Trust No One (23 page)

She expected equally that, for the moment at least, Welsby and his bosses would want to keep this under wraps. They wouldn't want the embarrassment of revealing that an under-cover officer had gone AWOL. Her guess was that they'd allow the local plods to keep thinking that she was of interest to the Agency as a target, not as one of their own. They might even put some pressure on the locals to back off.

With a bit of luck.

That depended on the motives of whoever was behind this. By now, she had no doubt that somebody was. And that somebody, one or two steps removed, would be Boyle and maybe Kerridge. They knew who she was. Maybe not the whole of her role, but enough. She'd been exposed. Perhaps it really had been Morton. It looked as if he'd known, or guessed, more about her than he'd let on. Perhaps that was why he'd embarked on a relationship with her in the first place. Not her winning personality and cute looks, after all.

More likely, though, it was whoever was leaking from inside the Agency. Undercover roles were kept confidential even within the team, so her role should have been known only to a handful. Welsby, Salter and a sprinkling of others, mostly at senior levels. But it was possible she'd been hung out to dry a long time before, that they'd been playing games with her for months. The thought wasn't comforting.

If so, the set-up had been beautifully engineered. Once she was arrested – perhaps already – her credibility was gone. At best, the Agency would just suppress everything, maybe not even give her the chance to clear her name. She'd be sacked or paid off. Jones would be forgotten. The local police would be blamed for disrupting some unrevealed operation, and would write it off as another instance of the Agency's high-handedness. And the case against Boyle would be quietly dropped.

At worst, they'd leave her twisting in the wind. She'd be cut off from Agency support, charged with murder. Maybe she'd be convicted, maybe she wouldn't. But it wouldn't be in anyone's interest to help her. It might suit everyone for her to take the fall, tie up the loose ends of Jones' death. She could protest, try to get her story heard, but she'd just be dismissed as another rogue copper.

She was getting nowhere, thinking herself deeper into depression. She already knew she was in a mess. Now she had to devote her mind to thinking of a way out of it. She'd considered a direct approach to Kerridge, but couldn't see where it would get her. She had tried to identify some intermediary who might help uncover the truth about Jones' murder, but anyone sufficiently close to Kerridge or Boyle to be of use was, well, likely to be much too close.

She pulled the plug on the rapidly cooling water and stepped out, drying herself hurriedly and pulling on the thick towelling dressing gown supplied behind the bathroom door. One of the perks of the executive-level room, she presumed. She hadn't noticed many others.

She needed more time to catch her breath. All she could feel was a rising panic, a growing sense that time was running out. There was no one she could risk calling. The police might be monitoring the phones of any of her friends and acquaintances, and would track her back here in minutes. Even assuming, she thought bleakly, that she had any real friends or acquaintances left to call.

There was no one up here. Back home, there was just her family and Liam . . .

Shit, she thought. Liam.

He'd be going spare. She'd tried to call him the previous evening after her return from meeting Jones. There'd been no answer early on, and she hadn't bothered leaving a message on his voicemail, assuming that she'd try again later or – more likely – that he would call her. In the end, exhausted by the previous disrupted night and the trials of the day, she'd fallen asleep in front of the TV. She'd woken at eleven or so, and barely opening her eyes, staggered into the bedroom, sleepily undressed and fallen into bed. She hadn't stirred till she'd been disturbed by Blackwell's unexpected arrival.

Had Liam tried to call her back? It was likely. He didn't allow many evenings to go by without a call. She'd have expected the phone to wake her, but had been so knackered she could easily have slept through it. She hadn't thought to check the voicemail this morning.

Would the Agency have contacted Liam? If so, Christ knew what they'd told him. And no doubt he'd been trying to call her on one of her inoperative mobile numbers ever since.

She couldn't even phone him now. Liam's line would surely be monitored. Shit, she thought. He'd never forgive her for this.

