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She was conscious that there were things she had to do. She should contact Salter, to see if there was news on McGrath and find out what the bloody hell she was supposed to do. She should try to discover the truth about Lizzie's father.

And she should check how Liam was. Through the events of the night, somewhere at the back of her head had been nagging anxiety about Liam.

She didn't know how much to trust Sue. Not her honesty or integrity, but simply her judgement. In Marie's experience, the carers tended to overstate Liam's illness. More than once, while she'd been working in London, she'd received frantic phone calls claiming that he'd had a severe relapse. She'd rushed back and generally found him only a little worse than usual. The carers had to protect their own positions. If he really was in a bad way and they ignored it, they'd be accused of negligence. If in doubt, they were right to call her. And she knew her own perspective tended to be over-optimistic. Part of her wanted all this to go away, for things to be like they'd been before. She didn't want to believe there was no future for them but this steady decline.

She knew that Sue had said she'd call her in the evening, rather than risk disturbing Liam. But Marie still resented this other woman interfering, however well-meaningly, in their relationship.

‘It's Marie, Sue.' She immediately found herself apologising for phoning and hated herself for doing so. ‘I was worried about him overnight. How is he now?'

‘A bit better, I think. He managed to get down some breakfast. Bit more in control than last night. More his old self.'

As if you'd know, Marie found herself thinking. ‘Is he still up?'

There was enough of a pause to suggest that Sue was weighing up Liam's best interests, rather than simply answering Marie's question. ‘He's gone for a rest. He was asleep when I last looked in.'

There was no way that Marie could call Sue a liar. ‘Thanks, Sue. I'll check back again.'

‘I'll call you if there are any problems, obviously,' Sue responded in a tone which confirmed this was the preferable approach.

‘Right. Goodbye, Sue.'

She wandered into the kitchen and prepared some toast and coffee while she thought about what to do next. She'd eventually calmed Lizzie down and persuaded her to get more sleep. The police would probably turn up to talk to Lizzie – and to Marie herself – before too long, but she hadn't bothered Lizzie with that. She tried to persuade Lizzie to go back home to her mother, but Lizzie had thought, maybe rightly, that the idea was anything other than calming. But she'd seemed all right by the time Marie left, contemplating the therapeutic benefits of a night on the town with her flatmate.

Which left the question of Lizzie's father. She'd considered raising the question with Salter. But that wasn't the way to go. Salter had assigned her up here. So if she was right, and it all wasn't just to be a
hell
of a coincidence, that meant he knew. And she couldn't begin to think what the significance of that might be.

She could try to find out from someone back at HQ or even at the local office up here. The answer would be in the files. But there was still the risk of alerting Salter if she started asking questions.

She hesitated and then reached into her handbag for her address book. She'd jotted down a number a few pages in, with no name attached. Now she keyed the number into her mobile. After a couple of rings, she heard a voice. ‘Hello?'

‘Hi, it's Marie Donovan.'

She found herself unaccountably disappointed by the second or two it took him to place the name. ‘Marie. Wasn't expecting you to call this quickly. Or even at all, if I'm honest.'

‘Shows you shouldn't underestimate people, Jack,' she said.

‘Not usually one of my failings,' Brennan said. ‘Though there are plenty more you could choose from. To what do I owe the honour?'

‘Maybe I just fancied a chat,' she said, then regretted the mildly flirtatious tone that had crept into her voice. ‘Actually, Jack, don't know if you've heard, but things have changed.'

‘McGrath, you mean? Salter just called me. He sounded a bit – put out.'

‘That's the impression I got. Mind you, Hugh never likes anyone screwing up his plans, even by dying.'

‘Where does that leave you?'

‘Christ knows. Hugh's ordered me not to break cover. Not yet, at any rate. Which I guess means that for the moment I might even be a suspect.'

‘You reckon?'

‘I start working there on the Monday. Monday night the office burns down and the boss is killed. You're the detective, Jack. Wouldn't you want to probe a little further?'

‘If you were that unhappy in the job, you could have just resigned.'

