Главная страница | Триллеры | Trust No One

Trust No One
Alex Walters
A timely and topical thriller which looks at the seedy back dealings of criminals and the police.An addictive read for fans of P.J.Tracey and Peter Robinson.A terrifically fast-paced novel that has you hooked from the first chapter with a captivating central female lead who you can’t help rooting for. Join Marie Donovan as she races for the truth…As a covert officer specialising in ‘deep cover’ operations, Marie Donovan works amongst the most dangerous criminals in Manchester. It’s a precarious life that puts Marie on the edge of the law.When she begins an affair with Jake Morton, an informer due to give evidence against crime lord Jeff Kerridge, Marie knows she’s breaking a cardinal rule.Yet just as she comes to her senses and puts an end to their relationship, Morton is murdered. Suddenly Marie’s undercover role is exposed and only one thing is certain – she can TRUST NO ONE.


Trust No One
Alex Walters


Copyright (#u6d48e3df-e606-5501-88b5-080e56020409)
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublisher
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011
Copyright © Michael Walters 2011
Michael Walters asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9781847562852
Ebook edition © AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 9781847562982
Version: 2016-02-17
Dedication (#u6d48e3df-e606-5501-88b5-080e56020409)
Of course, this has to be dedicated to Christine, with thanks for everything. And to James, Adam and Jonny for their continuing love and support.
I’d also like to thank all those, necessarily nameless, who gave me advice and information about various aspects of undercover work. And thanks to Sammia Rafique, my excellent editor at Avon, and to Peter Buckman, as always a wonderful agent and an astute critic.
Epigraph (#u6d48e3df-e606-5501-88b5-080e56020409)
This has to be for Christine, of course. For everything.
Au revoir, love, wherever you are.
Contents
Cover (#u985da9e0-7f8c-50cf-993a-27b9f48d89a7)
Title Page (#u1532c684-99f8-5e99-ba3d-bb8130d319f4)
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph

Prologue
Part One - Summer: Preparation
Chapter 1
Part Two - Winter: Operational
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
Part Three - Winter: Outside
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
An Interview with Alex Walters

About the Author
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u6d48e3df-e606-5501-88b5-080e56020409)
The last time she saw Jake, Marie found herself awake, sometime after midnight, staring into the darkness. She told herself it was because they’d eaten late, because she’d drunk too much wine. Because tonight, after their conversation in the restaurant, after what had been said and not said, their lovemaking had left her restless rather than relaxed. All that was true, but she couldn’t fool herself that it was the whole story.
She rolled over in the bed. Jake was asleep, on his back, snoring softly. She was tempted to wake him, caress him, hope that more sex would calm her tense nerves. The logic of the addict. A second impulse, maybe more rational, was simply to slip away, now, in the small hours. Put an end to all this before it was too late.
Jake deserved better. This was her mess, not his. Whatever she did, she had to do right by Jake. She’d sit down and talk to him properly. Tell him what she could. Not the whole truth. Probably not much of the truth. But something. Enough. Enough so he’d understand. One day soon.
She pushed back the duvet and sat up, for a moment enjoying the small-hours chill of the bedroom on her naked body. Beside her, Jake stirred, rolled over, but didn’t wake. She eased herself out of bed and reached for the old dressing gown that Jake had loaned her. It was too small to have been Jake’s, and she assumed that it had belonged to some past girlfriend. Fair enough. Jake’s business.
Moving quietly across the room, she paused to gather up her handbag and the clothes she’d left neatly piled on the chair by the door. There was no point in staying in bed. She’d only toss and turn till she woke Jake, and despite her earlier impulse, that wasn’t really what she wanted. She’d do what she often ended up doing these days, here and in her own flat. She’d make herself a hot drink, read a mindless magazine or watch some content-free television, or just sit out on Jake’s balcony, listening to the distant ripple of the water and the sounds of the night. Calm herself to the point where she could sleep again.
And if that failed, she told herself, she’d wake Jake and give sex another shot after all.
With a kettle boiling in the kitchen, she dressed quickly, more conscious of the cold now. They’d had a quiet evening – a few drinks in the pub, an Italian, a bottle of wine between them – and her outfit was practical rather than decorative. Jeans, a sweater, smart boots.
She’d never doubted that she’d stay over again tonight. It had been inevitable long before she’d knocked back her first large red. But, as usual, she’d brought no change of clothes, reasoning that she’d have time in the morning to get back to the flat, to shower and change, before she needed to get to the shop. She told herself that it was because she wanted nothing taken for granted – but whether by herself or by Jake, she didn’t know.
She made herself a decaff coffee and wandered back through to Jake’s neat living room. It was like the man himself – unostentatious, slightly chaotic, primarily functional, but occasionally intriguing. The walls were bare except for two small but expensive-looking pieces of figurative art, sitting incongruously alongside a large signed photograph of the 1974 Leeds United team. Jake was a man with some obvious shallows and many hidden depths, only a few of which she’d so far managed to plumb.
She hovered by the television for a moment, then picked up her leather jacket from Jake’s sofa. Returning to the kitchen, she turned off the light, then did the same in the hallway and the living room, plunging the flat back into darkness. Satisfied, she pulled open the large picture window that gave on to the balcony. It was one of the joys of Jake’s quayside flat. Her own building looked out over the city, with a distant view of the Pennines and on a sunny day she could glimpse the grey-green hills between the buildings, giving an unexpected sense of space and distance amid the cluttered office blocks. But this was something different again, the kind of view that estate agents measured in the millions – a direct outlook over the heart of the quays and the old ship canal. Off to the right were the modernist lines and angles of the Lowry complex, and over the water the bewitching jumble of the Imperial War Museum. In the foreground to the left, glowing crimson, the imposing monolith of Old Trafford. Beyond all that, there was the mess of industrial buildings that formed Trafford Park. In the daylight, it felt like the ultimate urban landscape, a bustling blend of the old and the new, commerce and leisure. But at night, when the football crowds and concert-goers had disappeared, it was almost peaceful, with the gentle brush of the water against the quayside, the rippling lights across the face of the canal.
She closed the window behind her, and zipping up her jacket, lowered herself on to one of the chairs, adjusting the back so that she could stare up into the starlit sky. The constant glare of Manchester dimmed the spectacle, but it was a clear night and she could make out the scattered patterns of constellations. Beginning to relax for the first time since she’d woken, she closed her eyes, enjoying the moment of peace, imagining herself drifting away on the cool night air. Trying not to think.
Without realizing, she nodded into sleep and when she woke what might have been minutes or hours later, she had a sense that something – some noise, some movement – had invaded her consciousness. She sat up, trying to work out what had disturbed her. It was a half-familiar sensation – as if someone had been hammering at the door or pressing on the bell in the moments before she’d woken.
She glanced at her watch. She’d been asleep only for a few minutes. But something had changed. A light reflected off her watch. She twisted and saw that the hallway was illuminated. Probably Jake had got up to use the bathroom.
She climbed to her feet, preparing to go back inside. Then she stopped.
It took her a moment to work out what she was seeing. Through the picture window, past the living room, in the hallway. The front door half-open. A man standing in the hall, leaning on the frame of the bedroom door. Not Jake. Someone she didn’t recognize at all.
There was something about the man’s movements, his body language. It wasn’t the posture of a house-breaker – not furtive, cautious, on edge. This was different.
The man was a pro. Somehow, even from this distance, with his back half-turned towards her, she had no doubt. A hitman. Fucking wet work. And Jake was the bloody target.
It wasn’t entirely a surprise. She knew what Jake had done. She knew the kinds of enemies he must have made. And she knew that, in part, she was responsible.
Her first instinct was to try to intervene. But even as she was considering her options, the scene changed. The man pushed himself away from the doorframe and stood back. Two more figures appeared, dragging Jake, still naked, between them. Jake was half-resisting, half-falling. He’d been hit already, blood pouring from a cut in his temple, streaming down his pale face.
She moved back slowly, pressing herself against the balcony railing, keeping out of their line of sight as they manhandled Jake into the living room. Three of them. All pros. She could tell. She’d met people in that line of work. They were a type. Cold, calm, methodical to the point of compulsion. Psychopaths who’d found their vocation.
Her handbag, with her mobile inside, was on the floor by the patio chair. She eased herself forwards, moving as silently as possible. Inside the room, the men had thrown Jake on to the couch. He lay, crumpled, his hands clutched to his groin, blood now smeared across his chest. He looked semi-conscious.
She reached the handbag, pulled it to her, and began to fumble inside for her phone.
At that moment, the balcony was flooded with light.
She looked up, startled, momentarily dazzled. The balcony floodlights were operated from a panel of switches alongside the interior lights. One of the men had hit the lights for the living room and inadvertently turned on the external lamps at the same time.
She stood, caught in the high beam, conscious that at any moment one of the men might look in her direction. There was no time.
She backed to the balcony railing. It was only the second floor. She paused, trying to envisage the layout of the apartment block. There was another identical balcony immediately below. If she could reach that, it ought to be feasible to lower herself further and drop to the ground below. It was possible, she thought. She hoped.
Throwing the handbag around her neck, she hoisted herself up on to the railing. As she did so, one of the men looked up, his attention caught by her movement in his peripheral vision. She heard him shout something, but didn’t wait to find out what.
She hung for a moment on the outside of the railing, then began to slide down, her feet desperately flailing for the top of the railing below. A drainpipe running down between the two floors gave another half-handhold, but she could barely cling on. Above, she could hear the window being dragged back.
She found her footing on the lower railing, paused for a breath, and then, clinging helplessly to the drainpipe, half-dropped, half-slid down again, her hands clutching for the top of the railing where her feet had been resting a moment before. She grasped it, and her fingers sliding agonizingly down the metal rails, lowered herself to the bottom of the lower balcony. From above, she could hear whispering voices, but could make out no words.
Hanging from the lower balcony, she twisted her neck to look down. Her feet were perhaps four or five feet above the ground. She realized with relief that she was hanging above one of the decorative flower beds that surrounded the building; a softer landing than the concrete that stretched away elsewhere.
She released her grip and dropped, landing and slipping awkwardly on the soft earth. She was momentarily winded, but was up and running almost immediately. Her car was parked on the street at the rear of the building. Even if the men had set off immediately, she should reach it before they could.
She pounded hard along the pathway, thanking Christ that she was wearing her low winter boots. Even so, she almost lost her footing on the slick paved surface as she turned the corner.
Her little Toyota was a hundred yards or so ahead, tucked into a row of other parked cars. She had her handbag open as she ran, struggling to find her keys. She glanced over her shoulder. The main doors of the apartment block were open. One of the men was peering out, maybe three or four hundred yards behind her.
She reached the car and pulled out the keys at more or less the same moment, thumbing open the central locking. Then she was in and starting the engine.
She looked in the rear-view mirror as the engine roared into life. As she pulled out into the road, she could see the man, still a long way behind. He’d halted in the doorway, aware that there was no point now in trying to pursue her.
She kept her foot down as she headed along the quays, the roads empty at this time of the night, passing between the lines of silent shops, restaurants, hotels, offices. The lights out on to Trafford Road were on red, but she didn’t slow, hoping to Christ that no late-night patrol car was lurking nearby. Moments later, still with no other traffic around, she reached the roundabout and took a sharp left, her foot hard to the floor.
Once she was on the motorway, she finally relaxed enough to look in the mirror. There were no cars behind her. Breathing more slowly now, she pulled off at the next junction, taking a right and following the road round until she saw the massive complex of Salford Royal Hospital on her right. A good place to stop, she thought. In a hospital, people would be coming and going at all hours of the night. Her car wouldn’t be conspicuous.
She took another right and entered the hospital grounds, following the signs to one of the visitors’ car parks, pulling in among a small scattering of other cars. She paused for a moment to gather her wits, the panic finally subsiding, then dug out her mobile. She couldn’t use the formal channels, couldn’t reveal that she’d been in Jake’s flat. She dialled 999 and gave a false name, reporting a break-in and serious assault at Jake’s address. Her number was withheld, so there’d be no clue to her identity showing up on the operator’s caller ID. She answered the questions as briefly as she could, trying to give nothing away. No, she didn’t know what was happening, she was just a passer-by, didn’t want to get involved. Then, feeling guilty at her own impotence, she ended the call.
It was all she could have done, but she felt no confidence that her call had been taken seriously. Then somewhere behind, in the heart of the city, she heard the rising wail of a police siren. Maybe they were already answering the call. Maybe.
She could feel her training kicking in, leading her through the ramifications of all this. Someone had taken out a contract on Jake. She could easily guess why and probably even who. But the real question was how. How had they known? And where did that leave her?
She tracked back through her movements of the previous evening, working out whether she’d left any sign of her presence, anything that would allow her to be identified. She’d taken her clothes, her bag, her mobile. There was nothing else, other than her DNA. No one was likely to make the link, unless she’d already been compromised.
The other question was whether the man had seen her car registration. She thought not. It was dark, she was pulling out from between parked cars, he was a long way away. But she couldn’t be sure. If he had, she was a dead woman already.
Shit. The professional part of her mind was grinding through its dispassionate gears. But the other part of her brain was silently screaming. Jake. Jake lying naked, crouched at the feet of three professional fucking assassins. Jake with blood already pouring from him. Jake, her lover only hours before. Jake.
It was possible she’d frightened them off. They might have left the job unfinished. The police might have turned up in time. Any fucking thing might have happened.
But it wouldn’t have. She knew that. They were pros. They always finished the job. They didn’t leave witnesses. They got what they wanted.
And they’d got Jake.
Part One Summer: Preparation (#u6d48e3df-e606-5501-88b5-080e56020409)
Chapter 1 (#u6d48e3df-e606-5501-88b5-080e56020409)
She was looking for her car when she noticed the moving van on the far side of the car park. Going too fast, Marie thought. Not just exceeding the notional speed limit – most drivers here did that – but hitting thirty, forty miles per hour. Open road speeds, in an unlit airport car park littered with jet-lagged arrivals from the long-haul red-eyes. Jesus.
