Trust No One (13 page)

Christ, she thought, what had they done now?

Chapter 12

‘Anything's possible. But it's nothing to do with me.'

‘You'd have been informed, though, guv, surely.'

Welsby shrugged. ‘In theory, but these days . . .' He jerked a thumb in the direction of some unspecified authority. ‘Any one of those bastards might have authorized it. Wouldn't necessarily keep me in the picture. Might be an oversight. Might be deliberate.'

‘Paranoia,' Salter agreed.

‘Aye. Fucking paranoia. And when that takes hold, nobody gets spared. Even the pure in heart like you, Hughie.'

‘Or you, sir,' Salter added dutifully.

‘Yes, son. Even me.' He took a deep swallow of his pint and gazed thoughtfully around them. They were sitting under the smokers' shelter outside what was apparently one of Welsby's favourite pubs. Salter hadn't been surprised that Welsby had suggested meeting in a pub, but he'd expected somewhere different from this. Some down-at-heel back-street local with curled sandwiches and pickled eggs, not an upmarket gastro place. But Welsby always liked to keep people on their toes.

More practically, it wasn't the kind of place where anyone was likely to recognize either of them. Out on the edge of the Pennines, too far out of town, too middle class. A few of the upper echelons, on either side, might pop out here from time to time, but they'd be with their own families and equally keen not to be spotted.

It wasn't really Salter's kind of place. He wasn't a great drinker except for networking purposes – too much risk of losing control – and, if he was going out to eat, he preferred somewhere quieter, more discreet. Even on a Sunday night, this place was buzzing, full of families and couples at the restaurant tables, clusters of young men drinking by the bar. Most were eating. Pretentious pub grub, Salter thought. He'd followed Welsby to the bar, and eyeing the impressive array of real ales, ordered a pint of Carling on principle. Welsby had ordered something dark and rustic-looking which he held up as though inspecting a fine wine.

Salter had been wondering where they'd find a quiet corner to talk in this place, but that question had been quickly and predictably answered when Welsby had led them immediately out the back door into a rear courtyard. Unsurprisingly, they were the only drinkers who'd braved the damp night air to take advantage of the tables under the canvas awning. In the darkness behind them, the land fell away into the wind-blown emptiness of the Goyt Valley.

‘So what did she say exactly?' Welsby said. He'd lit up a cigarette, making no very obvious effort to direct the smoke away from Salter.

‘She was worried that her flat might have been broken into.'

‘She wasn't sure?'

‘That was the point. She thought it might be a pro job.'

‘Officially sanctioned, you mean?'

‘Maybe. She'd also thought of Kerridge.'

Welsby blew more smoke into the air. ‘Like I say, anything's possible. No one tells me anything. Not losing her marbles, is she?'

‘Wouldn't have said so, but you never know in this game, do you?'

‘Too right,' Welsby said. ‘Look at you. Bloody Carling.'

‘I don't know,' Salter went on. ‘She sounded rattled. But that's not surprising. If we are leaking, she's pretty exposed out there. In her shoes, I'd be rattled.'

‘Why would Kerridge break into her flat, though? Bit subtle for him.' Welsby gazed impassively at the younger man, as if daring him to challenge this judgement.

Salter shrugged. ‘You know him better than me, guv. But Kerridge must be getting jittery himself. If the case against Boyle sticks, it's getting bloody close to home. He's taken out our key witness, but he doesn't know what other dirt's out there. He may just want to know what Donovan's got before he resorts to scare tactics.'

‘All a bit complicated for a simple plod like me,' Welsby said. ‘But we can't take risks. If Kerridge is on to Donovan, we need to pull her out PDQ.'

‘This is all guesswork . . .' Salter paused. ‘But even if he is, maybe we should think about timing.'

‘Secret of good comedy, so I'm told. OK, then, make me laugh.'

‘We need Kerridge to make a mistake. Without Morton, we've barely got a case against Boyle. We don't know if Morton had anything more, and if so, whether it's out there somewhere . . .'

