Trust No One (7 page)

‘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

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.'