Trust No One (25 page)

Chapter 26

Somehow, it was hardly a surprise. She recalled her unease, days before, at Joe's unexpected appearance next to her parked car outside the shop. She remembered her suspicions, vague and unfounded, but still nagging at her.
Trust your instincts,
she thought.
Always trust your fucking instincts.

‘What's going on, Joe?'

He looked down at the pistol, as if surprised by its presence. ‘I'm sorry, Marie.'

‘I don't understand, Joe.' She had thought she was clutching at straws coming here, but she hadn't realized how desperate she must have been. Joe had turned up out of the blue, and she'd seen him as the only friend she had. Even when he'd been sitting in her hotel room right next to her fucking handbag, her mistrust had melted away because there was no one else to turn to.

He gestured with the gun. ‘That way.' He directed her further along the beach, away from the car park, into the darkness. ‘Then we can talk.'

‘Talk about what, Joe?' She stumbled on the soft ground, her flat shoes sinking into the wet sand. Joe was a few feet behind, the gun barrel pointing steadily towards her. He didn't look like an amateur, she thought. He looked like someone who'd handled a gun before.

He glanced over his shoulder, judging whether they were sufficiently far from the car park, then pointed the gun down towards the sand. ‘Kneel down,' he said.

She contemplated whether she could jump him, but knew it was hopeless. By the time she reached him, he could have fired without difficulty. Somehow she knew he wouldn't hesitate. This Joe was different from the shambling, well-intentioned figure she'd known from the print shop. This wasn't some innocent who'd been inveigled into betraying her.

She knelt slowly down on the beach, feeling the cold, wet sand through the thick cloth of her jeans. She could hear the roaring wind, the occasional gentle crunch of Joe's boots. Nothing else.

‘I didn't want things to end up like this,' Joe said from above her. There was a note of what sounded like genuine regret in his voice. ‘We could've been something.'

‘Spare me, Joe. What the fuck is this about?'

‘You weren't trusted right from the start. My job was to keep an eye on you.'

So much for deep cover. She'd been exposed from day one, strung along. Was it her own incompetence, or had her presence been leaked?

‘And did you?' she asked. ‘Find out what I was about?'

‘Just another fucking grass, aren't you?' He spat the words out. ‘Scrabbling around for information, selling it for your thirty pieces of silver. Birds of a feather, you and Jake fucking Morton.'

Was that what he knew, or thought he knew? He had her pegged as an informant, nothing more. Not that it would help her now.

He'd moved a step or two closer. ‘You've got a choice, though. Doesn't have to be this way. We can do a deal,' he said. ‘I've got the authority for that.'

‘What sort of deal?'

‘You've got stuff we want,' he said. ‘Hand it over. Tell us what you know. Then everything can be hunky-dory.'

It was bollocks. He was just trying to sweet-talk her into handing over the evidence. He wouldn't let her go, not after this. He'd brought her up here to eliminate her. They'd put her in the frame for Jones' murder, but she'd made life difficult by slipping away. Or maybe they'd even expected that. Either way, Joe had kept tabs on her. He could have just handed her over to the police that afternoon, tipped them off while she was waiting in the hotel. But this was better. He'd shoot her, make it look like suicide, wait for the body to be discovered.

The police would assume, maybe with some encouragement, that it was some underworld spat. That she'd killed Jake's murderer, and then killed herself or been bumped off in her turn. They wouldn't care much, especially if they could dismiss her death as suicide. All the loose ends would be neatly tied up.

The Agency would keep quiet to avoid embarrassment. Strings would be pulled, and her deep cover role would be silently forgotten. Deniable.

For a moment, absurdly as she knelt in the wind-buffeted darkness, her mind turned to Darren, slogging away ineptly in the print shop. Poor useless bugger. He'd be out on the street again.

‘I don't know what you mean,' she said. ‘What have I got?'

‘We know Morton sent you some stuff. It's not in your flat, so where is it?'

That answered one question. Her flat had been searched by Kerridge's men, looking for what Morton had sent her.

‘I've not got anything,' she said. Her handbag was clutched in her hand, the data stick secreted in the lining. ‘You can search me.'

‘This can be simple, you know. You can just hand it over, and I can let you go.'

She hesitated. She could try to buy herself a little time, lure him closer. She might have a chance of doing something. Kneeling here, she had no chance at all. ‘Fine. It's here,' she said. ‘In my handbag.'

‘Throw it over. Don't try anything. Just throw the handbag over here.'

Joe was too smart to fall for any half-baked stunts. He wouldn't waste time searching the handbag. Not while she was alive, anyway. He'd try to get her to talk, then he'd pull the trigger.

She had nothing to lose, then. She swung round quickly, throwing the bag as hard as she could at the gun. At the same time, she flung herself sideways, rolling frantically into the darkness, out of range of Joe's flashlight.

