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But then she'd never associated him with corruption either.

She paused in the doorway and looked at the two prison officers sitting by the wall. Both of them looked bored out of their heads. What a farce, she thought. Two officers deployed full-time to keep watch on a man scarcely capable of dragging himself out of bed. But that was the system. Prisoners are most at risk of escaping when they're outside the prison environment – being escorted to court, being moved between prisons, in hospital. So these two were stuck on bed-watch to make sure that Welsby didn't abseil down from the second floor window.

‘Hi,' she said. ‘Marie Donovan. You should be expecting me.' She held out her ID card and warrant.

One of the officers – even prison officers are getting younger, she thought – peered at the card. His colleague continued to flick through the
Daily Express
, apparently uninterested by her presence. ‘Thanks, Ms Donovan.' He held out his hand; ‘Eddie Brady.'

She smiled and shook his hand, wondering how long it would take for the enthusiasm to be knocked out of him. His colleague had clearly already suffered that fate. ‘Hi, Eddie. Okay if I talk to Mr Welsby?'

‘Yes, of course. We'll have to stay in the room, of course.'

As he spoke there was a rustling from the bed. Welsby had turned on his side and was glaring at them. For all his white hair and emaciated frame, he looked at least a shadow of his old self. ‘Just fuck off for a few minutes, you two, and let me talk to the lass. I'm not going to vanish. Apart from the fact that I can barely walk three steps, you've got me chained to the fucking bed.' He shook his arm, confirming that his wrist was manacled to the bed frame. ‘Last time that happened, I had to pay for the fucking privilege.'

Brady turned to his colleague, who shrugged and folded up his newspaper. ‘This is strictly against regulations,' Brady said. ‘If you tell anybody–'

‘If I tell anybody,' Marie said, ‘I'll get busted too. So why would I?'

Brady nodded, apparently satisfied by this logic. ‘We had one of your colleagues in here a week or two back.'

‘Oh, yes?' Marie responded casually. She could feel Welsby listening intently behind her.

‘Hugh something. Slater?' Brady grinned, awkwardly. ‘Bit of a smart-arse, if you'll pardon the expression.'

Marie shook her head. ‘Know the name,' she said. ‘But it's a big place. Wonder what he was doing here. Did he say anything?'

‘Not much. Not much polite anyway. Seemed to be checking up on Mr Welsby here.'

‘Probably just concerned for my health,' Welsby growled from the bed.

The young man nodded, his gaze flicking between Marie and Welsby. ‘Well,' he said, finally, ‘if you need us, we'll be just outside.'

‘Thanks,' Marie said. ‘And thanks for being so helpful.'

As the door closed behind her, she turned towards Welsby, who was lying on his back once more, his eyes half-closed. ‘Hi Keith,' she said. ‘I'd like to say it's good to see you, but I'm not sure it is.'

He nodded, as if she'd just offered a pleasant greeting. ‘And you were such a polite, well-brought-up little thing, as well.'

‘And you used to be someone I respected, Keith. What went wrong with us, eh?' She sat down on the plastic chair by his bedside.

‘You've every right to be angry with me, Marie,' he said.

‘Well, thanks for that, Keith. Funnily enough, your opinion on the matter isn't of much interest to me.'

He nodded, wearily, his eyes closed. ‘Not going very far, this conversation, is it?'

‘Maybe not,' she said. ‘But we have to have it. You were going to kill me, for Christ's sake, Keith.'

He shook his head. ‘It wouldn't have gone that far, Marie. I wouldn't have let it. I had stuff on Kerridge. I'd have sorted things out.'

‘Like fuck, Keith,' she said. ‘It had already gone too far. That's only part of it. I trusted you. I looked up to you, for Christ's sake. And all the time you were fucking bent.'

‘Nothing I can say to that, Marie. Except sorry. And I don't expect you to accept that. It's the way it is.'

‘Why?' she said. ‘For the money?'

‘Partly. But this goes way back. There was a lot of it about. That's not an excuse. But it's an explanation. It was part of the culture. There were a lot worse than me.'

‘Spare me this crap, Keith.'

‘I'm just saying that once you're in, you're in. Once you've done enough to let them blackmail you, it's all or nothing. There were plenty of others. Most have buggered off by now.'