Not her business, though. There’d been a time when she might have felt obliged to intervene, pull out her warrant card to deal with some loser getting his kicks scaring others. But not now.
God, she was tired. Tired and woozy. Not exactly jet lag. She hadn’t got her sleep patterns together long enough for it to kick in, or at least that was how it felt. Two days in Washington had been a stupid idea. A knackering interruption to her training, not the relaxing jolly that had been sold to her. She could see why none of the others had wanted to go. She’d learned nothing, met no one of any value. Just a dreary round of mind-numbing presentations, tedious seminars, formal dinners, late-night sessions in the bar, fending off the advances of drunken marrieds who assumed, naturally, that their drawling American accents would be irresistible to any Brit.
It felt as if she’d had no sleep for days. She’d expected to be out cold on the return flight, but she’d slept fitfully, disturbed by the comings and goings of the flight attendants and the noisy family next to her.
She felt semi-conscious. She’d already alighted from the shuttle bus at the wrong stop and was having to trawl through the rows of vehicles, dragging her wheeled suitcase behind her, to wherever her own car was parked.
She’d planned to go back into work today, but that increasingly seemed like a bad idea. Everyone expected her to take the day off, anyway. All she wanted to do was head home and crawl into bed. Liam would be pleased, at least.
From somewhere close by, she heard the roar of an engine. That bloody van. It had reached the end of her row and was turning left, down towards where she was standing, its speed undiminished.
Instinctively, she stepped back, pulling her case with her, positioning herself between two parked cars. Joyriders, maybe, or some drunk. Either way, best avoided.
She moved back into the shadows, expecting the van to roar by. But just before it reached her, the driver braked hard. For a second, she thought the vehicle would skid, but the control was perfect. The van slammed to a halt just a few feet from her.
The driver’s door opened slowly and a figure, little more than a silhouette, leaned out. ‘In the back,’ the man said quietly. It was a command, and the object in his hand suggested he had the means of enforcing it.
What the fuck? She looked frantically around her. Moments before, as she’d watched the van careering round the edge of the car park, there’d seemed to be numerous other people making their way back to their cars. Now, suddenly, the place was deserted. Somewhere, across at the far edge of the car park, she could hear the churning of a car ignition, but that was no help to her.
‘In the back,’ the voice said again.
She stepped forwards, as though to obey, leaving her case and handbag on the ground behind her. Then, as she drew close to the van, she raised her right foot and kicked the driver’s door as hard as she could. It slammed shut, trapping the arm of the half-emerging figure.
‘Shit—’
She was already running, her head down, expecting gunfire at any moment. Instead, she heard the revving of the van’s engine and a squeak of tyres as it U-turned.
Where the hell was her car? In the half-light, all the vehicles looked similar, indistinguishable colours and shapes.
And then a further thought struck her.
Her keys. Her fucking keys. They were in her handbag.
She was running headlong now, with no idea what she was going to do. There was no point in trying to reach her car. Her only hope was that someone else would appear, someone who could help her.
She could hear the van’s engine coming up behind her. No longer speeding, but moving slowly, taunting her, knowing she couldn’t escape. There was nowhere to go. A high metal fence lined the car park perimeter. The entrance was half a mile away across the vast expanse of tarmac.
She stopped and turned, blinking in the van’s headlights until it pulled in alongside her. A head peered out from the passenger seat, the face invisible. A different voice.
‘Christ’s sake. You’re going nowhere. Just get in the back.’
She heard the sound of the driver’s door being opened, footsteps. She stood silently, gasping for breath, as a silhouetted figure emerged from behind the vehicle. He gestured her to step forwards, a pistol steady in his other hand.
‘Nice try. Hurt my bloody hand, though. Now don’t open your mouth; just get in the back.’
After only a moment’s hesitation, she obeyed both instructions.
‘And you’re sure you still want to go ahead?’ Winsor had asked, two months before.
‘Yes,’ Marie had replied confidently. Then, after a pause, ‘I think so, anyway. As best I can judge.’
He’d nodded approvingly and inscribed an ostentatious tick on the sheet in front of him. ‘Exactly the right answer,’ he said, a proud teacher commending a promising pupil. ‘Confident, but realistic. Just what we need.’
Patronizing git, she thought. Par for the course down here. She could live with it from the operational types. They might have been promoted to pen-pushing and desk-jockeying, but most had been through it. They had some idea of the front line.
Winsor was a different matter. He was a sodding psychologist, for Christ’s sake. Most of what he said was either blindingly obvious or plain wrong. Quite often both at once, remarkably. He was here on sufferance because they were supposed to give due consideration to the psychological well-being of officers. Winsor ticked a few boxes and showed that the Agency cared.
And yet here he was, passing judgement about her suitability for a job he probably couldn’t even imagine. Assessing her psychological equilibrium, she’d been told. Seeing whether she was really up to it, whether she could handle the unique pressures. In truth, though she doubted Winsor’s ability to assess her mental state, she knew the assessment was needed. This was a big deal. She wasn’t sure, even now, whether she really appreciated quite how big.
‘The main thing,’ Winsor said, unexpectedly echoing her thoughts, ‘is that you appreciate the magnitude of the challenge.’
Maybe he was better at this than she’d thought. ‘I’ve spoken to people who’ve done the job,’ she said. ‘Hugh Salter, for example.’
‘Ah, yes. Hugh.’ He spoke the name as if experimenting with an unfamiliar word. ‘Well, yes, Hugh was a great success in the role. For a long time.’ He left the phrase hanging, suggesting that he could say more.
She knew that Hugh had been withdrawn from the field eventually, but that was standard. No one did this forever. There’d been rumours about Hugh, but there were rumours about everyone. It was that kind of place. Whatever the truth, Hugh was still around, still apparently trusted. If she got through this, he was likely to end up as her contact. Her buddy, in his words, though that wasn’t how she’d ever describe him.
‘What did Hugh tell you?’ Winsor asked.
‘He said it was a challenge. Hard work. That it required certain qualities.’ She tried to recall exactly what Hugh had said. Nothing very coherent. She’d sought him out one evening when a group of them had been in the pub after work. Show willing, prepare for the selection process. But Hugh was already two or three pints ahead of her, and had mainly been interested in boosting his own ego. He was keen to let her know how difficult the job had been, how ill-suited she was likely to be to its rigours. Not because she was a woman, he’d been at pains to emphasize. That wasn’t the problem. The problem, she’d gathered, was that, like almost everyone else in the world, she just wasn’t Hugh Salter. Her loss.
‘What sort of qualities?’
‘Resilience,’ she said, though Hugh had offered nothing so succinct. ‘Attention to detail. Alertness.’ She paused, recognizing that she was trotting out clichés. ‘He said the main problem was the balancing act.’ She paused, trying to translate her memory of Salter’s semi-drunken ramble into something coherent. ‘Not just the obvious tension between the under-cover work and your home life. But the balance between the day-to-day stuff and the real focus of the work.’
Winsor looked up, showing some interest for the first time. ‘Go on.’
She paused, unsure how to render the phrase ‘fucking balls-ache’ in terminology acceptable to an occupational psychologist.
‘Well, it strikes me that it’s almost as if you’re leading a triple life. You spend a lot of the time building up the legend, making yourself credible in the right environments. Just getting on with the fictitious job. The real stuff – the intelligence gathering, the surveillance, all that – is only a small part of the picture, time-wise. So you end up doing a lot of stuff which is very mundane, but you can’t allow yourself to switch off, even for a moment.’ It wasn’t exactly – or even remotely – what Salter had actually said, but it was what she’d inferred from his beer-fuelled diatribe.
Winsor was nodding. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘That’s what most applicants fail to appreciate.’ He leaned forwards, as though sharing a treasured secret. ‘That’s one reason it’s so difficult to find suitable candidates. It’s not a question of ability. It’s a question of temperament.’ He waved his hand towards the open-plan office outside their small meeting room. ‘Not surprising, really. It’s a rare mix that we’re looking for, and probably even rarer in a place like this. You lot want excitement, the adrenaline rush. That’s why you all hate the form-filling.’
Winsor was wrong about that, she thought. It might be what attracted some of them in the first place, but the ones who stayed, the ones who progressed, were those who paid attention to the detail. That was what the job was about. Gathering data, analyzing the intelligence. The fucking balls-ache. Most likely, Winsor was the one hankering after excitement.
‘So what do you think the job needs?’ she said.
He riffled aimlessly through her file, as if that might provide the answer to her question. ‘As you say, a lot of it’s very mundane. We set it up, provide the background. But it’s up to the individual officer to make it work. And all the time you’re waiting for the opportunities, the chances to gather intelligence.’ He paused. ‘Most good officers can handle the pressure. It’s the boredom that does for them.’
She wondered whether he was talking about Salter. ‘So what do you reckon?’ she said, deciding she might as well cut to the chase. ‘Have I got the temperament?’
He didn’t answer immediately, but flicked again through the file, this time apparently searching for a particular document. She had no idea what was in the thick, buff-coloured folder. Her original application form. Annual performance appraisals. Results of her promotion boards. Perhaps other, more interesting material.
‘I think you just might,’ he said finally.
‘Have a look at this.’ He pushed the file across the desk towards her, holding it open. It was a printed form, incomprehensible to her, covered with Winsor’s own scrawlings.
‘It’s the results of the personality questionnaire you completed,’ he explained. ‘Each of these lines shows a continuum between the extremes of various personality traits. So, for example, whether you’re inclined to follow prescribed rules or do your own thing.’
‘Wouldn’t that depend on the rules?’
‘Yes, of course. And the context. But we’ve all got our preferences and inclinations. At the extremes, you get people who feel hidebound by any rules or direction, however reasonable, or people who feel uncomfortable breaking or bending a rule even when they recognize that it’s necessary.’
‘And where do I sit?’
He pointed at a pencil mark on one of the scales. ‘In that respect – as in most aspects, actually – you’re pretty well-balanced. Close to the middle of the scale, with just a small bias towards rule-breaking.’ He smiled, suggesting that this was some kind of psychologist’s in-joke.
‘And is that good?’
He shrugged. ‘As you say, it depends. But in this case, yes. That’s the balance we’re looking for. We don’t want someone who’s constantly in danger of going off-piste. But equally there’d be times when you’d need to improvise. We don’t want someone who’ll fall apart if they can’t apply the rule book.’
She nodded, her eyes scanning down the sheet in front of her. She could see broadly how the scales worked, but the terminology was opaque to her. ‘What about the rest of it?’
‘We’ve got a full debrief scheduled for this afternoon,’ he said. Marie decided that Winsor himself was probably rather closer to the compliant end of the spectrum. ‘I’ll go through it all in detail then. But on the whole it looks very satisfactory. You’re a pretty balanced individual.’ He picked up his pen and gestured down the column of scales. ‘Here, for example. You’re fairly affiliative, enjoy working with others. But equally you’re comfortable operating on your own when you need to. This is a role that depends on effective networking, building relationships, but you will also really have to work in isolation. Not many people are comfortable with both.’
‘No, I can see that.’ She squinted more closely at the paper. ‘What about these ones? Those look more extreme.’
Winsor leaned forwards, reading the form upside down. ‘Ah, now, that’s quite interesting. Those traits show how you deal with your emotions. Would you consider yourself an emotional person?’
She found herself slightly taken aback by the direct question. ‘I don’t know. Not particularly, I suppose. I suppose I’d see myself as – I don’t know – pragmatic. I just get on with things.’
It was difficult for her to answer the question. None of her colleagues would see her as emotional, she thought. But that was a point of principle. Whatever they might say publicly, some of her colleagues still held largely unreconstructed views of female officers. When she’d first joined, she’d been determined not to allow her femininity to be perceived, however unfairly, as a weakness. Whatever crap had been thrown at her – and there’d been plenty in those early days – she’d been determined just to take it. If she had a bad day she never let it show. That was nothing more than simple professionalism. It was what you did. Whatever might be going on outside of work, you didn’t bring it through the office door. It was a philosophy that many of her colleagues, male and female, failed to apply. She’d had a bellyful of supposedly macho senior officers who came in and simply unloaded the garbage that happened to be filling their own domestic lives.
But Marie found it hard to distinguish between this work persona and whatever reality might lie beneath. She never showed any strong emotions and, to be frank, she rarely seemed to feel them. Of course, like anyone else, she went through cycles of joy or gloom, she had good days and bad days. But these were variations around a relatively placid norm. When real adversity came around – when she and Liam had being going through a tough time, or when her parents had died, not entirely unexpectedly, within a few months of one another – she simply buckled down and got on with life. In other circumstances, she reflected, a psychologist like Winsor might see that as unhealthy. Now, he seemed positively enthused by the assessment.
‘If we look at these scales, you see, you come across as someone who keeps their emotions carefully in check. You’re very conscious of the image you project to others. Your inclination is to subordinate your own feelings to the job at hand.’
He was beginning to sound like a tabloid horoscope, she thought. ‘Those don’t necessarily sound like positive qualities.’
‘Well, again, it depends on the context. And if your responses were at the very extreme end of the scale, I’d have a concern. It might suggest an inability to cope with emotional issues. But this indicates simply a preference for control. Which in this role is important. It’s a very isolating job. If you’re faced with emotional issues, you have to be able to cope with them yourself. Of course, we keep an eye on agents out in the field, assess their well-being periodically. But we can’t provide too much support from the centre without risking compromising the operation.’
‘And you think I’d be up to it?’ She gestured towards the assessment form. ‘On the basis of that, I mean?’
‘Well, it’s impossible to be sure.’ He reached across and picked up the file. ‘It’s a fairly blunt instrument, this. And it can’t give us a definitive insight into the “real” Marie Donovan, whoever that might be. What it really tells us is how you see yourself and how you think others see you. But, for all that, I think, yes, that overall it does indicate that you’re likely to be suited to the job.’
Well, that was something, she thought. A fairly lukewarm endorsement, but an endorsement nonetheless. One hurdle climbed.
Winsor was still leafing aimlessly through her file. Finally, he paused and ran his finger carefully down one of the documents.
