Trust No One (4 page)

She began to rise to her feet. ‘I don't know what you want. But you can't just keep me here.'

‘We can do what we like, love, until we find out a bit more about you. We get nervous about people coming into our territory, you see.'

‘Your territory?' she said. ‘What is this? The Wild fucking West? I'm buying a printing franchise, for Christ's sake.'

‘So you say. It's just that we've got an interest in that business of yours. It has a bit of history.'

She felt a sudden unease. The print franchise was an established business, used by a previous officer operating in the same area. She'd queried whether this was good practice, whether there was any risk that her predecessor had been compromised. She'd been told that, on the contrary, it made life easier. Simpler to take over an established business than to build one from scratch. And, far from being compromised, her predecessor had credibility as a wheeler-dealer who could supply goods – vehicles, people, documents – that others couldn't. He'd been withdrawn from the field only because he was suffering from health problems. A recently-diagnosed heart condition, she'd been told. She was beginning to understand why that might be a problem in this line of work.

The story they'd put about was that he was taking early retirement, and that Marie was an associate in the same line of illegal business. That she was buying into more than just the print shop. All it needed was for her predecessor to effect a few introductions to the right people and she'd be off and running.

Shit, she thought. Maybe this wasn't an exercise after all. Maybe it was for real.

If so, she couldn't imagine that this was just their way of making the introductions, short-circuiting the usual social niceties by bundling her into the back of a sodding van. If this was for real, they'd already sussed out who she was. And that meant that she wasn't likely to leave this place alive.

Jesus, what was she thinking? Of course it was just an exercise. She was allowing them to play with her head. This was another of Winsor's fucking tests. Physical assault, threat, psychological torture. Let's see how she copes with that little lot.

‘What history?' she said. ‘What are you talking about?'

The man suddenly leaned forward, his features finally becoming visible to her. He was no one she recognized.

‘Don't you understand, love? We know who you are. We know who you work for. Do you get it now, bitch?'

There was a venom in the final word that shocked her. Christ, she thought. I was right. It's not a fucking exercise. She began to push herself to her feet, her mind racing.

‘I don't—'

The man pushed the table violently against her, knocking her back into the seat. ‘Sit down.' He leaned towards her, the pistol back in his hand. He was tapping the barrel gently against the tabletop as if he didn't quite know what to do with the weapon. ‘You're going nowhere. You're going to tell me all about your undercover work. You're going to tell me who else is undercover. You're going to tell me who's a grass. You're going to tell me every fucking thing I want to know.'

‘Look, I really don't—'

‘Know what I'm talking about. Change the record, love.'

She took a deep breath. She would say nothing. She thought – she hoped – that she'd have said nothing even if she believed that it might help secure her release. But these people weren't going to release her. Not if they believed she was an undercover officer. Not now she'd seen this man's face. She could feel herself on the verge of breaking down, but she wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing that.

‘I don't know who you think I am,' she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘But you've got the wrong woman. I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'

The man smiled and shook his head. ‘You've got bottle, I'll give you that, darling. But you'll talk in the end. You'd be surprised how persuasive we can be when we put our minds to it.'

As he spoke, she silently eased her chair back a few inches, giving herself room to move her legs. Then, suddenly, she thrust the chair back further and kicked out with both feet at the edge of the table, driving it back into the man's groin. Immediately, she was on her feet, trying to force her way past him to the door.

It almost worked. Her aim had been perfect. The man doubled forwards in pain, momentarily losing his grip on the gun. She'd been unsure if there was anyone else standing behind him in the darkness, but there were only the two of them in the room. She was past him and already reaching for the door when he grabbed her wrist, pulling her savagely back round towards him.

‘Stop it, you stupid bitch.' He grabbed her throat and forced her back hard against the wall. She was reaching for his face, trying desperately to claw at his eyes.

Behind them, she heard the sound of the door opening, and she knew that any chance she might have had was gone.

‘OK, Josh. That's enough. I think we've seen what we needed to see.'

The man – Josh – loosened his grip, and she stared, baffled, at the figure standing in the doorway.

‘Not bad, sis. You did good.'

‘What the fuck, Hugh?'

Salter. Hugh fucking Salter. Grinning at the terror on her face and Josh's testicular agonies. Not that she was wasting any sympathy on Josh, whoever the hell he might turn out to be. From the look on Josh's face, the feeling was largely mutual.

‘Thought you'd got us sussed at first, sis. Thought you'd rumbled it was just a training exercise.'

‘I had. But your friend Josh there was just too convincing as a macho sexist bastard.'

‘Ah, well,' Salter said. ‘He's bloody good is our Josh. Mind you, he'll need to keep his balls on ice for a few days. That's quite a kick you've got there.'

Josh was still glaring at her. ‘Just fuck right off,' he said. She assumed, perhaps over-charitably, that the words were aimed at Salter.

‘Bit of risk goes with the territory, mate,' Salter said, still beaming. ‘Especially when you tangle with Marie Donovan, undercover officer.'

