Deadly Secrets Read online

  Deadly Secrets

  OMJ Ryan

  Revised Edition 2019

  INKUBATOR BOOKS

  First published as “Media Monster” by OMJ Ryan (2018)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Epilogue

  DEADLY SILENCE

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Rights Info

  1

  Marty slowly opened his eyes and ran a hand over the soft sheets covering his naked body. His head throbbed, even the smallest movement sending a surge of pain through his temples. He pulled back the sheets and sat upright, causing a wave of nausea to crash over him.

  ‘Where the hell am I?’ he whispered.

  The room was cloaked in darkness, only a tiny sliver of light framing what appeared to be a floor-to-ceiling window. Was he in a hotel room? He frowned. The last thing he remembered was drinking in the Sky Lounge, the Metropolitan Hotel’s über-trendy cocktail bar located on the twenty-third floor of the iconic Manchester Sky Tower. It was all a bit hazy, but he did have some memory of drinking champagne with a pretty blonde. Had he got lucky? Had they checked in at the end of the night? If so, where was she now? Maybe they’d had sex and she left. With no memory of anything beyond the Sky Lounge, he assumed that was the case and gave up the inquest. Besides, thinking only made his head hurt even more.

  He got out of the bed and walked over to the window, swaying unsteadily as black speckles against brilliant white danced across his vision. Pulling back the curtain, blinding daylight flooded the room. Hiding his bare flesh behind the curtain, he took in the view. Without his contact lenses, he could barely make out the blurred cityscape. Still, he recognised the building directly in front of him: It was the heavy steel framework that formed the roof of the Great Northern shopping centre. To the right, he recognised the distinctive curved form of the G-MEX Centre, with the Manchester Town Hall clock tower just behind. To his immediate left was Deansgate, the mile-long avenue running a river of cars through the centre of Manchester. He was definitely in one of the Metropolitan Hotel’s guest rooms.

  Another wave of nausea crashed over him. Resting his head against the cold glass, he fought against the overwhelming desire to vomit. As he lost the battle and his palate began to water, he launched himself in the direction of the bathroom and, slamming through the half-open door, dropped to his hands and knees in front of the toilet basin. Not a moment too soon. Eventually, when his stomach had nothing more to bring up, he crashed sideways onto the cold tiled floor, exhausted.

  He lay motionless, trying to orientate himself, as the stench of the disgusting liquid filled his nostrils. What the hell had he been drinking last night? Using the basin for support, he lifted himself from the floor, clumsily rubbing his right hand against the wall before finding the light switch and flicking it on.

  Taking in his reflection in the mirror, he thought he looked old beyond his forty-three years; the result of almost two decades of daily 4 a.m. starts presenting a national radio breakfast show coupled with a diet of stress, rich food and too much alcohol. Pushing on the tap, he lowered his head into the sink and doused his face with cold water, then buried it in one of the soft white towels that lay neatly folded next to the sink. ‘You’re getting too old for this shit, Marty,’ he groaned as he slowly stood upright.

  Suddenly, he caught sight of something reflected in the mirror that made his blood run cold. Turning slowly towards the shower cubicle behind him, he came face to face with the naked body of a young woman. She wore a plastic gimp mask and lay slumped against the other side of the glass, her flesh pressed flat against the shower door. There was a leather strap around her neck, and her hands and feet were bound, the plastic cable ties so tight they had broken the skin.

  He suspected she was dead, but the mask made it difficult to tell for sure. Stepping closer, he pulled open the glass door. He recoiled as her body slumped heavily to the floor. Instinctively, he knelt down next to her and checked her pulse at the wrist. Nothing.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  Was this the girl from the bar? For a split second he contemplated removing the mask to check, but caught himself in time. ‘Don’t touch anything, Marty,’ he whispered as he surveyed the scene. Whoever she was and whatever had happened to her, one thing Marty knew for certain: he had to get out of this room right now.

  Instantly focused, he leapt to his feet and moved back into the bedroom in search of his phone. At times like this, there was only one man to call: his agent, Rob Woodcock. They had been together for almost twenty years since Rob landed him his big break, and Rob had become an expert at getting Marty out of trouble. As tempted as he was to simply make a run for it, he was smart enough to know that booking a hotel room left a digital fingerprint that needed to be explained or removed. Finding his phone on the bedside table, he selected Rob’s number from his favourites and dialled. After what felt like forever, it connected.

  ‘Rob?’ he said, struggling to stay calm.