‘You’re unmarried?’
She nodded. ‘So far.’ This had been typical of Winsor’s style. Off-the-cuff, apparently random questions, but each one with a little hidden barb.
‘But you have a partner?’
She knew he already had the answer. When she’d joined the Agency, Liam’s background had been checked out as thoroughly as hers. A clause in her employment contract obliged her to inform her superiors if her domestic circumstances were to change. The way things were going with Liam, that clause might become relevant before long.
‘I live with my boyfriend,’ she said, ‘if that’s what you mean.’
‘And how does he feel about you applying for this role?’
That was the question, of course. How did Liam feel?
‘Well, he’s got concerns, of course. But he’s fully behind my career. If it’s what I want to do, he’ll support it.’ Which was all true as far as it went.
‘And your boyfriend,’ Winsor said conversationally, ‘what does he do? His job, I mean.’
‘He paints. He’s an artist.’
‘Ah.’ Winsor managed to invest a wealth of meaning into the single syllable. ‘Would I recognize his name?’
She smiled. ‘I don’t think so. Not yet.’
‘Well, perhaps one day.’ Winsor looked at his watch, as if he were already losing interest. ‘And what about you?’
‘Me?’ She wondered momentarily whether he was enquiring about her own artistic prospects.
‘Yes.’ Winsor was beginning to pack up his papers. ‘Why do you want the job? What made you apply for it?’
Another good question. She’d had an answer all prepared – opportunity for career development, new challenges, a desire to step outside her own comfort zone, all that kind of nonsense. But Winsor’s nonchalant query had, presumably as intended, caught her off guard and she found herself blurting out something closer to the truth.
‘I don’t know. I suppose I feel in a bit of a rut. A bit passive. Time’s getting on. The big three-oh next year. I just want something new. I want to take more control.’
He was barely looking at her, struggling to fit the stack of files into his briefcase. ‘At work or at home? The rut, I mean?’
She paused, aware now that she was saying more than she’d intended. ‘Work, I suppose. I’ve spent the last year doing intelligence analysis. Crunching data. Spotting patterns. It’s important work and I’m pretty good at it, though I say so myself. But I don’t think it’s making the most of my talents. I want a bit more control over what’s going on. I want to make things happen.’
He finally snapped shut his briefcase and looked up, his expression suggesting that he’d taken in nothing of what she’d been saying.
‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘Always good to take control. That’s very interesting. As I said at the start, this session isn’t really part of the formal interview process. I just like to have an informal discussion with candidates before I put together the detailed feedback on the psychometrics. Gives me a bit of context.’
And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything, Marie told herself. Winsor had protested just a little too much about the unimportance of their conversation. She hoped she’d struck the right balance – alert enough not to let anything slip, but not so tense that she seemed phony.
The whole thing had been like that. Two days of interviews and exercises. A traditional selection panel with four stern-faced senior officers asking a series of apparently random questions. A series of role-playing exercises, supposedly with other candidates, that had left her feeling slightly wrong-footed. She’d suspected from the start that not all the participants were genuine candidates. Some of them would be plants, there to observe or to throw additional spokes into the wheel. Or perhaps that was just paranoia. Either way, it felt like appropriate preparation for whatever this job might throw at her.
‘As I say, I’ll be giving you some formal feedback on the psychometrics this afternoon. After that, you’re free to leave. And we’ll be getting our heads together to make the decision. We should be able to let you know tomorrow.’
‘But you really think I’m in with a chance?’
Winsor looked momentarily embarrassed. ‘Well, I’m not in a position to say for sure. Obviously, it’ll be a collective decision. But, yes, on the basis of what I’ve seen, I think you’ve a very good chance.’
There was an expression in his eyes that she couldn’t read. As if, she thought, he couldn’t be sure whether or not he was giving her good news.
There was a bright light shining in her eyes, and she could make out no more than the outline of the man sitting opposite. So they weren’t afraid of clichés, she thought. An interrogation scene from an old war movie. We have ways of making you talk, Britisher.
It had been a surreal experience. At the airport, with the pistol held against her, she’d climbed into the back of the van. It had clearly been prepared to accommodate passengers, although the rear compartment was enclosed and windowless. There was a row of seats bolted to the chassis, and an interior light. All the home comforts you’d need if you were being kidnapped at the crack of dawn by a bunch of apparent lunatics. Behind her, she’d heard the sound of the rear doors being locked.
Her initial, instinctive reaction had been panic. That was why she’d tried to run, unthinking, her mind still fogged by lack of sleep. It was only when she’d seen the pistol pointing unwaveringly at her that she’d realized the truth.
It was a test, of course. A fucking exercise. Part of the training. If she’d been more awake, she might have expected it. Even the trip to Washington had probably been part of it. She’d seen it as an odd intrusion into her supposedly sacrosanct training schedule, and wondered why they’d been so keen for her to attend. The conference itself was genuine enough, of course. In fact, that was just bloody typical. The Yanks were keen to have a Brit there and had apparently funded her travel and expenses. The Agency had been its usual opportunistic self, killing two birds with one bloody great transatlantic rock.
The aim had been to destabilize her, presumably. She’d spent the last two months in character, preparing in a controlled environment for the experience of going under-cover. They were giving her an identify, a legend, that would enable her to blend unobtrusively into the local business community, building on the reputation established by her predecessor in the area. Their key targets were themselves local businessmen, running criminal networks in the shadow of apparently legitimate commercial operations. The plan was for her to work in the same shadowy hinterland.
She had become Marie Donovan, businesswoman, and had been coming to grips with the financial and legal implications of the mundane printing and reprographics franchise that she’d be taking over. She’d had dealings with the bank, with the solicitors, with the franchise owners. The ground had been prepared for her, but then she’d been on her own, a new starter still finding her feet. The business people she was dealing with no doubt thought she was an idiot, a would-be entrepreneur without a clue. But, from their responses, she guessed that they’d encountered such characters many times before: deluded halfwits who wanted to stick their life savings or redundancy pay in some ridiculous business fantasy. It was no real skin off their nose whether she succeeded or failed, so long as she had the necessary funding today.
But after the first stumbles, it hadn’t been too bad. She’d been surprised how quickly she got into character. She’d also been surprised at how quickly she’d begun to enjoy it. It was a new challenge, a new way of thinking. A whole new life.
That was why she’d been annoyed and bemused when they’d dragged her out of her preparations to attend that bloody conference. A last chance to be yourself, they’d said. Enjoy it. Right.
And now, after two days of being herself, they’d sprung this on her. She didn’t even know what game she was supposed to be playing. Presumably she was back in character, back to being Marie Donovan, tinpot entrepreneur. But if so, who were these jokers supposed to be?
‘We know who you are, Donovan,’ the figure behind the light said softly. ‘We know what you are.’
She knew she had to behave just like the fictional Marie Donovan would behave in these circumstances. Except of course that the fictional Marie Donovan, if she were real, would never find herself in these circumstances.
But how would she respond? Fear, of course, and bewilderment. But also anger. Donovan – the businesswoman Donovan – was as feisty as the real one, accustomed to battling her way through a man’s world. Even with a pistol being waved at her, she wouldn’t take any crap.
‘What the hell is this?’ she snapped. ‘Who are you people? You can’t just drag people off the street—’
‘We know what you are,’ the voice said again. ‘We know what your game is.’
‘I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about. How do you know my name?’ She allowed a small tremble to creep into her voice during the last sentence. Donovan might be feisty, but she’d still be terrified in this scenario, however much she might try to hide it.
The man behind the light was leafing through a sheaf of documents. She leaned forwards, peering, trying to see what he was doing, who he was. They’d blindfolded her when they’d taken her out of the van, and she’d seen nothing till the light had been shone into her face. She wondered whether she might recognize the voice. A colleague? Someone from the training team? She estimated that the van had driven for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, but she had no idea where they were, and she’d seen nothing that would give her any clues.
‘Just moving into the area,’ the man said. ‘Taking over a print franchise. Making your way in the world. What’s the story, then, love? Getting over a messy break-up, want a new start?’
‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘Though I don’t know what business it is of yours, or why you’ve been snooping into my private life. Who the fuck are you?’
This was more or less the legend that had been established for her. She’d split up with a partner down south, pretty acrimoniously, and was trying to start afresh up here.
‘Never mind me, love. More to the point, who the fuck are you? Who is Marie fucking Donovan?’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Haven’t you, love? Where’ve you been for the last couple of days?’
She hesitated, working through the implications of this. She’d been given no brief about how to play the American trip in relation to her supposed cover story. She hadn’t envisaged any overlap between the two. So the smart bastards were putting her on the spot. They’d set her up beautifully to trip over her own feet.
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘Just got back on the 7.05 arrival from Washington DC,’ the man said. ‘We watched you walk into the arrivals hall. Nice luggage.’ He made the last phrase sound mildly salacious.
‘You’ve been fucking following me?’
‘Question is,’ the man went on, ‘what were you doing taking time out, right in the middle of setting up this new business of yours? And why Washington?’
‘Who the hell are you?’ she said. ‘The provisional wing of the local enterprise agency? What’s this all about?’
‘Thing is,’ the man said, ‘we’re not sure you’re what you seem to be. We’re not sure your little story hangs together.’
‘What little story?’
‘This little tale of splitting up with your partner, making a clean break. All that bollocks.’
She began to rise to her feet. ‘I don’t know what you want. But you can’t just keep me here.’
‘We can do what we like, love, until we find out a bit more about you. We get nervous about people coming into our territory, you see.’
‘Your territory?’ she said. ‘What is this? The Wild fucking West? I’m buying a printing franchise, for Christ’s sake.’
‘So you say. It’s just that we’ve got an interest in that business of yours. It has a bit of history.’
She felt a sudden unease. The print franchise was an established business, used by a previous officer operating in the same area. She’d queried whether this was good practice, whether there was any risk that her predecessor had been compromised. She’d been told that, on the contrary, it made life easier. Simpler to take over an established business than to build one from scratch. And, far from being compromised, her predecessor had credibility as a wheeler-dealer who could supply goods – vehicles, people, documents – that others couldn’t. He’d been withdrawn from the field only because he was suffering from health problems. A recently-diagnosed heart condition, she’d been told. She was beginning to understand why that might be a problem in this line of work.
The story they’d put about was that he was taking early retirement, and that Marie was an associate in the same line of illegal business. That she was buying into more than just the print shop. All it needed was for her predecessor to effect a few introductions to the right people and she’d be off and running.
Shit, she thought. Maybe this wasn’t an exercise after all. Maybe it was for real.
If so, she couldn’t imagine that this was just their way of making the introductions, short-circuiting the usual social niceties by bundling her into the back of a sodding van. If this was for real, they’d already sussed out who she was. And that meant that she wasn’t likely to leave this place alive.
Jesus, what was she thinking? Of course it was just an exercise. She was allowing them to play with her head. This was another of Winsor’s fucking tests. Physical assault, threat, psychological torture. Let’s see how she copes with that little lot.
‘What history?’ she said. ‘What are you talking about?’
The man suddenly leaned forward, his features finally becoming visible to her. He was no one she recognized.
‘Don’t you understand, love? We know who you are. We know who you work for. Do you get it now, bitch?’
There was a venom in the final word that shocked her. Christ, she thought. I was right. It’s not a fucking exercise. She began to push herself to her feet, her mind racing.
‘I don’t—’
The man pushed the table violently against her, knocking her back into the seat. ‘Sit down.’ He leaned towards her, the pistol back in his hand. He was tapping the barrel gently against the tabletop as if he didn’t quite know what to do with the weapon. ‘You’re going nowhere. You’re going to tell me all about your undercover work. You’re going to tell me who else is undercover. You’re going to tell me who’s a grass. You’re going to tell me every fucking thing I want to know.’
‘Look, I really don’t—’
‘Know what I’m talking about. Change the record, love.’
She took a deep breath. She would say nothing. She thought – she hoped – that she’d have said nothing even if she believed that it might help secure her release. But these people weren’t going to release her. Not if they believed she was an undercover officer. Not now she’d seen this man’s face. She could feel herself on the verge of breaking down, but she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing that.
‘I don’t know who you think I am,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘But you’ve got the wrong woman. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
The man smiled and shook his head. ‘You’ve got bottle, I’ll give you that, darling. But you’ll talk in the end. You’d be surprised how persuasive we can be when we put our minds to it.’
As he spoke, she silently eased her chair back a few inches, giving herself room to move her legs. Then, suddenly, she thrust the chair back further and kicked out with both feet at the edge of the table, driving it back into the man’s groin. Immediately, she was on her feet, trying to force her way past him to the door.
It almost worked. Her aim had been perfect. The man doubled forwards in pain, momentarily losing his grip on the gun. She’d been unsure if there was anyone else standing behind him in the darkness, but there were only the two of them in the room. She was past him and already reaching for the door when he grabbed her wrist, pulling her savagely back round towards him.
‘Stop it, you stupid bitch.’ He grabbed her throat and forced her back hard against the wall. She was reaching for his face, trying desperately to claw at his eyes.
Behind them, she heard the sound of the door opening, and she knew that any chance she might have had was gone.
‘OK, Josh. That’s enough. I think we’ve seen what we needed to see.’
The man – Josh – loosened his grip, and she stared, baffled, at the figure standing in the doorway.
‘Not bad, sis. You did good.’
‘What the fuck, Hugh?’
Salter. Hugh fucking Salter. Grinning at the terror on her face and Josh’s testicular agonies. Not that she was wasting any sympathy on Josh, whoever the hell he might turn out to be. From the look on Josh’s face, the feeling was largely mutual.
‘Thought you’d got us sussed at first, sis. Thought you’d rumbled it was just a training exercise.’
‘I had. But your friend Josh there was just too convincing as a macho sexist bastard.’
‘Ah, well,’ Salter said. ‘He’s bloody good is our Josh. Mind you, he’ll need to keep his balls on ice for a few days. That’s quite a kick you’ve got there.’
