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‘Only to work with,' Salter said. ‘I helped put him in here. Well, not in
here
. But in Her Majesty's safe custody.'

‘Right.' The officer took a moment or two to work this out. ‘Bent,' he said. ‘That's what we heard. Corrupt bastard.'

Salter moved past him and took one of the plastic seats next to the other officer. He looked closely at Welsby's face, as if expecting the older man to react in some way. Welsby was breathing steadily, an oxygen mask clamped across his mouth and nose. Drips and wires protruded from beneath the bedclothes. ‘We mustn't prejudge the due process of law,' Salter said. ‘But, yes, I'd have said that “corrupt bastard” sums it up.' He looked across at the seated officer. ‘How's he doing?'

The officer held out his hand for shaking. ‘Eddie Brady,' he said.

Salter ignored both the hand and the name. ‘He looks like shit,' he observed, gesturing towards Welsby.

Brady looked up at his colleague, who shrugged and moved to stand by the door, staring out into the corridor as if hoping that the cavalry might turn up from that direction. All yours, son, seemed to be the implicit message.

‘I think “shit” pretty much sums it up,' Brady said. ‘They reckon he's improving,' Brady went on, ‘but I suppose that depends where you're starting from.'

‘He say much?'

‘Bugger all that I've heard.' Brady gestured towards the oxygen mask. ‘Though it's not easy to tell. Grunts the occasional yes and no if you ask him a direct question.'

‘Understands what you say, then?'

‘Seems to. Basic questions, anyway. Can't say I've tried to engage him in conversation.'

‘You reckon he's the full shilling, then, mentally?' Salter was leaning over and peering at Welsby's bulky body, as if he might glean some clues to his condition.

‘I've no idea, mate. I'm just a screw. You'd be better asking the doctors, I'd have thought.'

‘If I can find one,' Salter said. ‘Could only see one bloody nurse out there. Health Service, eh? You two here permanently?'

Brady shook his head. ‘My first time on this detail. Greg over there's been over here a few times before, though. We rotate. Governors don't let us out of their sight for too long.'

‘Must be costing the Prison Service a bloody fortune, having you two stationed out here all the time. It's not like he's about to do a runner.'

Brady shrugged. ‘Regulations, isn't it? They haven't got the facilities to treat him inside, so they've had to bring him out here. But he's still a prisoner, so he needs a bed watch. Pain in the arse, but there you go.'

‘Bugger's only on remand, anyway,' Salter mused. ‘He was refused bail because they thought he might bugger off. You'd have thought he might be granted it now, but he's not reapplied. Heard his lawyer was trying to get the case struck out because he was unfit to stand trial, but he scuppered that by starting to recover. Can't do anything right, poor bastard.'

‘Stroke, was it?' Brady said.

‘That was what did for him in the end. Tried to top himself first. He messed that up as well, but when they were cutting him free he collapsed anyway. Not a surprise. He was always an aneurism waiting to happen.'

He pushed himself slowly to his feet. ‘Anyway, just here to pay my respects.'

‘Don't they have to be dead before you do that?' Brady said.

‘Wishful thinking, son. Right, I'll go and see if there's any trained medical staff around to shed some light on his condition. Won't hold my breath, though.' Salter made his way toward the door. As he exited, he turned back to the two officers. ‘Take care of him, won't you, lads? Don't go disconnecting any tubes or anything.'

‘Jack Brennan?'

He looked up from his newspaper and squinted at the light from the entrance. ‘That's me,' he said. ‘All too recognisable. You must be Maggie Yates. Hugh Salter gave me a description.'

‘Of course he did,' she said.

He smiled. ‘Probably didn't do you justice, though.'

She ignored the compliment and looked around the cafe, which was surprisingly busy given its location. ‘Fancy going somewhere where we can talk more easily.'

‘Fine by me,' he said. He had half a cup of coffee left, which he finished in a mouthful. ‘Where'd you have in mind?'

‘How about a walk in the park?' she said. ‘Given the sun's shining for once.' They were only a short distance from Grosvenor Park, which ran along by the river. Out there, there was less chance of being overheard, even if it marginally increased the risk of her being spotted with Brennan.

‘Why not?' Brennan folded up his newspaper and rose from the table. ‘Can't think of a better way to spend a summer's afternoon.'

