ALEX WALTERS
Nowhere To Hide

Copyright

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

Copyright © Michael Walters 2012

Michael Walters asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781847562876

Ebook Edition © November 2012 ISBN: 9780007452484

Version: 2015-07-23

As always, to James, Adam and Jonny for their support. And, of course, to Christine who made it all possible.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part Two

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part Three

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Read on for case files for our undercover agents

Case Files

Acknowledgments

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue

They were some miles from the port terminal, out on the open road, before Hanlon felt able to relax slightly. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I really thought they were on to us back there.’ He was a short wiry man, muscular, with the air of having drunk one too many strong coffees during the journey over.

At first he thought that Mo was asleep. But the older man opened one eye, peering at him from under his trademark trilby hat. ‘You worry too much, man.’

‘Jesus, Mo. We’ve got plenty to worry about.’

Mo opened both eyes and shrugged. ‘I’d say not, wouldn’t you? All gone smooth as clockwork.’ He eased himself back in the passenger seat and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Not even any noise from back there.’

Hanlon glanced back over his shoulder. The two women were asleep. Partly exhaustion. Mainly the sedatives Mo had fed them as they were leaving the port. Christ, how had he allowed himself to get mixed up in this? Apart from anything else, it seemed so half-fucking-baked. ‘This worth the hassle, then, you reckon?’

Mo’s eyes were half-closed again, the hat slid low across his forehead. ‘What’s that, man?’

‘You think it’s worth it? All this?’

‘Not ours to judge, man. Being paid for it, aren’t you?’

‘Not enough,’ Hanlon said. ‘Like I say, I thought they were on to us back there.’

‘That was nothing. I been through far worse with those bastards. They didn’t suspect a fucking thing. Even with you shaking like a bare-assed Eskimo.’ Mo tried to sound like he was on the sidewalks of Harlem, but his North Wales intonation kept breaking through.

He was right, though, Hanlon thought. The passports had been convincing enough. The Immigration Officers had waved them through with no more than a couple of questions and a glance into the back of the car. He’d been worried that the two women might make a fuss, either on the ferry or when they reached the border. After all, it was their one chance to get free. But they’d played the game, just as Mo had said they would. Maybe because they were scared of Mo. They had plenty of reason to be scared. But Hanlon thought they’d just lost the will to resist. They’d been through too much. There was no future for them other than this.

‘Feels like there should be a better way of doing it,’ Hanlon went on. He just wanted to keep the conversation going to calm his nerve, keep focused for the long drive. Mo looked like he wanted to sleep. ‘Something less risky.’

‘What you suggest, man? Parcel post? Rolling ’em up in a fucking carpet?’ Mo slid the hat fully across his face, a gesture indicating that the conversation was at an end.

He was right about that as well. As long as the women played ball, this was low risk and cheap. Two couples returning from a long weekend in Dublin. Apparently legitimate British passports. Even the ferry tickets had been bought at a discount.

Hanlon was new to this. He didn’t even know how often they carried out these kinds of transactions. Not very, he guessed. They’d have other means of getting the women into the country in the first place. Most probably they arrived legitimately, lured by the prospect of jobs and money. Then, before they knew it, they’d vanished off the grid, exploited by thugs like Mo and the people he worked for.

Christ, he thought again, how the hell had he allowed himself to get mixed up in this?

Money. That was the short answer. A way to make the quick buck he needed. Low risk, they’d said, though he hadn’t really believed that. Just help them move the merchandise about. That had been the word. Merchandise. One of the less unpleasant words.

Hanlon didn’t know the background and he didn’t want to. Some deal had been done across the Irish Sea, and now they were bringing these two women – hardly more than girls – to work in some brass-house in Manchester. For them, probably no different from doing the same thing in Dublin. Crap either way.

They’d had cheap tickets on the last ferry of the day, so it would be into the small hours before they reached Manchester. God, he felt tired. Mo was snoring gently now, hat flat across his face. The privilege of being the senior partner, Hanlon assumed. You got to snooze your way across North Wales, while the junior oppo kept his eyes on the road. As far as he knew, the car belonged to Mo, though Hanlon assumed the car was stolen or the plates pirated in some way. Presumably, like the faked passports, nothing would be traceable. He didn’t even know for certain who Mo worked for. He had his ideas, but better not to ask too many questions, as long as they paid what was owed.

It was the first and last time, though. They’d suckered him just like they’d suckered those poor cows in the back seat. The difference was that he had an exit route. If they paid him what they’d promised, he’d have enough to settle his debts and get things back on track. Maybe even make an attempt to patch things up with Cath, if it wasn’t too late for that. At least stop her playing silly buggers about giving access to Josh. Not that he had any rights in that department, after everything he’d done.

‘Shit.’ He’d been driving on autopilot, his mind full of his unmissed past and half-imagined future. For a minute or two, he hadn’t registered the flashing blue light in the rear view mirror. He glanced down at the speedometer. It would be fucking typical to be pulled over for speeding. But, no, that was okay.

He leaned over and nudged Mo. ‘Fucking pigs,’ he hissed. ‘Behind us.’

Mo sat up with an alacrity that suggested he perhaps hadn’t been sleeping after all. He looked over his shoulder and peered through the rear window. ‘Christ’s sake, man. Relax. They’re not after us. Probably just the end of their fucking shift. Keen to get back to their loved ones. Or even their wives.’ He snorted at his own wit and prepared to stretch himself back across the seat.

But the police car was already overtaking and slowing in front of them, in an unmistakable signal for them to pull over.

‘Jesus, Mo,’ Hanlon said. ‘What the fuck do we do now?’

Mo was sitting bolt upright, looking less relaxed. ‘Let me do the talking. Keep calm and keep it zipped.’ He looked across at Hanlon, his gaze unwavering. ‘Nothing to worry about, man. Long as you leave it to me.’

‘But the car–’

Mo shook his head. ‘We’re not fucking amateurs, man. Vehicle’s stolen, but it’s a ringer. Licence plates match the type and colour. Name of registered owner’s the same as the passport. It’s all sorted. There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘So why the fuck are they stopping us?’ Hanlon was already pulling into the hard shoulder, carefully following the police vehicle.

‘Probably just routine. Not much opportunity to hassle a black guy out here in the sticks.’ He frowned suddenly, leaning forward in his seat. ‘That not right, man. Who is that guy?’ He watched for a moment as a figure climbed slowly out of the car in front, then turned to Hanlon. ‘Shit, man. Get started. Just fucking drive!’

Hanlon stared back at him, bewildered. He’d already cut the engine. Now, in the face of Mo’s unexpected panic, he frantically twisted the ignition. He slammed his foot on to the accelerator, misjudging the movement, and the engine stalled.

‘Fuck, man. Just get it started.’

Hanlon turned the ignition again, but he’d flooded the engine and the starter turned ineffectually. In the dark outside, the figure had reached the car. Hanlon made another attempt to start the car, trying to remember what to do about a flooded ignition. Then, suddenly, the engine burst into life. As he struggled to put the car into first gear, his mind and actions refusing to coordinate, the car door beside him was pulled open. He jammed the gear stick into what he thought was first, banged his foot hard down on the accelerator and let out the clutch.

The engine coughed and died.

The figure outside said: ‘Need a few more lessons, mate. Don’t take off in third.’

Hanlon looked across at Mo, baffled now. Mo had his head in his hands, his body hunched as if anticipating a blow.

‘Fucking cowboys,’ the figure said. ‘Shouldn’t be let out on your own. Give us all a bad name.’

Hanlon raised his head and stared through the windscreen at the car parked ahead of their own. Not a police car. Not a police car after all. Just a plain dark saloon with one of those magnetic blue beacons that doctors and plainclothes cops use to get through the traffic.

He looked up at the figure standing next to him. Black suit. A baseball cap. Dark glasses. No one he’d be able to recognise in daylight. Beside him, Hanlon could hear Mo breathing rapidly, murmuring something, a voice on the edge of losing it.

‘Nice of you two to do the heavy lifting, though,’ the figure said. He leaned forward and peered into the back seat. There was a gun in his hand, Hanlon noticed, feeling oddly calm now. ‘Bringing these two charming ladies over. I’m sure we’ll use them wisely.’

He straightened up, juggling the gun gently in his hand. Then he looked back down at Hanlon. ‘Sorry about this, son,’ he said, gently. ‘Nothing personal.’

Hanlon stared back, surprised by the softness of the man’s tone. He suddenly had the sense that it was all going to be all right. The man would simply take the women and leave. Okay, he and Mo would lose the payment because they’d fucked up. But he could live with that. He could fucking live.

But the man had already taken a step back and Hanlon knew that, really, nothing would be all right again. He watched as the man crouched slightly, then raised the gun and pointed it past Hanlon into the car.

Hanlon was screaming before the gun was fired. Before he felt the rush of air and heard the explosion. Before he sensed the impact and the sudden jerk from Mo’s body beside him. Before the windows and seats and his own face were showered in Mo’s blood and bone and grey matter.