‘Very good. But it means I'm in the frame, at least for the moment.'

‘It won't go anywhere.'

‘Too bloody right it won't. I've been there before. Set up and left dangling in the wind. This time I'll make sure Salter pulls the plug.'

‘That why you called? Want me to speak to Salter?'

‘I'm looking for a bit of a favour, actually, Jack. Wondered if there was something you could check for me?'

‘Go on.'

She briefly recounted to him her conversation with Lizzie.

‘Bloody hell,' he said. ‘You think her father is Keith bloody Welsby?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘But there can't be many incarcerated semi-vegetative coppers around.'

‘I don't get it, though,' Brennan said. ‘If you're right, where does Welsby fit in with McGrath?'

‘God knows. Welsby was working with Jeff Kerridge. Maybe McGrath was one of Kerridge's associates. Would explain why he was so nervous about Pete Boyle.'

‘But you've seen background intelligence on McGrath, presumably?'

‘Some,' she said. ‘No reference to Kerridge. As far as I was aware, McGrath was a small-time freelancer doing his own deals out of woolly-backed Chester. Doesn't mean that Kerridge wasn't there in the background.‘

‘For people like Kerridge, keeping your hands clean is part of the job description,' Brennan agreed. ‘So you want me to check on this Lizzie?'

‘It should be on Welsby's file. If I go in the office and start rooting about on the system, someone's bound to ask why I'm there. I don't want anything to get back to Hugh. At least not yet.'

‘I should be able to do it without anybody getting interested. Even if you're right, though, what does it prove?'

‘I don't know what it proves,' she said, ‘but I think we should do a bit more digging on McGrath.'

‘But you've been briefed on McGrath,' Brennan said. ‘He was your target. What else could there be?'

‘Everything I saw pointed to McGrath being small-time. A local freelancer who might just be a nuisance to the big boys. That's how McGrath presented himself to me, and I didn't see anything at his offices to contradict it . . .'

‘But?'

‘But why was Hugh so keen to assign me there? It never made much sense and it was all so rushed. Maybe there was more to McGrath than met the eye.'

‘And maybe that's why he's dead? But, if you're right about Salter, why would he have assigned you up here if McGrath was going to be topped anyway?'

‘Christ, I don't know, Jack. I still can't see Hugh as the type to be party to contract killings. If he is involved, maybe that stuff's out his hands.'

‘That would be part of
his
job description as well, I suppose. Okay, I'll do some digging into Welsby and into McGrath as well. I go through the files this afternoon. How do I contact you? On this number?'

She'd called him on her personal mobile. Like Brennan, she'd felt uneasy about using the secure line in case Salter had it monitored, and she'd thought it too risky to call on the Maggie Yates phone. Now she could feel paranoia creeping up again. Any telephone contact felt too vulnerable to interception.

‘Let's meet up tomorrow morning. Same place as before,' she said.

‘A walk in the park,' Brennan said.

‘If the weather's fine.' She paused. ‘Thanks, Jack. See you tomorrow.'

She still didn't know if she was right to trust Brennan. She was a decent judge of character, but some characters were too good at manipulating your judgement. Brennan was working closely with Salter, maybe even owed Salter something. He'd made the running in calling her the other day. Maybe she'd been a fool to trust him.

It was too late now, and she had no other easy way of getting the information she needed. And there were other things she needed to worry about. Like the fact that the local police would soon be knocking at her door, wanting to interview her about the fire. She pulled the secure mobile out of her handbag and dialled Salter's number.

‘Hi, sis. How's it going?'

I think that's the question I should be asking you, Hugh. You were going to sort things for me, remember? Since when there's been a deathly silence.'

‘Jesus, sis. Give me a chance. I've hardly got into the office yet.'

‘Some of us were up half the night, Hugh. And now I'm sitting here waiting for the police to call.'

‘I've sorted that. At least for the moment. Got the higher-ups to pull a few strings. Told them McGrath was involved in one of our operations and we've got everything covered.'

‘They can't hold off on a murder investigation.'