She was half-expecting him to add some flirtatious follow-up and found herself almost disappointed when nothing materialised.

Salter had been right about Brennan's looks, though. He was even better in the flesh, and she suspected he knew it. There was more than a touch of vanity about his appearance. He was dressed casually, but the clothes were expensive. If she'd been more knowledgeable she'd no doubt have recognised the discreet logos on his polo shirt and jacket. His hair was styled in a manner than looked casual, but had taken a while to achieve.

It was the kind of look she normally found unattractive – she preferred men who were more interested in her appearance than their own. But there was something about Brennan that suggested he might be more fun than he initially appeared. Something in his eyes. A sense of humour, or even a sense of mischief. Someone who was bright enough to be aware of his own weaknesses and who wouldn't be afraid to laugh at them. Or perhaps she was already being half-seduced by those ruggedly handsome good looks.

They walked back into the sunshine and made their way into Grosvenor Park. It was an attractive spot – a Victorian park, lined with trees and dotted with intriguing features, the River Dee lying just beyond. There were a few people about – parents with small children heading for the min-iature railway, young couples, dog walkers – but the place was hardly crowded. They found a bench in the sunshine and sat watching the passers-by.

‘Hugh said you asked to see me,' Marie said.

‘I hope it's not inconvenient,' Brennan said. ‘I didn't realise you'd just started a new assignment.'

‘Only just kicked off,' she said. ‘No, it's okay. I'm not sure I can really help you, though. I don't know that I can tell you anything that's not in the files.'

‘My experience is that there's only so much you can get from the files. They give you the facts. But they don't give you – I don't know – the colour, I suppose. They don't tell you the things that are really important.'

‘What is it you want to know?'

He paused, as if trying to think how best to phrase the questions. Then, to her surprise, he said, ‘What do you think of Salter?'

She twisted on the bench and looked at him. ‘I thought we were here to talk about Pete Boyle.'

‘I'm just looking for a bit of context. You know what it's like in a new job. You don't know anybody. You don't know the dynamics. Who hates who. Who are best pals. Which couples are shagging in the stationery cup-board.'

‘I'm not aware Hugh's shagging anyone in the stationery cupboard,' she said. ‘Except possibly himself. Though, with respect–'

He gazed back at her, and suddenly laughed. ‘Okay, I'm the last one to be raising that particular topic. Though you shouldn't believe everything you hear. I'm just trying to get a sense of how things work around here.'

‘And why do you think I'm the one to give you a view on that?'

‘I've been talking to Andy Hodder. You know him?'

‘Andy? He's good. You're lucky to have him working with you.'

‘Yeah, that's my impression. Enthusiastic, and no fool. He said you were worth talking to. Not just about Boyle, but generally. Said you'd give me a straight view.'

That didn't surprise her. She'd chatted to Hodder a few times over the past months. She liked him. He was smart, keen and, as far as she could tell, honest. She knew that Salter had co-opted Hodder into helping with his freelance move against Jeff Kerridge. Salter had used Hodder's unauthorised involvement to persuade her not to tell the whole truth about how Salter had carried out the operation.
Don't want to land young Hodder in any hot water, sis.
Marie had the impression that Hodder's views of Salter were similar to her own.

‘I hope he's right,' she said. ‘Question is, Mr Brennan, if I give a straight view, how do I know what you'll do with it? I've no particular reason to trust your discretion.' She paused. ‘Or your integrity, if what I hear is true.'

His face was expressionless. ‘Like I say, don't believe everything you hear. Though I can see why you might.'

‘What I heard,' she said, ‘was that you were shagging the Chief Super's wife. And when he found out, you shafted him – just as you'd been shafting her, I suppose.'

Finally, his expression softened and he laughed. ‘Yeah, that's the story. Have they told you how I shafted him?'

‘Exposed him for taking backhanders is what I heard. Ended his career.'

‘Interesting, that, isn't it? Not something I could have invented, really. Him taking backhanders. He either was or he wasn't. And if he was, don't you think it was right to expose it?'

‘I suppose. Doesn't make your motives any more honourable, though.'

‘Not if the story was true. But it's not quite the way it happened.'

‘Go on.'

