Trust No One (18 page)

‘Because one day you'll get caught,' he said. ‘We're both riding our luck. Trick is to get out before it's too late.'

‘Easier said than done,' she said.

He had paused, gazing into her eyes. ‘Maybe we can do it together. Somehow.'

‘Maybe. One day.'

She didn't know what to think. She was just doing her job. And she was having a good time with Jake; she felt alive. But she knew there was no future here. She had tried to get back to Liam at least every second weekend, so her time with Jake had been, for the most part, a midweek affair, snatched evenings and nights with the inevitability of work the next day. If she was honest, her relationship with Jake had felt like more play-acting, a neat adornment to a life that was ultimately fictitious. It was all a game, even if, increasingly, she was aware Jake hadn't seen it that way.

It was around this time that she'd formally recommended Jake as a potential informant. A Covert Human Intelligence Source, to use the jargon. She had felt uneasy, as if she were exploiting their relationship. But it was his choice, she told herself. All she was doing was opening a door. No one would compel him to walk through it. Salter had taken her recommendation back to the ranch and it had been processed officially, going through all the correct channels.

She had known how it would happen. The way that some skilled handler would make the approach to Jake. Subtle at first, delicate. Testing the ground. Checking whether Marie's hunch had been correct, without exposing too much. She'd done it herself and she'd been good at it. It was a form of seduction, she supposed. Raising the target's interest, highlighting all the positives, playing down the negatives. Assessing the target's motivation so that you could press just the right buttons. Taking it step by step, knowing when to go in harder and when to leave well alone. Slowly, slowly, reeling him in.

She was told officially when Jake had finally gone over. But she knew anyway. Something in his manner changed. He became more closed, a little more wary. He told her less about work, about Kerridge. Another barrier erected between them – translucent, paper-thin, but ultimately impermeable.

It was a painful irony. Both working on the same side, but never able to speak about it. Each, for different reasons, knowing that their relationship was unsustainable, but not knowing how to end it. Continually talking about a future that both knew would never happen.

‘One day soon,' he'd said, as they finished that last meal, ‘we can do something different. Get away from this.'

She'd sat for a while, her eyes fixed on the window beside their table, watching the eerily deserted streets of this part of the Northern Quarter. It was hard to believe that, barely a street away, there were bustling pubs and bars, a main road full of traffic.

For a second, it had been as if she hadn't heard him. Then she'd said, her face still blank, ‘Yeah. One day, Jake. One day.'

Chapter 18

‘Panini and caffè latte,' Welsby intoned carefully. ‘Do I look fucking Italian?' He sat down heavily at the table, making a play of dumping his cardboard-packed collation between the two of them. ‘In any case, shouldn't it be a panino?'

Salter noted, as so often before, that Welsby's cultural ignorance was less all-embracing than he liked people to think. He peered at Welsby's lunch. ‘Not really,' he said finally. ‘You've got two.'

‘Which just about equates to one half-decent meal,' Welsby pointed out. He peeled back the wrapping. ‘Though man cannot live by bread alone. Even with mozzarella and fucking pancetta.' He looked up at the brightly lit space that surrounded them. ‘How's it come to this? Coppers need chips and meat pies and full fry-ups. Not mixed-leaf fucking salads and vegetarian bakes. No wonder everyone's so irritable.'

‘Must take the patience of a saint, guv.'

‘Too right, Hugh, me old chum. Too fucking right.' He began to munch, with an enthusiasm that belied his previous words, on the warm sandwich, occasionally pausing to take a slurp of the milky coffee.

‘Anything new on Morton?'

Welsby shrugged, then spoke around a mouthful of sandwich. ‘Not so's you'd notice. But our chums on the force aren't brimming over with information.'

‘And after we'd been so forthcoming with them, as well,' Salter said.

‘Yes, well. Need to know and all that. They've had the forensics back.'

‘And?'

