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She poured the coffee, laughing at the way her imagination was starting to run with the half ideas she'd been playing with. But it didn't pay to be too clever. The hard part, as they'd repeatedly reminded her during training, was remembering which lies you'd told. The best strategy was to keep close to the truth, to reduce the risks of a slip-up. A nice theory, but not so easy when you were stuck in the world of Maggie Yates.

It was nearly four in the afternoon. Friday. In any normal life, she'd be looking forward to the weekend, planning how to use the empty two days. She'd agreed with McGrath that she'd start work on the Monday, and she'd wondered whether to take the opportunity to go home. She'd been up here for a couple of weeks now and hadn't made a return trip to London. She knew from her previous experience how difficult it was to keep stepping in and out of character, and her grip on the mysterious Maggie Yates felt too tenuous to risk further loosening.

But she knew that Liam needed her. She couldn't fool herself that his condition hadn't deteriorated. The physical decline was unavoidable. He was largely confined to the wheelchair, the adjustable armchair she'd bought for him, and his bed. When they'd last spoken over the phone, he'd seemed vague and had complained repeatedly about feeling exhausted. She knew that the carers came and got him up, prepared him some breakfast and lunch, and came round in the evening to help him get to bed.

Marie worried about the practicalities of Liam's existence. She worried about the risks that he might have a fall from his chair between the carers' visits. They'd organised for him to have a portable alarm, so that he could be in contact with social services if anything did happen. But what if he fell and hit his head? Or, the way he was now, if he simply forgot about the alarm.

But her greatest worries were not solely practical. She worried about his mental state, about how he must be feeling, stuck on his own all day, struggling to paint or, worse still, recognising that painting was beyond him. As far as she knew, he hadn't made a serious attempt to work again since she'd left, and she didn't know whether or not she should encourage him to try. During their phone calls, she was detecting more of the passivity, the unreal calm, that she'd noted in their last face-to-face conversations. His condition seemed to come and go, and some days were better than others. But the bad days were increasingly frequent.

She pulled out her personal mobile and thumbed the home number again. She'd grown accustomed to the undercover protocols around mobile phone usage, ensuring no potentially compromising linkage between her two lives. In the past it had been frustrating for Liam that she wasn't easily available at the end of a phone line. Now, each time she switched on her personal phone, she was afraid that there might be a message bringing bad news – an accident or a worsening of his condition.

She listened to the ringtone, expecting no answer. Then, as she was about to end the call, the phone was picked up. ‘Yes?'

It took her a second to recognise the female voice. Sue, the lead carer. ‘It's Marie, Sue. Just calling to check on Liam.'

There was a pause at the other end of the line, as if Sue had forgotten who Marie was or, more likely, was silently registering her disapproval at Marie's absence. ‘Not so good today,' Sue said at last.

‘Oh. I'm sorry,' Marie said, unsure whether she was expressing regret or offering an apology. ‘What is it?'

‘Probably just a cold. Has a bit of a temperature. But it's really knocked him back.'

‘It always does, anything like that. Can I have a word?'

Another pause. ‘He's asleep at the moment. Seemed completely whacked.'

‘Right. Well, okay. If you're still there when he wakes, tell him I called. I'll try again later.'

‘I will.'

Marie ended the call, feeling oddly wrong-footed. She could sense Sue's disapproval down the phone. That was no surprise. But Marie was also left with an unreasonable sense that she'd been usurped, that Sue had taken on a role that was rightfully hers. Well, in a sense, that
was
exactly what she'd done. Taken on the role that a more traditional wife might have occupied. Marie couldn't have it both ways. If she wanted the freedom to pursue her career, she had to accept that others would need to step into the role she'd vacated.

The real issue was Liam. She'd seen how a normally trivial illness – a cold or a fever – could knock him sideways. And even though his state of health usually improved once the illness had passed, each incident brought him a little lower, caused a further deterioration. She wondered again whether she ought to return home this weekend. She'd see how Liam was when she called later, and head back in the morning if he seemed no better.

