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So far as we know. Hardly the ring of bloody confidence. How much did they know? Three-fifths of fuck all, if past experience was anything to go by. ‘Drug trafficking?'

‘Mainly.' There was a look of relief on Salter's face, even though he was trying hard to hard to keep it hidden. He knew he had her hooked now. Once you started talking about the detail, there was no going back. ‘One of those who'll bring in anything if the price is right. Some cigarettes and booze, but mainly the hard stuff. Comes across from the east coast ports, and then they distribute it around Chester and North Wales.'

‘But not Manchester or Liverpool?'

‘There are bigger fish operating up there. No point in this one trying to compete. He's got a nice little niche of his own, without antagonising the competition.'

It made sense. The north west was carved up pretty thoroughly by the big boys. That elite bunch had included the infamous Jeff Kerridge, until Salter had blown off the side of Kerridge's head, supposedly in self defence. They'd had intelligence that Kerridge's widow, the very redoubtable Helen, was continuing her late husband's good work. And now Pete Boyle, Kerridge's former protégé turned competitor, was out of prison and, by all accounts, also rebuilding his influence around Manchester.

That was the real source of her unease, even now. There'd been a point, six months before, when she was convinced that Salter was on Boyle's payroll. Salter had claimed that, with no one to trust, he'd been forced to go freelance to gather definitive evidence against Kerridge and their corrupt former boss, Keith Welsby. Welsby had ended up behind bars, and was still awaiting trial after a botched suicide attempt. Salter had emerged smelling of roses. But Marie had suspected that the scent concealed a more noxious stink. If Boyle had been looking to depose Kerridge, maybe Salter's intervention hadn't been so public-spirited after all. And that in turn raised questions about the manner of Kerridge's death.

She'd agreed to join Salter's team because she wanted some closure on all that. She wanted to find out the truth. But the last six months had proved nothing. As far as she could tell, Salter had played everything by the book. He was still tasked with rebuilding the case against Pete Boyle that had collapsed with Welsby's exposure and Kerridge's death. They'd arrested Boyle with the expectation of a successful prosecution, but the evidence had been irredeemably tainted by Welsby's corruption. In Marie's eyes, the whole affair had ended just too well for Boyle and she suspected that Salter had been part of that.

But she could prove nothing. He'd asked to take on the Boyle case, supposedly as unfinished business, but perhaps simply to ensure that it remained under his control. Whatever his motives, he'd appeared to make some progress. They'd gathered more intercept evidence against Boyle, they'd pinned down one or two more witnesses. A few more tiny pieces of the jigsaw had fallen into place. They were still a long way from having anything they could be confident would stand up in court. But, given that the Prosecution Service had already ended up with egg on its collective face once before, building a new case was always going to be a slow process.

It might be that Salter was simply going through the motions, recognising that he had to be seen to be doing something about Boyle. But Marie had seen and heard nothing that might confirm her suspicions.

And now this. Sending her back to the edge of Boyle's stamping ground. Pushing protocol to its limit by assigning her to an area where she might be recognised. It wasn't against the rules exactly, but it wasn't standard practice.

The generous explanation was that Salter was, in his inimitable style, just jerking her around. He knew the situation with Liam. He knew how difficult things were getting. His initial promise had been that, even when it was time for her to go back into the front line, he'd find some operational role that kept her reasonably close to home. She'd accepted that, at least for the time being, it wouldn't be possible for her to continue in an undercover position. She assumed they'd find her some investigation or enforcement job in London. It wasn't exactly the career move she was looking for, but it would do till, one way or another, things became easier on the domestic front.

So maybe this was just Salter pulling the rug from under her, handing her a whole new set of problems to contend with. The less benign interpretation was that he was using her. If her suspicions were correct, and Salter really was on Boyle's payroll, then maybe she'd been selected to do some of Boyle's dirty work. As Salter had implied, any drug dealers in Chester were operating on the edge of Boyle's territory. Perhaps Boyle was looking to expand his empire and her role was to help take out the competition.