Josh was still glaring at her. ‘Just fuck right off,’ he said. She assumed, perhaps over-charitably, that the words were aimed at Salter.
‘Bit of risk goes with the territory, mate,’ Salter said, still beaming. ‘Especially when you tangle with Marie Donovan, undercover officer.’
It was the closest Salter would ever come to acknowledging her success. But it was close enough for her.
‘What’s this all about, Hugh?’ she said.
‘Training exercise, like I say. Which you came through with flying colours. Sorry if Josh went a bit over the top, but we had to get to the point where you’d start to think it might be real. Up to that point – well, it was useful, because at least it showed us you could stay in character . . .’
‘Even at the crack of dawn after two days of just being myself?’
‘Quite so. And you did it well, but there was no real pressure. Not till Josh managed to get you questioning whether it might be real after all. Then we saw what you were made of. Josh in particular, I think.’
‘Christ, you don’t do things by halves, do you?’
‘Can’t afford to, sis. Look, this is what it’s going to be like. I mean, not like this – let’s hope not, anyway. But having to keep up the act even if you’re being challenged, even if you’re scared out of your wits. Having to improvise when things don’t go to plan. Having to remember which lies you’ve told and to whom.’
‘Jesus, Hugh, anyone suggested you get a job in sales?’
‘They like people who tell the truth, do they? But you’ll be all right, sis. If you can get through this lot, you’ll cope with anything the job can throw at you.’
‘I hope you’re right, Hugh. Because it doesn’t feel that way just at the moment.’
‘You did good, girl,’ Salter said again.
‘Well, thank you, Hugh.’ She turned and nodded to Josh. ‘And thank you, too, I suppose. You make a very convincing total bastard.’
She moved towards the door, wanting now just to be out of there, to be heading home. To be sleeping. The adrenaline had melted away, and she felt as exhausted as she had back at the airport. As she pulled open the door, she paused to look back at Salter.
‘In fact, you both do,’ she said. ‘You both make very convincing total bastards.’
Liam waved the bottle in her direction. ‘Want any more?’
‘No. You finish it. I’ve had enough.’ She drained the last dregs of the red wine, and climbed slowly to her feet. ‘I’m knackered,’ she said. ‘Think I’ll turn in.’
He poured the last of the wine into his own glass. ‘What time you off in the morning?’
‘Not too early. About eight, probably.’
‘We can have breakfast together before you go, then.’
‘If you’re up.’ She immediately regretted the response, which sounded more sarcastic than she’d intended.
‘I’ll be up,’ he said. ‘Want to see you before you go. One last time.’
‘It’s not forever, Liam. A month. Then I’m back.’
‘For a weekend. Then you’re off again. And so on. Maybe forever.’
She bit back her exasperation. ‘We’ve been through this, Liam. Dozens of times. It’s what I want to do. It’s a new challenge. It’s terrific experience.’
‘I know. I know it’s what you want. I’m not trying to stop you. I don’t have to like it, though.’
‘No, well, you’ve made it very clear that you don’t.’
‘You’ve said yourself, Marie. It’s risky. We’re having to live apart. You can’t expect me to like that. Or pretend to like it.’
She nodded. ‘OK. It’s not going to be easy. But we’ll get through it. They won’t let me stay out in the field for too long. No one does. A year. Eighteen months, max.’
‘Almost there already, then,’ he said. The tone was ironic, but he was smiling now at least.
‘Come to bed,’ she said. ‘It’s our last night. We ought to make it worthwhile.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Five minutes. I’ll just finish the wine.’
‘Don’t drink too much. I don’t want you incapable,’ she half-joked. ‘How are you feeling now, anyway?’
He shrugged. ‘Not so bad. Tired. Aching a bit. But I’ve been feeling better lately. Not so difficult walking.’
She looked at him, wondering what was going on in his mind. Whether he was really feeling better or just trying to make the best of things. Since he’d received the diagnosis, he’d become harder to read, more withdrawn. When she tried to talk about it, he just shrugged it off. There was nothing to say, he insisted. Maybe it would be all right, maybe it wouldn’t. All he could do was take each day as it came.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘But you don’t want me falling asleep on you.’
‘Certainly don’t.’ He raised the wine glass in her direction. ‘Here’s to you, Marie. Here’s to us. Here’s to the future.’
He sounded very slightly drunk, she thought. And there was no way to tell whether he was being sincere. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘To me. To us. To the future.’
Part Two Winter: Operational (#u6d48e3df-e606-5501-88b5-080e56020409)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_eb0777c5-6186-5d8a-b08a-bc3ea4fc0716)
They’d thrown open the large picture windows and a chill wind was gusting off the canal through the apartment, but the stench of blood was unavoidable. The young officer, Hodder, stood hesitantly in the kitchen doorway, trying to catch Salter’s eye. He looked faintly bilious.
After a moment, Salter thumbed off the mobile phone and looked up. ‘All OK, son?’ There was only a few years’ difference in their ages, but Salter categorized most colleagues as ‘son’, ‘mate’ or ‘guv’, depending on their relative rank. He was a tall angular man, his head shaved, his eyes staring disapprovingly at the world through narrow steel-rimmed glasses.
‘Didn’t want to interrupt,’ Hodder said. He gestured towards the phone. ‘Your sister?’
Salter stared at him, uncomprehending, then laughed. ‘No, just my little joke. One of our esteemed colleagues, Marie Donovan.’
‘Don’t know her.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ Salter said. ‘Covert. Deep cover.’
Hodder shook his head. ‘Don’t know how they do it,’ he said. ‘Months on end. Leading a double life. Must drive you bananas.’
Salter smiled. ‘It does, son. Take it from one who knows.’
Hodder blinked, suspecting he’d made a gaffe. ‘No offence. Didn’t realize you’d done it.’
‘Years of it. And, yes, it can leave you pretty messed up.’ He gazed impassively back at Hodder, as if daring him to take the conversation further. ‘How are things through there?’
‘They’re nearly done with the crime scene stuff. Just finishing up.’
‘About bloody time,’ Salter said. ‘Sooner we can all get out of this place the better.’
‘It’s a mess in there,’ the young man said. ‘Though they’ve taken the body out now.’ His expression suggested that this was a relief.
‘Thank Christ for that. This is a nasty one.’ Salter peered quizzically around, as if his words might apply equally to the compact kitchen in which they were standing. ‘Will hit the resale value, too. That living room’ll need completely stripping back.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘No consideration, those buggers. Still, Morton won’t care any more.’
He straightened as the scene of crime officer poked his head around the door, his eyes blinking under his protective headgear. Like a bloody tortoise waking from hibernation, Salter thought.
‘All done, Hugh,’ he said. ‘Yours to mess up.’
‘Beyond even my talents to mess this place up any further, mate,’ Salter said. ‘Anyway, I leave the detecting to you people these days.’
‘I was told you lot had commandeered the place. Ordered us plods to keep our size elevens out till you’d done the serious stuff. Imagine that went down well with the boss. No skin off my nose either way.’
‘That right?’ Salter shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me, mate. You know me, always happy to help out the local coppers.’
‘And up yours as well, former DI Salter,’ the other man said cheerily. ‘You deserve this fucking lot.’
‘No one deserves this lot,’ Salter said. ‘Not even me.’
He followed the SOCO back into the living room. The smell of blood had been strong in the kitchen. Here, despite the open windows, it was almost overwhelming.
‘Jesus.’ Salter looked around. There was a large congealing pool of blood in front of the white leather sofa, further smears and splatters around the walls, across the furniture. Everywhere. Another officer was crouched by the door, carefully packing away the remaining equipment. ‘What’ve you found?’
‘Plenty of DNA,’ the SOCO said. ‘Most of it’s the victim’s, though, and I imagine you already know who he is.’ There was an unmistakable undertone of irony.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll share the good news with you in due course, I’m sure. Anything else?’
‘Reckon there was a woman here, too. In the bed.’
‘You can tell that from the DNA already? That’s impressive.’ Salter was peering vaguely around the room, giving a convincing impression of disinterest.
‘No. Smell of perfume on the sheets. Unless your man was into Versace or whatever it is.’
‘Anything’s possible, mate.’ Salter looked up, as if he’d only just realized he was engaged in a dialogue. ‘A woman, eh? Lucky sod.’ He gazed back at the bloodstains on the sofa. ‘Well, not so lucky, I suppose. What do we think happened to her? Was she part of this?’
‘Like you say, Hugh, anything’s possible. Or maybe she’d buggered off before all this happened. Maybe he’d already got what he paid for.’
‘Jesus, you like to think the worst of people, don’t you?’
‘Goes with the territory.’ The SOCO was losing interest, recognizing that Salter had no intention of sharing any information. ‘Anyway, we’ve plenty of stuff, but it’ll take some work to sort it all out.’ He paused, before making one last effort. ‘Strikes me as a professional job.’
Salter was peering at the pool of blood. ‘Messy one if so,’ he said, non-committal.
‘That’s your trouble,’ the SOCO said. ‘Once you start talking, there’s no stopping you.’
Salter smiled and then raised his eyebrows as the shrill note of the front doorbell sounded through the flat. ‘Saved by the bell,’ he said. ‘Sounds like the big guns have arrived to take over from us minions.’ His tone suggested that he included himself in the last group only as a matter of courtesy.
The two SOCOs took the hint and picked up their cases. Salter followed them out into the hallway. Hodder was already opening the front door.
‘Gentlemen.’ The man on the doorstep was a squat, rumpled-looking figure, probably in his early fifties, his grey hair swept back in an ineffectual attempt to hide an increasing baldness. Despite his dishevelled appearance, he carried an air of confident authority.
‘Guv,’ Salter acknowledged. By contrast, his own brand of cocky superiority suddenly appeared slightly gauche.
The older man peered at the two SOCOs, his expression suggesting that, though he hadn’t met them before, he would remember them in future.
‘Keith Welsby,’ he said. He gestured towards Salter. ‘From the Agency, like my colleague here.’ Somehow he succeeded in conveying the relative seniority of his own role compared with Salter’s. ‘All done?’
The lead SOCO nodded. ‘On our side, sir.’
‘Thanks very much, then. We’ll be in touch in due course.’ He was still holding open the front door, and the tone of dismissal was unmistakable. The SOCOs needed no further prompting.
Welsby closed the front door behind them, and then turned slowly back to Salter and Hodder. ‘Right, lads,’ he said, his face expressionless. ‘So what the fucking fuck’s been going on here, then?’
Chapter 3 (#ulink_9a237b72-172d-5ac1-92ab-2e7625e44c8d)
Her head aching, her mind still in some other place, Marie Donovan sat at her large wooden desk, trying to smile at the young man opposite. She hadn’t chosen the office furniture herself and it was all too imposing for her taste. Perched in the leather swivel chair, the young man looked like a mouse caught in a boxing glove.
‘It’s still not right, is it, Darren?’ she said at last, knowing that she had to go on with all this, despite everything. She glanced down again at the document. She was trying to find the right words. With Darren, she was always trying to find the right words. Simple ones, that he could follow.
‘Darren?’ she prompted.
He blinked. ‘Miss?’
‘It’s Marie,’ she said. ‘You can call me Marie.’ Christ, she thought, it’s as if he’s never left school. She imagined he’d been the same there – meek, compliant, fundamentally useless. ‘I was saying that we still haven’t got the printing right here, have we?’
‘I did my best, miss.’
‘Marie,’ she repeated. ‘I’m sure you did, Darren. But you need to concentrate. Let’s have a look at this, shall we?’ She held up the printed document. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
Darren gazed at the handful of sheets, a brief shadow of panic crossing his face in response to the direct question. He leaned forwards and squinted. ‘It’s a bit blurred,’ he offered finally.
She nodded. ‘It’s very blurred. You let the original move while it was printing. OK, what else?’
Darren looked dismayed that the inquisition was not yet finished. ‘Um. It’s a bit, well, wonky.’
‘It’s very wonky,’ she agreed. ‘You didn’t square up the originals. Anything else?’
He gazed silently at the document, then back up at her. The look of panic had returned. ‘Miss?’
She leaned forwards and picked up the paper again. ‘It’s printed on both sides of an A3 sheet, right?’ She paused. ‘A big sheet.’ She stretched it out to show him exactly what a big sheet looked like when it was stretched out. ‘And each side is divided into two halves?’
Darren was staring at her now with an expression of abject misery. She’d lost him at the first mention of paper size.
‘OK,’ she went on, ‘so it’s a big sheet that’s supposed to be folded in half to make a four-page A4 – that’s a littler sheet – booklet.’ She carefully folded the sheet to demonstrate. ‘Like that, see?’
Darren made no response. Knackered as she was, she was momentarily tempted to lean over the desk and give him a violent shake. She had a fear that she might actually hear what passed for a brain rattling around in his skull.
‘So that means,’ she persisted, ‘that both sides need to be printed the same way up. Right?’ She was determined not to be deflected now. ‘Otherwise some of the pages will be printed upside down. Right?’
A glimmer of light shone in Darren’s eyes. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You don’t want pages to be upside down.’
She unfolded the sheet and spread it carefully in front of him. ‘OK,’ she said slowly, ‘so, now turn that sheet over and tell me what’s wrong with it.’
She had expected him to turn the sheet over left to right, or possibly right to left. Instead, he grasped the sheet carefully between his finger and thumb and turned it over top to bottom. He stared at the upright print in front of him, and then looked up at her, his eyes bright with welling tears. ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ he said at last. ‘I can’t see anything wrong with it.’
She could think of nothing to say. She peered over Darren’s shoulder through the glass partition that separated her office from the rest of the print room. Her assistant Joe was busily working at the large reprographic machine, his eyes determinedly fixed away from their direction.
‘Tell you what, Darren,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you speak to Joe? Get him to show you how it should be done.’
Darren nodded, his face brightening at the prospect of escape. ‘Thanks, miss. I will.’ He rose, almost falling over the chair in his eagerness to leave the office.
‘Marie,’ she said through gritted teeth, as the office door closed behind him. ‘It’s Marie. Fucking Marie.’