‘Bugger all. Lots of DNA, but, as expected, most of it Morton's. Nothing that's on the database. Mind you, Morton's wasn't on the database either.'

‘Professionals, then. But we knew that.'

‘Well, they weren't after the DVD player,' Welsby agreed morosely.

‘Anything else?'

‘Not much. Mind you, I don't imagine this case is exactly top of their to-do list.'

‘Nobody likes a grass,' Salter said. ‘Even our lot think he had it coming.'

‘Now, now, Hughie. That's not the attitude. Grasses are our bread and fucking butter.'

Salter nodded. ‘Never been partial to bread and butter. Sticks in the throat. Even the Italian stuff.'

Welsby laughed. He'd already made short work of the second sandwich, and was tearing open a bag of exotically flavoured crisps. He pushed the opened bag towards Salter, who shook his head.

‘Christ, Hugh. Have you got any vices?'

‘Not ones I usually display in public,' Salter said.

He gazed around them. It was towards the end of most people's lunch hour, and the tables in the restaurant were starting to empty. He supposed it was a good thing, this replacement for the old canteen. Its new pastel walls and tasteful artwork provided an appropriate backdrop for the healthy, up-to-the-minute cuisine that wound up Welsby so successfully. A pleasant enough place to chill out for half an hour in the middle of the day. It was all a façade, though. The place was riddled with the same old vicious gossip and intrigue as in the days when overweight plods were knocking back the cholesterol pies.

‘What about Sister Donovan?' he asked, as if the question was a natural corollary to his previous thoughts.

‘Marie? What about her?'

‘I was thinking about what you said. About her having trouble at home. This stuff about her flat being bugged. Maybe it's all bollocks. Maybe she really is just losing the plot.'

‘Wouldn't be the first.' Welsby jammed a surprisingly large amount of crisps into his mouth. ‘You'd know about that, Hughie.'

‘What about her and Morton? You think there's anything in that?'

‘Gossip and innuendo,' Welsby said mellifluously. ‘Gossip and fucking innuendo. Which doesn't necessarily mean it isn't true, of course.' He paused. ‘Dunno. We never actually caught them at it, so to speak. But then Marie's no fool.'

‘Would have been pretty foolish if she'd got involved with Morton,' Salter pointed out.

‘Ah, but we're all fools for love. Even you, I don't doubt.'

‘Exception that proves the rule. You think it could have been love, then?'

‘Love or lust. Pretty much amount to the same thing in my experience.'

‘Ever the romantic, guv. Whichever, if she and Morton were some sort of item, do you reckon she really did get something from him?'

‘Evidence, you mean, rather than chlamydia? Can't see it. Like I say, she's no fool. We gave her enough opportunity the other day. If she had anything, she'd have told us.'

‘Assuming she trusts us.'

Welsby nodded. ‘Well, there is that. But if she can't trust us, she can't trust anybody.'

‘That's pretty much what I was thinking, guv.'

Welsby screwed up the empty crisp packet and tossed it in the approximate direction of the bin behind Salter's chair. It bounced off the side and fell forlornly to the floor.

‘Why do I get the feeling that you're fishing for something, Hughie?'

‘Don't know what you mean, guv. When I go fishing, I generally take a harpoon.'

Welsby pushed himself slowly to his feet. There was a sign on the wall immediately in front of him which politely requested customers to return their trays and utensils and to dispose of any litter in the receptacles provided. He gazed at the sign for a moment, with the air of one wrestling with an unfamiliar language. Then he turned, leaving the remains of his meal scattered across the table.

‘We live in strange times, Hughie. All I can say is, if Marie Donovan's on the point of losing her marbles, you'd better be fucking sure you hold on to yours.'

Chapter 19

She parked in an anonymous shoppers' car park, a half-acre of reclaimed space between a down-at-heel supermarket and a row of charity shops. There was little more depressing, she thought, than a holiday resort out of season. And, whatever its publicity might say, this place was hardly at the cutting edge of the leisure industry even in the height of summer.

