Trust No One (21 page)

‘Who was the opportunity with?'

‘He didn't tell me the name. That was typical of Jones. Liked to be a bit cloak-and-dagger. He was probably worried that, if he spilled the beans too early, I might be tempted to cut out the middleman.'

‘And would you?'

‘No. You've got to have some integrity. If you go around shafting people, word gets about.'

‘Did Jones do or say anything to suggest that he might be worried?'

‘Worried?'

‘For example, about the prospect that somebody might be about to put a bullet in his brain.'

‘No more than usual. He was always the anxious type. But he didn't act like someone who thought he was in danger, if that's what you mean.'

‘Did he say anything unexpected? Anything to suggest that things weren't business as usual?'

‘I don't know what business as usual meant to Jones,' she said. ‘He was one of life's wide boys. He did anything he could to make a bob or two. But there was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary.'

‘But you wouldn't have been surprised if he'd got himself mixed up in something risky?'

‘Probably not,' she said. ‘But there was nothing that suggested it.' She had a sense that Blackwell was trying to steer her towards some conclusion. He was hard to read. Maybe not as clever as he thought, or perhaps just a little cleverer than she wanted to believe. ‘I'm not sure there's much else I can tell you.'

Blackwell sat more comfortably back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her. ‘Now I wonder whether that's true, Miss Donovan. I've an inkling there are some things you're not sharing with me.'

‘Is that so?' she said. ‘Funnily enough, that feeling's mutual. Perhaps we're both wrong.'

He drummed his fingers gently on the arm of the chair, as if his mind was elsewhere. ‘Or both right. I did a little searching on “Holmes”. I was surprised to find a cryptic reference to you.'

Her face was expressionless. ‘You've lost me.'

‘The police database. Quite a sophisticated beast, these days. You'd be surprised. Or perhaps not.'

‘I've no idea what you're talking about. You're saying you found a reference to me on the police database?'

‘Sort of.' He was looking almost cheerful now. ‘Just your name. With a warning flag.'

‘I'm sorry. I assume that means something to you because it means nothing to me. What sort of a warning flag?'

‘I don't really know, to be honest,' he said. ‘I'd never come across one before. Whatever it is, it's clearly not intended for the likes of me. Basically just told me to alert a higher authority.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't know how sophisticated this beast of yours is, but it sounds to me like you've got the wrong person. I can't imagine that the MD of a back-street printing outfit will be of much interest to any higher authorities. I'm even up to date with my VAT returns.'

He frowned. She had the sense that he was disappointed that his great revelation hadn't produced some more dramatic response. Whatever Blackwell might know or suspect, it wasn't her job to confirm any of it. She could safely leave that to the judgement of those same higher authorities.

‘Unless you're involved in something other than printing, Miss Donovan?'

He was off beam, she thought. He'd concluded that she was under some more serious investigation. Just as well for his career that she wasn't. The Agency wouldn't have taken kindly to his blowing the gaff on one of their targets.

‘I really don't know what you're implying. That I'm some sort of super villain? By day, business cards. By night, bank heists. That sort of thing?'

For the first time, Blackwell looked mildly irritated. Possibly because he was in danger of appearing foolish in front of his subordinates. The smile was still hovering around his face, but it seemed increasingly ambiguous.

‘Thing is, Miss Donovan, I'm not keen on being jerked around. And at the moment that's how this feels. I've got somebody murdered with what, as far as we can judge at the moment, was probably an illegal handgun. There's no evidence of any straightforward motive such as robbery. That suggests something a little out of the ordinary, though Jones doesn't seem to have had a criminal record. Then I discover that you've made a visit to Jones' hotel room for what sounds like the world's least convincing business meeting. And on top of all that I find a reference to you, on our records, telling me to alert the relevant authorities. Which I duly did. And got bugger all back. Now what would you suggest I should be thinking?'

It was the longest speech he'd made, and for a moment it looked as if the effort had taken something out of him.

‘I haven't a clue,' she said. ‘With respect, it sounds as if you might be letting your imagination run away with you.' As Blackwell had been speaking, she'd felt a growing unease. Something she'd overlooked. ‘What time do you think Jones was shot?'

Blackwell stared at her, as if affronted by her impertinence. Finally, he said, ‘We don't have an exact time yet. Yesterday evening sometime. No one heard anything. The hotel owner was out for the evening, and Jones was the only guest last night. Not exactly peak period.'

