by Alex Walters
‘If only she fucking knew,’ Welsby said, leaning back in his chair. ‘She could have been safely away to Marbella by now.’
‘You reckon she did it?’ Salter said after a pause.
‘God knows. But, either way, Boyle’s had her neatly stitched up. I don’t see her as a killer, do you?’
‘Not a stupid one, anyway. Not the kind who leaves fingerprints all over everything including the murder weapon.’ Salter paused. ‘But also not the kind to get involved with a grass, I’d have thought.’
‘Aye, that’s the bugger. Even if Boyle’s behind them, there’s no denying those photographs.’
‘There might be. You can do a lot with Photoshop. I don’t think we should take any of this at face value.’’
Welsby shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But if Morton really did send her the rest of his evidence, we need to find her. Trouble is, like she said, she doesn’t know who to trust.’
‘Including us.’
‘Especially us.’ Welsby was reaching for his cigarettes again, his gaze fixed on Salter. ‘Question is, Hughie boy, is she right?’
Chapter 25
It was a comfortable enough hotel room, as hotel rooms went, but after two hours Marie was already going stir crazy. Her room had a partial view of the city centre, St Peter’s Square, the Victorian grandeur of the Town Hall. The city looked lively and bustling in the patchy sunshine, and she found herself longing to be out there.
She hadn’t eaten since the previous evening. She thought of ordering room service, but the prospect of having to pay in cash made her uneasy. It would just be something else to draw attention to her, another eccentricity to lodge in the minds of the hotel staff.
On the other hand, she couldn’t go out. Apart from the risk of being spotted, Joe had no way of contacting her if she left the room. She assumed that it would take him a while to come up with anything – if there was anything to come up with – but, with time pressing, she didn’t want to miss his call when it eventually came. If it came. She knew she was pinning her hopes on the flimsiest of chances. Joe would do his best, but that might not mean very much at all.
She made herself a cup of tea, munched her way through two complimentary shortbread biscuits, and lay down on the bed to wait.
She was woken, what seemed like minutes later, by the insistent ringing of the bedside phone. She fumbled clumsily for the receiver, her mind momentarily baffled by the lack of light. She finally raised the phone to her ear and mumbled, ‘Yes?’
‘You OK, Marie? You sound odd.’
Joe. It was Joe. ‘Think I fell asleep. Sorry – you woke me. Still half-asleep.’
She rolled over, the phone still pressed to her ear. The window was a paler rectangle in the dark, tinted orange by the street lights below. Jesus, she thought. How long have I been out?
‘You got anything, Joe?’ She was reaching for the bedside lamp, fingers groping till she found the switch.
‘Might have. I’ve found one of Kerridge’s associates who might be prepared to talk to us.’
The sudden burst of light momentarily dazzled her. She looked at her watch. After seven. How could she sleep so long at a time like this? Because she was dead on her feet, probably.
‘One of Kerridge’s associates? Who?’
There was a short hesitation at the other end of the line. ‘He didn’t want me to say. Not yet. I told him something about you – not who you are, but that you’re in the frame for Jones’ murder. Laid it on a bit thick, probably. But in the end he said he’d tell us what he knew, so long as he didn’t have to get involved any further.’
‘And does he know anything useful, do you think?’
‘Maybe. He was being very cagey, but he wouldn’t have offered to talk to us if he didn’t have something to say.’
‘You think we can trust him?’
‘I hope so. He was a friend of my brother’s. They worked on some stuff together and it was Greg who ended up taking the fall. He kept quiet and didn’t take anyone with him. So this guy owes him one.’
‘I’ll trust your judgement, Joe. You think he’s straight.’
‘I don’t think straight’s the word. But, yeah, in this, I think we can trust him, so long as we don’t push him too far. Just listen to what he has to say, and then leave it at that. Don’t know whether it’ll help you or not, but it’s all we’ve got.’
That was true enough. It was clutching at straws, but at least for the moment there was a straw or two to clutch at.
‘What’s the arrangement?’ she said. ‘I said we’d meet up with him. About eight thirty. He wants it to be as discreet as possible. Out on the coast. I’ll pick you up, and we can head on up there.’