‘Not even raised a fucking smile so far,' Welsby said.

‘Our best chance is if Kerridge starts to get shaky. He doesn't know what other dirt we might have.'

‘He'll know what we've got when it comes to court,' Welsby pointed out. ‘It'll all be disclosable then. And he'll need his sides stitching back together when he's finished laughing at how little there is. There you go. Timing.'

‘But he doesn't know that now. And neither do we. What if Donovan really does have something? Something she's not even sharing with her friends.'

‘I hope this is going somewhere.' Welsby stared morosely into the bottom of his empty glass. ‘I'm getting thirsty.'

‘I'm just thinking that, if Kerridge is thinking that way, there might be some benefit to us in leaving her out there, just for a little while.'

Welsby looked up and gazed steadily into Salter's eyes for a moment, as if thinking through the implications of what the younger man had just said. ‘Bait, you mean. You should be careful, Hugh. Some people might think you were a bit of a bastard.'

‘I'm not suggesting we take any risks. We can reel her back any time we need to. All I'm saying is, let it run a little bit further.'

‘We don't even know if Kerridge has rumbled Donovan. What about her other theory? That it was our lot?' Welsby paused. ‘If it was authorized at our end, it was somewhere well up the chain. But, like I say, anything's possible.'

‘If there is a leak,' Salter mused, ‘it must be at a senior level. There weren't many people in the know about Morton. But if it was a pro job, they'd have needed Tech Support. If someone mobilized that bunch, we can find out who, presumably.'

‘In the grand spirit of interdepartmental co-operation? Maybe. Wouldn't bank on it, though. Even at the best of times, it's harder to screw information from those bastards than it is to get it from the other side. If they've been told from on high to keep a lid on it, they'll keep a lid on it.'

‘With what justification?' Salter said. ‘The Boyle case is a major fucking deal. If someone's playing silly buggers around it, Tech Support would still need to keep us in the loop.'

‘Depends what they've been told. Depends who's doing the telling. Might have invoked Professional Standards. Kicked off an internal investigation.'

‘Against who?'

‘Against you or me, maybe. Think about it. If you were one of the bigwigs, maybe in Kerridge's pocket, and you wanted a smokescreen, then getting Standards to dig about down below's a pretty smart move. It confuses the issue, throws a lot of crap about, and gives whoever it is the opportunity to dig up more dirt with all the Agency's resources on their side.'

‘Shit. You mean on top of everything else we might be being investigated by Standards? Not exactly career enhancing.'

Welsby shrugged. ‘For some of us, the future's already gone. But it's just an idea. Thinking out loud.' He leaned forwards, his eyes fixed on Salter. ‘That's what you like to do, isn't it, Hughie? Explore all the angles.'

‘I'm just shooting the breeze, boss. Truth is, we know nothing. Maybe it is just that Donovan's slipping slowly off her trolley.'

‘I wouldn't entirely blame her, would you? Got a lot on her plate. At home as well, by all accounts.'

Salter raised an eyebrow. His buddying role with Marie was supposed to include an element of pastoral care, but he made a point of not getting too close. If she'd got problems she wanted to share, he'd be prepared to listen, but he wasn't encouraging her to unload. Like most people in this business, he preferred to keep his private life private, and he was happy for others to do the same. Welsby, though, somehow always managed to have his finger on what was going on.

‘Boyfriend trouble?' Salter asked.

‘Boyfriend not well is what I hear,' Welsby said. ‘Maybe something serious.'

‘Perhaps she'll be wanting out herself, then.'

‘She's single-minded, that one. When she wants to be.' Welsby paused, taking his time over lighting another cigarette, his expression thoughtful. ‘You're probably right, though. We should leave her out there, just for the moment. That single-mindedness could be just what we need. If she stirs some shit, we can all see what rises to the surface.' He took a first drag on the cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke, more or less in Salter's direction. ‘Now, Hughie boy, it's good to talk and all that, but are you going to get me that pint, or do I keel over from fucking dehydration?'