‘How was the body found?' she said. ‘If he was killed yesterday evening, it must have been discovered overnight. Who found it?'

As she had been speaking, a related thought had occurred to her. God, she was slow this morning. It always took a coffee or two to get her brain working.

‘And how come you're here? I mean, where did you get my name? The hotelier would have told you that a woman visited, but he didn't know who I was. Even Jones didn't know my home address. How did you track me down so quickly?'

Blackwell remained silent for another few seconds, then pushed himself slowly to his feet. His body had the same rounded quality as his face. Not exactly fat, but tending to the plump. More comfortable sitting in a chair than climbing out of it. He made his way slowly across to the window and stared out at the jumble of buildings.

‘You didn't expect us to track you down so quickly?' he said.

She opened her mouth to speak, but realized he was just playing the same games. ‘I didn't expect anything,' she said. ‘Except that I'd be in the office by now. I'm also not expecting that you're going to tell me anything. But I don't understand how or why you've turned up on my doorstep so quickly.'

There was something he was keeping back. If they'd found Jones' body overnight, if they'd tracked her down so quickly, that had to mean they'd been tipped off.

She suddenly knew why she felt so uneasy, what else had been nagging at her mind. The gun. Jones' fucking gun. She'd taken it off him when he'd tried his half-arsed hardman act. She'd held it in her hand. Her fingerprints would be all over the gun that killed Morgan fucking Jones.

‘It's a very interesting point you make, Miss Donovan,' she heard Blackwell say. ‘I think it might be helpful if we were to carry on this discussion at the station. I think now's the time for us to put this on a more formal footing.'

Her mind was still working through the implications. She didn't even know if they'd actually found the gun. Blackwell had said that it wasn't in the room. He hadn't said it hadn't been found.

‘Are you arresting me?'

‘I think it's the phrase you used earlier: “Helping us with our enquiries”,' Blackwell said. The smile had returned. ‘Though that's often a euphemism, I think. But, no, at this stage I'd just like a witness statement.'

‘And if I refuse to come?'

‘I don't think you'll do that, Miss Donovan. You strike me as the co-operative type.'

She wondered whether to call his bluff. But it was too late to play games. She had only two choices. She could go along with Blackwell, get him to put a call in to Salter or Welsby, try to get all this sorted. But she was growing increasingly convinced that this wasn't just some tangle of coincidence. That she'd been set up. Someone had tipped off the police about Jones' death. Someone had given them her name. And that could be someone in the Agency. Anyone in the Agency.

As for her fingerprints on Jones' gun, well, it was difficult to believe that Jones had tried to make her a suspect in his own death. But maybe Jones hadn't known that was the deal. Maybe he'd thought he was setting her up for something else. That would be just like Jones. Thought he'd done a deal, while all the time he was just setting himself up as the victim.

But with her fingerprints on the murder weapon, even her undercover status wouldn't give her automatic protection. Murder was murder, whoever had committed it. In time, she could no doubt talk her way out of this. The forensics should prove that she hadn't fired the gun that killed Jones, whatever her fingerprints might suggest.

But that was assuming that anyone would be prepared to listen to her. That someone out there had an interest in preventing her from taking the fall for this. She didn't know any more whether she could trust Salter or Welsby or, for that matter, anyone else.

She climbed slowly to her feet, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around her, hoping that Blackwell wouldn't spot the clothes underneath. When in doubt, follow your instinct.

‘How long's this going to take?' she asked. ‘I need to phone my assistant and let him know I'll be late in.'

‘I think the timing will rather depend on you. You can call from the station.'

‘OK.' She gestured down towards her dressing gown. ‘Give me a few minutes to get showered and dressed. Help yourself to some coffee if you like. There's milk in the fridge.'

Blackwell looked for a moment as if he was about to deny this request. Then he nodded. ‘OK. But be quick.'

‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘It's my time we're wasting as well as yours.'

She stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Moving as quickly and silently as she could, she discarded the dressing gown and pulled on the jeans and trainers. Then she stepped over to the window and pushed it open.

She'd checked out this escape route before she'd moved into the flat, never seriously expecting that she'd use it. It was one of those things that went with the job, a degree of caution and forward planning that coloured everything she did. However routine each day might seem to be, there was always the risk that something might go wrong. Since she'd taken up this role, she'd lived with the idea that, one dark night or one bright morning, someone might come looking for her. She'd never imagined it would be the police.