He was still screaming as he tried ineffectually to free himself from his seat belt, throwing himself sideways in a vain attempt to drag himself from the nightmarish, blood-drenched interior of the car.

And he stopped screaming only when the man outside raised the gun and fired for a second time.

Ken had left his car in one of these back streets, but for the moment he couldn’t quite remember where. Earlier, it had seemed the obvious place, just around the corner from the club, handy for when he came out. But now he’d walked round the block twice and he still couldn’t work it out.

Maybe someone had stolen it. Always possible in an area like this. Not likely, though. Not the kind of car to attract thieves. Too new to be easy pickings, but not so modern or sexy that anyone would be particularly drawn to it. Not one for the boy-racers, or for the professionals who blagged prestige cars to order. A nondescript runabout for the middle-aged. Just the way Kev liked it.

Story of his life, in fact. Keep your head down. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Get to know the right people. Word of mouth. Enough people knew who he was, but not too many. If he wanted some gear, he knew who to go to. If he had some gear to shift, people came to him. Otherwise, he drifted out of sight, unnoticed. An inconspicuous link in the chain.

He didn’t feel particularly inconspicuous tonight, though. He’d made a mistake, lost a bit of control. He wasn’t a good drinker. A cheap drunk, Kev, they always said. A few pints and he’s anybody’s. That wasn’t quite true. Kev was always his own man, no matter what he’d drunk. But on a night like this that just meant there was no one to look out for him.

Shit. He stumbled on a loose paving slab and clutched at a shop front to steady himself. He didn’t really believe the car had been stolen. In any case he was in no state to drive. But he’d wanted to reassure himself that it was still safely there. Now all he could do was hope that his memory would improve once he’d sobered up.

He turned round, trying to get his bearings. Where was he, exactly? He didn’t know Stockport well. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come along this evening. A gentleman’s club, Harvey had said. The audience hadn’t seemed to contain many gentlemen, and the women on stage hadn’t been Kev’s idea of ladies. Expensive bloody drinks, as well, especially when the big man, whoever he was, had moved them on to rounds of shorts. Harvey had told him he’d meet some useful people there. Maybe he had, but in the morning he’d have no bloody idea who they were.

He tottered his way towards the next street corner, looking for some recognisable landmark. There was a knot of street lights at the far end of the street. Probably the A6, the characterless trunk-road that sliced through the town on its way to Manchester. Once he reached that, he’d find a minicab office. This was going to cost him a bloody fortune. A taxi back home, and then another cab back in the morning. Why had he let Harvey talk him into this?

It never paid to stray outside your own territory. He should know that by now. Up in the city, he knew what was what. Who to talk to, who to avoid. Tonight, he’d talked to a few people, suggested a few deals, but he hadn’t known what they thought. He hadn’t even been able to work out who were the real players. Not the mouthy ones, for sure. There’d been a few of those, making the right noises, but that counted for nothing. It was the ones in the background who mattered, the ones who watched you, made their judgements, and said nothing. It was only later that you’d find out whether they were happy or not.

What the fuck had happened to Harvey anyway? He’d been there earlier, had done the introductions, settled Kev in with a crowd who looked mostly like chancers. Then at some point he’d buggered off. Probably found himself some woman. Someone not too choosy.

Shit. This was the last time. Harvey always made out he was doing you a bloody favour, and nine times out of ten you ended up out of pocket.

He stopped again. The lights he’d thought marked the A6 had turned out to be at the corner of some other junction entirely. It was vaguely familiar, but only vaguely. Somewhere he’d driven through maybe. Certainly nowhere he’d ever been on foot. There was a closed down pub opposite, the back end of some industrial buildings. Not the kind of place you’d find a minicab.

He turned, peering through the pale darkness down each of the streets in turn. There wasn’t even anyone around to ask, this time of night. The only sign of life was a car pulling slowly out of a side street further down the road. Judging from the speed, the driver was nearly as pissed as he was. Kev had been half-thinking about trying to flag the car down, ask for directions, even try to cadge a life to the nearest minicab office. But who would pull up for a drunk at this time of the night?

Well, maybe someone who was in the same condition. To Kev’s mild surprise, the car drew up next to him, the electric window slowly descending. If you’re after directions, pal, Kev thought, you’ve come to the wrong fucking bloke.

Kev was on the passenger side of the car and could see only the shape of the driver through the open window. Baseball cap, he noticed irrelevantly. Dark glasses. Who the fuck wears dark glasses to drive at night?

From inside, a flat voice, devoid of intonation, said: ‘Kevin Sheerin.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

Kev suddenly felt uneasy. He glanced both ways along the street, but there was no sign of anyone. Just the stationary car in front of him. A dark saloon. Cavalier or Mondeo or somesuch.

‘Who’s asking?’ he said finally. The wrong response, he realised straight away. No one was asking, but he’d already given all the answer that was needed. The car window was already closing. ‘What the fuck–?’

But that question needed no answer either. Kev, sensing what was coming, had already started to run, but his drunken feet betrayed him and he stumbled on the edge of the pavement, tumbling awkwardly into the road. He rolled over, head scraping against the rough tarmac, trying to drag himself out of the way. He could already taste blood in his mouth.

It was too late. The headlights, full beam, were blinding his eyes. The engine, unexpectedly loud, the only thing he could hear. The moment seemed to last forever, and he told himself that he’d been wrong, that it wasn’t going to happen after all. Then he was at the kerbside, trying to drag himself upright, and the car slammed hard into his crouching body.

For an instant, he felt nothing and he thought that, somehow, miraculously, he’d escaped unscathed. Then he tried to pull himself upright and immediately the pain hit him, agonising, unbearable, a shockwave through his legs and back. He fell forwards again, hitting his head on the curb, scarcely conscious now, thinking; shit, my back–

He had no time to think anything more. The car had reversed a few yards, and now jerked forwards again, the front wing smashing into his legs. He lay motionless as the car rode bumpily over his prone body and disappeared into the night, leaving his mangled, bloody corpse crumpled in the gutter.

Steve woke too early, like every night since they brought him here. It was the silence, he thought. The silence and the darkness. He’d never be comfortable in this place. He was a city boy, used to the traffic-drone that never died away, the wasteful small hours glare of the street lights and office blocks.

He rolled over, pulling the cheap duvet around his body, burrowing in search of further sleep. But the moment had passed. He was awake, mind already racing through the same thoughts, the same anxieties. Feeling a sudden claustrophobia, he threw back the covers and sat up in the pitch black. The room faced east, across the open valley, and the curtains were as cheap and flimsy as the duvet. But there was no sign of dawn, no promise of the rising sun.

He fumbled around the unfamiliar bedside table until he found a switch for the lamp. The sudden glare was blinding but, after a moment, reassuring. The bedroom was as bland and anonymous as ever. Off-white walls, forgettable chain store pictures, inoffensive flat-pack furniture. There’d been a half-hearted attempt to make it homely, but that only highlighted its bleakness, confirmed beyond doubt that no one would ever stay in this place by choice.

It was cold too, he thought, as he reached for his dressing gown. The central heating hadn’t yet come on, and he could taste the damp in the air. He crossed to the window and peered out. A clear night, the sky moonless but full of stars, less dark than he had imagined. In the faint light, he could make out the valley, the faint gleam of the Goyt in the distance. Miles from anywhere. The end of the line, past all civilisation.

He pulled the dressing gown more tightly around him, and stepped out on to the landing. This was his routine. Waking in the middle of the bloody night, making himself a black coffee, sitting and waiting for the sun to rise on another empty day.

The unease struck him halfway down the stairs. Nothing he could put his finger on, just a sudden sense of something wrong. He hesitated momentarily, then forced himself to continue down. Of course something was wrong. Everything was fucking wrong. He didn’t even know why he’d done it. It wasn’t the money – he knew there would be little enough of that, now they didn’t need him any more. It wasn’t the supposed guarantees. He’d few illusions about what those would be worth when the excrement hit the extractor. It wasn’t even that he was doing the right thing. He’d just managed to get himself wedged firmly up shit creek and then discovered that there never had been any paddle.

He pushed his way into the tiny kitchen and went wearily through the familiar ritual – filling the kettle, spooning coffee into the cup, adding two sugars. While the kettle boiled, he stared out of the kitchen window, across the postage stamp of an unkempt garden, towards the Peaks. The eastern sky was lighter now, a pale glow over the bleak moorland.

He stirred the coffee and paused for a moment longer, sipping the hot sweet liquid, gazing vacantly at the darkness. The sense of unease had remained, a thought lurking at the edge of his mind. Something more focused than the usual ever-present anxiety. Some idea that had struck him and receded before he could catch it.

He picked up the coffee and forced himself back into his routine. He would go into the living room, sit on the chilly plastic sofa, switch on the television and watch the silent moving figures, with no interest in turning up the volume. Waiting for yet another bloody morning.