Chapter 13

The second time she'd met Jake, it had been unexpected. She'd spent the previous few days trying to think of a decent-sounding excuse for getting back in touch with him. She'd known after her meeting with Salter that she wanted to see Jake again. She tried to tell herself that her reasons were simply professional. He was an important contact, the most direct route she was likely to find into Kerridge's inner circle. If she wanted to make a success of this job, if she wanted to prove to the likes of Salter and Welsby that she really could hack it, this was her best chance. Even if it did mean making use of what Welsby would no doubt call her feminine wiles.

In her heart, though, she knew that her motives were no longer quite so pure. She was attracted by Jake. She hadn't quite registered it at first, or at least had been aware of it only as the vaguest inkling, the kind of half-stirring you might feel for some passing acquaintance. After all, they'd had a pleasant enough evening at Kerridge's charity do, chatting easily, knocking back a few glasses of wine. As the evening ended, and they made their way to the pre-booked taxis, she'd expected he might try it on, or at least ask her out. But he'd simply wished her a polite goodnight, and headed back for some sort of debrief with Kerridge. Looking back, the sensation she'd felt had been less than disappointment, but it had still been discernible.

Then, as the days passed, she could tell that it was growing into something stronger. Not so much a physical attraction, she thought, though she couldn't deny that there was that, too. It was a longing for friendship, for humour, for the warmth they'd briefly shared on that mildly boozy evening. The kind of relationship she had with Liam, she thought, and then caught herself wondering whether that was still the case. Perhaps that was why, suddenly, she felt so attracted to Jake Morton. Because he offered her something that she hadn't even realized she'd lost.

She was tempted just to pick up the phone and call him, but she didn't want to seem too eager. Like some teenager playing hard to get, she laughingly told herself. But she hadn't quite lost sight of her professional objective. She had to tread warily here. Whatever she might think about Jake at a personal level, he was still on Kerridge's team. She couldn't afford to give him any reason to be suspicious of her motives, even if she wasn't entirely clear about them herself.

She spent a few more days struggling to concoct a good business reason to call him, always hoping that, against the odds, Jake might decide to call her first. With every day that passed, it was feeling increasingly like an unrequited adolescent crush. Then one morning, just when she'd decided that she might as well take the plunge, she received a phone message from Ken Anstey. According to the records, Anstey was another of Kerridge's associates, once or twice removed, but with no link to Kerridge's legit operations. Anstey described his business as import-export, but most of it was import and all of it was dodgy. Small-time stuff for the most part – alcohol, cigarettes, occasionally drugs or serious porn. Most was sold into Kerridge's networks, and as always, Kerridge creamed off a decent slice for himself.

The authorities weren't that interested in Anstey himself. They were keeping tabs on pretty much everything he brought in, and he would be picked up eventually. For the moment, though, they were only too happy for him to keep doing his bits of business. Step by step, they were tracing Anstey's networks, following where the goods went, seeing who was selling and who was buying at each end. Anstey and his cronies got their hands dirty, but the real interest was in those who kept their hands clean.

‘You don't know me,' Anstey began laughably. From what she'd heard, every officer up here knew Anstey, if only by name and half-cocked reputation. ‘But I might have a bit of business to put your way. Give me a call when you can. Next day or two.'

Anstey left his name and a mobile number. She knew there was no point in leaving it more than the stated day or two. The number would be a pirated SIM card, operational for a few days then discarded.

She phoned Anstey back and did the deal. It was one of her first pieces of under-the-counter business, but straightforward enough. He wanted documentation, legitimate-looking shipping notices that indicated that duty had already been paid. A fallback in case they were picked up by customs. Easy enough to get produced, though unlikely to be effective if customs hadn't already been briefed not to detain Mr Anstey. Marie didn't tell Anstey that, though. She just quoted him a price and a delivery date.