It had been a fine day when she left Manchester, but as she'd driven along the M55 past Preston she'd seen the first dark clouds coming in from the west. Now, heavy rain was pouring down from a leaden grey sky. A few pedestrians scurried past, shoppers hurrying for shelter, elderly ladies apparently oblivious to the weather. A group of inappropriately dressed young men were stumbling along in the direction of the next pub, jackets pulled half-heartedly over their heads. A stag-do, clearly, but it was difficult to tell whether they were recovering from the night before or preparing for the night to come.

Marie pulled her own coat more tightly around her, fumbling with her umbrella, and began to make her way along the back streets behind the North Promenade.

It had taken her a while to work out what Jones' two texted words, ‘Mayfield' and ‘Wilson', might mean. She had thought it likely that ‘Mayfield' might be the name of some hotel or bed and breakfast. A few minutes' online searching had confirmed that – there was a Mayfield Hotel with the postcode that Jones had sent. On that basis, she decided that Wilson must be the name Jones was using.

The Mayfield Hotel was easy enough to find, one of a series of small establishments on a back street running parallel to the seafront. The sea itself was hidden behind the endless rows of Victorian and Edwardian terraces, though she'd briefly glimpsed its grey expanse as she'd made her way from the car park.

The area, like the town in general, had seen better days, a legacy from the times when the North of England used to decamp to the seaside to celebrate its high days and holidays. These days, most of that population would board cheap flights to the Mediterranean or further afield instead, and few would come here for more than a day or two. The town survived on day trips when the weather was decent, drunken stag and hen nights, a scattering of the middle classes on weekend breaks with the kids at the Imperial or the Hilton. She didn't know who stayed in these back-street hotels. Young people or families on benefits, maybe, who might otherwise be homeless.

Most of the hotels – the word flattered the establishments – looked run-down, paint peeling, letters missing from their signs, front gardens overgrown. There were optimistic ‘Vacancies' signs in some windows. Others had surrendered to economic realities and closed, boarded windows staring blankly at the deserted street.

The Mayfield looked better than average. It had been redecorated within living memory, and its entrance was kept tidy. It stood at the end of the street, its location within touching distance of the more salubrious residential district beyond. Not exactly luxurious, but respectable.

She pushed open the entrance and stepped into the gloomy lobby. It was a narrow hallway, decorated with a garish wallpaper from a different decade. There was an unoccupied reception desk to the left, a rack of tourist leaflets, a pervasive smell of fried food. On the reception was a neatly printed sign: Ring bell for service. She waited a moment, wondering whether anyone would appear, and then reached out to do so.

‘Help you?' a voice said from the gloom at the far end of the passage. She squinted at a rounded silhouette framed in what she took to be the door to the kitchen. The figure shuffled forwards, and revealed itself to be a middle-aged man, dressed in a greasy blazer and tie. He had the air of a gone-to-seed army officer. Like everything else around here, he was well past his prime.

‘I'm here to see one of your guests,' she said. ‘A Mr Wilson?'

He took another few steps forwards and peered at her, in the manner of an immigration officer surveying a probably illegal alien. ‘Mr Wilson?'

She hesitated, wondering whether she had misinterpreted Jones' text message. ‘He asked me to meet him here.'

‘That so?' The man's gaze was still fixed on her, his eyes now travelling over her besuited body with an all-too-familiar semi-sexual interest. It wasn't difficult to read his curiosity about what the likes of her had to do with the likes of the supposed Mr Wilson.

‘Can you let him know I'm here?' she said.

The man said nothing, but made his way slowly around behind the reception desk. He lowered himself cautiously down on to a stool that creaked beneath his weight, then shook his head.

‘You're used to more upmarket establishments than this, love. No phones in our rooms. You'll have to go and track him down yourself.' He smiled salaciously, as if the thought of a woman visiting a man's room was intrinsically erotic. In his life it quite possibly was.