It was a risk. Joe had no experience in these matters. Whatever his brother might have done, he wasn’t used to mixing with the kind of people she’d dealt with. But it was all she had. If it came to it, she could look after herself. With a bit of luck, she could look after Joe as well.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s give it a go.’ She paused, conscious of the anxious silence at the other end of the line. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ she added. ‘You’ve done great.’
Fifteen minutes later, she was standing waiting for Joe on the narrow concourse at the front of the hotel. It was a chilly evening, the rain threatening to return, and there was only a scattering of other pedestrians walking past. Office workers heading home. A gaggle of young men heading for the pub. She stepped back into the shadows, watching for Joe’s car.
She felt conscious of every passing vehicle, alert for watching eyes. Behind her, the hotel lobby was as quiet as the street, empty except for a couple of business types chatting over coffee.
Another car passed, not slowing on its way up into St Peter’s Square. Then, finally, she heard the distinctive puttering of Joe’s clapped-out Ford Escort. He pulled into the bay in front of the hotel and threw open the passenger door.
‘Hope I’m not late.’
‘Spot on,’ she said, climbing into the passenger seat.
‘You OK?’
‘Well as can be expected. You reckon this will go smoothly?’
‘Hope so. Can’t promise it’s going to tell you anything new, though.’
‘Worth a shot. You’re sure you want to come with me?’
‘Think I’d trust you with my car?’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you drive.’
‘Fair enough.’
They were travelling through the centre of town, past the rows of brightly lit shops along Deansgate, then out into the gloomier reaches of Salford and on to the motorway, heading west.
From time to time, Marie glanced in the wing mirror. There were cars behind them, but that was no surprise. It was mid-evening. The main commuter traffic had died away, but there was still a steady stream of vehicles leaving the city centre.
Joe fiddled aimlessly with the radio as he drove, flipping from one anonymous pop station to another.
‘You were mentioned on the news earlier,’ he said. ‘Least I presume it was you.’
She caught her breath. ‘What did they say?’
‘Not a lot. Surprisingly low-key, I thought. Well down the news. Body found in suspicious circumstances. Police treating it as a murder investigation, want to interview a young woman. There was a short description.’ He glanced across at her. ‘Don’t think it would help anyone identify you, though.’
‘I can see that “young” might be misleading. Did they say “attractive” as well?’
He smiled. ‘Something along those lines.’
‘Well, that’s me safe, then.’
They were out of the city now, into the suburbs. The houses visible from the motorway were larger and fewer. Trees lined the roads.
‘Where are we meeting?’ she asked.
‘Out on the coast. Near Formby.’
‘Formby? Couldn’t have picked somewhere less convenient, could he?’ She had only a vague idea of where the place was. On the Lancashire coast, somewhere between Liverpool and Southport. Someone
had told her it was pleasant, a nice place for a Sunday walk. There were red squirrels, she remembered irrelevantly. Just the place for a clandestine meeting, no doubt.
‘He’s doing us a favour,’ Joe pointed out. ‘Lives out in that neck of the woods these days. Think he’d upset a few of the wrong people in Manchester.’
Marie sat in silence as they made their way up the M6 and on to the M58, past Skelmersdale, heading now towards north Liverpool and the coast. At the end of the motorway, they turned north along the bypass. Marie glanced again in the mirror. Now they’d left the motorway, there was just one set of headlights behind them, some distance back. Surveillance distance, she thought. Or just a sensible driver. Moments later, the headlights vanished as the car behind turned off the main road. Further back, she could see another set of lights, another car, gradually gaining on them.
‘Much further?’
‘No. We turn off soon.’
She didn’t know this area well and she’d lost any sense of distance. They’d been travelling for an hour or so. Maybe forty or fifty miles from Manchester. In the darkness, she caught the occasional glimpse of open fields, farms, neat bungalows.
A few minutes later, Joe slowed, peering through the wind-screen. ‘Turning’s somewhere here.’ He gestured to their left. ‘Yes. Here’s the roundabout.’