A moment later, she was scrabbling on her knees, trying to pull herself upright, urging herself to run, away from the light, down the beach.

It was hopeless. The sand sank under her feet, throwing her off balance, slowing her down. Running was almost impossible. She staggered onwards, aware of Joe's torch beam flickering across the beach, not daring to look back.

When the shot came, it was startlingly loud, even above the pounding rain and wind. She threw herself down again, and the bullet missed her. Joe was already gaining, pounding steadily across the beach, torch and gun held out in front of him.

There was nowhere to run. If she continued along the beach, he'd catch her in seconds. If she tried to get past him, he'd shoot. Out of ideas, she stopped and stood her ground, hoping he'd come closer before he fired again.

He paused, four or five feet away from her, and raised the gun once more.

‘You're a stubborn cow, aren't you? Always have to do things the hard way.'

She waited until his hand was steady, watching as he took aim. Then she leaped forwards, hoping to grab his arm and force the gun away from her. It was desperate, hopeless stuff, but it was all she had left. It was the desire to go down fighting, not just to be shot in cold blood. The desire at least to do him some harm before he did the ultimate damage to her.

It almost worked. He was taken by surprise, and she managed to clutch his arm and force it back, sending them both tumbling on to the ground. She thought he was about to drop the gun, but he regained his grip and rolled over violently, forcing her back on to the yielding sand. His hand was on her throat, and, a second later, the barrel of the gun was pressed to her temple.

‘Bitch!' he hissed. ‘I ought to do more than fucking kill you.'

She could feel the cold metal against her skin, sense the tightening of his finger on the trigger. She closed her eyes, waiting for whatever the end would feel like.

There was a sudden, soft, indescribable thump, scarcely audible above the roaring tide. Joe's fingers loosened on her throat, the pressure of the gunmetal relaxing against her head. Then Joe toppled sideways, falling away from her on to the sand.

She opened her eyes, bewildered. A tall, thin figure was standing over her, a piece of concrete clutched in his hand.

‘You know your trouble, sis,' Salter said. ‘You mix with the wrong crowd.'

Chapter 27

‘You OK?'

She still felt dazed, dream-like, as if none of this was real. ‘Guess so. Considering.'

‘Sorry,' Salter said. ‘That was closer than I'd intended. Too fucking close.'

They were heading back towards the bypass, enclosed in the warmth of Salter's car. His driving was characteristic – precise, cautious, unostentatious. Efficient.

‘How come you're here?' Marie said finally, as her mind came to grips with the question that had been troubling her. It was as if her wits had been slowed by her brush with death. Every thought seemed out of reach. She felt like a toddler reaching to grab floating bubbles. When she caught one, it melted in her grasp.

‘Hellhound on your trail,' Salter said. ‘I was right behind you. Well, almost. Nearly got caught out at the end. Sorry about that.'

‘You were right behind? Since when?'

‘Since this morning. With a bit of unofficial help from young Hodder. Before then, really. But this morning was when it mattered.'

She pressed her back against the passenger seat, enjoying its solidity beneath her aching spine. ‘Christ, I thought I was off and running. Turns out the whole world was following me. I'm beginning to think I'm not cut out for this job.'

‘Don't beat yourself up too much, sis. You ran rings around the local plods. You weren't to know that I'd already got you under surveillance.'

She could feel her bafflement mutating into anger as his words sank in. ‘I'm not getting this,' she said. ‘I'm supposedly in the frame for Jones' murder. You've already got me under surveillance – Christ knows why – and then you allow me to slip away under the noses of the police. What the fuck's going on, Hugh?'

‘You didn't kill Jones, sis.' It wasn't a question.

‘Of course I didn't kill Jones. I was set up.'

‘So that's the question, isn't it? Who set you up?'

‘Kerridge and Boyle, I presume. They're the ones who benefit. Boyle, anyway.'

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Boyle, anyway.'

‘Jesus, Hugh. I'm knackered, confused and I've just come within ten seconds of having my fucking head blown off. Don't play games.'

‘Your friend Joe back there,' he said, as if he hadn't heard. ‘Take it that was a bit of a surprise?'

‘Well, what do you think, Hugh? That I'd commissioned him to blow my own brains out?'

‘No, sorry. Stupid question. Out of idle curiosity, I did a bit of digging on Mr Morrissey.'

‘Morrissey?' She'd known him as Joe Maybury. ‘That his real name?'

‘Apparently. Scouser by birth, though he's lived in Manchester most of his adult life. Minor criminal record. Juvenile stuff. Then he disappears off the official radar for a bit. But he pops up again a year or two back. One to keep an eye on.'

‘I had him checked out,' she said. ‘He came to the shop from the Job Centre. I got the office to run him through the system.'

