Trust No One (19 page)

‘They said that he'd become more . . . forthcoming. That was when he mentioned me. Said I was a grass. He couldn't have known that, though. Not for sure.'

Maybe not for sure, she agreed, but it wouldn't have been a difficult guess. Jones was just the kind who became a low-level informant – self-centred, eager for approbation, weak-willed, in need of a few quid. No conscience about selling his mates down the river. The only problem with the likes of Jones was that, in the end, you got bugger all out of them. Nobody trusted them, so they had nothing of value to sell.

Jake had probably just been trying to buy time, give them some titbits in the hope of getting them off his back. Morgan Jones would have been one of the first names to spring to mind. Jake had presumably had no idea that the same Morgan Jones was sitting in the car outside.

‘Like to have been a fly on the wall when your name came up, eh, Morgan?'

‘Jesus,' Jones said. ‘When they told me – Christ . . .' He shook his head. ‘They laughed about it in the car. Didn't take it seriously.'

She leaned forwards. ‘Oh, they'd have taken it seriously. They were playing with you, Morgan. You won't trouble them, a small-timer like you. But one day, when you're not expecting it . . .'

Keep him on edge, she thought. He's more likely to tell the truth if he's scared.

He was looking back at her now, though, a different expression on his face.

‘But they mentioned other names Morton had come up with. Names they seemed to take a lot more seriously.' There was a note of bravado in his voice now, as if he'd rehearsed this part. ‘Yours, for example.'

She laughed. ‘You're not very good at being menacing, are you, Morgan? I don't care what Morton might or might not have said. I imagine he'd say anything if he thought it might save his skin.'

His eyes were fixed on her, defiant. ‘I know about you and Morton,' he said.

She held her breath for a moment, wondering again whether Jones had seen her that night. ‘There's nothing to know about me and Morton,' she said. The lie felt almost corrosive. If she'd been the religious type, she might have thought of asking God to forgive her. ‘You're a slippery old sod, Morgan. I don't know what to make of you. The other day you looked so shit-scared you almost got me feeling sorry for you. Now it sounds like you're trying to threaten me.' She looked around the shabby hotel room. ‘And you're so sure of yourself that you're hiding away in this rat trap.'

‘I'm scared all right,' he said. ‘I know Boyle. You don't cross him. You don't even let him think you might cross him. If he thinks he can't trust me . . .'

Suddenly tired of all this, she rose and walked over to the bedroom window. She wasn't expecting a sea view. The room looked out over a small overgrown garden. There was a clothes line with an array of what she took to be table napkins. The rain was still falling and the napkins looked greyer than the heavy sky.

‘You know what he'll do, Morgan. So where do I fit into this picture?'

‘I could make life difficult for you,' he said. ‘They told me what Morton said about you. He reckoned you were the real deal, a serious grass. Seemed to me they were taking it seriously. You're a pretty big fish in their eyes. Not small fry like me.'

‘Glad to see you've got life in perspective, Morgan.' She was staring out the window still, ignoring the whining figure behind her. But she was also conscious of a growing unease.

‘They're checking you out,' he said. ‘You're probably right about me. If I get on the wrong side of them, I'll disappear one dark night. But you're different. You know Kerridge and Boyle. They've trusted you to deliver. You're like Morton, close to the inner circle.'

‘I'm very flattered,' she said, without turning. ‘But you're talking bollocks.'

‘I don't think so.' He was sounding more confident now. ‘I think there's something in it.' There was an edge in his voice that made her turn around. He was holding a mobile phone, some smart new model with a large screen. ‘Have a look.'

She threw him a look of disdain, and then stepped forwards to peer at the screen. She was half-expecting some photograph of her scurrying away from Jake's flat on the night of his death. But it was a different scene, one she recognized immediately. It was one of the string of charmless hotels where she'd held a liaison meeting with Salter a month or two back. The image showed her emerging from her car, though she doubted that anyone else could have identified her with confidence.