‘Not even clear it is murder yet, sis. They've got the fire investigators looking at it, but it looks like there might have been a gas leak in the kitchen. Maybe poor old McGrath just lit up an illicit ciggy after hours.'

‘Inside his office?'

‘Maybe he ducked back in there when the whole thing went up. Anyway, that's what they're looking at.'

‘And what was he doing in his office at that time of night, anyway?'

‘You sound like you want to be investigated, sis. I can always put in a word for you. If we tell them to soft-pedal, they're not going to bust a gut investigating the death of someone like McGrath. They're only too happy to leave it in our capable hands.'

‘If you say so, Hugh. So where does that leave me?'

‘Where you are, for the moment. Best if you just stay put for a few days. The police might get a bit curious if you vanish off the radar suddenly.'

‘But why not just tell the police who I am and let them get on with it?'

‘Because we're telling them the truth, sis. McGrath was under surveillance. He was part of one of our operations. His death's a pain in the arse from that point of view, but it might shake something out of the woodwork. If he was topped, someone topped him. Might be interesting to find out what they plan to do next.'

‘I can't see it, Hugh. He was small time. If someone topped him, it was just because he'd got up someone's nose.'

‘We've nothing to lose by waiting a day or two to find out. If nothing happens, the plods can have their case back.'

‘So what do I do in the meantime?'

‘Enjoy the break. Enjoy the sunshine. Go for a walk in the park.'

She felt a chill down the back of her neck. Coincidence, or more Hugh Salter game playing? Letting her know that he knew? ‘Don't drag this on too long, Hugh. I'll sit it out for a day or two. But then I'm heading back, and you can let the police know where I've gone.'

‘Forty-eight hours,' Salter said. ‘Or maybe seventy-two. No more.'

‘Forty-eight.'

‘Ciao, sis.'

She dropped the secure phone back into her handbag, her unease growing as she reflected on the conversation. She knew it was theoretically possible for him to intercept her mobile – after all, he had access to the technology – but she hadn't imagined that he'd have made the effort or taken the risk. On the other hand, it never paid to underestimate Hugh Salter.

At least the police were unlikely to come calling. The locals wouldn't take kindly to being told to back off, even if McGrath's death wasn't high on their priority list. It would have taken some high level arm-twisting. Salter must have a bloody good reason for wanting to stall the investigation. Something more substantial than the vague hope that something might come out of the woodwork.

It struck her that she'd eaten nothing since the previous night. She felt no real appetite, but she forced herself to make a sandwich with the last of the ham from the fridge. It was only when she took the first bite that she decided she couldn't face it. It was as if her brain had decided it had had enough and was preparing to shut itself down.

She made her way upstairs to the bedroom. The sensible part of her mind told her to get undressed, go to bed properly. But the exhausted part of her mind couldn't be bothered to do any more than push off her jeans and crawl into bed in the rest of her clothes. She lay back, still half-expecting that she'd lie restlessly awake for all her tiredness. But within seconds she was asleep.

She woke in semi-darkness. The bedroom window faced west, and bars of crimson from the setting sun stretched down the far wall. As she lay there, the reddened light inched towards the ceiling as the sun lowered behind the houses opposite.

She rolled over, fumbling for the clock. She'd been more tired than she realised. It was already mid-evening, the first street lights coming on in the road outside. She did at least feel rested, much better than after the morning's snatched sleep.

It took her a few moments, as her head cleared, to register her own unease. Something wasn't right. Something had disturbed her, maybe even woken her up.

She sat up, motionless, straining her ears for any sound. Trying to work out what felt out of place. She could hear only the occasional click from the radiators, the sound of the central heating coming on as the thermostat kicked in.

The central heating. Cold was the one thing this bloody house never was. It was a new build shrine to the virtues of double-glazing, cavity wall insulation and loft-lagging, with – according to the developers – a carbon footprint so small it could probably save the planet by itself. The heating thermostat was set to what she presumed was a comfortable level, but, even as summer drew to a close, the heating had stayed resolutely off since she'd been here.