She was slipping the phone back in her handbag when it buzzed in her hand. She glanced at the screen. It was the code, designed to look like a junk text advertisement, that indicated she should call Salter on the secure line. The arrangement was that an undercover officer should have a single designated point of contact, who would both act as a conduit for information and provide a ‘buddying' role, keeping an eye on the physical and psychological health of the officer in the field. Normally, the contact was another officer of equivalent grade so the relationship was free of hierarchical pressures. Salter had been her previous contact, but she'd assumed that, following his promotion, he'd allocate the role to another officer. Instead, he'd decided to continue. She didn't much care – after all, she'd never been unduly intimidated by Salter's supposed seniority. But it was another factor which fed her suspicions.

She dialled the number and went through the usual ritual of exchanged codes. ‘You wanted me, Hugh?' Strictly speaking, she wasn't supposed to use his name, but given that he'd flouted most of the relevant protocols in setting up the assignment, she couldn't see that one more transgression would hurt.

‘How's it going, sis? You making progress?'

‘Well, I've got the job with McGrath if that's what you mean.'

‘That's good. We'd have been well and truly scuppered if he'd turned you down. Mind you, you came highly recommended.'

‘I don't think it was my references that he was interested in, to be honest, Hugh.'

‘No, well. I'd heard that about him. One reason I was keen for you to flash a bit of cleavage.'

‘Ever the professional, Hugh. I start Monday. And I can't wait.' She paused, thinking that she might as well push Salter a bit harder. ‘You're sure he's worth it, Hugh? He strikes me as pretty small-time.'

‘That's not what the intel says. He's not a massive player, but he's growing. Building up market share, as they say. And he's got some interesting contacts. Now's the time for us to get in there, before he gets too big and powerful.'

‘If you say so. So was that why you called? Just to enquire about my well being?'

‘You know how much it matters to me, sis. But, no, actually. I've got someone who'd like a chat with you.'

‘How lovely. I assume it's something important, given that I'm undercover and everything?' She was growing increasingly concerned about Hugh's apparently casual approach to her role. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

‘Could be,' Salter said. ‘Might be relevant to McGrath, as well.'

‘Go on.'

‘Got a guy here on secondment. DI from Greater Manchester Police. Working as evidence officer on the Pete Boyle case.'

This was interesting, she thought. If Salter really was in Boyle's pocket, why would he bring in an outsider to support the investigation?

‘Don't know how useful it'll be. If we hadn't got this extra resource foisted on us, I'd struggle to justify it.'

‘Foisted on us?'

‘Long story. But, yeah, it means we can pay Boyle a bit of extra attention. There've been a spate of killings across the north west. All apparently gang-related, but not obviously linked to each other. Could be Boyle marking his territory. Telling the competition to get the fuck out of there.'

‘Better than saying it with flowers.'

‘They all look like pro jobs. It's another possible route into Boyle. Thought it might be a good time to up the ante a bit'

‘And where do I come in? Why'd you want me to see this guy?'

‘Background, really. You got closer to Boyle than most of us.'

‘Not much. You sure it's worth the risk? If he's a DI with the GMP he's likely to be recognisable.‘

‘He's recognisable, all right. But if he meets you outside Manchester, the risks are pretty limited.‘

‘Don't you think we should set the threshold a bit higher than ‘pretty limited', Hugh? We can't afford to compromise the operation. Or me.‘

‘There's no risk. Anything that gives us any more chance of nailing Boyle has to be worth it.'

‘Okay, Hugh. Against my better judgement and all that. When did you have in mind?'

‘How about tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow? Christ, Hugh, you really do push things to the limits, don't you?'

‘Well, if you don't like working weekends–'

‘For God's sake, Hugh, it's not that. I just think we ought to set up a meeting properly.'

‘It's not an international summit. Just meet him for a coffee. Give him your thoughts on Boyle.'

‘But what's the rush?'