‘What room?' she said. ‘Four,' he said.

‘First floor. Up the stairs. Turn right.'

She was gratified to sense that her stare made him uncomfortable. ‘You're quite right,' she said finally. ‘I am used to more upmarket places. But you can't beat a small hotel for service.'

She strode past him up the stairs. His instructions were accurate enough, at least, and she found Room 4 without difficulty.

She knocked and waited. There was a lengthy pause, and then a muffled voice said, ‘Who is it?'

‘Marie Donovan,' she called back. She had the strong sense that the hotelier was listening from downstairs.

There was a fumbling with the lock. She wasn't sure what to expect. Jones' anxiety at their previous meeting and his caution in setting up this assignation led her to expect a cowed figure, trembling behind a locked door. Instead, he threw it open and stood before her, looking calm enough. He was dressed casually, in chain-store jeans and a neatly patterned sweater. He looked like an off-duty sales executive.

‘You worked out the message, then?' he said.

‘It wasn't difficult,' she said, finding herself troubled by his coolness. ‘Hope nobody else found it as easy.'

He said nothing for a moment. ‘Come in. We need to talk.'

‘You sure you want to talk here?' She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I don't know that Basil Fawlty approves of you having strange women in your room.'

He held up his hands. ‘I'm not going to try anything.'

‘Too fucking right you're not,' she said. ‘Not if you want to keep the use of those arms.'

He laughed nervously and ushered her in. It was a bleak place – a single bed, a battered dressing table that Jones was using as a desk, a couple of chairs. There was a sink in the corner, so presumably no en-suite bathroom. Jones' old suitcase lay open on the floor. It looked as if it had been packed in a hurry.

She pulled one of the chairs round and sat down. ‘What's this about, Morgan? It's a long bloody way up here.'

He nodded. ‘I thought I should get away for a bit. Get my head straight.'

‘You'll need to go a long way if that's what you want to do,' she said. ‘Why'd you run out on me?'

‘Lost my nerve.' He sat down opposite her. ‘Thought someone was watching.'

‘In the café?'

‘Probably just being paranoid,' he said. ‘Some guy at the far end. Reading a paper. Got the idea into my head that he was keeping an eye on us.'

She thought back, but couldn't remember anyone. Given her own state of mind, that surprised her. If there'd been anyone acting suspicious, she'd have been the first to notice it.

‘So you just legged it?'

‘I'm here now.'

‘Rejoice and be merry,' she said. ‘So what do you want?'

He stared down at his knees for a moment, then looked up at her. ‘I didn't tell the whole truth the other day.'

‘That right, Morgan? How will I live with my shattered illusions?'

‘I said I'd heard about Jake Morton's death. That wasn't quite true.'

‘Go on.'

It was clear that he was struggling to find the right words. He was looking down again, and she had to listen hard to make out what he said.

‘I was part of it. Part of the team that killed him.'

She acted without thinking. She hooked her foot around the leg of his chair and jerked it savagely to the left. Caught by surprise, he toppled sideways, falling awkwardly on to the worn carpeting. She was on her feet in a moment, her shoe pressed against Jones' throat.

‘What the fuck are you talking about? Is this one of your stupid games, Morgan?'

It was only afterwards that she realized quite how angry she'd been. All the emotions of the past few weeks – all the fear, loss, resentment and paranoia – had found a release in the fury and revulsion she felt towards Jones' cowering form. It was fortunate, she thought later, that she'd been wearing low heels rather than stilettos.

She never knew what she might have done. There was a sudden sharp knocking at the door, and from outside the hotel owner was shouting, ‘Everything all right in there?'

She lifted her shoe from Jones' neck and strode over to open the door. She stared at the elderly man, who was clearly startled that she, rather than Jones, had responded to his shout.

‘Everything's fine,' she said. ‘Sorry about the noise.' She gestured over her shoulder. ‘Mr Wilson had a bit of a tumble, but he's OK now.'