Salter was leaning back in his chair, his relaxed manner suggesting that he was confident he'd achieved his objective, even though his words remained tentative. ‘Just give it some thought, sis. That's all I want. Sleep on it overnight. We can chat about it again tomorrow.'

You smooth bastard, she thought. Whatever other qualities you might or might not have, you're good at this. You know how to play people. You know I want to be back in the field really; you know the kind of work I want to be doing. You may even know that I'm just looking for a way to trip you up, to prove some link between you and Boyle. You've pitched this just right, going out on a limb yourself so you can lure me out after you.

And maybe, her mind continued before she could control her thoughts, he knows what you want at home, too. Maybe he realises that all your talk of wanting to stay near home, of needing to be there for Liam, is so much bullshit. Maybe he knows that you're looking for a reason to get away.

Maybe. If so, Salter knew her better than she knew herself. She thought she'd reconciled herself to doing whatever it took to stay near Liam. To give him the support he needed. She'd come to terms with that – right up to the point where Salter had dangled this assignment in front of her.

She pushed herself up from her chair, determinedly looking Salter in the eye. ‘Okay,' she said. ‘I'll think about it. And I'll tell you tomorrow.'

Salter smiled back at her, his expression unrevealing. ‘That's all I can ask of you, sis. All I can ask.'

‘Just about there,' the DI said, pointing to an apparently unremarkable point on the hard shoulder. He gestured off towards the steady stream of traffic heading along the dual carriageway. ‘Cool bastard. It was well out in full view. Wouldn't have been much traffic at that time of night, but even so…' His tone sounded almost admiring.

‘You reckon a professional job?' Brennan asked. It was a miserable day for early autumn. Not raining yet, but leaden skies low over the horizon. Pity any poor bugger who'd just arrived here on holiday. They were standing in a gateway to a field beyond the road. A bleak landscape. Flat grassland, windblown hedges. The tang of the grey sea in the air.

Sheep were munching unheedingly behind them, and Brennan was growing conscious of the layer of mud caking his expensive shoes. Should have changed into an old pair before setting off, but he hadn't reckoned on getting brought on a field trip quite so quickly. Clearly, they were keen for him to see what he wanted and get out of their hair as speedily as possible.

‘Not much doubt,' the DI said. ‘All very efficient. Clean as a whistle. Nothing much for forensics.' Not a Welshman, Brennan thought. Maybe a hint of Scouser there. Come over the border to do missionary work.

‘What about the victims?' Brennan had read the files and, in his usual way, had memorised most of the salient points. But it was always useful to hear it from the horse's mouth. Sometimes you heard stuff that they didn't want to write down. ‘Known?'

‘One of them. Mo Tallent. Small time freelance: runs errands for anyone with a bob or two. The pride of Rhyl. No Talent, we called him.'

‘Very droll.' Brennan moved to stand next to the DI, who was staring at the grass before him as if the two bodies were still lying there. ‘What about the other?'

‘No record. But one of the immigration officers at the port remembered him driving a car with Tallent in the passenger seat. False passports, so the names don't tally. False plates on the car, but a match with Tallent's passport and with the car type and colour if anyone did a cursory check.'

Brennan nodded. ‘So they were on business.'

‘Seems like it. Someone else's business. Tallent wasn't connected enough to set up those kind of arrangements on his own.'

‘But we've an idea what the business was?' Brannan straightened up and looked at the DI. Like getting blood from a sodding pebble, he thought, even though we both know I've read the bloody file.

The DI nodded. ‘Four of them in the car, according to the border records. Tallent. Mr X. And two women. Working girls, we're assuming. Probably illegals, being taken to a nice new home in the big city – Liverpool or Manchester. That's where Tallent did most of his bigger business.'

Brennan turned and surveyed the flat, unenticing landscape. There was some fine country in North Wales. This wasn't it. ‘What about Tallent's associates?'

The DI shrugged. ‘We're pursuing that, of course. But everyone's clammed up, as you'd expect.'