‘Whereas you hung about long enough to become Jeff Kerridge's bagman.'

‘I always thought of myself as his fucking conscience,' Welsby laughed, bitterly. ‘But, yes, something like that.'

‘Until Salter exposed you?'

‘That little gobshite. Yeah, he exposed me because it took the spotlight off him.'

‘You're saying Salter's bent, too?' She sat back in the chair, watching Welsby's expression.

‘Oh, for fuck's sake, girl. Don't treat me like an idiot. You know exactly what Salter is. You know he shot Kerridge in cold fucking blood.'

‘So why'd he shoot Kerridge?'

‘Because he's on Pete fucking Boyle's team. What is this, girl? Fucking Mastermind?'

‘No. Keith,' she said, slowly. ‘It's just that I want you to spell it out for me. Word by fucking word. I'm sick of guesswork. I'm sick of innuendo. Tell me the fucking story.'

He stared at her for a moment, as if he were seeing her in a new light. ‘Okay. Let me tell you how it is. You might despise me, girl. That's fair enough. I probably deserve it. But Hugh Salter's a whole different animal. People like me – well, we got into this to make a few bob on the side. I never did a lot of harm. A few tip-offs to Kerridge. The odd blind eye turned–'

‘I get it, Keith. You were on the side of the angels.'

‘Salter's not like that. You know Salter. He's ambitious. He's driven. Whatever he's doing he wants to be top dog. So he threw his lot in with Pete Boyle. Not because he thought Boyle was destined for great things. But because he knew that Boyle wasn't the brightest bulb in the Christmas tree.'

‘You've lost me,' she said. ‘Why would he do that?'

Welsby closed his eyes for a moment, as if the effort of narration was proving too much for him. ‘Because Boyle's his puppet. It's not Pete Boyle who runs that operation. It's Hughie fucking Salter.'

‘You're saying that Salter's running a criminal operation?'

‘That's exactly what I'm saying. That was what was getting Kerridge so rattled. He knew that Boyle was angling to take over the business, but he hadn't seen Boyle as a threat. But then Boyle's moves starting getting cleverer and Kerridge guessed that someone else was involved, though he didn't know who. He leaked the evidence that we tried to use to put Boyle away, hoping that it might smoke out the other party.'

‘Which, in a way, it did. Jesus.' She remembered how Salter had shot Kerridge, supposedly in self-defence.

‘Yeah. Salter was too smart for all of us. Killed Kerridge. Got me banged up. Then tried to have me murdered.'

‘I never saw you as the suicidal type,' she said, for the first time recalling the affection she'd once felt for the old bugger. ‘You reckon that was Salter, too?'

‘No way to prove it,' Welsby said. ‘But who else? After Kerridge died, Salter thought the business would fall into his and Boyle's laps. But Mrs K was more resilient than they'd expected.'

‘Until she was taken out, too. Christ.'

‘Salter's been putting the frighteners on everyone up there. Gradually expanding the business. Helen Kerridge was the biggest and most important competitor. Boyle's taking over the whole territory.' Welsby coughed suddenly, and gestured for her to pass him a glass of water from the bedside cabinet. ‘God, I'm not well. They reckon I'm going to stand trial now my condition's improved, but I don't know if I'll make it that far. I'd planned to do my damnedest to take Salter down with me.' He shook his head. ‘My guess is that he's starting to get jittery.'

‘Why?' she said. ‘Sounds like it's all falling into place for him.'

‘And that's when it gets dangerous. Pete Boyle's no Einstein but he's not completely dumb, either. He won't be happy playing second fiddle forever. He'll take on Salter.'

‘I wouldn't give a lot for his odds, would you?'

‘Maybe not. But Salter's vulnerable. He's the bent cop. Spends his life walking on thin ice.'

‘It's all just guesswork,' she said. ‘We don't know what Boyle's up to.'

‘Lizzie told me about your intruder. Didn't sound like a pro.'

She frowned. ‘Wouldn't have said so. All a bit half-cocked.'

‘And why do it at all? Who was behind it?'

‘I've been trying to work that out.'