They turned on to a narrower B-road. Marie glanced in the mirror and saw, with unexpected relief, that the car behind had sped on past. They drove another half-mile or so, past more fields and then rows of smart-looking houses, an occasional convenience store, a pub. Joe turned left at the next junction, along another residential road. Larger houses, half-concealed behind tidy wooden fences. The place was more built-up, more suburban than Marie had expected. Usually, as you approached the coast, there was a sense of the sea, of windswept openness. This felt like a dormitory town; it could have been anywhere.
Gradually, though, the road narrowed and the houses fell away. They were into woodland now. Ahead, beyond the pale beams of their headlights, there was nothing but trees, darkness and, presumably, the sea.
‘You know this route well,’ she said.
He glanced across at her and laughed. ‘Not really. We used to come here as kids sometimes. Place to come on a Sunday afternoon. Get an ice cream, play on the sands. You know. Of course, as kids, we’d rather have gone to Blackpool. Not much here but sea and sand.’
The place felt eerie enough in the darkness. ‘Half a mile or so,’ Joe said. He had slowed slightly again, his eyes fixed on the road, searching for a turning.
They rounded another bend, and there was a car park ahead of them. Abruptly, Joe hit the brakes and took a sharp right. It was a small parking area, designed for summer visitors. She could envisage lines of parked cars, families munching on sandwiches, preparing for walks along the beach, paddling in the grey-green water. Tonight, the car park was deserted, the place looking bleak and windswept.
‘No one here yet?’ Marie said.
‘I’m quite glad,’ Joe smiled. ‘This used to be where all the doggers came, apparently. Think the police have cleared them out for the moment.’
‘Would be just my luck,’ Marie said. ‘On the run for murder, and I get arrested for suspected exhibitionism.’
‘We’ll be OK. Police patrols won’t be out till later.’
She couldn’t tell whether or not he was being serious. ‘What about your contact?’
‘He won’t come here. He’ll park further up the shore, walk up the beach to meet us.’
‘The cautious type.’
‘He doesn’t know you. Probably wants to check this is kosher before he shows himself.’ He pushed open the car door. ‘Shall we go?’
All her anxieties were returning again, but there was nothing to be done now. She pushed open her own door and climbed out. The wind from the sea caught her unexpectedly, nearly knocking her off balance. Jesus, it was cold. She stood for a moment, tasting the tang of the salty air, looking around. She could imagine that on a sunny day this would be an attractive place to be. In the dark, it just felt bleak and threatening. At the far end of the car park, there was a dilapidated hut, with signs proclaiming that ice creams and cold drinks could be bought there. Perhaps in the summer, though it looked as if the place hadn’t been used in a while. Ahead of them, there were ragged dunes and beyond those the beach.
‘What now?’ She felt her words being whipped away by the wind, but Joe nodded and gestured towards the sea. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it towards the dunes. There was no sign of life. He looked back at her, shrugged, and began to walk forwards.
‘Joe . . .’ She had a sense somewhere in the back of her mind that this wasn’t right. ‘Be careful.’ But her voice was lost on the wind.
Joe was still walking forwards, his eyes fixed on where the torchlight illuminated the narrow path over the dunes. He began to climb, the loose sand shifting under his feet.
Marie hurried along behind him. He had stopped, momentarily, at the top of the dunes, shining his torch left and right along the shoreline. She caught up with him just as he began to descend towards the beach, his boots crunching in the damp sand. The sea was yards away, luminous spray and spume flung up on to the beach. Out at sea, she could see a scattering of lights. Off to the left, there was the orange glow of Liverpool.
‘Joe, I don’t think . . .’
He’d taken a few more steps forwards and was standing, staring into the darkness, the torch beam playing uselessly across the sand. She drew level with him, baffled now.
‘Joe, this is . . .’
He turned back towards her. The flashlight was held loosely in his left hand, pointing vaguely in her direction. His right hand held something else, an object that glinted in the wavering light. An object that was also pointed, much more steadily than the flashlight, towards her.
‘Jesus, Marie. I’m sorry,’ Joe said.
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.’
‘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.