‘Yeah. Isn't that interesting?'

‘Shit. You mean . . .?'

‘Reckon someone intercepted your request. Report you got didn't make the connection with Morrissey, so you drew a blank.'

‘So what about him, then?'

‘Reason he appears on our radar is that he's an associate of Boyle's. Maybe legit, maybe not. Not clear what the nature of his dealings are. But we think he's one of those Boyle hires to do his dirty work.'

‘Hitman?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Christ. And he's been working with me for the last six months.'

Her mind went back to the evenings she'd spent alone with Joe, finishing off some late order. She'd felt comfortable in his presence. She could even recall using the word ‘unthreatening' to herself. She'd meant in a sexual way, and maybe that at least had been true. A safe pair of fucking hands. Half an hour earlier, one of those hands had been around her throat.

‘Have you tracked down who intercepted my request? There must be something on the record.'

‘Maybe,' he said ambiguously. ‘Speaking of Morrissey, it's probably time we let someone know he's there. I'd hate anything bad to happen to him.'

Salter had clubbed Morrissey over the head with a piece of concrete he'd found at the edge of the car park. It had been, he'd admitted to Marie, a more improvised solution than he'd planned. He'd followed Joe's car all the way from the hotel – his had been the second set of headlights that she'd glimpsed, Marie presumed – but judged it too risky to follow them immediately off the bypass. He'd continued past the turning up the beach, done a U-turn and pulled into the car park of a pub further down the road to allow them a few minutes to get ahead. But he'd taken a wrong turn in trying to find his way back to the beach in the darkness and had found himself caught up in a warren of residential streets. He'd wasted precious minutes retracing his route, before finally following them down the correct road to the sea.

When he had arrived in the car park, it had taken him a further few anxious minutes to locate Marie and Joe on the beach. He'd finally spotted Joe's flickering flashlight along the shoreline and realized immediately that things weren't right. Up to that point, he said, he hadn't been quite sure what game was being played and by whom. At that moment it has become clear that, whatever the game might be, Marie was definitely losing.

He'd grabbed the piece of concrete – part of a decaying wall along the edge of the car park – in the absence of any other weapon. Even in the last few seconds as he approached the struggling pair, his crunching footsteps drowned by the roar of the wind and the sea, he hadn't been sure what he was going to do. As he drew closer, he'd seen that, whatever it was, he had to do it quickly.

He'd tried not to hit Joe too hard, intending only to stun him. In the event, Joe had collapsed forwards, unconscious or worse. Salter had grasped Joe's shoulder, dragged him back from Marie, turned him over on to his back. Still breathing, thank Christ. Spark out, though. No blood, as far as Salter could see, but he'd have the mother of all headaches in the morning.

Marie had scrambled to her feet, face white with shock. Salter left Joe and went to help her, letting her lean on his shoulder as she recovered her breath.

‘Come on,' he'd said. ‘We're out of here.'

She'd looked at him blankly. She was still dazed, but she'd assumed that this was it. That Salter would call the police and an ambulance, and she'd have to wait to face the music. In a way, it would have been a relief.

Instead, Salter had left Joe lying unconscious on the sand, and helped Marie stumble back towards his car. He'd hesitated momentarily, wondering what to do about Joe's gun, but then had left it on the beach by Joe's head.

‘What about Joe?' she'd said, as they reached Salter's car. ‘We can't just leave him there.'

‘You care?' Salter had asked, then shrugged. ‘I'll put a few miles behind us, then we can call him an ambulance.'

‘He'll shop me,' she said. ‘He'll say I brought him out here and tried to kill him. He'll tell the police I was here.'

‘I doubt it. Because then he'd have to explain why you didn't kill him. Also, I don't think Mr Morrissey will want to spend any more time with the police than he has to. If he wakes up before the ambulance comes, he'll make himself scarce. If he doesn't, he'll concoct some story. Mugged while out dogging or something. Did you know this place used to be the dogging centre of the north-west?'

‘So I understand,' she said, wondering quite why it was that everyone seemed to want to share that titbit of information with her.

He waited till they were back on the bypass, then dialled 999. He used a secure phone, untraceable, and gave a false name. Just a tip-off about an unconscious man on the beach. He didn't even bother using the hands-free, Marie noted. Not the usual cautious Hugh Salter.

She'd expected him to head back towards the city, but instead he'd turned north. She was baffled now, wondering what he was up to. For the moment, he didn't seem inclined to enlighten her. They sped on through the night in silence. In spite of everything, Marie found herself beginning to doze, overcome by sheer exhaustion.

She came awake as they turned off the main road. She'd missed the sign and had no idea where they were.

‘You must be knackered,' Salter said, in a tone that sounded almost kindly. ‘Not far now.'

‘Where are we?'