She shouldn’t drag it out. She should sack him now before it was too late, before he’d been working there long enough to have employment protection. She should sack him before she was tempted to kill him. She wasn’t a social worker. She was a businesswoman.
Except, of course, that she wasn’t. That was the whole trouble. She was only pretending to be a businesswoman. Doing a pretty good job of it, some would say, managing to expand the business in the face of a recession. But still only playing.
And if she was only playing, she might as well help out someone like Darren along the way. She knew Darren’s type from her early days as a policewoman. Disadvantaged. In Darren’s case, disadvantaged in virtually every possible way – socially, parentally, intellectually, physically. Without even the gumption to get himself into trouble. But that wouldn’t stop someone else getting him into it. Someone a bit smarter, more confident, more streetwise. Which narrowed it down to almost anyone else in the world. Someone would take advantage of Darren, exploit him for their own purposes, set him up, and leave him swinging gently in the wind when things went wrong.
Maybe she could delay all that by a year or two if she kept him employed here. The only risk was that she might end up murdering him herself in the meantime. Particularly on a day like today. After everything that had happened.
She was distracted by the buzz of her mobile phone on the desk. A text, apparently a routine domestic message: Running a bit late. See you 6.30. Just to remind her, in case she might have forgotten, today of all days, that all this – the business, the print shop, Darren and the rest – wasn’t really what it was all about.
She rose casually and fumbled in her jacket pocket for the other mobile phone. Not the one she’d used hours before, in her hopeless call to the emergency services. The customized one that was left switched off until she needed it. She switched it on now.
She dialled the familiar number and then, with the usual mild embarrassment, went through the authorization process – another anodyne code phrase. Salter’s voice, at the end of the line, gave the appropriate coded response.
‘Good to hear your voice, sis.’ Salter’s little joke. They were supposed to converse as if in some non-intimate relationship. At some point, Salter had decided that he was going to be her brother. Somehow, even as cover, that felt intrusive, but there was little she could do about it now.
‘Hello there, Hugh,’ she said. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t supposed to use his real forename, but she’d done so as soon as he’d started to call her ‘sis’. With any luck, it would help the other side track the bugger down more easily.
‘Afraid it’s bad news, sis.’
She felt an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. Up to now, she’d been living on hope, clutching at the pitifully thin straws she’d tried to conjure up in the dark hours of the morning. Waiting on a miracle. She hadn’t dared return to Jake’s flat, or even try his phone line. Partly because now she couldn’t risk being linked to whatever might have happened there. But mainly because she knew, in her heart, that there would be no reply.
‘We’ve had a death in the family,’ Salter went on. ‘Thought you ought to know.’
‘A death?’ She held her breath for a moment, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Whose death?’
‘It’s J, I’m afraid,’ Salter said. She could read nothing into his tone. ‘Out of the blue.’
Quite suddenly, she’d run out of words. She held the phone away from her face, breathing deeply, trying to hold herself together. ‘I don’t understand, Hugh,’ she said finally. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say, sis. Poor old J’s dead. Dead as the proverbial fucking doornail, I’m afraid.’
She bit back her first response, feeling bile at the back of her throat. There was a note in his voice she’d never heard before, something that leaked through the veneer of cynicism. He’s pissed off, of course, she thought, that’s part of it. But there was something more.
She spoke slowly, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Hugh, stop playing games. What’s happened?’
‘What I say, sis. J’s dead. Taken in the night. Unexpectedly. Not an easy death, from what I understand. He suffered before the end.’
She lowered herself slowly back down on her office chair, not entirely trusting her legs to support her. Her mind suddenly felt clear, as if she’d been dragged somewhere beyond emotion. ‘Suffered?’
‘Yeah, it’s a bastard. A real bastard. Even that bugger didn’t deserve it.’
She could feel herself clamming up, just wanting to get away from all this. This conversation. This job. This fucking life.
‘Yeah, it’s a bastard, Hugh. So is there anything you want me to do about it?’
There was another pause. ‘He was one of yours, wasn’t he, sis?’
She held her breath again, concentrating, trying to ensure that she gave nothing away. ‘I put his name forward, Hugh, that’s all. Nobody forced him to be an informant.’
‘No, suppose not, sis. Sad to see him go.’ There was no obvious sincerity in his tone. ‘Leaves us in a bloody hole as well. Anything you can do to help will be much appreciated, I’m sure.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, Hugh.’ She cut off the call, aware she was in danger of losing control. She didn’t know what her next reaction would have been – grief at Jake’s death, at the fucking manner of his demise. Tears at her own guilt and impotence. Blind fury at Salter’s smug irony. Whichever, it wouldn’t have been pretty. Now, she sat in silence, staring through the glass partition to where Joe was still patiently taking Darren through the intricacies of the reprographics machine.
It wasn’t her fault. Yes, she’d been the one who’d suggested Jake as a possible informant. But, like she’d said, no one had compelled him to go along with it. He’d had his own reasons. She knew he’d wanted out, that he was sick of the endless brown-nosing to Kerridge and Boyle and their crowd. That was the saddest thing – that Jake probably really thought he was doing a public duty by grassing up Boyle.
She’d known that. She’d judged it just right, known that when they came along with the offer he’d be ripe for the picking. That was what the job was about: spotting the talent. And it didn’t always go right. Sometimes there were casualties.
And sometimes the casualties were lovers.
She knew that at any moment Joe or Darren would glance in this direction and that, when they did, she had to appear normal. A businesswoman struggling with nothing more traumatic than keeping this bloody enterprise afloat in the face of a howling recession.
Calmer now, her mind focused on the image she wanted to project, she opened the office door. Joe nodded and walked across to her, leaving Darren fumbling, apparently aimlessly, with the controls of the machine.
‘Kid’s bloody useless,’ he murmured under his breath. ‘You know that, don’t you? We should cut our losses and sack him before it’s too late.’
‘He’s just a boy, Joe. Give him a chance.’
Joe shrugged. ‘You’re the boss. But you can be too soft, you know?’
‘Take it from me, Joe,’ she said, ‘that’s not one of my failings.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_7b56a21c-e238-51d4-b01a-565625233cdf)
From somewhere in the next room, Marie could hear the shrill sound of her mobile.
She eased her body down into the hot water and tried to ignore the insistent tone. She contemplated, just for a moment, allowing her head to dip below the surface to enjoy the underwater silence. She fought the temptation to stay down there, hold her breath, let the silence become permanent – though the truth was she could think of worse ways to end it all.
It was a strange bloody paradox, this. Here she was, supposedly out on her own, cut off from all contacts. And she still couldn’t get any peace and quiet.
She closed her eyes and breathed out as the phone finally fell silent. It was a temporary respite, she knew. The call would have gone to voicemail. Liam would leave a message. And then the voicemail would begin its automatic callback, another three bloody blasts of that impossible-to-ignore sodding ringtone.
That was Liam as well, that bloody ringtone. He’d set it up as a supposed joke, a couple of months back during one of her weekends at home. Some pop hit that she hadn’t recognized. She’d no idea what it was and hadn’t taken the trouble to find out, but she assumed – based on previous experience – that it represented some private joke at her expense. Her more knowledgeable work colleagues – possibly even Darren in this instance – no doubt amused themselves whenever her phone rang.
Liam knew he wasn’t supposed to call her on this number. That it wasn’t secure and that his calls could compromise her position. But of course it had been Liam calling. It was always Liam at this time of the evening, and that was another problem.
Every evening, she shut the shop at six, spent half an hour or so catching up with the paperwork, or perhaps redoing whatever task had been allocated to Darren that afternoon. Then she headed back to her flat, getting in at around seven or so. Whatever else she might have planned for the evening – and that was generally work of one sort or another – she tried to create some space for herself, an hour or so without commitments.
Very often, as tonight, that involved running herself a very hot bath, pouring herself a large glass of red wine and digging out some not-too-demanding book or magazine in which she could briefly lose herself. And almost equally often, again as tonight, as soon as she lowered herself into the scalding, scented water, she heard the insistent sound of the mobile from the next room.
She closed her eyes as the ringtone sounded once more. Tonight, of all nights, Liam was the last person she wanted to speak to. She wanted to cut herself off, put the real world on hold. Forget what she was doing, what she was involved in.
What she had done to Jake.
She kept telling herself that Jake had known exactly what risks he was taking. And that, last night, she’d done what she could. If she’d tried to do more, she’d be dead herself.
Even so, as she’d told Salter, it didn’t feel good. Just at the moment, it felt fucking awful. It wasn’t even that she was overwhelmed with grief. She kept expecting that it would hit her – the real emotion, the full sense of loss. But it hadn’t, not really. She felt horror at what must have happened to Jake. She felt fury at those who had done it, and even more, at those who had paid for it to be done. She felt anxiety about her own possible exposure.
But there was a numbness, a dead spot, at the heart of her response. When it came to Jake himself, when it came to the simple fact that Jake was gone, she felt – what? Sorrow. Regret. Loss. But nothing like the depth or strength of emotion she’d expected.
She knew all the emotional clichés. She could envisage exactly what Winsor or the counsellors back at the Agency would say if she were ever in a position to share her feelings. That she was in shock. That she hadn’t yet accepted the reality of Jake’s death. That she had to work through all the fucking stages of grieving. And maybe that was all true. But, for the moment, it didn’t feel that way. It felt like Jake had been a good friend – good company, a good laugh, pretty good in bed – and that now he was gone. The world hadn’t ended. But Jake had left town, and he wouldn’t be coming back.
Christ, she didn’t know what she felt. When she’d embarked on the affair, she knew she was putting both of them at risk. It had been a few months of madness. She’d have ended it soon, whatever happened. It had been a fling – fun, dangerous, exhilarating, doomed. Why should she be surprised that, in the end, such turbulent waters turned out to run shallow?
Beyond the door, the ringtone trilled on. Finally losing patience, she skimmed her magazine across the bathroom floor so that it crashed like a wounded bird against the white-tiled wall. Cursing Liam, she dragged herself out of the water and reached for a towel. Still naked, trying to dry her body as she hurried out of the bathroom into the living room, she picked up the phone. Inevitably, just as she touched it, it fell silent.
She threw the towel around her shoulders and looked at the display. Two missed calls. The first number, sure enough, was Liam’s. The second, though, wasn’t the voicemail service she’d expected, but another mobile number. The number wasn’t one she recognized. If it was important, she thought, the caller would leave a message. Most likely, it would be a wrong number or a cold call. In any case, her instinct now was to let others do the running. If someone had a job, she could be found.
She was still holding the phone when it rang again. Liam’s number. She thumbed on the phone and spoke before he could. ‘I’ve told you not to use this number.’
‘And a good evening to you,’ Liam said. ‘You’re answering now, are you?’
‘Yes, and I shouldn’t be. I’ll call you back.’
Before he could object, she disconnected and fumbled in her handbag for the other mobile. She ought to stop and put on some clothes, she thought. The bedroom was warm enough, but she preferred not to be at any disadvantage when talking to Liam. But if she delayed he’d just call back again on the original line.
It took her a moment to switch on the phone and dial Liam’s number. She expected him to be irritated, but he sounded only resigned.
‘On the right phone now, then?’ he asked. ‘Important to get these things straight.’
She paused, mentally counting to ten. ‘It’s not a game, Liam. I don’t do these things for fun.’
‘You can say that again,’ he said. ‘Though Christ knows why else you do them.’
‘To make a bloody living, Liam,’ she said patiently. Almost immediately, she regretted the words.
‘Because I don’t, you mean?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Liam . . .’
‘How much have I made this month? Sold two pictures. Hundred quid each. Not bad. Just remind me how much the mortgage is again?’
‘That’s not the point. You know I’ve always been happy to support your painting. You’ve got real talent . . .’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. And what happens when I can’t paint?’
This was a topic she always tried to steer away from. It was unproductive, pointless. And the last thing she needed today. ‘Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Liam.’
‘I’m not being melodramatic. I’m being realistic. It’s a degenerative disease. I’m going to degenerate. Maybe later, maybe sooner. But eventually.’
And in the meantime you can wallow in the prospect, she thought, though she knew how unfair she was being. They were very different people. Her instinct was to avoid trouble, not face it till she was compelled to. Liam’s was to embrace it head-on. But she knew that he was pragmatic, not indulgent. And this was his trouble, not hers.
‘You don’t know that,’ she responded feebly. ‘You can’t know that. And, anyway, eventually could mean decades . . .’
‘Yeah, thanks for that,’ he said. ‘I feel much better now.’
‘Oh, Jesus, Liam . . .’ She’d lost it, she knew that. It was stupid even to be having this conversation. She took a breath and tried to start again. ‘Anyway, how’ve you been?’
There was a hesitation which made her wonder what he wasn’t saying. ‘OK. Not so bad.’
‘Are you all right?’ she pushed him.
She could almost hear him mulling over his reply, wondering whether to make another semi-joking bid for martyrdom. ‘Yeah, I’m all right. I’m fine. Really.’
‘Have you been back to the doctor?’
‘Not yet. I will.’ He was beginning to sound tetchy.
‘Liam, is it getting worse?’
‘Christ, Marie, how do I know? No, it’s not, not obviously. But it’s never been bloody obvious, has it? Not yet.’ For a moment, she thought he’d ended the call. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘I imagine all kinds of things. But that’s probably all it is. There’s no way of knowing till it happens.’
‘Go back to the doctor,’ she said. ‘See what she says.’
‘You know what she’ll say. Nothing. What can she say?’
It was true. They’d had the diagnosis, and that was unequivocal. Multiple sclerosis. He’d had the scan. They’d been shown the images, the lesions in his brain. Had it all carefully explained. There was no doubt. The only question was how far the disease had progressed. Was it still in the remitting stage, where the symptoms could still come and go? Or was it in the progressive phase, where the likelihood was an inexorable, if possibly slow, decline? The distinction, the neurologist had told them, was not always clear-cut, and Liam’s condition seemed to be on the cusp. That was what she’d said, but Marie had suspected that her eyes, professionally expressionless, had intimated a different story.