She pulled open the door of the bathroom, rubbing her face with a towel, her mind still wrestling with this latest problem.

It was the sound that made her stop. The sound of a cough and a shuffle of feet. The sound of someone in the room.

She lowered the towel slowly from her face, as a voice said, ‘Jesus, Marie. You're one hell of a woman to keep up with.'

Chapter 23

Her first reaction was fear, then bafflement and finally anger.

‘What the fuck are you doing in here, Joe?' A small part of her mind was thanking Christ that the executive room had included provision of a dressing gown. Another part was registering her handbag, open where she'd left it on the bed.

Joe was half-rising, in the manner of someone about to greet a visitor. Seeing the look on her face, he slumped back down into the armchair.

‘Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.'

‘Little tip, Joe. If you don't want to startle people, don't let yourself into their fucking hotel rooms.'

‘Sorry,' he said again. ‘Wasn't really thinking.'

‘What are you doing here, Joe?' She paused. ‘More to the point, how'd you track me down?'

‘I followed you.'

‘
Followed
me?' She'd been keeping an eye out all the way, looking for professional pursuit. How could she not have spotted Joe?

‘I'm sorry,' he repeated.

‘Don't keep apologizing, Joe. Makes me nervous.'

‘Police came to the shop, early this morning. Before they came to you. Six thirty or so. I'd gone in early. Didn't sleep very well last night, and we had the Henshaw job to finish. Darren had messed up—'

‘Get to the point, Joe.' Her anger was subsiding now. It was difficult to sustain it in the face of Joe's abject demeanour.

‘Yeah, sorry. Anyway, I got in about six. About six thirty, these coppers turned up. Couple of plain clothes, one in a uniform. Looking for you.'

She frowned. ‘Why'd they go to the shop?'

‘I think they were expecting a domestic address or that you lived above the shop or something.'

‘Christ, Joe. Did you give them my home address?'

He shook his head. ‘No. Honestly. They realized straightaway you weren't going to be there. And then one of them made a phone call. Spoke to someone who gave him your home address. I didn't say anything.'

That was interesting, she thought, and probably confirmed everything she'd been fearing.

‘No, of course, not. Sorry, Joe. I shouldn't take it out on you.'

‘What's this all about, Marie?'

‘Jesus, Joe, it's a long story. Tell me about this morning.'

Calmer now, she lowered herself on to the bed. Casually, she pulled the handbag towards her and began rooting through it, her eyes still fixed on Joe. The data stick was still there, tucked into a side pocket. To cover her actions, she pulled out a pack of tissues and made as if to blow her nose.

‘Well, I tried to call your mobile, but it was turned off. Left you a message.' One of the many messages she'd failed to check this morning. ‘Didn't have your home number. So in the end I set off after them. Stupid, really. I had this idea that they might not go straight there, that I might get there first and at least warn you they were coming. But of course they were already there when I arrived. There was a police car parked out front.'

She nodded. ‘Go on.'

‘I hung about across the street. I had an idea I'd wait till they'd gone, then come across and make sure you were OK.' He paused and lowered his head, as if embarrassed by the concern he was showing.

‘And you saw me leave?'

‘Well, I was a bit taken aback. I was sitting there and saw you scurrying around the building. Didn't know what to think. Then I saw your car coming out of the car park. In the end, I decided to follow you. I'm not really sure why.' He paused. ‘Just a bit worried, I suppose.'

‘You followed me all the way?'

He shrugged, reddening. ‘Well, yes. Saw you park up. I drove straight past you, parked on the floor above. Nearly lost you after that. Came out into the street just as you were going into the bank—'

‘And you hung around while I had my hair done?'

‘There was a coffee bar over the road. Read the paper.'

She was staring at him, incredulous. ‘But I got a cab to the hotel.'

‘Follow that cab,' he mumbled.

‘Jesus, Joe, you're fucking incredible. Why didn't you let me know you were there?'