‘At the seaside. Edge of Southport. One of your better resorts. What passes for upmarket up here.'

‘Can't wait.' She looked at the clock on the dashboard. She'd been asleep half an hour or so.

She could see what Salter meant about the town. Most British seaside resorts were long past their best, but this still retained a Victorian elegance. Wide streets, open spaces. It looked as if there was probably some money about. She could imagine that it would be bustling and attractive in the summer. At this time of year, at this time of the night, though, for all its natural charms, the town still looked a little bleak and drab, with rows of shuttered shopfronts, closed bed and breakfasts, everything waiting to be spruced up for the summer. Salter drove through the town centre, then headed north along the main street. The Irish Sea was off to their left, invisible behind rows of Edwardian buildings.

They left the main town behind and entered a residential area. Salter turned left and then immediately right, and Marie saw that they were in a small estate of neatly serried bungalows. They looked as if they'd been built in the 1960s or 1970s to house aspirational young couples. They'd passed through some more modern, more upmarket-looking housing. These looked slightly more down at heel, though hardly neglected. Marie tried to imagine who might choose to live there. Older couples perhaps, retiring to the coast, or maybe still the youngsters trying to get a foot on the housing ladder. One or two of the houses were boarded up, perhaps awaiting renovation or new owners, but the majority seemed well cared for. There were lights burning inside most of the bungalows.

Salter pulled into the side of the road and cut the engine. ‘Here we are,' he said. ‘Home from home.' He climbed out into the windy night.

Marie hesitated for a moment, then followed him. ‘Any chance of you telling me what the bloody hell's going on, Hugh?'

‘Just a few minutes more,' he said. ‘This way.' He gestured towards a narrow alleyway between two of the bungalows.

‘If you think I'm going into any dark alleys after what's happened tonight, you've got another think coming.'

Salter smiled as if she'd made a joke. ‘We're going via the back entrance,' he said. ‘Don't want to leave the car too obviously parked outside the place we're staying. Just in case.'

‘Staying?' she said. ‘Who said anything about staying?'

‘Don't think you've a lot of choice, sis. We need to keep you out of circulation for a little while.'

He was already striding away down the alley. After a moment's hesitation, she followed. The alley led to a further passage between the rear gardens of the two parallel rows of bungalows, providing access to their back doors. Salter turned left down this passage then, three or four houses down, unbolted a garden gate and made his way inside.

By the time she'd caught up, he was already at the back door of the bungalow, fumbling with a bunch of keys. In the darkness, the bungalow looked much like all the rest. The garden had apparently been tended, though only in a functional manner – a neat lawn, mowed, some concrete slabs, a few pots currently devoid of plants.

Salter finally succeeded in opening the door and stepped inside, turning on the light as he did so. She followed him into a clean but basic-looking kitchen. Salter stood looking around the room as if it were new to him also.

‘Here we are,' he said. ‘All home comforts. Cup of tea?' Without waiting for a response, he picked up an electric kettle which was standing by the sink.

‘What is this, Hugh?' she said. ‘A safe house?'

‘Something like that,' he said, his back turned to her.

She left Salter at the sink, knowing that she'd get nothing more from him till he was ready, and went to explore the rest of the house. It took her no more than a few minutes to check out the remaining rooms, and what she saw largely confirmed her external impressions. Beyond the narrow hallway, there was a small sitting room, a poky bathroom, two double bedrooms. All apparently maintained, newly decorated, but bare and functional. The only gesture towards ornament was a scattering of anonymous pictures on the walls – framed prints of the kind that adorn the walls in budget business hotels. The furniture looked like a job lot from some discount chain store. Nothing offensive, but nothing memorable either.

Salter entered the sitting room bearing a tray laden with a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two mugs. Even a plate of sodding biscuits.

‘Very domesticated,' she commented.

‘All mod cons,' he said. ‘You must be hungry. Shall I get something for us?'

‘Jesus. This I've got to see. Hugh Salter, domestic goddess.'

‘There's a freezer full of ready meals and a microwave. That's as close as you get to the culinary arts.'

‘Fair enough. Yeah, that would be good. In a while. First, though, tell me what the fuck's going on.'

As if he hadn't heard her words, he poured tea for them both, leaving her to add her own milk. He sat down heavily on the sofa, gesturing her to take a seat. She lowered herself on to one of the armchairs.

‘So?'

‘We've got a leakage problem,' he said. ‘The Agency.'

‘You said. At our last meeting.'

‘It's an occupational hazard. You know that. However careful we are with vetting, you get the odd bad apple who'll take a backhander. But they're usually juniors. The admin staff who get paid three-fifths of fuck all because we think that their sense of national duty will cover their mortgages. They take a few quid, leak a few titbits. Doesn't usually do any serious harm. Every now and then we spot one and give them the bullet. Part of life's rich pattern.'