‘We've only got this guy for a month or two, I imagine. Want to make the best use of his time. Once you get started with McGrath, it'll get harder to pull you out for things like this.' Salter paused in a manner that she recognised. He'd saved up some last little titbit for last. ‘Anyway, you should be flattered. It was his request to speak to you.'

‘Piss off, Hugh. He can't even know I exist.'

‘Well, he wouldn't, except that young Hodder's helping him out. I imagine he mentioned your involvement in our little escapade last year.' Little escapade, she thought. One dead villain, one corrupt cop, and the two of them escaping by the skin of their teeth. She wondered what Hodder had said. Wet behind the ears he might be, but he was no fool.

‘And he asked to see me, this DI of yours?'

‘Very keen. He's just trying to pull together whatever background we've got. He's been through all the files, but he thinks you might be able to give him some more personal stuff.'

‘I can't see I can give him much, Hugh. Most of what I know will be in the files anyway.'

‘He's a smart cookie, this guy. You know what it's like. Half the time in this job you don't know what you're looking for. If you just take him through your impressions, he might come up with something.' Another pause, this time indicating that Salter was building up to one of his attempts at humour. ‘Anyway, you don't want to pass up the opportunity. He's not my type, but the girls in the office think he's a bit of a looker.'

Girls in the office, she thought. Salter used that kind of phrase with a supposed edge of irony, but it reflected his view of the gender divide. Present company perhaps just about excepted. ‘Well, we've few enough of those,' she said. ‘What's his name, this guy?'

‘Brennan. Jack Brennan.'

She was silent for a moment, holding her breath, but couldn't prevent herself from laughing. ‘Jack Brennan, Hugh? That would be
the
Jack Brennan?'

‘I imagine we've the same one in mind, yes.'

‘No wonder they've foisted him on you. I bet they won't be in much of a rush to take him back.'

She thought she'd pushed him too far. Salter was rhino-skinned in most respects, but he never responded well to being laughed at. But finally he gave a forced laugh to match hers. ‘Well, maybe. But he's a good cop. A good
detective
.'

‘I know that, Hugh. A bit too good, some might say. But he's not made many friends.' She succeeded in restraining another laugh. ‘That why you've taken him on, Hugh? There but for the grace of God and all that?'

‘I didn't have much choice about taking him on. They were keen to get him out of the heat. And you're know what we're like for manpower. Thinner than a supermodel on hunger strike. We'll take anything we can get. But you're right – he's not that different from me.'

‘I'll judge that when I meet him, Hugh. Difference was you risked your life to expose a corrupt bastard who'd put all our lives at risk. Everybody says Brennan grassed up a popular cop to save his own skin.'

‘Not how he tells it. He'll probably bend your ear on the subject. Seems to do that with most people he meets. By the way, speaking of the devil, I hear Welsby's making progress. Not enough for them to take the bugger out of hospital and stick him back in Belmarsh where he belongs, but enough that's he's likely to stand trial after all. Maybe there is a God.'

‘I thought it was God who'd left him in limbo,' she said. She didn't want to think about Keith Welsby, not just now. She didn't want to think about what might happen if he stood trial. She and Salter would be key witnesses, even if she were allowed to retain her undercover anonymity. She'd have to relive everything. She'd have to give answers under oath. Most of what she'd said in her witness statements at the time had been accurate. But Salter had inveigled her into bending the truth about one or two aspects of his own role. Salter wouldn't have too many scruples about perjuring himself on issues that weren't, in the end, even particularly germane to the case against Welsby. But she might have more difficulty. ‘So what's the news?'

‘Apparently he's getting more responsive. Be a while before he's fit to stand up in court, though, I'd guess.'

‘Justice for all,' she said, sardonically. ‘Okay, so when do you want me to meet Brennan?'

They spent a few more minutes sorting out the details. Saturday lunch, she suggested, in a cafe-bar just outside the city walls in Chester. A bit off the main drag, less risk of them being spotted together. She was even more concerned now she'd discovered Brennan's identity. His picture had been in the newspapers once or twice when the story first broke. Not exactly a celebrity, but someone whose features might be familiar to those who, for whatever reason, were interested in such things.