‘Chief Superintendent Craddock's a popular guy. One of the lads. Also, bent as the proverbial and a total bastard. Not at work – well, only when it suited him. But at home, to his wife and kids. Beat the crap out of her, and probably them as well. Yeah, I did have a brief thing with the wife. It was stupid – after some office do. She'd been abandoned there by her dear hubby who'd buggered off to screw a young WPC. She'd had too much to drink – we both had – and I didn't think she was safe to get home by herself. So I organised a taxi, went with her to make sure she was okay, and – well, you know. She poured her heart out about what a bastard her hubby was, and I ended up staying a bit longer than I'd intended. We met a couple more times. She was a nice woman and I felt sorry for her. But we both realised it was bloody stupid and ended it. Over a year ago.'

‘So where does the corruption allegation come in?'

‘A few months back, a grass let me in on a little secret. He'd been fucked over by someone and was looking to get his own back. So he told me a bunch of stuff about the someone in question, most of it bollocks. But part of it was that ‘the someone' was paying a nice little retainer to our friend Craddock. And that he wasn't the only one. That bit of the story rang true because it tied in with rumours I'd picked up from other sources. I wasn't the only one who suspected, but most didn't want to rock the boat, given what a popular guy we were dealing with. Being the bone-headed pillock that I am, I did a bit more digging, found more evidence, and in the end felt I had no option but to turn the whole thing over to Professional Standards.'

‘And all this was after you'd finished with his wife?'

‘Insofar as I ever started, yes. Months after. I thought Standards would kick it into the long grass in any case. But there was too much evidence for them to ignore. They brought disciplinary action against the Chief. And he started muddying the waters. His wife had obviously let something slip – probably one of those nights when she was accidentally banging her head on the kitchen door. He claimed I'd been having an affair with his wife. Said that when he'd found out and tried to stop it, I'd threatened to expose his dodgy dealings. It was all bollocks, but it cast doubt on my motives, especially as he scared his wife into backing up his story. He couldn't avoid the central allegations, of course, but a lot of the evidence was circumstantial and he managed to play it down quite successfully. Yes, he'd made some serious errors of judgement and allowed himself to become too close to the wrong people. But he didn't accept that he'd behaved corruptly and – blah, blah, blah. Standards didn't believe a word of it, but didn't want to crap on their own doorstep. In the end he was allowed to retire quietly on a full pension. Poor bugger. And then he did everything he could to shift the blame on to me – the bastard who'd fucked his wife and his career.'

‘Right,' she said, not knowing quite how to respond. ‘And as punishment they've sent you to work with us? Jesus, they're ruthless.'

He laughed, this time with genuine humour. ‘Just wanted me out of their hair. They can't sack me. I'm too far off retirement. So all they could do was move me sideways to somewhere where I can't do too much damage.'

It could all be a pack of lies, she thought. The grapevine could be right, and this might just be Brennan's way of ingratiating himself. But she was inclined to believe him. His story matched her own experience of police politics.

‘Okay, you've persuaded me,' she said. ‘So what can I tell you? You were asking about Hugh.'

‘Yeah. I don't know what to make of him. I don't know whether he's stuck me on some half-arsed wild goose chase or whether this Pete Boyle stuff really matters.'

‘Hard to say. It generally is where Hugh's concerned. He's a smart guy but he looks out for number one.' She was conscious of trotting out platitudes, skating round her real thoughts about Hugh Salter. ‘Boyle's a big deal, though. You've heard the background to all that?'

‘I heard something. But tell me your version.'

‘I was working undercover in Manchester, trying to get some grift on Jeff Kerridge. We'd already arrested Boyle, on what seemed like good evidence from a grass–' She paused for a moment, as her mind drifted back to the grass in question. Jake Morton, her former lover. Killed by Boyle. And the biggest skeleton in her own particular closet. ‘The plan was to use Boyle to build a case against his boss, Kerridge. But we knew that intelligence was leaking somewhere. Turned out that Keith Welsby, who was the senior running mine and Hugh's team, was in Kerridge's pocket. Salter took it on himself to expose Welsby. Nearly got both of us killed in the process. But in the end it worked. We got Welsby bang to rights. And Kerridge was killed. By Hugh. In self-defence. Supposedly.'