He pushed open the sitting room door, and his mind finally grasped the thought that had been troubling him. The door. He’d closed the sitting room door before going to bed. Another part of his routine, some unquestioned wisdom retained from childhood. Close the downstairs doors in case of fire. Waste of bloody time in a place like this, he’d reasoned. Whole place would be up like a tinderbox before you could draw a breath. But he still closed the doors.

Halfway down the stairs he’d registered, without even knowing what he’d seen, that the living room door was ajar.

He thought of stepping back, but knew it was already too late. In that moment another, more tangible sensation struck him. The acrid scent of cigarette smoke, instantly recognisable in this ascetic, smoke-free official house.

He thrust the door wide and stepped inside. The small table lamp was burning in the corner of the room, The man was sprawled across the tacky sofa, toying lazily with a revolver.

‘Up early, Steve,’ he commented. He was a large man in a black tracksuit, wearing dark glasses, with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His face was neatly shaven and boyish, but there was nothing soft about him. ‘Guilty conscience?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ Steve said. ‘You?’

‘Sleep of the just, mate,’ the man said. ‘Sleep of the fucking just.’

A moment before, Steve had been contemplating how to get out of this. Whether to try to get back into the kitchen or upstairs. Out of the front door, or through the patio windows.

But there was no point. The man knew his name. Knew who he was. Why he was here. Someone had grassed. Why else had he come? Someone would always grass. He ought to know that better than anyone.

There was no way out. No future. There never had been any future, not to speak of, once he’d taken that step. He’d known it then and there was no escaping it now.

Steve felt oddly calm, detached, observing all this from a distance. He saw the man playing aimlessly with his gun. He saw it all, and he felt untroubled. He had no illusions about what the man would do. Perhaps no more than he deserved.

So he stood there, motionless, waiting for it to start. And in that moment – before the flare and the noise, before the impact, before his blood began to seep into the worn fibres of the cheap grey carpet – Steve felt almost relieved.

He’d almost missed it.

Something caught the corner of his eye, some movement. A twitch. He moved himself to the right to try to gain a better vantage through the spyhole.

It was well after midnight. The dead hours of routine patrols when nothing much ever happens. Maybe just some scrote with insomnia – and, Christ knew, all of this bunch ought to have trouble sleeping – shouting the odds, wanting to share his misery with the rest of the fucking world.

But usually nothing much. A fifteen minute stroll along the dimly lit landing, glance into the cells, check that no one was up to no good. There was never any real trouble.

Sometimes Pete tried to kid people that this was a responsible job, stuck up here all night by himself on the landing. If anything happens, it’s up to me to sort it out. Yeah, he thought, up to me to press the bell and summon backup. He was an OSG. Operational Support Grade. Bottom of the pile, with – at least in theory – minimal prisoner contact. Didn’t always work out that way, of course. But nobody expected much of him. Especially not the Prison Officers.

Like that one earlier, who’d been coming up here just as he was ending his previous patrol. Pete had been running a bit late, had lingered a bit too long over his coffee and copy of The Sun. Nobody really cared at this time of the night, but he didn’t like to let things slide, so he’d been a bit out of breath, dragging his overweight body hurriedly round the landings then down the stairs.

He hadn’t recognised the officer who’d met him on the stairs. He thought he knew most of them, but they kept buggering the shifts about and this one was new to him. Christ knew what he was doing going up to the landings at this hour.

Pete had tried to offer a cheery greeting – they were both stuck on this arse end of a roster, after all – but the guy had just blanked him, hardly seeming to register that Pete was there. Well, fuck you as well, Pete had thought, puffing down the last few stairs. He’d heard the officer unlocking the landing doors above him.

Afterwards, he’d been worried that the officer might report him for being late. It was a stupid concern. The guy probably wouldn’t even have known what time Pete was supposed to carry out the patrol. But there was something about him, something about the way he’d ignored Pete on the stairs, that had seemed unnerving. Just the kind of officious bastard who’d grass you up for the sheer hell of it.

So, just in case the guy was still up there, Pete had kicked off his next patrol a little early so he could get it finished on time without busting a gut. But of course the landing had been deserted. Whatever the officer had been doing, he’d finished it and buggered off.

There was nothing else to do. Pete shuffled with effort round the landing, stopping to check on each cell in turn. Everyone sleeping like a baby.

He’d reached the last cell and was preparing to move on to the next landing, when he stopped and looked again.

Yeah, he’d almost missed it. The cell was in darkness and he’d assumed the occupant was securely in bed. Then he’d caught some movement in the periphery of his vision. He hadn’t even been sure he’d seen it at first. He’d shifted his body to get a better view.

Jesus.

There was something – someone – there, jerking and struggling. Someone pressed against the wall behind the door, almost invisible. And now Pete could hear the sound of choking, the awful sound of a wordless, gasping scream…

He reacted better than he’d have expected, racing across the landing to sound the alarm. Then back to the cell, fumbling with his own set of keys. He was supposed to enter the cells only in the direst of emergencies, but surely this counted as one of those. As he pushed open the door, it occurred to him that he might have been suckered. But the landing was sealed and backup would be there in minutes.

He knew straight away he’d done the right thing. The prisoner was hanging halfway up the wall – Christ knew how he’d managed it – some kind of cord tight around his neck. The man’s head lolled to one side, his waxy face already blue in the dim light from the landing.

Pete threw his arms round the prisoner’s body and tried to drag it down from whatever was holding the rope. He struggled at first, afraid that he was doing more harm than good, but knowing the prisoner would have no chance as long as his own weight continued to tighten the cord. Suddenly, as Pete strained to lift the prisoner’s body, the rope gave way and the body toppled sideways, out of Pete’s grip, on to the hard floor.

A nail. A fucking six inch nail hammered into the wall. Where the fuck had he got that from? And the rope, for that matter? Someone was for the high jump.

Pete crouched down by the body, fumbling to loosen the ligature from the prisoner’s neck. The face was purple now, and the old guy looked like he might be a goner already. Pete fumbled around the plastic cord and finally found the knot. He could feel it beginning to give under his trembling fingers. At the same moment, he heard the sound of the landing gates behind unlocked.

By the time the two officers and the principal had reached the cell door, Pete had managed to loosen the rope. He looked up as the three men crowded the doorway: ‘Trying to top himself.’

Pete moved back as the principal officer crouched over the body and began to administer CPR, thrusting hard and rhythmically on the prisoner’s chest. One of the officers was on his radio calling for an ambulance.

Pete dragged himself to his feet, only now beginning to take in what had happened. What he’d just dealt with. ‘Jesus.’ He glanced down at the supine figure, still bouncing under the pounding arms of the principal officer.

The officer with the radio nodded laconically towards Pete. ‘Good work, son. Let’s hope we’re in time. We all get a bollocking if one of them tops himself.’ He took a step back and glanced at the number of the cell. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘won’t be too many saying any prayers for this one.’

Pete looked up. ‘That right?’

‘Don’t reckon so.’ The officer moved to lean against the doorframe. ‘This is Keith Welsby. Just another bent copper. There’s one or two would be glad to help him on his fucking way.’

PART ONE

1

‘So you were lying to me.’

Salter gazed back at her, his mouth working hard at a piece of gum. His expression was that of a bored spectator staring into an aquarium at an unfamiliar species of fish. ‘If it wasn’t the kind of thing that gets me branded as sexist,’ he said, finally, ‘I’d say that sounded a tad hysterical, sis.’

She eased herself back in Salter’s uncomfortable visitor’s chair, wondering how to extricate herself from this conversation. There was no way of combatting Salter in this kind of exchange. The most you could hope for was to slow him momentarily on his path to victory.

‘It was a condition of my joining your team,’ she said. ‘I made that clear.’ Which was true, but there was no way of proving it now.

He shrugged, chewing at the gum. ‘Nobody makes conditions in this business. You know that. We do what we’re told.’

‘I’m not trying to be difficult, Hugh–’

‘Never thought you were, sis. All seems easy enough from where I’m sitting.’

She didn’t doubt that. Life tended to look pretty easy from where Hugh Salter was sitting, if only because he was busy making life hard for everyone else. Like his insistence on calling her ‘sis’. A hangover from that last undercover assignment. Salter had invented a family connection supposedly as cover in their telephone conversations. It was a joke now long past its sell-by date, but he knew she was irritated by the implied intimacy.

‘You know my circumstances. There must be someone else.’

He waved his hand around as if the other potential candidates were gathered in the office with them. ‘Believe me, sis, I’ve looked. There’s no one else with your talents.’ He made the last word sound like a double entendre. ‘No one with half your experience.’

That wasn’t entirely bullshit, she knew. Apart from herself, Salter’s team was pretty wet behind the ears. That was how Salter picked them. Bright young things smart enough to do a decent job, but without the confidence to answer back. She tried another tack. ‘Anyway, it’s too risky. It’s against procedures.’

Salter’s smile was unwavering. ‘“Procedures”? Who gives a fuck about procedures? The other side don’t follow procedures.’

