it was perfectly normal for her to invite whomever she liked into Marty’s home.
‘I’m fine, I don’t need it. Where’s Rob?’
Dr Pickering remained silent but watched Johnson, as if ready to take her lead.
‘Rob will be here later. Look, Marty, I could hear you shouting upstairs. I’ll never understand what you went through in there, but your injuries could be far more serious than we’ve been led to believe. I’d feel much more comfortable if Dr Pickering looked you over.’
Marty turned to face the doctor. ‘Look, no offence, Doc,’ he said. ‘You’ve looked after me and my mum for a very long time and I appreciate that, but I really don’t need an exam. I just need some time on my own. I just want to put the last few days behind me.’
‘Marty—’ Marty’s head snapped around. Johnson’s tone had changed, her voice stern, the public-school accent sharp as a blade. ‘—do me favour and have the exam. If not for your own health, then do it for the sake of your case. I need a full evaluation of your injuries so that when we get you off these ridiculous charges, we can sue the arse off the prison system. It was completely unacceptable for you to be attacked twice in almost as many days, and in the case of the second instance, directly under the noses of the officers assigned to protect you in segregation. If we can demonstrate the extent of your injuries and prove there was negligence, it’s potentially worth an awful lot of money to you. So please, Marty – for me, and for your desire to hang on to this ridiculously expensive house, take the sodding exam, will you?’
Marty stared at Johnson in silence for a moment, then slowly nodded his approval as he shuffled towards the couch. On cue, the doctor stepped forwards and sat down on the sofa, placing his bag on the seat beside him. ‘Right then, Marty, let’s get you stripped to the waist, shall we?’ Dr Pickering said warmly.
26
‘You’ve had a rough few days,’ Dr Pickering said with no hint of irony as he finished replacing Marty’s dressings.
Johnson was in the kitchen, once again ‘making calls’.
Marty shook his head. ‘I just don’t know what’s going on.’ he said. ‘I remember drinking in the Sky Lounge up until about ten on Saturday, but that’s it. After that it’s blank. I don’t recall anything else until I woke up in the hotel.’
Dr Pickering placed a stethoscope on Marty’s chest and instructed him to take a few deep breaths, before nodding and pulling the stethoscope out of his ears and clipping it round his neck. ‘Well, your breathing is fine, no damage to your heart or lungs, but looks like a couple of rib fractures. Next, he shone a light in his left eye, his face so close that Marty could smell the coffee on his breath as he spoke in a hushed, slightly distracted tone. ‘And what took you to the Sky Lounge in the first place?’
‘That’s the thing; I’m not entirely sure. For some reason I thought Rob invited me, but he was at home with his kids that night.’
Dr Pickering moved to the right eye. ‘Maybe you imagined it?’
‘Maybe, but I don’t know why I’d go there on my own.’
Dr Pickering checked Marty’s ears next. The head of his otoscope caught the left side of Marty’s head and he cried out in pain.
‘Sorry, Marty. Your skull is very tender on this side.’
Marty gently touched it. ‘I’m not surprised; whatever they repeatedly hit me with was bloody heavy.’
The doctor checked both ears fully before pressing his fingers lightly up and down both sides of Marty’s face, each impact on the left side drawing a painful grimace from his patient.