‘If you're thinking of taking up photography, I'd stick to the day job,' she said. ‘Assuming you've got a day job, that is. Why are you wasting my time with this crap, Morgan?'

‘What about this one, then?' Jones switched to the next image. The same hotel car park. Another car. Salter, this time. Where in Christ's name had Jones got these pictures?

‘You aiming for the portrait market, Morgan? You need to get a bit closer.'

‘Got it on good authority that he's filth,' Jones said.

‘I'll take your word for it,' she said. ‘Why are you wasting my time with this crap?'

There was nothing particularly incriminating in the pictures themselves. It would be hard enough to confirm her identity in the previous shot, although her car might be more recognizable. And even if Salter could be clearly identified, their arrival might have been coincidental. Though the receptionist might remember that they'd met.

The really interesting questions, though, were who'd taken the photographs and how they'd come into Jones' possession. She presumed that he hadn't got them from Kerridge or Boyle. More likely, they'd been obtained by whoever was responsible for the leaking. She'd need time to absorb the implications of that.

‘I'm just thinking,' Jones said, ‘that these images will be of interest to certain parties.'

‘You reckon?' she said. ‘Well, you'd better go and talk to them, hadn't you? I've had enough of this, Morgan. You've dragged me all the way up here with some cock and bull story about Morton. And now you're boring me with your photo collection. What is this? Come up and see my etchings?'

He'd obviously expected a different reaction. The whine had returned to his voice. ‘I thought we could do a deal,' he said. ‘Don't want to get you into any trouble, Marie. I could give you these pictures or destroy them. For a price.'

‘I don't know what you think those pictures are, Morgan, or why you think I'm interested.' She made a move towards the door. He reached out and grabbed her arm.

‘Christ, can't you see I'm scared?' he said. ‘You're right about Kerridge and Boyle. Shit, if they think I've crossed them . . .' He stopped. ‘I thought maybe I could buy their goodwill with these.' He waved the phone at her. ‘But Christ knows what that would be worth.'

‘Bugger all, I'd say. Don't think “goodwill” is a term they're familiar with.'

‘I need to get away, that's all. I've barely got a penny. Not enough to get right away from here. I could go to London, lose myself there. But I wouldn't be able to get a job. I should maybe go overseas. But that costs money.'

She was already turning away. ‘I can't think of one good reason why I should help you. You've told me that you were involved in the murder of someone I thought of as a friend. You've tried some witless attempt at blackmail. You've wasted my fucking time. Just go fuck yourself, OK, Morgan?'

Her hand was on the door when she heard him say, ‘What about this, then? Does this change anything?'

She turned. He was holding a gun, some battered handgun. Christ knew where he'd picked it up. His hand was shaking, but he was pointing it approximately in her direction. Close enough at this range, anyway.

‘Oh, for Christ's sake, Morgan. Don't be more of an idiot than you need to be. Put that fucking gun down before you hurt yourself.' She stood motionless at the door, trying to keep her voice calm.

‘You're all I've got left,' he said. He sounded much less calm than she did. His eyes kept flicking down towards the gun, as if he couldn't believe that he was holding it. ‘I know you've got money. You can help me.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't think so, Morgan. Put the gun down.'

‘Help me.'

‘What do you think I'm going to do? Pull two grand out of my handbag?'

He blinked, suddenly confused, as if he hadn't considered the logistics beyond pulling the gun.

‘We'll go to a cash machine,' he offered finally.

‘And get out a couple of hundred quid? Where will that get you, Morgan? A train ticket to London?'

She didn't believe he had any serious intention of using the gun – that was well beyond Jones' pay grade. But he might do anything by accident.

‘Put the gun down,' she said again. ‘Let's talk about it. See what we can do.'

She'd left it too late. He didn't believe her. She watched his trembling hand as he took a step towards her. His sweating finger was tensing on the trigger. The poor bastard didn't know what he was doing.