And that’s why they’re on the other side, she thought. Out loud, she said, ‘It’s not about bureaucracy, Hugh. It’s about not jeopardising the work. Or me, for that matter.’

‘Look, sis, if there was an alternative, I’d jump at it. I don’t want to do this any more than you do.’

Like hell, she thought. That’s what this came down to. Another of Hugh Salter’s games. She sometimes thought it was what really motivated him. Not career. Not money. Just the opportunity to screw other people around. None of this was a surprise. It was what she’d expected, one way or another, from the moment she’d finally agreed to join Salter’s team.

It had taken him longer than she’d expected, though that was probably just another part of the game. It was six months since the business with Keith Welsby, their former boss and mentor. She’d been here in HQ all that time, working largely on backroom intelligence. Page after page of data on mobile phone numbers, banking transactions, email correspondence. It was important work and she was good at it, but that didn’t make it any less boring. She’d learned to treat the boredom as part of the challenge. You ploughed your way through endless documentation, jotting a note here, a comment there, knowing that most of it was telling you nothing. But you had to keep your head engaged, waiting for the rare moment when something jumped out at you. Some trend, some pattern, some significant link with another piece of data, pages before.

It wasn’t quite that basic, of course. The databases did a lot of the work, highlighting links and trends. Even so, when it came to the detail of a specific case, there was still a heavy dependency on the individual analyst. The most important links were often the least obvious. An odd piece of data – a name, a number – that had snagged in the back of your mind from another file. Sometimes it was little more than intuition, a feeling that there was a link you’d missed or a pattern you’d overlooked. She knew she was good at it. She could cope with the tedium, and she had a gift for finding information that others had missed.

In any case, after everything that had happened, she’d needed a break. She’d nearly been killed, for Christ’s sake. But then so had Salter, and he showed no obvious signs of mental trauma. And it was Salter, in the end, who’d killed Jeff Kerridge and exposed Welsby as corrupt. He’d been acclaimed as a hero and become the new rising star. Marie had watched uneasily from the sidelines, suspicious of Salter and his motives, convinced that, beneath that clean-cut ambition, he was as corrupt as their former boss. But Salter had sailed serenely on, enjoying the fruits of promotion, apparently untroubled by anything that had happened.

So she’d been happy to step back from the front line and lose herself in the rhythm of facts and figures. For the last six months, every day had been the same. The semi-comatose journey up the Northern Line, the short walk along the Embankment, takeaway latte from the staff restaurant. Settle at her desk and boot up the computer. Check emails, then access the database or pull out the files. The same every day. A sandwich at her desk, or lunch with a couple of the other analysts. More data-crunching till it was time to get the Tube home. Despite herself, she’d begun to enjoy the routine, the predictability.

Maybe Salter had hoped she’d be climbing the walls by now. She might have predicted it herself. She’d done this kind of work before and been happy with it, but that was a long time ago. She had been a different person then, she thought, with different expectations. But perhaps she’d changed less than she imagined.

In fairness, she’d always intended to return to the front line eventually. After they’d brought her in from the field, they’d had her formally assessed by Winsor, their pet psych. In his inimitable style, Winsor had stated the blindingly obvious in language that no one fully understood. The upshot was that she’d suffered a major psychological trauma. Well, thanks for that, she’d thought. If you hadn’t brought it up, I might not have noticed.

Winsor’s conclusion was that she was a resilient character, and that there would be no long-term effects as long as they didn’t push her too hard. She had no idea what evidence he had to support this assertion, but she felt no need to challenge it. If they wanted to stick her in a quiet office for a few months, that was fine by her. She had plenty of other problems on her plate, after all.

She looked up at Salter’s blankly smiling face, wondering how to play this. There was no point in trying to match Salter at the gamesmanship. All she could do was play it straight down the line. ‘I take it you’ve cleared this idea, Hugh?’

For a moment he shifted in his seat, his body-language suggesting that he couldn’t fully answer her question. But she knew Salter well enough to recognise that he wouldn’t go into something like this half-cocked. He’d always make sure his backside was covered. ‘I’ve been through the procedures, if that’s what you mean. What do you think this is?’

Well, that was the question. But, as Salter well knew, it was a question she couldn’t begin to answer. ‘It all just seems a bit irregular, Hugh. I mean, the protocols–’

‘The protocols are there as guidance. We’re professionals, Marie. We have to exercise judgement.’ It was the first time he’d used her name. A sign that he was shifting things up a gear.

‘And your judgement is that this is safe?’ she asked.

‘As safe as these things ever are. Christ, Marie, it’s my neck on the block if things go wrong.’

She doubted that. If things went wrong, she would be the one at immediate risk. And she was willing to bet that Salter had made sure he wasn’t in line for any professional blame. One way or another, he’d have everything covered. ‘But it’s the same area. And it’s only been six months. That must be a risk.’

‘There’s always a risk,’ he said. ‘But it’s not the same area. Not the same network at all. We’ve looked at it very carefully.’

‘It’s the north west. There are bound to be overlaps. It just takes one person–’

‘We’ll take care of it. You’ll look different. You’ll be a different person. Even if you should happen to stumble across somebody from before, there’ll be no link. Nobody will have any reason to make the connection.‘

It didn’t sound convincing, she thought. They reason they had protocols was because, whatever the odds, shit still tended to happen. She’d experienced it herself. Some past contact eyeballing her suspiciously because she’d turned up somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. She could change her hair, her clothes, her lifestyle; but it wouldn’t cut any ice if the wrong people became suspicious. ‘But what if they do, Hugh? What if someone looks at me and thinks, wait a minute, that looks like old Marie who used to run the print shop in Trafford Park?’

‘Christ, Marie. It’s not going to happen, right. You’re the best person for the job, that’s what it comes down to. You can do it.’

Jesus, he was trying to flatter her now. Flattery wasn’t one of Salter’s strong points. His compliments always sounded insincere, she assumed because he didn’t really believe that any other person could match the towering talent that was Hugh Salter. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Hugh,’ she said. ‘You’ve just come to me because I’m convenient. If you tried to give this to one of your youngsters, you might actually have to put some effort into training them.’ She paused, conscious that she was coming close to saying something that she really might regret. ‘Do I actually have any choice in this?’

‘There’s always a choice, sis. But I really want you to give it a go.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ She knew that she might as well have saved both their time and just said yes there and then, but at least she could string out his discomfort for a day or so. ‘Chester?’

‘Chester,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a different world. Jesus, it’s nearly Wales. Safe as houses. No contact with the Manchester bunch at all, so far as we know.’

So far as we know. Hardly the ring of bloody confidence. How much did they know? Three-fifths of fuck all, if past experience was anything to go by. ‘Drug trafficking?’

‘Mainly.’ There was a look of relief on Salter’s face, even though he was trying hard to hard to keep it hidden. He knew he had her hooked now. Once you started talking about the detail, there was no going back. ‘One of those who’ll bring in anything if the price is right. Some cigarettes and booze, but mainly the hard stuff. Comes across from the east coast ports, and then they distribute it around Chester and North Wales.’

‘But not Manchester or Liverpool?’

‘There are bigger fish operating up there. No point in this one trying to compete. He’s got a nice little niche of his own, without antagonising the competition.’

It made sense. The north west was carved up pretty thoroughly by the big boys. That elite bunch had included the infamous Jeff Kerridge, until Salter had blown off the side of Kerridge’s head, supposedly in self defence. They’d had intelligence that Kerridge’s widow, the very redoubtable Helen, was continuing her late husband’s good work. And now Pete Boyle, Kerridge’s former protégé turned competitor, was out of prison and, by all accounts, also rebuilding his influence around Manchester.

That was the real source of her unease, even now. There’d been a point, six months before, when she was convinced that Salter was on Boyle’s payroll. Salter had claimed that, with no one to trust, he’d been forced to go freelance to gather definitive evidence against Kerridge and their corrupt former boss, Keith Welsby. Welsby had ended up behind bars, and was still awaiting trial after a botched suicide attempt. Salter had emerged smelling of roses. But Marie had suspected that the scent concealed a more noxious stink. If Boyle had been looking to depose Kerridge, maybe Salter’s intervention hadn’t been so public-spirited after all. And that in turn raised questions about the manner of Kerridge’s death.

She’d agreed to join Salter’s team because she wanted some closure on all that. She wanted to find out the truth. But the last six months had proved nothing. As far as she could tell, Salter had played everything by the book. He was still tasked with rebuilding the case against Pete Boyle that had collapsed with Welsby’s exposure and Kerridge’s death. They’d arrested Boyle with the expectation of a successful prosecution, but the evidence had been irredeemably tainted by Welsby’s corruption. In Marie’s eyes, the whole affair had ended just too well for Boyle and she suspected that Salter had been part of that.