The hotel owner peered past her. Jones was climbing slowly to his feet, looking nothing worse than dishevelled.

The man hesitated, seeking some excuse to continue his intrusion. ‘If you're sure . . .' He looked her up and down, though his gaze was possibly admiring rather than voyeuristic now.

‘I'll let you know if we need anything. Thanks for checking.' She stood resolutely at the doorway until the man had backed away down the stairs.

When she was satisfied that he was gone, she closed the door and turned back towards Jones.

‘Same question, Morgan,' she said. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? Don't try to kid me you were involved in Morton's death.' She sat down again, indicating Jones to follow suit.

Jones opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘I was there,' he said, finally. ‘I mean, I wasn't involved in . . . all that. Not my style. You know that.'

‘Don't know what I know, Morgan. But you're not the sort to get your hands dirty if you can help it.'

‘I was driving,' Jones said. ‘They'd asked me to sort the car for them, and then drive them. I waited down the street.' He stopped, struggling for breath. ‘I thought they just wanted to put some pressure on Morton . . .'

She stared at him, offering no response or respite. His story made sense. That was Jones' level – stealing cars, petty stuff. She'd heard that one of Jones' few assets was that, through some miracle, he'd never actually managed to acquire a criminal record. His DNA and prints weren't on file. So he'd been able to make a living doing bits and pieces with no risk that they'd be traced back to him. It was a saleable commodity, even if Jones had little else going for him.

The professionals who'd done the hit were in the same position, of course, though by design rather than happy accident. The value of a professional hitman lay largely in untraceability. Yes, they brought a certain expertise to the party, but their major skill was in melting into the background afterwards. She didn't know who'd organized the hit or who'd involved Jones, but she knew Jones would have no clue who his colleagues had been. Jones was disposable. If anything had gone wrong with the operation, he was there to carry the can. Probably why they'd recruited him in the first place.

‘So who was it, Morgan?' she said anyway. ‘Who organized it?'

‘I don't know,' he said pleadingly. ‘You know how these things happen. I was contacted, given the details of what to do. But I don't know who was at the end of the chain.'

‘But you can guess?'

He looked up at her, meeting her eyes at last. ‘Well, so can you. It must have been Boyle or Kerridge. Who else would have a reason to kill Morton?'

‘So why are you telling me this, Morgan? This your idea of a good anecdote?'

Another thought had struck her. Whether Jones had seen her leaving Morton's apartment, seen her driving away.

‘Like I said, I didn't expect them to do . . . what they did. I thought they were trying to get information. I didn't think it would go that far.'

‘Don't come to me looking for absolution, Morgan. You can burn in the fires of hell for all I care.' She leaned forwards and jabbed a finger in his chest. ‘What do you want? Why bring me all the way out here to tell me about your chauffeuring experience?'

‘Because I heard what they said. In the car afterwards.'

She looked closely at his bloodshot eyes and trembling mouth, wondering if he was telling the truth. If they were pros, they wouldn't shoot their mouths off in Jones' hearing. Unless of course they'd wanted Jones to hear.

It was possible. They knew they'd been seen, that she'd been in the flat. That was an unknown quantity for them. So they'd scare the living daylights out of Jones, make sure he kept quiet. And maybe make sure he got the word out to others. A warning.

In any case, this was about territory. Yes, Boyle would have known that Morton's death removed their key witness. And he'd have wanted to get whatever information he could out of Morton. But ultimately this was about showing he was still in charge. Boyle might be behind bars, at least for the moment, but he was demonstrating, loud and clear, that this was no time for anyone to fuck with him.

‘What did they say, Morgan? What did they tell you?'

He swallowed. ‘They told me what they'd done to Morton. Told me they had to apply a few . . . measures.'

‘Did they?' Marie had not sought to discover any more details about Jake's death. The hints dropped by Salter had been more than enough. She certainly had no desire to hear it from Jones.