It was over in a second. She allowed him another step, then reached and grabbed his wrist, twisting it painfully, making sure that the gun barrel was pointed away from them both.

The gun could easily have gone off then, if Jones' finger had gripped the trigger. The bullet would have missed them, but who knew what the ricochet might have done in a room this size. At the very least, they'd have had an interesting time explaining it to Basil Fawlty.

As it was, Jones reacted as she'd hoped, his already tremulous grip loosening on the gun. She caught it smartly as he dropped it, snapped on the safety catch, and tossed it calmly into the far corner of the room. The benefits of firearms training. She should probably relieve him of the bloody thing, but she'd no desire to be saddled with an illegal weapon. Instead, she gave Jones' wrist another painful twist, and reaching for his throat, she thrust him back hard against the wall.

‘Don't ever try anything like that again, eh, Morgan? Other people won't be as tolerant as me.'

He mumbled something she didn't catch. She thought she might as well take the opportunity while he was terrified out of his wits. ‘Those photographs, Morgan. Where'd you get them? Just out of interest.'

She loosened her grip on his throat. ‘Sent them,' he grunted. ‘Someone sent them. Texted them. Don't know who. No number.'

She opened her hand further. ‘Someone sent them to you? Why you, Morgan?'

‘Don't know,' he said. ‘There was a message. Said they'd be of interest to you.'

‘Just shows how wrong people can be,' she said. ‘So who knows you've met me, Morgan?'

He shook his head. ‘Nobody. Haven't told anyone.'

‘You sure?' She tightened her grip threateningly. ‘You're not lying to me?'

His head-shaking grew more vehement. ‘No. Really. I've not seen anybody.'

She remembered the man who might have been following her through the Arndale Centre before her first meeting with Jones. Anything was possible. She was inclined to believe Jones' protests, if only because he looked too shit-scared to be lying.

She pulled him around and tossed his shaking body towards the bed. He fell, half on the mattress, half on the floor.

‘Take care of yourself, Morgan. Get away if you can.'

She made her way downstairs. Basil Fawlty was sitting behind the reception desk, fiddling unconvincingly with a computer keyboard. He looked up with undisguised curiosity as she passed.

‘Nice place,' she said. ‘But you need a better class of clientele.'

Before he could respond, she'd stepped outside into the damp air. Ahead of her, the skeletal framework of Blackpool Tower loomed above the grey rooftops. Ignoring the drizzle, she strode confidently off down the dreary street, back towards the town centre.

It was only when she reached the car that she realized that her hands were still shaking.

Part Three
Winter: Outside

Chapter 20

The last time she'd seen Jake, it had just been another midweek evening. He'd called her up late in the afternoon and suggested they meet for a few drinks, maybe a pizza afterwards. Perhaps go to one of the bars on the quays, as it had been a half-decent day for the time of year.

She'd had an exhausting day in the shop. Joe had been off delivering some completed work to one of their bigger clients, and she'd been left to deal with Darren by herself.

‘Yeah,' she'd said to Jake, ‘a few drinks sounds good. A lot of drinks sounds even better.'

They met in an old-fashioned real-ale pub round the back of the Bridgewater Hall. The pub was one of Jake's favourite haunts, on the nights when they fancied nothing more complicated than a few beers. It was a warren of cluttered rooms linked by narrow corridors, not much to write home about in itself, but with a real buzz to it even on a quiet midweek night. Later in the week, it would be heaving, drinkers squeezed together in a fug of alcohol and noise. Tonight it was relatively peaceful, just a few groups of office workers enjoying a beer at the end of the day and a gaggle of students trying to work out whether they could afford another round.

Jake was edgier than usual, she thought. Things had been more difficult for a few weeks, ever since he'd finally committed himself as an informant. She'd sensed the change almost immediately. She realized that he was trying to protect her, keep her at arm's length from himself, from Kerridge and his business. If he was grassing on Kerridge, he didn't want her to end up as collateral damage. If he only knew. But there was no way that she could tell him.