But she could prove nothing. He’d asked to take on the Boyle case, supposedly as unfinished business, but perhaps simply to ensure that it remained under his control. Whatever his motives, he’d appeared to make some progress. They’d gathered more intercept evidence against Boyle, they’d pinned down one or two more witnesses. A few more tiny pieces of the jigsaw had fallen into place. They were still a long way from having anything they could be confident would stand up in court. But, given that the Prosecution Service had already ended up with egg on its collective face once before, building a new case was always going to be a slow process.

It might be that Salter was simply going through the motions, recognising that he had to be seen to be doing something about Boyle. But Marie had seen and heard nothing that might confirm her suspicions.

And now this. Sending her back to the edge of Boyle’s stamping ground. Pushing protocol to its limit by assigning her to an area where she might be recognised. It wasn’t against the rules exactly, but it wasn’t standard practice.

The generous explanation was that Salter was, in his inimitable style, just jerking her around. He knew the situation with Liam. He knew how difficult things were getting. His initial promise had been that, even when it was time for her to go back into the front line, he’d find some operational role that kept her reasonably close to home. She’d accepted that, at least for the time being, it wouldn’t be possible for her to continue in an undercover position. She assumed they’d find her some investigation or enforcement job in London. It wasn’t exactly the career move she was looking for, but it would do till, one way or another, things became easier on the domestic front.

So maybe this was just Salter pulling the rug from under her, handing her a whole new set of problems to contend with. The less benign interpretation was that he was using her. If her suspicions were correct, and Salter really was on Boyle’s payroll, then maybe she’d been selected to do some of Boyle’s dirty work. As Salter had implied, any drug dealers in Chester were operating on the edge of Boyle’s territory. Perhaps Boyle was looking to expand his empire and her role was to help take out the competition.

Salter was leaning back in his chair, his relaxed manner suggesting that he was confident he’d achieved his objective, even though his words remained tentative. ‘Just give it some thought, sis. That’s all I want. Sleep on it overnight. We can chat about it again tomorrow.’

You smooth bastard, she thought. Whatever other qualities you might or might not have, you’re good at this. You know how to play people. You know I want to be back in the field really; you know the kind of work I want to be doing. You may even know that I’m just looking for a way to trip you up, to prove some link between you and Boyle. You’ve pitched this just right, going out on a limb yourself so you can lure me out after you.

And maybe, her mind continued before she could control her thoughts, he knows what you want at home, too. Maybe he realises that all your talk of wanting to stay near home, of needing to be there for Liam, is so much bullshit. Maybe he knows that you’re looking for a reason to get away.

Maybe. If so, Salter knew her better than she knew herself. She thought she’d reconciled herself to doing whatever it took to stay near Liam. To give him the support he needed. She’d come to terms with that – right up to the point where Salter had dangled this assignment in front of her.

She pushed herself up from her chair, determinedly looking Salter in the eye. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it. And I’ll tell you tomorrow.’

Salter smiled back at her, his expression unrevealing. ‘That’s all I can ask of you, sis. All I can ask.’

2

‘Just about there,’ the DI said, pointing to an apparently unremarkable point on the hard shoulder. He gestured off towards the steady stream of traffic heading along the dual carriageway. ‘Cool bastard. It was well out in full view. Wouldn’t have been much traffic at that time of night, but even so…’ His tone sounded almost admiring.

‘You reckon a professional job?’ Brennan asked. It was a miserable day for early autumn. Not raining yet, but leaden skies low over the horizon. Pity any poor bugger who’d just arrived here on holiday. They were standing in a gateway to a field beyond the road. A bleak landscape. Flat grassland, windblown hedges. The tang of the grey sea in the air.

Sheep were munching unheedingly behind them, and Brennan was growing conscious of the layer of mud caking his expensive shoes. Should have changed into an old pair before setting off, but he hadn’t reckoned on getting brought on a field trip quite so quickly. Clearly, they were keen for him to see what he wanted and get out of their hair as speedily as possible.

‘Not much doubt,’ the DI said. ‘All very efficient. Clean as a whistle. Nothing much for forensics.’ Not a Welshman, Brennan thought. Maybe a hint of Scouser there. Come over the border to do missionary work.

‘What about the victims?’ Brennan had read the files and, in his usual way, had memorised most of the salient points. But it was always useful to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Sometimes you heard stuff that they didn’t want to write down. ‘Known?’

‘One of them. Mo Tallent. Small time freelance: runs errands for anyone with a bob or two. The pride of Rhyl. No Talent, we called him.’

‘Very droll.’ Brennan moved to stand next to the DI, who was staring at the grass before him as if the two bodies were still lying there. ‘What about the other?’

‘No record. But one of the immigration officers at the port remembered him driving a car with Tallent in the passenger seat. False passports, so the names don’t tally. False plates on the car, but a match with Tallent’s passport and with the car type and colour if anyone did a cursory check.’

Brennan nodded. ‘So they were on business.’

‘Seems like it. Someone else’s business. Tallent wasn’t connected enough to set up those kind of arrangements on his own.’

‘But we’ve an idea what the business was?’ Brannan straightened up and looked at the DI. Like getting blood from a sodding pebble, he thought, even though we both know I’ve read the bloody file.

The DI nodded. ‘Four of them in the car, according to the border records. Tallent. Mr X. And two women. Working girls, we’re assuming. Probably illegals, being taken to a nice new home in the big city – Liverpool or Manchester. That’s where Tallent did most of his bigger business.’

Brennan turned and surveyed the flat, unenticing landscape. There was some fine country in North Wales. This wasn’t it. ‘What about Tallent’s associates?’

The DI shrugged. ‘We’re pursuing that, of course. But everyone’s clammed up, as you’d expect.’

‘And the women?’ Brennan had already begun to walk back towards the road and their parked car. He couldn’t imagine that he was likely to learn much more from being out here. Other than never to wear his best shoes to work.

‘Nothing. We presume they were taken.’

‘Jesus.’ Brennan paused, his eyes fixed on the passing traffic. ‘Pieces of meat.’

‘Pretty much.’ The DI caught up with him, sounding slightly out of breath. ‘I imagine they’ve probably ended up in your neck of the woods.’ He made the words sound slightly accusatory, as if Brennan had been casting aspersions on local morality.

‘I dare say,’ Brennan agreed. ‘So what do we think this was, then? Turf war?’

‘Something like that. But if so, it’s a bloody serious one. This isn’t just some local hoodlums giving the opposition a warning. This is two very bloody corpses. Expertly dispatched.’ The DI paused, fumbling in his pocket for the car keys. ‘But then I imagine that’s why you’re here.’

Brennan nodded, strolling back along the hard shoulder to where the DI’s car was parked. Just a few yards from the spot where the victims’ car had been parked. ‘Well, I assume that’s why I’m here,’ he said, smiling now. ‘But frankly, at the moment, your guess is almost as good as mine.’

‘Shit. Shit!’

She could hear the voice from the rear of the house, and for a moment she was tempted to turn around, step silently back outside, and head for the pub. There was nothing wrong here that a good evening’s drinking couldn’t cure. Except, of course, that there was. She’d tried drinking it away once or twice. It brought a temporary respite, but everything was still there the next morning. And you had to face it with a hangover.

She closed the front door noisily, making sure she’d unmistakably announced her entrance. ‘Liam?’

‘In the back.’ The fury of his previous utterance had drained away. There was another tone in his voice now. Something not too far removed from despair. Christ, she thought. Another fun-filled night in the Donovan household. Almost immediately she regretted the thought. This wasn’t about her. Whatever this was like for her, it was a thousand times worse for Liam. Of course, she knew that. And of course it didn’t help in the slightest.

She trudged her way slowly through the house and stood in the doorway of the former dining room that Liam had adopted as a studio. He was sitting slumped in his wheelchair in front of his easel. There was paint smeared across the canvas in a way that looked anything but artistic, unless Liam was attempting a radical shift in his painting style.

‘I can’t do it,’ he said.

She didn’t know how to respond. She could offer platitudes, try to tell him it wasn’t true. But they both knew that it was true, at least up to a point. She was no judge of art, though she liked Liam’s paintings. But even she could see that he’d lost something – a sureness of touch that characterised his best work. It wasn’t that his recent work was bad. At least, Marie didn’t think so. She could tell that the same vision was there, the same sense of imagery and perspective. But she recognised that he could no longer render his ideas with his old precision.

She’d tried to reassure him that it didn’t matter. It would just mark a change in style. After all, weren’t there theories that some of the old masters had developed their unique techniques as a result of various medical conditions – poor eyesight, colour-blindness, that sort of thing? Perhaps Liam could work within the confines of his condition to create something new.

It was bullshit, of course, and Liam’s response had been so scathing that she’d never tried the same argument again. But that left her with not much else to say. Even so, Liam stared back over his shoulder at her, challenging her to disagree.

‘What happened?’ she said, finally.

‘Christ knows. I thought I’d have a go at something new. At least try to make a start. I’ve been feeling knackered all week. But I just wanted–’ He stopped, his mouth moving slightly, as if he didn’t have the words to express what was in his mind. ‘I can’t just stop. I’ve got to keep trying.’