It was the closest Salter would ever come to acknowledging her success. But it was close enough for her.

‘What's this all about, Hugh?' she said.

‘Training exercise, like I say. Which you came through with flying colours. Sorry if Josh went a bit over the top, but we had to get to the point where you'd start to think it might be real. Up to that point – well, it was useful, because at least it showed us you could stay in character . . .'

‘Even at the crack of dawn after two days of just being myself?'

‘Quite so. And you did it well, but there was no real pressure. Not till Josh managed to get you questioning whether it might be real after all. Then we saw what you were made of. Josh in particular, I think.'

‘Christ, you don't do things by halves, do you?'

‘Can't afford to, sis. Look, this is what it's going to be like. I mean, not like this – let's hope not, anyway. But having to keep up the act even if you're being challenged, even if you're scared out of your wits. Having to improvise when things don't go to plan. Having to remember which lies you've told and to whom.'

‘Jesus, Hugh, anyone suggested you get a job in sales?'

‘They like people who tell the truth, do they? But you'll be all right, sis. If you can get through this lot, you'll cope with anything the job can throw at you.'

‘I hope you're right, Hugh. Because it doesn't feel that way just at the moment.'

‘You did good, girl,' Salter said again.

‘Well, thank you, Hugh.' She turned and nodded to Josh. ‘And thank you, too, I suppose. You make a very convincing total bastard.'

She moved towards the door, wanting now just to be out of there, to be heading home. To be sleeping. The adrenaline had melted away, and she felt as exhausted as she had back at the airport. As she pulled open the door, she paused to look back at Salter.

‘In fact, you both do,' she said. ‘You both make very convincing total bastards.'

Liam waved the bottle in her direction. ‘Want any more?'

‘No. You finish it. I've had enough.' She drained the last dregs of the red wine, and climbed slowly to her feet. ‘I'm knackered,' she said. ‘Think I'll turn in.'

He poured the last of the wine into his own glass. ‘What time you off in the morning?'

‘Not too early. About eight, probably.'

‘We can have breakfast together before you go, then.'

‘If you're up.' She immediately regretted the response, which sounded more sarcastic than she'd intended.

‘I'll be up,' he said. ‘Want to see you before you go. One last time.'

‘It's not forever, Liam. A month. Then I'm back.'

‘For a weekend. Then you're off again. And so on. Maybe forever.'

She bit back her exasperation. ‘We've been through this, Liam. Dozens of times. It's what I want to do. It's a new challenge. It's terrific experience.'

‘I know. I know it's what you want. I'm not trying to stop you. I don't have to like it, though.'

‘No, well, you've made it very clear that you don't.'

‘You've said yourself, Marie. It's risky. We're having to live apart. You can't expect me to like that. Or pretend to like it.'

She nodded. ‘OK. It's not going to be easy. But we'll get through it. They won't let me stay out in the field for too long. No one does. A year. Eighteen months, max.'

‘Almost there already, then,' he said. The tone was ironic, but he was smiling now at least.

‘Come to bed,' she said. ‘It's our last night. We ought to make it worthwhile.'

‘OK,' he said. ‘Five minutes. I'll just finish the wine.'

‘Don't drink too much. I don't want you incapable,' she half-joked. ‘How are you feeling now, anyway?'

He shrugged. ‘Not so bad. Tired. Aching a bit. But I've been feeling better lately. Not so difficult walking.'

She looked at him, wondering what was going on in his mind. Whether he was really feeling better or just trying to make the best of things. Since he'd received the diagnosis, he'd become harder to read, more withdrawn. When she tried to talk about it, he just shrugged it off. There was nothing to say, he insisted. Maybe it would be all right, maybe it wouldn't. All he could do was take each day as it came.

‘OK,' she said. ‘But you don't want me falling asleep on you.'

‘Certainly don't.' He raised the wine glass in her direction. ‘Here's to you, Marie. Here's to us. Here's to the future.'

He sounded very slightly drunk, she thought. And there was no way to tell whether he was being sincere. ‘Yeah,' she said. ‘To me. To us. To the future.'

Part Two
Winter: Operational

Chapter 2

They'd thrown open the large picture windows and a chill wind was gusting off the canal through the apartment, but the stench of blood was unavoidable. The young officer, Hodder, stood hesitantly in the kitchen doorway, trying to catch Salter's eye. He looked faintly bilious.

After a moment, Salter thumbed off the mobile phone and looked up. ‘All OK, son?' There was only a few years' difference in their ages, but Salter categorized most colleagues as ‘son', ‘mate' or ‘guv', depending on their relative rank. He was a tall angular man, his head shaved, his eyes staring disapprovingly at the world through narrow steel-rimmed glasses.

‘Didn't want to interrupt,' Hodder said. He gestured towards the phone. ‘Your sister?'

Salter stared at him, uncomprehending, then laughed. ‘No, just my little joke. One of our esteemed colleagues, Marie Donovan.'

‘Don't know her.'

‘You wouldn't,' Salter said. ‘Covert. Deep cover.'