Anstey never said so, but Marie knew she'd have been recommended by Kerridge's people. When she moved up here, the Agency had pulled the strings to spread the word among the right people. They'd have had her checked out, but everything would have seemed kosher. She'd built a good reputation in her previous patch – she was known as a fixer, someone who got you what you needed, even when others couldn't. Not difficult, when you had the resources and protection of the Agency behind you. But it made her look good. She delivered.

It had taken a month or two for the word to spread, but finally the business was starting to come in. She had the contacts. She could get you people, she could get you equipment. She could get you vehicles – untraceable, available when needed, then gone again. She could get you documentation, though behind the scenes that needed authorization in triplicate and there were limits as to what was permissible. The ability to produce fake passports would have given them a neat advantage in tracking movements across national boundaries, but that was a definite no-no.

The other thing she didn't deal – couldn't deal – was firearms. But it seemed easier for her to hold that line than it had been for her predecessor. In this skewed world, it was what they expected a woman to do. Women just had higher standards. The men didn't understand it, but they respected it. No one ever thought to question why she'd chosen to draw the line just there. If anything, coming from a woman, it was the kind of thing the pond life around Kerridge tended to respect, God help them.

Anstey was based in Bury, and she'd arranged to meet him at Birch Services on the M62. It was an anonymous place, a small service station located a mile or two off the junction with the M60, where the motorway was beginning to climb up into the Pennines. Up ahead was the bleak expanse of Saddleworth Moor. Behind, the drop towards the Mersey Basin and the Cheshire Plain. No one's idea of a destination. Just a place to pass through.

She'd had the documents prepared without difficulty. Decent forgeries that would fool a layperson without unduly challenging an experienced customs detection officer. Ten minutes in the service station car park, a handover of envelopes. Job done. Anyone who saw them would assume they were sales reps going about their business.

She arrived a few minutes early and bought a newspaper and a takeaway coffee from the Italian-style concession. It was mid-morning, the place relatively quiet – a few people like herself sitting in their cars, killing time before business appointments or stopping to make phone calls.

Anstey was late. Not a great surprise. From what she'd heard, Anstey was usually late. He liked to give the impression that he was a busy man – lots of important irons in the fire, only just time to squeeze in a meeting with the likes of her.

A car pulled in, swept round the car park and pulled in a few spaces along the row from her. She glimpsed the driver's face momentarily as the car passed. Not Anstey, but a face she knew. Not a coincidence, surely.

Kerridge's usual policy was to keep people like Anstey at a lot more than arm's length, so what was one of his inner circle doing butting into this meeting?

She watched as Jake climbed out of the car – a small Polo, not his usual style, she suspected – and strolled casually towards her. She could already feel her body tense, her heart beating faster, as she tried to read his expression. Maybe she'd been rumbled, after all. Or maybe for once the fates had just decided to give her a helping hand.

She waited just long enough to make him pause, then lowered the window.

‘Morning, Jake. This your usual stamping ground?'

He looked around him, as if he'd not previously registered where he was. ‘Not if I can help it. How you doing?'

‘I'm doing OK,' she said. ‘We have to stop meeting like this.'

‘Probably. Mind if I join you for a second?'

‘I'm waiting to meet someone.'

‘Yeah, I know. Why I'm here. Won't take a minute.' Without waiting for a response, he walked around the car and pulled open the passenger door.

She waited till he'd lowered himself into the seat. ‘What's this all about, Jake?'

‘Ken Anstey, right?'

‘Any of your business?'

‘Yeah, my business. Pretty literally so, as it happens. Afraid Anstey's not available.'

‘That right?' She was watching his face, still trying to work out what he was thinking.

‘Picked up by the police, a couple of days ago. Various charges. Smuggling class A drugs. Tax evasion. Double-parking, probably.'

‘Shame,' she said. Inwardly, she was cursing. Maybe some customs officer had just become overeager, or – probably more likely – Anstey himself had done something so inept they couldn't turn a blind eye. Or maybe someone had deliberately grassed him up to the local plods who wouldn't necessarily have been briefed on Anstey's status. ‘Are you on messenger duties now, then?'