‘I don't know, really. You looked . . . focused. I wasn't sure how you'd react.'

It was a fair point. She'd probably have punched his lights out. She nearly had just now.

‘You haven't told me how you got in here.'

He was even more red now. ‘Didn't know what to do when I saw you coming to the hotel. Nearly turned on my heel and went back. I hung about near the door while you checked in. Watched you call the lift, and then watched what floor it stopped at.' He paused, as if scarcely able to credit his own ingenuity. ‘Then I followed you up. I thought I'd lose you then. But I saw you at the end of the corridor, opening the door just as I came out of the lift.'

‘And how'd you get in?'

‘I did knock,' he said. ‘I kept knocking. But you must have already gone into the bathroom. Then one of the cleaners came by.' He dropped his head, unwilling to look her in the eye. ‘Didn't know what else to do. Told her I'd locked my key inside. She opened it for me.'

‘You've got hidden depths, Joe. You're wasted in printing.'

‘I don't know what I was thinking, really. Just wanted to make sure you were all right.'

She smiled for the first time. ‘Very sweet of you, Joe. I'm OK.' She hesitated momentarily, then said, ‘Pretty much in the shit, though.'

‘What's this all about, Marie?'

She didn't know how to respond. She desperately wanted to share all this with someone. At least have the chance to talk about it. But, even if she could bring herself to trust Joe, she couldn't tell him everything. Not yet.

‘Like I said, it's a long story. I've got myself involved in some things I shouldn't have.'

‘Can't say I'm entirely surprised by that,' he said.

She raised her head at his unexpected response. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I keep my head down,' he said. ‘But I'm not a total idiot.'

‘I don't—'

‘I look at the business, the printing stuff. We're doing all right, but the finances don't add up. We'd be struggling if we weren't so well capitalized. So I ask myself, now and again, where the capital comes from. Seems to me it probably doesn't come entirely from reprographics.' He smiled faintly. ‘We're good. But we're not that good.'

She shook her head. ‘Like I say, you're full of surprises, Joe.'

‘Dunno,' he said. ‘But I've also seen one or two of the people who come into that place. People who come and talk to you in the office. I was brought up in Cheetham Hill. I know some of those faces.' He smiled faintly. ‘They were the ones my mum used to tell me to steer clear of. Can't imagine they come to get their business cards done.'

‘You might have a point,' she said.

‘Jesus, Marie. Why get mixed up with stuff like that?'

‘I'm not some fluffy airhead, Joe. You know that. I understand what I'm involved in.'

‘But you're in the shit now,' Joe pointed out.

‘These things happen.'

‘Christ,' Joe said, suddenly vehement. ‘I know these things happen. My younger brother's serving ten because these things happen. Armed fucking robbery in his case. Thought he was smart and was well out of his depth.'

‘Should have listened to your mum, eh?' Marie said, though she knew that it wasn't funny.

‘Something like that. So what's your story?'

She was learning more all the time, she thought. She'd underestimated Joe, that was clear enough. Who knew whether she'd underestimated anyone else.

‘You come across Morgan Jones in your travels?' she asked.

‘Jones? Professional Welshman. Bit of a creep? That one?'

‘Sounds like the one,' she agreed. ‘Thing is, he's now the late Morgan Jones. Shot dead. And I was the last one to see him alive.'

Joe looked up at her. ‘You're a suspect?'

‘I think, at the moment, I'm
the
suspect.'

‘Shit.' He was silent for a moment. ‘You didn't . . .?'

‘Joe. I know we've just spent the last five minutes surprising the hell out of each other, but what do you think?' Before he could reply, she added, just in case, ‘No. No, I didn't.'

‘Do you know who did?'

‘I don't know who actually pulled the trigger, if that's what you mean. But I know who wanted him dead. You know Jeff Kerridge?'

‘I know of him,' Joe said. ‘Client of ours, isn't he? His company, anyway.'

‘One of his companies, yes. We do printing for them.'