‘She’ll give you a view. About whether it’s getting worse.’
‘I don’t need a view. I’ll know if it’s getting worse.’
She couldn’t tell whether the future tense was euphemistic. ‘At least get it checked out.’
‘If it keeps you happy.’
‘It’ll reassure me, anyway,’ she said.
‘Just as long as you care.’ The tone was ambiguous. ‘Anyway, you’ve got better things to do than talk to me. I’ll let you go.’
She knew he didn’t mean it, that he wanted to keep talking, but she could feel her self-control draining away. ‘Look, I’ll call you tomorrow. Same time?’
‘Whenever you’ve got a moment.’
‘Same time,’ she confirmed. She began to mutter some half-hearted endearment, but he’d already ended the call. Dear God, why did she bother? They hadn’t even made the effort to get married before they’d reached this state. She didn’t know what she felt for Liam any more than she’d known what she felt for Jake. With Liam she really had believed, once, that it was love. Now, it just felt like an old habit, not quite abandoned, but increasingly buried under layers of semi-serious recrimination and bickering.
She shivered suddenly and realized that she was sitting with only a towel around her shoulders, her body still damp from the bath. The window blinds were open, and she’d probably brightened the day for some old man or pubescent teenager in the flats opposite. Either that, or traumatized some busy-body who’d be penning a shocked letter to the Residents’ Association. The way things were going, she could guess which was more likely.
Welsby was out on the balcony, chain-smoking, watching the pale sun sinking over the quays and the industrial landscape of Trafford Park. He’d left Salter and Hodder inside, systematically working through the flat. Salter had obviously expected him to lend a hand, but Welsby reckoned that was one of the privileges of rank. Not having to spend any more time than necessary breathing in the stench of stale blood.
‘All right?’ Salter said from behind him, the note of irony in his voice more or less concealed. ‘Sir?’
‘Not so bad,’ Welsby acknowledged, without looking round. ‘Getting a bit parky out here, though.’ He gestured towards the dominant bulk of Old Trafford on the far side of the canal. ‘And I could do without having to stare at the theatre of bloody dreams. Nearly finished?’
Salter sat himself down opposite Welsby. ‘Getting there. I’ve left the youngster to finish off.’
‘Aye, well, you deserve a break.’ Welsby stretched out his legs and eased back against the chair. ‘Mind you, your arse’ll get numb if you spend too long out here.’ He waved a packet of cigarettes towards Salter.
Salter shook his head. ‘Giving up,’ he explained.
‘Again? Your bloody trouble, Hugh – no willpower. Some of us are properly committed.’
‘Don’t imagine my lapse will be too protracted,’ Salter said. ‘Not if I have to deal with many more fuck-ups like this one.’
Welsby nodded, his eyes fixed on the last gleaming dregs of the setting sun. ‘That’s the phrase I’ve been searching for,’ he said. ‘Fuck-up. Trust you to find the mot juste.’
‘My literary background, sir. The real question, though, is who fucked up?’
‘That’s the question, right enough. Suggests we’re not quite as watertight as we’d like to think.’ Welsby dropped his cigarette butt and ground it under his heavy black shoe. ‘Which is interesting.’
‘One word for it,’ Salter said.
‘Ah, well. I lack your literary background. CSE in metalwork, that’s my limit.’
‘Very practical, guv. I don’t like the idea that we’re not secure, though.’
Welsby was lighting up another cigarette, hand cupped around the guttering flame with practised skill.
‘Well, start getting used to it,’ he said finally. ‘Or, better still, start finding out who’s leaking.’
‘Not many of us knew about Morton,’ Salter pointed out. ‘Not officially, anyway.’
Welsby shrugged. ‘Internally, we’re a bloody sieve,’ he said. ‘I reckon nearly everyone had wind of this. Not necessarily the details. But the fact that we’d got a key bloody witness. Talk of the building.’
‘You reckon?’ Salter leaned forwards, his gangling limbs splayed awkwardly. ‘Whoever did this had more than office gossip.’
‘Too right they did.’ Welsby took a deep final drag on his latest cigarette, then tossed it disdainfully in the approximate direction of the canal. ‘We couldn’t organize a nun-shoot in a bloody nunnery.’
‘They knew what they were doing,’ Salter mused. ‘Morton wasn’t short on security. They knew where the alarms were. Knew how to disable them. As for what they did to Morton – well, maximum pain for minimum effort, I’d say. Pros. Top of the range pros.’
‘You get what you pay for,’ Welsby observed. ‘So who was paying them? And how did they find out Morton was our man?’
‘Maybe Morton slipped up. Wouldn’t be the first grass to have shot his mouth off inadvisably.’
‘Can’t really see it. Morton struck me as a degree or two smarter than the average grass. Still, it’s a line we can peddle. Generate enough smoke to make sure our own arses are covered. But this is still fucking embarrassing.’ He paused, and began to fumble painstakingly for another cigarette. Finally he looked up. ‘How’s it going, son?’
Salter looked over his shoulder, alerted by the change in tone. Hodder was hovering expectantly by the open windows.
‘Just about done,’ he said brightly. He’d tackled the task of searching a blood-drenched house with as much enthusiasm as an ambitious young officer could muster.
‘Found anything?’ Welsby scrutinized the young man with an expression that indicated a pre-emptive scepticism of anything he might be about to say.
‘Not to speak of,’ Hodder admitted. ‘There’s a laptop. Some official-looking papers, a notebook of some sort. And there’s Morton’s wallet.’ He enumerated the list as if he had committed it carefully to memory. ‘That’s about it.’
‘What about this mystery woman?’
‘No signs. Certainly not anybody living in. Maybe somebody he picked up for the night. If so, it’s possible she was in on it, I suppose. Gives a whole new dimension to the phrase “get lucky”, doesn’t it?’
‘If you say so, son. You’ve been through the rooms thoroughly?’ Welsby’s question was addressed as much to Salter as Hodder.
Salter nodded. ‘Proper job. Best we can with just the two of us, anyway.’ He placed only the faintest emphasis on the number. ‘I can’t absolutely swear there’s nothing in there, but if there is, Morton hid it bloody well.’
Welsby pulled himself slowly to his feet. ‘You never know,’ he said. ‘Glass half-full, that’s me. Might be something on that laptop.’
Salter rose awkwardly, straightening his long limbs with the air of a baby deer trying to walk for the first time. ‘Morton was holding stuff back all right, but I reckon he was too smart to keep it here.’
Welsby stood, staring down at the grey waters of the canal, his crumpled face giving no clue to his thoughts. ‘Probably. And even if there was something, that bunch will have got it out of him. You don’t do that much damage to someone for fun.’ He paused, taking one more look around him, and then began to make his way back into the flat. ‘Well, not just for fun, anyway,’ he added.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_4b0d0bb6-8893-52d0-8475-1222e036556a)
Marie was momentarily tempted to pull into one of the several unoccupied spaces reserved for disabled drivers, but decided against it. The last thing she needed was more guilt, let alone the risk of being clamped. Instead, she parked as close as she could to the entrance, and then sprinted across the car park, pulling her coat tight against the pounding rain. She reached the hotel with her head and upper body soaked, rain oozing coldly down her collar. Jesus, she thought, and all those bloody disabled spaces standing empty.
It was Liam she was thinking of really, of course. Liam who would be perfectly entitled to park in those spaces. Liam and his condition, and the unknown, unknowable prognosis. She had a superstitious half-belief, barely acknowledged even to herself, that if she didn’t tempt fate, everything might be all right. Whatever all right might turn out to mean.
She stood in the reception, dripping rainwater gently on to the thick pile carpet. It was the usual sort of place; an anonymous, soulless business hotel, suitably mid range, conveniently positioned minutes from the M60. There were a dozen or more such venues, scattered around the city centre and the suburbs, catering to sales executives, visiting middle managers, off-site business meetings. Comfortable enough, with all the right facilities, but nothing too flash. They rotated the meetings around the various hotels, trying to ensure that they didn’t become too familiar to the reception staff. It wasn’t difficult. Most were transient youngsters, generally from Eastern Europe, here to make a few bucks before moving on or returning home. If she came back to the same venue six months later, the faces would all have changed. No one would remember who she was, or why she’d been there before.
‘Ms Donovan,’ she said to the bored-looking receptionist. ‘Small meeting room.’ She gave the company name. The receptionist smiled momentarily in a manner that suggested that she had, at least, received some instruction in how to greet customers, and began to thumb listlessly through a card index. Finally, as if in testament to her own considerable efforts, she triumphantly held up Marie’s reservation. ‘Meeting room for three,’ she confirmed. ‘Coffee at nine thirty and eleven. No lunch.’ Her tone on the last words suggested disapproval of Marie’s parsimony.
She collected the card key and made her way to the first floor. A small meeting room in this kind of place meant, in effect, a semi-converted bedroom – a fold-up bed disguised as a wardrobe, an imported table and office chairs. Coffee with a plateful of overpriced biscuits. Branded writing pads and pens. A bottle of water refilled from the tap.
She walked to the window. A view of the rear car park, a retail park, a cluster of trees half-concealing the M60 busy with the morning traffic. Anytown, UK.
As far as Joe and Darren were concerned, she was out seeing a client. She’d cultivated a routine of visiting the major clients at their offices. It was good business – they appreciated the personal touch. And it gave her the freedom she needed to pursue this double life.
She supposed she was being accorded some kind of privilege here. Normal practice was that she maintained contact only with Salter. Salter was her liaison officer. Her buddy or minder, as he would say. They had a regular schedule of meetings, once a month in venues like this – to touch base, share information, chew the fat, make sure she wasn’t losing her marbles.
Salter was her sole conduit back to the Agency. When operations were compromised, it wasn’t usually because of smart counter-intelligence. It was generally because someone had screwed up or, even more likely, had been accidentally exposed – recognized as a face from way back, spotted somewhere they shouldn’t be. She’d already had the experience herself, eyeballed by the sister of some small-time villain she’d put away years ago. She’d seen the woman staring at her, trying to work out if it really was Marie, gearing herself up for an altercation. Marie had passed swiftly on, eyes fixed on some window display, disappearing into the crowd before the woman could collar her.
So they kept the risks to a minimum. That was why today was unexpected. It was scheduled as one of her routine liaison meetings with Salter. Last night she’d had a call from Salter, through the usual channels, to say that Welsby would be joining them. Salter had been his usual semi-cryptic, game-playing self, but she’d gathered that the purpose was to discuss Jake Morton.
She wondered whether she should worry about that. But there was no reason why anyone should know about her and Jake, and every reason why Welsby might want to talk to her about the case. Morton had been a key witness in their intended prosecution of Pete Boyle.
Boyle was a pretty big deal. Their real target was Jeff Kerridge, the most influential player in organized crime in these parts. But Kerridge tended to keep his hands clean, and Boyle was his representative on earth. If they could make a case stick against Boyle, they’d be one step closer to nailing Kerridge. They’d arrested Boyle just a couple of weeks earlier, having finally mustered enough evidence to persuade the Prosecution Service that it was worth a punt. They’d charged him with drug trafficking, but they had a range of other charges, from conspiracy to money laundering, waiting in the wings. She’d no idea what would happen now. They had a wealth of documentary evidence, most of it supplied by Morton, but they’d struggle to secure the prosecution without Morton’s own testimony to back it up.
There was a knock at the door. She glanced at her watch. She’d been early because she was supposedly the host. But Welsby and Salter were early, too. Welsby would be keen to get this over with, she supposed.
She pulled open the door. Salter had a beige raincoat wrapped around his skinny body and seemed his usual self – an unholy cross between Tigger and Eeyore. Welsby stood behind, conspicuously furtive in a battered anorak.
‘Hi, sis,’ Salter said. He peered round the room. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’
‘Home from home,’ she said, gesturing for them to follow her in. ‘My flat’s a soulless shoebox as well. Hi, Keith.’
Welsby nodded. ‘Marie. Been a little while.’
She poured coffee and set the plate of biscuits between them, feeling the usual mild resentment that this role was, as always, allocated to her by default. Here, she was the notional host, but things would have been no different back at the office.
Still, she had some time for Keith Welsby – more than for Salter, at any rate. Salter was a smart-arse careerist, a former fast-track graduate now in his early thirties, probably not quite as bright or as capable as he imagined. Harmless enough, she thought, as long as you kept your distance, but his priority was always to protect his own backside. That didn’t make her feel comfortable. In this job, she had no choice but to trust him, even if her first instinct was to play her cards close to her chest.
Welsby was different. Old school, a couple of years off retirement. His attitudes were, by the standards of the Agency, essentially prehistoric, but much of that was an act. He said what people expected to hear from an overweight, florid-faced old flatfoot. But there were no flies on Keith Welsby, and not just because most of his suits looked as old as he did. He was difficult to fathom. His attitude to her was avuncular and patronizing, littered with half-jokes about the shortcomings of women officers. But then he’d throw in a remark that suggested real respect for her ability. After a while, as she found herself striving to justify his good opinion, she’d concluded that this was just Welsby’s distinctive approach to staff motivation.
They arranged themselves around the narrow table, Salter leaning forwards, apparently in charge. Welsby was stretched back, a little way from the table, his body language indicating that, despite his senior rank, this was not his show. Fair enough. She and Salter were the same job grade, but the convention was that the ‘buddy’ acted as supervisor for undercover officers. This would normally be a supervisory meeting, an opportunity for her to bounce issues or concerns off Salter and for Salter to check how she was doing.
‘How are things, sis?’
She gazed at him for a moment. ‘Fine, Hugh. So what’s this all about?
‘Morton, of course.’
Welsby leaned forwards in his chair. He was chewing gum, a substitute for his usual cigarettes. ‘You knew him well, Marie?’
She took a breath and shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say well. He was part of Kerridge’s team. I know them all, more or less.’
‘You suggested him as an informant?’