‘Don't know if you knew, but Anstey did bits and pieces of work for us; one of our suppliers.'

‘Just like me.'

‘Yes, just like you.' He smiled for the first time. She had the sense he was doing this under sufferance. ‘No, actually, Marie, not much like you.'

‘Possibly the most backhanded compliment I've ever been paid. But go on.'

‘Ah, well, Kenneth has caused us a more than a little embarrassment over the last day or two. Trying to wriggle his way off the hook by impaling others on it. Throwing dirt in all kinds of directions.'

‘Including yours?'

‘Including ours. Nothing we can't handle, of course. Anstey was never on the team.'

‘Just a supplier.'

‘Just a supplier. And, unlike some people, not a particularly reliable one. Generally more trouble than he was worth. Anyway, that's why I'm here. Apart from giving us a few headaches, he's also left rather a lot of loose ends. Things that just might come back to haunt us.'

‘And you're the Boy Scout,' she said. ‘Tying up the loose ends into fancy knots.'

‘Something like that.' He was gazing flatly out of the wind-screen, not looking in her direction. Ahead of them, a harassed-looking mother was struggling in the rear door of her car, trying to load a crying baby into a child seat.

It struck her suddenly that there was a potentially sinister undertone to his words. ‘So I'm a loose end?'

‘No, not really. Not you personally, anyway. But I've been sent to check. We know Anstey was doing some business with you, but we don't know exactly what. I just need to make sure it's not something that's likely to cause us any problems.'

He was smart. Just the right garnish of implied threat, then back to smiles and business. She gazed back at him, as if wondering whether she should trust him, then she shrugged.

‘Can't see why it would,' she said. ‘He asked me to get him some documents.' She tossed the padded envelope into his lap. ‘Take a look, if you want.'

He tore open the package and flicked briskly through the pages. ‘Shipping notices?'

‘Yeah. Duty paid.'

‘These fool customs, you reckon?'

‘It depends. They're bloody good fakes, though I say so myself. If you got an officer who was really on the ball, they might get challenged, but they'd get you through the average inspection.'

Jake took another look through the papers, and for a moment she wondered whether she'd oversold the quality of the forgeries. Then he nodded and smiled.

‘Maybe another service you could provide for us directly. These look good quality.'

‘Tried the rest, now try the best,' she intoned. ‘Everything's a marketing opportunity.'

‘So I believe.' He stuffed the papers back in the envelope and handed them back.

‘Two hundred,' she said.

‘What?'

‘Two hundred quid. I'm out of pocket.'

‘Teach you to do business with the likes of Ken Anstey,' he said. ‘A walking bad debt.'

‘Unlike Jeff Kerridge.'

He said nothing for a second. ‘I'll make sure you're not out of pocket. There'll be work for you.'

‘Marketing opportunity, then.'

‘Marketing opportunity; exactly. Marie . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Look, this isn't the time or place. But I wondered if you fancied coming out for a drink sometime?'

She made no immediate response, but sat toying with the envelope, as though trying to compose an answer. Finally she said, ‘Christ, Jake, I thought you'd never ask.'

Afterwards, when he'd driven off, she sat in her car for a while, wondering whether she knew what she was doing. She was only following Salter's instructions, she told herself. And even if her own instincts about Jake were off the mark, it was still the smart thing to do. Take the opportunity, find a way into the inner circle, get closer to Kerridge.

But she couldn't fully fathom her own motives. She was attracted to Jake, of course. She couldn't deny that. And not just to Jake himself, but to what he might be able to offer. Warmth, friendship, company, fun. And maybe sex, she added quietly to herself, as if that was nothing more than a half-joke, an afterthought. But, above all, something straightforward. No strings. No expectations. No ties.

And that was where things became tangled in her head. Because she felt, in her heart, that this wasn't going to be simple. Again today, she'd had the sense that he was going through the motions, reluctantly doing Kerridge's dirty work. Quite how dirty that work might get, she didn't like to think. But her instincts still told her that Jake wasn't happy, that he was looking for something different.