‘Got his finger in all kinds of pies, from what I've heard,' Joe said. ‘Most of them dodgy. You think he was behind Jones' death?'

‘Pretty much. Jones was a grass. Kerridge's associate Pete Boyle's in custody at the moment. Jones is probably one of the people who put him there.' It was a précis of the truth, but close enough.

‘That would do it,' Joe agreed. ‘I'd heard about Boyle. If the rumours are right, Jones wouldn't be the first grass that Kerridge's had taken out.'

Marie said nothing for a moment, wondering quite how much Joe knew about her and Jake. ‘I don't know. I just know he's landed me well and truly in the crap.'

Joe shook his head. ‘This is crazy, though. Why've you done a runner? It's only a matter of time before they catch up with you. You've just made it look worse.'

‘Maybe. I wasn't thinking straight. It felt as if they'd got me bang to rights.'

‘Hardly. Just because you were the last to see him. When was this, anyway?'

‘Yesterday,' she said. ‘When I left the office.'

‘Thought that wasn't your style,' he said. ‘You looked knackered, but you don't usually let that stop you. Why'd you go to see Jones?'

‘Reckoned he had a bit of business he could put in my direction.'

‘Not printing?'

‘No, Joe. Not printing. Anyway, I went up to see him. Something and nothing, as it turned out. But it means my prints are all over the room where he was found.'
Not to mention the murder weapon
, she thought.

‘But that doesn't prove anything. I mean, it doesn't prove you killed him.'

‘Maybe not,' she said. ‘But it's not a bad start. Might discourage the police from looking too hard for any other suspects. I don't suppose they're too fussed about finding Morgan Jones' real killer, so long as they can close the case. Anyway, if they start delving into my life, Christ knows what they'll find.'

‘OK,' he said wearily. ‘So you're not planning to give yourself up just at the moment. What are you planning?'

‘Like I say, I wasn't thinking. Now I'm trying to, but I'm not getting very far.'

‘I could do some digging for you.'

‘What sort of digging?'

‘I don't know exactly. But, like I say, I know Manchester. I know a lot of these people. My brother . . . well, people knew him. They know me. They know I'm straight. They won't tell me everything, but they do trust me and they won't bullshit me. I can maybe find out what people know about Jones' death. What the word is.'

It didn't sound a lot, but it was better than anything else she had. ‘Thanks, Joe. That's good of you.'

He regarded her for a moment, clearly wanting to say something more. ‘If you get through this, Marie, you should have a real think, you know? You're too good for this.'

‘I've told you, Joe. It's a long story. Sometime I'll tell you.'

‘I'd like that,' he said after a pause. ‘I care about you, you know.' He stopped again, as if he were gearing up for some more momentous announcement. ‘You and me, we could be good for each other, I reckon.'

For a moment, she felt close to tears. It was a long time since anyone had said they cared about her. Not Jake, not in so many words. Not even Liam. She knew Liam did care, but it wasn't anything he'd ever say. And, in any case, Liam suddenly seemed an awfully long way away.

She was suddenly conscious that she was sitting on the bed, clad only in the hotel dressing gown, her body still damp from the bath, alone in a hotel room with an attractive, likeable man. She pulled the dressing gown more tightly around her, briefly tempted to do the opposite, to take advantage of this unexpected intimacy, this brief respite from the isolation and fear that had become her life.

She quashed the impulse as soon as it arose, knowing that her feelings were nothing more than a reaction to everything she had been through. Joe was a nice man. Maybe they could be good for one another. Maybe one day, perhaps even soon, she might find out.

But not yet. Not till she was through all this.

‘You might be right, Joe,' she said finally. ‘When this is out of the way, we'll have that drink, and we can talk about it.'

He smiled, and it wasn't clear to her whether he'd expected anything more. ‘I'll hold you to that,' he said. ‘Now, keep your head down. I'll call you here as soon as I've any news.'