The window opened outwards, and was held by a pair of brackets designed, for security purposes, to prevent the panel opening more than a few inches. One of her first tasks after moving in had been to remove the screws that held the brackets in place and substitute a set of dummy screws that slotted only a quarter inch or so into their sockets. She took a metal nail file which she left on the window sill for that purpose, and prised out the four dummy screws, allowing the window to open fully.

Once the window was open, she moved back across the bathroom and turned on the shower, leaving the shower door open so the rushing water would be clearly heard from outside. The sound of the running shower could buy her an extra few minutes.

Finally, she picked up the overnight bag that she'd left tucked behind the wash basin. She lowered the cover of the lavatory, climbed on to it, and eased her way out of the window.

She dropped silently on to the metal landing of the external fire escape that ran along the rear of the building, then she turned and replaced the dummy screws back into the window brackets. With a little luck, they might waste a further few valuable minutes trying to work out how she'd effected her escape.

She hurried down the metal steps, pressing herself close against the wall so that there was no risk that Blackwell or one of his team might spot her from the window.

Within a few moments, she was skirting the perimeter of the building to the underground car park. The reality of what she was doing had begun to hit her, and for a moment she was tempted to give it up, return to the building and throw herself on what might pass for Blackwell's mercy.

This really was all or nothing. She didn't even have a plan. Just get away, buy herself some time. Work out who she could trust. Then, if she could find some help, she might be able to talk her way out of this.

It didn't sound much. Christ, it wasn't much. But it was all she had.

Within minutes, she'd reached her car and was opening the electronically controlled gates on to the main road. As she pulled away, she glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the heavy gates closing behind her. She felt convinced, in that moment, that she would never pass back through them.

It felt as if part of her life had ended. She probably could live with that. The real problem was that, as yet, there was no sign that anything better was about to take its place.

Chapter 22

As she reached the ring road, she began to think about what to do next. It was as if she'd been operating on automatic pilot, instinct overriding any rational thought. Now she had to make some decisions.

Her first thought was just to get away, to drive as far as possible. Maybe head back down to London. Lie low somewhere near the place she used to call home.

But that wouldn't work. Any minute now, they'd be kicking off a full-scale search for her. If she was a murder suspect – and if she wasn't before, she would be now – they'd want to stop her getting out of town. They'd check all the main routes. It wouldn't take them long to get her car registration. She would have only a few minutes' head start, and that wouldn't be enough.

The better option was to lose herself in the city. They'd track her down eventually, but she might buy herself some time. Then all she had to do was work out what to do with it.

She headed towards the city centre. It was still rush hour and the roads were busy with commuters heading into work. She glanced in her rear-view mirror, alert for any sign of pursuit, expecting at any moment to hear the wail of sirens, the pulsing of the blue lights.

She pulled off towards the main shopping area, heading for the large multi-storey car park next to the Arndale. She found a parking space in a corner of one of the lower floors. While the higher floors emptied overnight, these lower floors remained fairly full. Her hope was that the car would stay unnoticed for a day or so until someone registered that it hadn't been moved.

Breathing deeply to steady her nerves, she turned off the engine and sat silently, contemplating her next move. After a moment, she reached into the back seat for her laptop. She booted it up and inserted her wireless mobile connection. After a tense few minutes, she was able to access the internet.

She had a narrow window in which to get things sorted. Her disappearance would trigger a chain of formal responses – not just the local police search, but also, in due course, a response from within the Agency. Whatever they might think about her motives or behaviour, their first action would be to put a lid on everything. They'd suspend her official bank accounts, stop her credit cards. They'd put a trace on her official mobile numbers and try to use them to track her movements. They might even shut down the business, though more likely they'd allow it to tick along until they found out what was going on, leaving poor old Joe to wonder what had happened to her.

That meant she had to move quickly. She logged into the business account, ran through the security procedures and transferred a substantial sum into her personal account, giving silent thanks that these days transfers were virtually instantaneous. She was breaking all the rules, but could see little alternative if she were to have enough cash to survive even for a few days.

Finally, the transfer completed, she logged out and shut down the laptop. She climbed out of the car, stuffed the computer back in its bag, threw the overnight case over her shoulder, and locked the car.

As she walked away, she felt another tremor of anxiety. It was as if, item by item, she was leaving the trappings of her life behind – first the flat, now the car – with no certainty that she'd ever reclaim them.