Hodder shook his head. ‘Don't know how they do it,' he said. ‘Months on end. Leading a double life. Must drive you bananas.'

Salter smiled. ‘It does, son. Take it from one who knows.'

Hodder blinked, suspecting he'd made a gaffe. ‘No offence. Didn't realize you'd done it.'

‘Years of it. And, yes, it can leave you pretty messed up.' He gazed impassively back at Hodder, as if daring him to take the conversation further. ‘How are things through there?'

‘They're nearly done with the crime scene stuff. Just finishing up.'

‘About bloody time,' Salter said. ‘Sooner we can all get out of this place the better.'

‘It's a mess in there,' the young man said. ‘Though they've taken the body out now.' His expression suggested that this was a relief.

‘Thank Christ for that. This is a nasty one.' Salter peered quizzically around, as if his words might apply equally to the compact kitchen in which they were standing. ‘Will hit the resale value, too. That living room'll need completely stripping back.' He laughed mirthlessly. ‘No consideration, those buggers. Still, Morton won't care any more.'

He straightened as the scene of crime officer poked his head around the door, his eyes blinking under his protective headgear. Like a bloody tortoise waking from hibernation, Salter thought.

‘All done, Hugh,' he said. ‘Yours to mess up.'

‘Beyond even my talents to mess this place up any further, mate,' Salter said. ‘Anyway, I leave the detecting to you people these days.'

‘I was told you lot had commandeered the place. Ordered us plods to keep our size elevens out till you'd done the serious stuff. Imagine that went down well with the boss. No skin off my nose either way.'

‘That right?' Salter shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me, mate. You know me, always happy to help out the local coppers.'

‘And up yours as well, former DI Salter,' the other man said cheerily. ‘You deserve this fucking lot.'

‘No one deserves this lot,' Salter said. ‘Not even me.'

He followed the SOCO back into the living room. The smell of blood had been strong in the kitchen. Here, despite the open windows, it was almost overwhelming.

‘Jesus.' Salter looked around. There was a large congealing pool of blood in front of the white leather sofa, further smears and splatters around the walls, across the furniture. Everywhere. Another officer was crouched by the door, carefully packing away the remaining equipment. ‘What've you found?'

‘Plenty of DNA,' the SOCO said. ‘Most of it's the victim's, though, and I imagine you already know who he is.' There was an unmistakable undertone of irony.

‘Don't worry, we'll share the good news with you in due course, I'm sure. Anything else?'

‘Reckon there was a woman here, too. In the bed.'

‘You can tell that from the DNA already? That's impressive.' Salter was peering vaguely around the room, giving a convincing impression of disinterest.

‘No. Smell of perfume on the sheets. Unless your man was into Versace or whatever it is.'

‘Anything's possible, mate.' Salter looked up, as if he'd only just realized he was engaged in a dialogue. ‘A woman, eh? Lucky sod.' He gazed back at the bloodstains on the sofa. ‘Well, not so lucky, I suppose. What do we think happened to her? Was she part of this?'

‘Like you say, Hugh, anything's possible. Or maybe she'd buggered off before all this happened. Maybe he'd already got what he paid for.'

‘Jesus, you like to think the worst of people, don't you?'

‘Goes with the territory.' The SOCO was losing interest, recognizing that Salter had no intention of sharing any information. ‘Anyway, we've plenty of stuff, but it'll take some work to sort it all out.' He paused, before making one last effort. ‘Strikes me as a professional job.'

Salter was peering at the pool of blood. ‘Messy one if so,' he said, non-committal.

‘That's your trouble,' the SOCO said. ‘Once you start talking, there's no stopping you.'

Salter smiled and then raised his eyebrows as the shrill note of the front doorbell sounded through the flat. ‘Saved by the bell,' he said. ‘Sounds like the big guns have arrived to take over from us minions.' His tone suggested that he included himself in the last group only as a matter of courtesy.

The two SOCOs took the hint and picked up their cases. Salter followed them out into the hallway. Hodder was already opening the front door.

‘Gentlemen.' The man on the doorstep was a squat, rumpled-looking figure, probably in his early fifties, his grey hair swept back in an ineffectual attempt to hide an increasing baldness. Despite his dishevelled appearance, he carried an air of confident authority.

‘Guv,' Salter acknowledged. By contrast, his own brand of cocky superiority suddenly appeared slightly gauche.

The older man peered at the two SOCOs, his expression suggesting that, though he hadn't met them before, he would remember them in future.

‘Keith Welsby,' he said. He gestured towards Salter. ‘From the Agency, like my colleague here.' Somehow he succeeded in conveying the relative seniority of his own role compared with Salter's. ‘All done?'

The lead SOCO nodded. ‘On our side, sir.'

‘Thanks very much, then. We'll be in touch in due course.' He was still holding open the front door, and the tone of dismissal was unmistakable. The SOCOs needed no further prompting.

Welsby closed the front door behind them, and then turned slowly back to Salter and Hodder. ‘Right, lads,' he said, his face expressionless. ‘So what the fucking fuck's been going on here, then?'