She moved forward and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I’ve not done anything for weeks. Not really. I’ve played around putting a dab or here or there, pretending I was improving things–’ He stopped again. It was as if his mouth ran ahead of his brain, so that he had to stop every minute or two for his thoughts to catch up. ‘But I was just fooling myself. Most of it’s not worth trying to improve, anyway.’ He paused again, watching as she dragged a chair from the corner of the room and sat down beside him. ‘So this afternoon I just thought – well, let’s have a go.’ He waved his hand towards the canvas. ‘I’d been doing some sketches. They weren’t very good, but I thought they’d at least be the basis of something. Shit–’

She looked up at the smears of red and brown paint across the blank sheet. ‘I take it that wasn’t what you intended?’

He stopped and smiled for the first time, recognising that she was trying to engage with him. ‘No, not exactly. Christ, I wasn’t even trying to do anything very complicated. Just a few initial brushstrokes. And I couldn’t even do that properly. The lines were all over the place. In the end, I just scrubbed it out.’ He looked back at her, the smile faded, the eyes despairing. ‘Shit, Marie. It’s the only thing I could do, and now I can’t do it any more.’

There was nothing she could say. There was no point in denying it or in trying to offer any attempt at consolation. She knew from experience that he wouldn’t be in any mood to listen to that. She grasped his hand in hers, squeezing slightly, trying to express physically the emotions she couldn’t articulate in words. It wasn’t worth, now, even trying to pretend that his condition might improve. The consultant had made that clear. Liam had gone well beyond the point where they might expect any remission. The best they could hope for – and even this seemed increasingly forlorn as week followed week – was that his condition might stabilise, that he might remain as he now was. Looking at him this evening, that hardly seemed a consoling thought.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll get some supper on. Open a bottle of wine. You’re exhausted now. You can try again tomorrow–’ Even as she said the last words, she regretted them, knowing how Liam was likely to react.

‘Jesus, Marie, haven’t you worked it out yet? I’m always bloody exhausted. I sit around on my arse all day in this bloody contraption, watching fucking makeover shows on TV. And I’m still bloody knackered. It’s not something a good night’s sleep’s going to sort out. Assuming I could even get a good night’s sleep.’

Not even trying to respond to any of this, she climbed to her feet and pushed the wheelchair back through into the sitting room. Depression, she thought. On top of everything else, like some bad joke. Apparently, it wasn’t uncommon for sufferers from multiple sclerosis also to suffer from clinical depression. Liam had had bouts of that before, long before he’d been diagnosed with MS. Just my artistic temperament, he’d half-joked, when they’d first talked about it. But now it looked as though it might have been just one more indicator of this bloody illness. Christ knew, he had enough to be depressed about.

She positioned him in front of the television, searching through the channels to find something that wasn’t entirely mind numbing. That was another thing, she thought. Perhaps the most worrying of all.

She’d expected the physical disability. Maybe not the extent of it or the speed of its progression – but she’d known it was going to happen. She’d steeled herself for it, as best she could.

What she hadn’t expected was the condition would affect him in other ways. His cognitive abilities, to use the jargon that had become so painfully familiar. It wasn’t unusual for MS to have some impact of that kind, but usually the effects were relatively minor – the odd difficulty in remembering a word or in formulating a sentence, some increased forgetfulness. Not that different from the fate that awaits most of us as we grow older, she thought.

But in Liam’s case it already seemed worse than that. He forgot things that had happened only minutes before. He struggled with words. There were activities, familiar day-to-day tasks that he seemed to have abandoned entirely – using their PC, operating the microwave, even using his mobile phone. Some of that resulted from the physical effects, of course. It was increasingly hard for him to get about the house, get into the kitchen, so he was less inclined to do things that previously would have seemed routine. And, as he’d snappily pointed out, if he hardly ever left the house, why would be need to use his mobile phone?

But it was more than that. She’d watched him, on a few occasions when he hadn’t realised she’d been observing, and seen how he’d struggled with what should have been straightforward tasks. Sometimes trying over and over again to complete an action like making a phone call. She’d heard him getting into tangles trying to explain something to a caller – making arrangements for a delivery, say, or change a medical appointment. Once or twice, she’d had to intervene to sort something out, and she’d seen the mix of despair and irritation in his eyes.

He would barely admit that there was a problem. He couldn’t deny the deterioration in his physical condition, but he refused to acknowledge any other problems. If she tried to raise the issue, he cut her off or insisted that it was tiredness. But she’d called the consultant back after their last joint visit – feeling as disloyal as an errant lover in doing so – and asked his view.

‘There’s definitely something there,’ the consultant had confirmed. ‘Some cognitive problems. A degree of disinhibition.’

‘More than you’d usually expect?’ she’d asked.

‘Nothing’s usual with MS. But, yes, definitely something more significant than the norm.’

It was the luck of the draw, the consultant had explained. It very much depended on which areas of the brain were being affected. Generally, the effects were primarily physical. But sometimes, if you were unlucky, there could be a significant cognitive effect as well.

‘We could get the clinical psychologists to have a look at him,’ the consultant had offered. ‘Do some tests. Get a measure of how far things have progressed.’

She’d turned down the offer, at least for the present. She knew there was a problem. She could see no real benefit in finding out quite how much of one. It would be like rubbing Liam’s nose in something he was trying hard to avoid. She’d go down that route only when it was really needed – which would no doubt be when she had to persuade social services to give Liam more support.

Now, though, watching him sit in front of some cosy police series on the TV, she was haunted by the consultant’s concluding comments. She’d asked the doctor what the prognosis might be, what further deterioration might be expected.

As always, the consultant had been unforthcoming. ‘There’s no way of knowing. It might just stabilise–’

‘Yes, I know that,’ she’d interrupted. ‘You’ve explained that. But what do you think?’

There’d been a pause, as if the consultant was considering the idiocy of her question. ‘Well, the only guidance we’ve got is how quickly it’s progressed over the last year or so. And that’s been very rapid. So, well, if you forced me to give you a view, I’d say it’s probable that it’ll continue to progress at a similar rate.’

‘And in terms of his – cognitive abilities? What can we expect there? If I forced you to give an opinion.’

Another pause. ‘Well, the same, I suppose.’

‘And what does that mean? What will it look like?’

‘You need to understand. It’s not like, say, Alzheimer’s. You won’t get the same types of confusion about, you know, who people are or where he is that you’d find in those kinds of dementia. This is more like – oh, I don’t know – more like an old computer, gradually getting slower and slower. It’s the white matter, the connections in the brain, that are being affected. So it’s likely that he’ll get increasingly passive, increasingly unresponsive. If things get more severe, that is.’

And that was what she’d seen, as the weeks had passed. Today’s outburst had been unusual, a rare demonstration of energy and emotion, however negative. That happened from time to time, as Liam’s frustration at his condition built inside his head to the point where he could no longer contain it. But those sudden explosions were increasingly rare islands in an otherwise endless sea of calm.

It wasn’t the Liam she’d known. The old Liam had been sparky, enthusiastic, full of ideas. He could be a pain to live with at times, their different personalities rubbing up against each other in a constant friction. But that had been the Liam she’d loved. The Liam who was always looking for a new challenge, a new opportunity. The Liam who continued to pursue his dream of being a successful artist even when, some might think, it had ceased to be realistic. The Liam who would do anything rather than sit slumped in front of some anodyne television programme.

She returned from the kitchen bearing an opened bottle of red wine and two glasses, a takeaway menu tucked under her arm. Liam already had a local authority carer who came in a couple of times a day to help him get something to eat, check he was okay. Increasingly, though, Marie had the sense that he shouldn’t be left alone for too long. He needed more care, someone to be with him through the day.

Would that be her? She couldn’t see it. She tried to imagine herself giving up her job, spending the day as Liam’s full-time carer. The image simply wouldn’t form in her head. Apart from the practical questions – what would they actually live on, for example? – that just wasn’t the person she was. Maybe that was selfish – well, of course it was selfish – but she knew that if she tried to devote her life entirely to caring for Liam, she’d probably end up killing both of them.

It needed thinking about, though. She had to start planning for this. She’d intended to discuss Salter’s proposed assignment with Liam before she gave Salter her answer. But she knew there was no way she could raise it tonight, and, even if she did, no likelihood that Liam would be able to give her a sensible response.

Another decision postponed, then. But she was beginning to recognise, watching Liam gazing vacantly at the flickering TV screen, that nothing could be delayed forever.

3

‘Get much from the sheep-shaggers?’

Brennan paused in the doorway, his blank expression suggesting that Salter was speaking some entirely unfamiliar language. Brennan closed the door behind him, paused to hang his jacket carefully on the coat stand, and walked across the room to the conference table where Salter was sitting. He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to sit, and then lowered himself on to the chair opposite Salter. ‘Not really. Nothing new, anyway. Mind you, it might have helped if I’d had the foggiest idea what I was supposed to be looking for.’