‘I got to know him a bit. He’s . . .’ She stopped. ‘He was the most approachable of Kerridge’s bunch, so I used him as a route in. Worked pretty well, I thought.’ It was worth reminding them that she’d got closer to Kerridge’s circle than Salter or anyone else had managed. ‘He seemed disenchanted with Kerridge. With the whole lifestyle, I thought. That’s why I reckoned he might make a good target for us.’
You know all this, she thought. It’s all on file. There was a long and bureaucratic process to get an intelligence source authorized, and everyone covered their backsides.
‘You got it spot on,’ Welsby said. ‘Smart piece of work. We got a lot out of him. We’d have got more. We’d have brought down Boyle. Maybe even Kerridge eventually.’
She noted the past tense. ‘You think this has ballsed up the Boyle case?’
‘For the moment,’ Welsby said. ‘Can’t see the CPS progressing with it unless we pull something else out of the shit.’
‘Why we’re here,’ Salter said. ‘We’ve been digging around in the excrement. See what we can find.’
She felt, at least at first, a surge of relief. Her second response was anger – that, for them, Morton’s killing was simply an operational inconvenience.
‘I’m privileged to be part of the excrement, then,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. ‘How did this happen, anyway? Surely Morton’s security was top-level?’ Given the hints Salter had dropped, she wasn’t sure she wanted the full story. But Jake had given his life trying to help them nail Boyle and Kerridge. Whatever she might think or feel, she had an obligation to get involved.
Salter glanced at Welsby. ‘Someone messed up,’ he said. ‘We don’t know who or how – yet.’
‘Someone exposed him?’
‘Must have done. Either by accident or on purpose.’
‘No one would be that careless, surely.’
Welsby shifted back in his chair. ‘Easy to be careless, lass. One slip . . .’ His voice was toneless. Marie looked across at him, wondering whether some response was expected of her.
‘In any case,’ Salter said, ‘the alternative is worse.’
It occurred to her for the first time that there was a tension between the two men, things they weren’t saying. Someone had exposed Jake, and no one knew who. If someone was leaking intelligence, they were all potentially compromised. And no one was more vulnerable than she was.
‘So what happened?’ she said.
‘He had a visit,’ Welsby said quietly. His mouth moved rhythmically around the gum. ‘Middle of the night.’
‘Jesus.’ Marie pushed herself up from the table and strode over to the window, trying to repress the turmoil of emotion. More guilt. Loss. Fear. Above all, fear. She stood for a moment, staring at the half-empty car park, the blur of cars on the motorway, trying to find words that wouldn’t leave her exposed. ‘This was our one bloody chance,’ she said finally. ‘Our one chance to nail those bastards.’
‘It’s not over yet,’ Salter said. ‘Morton gave us a lot. Copies of paperwork, documents. Helped us get surveillance devices in there . . .’
She didn’t want to be reminded how courageous Morton must have been in those last weeks. She still didn’t know what had really motivated him. She’d known he wanted to cut his ties with Kerridge, but there seemed to be something stronger driving him.
They normally kept Chinese walls between informants and undercover operatives to minimize the risk of leakage, so she’d heard only secondhand reports. At first, they told her, he’d been like every other intelligence source, warily feeding out titbits, constantly suspicious, scared of his own shadow at each meeting with his handler. But once he’d learned the ropes, found out who to trust, his attitude had changed. He seemed to have a mission to bring down the world he’d been part of. With no prompting, he’d offered himself as a prosecution witness in any case that they might bring, and had reinforced the offer by producing file after file of incriminating material.
She knew from Salter that Morton’s behaviour had worried them at first. They thought he’d either lost the plot, or was playing some complicated double bluff. But after a while they’d concluded that he was serious. It could go on for only so long, but it gave them time to dig some real dirt. A month later, they arrested Pete Boyle, with Morton scheduled to be the key prosecution witness. Another day or two and they’d have taken him into witness protection. Another day or two. Just a question of getting the fucking paperwork in order.
She turned back from the window. ‘These visitors. What did they do?’
Salter hesitated. ‘They killed him. Eventually.’
‘Christ.’
‘What they did wasn’t nice,’ Salter said. ‘Punishment. Pour encourager les autres.’
‘As we used to say down the nick,’ Welsby said. ‘And we reckon they were trying to find out how much he’d told us.’ He sat, chewing silently for a moment. ‘And whether he knew anything he hadn’t told us yet.’
Marie sat down and took a sip of her coffee. Cold and bitter. Appropriate enough. ‘You think he did?’
‘He’d more or less told us so,’ Welsby said. ‘Stuff he wouldn’t hand over till nearer the trial.’ He paused. ‘He still didn’t trust us. Not entirely.’
‘Sounds like he was on the button,’ Marie said tartly. ‘As it turned out.’
Welsby leaned forwards and picked up one of the biscuits. He regarded it suspiciously, as if unsure of its provenance, then thrust it whole into his mouth. He chewed briefly before speaking, untroubled by the shower of crumbs across his shirt front.
‘True enough,’ he said. ‘Whoever got to Morton knew what they were up to right enough.’
‘You think Kerridge has someone on the inside?’
Welsby shrugged. ‘It’s possible. Or some poor bugger fell asleep at the wheel. Bastards like Kerridge hoover up every bit of intelligence out there, wherever it comes from.’ He made a play of swallowing the last of the biscuit, then reached for another.
Salter had risen from the table and was busy, in a halfhearted manner, exploring the interior of the room, pulling open drawers, flicking absently through the bowl of coffee and sugar sachets on the hospitality tray, peering into the built-in wardrobe. It wasn’t clear what, if anything, he was looking for. They all wanted to be out of this box-like room, Marie thought.
‘Poor bastard should have just told us everything,’ Salter muttered, his voice angry. ‘He’d have been safer that way.’
‘Not much,’ Marie pointed out. ‘But it would have made your life easier.’
‘Yeah. Inconsiderate bastard.’ He withdrew his head from the wardrobe. ‘So what did he do with it? The other stuff, I mean.’
‘You don’t think they got it?’ she said.
‘Depends,’ Salter said. ‘I mean, in his shoes, I’d have spilled everything I fucking knew. But I don’t know that Morton thought like that. What d’you reckon, sis?’
There was an edge to his voice, but she couldn’t interpret it. She picked up the coffee pot and slowly poured herself a second cup, giving herself time to think. She made a point, this time, of not offering coffee to the others.
‘Difficult for me to say,’ she said finally. ‘But you’re probably right. Whatever else he was, he was a stubborn bugger.’
That was true enough. It was one of the things that had attracted her to him. He said what he thought, stuck to his guns. Miles away from the usual sycophants around Kerridge. It was one of the reasons Kerridge rated Morton. Kerridge lapped up the attention from the yes-men, but was smart enough not to be taken in by it.
‘You knew him better than we did,’ Welsby said. ‘You knew what made him tick.’
Welsby’s face was as uncommunicative as ever, his mouth contorted as he strove to extract some crumb of biscuit from his teeth.
She had the sense that she was being probed, or perhaps tested. Was it because they had some suspicions about her relationship with Jake? Did they think that Jake had shared his evidence with her?
‘I only knew him in a work context, really,’ she said. ‘I saw him with Kerridge a few times. He didn’t back down easily, let’s put it that way.’
‘So if he had something, he’d have kept hold of it?’
‘Christ, how would I know?’ she said. ‘I never got the opportunity to see how he reacted to torture.’ She took a long sip of her tepid coffee, waiting to recover her composure. ‘Maybe. You’ve searched his place, presumably?’
‘Yeah,’ Salter said. ‘Pretty thoroughly. Best we could before the plods took over, anyway. If there’s anything there, it’s well hidden.’
‘Or it was found by whoever killed him.’
‘Or it was found by whoever killed him,’ Salter agreed. ‘Which brings us back to the same question.’
‘To which we don’t have an answer,’ she pointed out. ‘I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say.’ She could feel her emotions bubbling away and was having to concentrate on keeping control.
‘You knew him better than most, sis.’
Salter’s tone was studiedly neutral. She found herself losing patience with the game-playing.
‘I’m not your fucking sister, Hugh,’ she said quietly. ‘Sometimes I’m not even sure we’re the same fucking species.’ She leaned back in her chair, regarding him coolly. ‘What about Morton’s handler? He’d be closer to Morton than anyone. He must have some insights. What does he say?’
She realized almost immediately that she’d struck a chord. Salter exchanged a glance with Welsby, a shadow of shared unease in their eyes. She watched Salter.
‘Who was his handler?’
Salter shrugged. ‘Me. I took it on.’
That was interesting. Not exactly against the rules. Salter had operated as an intelligence handler before he’d moved into undercover work, so he had the skills and experience to do the job. But, given the risk of exposure, it was unusual for an intelligence source to be handled from within the under-cover team.
‘Why you, Hugh?’
Salter glanced again at Welsby and shrugged. ‘Sensitive one this, sis. We thought it best to keep it in the family. Keith’s idea.’
Welsby was rocking back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he had spotted something noteworthy up there.
‘You think there’s a mole, then, Keith? Is that it?’
His eyes switched back to her, his expression suggesting that he had momentarily forgotten where he was. ‘Some kind of zit, anyway,’ he said.
‘You think so, too, Hugh?’
‘We’ve had stuff leak out. Morton was just the latest and the worst.’ He paused. ‘What we don’t know is what else might have leaked. What else might be out there.’
‘Jesus, Hugh. I’m out there.’ The thought was frightening. There were always risks. But you had to start from the assumption that the foundations were secure. Now, suddenly, she didn’t know who to trust.
Salter shook his head. ‘You’re as safe as you can be, sis. It’s only a handful of people that know about your role. You know how it works.’
‘I know how it’s supposed to work. And I know how it was supposed to work with Morton. Doesn’t fill me with confidence.’
‘We can bring you back in,’ Welsby said. ‘If that’s what you want.’
She looked at him. He was still swinging back on his chair, the metal legs looking as if they might buckle under his weight. She’d always liked Keith. She respected him. But she knew the way his mind worked.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘If it looks as if I’ve been compromised – if you get a fucking inkling that I might be in trouble – then I want to know. But there’s no point jumping the gun.’
‘Good girl,’ Welsby said.
He sounded sincere, and she didn’t know whether she wanted to hug him or punch him.
‘If there is a mole,’ she said, ‘any clues as to who it might be?’
Salter shook his head. ‘Not enough to go on. Morton’s the only biggie. The rest could be accidental.’
‘We shouldn’t have accidents,’ she said. ‘Not in this game.’
Salter smiled wearily, as if he too had once shared this utopian view of life. ‘Yes, well, sis. We’re all human, aren’t we?’ He paused, his smile broadening as if they were sharing some private joke. ‘Even you.’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_5c3326f2-9bef-5999-8fa9-d732fa2f2da5)
She’d first met Jake Morton at one of Jeff Kerridge’s charity events. It had been during her first few months undercover, when she was working to build herself a network and some credibility, using all the contacts that Salter and her predecessor had passed on to her. It was hard work. She found herself parked endlessly on the phone, trying to set up meetings, pitch her wares, drum up some interest. In the end, she was little different from any other business start-up, struggling to get herself noticed in a market where everyone had a million better things to do than listen to her.
Slowly, though, she was making progress. Her persistence, along with a glowing recommendation from her predecessor, had secured her a meeting with Jeff Kerridge, supposedly to discuss his printing needs. Kerridge had ducked out at the last minute, presumably to demonstrate that he was far too busy for the likes of her. But she’d had a decent meeting with some not-too-junior underling and had come away with a trial print order and some heavy hints about other, less legitimate services that they might consider. More surprisingly, a week or so later, she’d received a lavishly printed invitation to a charity dinner that Kerridge was hosting at some country house hotel in deepest moneyed Cheshire.
‘You better go for it, sis,’ Salter had said. ‘It’ll be Kerridge’s first test. If you’re not generous enough towards his favoured bunch of disadvantaged kiddies, you can kiss any future orders goodbye. Just don’t go donating too much if you’re expecting to claim it on expenses.’
Even in less tense circumstances, this kind of event would have been her idea of hell in a posh frock. As it was, she was still finding her feet, working out where to pitch things. The first part of the evening was a charity auction, dominated by macho local businessmen trying to outdo each other to buy football shirts autographed by United or City players even Marie had vaguely heard of. Through a mix of boredom and embarrassment, she ended up bidding far too much for a designer dress donated by some local upmarket clothier. But no one seemed to mind, or even to notice much. By then the drink had been flowing freely and – as everyone kept reminding her – it was all in a good cause. The main good cause being, as far as she could make out, their own individual business interests.
At the formal dinner that followed, she was amused to find herself seated at the top table, just a few seats along from Kerridge himself. She had no illusions about why she’d been accorded this honour, or indeed why she’d been invited in the first place. In this world, unattached, semi-presentable women were always at a premium. She’d spent most of her time batting off half-hearted passes made by overweight businessmen whose wives were generally no more distant than the other side of the room.
‘Why do we put ourselves through it, eh?’ the man on her left said, as if echoing her thoughts. ‘All this crap.’
‘It’s all in a good cause,’ she said, echoing the mantra of the evening.
‘Oh, right,’ the man said. ‘Nearly forgot that. Surprised nobody mentioned it earlier. Jake Morton, by the way.’
He wasn’t exactly George Clooney, but he was an improvement on most of the men in the room. Trim with neat, slightly greying hair, an expression of amused tolerance on a slightly battered face. A former rugby player, from the look of it. A few years older than her, probably, but not enough to matter.
Jesus. She had to keep reminding herself that she wasn’t single. It was one of the problems of this job. You threw yourself wholeheartedly into a fictitious life, and soon it seemed more real than the world you’d left behind.
‘Marie Donovan,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘You bought the dress,’ he said. ‘Must have thought it was a bloody good cause to pay that much.’ He leaned back in his chair and eyed her body appraisingly. ‘Mind you, it’ll look great on you.’
She thought that she ought to feel offended, but his tone was good-natured, perhaps even slightly satirical, rather than straightforwardly lecherous. More to the point, he was attractive enough for her to feel mildly flattered.
‘At that price, I’d hope so,’ she said. ‘At that price, I’d expect it to look good on you.’