She made her way down through the mall into the street. She'd followed the same route the previous week before meeting Jones in the café. Involuntarily she glanced back, wondering again about the man she'd noticed then. This early in the morning, the centre was largely deserted, just as it had been before. This time, though, there were no suspicious figures, just a couple of security guards chatting with a woman opening up one of the stores.

Outside, the rain had passed, but the morning air still felt chill and damp. Nearly nine thirty; time for the banks to open.

They'd rebuilt all this area after the IRA bombing in the mid-1990s. Marie couldn't remember the city as it had been before, but most of the locals seemed to think that the Provisionals had done the place an inadvertent favour. The old Arndale Centre had been rebuilt, and they'd opened up the heart of the city from St Anne's Square up to the cathedral. There were new open spaces, fashionable-looking cafés and bars, striking buildings, with just a few remnants of the old city left standing as you approached Victoria Station. It was an attractive city, she thought, with its blend of modern aspiration and Victorian heritage, and it was much more approachable in scale and impact than London. She wondered now how well its optimism and vibrancy would withstand the impact of recession and cuts in public funding. Now that times were getting tough again, the money might melt away. You didn't have to go far from the city centre to find real poverty.

The likes of Kerridge and Boyle thrived on that. They might not get their own hands dirty, but their trade was anything but clean. Their people brought in drugs, firearms, exploited labour, porn, illegal booze and cigarettes. Anything they could sell for a profit. The end users were the flotsam and jetsam of the receding economic tide, poor bastards with nothing else to live for.

That was why she'd wanted to do this job in the first place. She loved the adrenaline rush, the sense of risk. But above all she wanted to make things happen, to have a real crack at people like Kerridge. The wealthy men floating above the misery they caused, casually creaming off the money, untouched by anyone – the police, the Revenue, immigration. The small fry went down, the big fish could afford the best advice. You never caught them in the act. You needed a different kind of policing – monitoring, gathering intelligence, building a case painstakingly step by step. That was what she'd wanted to do.

Now the rug had been pulled from under her. They'd finally got Boyle into custody, and what had happened? Their key witness was dead. The only loose cannon who'd been involved in that killing had been murdered himself. Her own position looked to be fatally compromised. Even if she somehow managed to talk her way out of the worst of this, it was difficult to see how she'd rebuild her position or credibility. She'd be out of the field, back behind a desk.

It was nine thirty-five now, and the first shoppers were beginning to appear. She pushed open the door of the bank and stepped into the warm interior.

This early, the place was empty. The sales desks were deserted – they were probably all out back receiving a pre-work pep talk from the sales manager. Even the cashiers were looking bored. Marie walked up to one of the cash desks and explained that she wanted to make a withdrawal.

She had half-expected some objection when she named the amount, but the cashier merely noted down the sum and said, without looking up, ‘I'll need two ID. One photo.'

Marie pulled out her passport and driving licence, and slid them through to the cashier. The young woman glanced at them briefly and then looked up at Marie's face. Her eyes flicked back down to the two photographs on the documents, but there was no sign of suspicion.

‘That's fine.' She pushed the documents back across to Marie, and began to tap on the keyboard in front of her.

Marie momentarily tensed again. Maybe they'd imposed some blockage on her account already. Maybe there'd be some warning on there: If you see this woman, press the panic button.

But it was unlikely. Even if the relevant wheels were already in motion – and experience told her that, for once, bureaucracy was likely to be her ally here – it would take them a little time to track down her personal account. But not long. A few phone calls would give them everything they needed. But then they'd need the relevant authorization. It would take a little while. Maybe an hour or two.

‘How do you want it?' the cashier said. ‘Fifties OK, or do you need something smaller?'

Marie almost laughed in relief. ‘I could do with some twenties and tens. If you can do a couple of hundred in those, and the rest in fifties, that'd be great.'

The cashier noted down the request. ‘I'll need to get it from the back. Just bear with me.'

It was an anxious few minutes for Marie. She was still half-expecting that this wouldn't work. They'd have insufficient cash. They'd want to know why she needed all this money. The manager would appear and murmur quietly, ‘If you could just step this way, Ms Donovan . . .?'

But none of that happened. After a few moments, the cashier reappeared and carefully counted out the money.

‘Is there anything else I can do for you today?' she asked finally. It was a routine question, part of the spiel they were trained to deliver. Marie was tempted to ask whether she had any tips on avoiding police manhunts.