‘Local colour,’ Salter said. ‘Mainly green out there, I imagine.’

Brennan bent down to unfasten his expensive-looking leather attaché case. Salter was dressed in the plainclothes cop’s standard uniform. Jeans, open-necked shirt, leather jacket tossed casually around the back of chair. Brennan wondered whether he always dressed like that. He suspected not. Salter struck him as a Marks & Spencer man. Brennan’s own suit was Paul Smith, and not off-the-shelf. ‘I still don’t really know why I’m here,’ he said, placing a thin manila file on the table in front of him. ‘Not just today, but the whole thing. Why have I been seconded over here? Don’t tell me it’s just because you’re short-staffed.’

‘We are, actually. Bloody short-staffed, now you come to mention it. And particularly short of bright young things like yourself.’

‘I’m not sure I’m all that young any more, let alone bright. Anyway, I thought this place was wall-to-wall bright young things.’

‘It’s a mess over here, to be honest, Jack.’ Salter’s voice had taken on an ingratiating tone now. ‘It’s been a mess from the start. It was a political decision to set up the Agency, so everything was done at a rush. Bits and pieces from all over the place, cobbled together. Of course, there were some excellent people – there still are some excellent people – but we’re holding it together with not much more than good intentions.’

Brennan noted that Salter had casually included himself in the category of ‘excellent people’. Probably not without reason, from what he’d heard, but it was clear that Salter wasn’t short of ego. Well, okay, Brennan thought. That makes two of us. ‘And now it’s going through another set of changes?’

‘It’s never stopped bloody changing,’ Salter said. ‘That’s the trouble. As soon as the dust begins to settle, they start moving the deckchairs round again. If it’s not the politicians, it’s senior management trying to second guess what the politicians might want. People get pissed off.’

‘Well, I’m sold,’ Brennan said. ‘I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be seconded to.’

‘Yes, well, at least you’re only being seconded,’ Salter said. ‘Means you’ve still got a way back.’

‘And you haven’t?’

Salter shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to stop me applying for jobs back in the police service. At the moment, I’d even be in with a shout. Despite everything, you get some good experience over here. But the longer I’m out of the mainstream, the harder it’ll be to get back. That’s why a lot of our best people have already voted with their feet.’

‘And that’s why you need some new blood, is it?’ There was a cynical edge to Brennan’s voice. Experience had taught him that management decision-making rarely stemmed from much more than short-term expediency. We’ve got a gap to fill. You got anyone suitable? Well, Jack Brennan’s royally screwed his career. We could send him over to cool his heels for a few months. Keep everyone happy. He could imagine the conversation.

‘It’s why we need talented officers,’ Salter said. ‘And, yes, I’ve been fully informed about your background. It doesn’t stop you being a very capable, committed and experienced officer.’

‘It bloody well proves that’s what I am,’ Brennan said. ‘That’s the point, from where I’m sitting.’

Salter looked doubtful. ‘Yes, well. Not everyone will see it that way. Even here.’

‘I imagine not. I’m well past caring.’

‘And it means we have something in common.’

Brennan gazed thoughtfully at Salter. ‘So I understand. Funny how things work out, isn’t it? From what I hear, you’re quite the hero round here.’

‘In some people’s eyes. Not in everyone’s, I imagine.’

‘Your case was a little more spectacular than mine.’

‘Not through choice,’ Salter said. ‘I just didn’t know what I was taking on. Nearly went completely tits up. The outcome was the same for both of us.’

‘A corrupt copper exposed. I guess so. My case wasn’t so clear-cut. Apparently.’

‘No. Well, things rarely are, are they?’ Salter paused, a smile playing softly across his lips. ‘Unless you’re actually caught with your hands in the till.’

Brennan nodded, accepting that Salter was just playing games. He’d come across plenty like Salter over the years. Smart-arse graduate types who maybe weren’t quite as smart as they thought, but who enjoyed yanking people around until they were found out. Christ, he’d probably been one of them himself, though it hadn’t felt like it.

‘Is that why I’m here, then?’ Brennan said. ‘Birds of a feather, and all that. Or did you just feel sorry for me?’

‘Not my call. Though of course you’re just what we needed. Like I say, the really experienced investigators are getting thin on the ground here. We’re up to our ears in ex-Revenue types. They’ve been only too keen to stay with us. Well, it’s more fun than chasing up some dodgy builder for accepting too much cash in hand. No, it’s the honest-to-goodness coppers we’re short of.’

‘So now you’ve found an honest-to-goodness copper, what exactly do you want to do with me?’

Salter pushed himself slowly to his feet and walked over to the window. The meeting room was in the Manchester regional office, an anonymous industrial building in the furthest corner of an equally nondescript industrial estate, somewhere in the far reaches of Trafford Park. The window looked out over the rear of a small-scale distribution company – a couple of lorries lined up for loading, a forklift truck, a couple of piles of poorly stacked pallets. ‘Kevin Sheerin,’ Salter said.

‘Go on.’

‘You knew him?’

‘We all knew him. Not that any of us particularly wanted to. Small time dealer. Occasional grass. No one’s friend; probably a few people’s enemy.’

‘And now no longer with us.’

‘Hit and run. Back streets of Stockport. Sheerin, pissed out of his head, fell into the road and was hit by a car. Driver didn’t stop. Not entirely sure I blame him.’

‘Accident, then?’

‘Christ knows. Like I say, Sheerin had made a few enemies. Grassed up a few of the wrong people. Got away with it as long as he did only because he was so small-time. But he might well have pissed off one person too many. Not worth wasting a lot of resources on, either way.’

‘So you weren’t treating it as murder?’

‘We were treating it as a hit and run. Inquest gave an open verdict. We made the usual efforts to find the driver – CCTV, any witnesses. But no dice yet, as far as I know.’

‘Is Stockport Sheerin’s usual stamping ground?’

‘No. He’s more of an inner-city Manc type. Cheetham Hill. That’s another reason he survived as long as he did – kept on the right side of the people who matter up there.’

‘So he was off piste when he was killed?’

‘Off piste and well pissed. Definitely. We checked out the local pubs. Found a couple of witnesses who remembered him knocking back the pints earlier in the evening. Was with a few others, but nobody knew who they were. Or so they said.’ Brennan leaned back in the hard chair and stretched out his legs. ‘Who knows? Might have been there on business, might have just gone out for a quiet pint or two with his mates.’

‘In Stockport?’

‘It’s been known. Apparently. Though I’d stick to the real ale in the Crown. Is all this going somewhere?’

‘Last case you were working on, before we called on your services.’ Salter turned from the window. ‘Stephen Kenning.’

‘This your specialist subject? Recent cases of the Greater Manchester Police, Metropolitan Division?’

‘Maybe. How am I doing?’

‘Seems to me you’re asking all the questions.’

Salter lowered himself back into the seat opposite Brennan. ‘Okay, here’s another one. Your starter for ten. Tell me about Stephen Kenning.’

‘Another grass. Big time, though. Blew the whistle on a major drugs ring in Longsight, four or five years back. Was in witness protection, living all by himself in a little cottage out in the Peaks.’

‘Picturesque.’

‘Not this bit. But there was a decent view. So you could see anyone coming from a mile away. Except that he didn’t.’

‘No. Shot three times, I understand.’

Brennan nodded. ‘Pro job. It was a couple of weeks before anyone found him. Postman noticed the smell eventually.’

‘Anyone in the frame for it?’

‘You must know the answer to that,’ Brennan said. ‘You seem to know quite a lot about all this.’

‘Don’t pretend you share everything with the likes of us. Any more than we share everything with the likes of you.’

‘In this case, there was nothing to share. I mean, it’s obvious who’s behind it. But we can’t prove any link, and we were never going to get near whoever actually pulled the trigger.’

‘And it took a burden off your hands,’ Salter pointed out. ‘Pain in the arse, witness protection.’

‘If you say so.’ Brennan’s face was expressionless. ‘Anyway, we’d reached a dead end.’

‘This drugs ring,’ Salter said. ‘You know who the key players were?’

‘We know who went inside. That doesn’t mean they were the key players. We took it as far as we could with our resources. I imagine you lot would have the bigger picture. What was it you said about not sharing stuff with the likes of us?’

‘We just try to make connections. Name Jeff Kerridge mean anything to you?’

Brennan looked up. ‘Not as much as he means to you. He was the guy you shot?’

‘Yeah. He was the guy who’d got our corrupt cop on the payroll. They tried to kill me. Then, like you say, I killed him.’

‘You’re saying that it was Kerridge behind the drugs ring?’

‘Kerridge didn’t leave any more fingerprints than he could help. Looks that way, though.’

‘But if Kerridge is dead, who killed Stephen Kenning?’

‘Interesting question, isn’t it?’

‘Another interesting question.’ Brennan fingered the file he’d placed on the table at the start of the meeting. ‘What does all this have to do with our two fall guys in North Wales? I’m assuming you didn’t send me out there just to enjoy the scenery?’