He laughed. Around them, bored-looking waitresses were serving the starter – some overdressed variant on a prawn cocktail.
‘I get the impression this isn’t your natural environment,’ he said.
‘Is it anybody’s?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He gestured towards the rows of tables in front of them. ‘Look at them. Enjoying every moment. Every mouthful of rubber chicken.’
‘Rubber prawn,’ she pointed out. ‘Rubber chicken’s next.’ She was beginning to find herself intrigued by this man. ‘So – why are you here?’
He pointed along the table. ‘Work for Jeff. Three-line whip for his top team.’
That was interesting, she thought. She hadn’t registered the name at first, but now she recalled her briefing notes, all the details that she’d painstakingly squirrelled away in her memory. James Morton. Apparently known as Jake. Director of finance for Kerridge’s legitimate holding company. But rumoured also to be a significant player in the other, more clandestine parts of Kerridge’s business. Definitely someone worth getting to know.
‘He does a lot of this, does he? This is my first time.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, that’s Jeff for you. Likes to do his bit for the community.’
‘Very commendable.’
‘Especially his own community. Local councillors. Business types. People he wants to get onside. Customers. The big customers. And a few suppliers like yourself, if you’re very good.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You know who I am, then?’
‘You’re the print lady, aren’t you? Came highly recommended, I understand.’ There was an undertone to his words that was unmistakable.
‘Glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘I hope I’ve lived up to expectations.’ She’d already completed the trial order, ahead of schedule and at what she knew was a very competitive price.
‘Done some good work so far, from what I hear. Printing, and all that.’
‘And all that,’ she agreed.
‘Jeff appreciates a good supplier. So far I’m told you’ve done well.’
‘Not the cheapest, but the best.’
‘Something like that.’ He smiled. ‘Mind you, don’t get me wrong. Jeff appreciates a cheap supplier as well.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. And that you’re the finance director.’
‘Got me sussed too, then? Well, yes, that’s my job.’ He paused. ‘For what it’s worth.’
‘Quite a bit, I’d have thought.’
‘It pays well enough, if that’s what you mean. Though maybe not enough to compensate for evenings like this.’
‘And I was trying so hard to be sparkling,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Funnily enough, the evening’s rather brightened up in the last few minutes.’
‘That’ll be the prawn cocktail.’
He lifted his glass of white wine. ‘Yeah, and the Chateau Toilet Duck. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
That had been it, she thought. That trivial, jokey salutation. As they’d clinked their glasses, she’d felt as if something had passed between them. Some coded, inarticulate message. Some unspoken pact. Both knowing more than they were able to say. Not quite trust. Perhaps, at that point, nothing more than a balance of suspicion. But something.
That was where it had started.
That night, too, was the first time she really had an inkling of what she might be letting herself in for. It was the first opportunity she’d had to get anywhere close to her key targets – the smooth Jeff Kerridge and his much rougher number two, Pete Boyle. She already felt that she half-knew them from the files and reports that she’d worked her way through in preparation for the assignment, but meeting them in the flesh, after everything she’d read, was something else again. Everything she’d read indicated that, appearances aside, they were an unpleasant pair. Kerridge had built a business empire by ruthlessly jamming his hands into every pie he could find, legal or otherwise. He was what passed for the brains of the outfit, running a complex network of on- and off-shore companies that allowed him to funnel cash wherever he wanted for tax avoidance and laundering purposes. The forensic accounting team had tracked through some of those movements, but they didn’t yet have enough to be confident that a case would stick.
Boyle was a different matter. A hard-case from Hulme who, by dint of being that bit brighter than his associates, had managed to claw his way up to near the top of the pile. The word was that Boyle looked after most of Kerridge’s dirty work, and that some of that work could get very dirty indeed. Unlike Kerridge, who’d managed to stay squeaky-clean, Boyle did have a record, though it was mainly petty stuff from his youth. These days, he tended not to risk messing up his own Hugo Boss suit, if he could pay others to do the work for him. They were getting closer with Boyle. They’d picked up two or three of his associates over the last year or so on a variety of charges – GBH, demanding money with menaces, manslaughter in one case. No one had actually blown the whistle on Boyle, but they were gradually piecing together enough evidence to collar him. He’d left his metaphorical fingerprints in a few too many places.
At the dinner, true to form, Kerridge had been charm personified, chatting amiably with Marie during the earlier part of the evening. He had an old-fashioned manner which stayed just the right side of flirtatious. Probably just as well, Marie thought, eyeing Kerridge’s fearsome-looking wife. ‘Ah, Miss Donovan,’ he’d said. ‘The printer. I’ve heard some very good things about you. Your work comes highly recommended.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘I hope I manage to live up to my reputation.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ He turned and waved in the general direction of his wife, who was standing just a few inches behind him. ‘My wife, Helen. This is Miss Donovan—’
‘Marie.’
‘Marie, who’s handling some printing for us at the moment. You two should get together. I’m sure you’d have a lot to discuss.’
The two women gazed at each other with expressions that confirmed their obvious lack of any common ground. Helen Kerridge was a certain sort of Cheshire lady, Marie thought. Well-off, self-made, dismissive of those who thought their characters might be defined by something other than material possessions. Marie could imagine the older woman patrolling the upmarket clothes shops and restaurants of Wilmslow or Alderley Edge, killing days that had little other purpose.
‘We could do lunch sometime,’ she said, mischievously.
Helen Kerridge gazed at her for a long moment without speaking. ‘Sometime,’ she said finally, in a tone that suggested they should aim for one of the chillier days in hell.
Marie had seen Boyle only from the other side of the room. He was a broad muscular man, who clearly still devoted considerable time and energy to working out. He looked awkward in his undoubtedly expensive suit, a glass of fizzy wine in hand, with the air of a man who would much rather have been propping up some bar downing a pint of lager. Every now and then, his eyes scanned the room, his shaven head twisting on his thick neck, as if keeping watch for signs of trouble.
Marie’s only real objective for the night had been to begin building her own profile, become acquainted with one or two of the right people, get her own face recognized. She’d wondered whether to approach Boyle, but couldn’t find a reasonable opening. In the end, she’d been happy enough chatting to Jake Morton, who seemed the most promising route into the Kerridge empire.
Towards the end of the evening, when they’d finished eating and had moved on to brandy and liqueurs, Jake made his excuses and slipped away from the table. ‘Got a three-line whip for a debrief with Jeff,’ he’d said. ‘He likes to make sure we’ve all done our bit.’
She’d found herself stuck with some pompous old fool who ran a haulage company in Macclesfield, nodding politely while he ranted on about fuel duty and VAT. After a while, while he’d gone off to secure himself another brandy, she’d slipped away from the table herself and made her way out into the hotel lobby.
She’d only ever been a social smoker and it was years since she’d had a cigarette at all. There were moments, though, when she could envy the little amicable groups congregating around the front doors of the hotel. She slipped past them and walked out into the car park, enjoying the cold of the night air after the alcoholic fug of the function room. It was a chilly night, but the sky was clear and full of stars. She paused for a moment, enjoying the relative silence. The hotel was in the hills, on the edge of the Pennines, and, as she crossed to the edge of the car park, she could see the lights of Manchester and the Mersey Basin spread out below.
She had been standing for a few moments staring at the view when she heard the sound of raised voices behind her. She turned, peering into the darkness. There was a small group of men standing twenty or thirty metres from her, clustered in the lee of a large 4x4 parked near the entrance to the car park. She could make out the flicker of cigarette ends, the sound of some sort of altercation.
Her curiosity piqued, she moved slowly and silently around the edge of the car park, keeping close to the fence, trying to hear what was being said. None of her business, probably, but she shouldn’t miss the opportunity to pick up anything that might be of value.
She stopped suddenly and held her breath. Now she was closer, she could make out Jake Morton’s voice. She took another few steps then peered out from behind the row of parked cars.
It was Morton, no question. And next to him was the unmistakable bulky silhouette of Pete Boyle. There was another figure facing them, but she couldn’t make out his face.
It was Boyle’s slightly louder voice that she’d first heard. ‘It’s all right for you, desk monkey,’ he was saying now. ‘It’s not you taking the risks.’
‘From what I see, it’s not you either, Pete,’ Morton said. ‘So don’t come the martyr. I just say that we should play it cautious. If we go off half-cocked, we just risk drawing more attention.’
‘Bugger caution. I’ve tried being cautious. That’s why we’re in the shit.’
‘We’re not in the shit, not yet. We just have to be careful, that’s all.’
‘We’ve had three people picked up in the last three months. Bail refused in every case. Somebody’s grassing.’ She could see Boyle drop his cigarette butt and crush it hard under his shoe. He looked as if he was envisaging performing the same action on some more animate object.
‘We don’t know that,’ Morton said. ‘Shit happens.’
‘It’s happening too often lately. We need to do something. Send a fucking signal.’
‘We can’t take somebody out just because you think he might be a grass—’
‘Why the fuck not?’ Boyle said. ‘Even if we’re wrong, we’ve sent a message.’
‘We’ve sent a message that we’re a bunch of fuckwits who don’t know what we’re doing.’
Marie had moved a step or two closer, listening hard. It was the kind of stuff they needed to get on surveillance, she thought. Which was presumably why Boyle and Morton were having this conversation out in the car park, in case they were bring tapped in their hotel rooms or cars.
‘Come on, lads. Bit of teamwork. We’re all pulling in the same direction.’ It was the third figure who’d remained silent up to this point. Kerridge himself, she realized. He gently interposed himself between the two younger men with the air of a boxing referee who can see the bout slipping out of control. ‘You’ve both got a point.’
There was nothing in what he was saying, she thought, but he had a natural, easy-going authority that had immediately reduced the other two men to silence. His own voice was unexpectedly soft, so that Marie had to strain to make out his words.
‘Way I see it,’ Kerridge went on, ‘we’ve got some big deals coming up. Drugs, especially. That Rotterdam consignment’s the biggest we’ve done to date. Can’t afford for that one to go tits up.’
Marie made a mental note of the reference to Rotterdam. It was quite possible that her relevant colleagues were already on to it, but if not it would be another piece in the jigsaw.
‘Too fucking right—’ Boyle began. But Kerridge was continuing to speak, halting Boyle without raising his voice.
‘But that’s Jake’s point. If we go stirring up trouble now, without knowing what we’re about, that might be misinterpreted. We’re moving into a different league with some of this new stuff. We don’t want our suppliers to think we’re a bunch of amateurs.’
‘I don’t—’
‘I know you’ve got the best interests of the business at heart, Pete. And I’m not saying you’re wrong.’ He paused, in a way that seemed theatrical, though Marie could see that he was lighting a cigarette. ‘But we need to get our ducks in a row. Do a bit of digging. If there is a grass, then, yeah, we dispose of him. Quick and clean. Take him out.’ Another pause. ‘I’ve no problem with that.’
Marie suddenly realized that she was wearing only her thin evening gown and its silly, largely decorative jacket to protect her from the cold. Even so, it wasn’t the temperature that sent a chill down her spine. It was the clinical language. Dispose. Take him out. She was finally beginning to recognize the reality that she was dealing with.
She pulled her useless jacket more closely around her shoulders and moved another step or two, watching the three men. She was reminded, grotesquely, of a bunch of middle managers discussing a redundancy. Except that in this world, termination had a more literal meaning.
Up to now, though she hadn’t realized it, this had felt like a game. Like another of Winsor’s exercises. It was hard. It was a challenge. But there were no real consequences. If she failed, it might set her career back a notch or two. Maybe cause her a bit of feminist embarrassment.
But of course it was much more than that. She was dealing with people who, if they thought she was a threat, wouldn’t hesitate to deal with her. Take her out. Dispose of her.
Jesus. For the first time, she began to wonder whether she was really up to this.
‘What do you think, Jake?’ she heard Kerridge say. ‘You OK with that?’
Morton had taken a step or two backwards, she thought, as if he were trying to disassociate himself from the other two. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part. She’d liked Jake, maybe even been attracted by him. She didn’t want to think that he was really part of all this.
‘It’s the sensible way,’ he said. ‘We don’t want any more screw-ups.’
And that was it. That was all he said, leaving her in the air. Not knowing whether he was really on board or just going through the motions. She knew what she wanted to believe, but she wasn’t sure what she really did.
She heard no more of what the men said, because there was a sudden sweep of headlights from beyond the car park entrance. She glanced at the luminous face of her watch. Nearly midnight. This would be the first of the taxis arriving to ferry guests home.
She was about to slip back along the edge of the cars when the taxi pulled into the car park, turning to the left to arc round towards the hotel entrance. She was caught momentarily in the full blaze of its headlights, dazzled by the glare. She stopped, breathless, feeling like an unprepared actor gripped centre-stage by a spotlight. She was sure, in that moment, that everyone could see her. Kerridge and his cronies. The taxi driver. The clustered smokers.
Then the lights swept by and she was back in darkness. Kerridge, Boyle and Morton were tracking back towards the hotel now, apparently oblivious to her presence. Beyond the car park, lower on the hill, she could see the flicker of more cars arriving.
She paused by the car park fence, safe now in the night, waiting for her heart to stop pounding.
Shit, she thought. I’m really not cut out for this.
‘Have you any real grounds to think so?’ Salter had asked a few days later when she’d first brought up her thoughts about Morton. She remembered Salter slumped back in the hotel armchair, his feet propped up on the coffee table. It was impressive, she thought, the way he managed to sound simultaneously both scathing and uninterested. As if he couldn’t quite be bothered to tell her what a stupid suggestion it was.
She shrugged, then made a show of pouring herself another cup of coffee, ignoring Salter’s empty cup. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Just a hunch.’
‘Ah. A hunch.’ Salter rolled the word round in his mouth, his expression suggesting that he might be about to spit it out physically. ‘One of those.’
‘Woman’s intuition, Hugh. You know how it is. We’re just better at that kind of stuff.’ She smiled. ‘You lot have parallel parking instead.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/alex-walters-2/trust-no-one/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.