  ‘Marty, you ok, mate?’ Rob’s thick Essex accent belied the razor-sharp business brain that had made them millions over the last decade.

  ‘I don’t have time to explain, but I really need you to come to the Metropolitan Hotel right away.’

  ‘The bar or the hotel?’

  ‘The hotel, Rob, quickly!’

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Rob asked, clearly concerned.

  ‘Look, Rob, I don’t have time for this. Just get down here now, will you?’

  ‘OK, mate, keep your hair on. I’ll come right over. What room you in, then?’

  Marty paused for a moment. He had no clue.

  ‘I dunno. Get here and call me. I’ll have figured it out by then,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Rob. Were we drinking together last night?’

  ‘No mate. I was at home with the kids. Maggie was out with the girls.’

  ‘Then why do I remember you inviting me here?’

  ‘God knows, but it must’ve been some night, mate!’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  Rob was laughing now. ‘What are you like?’
r />   Marty ignored the comment. ‘Just hurry, will you!’ he said before ending the call.

  He checked the time on his phone – 11.08 a.m.

  Noticing the deathly silence in the room for the first time, he slowly perched on the end of the thick mattress and placed his head in his hands. Questions flooded his mind. What had happened to the girl? How had she died? Why was she tied up? Why couldn’t he remember anything after the bar last night? More pressingly, how was he ever going to make this go away?

  There was a knock on the door and Marty’s head shot up. For a moment, he thought it came from a nearby room but there it was again, louder this time. He crept forward and placed his eye to the peephole. On the other side, three men stared back at him, their bodies curved in the fisheye lens. All three wore suits, and their expressions were grave.

  “Who the bloody hell are you?” Marty whispered.

  2

  The three men stood looking at the door intently, as if staring at Marty through the peephole. The smaller man at the front stepped forward and knocked on the door once more. ‘Mr Michaels, can we come in please?’ he said just short of a shout.

  Marty swallowed hard. His heart pounded in his ears, so loud he was convinced they could hear it through the door. How did they know he was here? Headlines played out in front of him like a bad movie: MARTY MICHAELS – RADIO STAR FOUND NAKED WITH MASKED DEAD GIRL. Marty Michaels, pervert and sex fiend – forevermore talked about in the same breath as Savile, Glitter and Harris – but even worse, a murderer. Permanently shamed and excluded from the celebrity world he had ruled over for almost two decades. He had to hide.

  He ran across to the window and yanked open the curtains. His hare-brained hope of finding an escape route was instantly dashed: the hotel had neither balconies nor windows that opened.

  The banging resumed, this time even more aggressively, as the same man shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Mr Michaels, I know you’re in there. Can you please open the door? If you do not let me in, I have the authority to enter the room using my own key.’

  Shit.

  Marty dropped down on all fours and lifted the sheet from the side of the bed, hoping to hide under it, but it was no use; there was an inch at best between the bed base and the carpet. Jumping to his feet, he ran into the bathroom, but the sight of the body slumped on the floor sent him fleeing in the opposite direction like a cartoon character.

  He was running out of time. In desperation, he flung himself under the desk opposite the bed, pulled the office chair in around his hunched body and took a deep breath just as the door tentatively opened.

  The first man to speak had a posh Mancunian accent, but in a way that sounded affected, like a common man hiding his roots. ‘Mr Michaels? My name is Thomas Holmes. I’m the hotel duty manager. I’m here with the police, who would like to speak with you.’ He moved into the room and stopped just inches from Marty’s head.

  The next voice he heard had a very different accent – London, he guessed – spoken by a man who would probably pronounce it ‘Laaarnden’. He talked loudly and with confidence, as if he had done this a million times before. ‘Mr Michaels, this is Detective Sergeant Jones. I’m here with my colleague, Detective Constable Bovalino, and we’re from the Greater Manchester Police. We know you’re in this room, and we’d prefer it if you could show yourself and save everyone a whole lot of embarrassment. Mr Michaels?’

  The room fell completely silent for a moment, and Marty’s body started to shake as his back and shoulder muscles convulsed, trying to force open his mouth to let in some oxygen.

  ‘Bov, check the bathroom,’ Jones said.

  A moment later, Marty heard the third man shout from the bathroom, ‘Jonesy, in here!’ in a thick Mancunian accent.

  Marty watched as Jones moved towards the bathroom and the location of the girl’s body – it was now or never.