‘And who torched Andy McGrath's office? Another half-arsed job. None of this sounds like Hughie Salter. Doesn't sound like the carefully planned campaign of intimidation that's been going on up there till now.'

‘You're saying Boyle was behind the recent stuff?'

‘Like you say, it's guesswork. But my hunch is that things are not hunky-dory between Messrs Salter and Boyle. I think Boyle's throwing his weight about, looking for a bigger slice of the pie. Probably wasn't an accident that those incidents both involved you. Sounds like a message to Salter. Which will make Salter twitchy. He knows that Boyle could shaft him if he chose to.' He stopped, and then said, ‘I heard on the grapevine that Jack Brennan's been set up.'

In the old days, she had always been astonished by Welsby's ability to absorb information as if from the ether. If there was something worth knowing, Welsby managed to know it before anyone else. Whatever his medical condition, he clearly hadn't lost that gift. ‘Apparently,' she said.

‘Just like he did with me,' Welsby said, ruefully. ‘Makes sure the spotlight is firmly fixed on someone else.'

‘So why did you want to see me?' she asked. ‘Old times' sake?'

‘I want to fuck over Hugh Salter,' Welsby said. ‘That's the long and short of it. Like I say, you can think what you like about me. But Salter's a ruthless, dangerous bastard. He's not just taking the odd back-hander. He's in the thick of it. And he'll do – he has done – whatever it takes to further his ambitions. I want to stop him.'

‘Is this just revenge, Keith?'

‘Not just. But, yeah, in part. Why not? Bastard wrecked my life, and then tried to kill me. One reason I've not reapplied for bail and played up my illness is that I'm safer in here with those two screws sitting outside than I am out on the streets, or mixing with Christ knows who in prison. If I get to stand trial, I'll do everything I can to expose Salter. But I'm a tainted witness, so my credibility's shot. And I don't know if I'll even get that far. I'm not a well man, anyway, and I suspect that, one way or another, being sent back to prison won't be good for my health.'

‘So you want me to do something?'

‘You're the only person I'd trust, Marie. You're not just straight. You're also bloody good. I need someone on my side.'

He looked like an old man on the way out, she thought. He was a pale, thin shadow of the ebullient Keith Welsby she'd once known. Now he was gaunt, dark-eyed, scarcely able to sit up in bed without assistance. Hugh Salter had done that. She'd never forgive Welsby for what he'd done and been, but she could pity what he'd become.

‘I've got some stuff on Salter,' she said, finally. ‘Not enough. Certainly not enough for a court. Maybe not even enough for Standards, though it might force them to have a hard look at him. But something.'

For a moment, Welsby's expression again reminded her of the man he'd once been. She'd seen that look once or twice when they'd made a breakthrough on a case. It struck her that, for all Welsby's failings, at heart he'd always been a real copper. ‘How come you've got this stuff?'

‘Just a source,' she said. ‘Salter has plenty of enemies.'

‘Too right. But you reckon what you've got isn't enough on its own?'

‘I doubt it. If only because Salter's such a slippery customer. Some of it's decent stuff, but there's nothing there he couldn't talk his way out of.'

‘Even so, it means the net's starting to close. If enough mud gets thrown at him, some of it's going to start to stick. There are only so many times he can talk his way out of a corner.'

‘I'm guessing he's got a few more lives left yet.'

Welsby gazed back at her, and she could feel that he was thinking through what she'd been saying. ‘Well, then,' he said, finally, ‘seems to me that we ought to be encouraging him to use up one or two of them.'

There'd been silence for a day or two, which had surprised him. He'd reported back what he'd seen and deduced – the intruder, the night she'd spent at the policeman's flat, the visit she'd made on the way back. The way she'd packed her cases and left the house.

He'd expected a quick response, either new instructions or confirmation that the mission was finished. He was feeling increasingly uncomfortable with this assignment. Something had gone wrong somewhere, and he still didn't quite know what or how. He could feel his careful planning, his professionalism counting for nothing as events slowly drifted out of his control.

The prospect of slipping away, taking a break for a while, was becoming ever more attractive. Grab himself a little sun and warmth before the winter came.

For the first day or so, though, there was no response. That worried him even more. Silence suggested delay, hesitation. Another sign that things weren't right.