Her relief lasted little longer than the few minutes it took to return to the open street. She'd overcome one hurdle. She was solvent, with enough cash to last her till – well, when exactly? Till all this was resolved, one way or another, she supposed. If things weren't sorted within a few days, they'd catch up with her anyway.

But almost immediately, she felt vulnerable again. As if everyone who passed was staring at her, as if they'd seen her picture or read her description. As if they knew exactly who she was and what she was supposed to have done. Down at the far end of the road, at the junction with Market Street, two police officers, a man and a woman, were standing chatting with a street-cleaner. It took all her willpower not to run. Instead, she forced herself to walk casually towards them, heading back towards the centre of town.

By the time she reached the corner, the police officers were already disappearing into St Anne's Square. She walked further along Corporation Street and then paused for a moment outside an upmarket-looking hairdressing salon, before pushing open the door. The receptionist looked up as she entered.

‘Can I help you, madam?'

Marie looked past the receptionist into the interior of the salon. There was one customer having her hair washed. Two stylists were sitting drinking coffee and chatting about last night's television.

‘I know it's short notice,' Marie said. ‘I'm just in town on business for a couple of days. Wondered if there was any chance of fitting in an appointment today at all?'

The receptionist gave her a look that suggested the chances were somewhere between slim and zero, and pulled the appointments book towards her.

‘We've just had a cancellation,' she said. ‘Was supposed to be ten fifteen.' She glanced up at the clock over the desk. ‘Might be able to fit you in now.' She called over her shoulder. ‘Jo, can you fit this lady in now instead of Mrs Tremlett?'

Jo – one of the two chatting stylists – put down her coffee with a look of weariness. ‘Yeah, that's fine. Just give me a minute or two.' She gestured for Marie to take a seat.

An hour later, Marie emerged from the salon feeling, externally at least, like a different person. The stylist had been slightly surprised by her request for a radical change, cropping her shoulder-length hair into something much shorter, colouring her hair darker.

‘Do a lot of sports,' Marie explained. ‘Get sick of it getting in my eyes.'

The stylist had expressed some scepticism about the change, but ultimately just shrugged. When the new style was complete, she'd shifted her position to claim full credit. ‘Yeah, said it would suit you,' she said. ‘Wouldn't work with everyone's face, but looks good with yours.' Marie decided to accept that as a compliment.

She stepped back out into the street and made her way up Market Street towards Piccadilly Gardens. It was approaching eleven fifteen. Her window of opportunity was rapidly closing. It might have been sensible to use her phone before getting her hair changed, but she felt much less conspicuous now. Her hope was that her phones would have been left operational for the moment, in the hope that she might make contact or even allow them to trace her movements.

She entered a chain coffee shop, bought a caffè latte and a sandwich, found a discreet corner, and switched on her secure phone.

As she'd expected, there was a string of messages. She listened to the most recent first. Salter's sharp voice, ‘For fuck's sake, Marie, just call in.' She didn't bother with the rest.

She wanted to get a heads-up, find out what was happening. Her first thought was to call Salter, but instead she dialled Welsby's number. On balance she was inclined to trust him slightly more than Salter, if only because he was less likely to shaft her simply to advance his own career.

‘Keith. It's Marie Donovan.'

There was a momentary pause, and she wondered whether Welsby was trying to have her location tracked. They'd have been waiting for her to make contact. She couldn't afford to talk for long.

‘Christ, Marie. Where the hell are you?'

‘In a bit of trouble, Keith. That's where I am.'

‘Too fucking right you are. What the fuck's going on?'

‘I've been set up, Keith.'

Another pause. ‘That right, girl?' It was impossible to read his response.

‘I didn't kill Morgan Jones. Why the hell would I want to do that?'

‘You tell me,' Welsby said. ‘Way I've heard it, your prints were all over Jones' room.'

‘I know,' she said, keeping her voice low. ‘I went to see Jones yesterday. He said he had some business for me. That was part of the set-up. And how did anyone know they were my prints? They turned up on my doorstep at seven this morning. They wouldn't have had time to trawl through the database. Someone tipped them off.'

‘That doesn't make you innocent.'

‘Christ, Keith, you don't think I did it?'

‘Not looking good, girl. Even got your prints on the murder weapon.'

So Blackwell had been holding back that bit of information. Not really a surprise.

‘They found the gun, then?'

‘Dropped in a bin along the road. Didn't take a lot of finding.'

‘Of course not, Keith. Do you think I'd be that bloody careless if I really had done it?'