‘And the women?' Brennan had already begun to walk back towards the road and their parked car. He couldn't imagine that he was likely to learn much more from being out here. Other than never to wear his best shoes to work.

‘Nothing. We presume they were taken.'

‘Jesus.' Brennan paused, his eyes fixed on the passing traffic. ‘Pieces of meat.'

‘Pretty much.' The DI caught up with him, sounding slightly out of breath. ‘I imagine they've probably ended up in your neck of the woods.' He made the words sound slightly accusatory, as if Brennan had been casting aspersions on local morality.

‘I dare say,' Brennan agreed. ‘So what do we think this was, then? Turf war?'

‘Something like that. But if so, it's a bloody serious one. This isn't just some local hoodlums giving the opposition a warning. This is two very bloody corpses. Expertly dispatched.' The DI paused, fumbling in his pocket for the car keys. ‘But then I imagine that's why you're here.'

Brennan nodded, strolling back along the hard shoulder to where the DI's car was parked. Just a few yards from the spot where the victims' car had been parked. ‘Well, I assume that's why I'm here,' he said, smiling now. ‘But frankly, at the moment, your guess is almost as good as mine.'

‘Shit.
Shit!
'

She could hear the voice from the rear of the house, and for a moment she was tempted to turn around, step silently back outside, and head for the pub. There was nothing wrong here that a good evening's drinking couldn't cure. Except, of course, that there was. She'd tried drinking it away once or twice. It brought a temporary respite, but everything was still there the next morning. And you had to face it with a hangover.

She closed the front door noisily, making sure she'd unmistakably announced her entrance. ‘Liam?'

‘In the back.' The fury of his previous utterance had drained away. There was another tone in his voice now. Something not too far removed from despair. Christ, she thought. Another fun-filled night in the Donovan household. Almost immediately she regretted the thought. This wasn't about her. Whatever this was like for her, it was a thousand times worse for Liam. Of course, she knew that. And of course it didn't help in the slightest.

She trudged her way slowly through the house and stood in the doorway of the former dining room that Liam had adopted as a studio. He was sitting slumped in his wheelchair in front of his easel. There was paint smeared across the canvas in a way that looked anything but artistic, unless Liam was attempting a radical shift in his painting style.

‘I can't do it,' he said.

She didn't know how to respond. She could offer platitudes, try to tell him it wasn't true. But they both knew that it
was
true, at least up to a point. She was no judge of art, though she liked Liam's paintings. But even she could see that he'd lost something – a sureness of touch that characterised his best work. It wasn't that his recent work was bad. At least, Marie didn't think so. She could tell that the same vision was there, the same sense of imagery and perspective. But she recognised that he could no longer render his ideas with his old precision.

She'd tried to reassure him that it didn't matter. It would just mark a change in style. After all, weren't there theories that some of the old masters had developed their unique techniques as a result of various medical conditions – poor eyesight, colour-blindness, that sort of thing? Perhaps Liam could work within the confines of his condition to create something new.

It was bullshit, of course, and Liam's response had been so scathing that she'd never tried the same argument again. But that left her with not much else to say. Even so, Liam stared back over his shoulder at her, challenging her to disagree.

‘What happened?' she said, finally.

‘Christ knows. I thought I'd have a go at something new. At least try to make a start. I've been feeling knackered all week. But I just wanted–' He stopped, his mouth moving slightly, as if he didn't have the words to express what was in his mind. ‘I can't just stop. I've got to keep trying.'

She moved forward and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Tell me what happened.'

‘I've not done anything for weeks. Not really. I've played around putting a dab or here or there, pretending I was improving things–' He stopped again. It was as if his mouth ran ahead of his brain, so that he had to stop every minute or two for his thoughts to catch up. ‘But I was just fooling myself. Most of it's not worth trying to improve, anyway.' He paused again, watching as she dragged a chair from the corner of the room and sat down beside him. ‘So this afternoon I just thought – well, let's have a go.' He waved his hand towards the canvas. ‘I'd been doing some sketches. They weren't very good, but I thought they'd at least be the basis of something. Shit–'