She could sense a growing unease in their relationship. There'd always been a tension – Marie had been conscious of her own caginess in talking about her past, her private life. But now there was a growing gulf. Two people who wanted to share everything, but couldn't even be honest about who they really were.

She'd been thinking seriously about ending it. She didn't want to. As time went by, she'd begun to feel that this relationship was more real, more important, than whatever she had with Liam. But it couldn't work. Whatever happened next – with Jake, with Kerridge, with Boyle – it would blow things apart, one way or another. She wanted to get out before that happened. Before he discovered who she really was. Before he realized the extent of her betrayal.

That night, she'd begun to wonder whether it might be Jake who'd act first. He was tense, withdrawn, almost losing his temper over some trivial half-joke she'd made about the beer. Not the usual laidback Jake at all. She had the sense he was building up to something.

An hour and several drinks later, they'd got a cab back to the quays, and were enjoying a pizza and a bottle of wine in some chain Italian. Jake's mood had lightened slightly, but he still seemed uncomfortable.
Christ, Jake
, she thought,
whatever you're going to say, just say it.

‘OK?' he said instead, gesturing towards her pizza.

‘I've had worse.' She picked up her glass. ‘Wine's good, though.'

‘Hope you're not thinking of driving home?' Her flat wasn't far away, but far enough not to be walkable.

‘That a proposition, Mr Morton?'

‘Suppose so. If you're up for it.'

‘More a question of whether you are, I'd have thought. You'd better pace the drinking.'

He smiled, silent for a moment. ‘Been thinking,' he said.

‘No good'll come of it. I'd stop now.' She was aware that her facetiousness masked an anxiety about what he might be about to say. She could think of some men who might invite her to bed as a preamble to dumping her, but she'd never put Jake in that category.

‘About the future,' he said. ‘About us.'

She looked at him warily. ‘Go on.'

‘It's just . . . well, I can't really explain. Not yet. But there are things happening. With Kerridge. With the whole set-up. Don't know where it'll leave me exactly. But it might be a way out.'

‘Very cryptic,' she said. ‘Kerridge about to go bust?'

‘I can't tell you what's going on. I want to. But not yet. But it'll change things.'

‘And what does that mean for us, then? What are you saying?'

‘I don't know exactly. But it might give us the chance to do something different. Have a new start. Together.' He paused, swallowed. ‘Get married even.'

Jesus, had he just proposed to her? She sat in silence for a moment, wondering how to respond. He seemed, just in that moment, different from the man who'd been with her for the rest of the evening; he was suddenly childlike, enthusiastic, as if he'd glimpsed a future that really might offer something new.

What could she say? That she couldn't be part of that future? That she wasn't the person he thought she was? That she'd been lying to him all along?

That she already had a partner back home?

There was no answer she could give. Finally, when the moment had extended far too long, she said, ‘That's great, Jake. We'll talk about it. When things become clearer. That's really great.'

It wasn't enough. She could tell from his face that her words had sounded like a rejection. That he knew now that her view of this relationship was different from his. That, one way or another, it was already all over.

She didn't even know whether that was what she wanted. Part of her wanted just to say yes. Wanted this to go on, for them to build some new future together. Why should that be so impossible?

Tomorrow, she'd thought. I'll think about it tomorrow. I'll think about what I want, and whether there's any way we could make this work. I'll think about what we can do.

They'd finished the bottle of wine, gone into one of the hotel bars for a last drink. They'd tried to talk, but the conversation suddenly felt stilted, as if both were conscious that the gulf was widening. Finally, too late, a little too drunk, they'd gone back to Jake's flat, gone to bed. Made love, and it was OK, but it had changed nothing. At last, they'd both slept.

And sometime after midnight, Marie had found herself awake, staring into the darkness.

That was the last time she saw Jake.