  Finally allowing himself to breathe, he gulped in air, thrust the office chair out into the room and exploded like a sprinter from under the desk. He ran headlong towards the door as a startled man, probably the hotel manager, opened his mouth to speak. Marty lunged past him, slammed through the open door and instinctively turned right, hoping it would take him to the elevators.

  Shouts came from behind as he ran as fast as he could. Up ahead, he could see a break in the corridor and cut down it, praying for an elevator with an open door. The voices of the men drew closer with every passing second.

  He reached the elevator, noting he was on the sixteenth floor as he hammered his fingers on the call button like a pinball machine. From his left, the two police officers rushed towards him.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ he repeated under his breath, urging the doors to open, before deciding to keep moving. He set off down the corridor like a man possessed, trying to stay out of range of the officers. Not easy, considering the state he was in. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he pumped his arms and knees, but soon realised he was running out of corridor. A split second later, he felt the full weight of a man crash down onto his shoulders and stumbled painfully to the floor. In an instant, his captor expertly forced his knee into the small of Marty’s back and yanked his arms together into handcuffs.

  ‘You’re nicked!’ said the man, his voice thick Mancunian. Bovalino, Marty guessed.

  The other officer, Marty assumed Jones, arrived a moment later, just as he was dragged to his feet and presented like a prize by his captor.

  Marty arched his head away from the man, who stepped in close.

  Jones was thin with gaunt, angular features covered by grey skin. His bloodshot eyes were framed with dark shadows, and when he opened his mouth in a half smile, he exposed crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

  ‘Well, well, well, what do we have here?’ he said, his breath sharp and pungent.

  Marty remained silent.

  ‘Bov. If I’m not mistaken,’ he said, eyeing Marty’s naked form, ‘we’ve just collared the one and only Marty Michaels.’

  Bovalino laughed loudly.

  Jones continued. ’We need to protect the crime scene. Get the duty manager to open up another room so we can have a little chat with our celebrity friend here.’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ Bovalino replied, tightening his grip on the cuffs. They dug into Marty’s wrists. ‘You got it.’

  3

  Time passed slowly for Marty, sat on the edge of the bed in the freshly-allocated room directly opposite the one he had just fled. Naked apart from a branded hotel dressing gown, he watched through the open door as the so-called ‘murder scene’ was cordoned off by the forensic team. His view became increasingly impaired as police personnel filed in around him, called into action by Jones as soon as Marty was in handcuffs.

  ‘Now then, can you tell us your name, please?’ Jones asked, staring at Marty smugly. ‘Aw look, he’s gone all shy, Bov,’ he added when Marty didn’t reply.

  Bovalino let out a chuckle. He was a big man. With his huge barrel chest, he looked as wide as he was tall. He had close-cropped black hair, a five o’clock shadow across his swarthy face, and the thick forehead of a man who enjoyed contact sport. Looking at his fleshy cheekbones and flat nose, Marty thought he had spent a fair bit of time in the boxing ring.

  ‘I want to speak to Chief Constable Blake!’ Marty demanded, suddenly finding his voice.

  ‘Blake? The big boss, eh? And why would you want to do that?’

  ‘Because I’m Marty Michaels. He and I are good friends. He’ll straighten this mess out.’

  Jones bent forward and stared Marty directly in the face before glancing at his colleague. ‘I do believe he’s looking for the VIP package, Bov.’

  Bovalino nodded dutifully. ‘I think you’re right, Jonesy.’

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ Jones said, before leaning in at Marty once more. ‘You see, here’s the thing, Marty. We know that being a celebrity probably gets you all kinds of privileges in your world, but here in our world, in the murder squad, there are no privileges. The only VIP
we’re dealing with today is that dead girl over there,’ he said, pointing across the hall. ‘So, understand this loud and clear. You will be treated just like any other person found with a dead body in their bathroom. Got it?’

  The cold reality of his situation suddenly landed. Marty needed to get these guys on his side quickly.

  ‘Look. I know this looks bad, but I genuinely have no idea who that girl is or how she, or I, got in that room. I swear on my mother’s life!’

  It was Bovalino’s turn to speak. ‘So why did you run when we came in? Why not just tell us this back then?’

  Marty paused as the question sank in. Now he looked twice as guilty.

  ‘I ran because anyone can see this looks bad.’

  Jones smiled. ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Can we start again?’

  ‘And where would you like to start? Jones asked.

  Marty’s demeanour softened in an attempt to win them over. It was a technique he had used with reluctant guests on his show many times. ‘Could you close the door? The fewer people who see me the better.’