‘Christ, no. Just wanted an objective view on what they were up to. Don’t trust those Welsh bastards to share any more than they need to.’

‘Well, they were very polite, just not very forthcoming. They gave me the basics, but not much more.’ Brennan flipped over the file. ‘Two bodies. One was a small-time crook, known to them. Name of Mo Tallent. The other’s still unidentified. Not on their records. Not yet reported missing.’

‘Nice to be loved,’ Salter commented. ‘What do you reckon, then?’

‘Looked like a warning to me. Somebody frightening off the competition.’

‘But the local plods claim they don’t know who Tallent was likely to be working for?’

‘When did you leave the diplomatic corps? Or have you forgotten that I’m still officially a local plod?’

‘Ah, but not a Welsh one. Sad thing is, they’re probably telling the truth. I bet they really don’t know.’

Brennan shrugged. ‘Don’t really believe that, though, do you? They must have an idea who Tallent worked for. The DI over there told me that everyone had clammed up. Probably so. But the local plods will have a decent idea which clams are worth prising open. A better idea than you, at any rate.’ Brennan flicked through the handful of papers in the file – witness statements, scene of crime reports, all the routine bumf, but nothing that was likely to be helpful. ‘So, yes, if you want my honest opinion, I reckon he was holding something back. Probably no great significance in that, though. He most likely just couldn’t see why he should share his speculations with a bunch who think the Welsh are largely bumbling sheep-shaggers. Not that he was Welsh, as it happens.’ Brennan paused, as if a new thought had suddenly struck him. ‘In much the same way, I imagine, as you’re not bothering to share your speculations with a local plod like me. Or, at least, you’re taking your time getting round to it.’

Salter smiled again, and this time there was a little more evidence of humour in his eyes. ‘Yeah, I’ve got a few ideas. You know much about the prostitution scene in south Manchester? Professionally, I mean.’

Brennan ignored the jibe. ‘Not really my field,’ he said. ‘No shortage of it, though, from what I understand.’

‘That’s one way of putting it. It’s the usual mix – from desperate junkies on street corners to the more upmarket escort stuff. Amounts to the same thing in the end, though. It’s the middle ground I’m interested in.’

‘Professionally, you mean?’ Brennan said. ‘You mean the massage parlour type places?’

‘Massage parlours. Brass-houses. The places one step up from the poor buggers on the streets. Again, it’s what you might call a mixed economy. Some sole proprietors plying their sleazy trade in one or two establishments. Some who’ve done a bit better for themselves. High street chains, if you like. Of course, it’s a very competitive environment.’

‘Important to build your market share,’ Brennan agreed. ‘You’ve seen some turf wars, then. Recently, I mean.’

‘There’s been a bit of expansion over the last year or two. Mostly immigrant groups – the Chinese have always been big in Manchester and there’ve been some Romanians making a splash recently.’

‘Not exactly your territory, all this. I don’t see your lot busting massage parlours.’

‘We leave that to you local plods. We’re more interested in what the parlours are being used for. Apart from the obvious, I mean. Drugs. Money laundering. People trafficking. A lot of our targets see brothels as their retail outlets.’

‘So you reckon that what happened in Wales was one of your targets putting the squeeze on the competition?’ Brennan said. ‘Would this be about your famous Jeff Kerridge again?’

‘Yeah, another little thread in Kerridge’s big commercial web. Again, we don’t know for sure. Kerridge was much too smart to get himself directly mixed up in that kind of world. Everything was a step or two removed. But, one way or another, Kerridge had established his own little network of high street boutiques.’

‘Except that Kerridge remains dead,’ Brennan pointed out. ‘So if someone’s putting the squeeze on, it’s not him.’

‘That’s the thing about Kerridge’s sad departure,’ Salter said. ‘It really tossed the cat among the pigeons. Lots of jockeying for position. All the more so as Kerridge’s supposed number two, Pete Boyle, was temporarily out of commission at the time.’

‘Way I heard it,’ Brennan said. ‘Kerridge and Boyle weren’t all that chummy towards the end anyhow?’

‘You heard right. It was a question of who’d screw the other one first. But Boyle saw himself as the heir apparent. Trouble was, he wasn’t the only one.’ Salter laughed. ‘Once Kerridge popped his clogs, various parties stepped into the breach pretty quickly, even before Boyle was back walking the streets. Chief among them, Mrs K.’

Brennan raised an eyebrow. ‘Kerridge’s wife?’

‘The fragrant Helen. Not a lady to be underestimated.’

‘So you think all this is linked? Kenning and Sheerin and these two poor bastards in Wales. Collateral damage in the war of the Manc succession?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Bit thin, isn’t it? I mean, you could well be right. But these were the kinds of buggers who made enemies every way they turned. Might have been a dozen people wanted to take them out.’

‘Might have been. But Pete Boyle definitely did.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Done a bit of digging,’ Salter said. ‘Called in a few favours from a few scrotes. Informants.’

‘Imagine our lot would have done the same. Not aware they found much.’

‘Maybe not. But they didn’t know the question to ask. They didn’t think to ask about Pete Boyle.’

‘Boyle’s a big player in these parts,’ Brennan pointed out. ‘Especially now that Kerridge has gone. His name would have come up.’

‘No doubt. But there’d be no direct connection between any of these cases and Boyle. Or Kerridge, for that matter. Not even Kenning the grass. I only made the link between Kerridge and that drug ring after the event. We hadn’t got it pegged as one of Kerridge’s outfits – still haven’t, officially. It was only after I’d made the link between Kenning and Boyle that I went back and checked the detail of the case Kenning had been involved in. One or two of the players who went down were second-level associates of Kerridge’s. It doesn’t prove for certain that Kerridge had a finger in that particular pie, but I’d wager money on it.’

Brennan frowned. ‘I’m not following this. You’re saying that these cases are all linked to Boyle. But that it’s not a direct business link.’

Salter was smiling broadly now. He had the air of a magician who was in the process of pulling off a particularly neat piece of misdirection. ‘Not quite. Boyle’s got a real business interest in all three cases. But that’s not why they were picked.’ He leaned forward and pulled Brennan’s file towards him, then flicked through the pages until he found the short report on Mo Tallent. ‘Tallent,’ he said. ‘Petty thief and grifter. Spent most of his adult life living in sunny Rhyl, for reasons best known to himself. But born and brought up in less sunny Hulme. Left in his early twenties. Partly because, for one reason or another, he’d seriously fucked off Peter Boyle. And, trust me, Peter Boyle is not someone you want to antagonise.’

Brennan shook his head. ‘Some kind of personnel vendetta? Boyle waited twenty years to get even?’

‘Not quite. Let’s move on to Stephen Kenning. Bit more straightforward, that one. No one likes a grass. He’d sold Kerridge and Boyle down the river on that drugs deal. Even if there was no risk of them being implicated, they must have taken a financial hit. A decent enough motive for icing Kenning. But it turns out there’s a bit more. Kenning is also a Hulme alumnus. The original school of hard fucking knocks. Turns out that Kenning and Boyle were bosom buddies as teenagers. They’d drifted apart over the years. But I’m told that Boyle still thought of Kenning as a mate, pretty much up the point where he shafted the drugs deal.’

‘Did Kenning know he was shafting Boyle?’

‘Who knows? But the effect’s the same, either way. From what I know of Pete Boyle, there’s no way he wouldn’t have taken in personally.’

‘Okay, so Boyle had a personal link with Tallent and Kenning. What about the third guy, Sheerin?’

‘Surprise, surprise. Same again. Another graduate of the University of Hulme. Rough contemporary of Boyle’s. Interesting one, this, though. Couldn’t find much connection at first. No evidence they’d known each other. So I did more digging. Eventually found an older guy who’d been mates with Boyle’s mother. Single parent. Tough as nails, by all accounts. Father had fucked off before Boyle was born, assuming that she ever knew who he was. Anyway, rumour was that Sheerin’s old man had had some sort of fling with Boyle’s mum. Treated her badly. Thought of himself as a hard man, but got short shift when he tried any rough stuff. So ran off with the housekeeping money or some such. Old codger I spoke to wasn’t too clear on the details, but reckoned that Boyle would have reason not to be too enamoured of the old bastard. Or of his son.’

‘So you’re saying that all these three, one way or another, had bad blood with Boyle? Sounds a bit tenuous as a motive for murder.’

‘Of course. But that wasn’t the motive for the murders. That was just the reason why these three particular poor buggers got chosen.’

‘So what is this? Boyle gets out of prison. Sees his hoped-for empire beginning to disintegrate. Barbarians at the gate, all that. So sends out some warning messages. That the idea?’ Brennan looked sceptical.

‘Pretty much. These three were well chosen. Whoever employed Tallent would be one of the interlopers into Kerridge’s lucrative sex-trade operations. Sheerin was doing business for one of the gangs who’ve been drifting into Kerridge’s traditional territories in Cheetham Hill. As for Kenning – well, like I say, no one loves a grass. There’ve been a few other incidents as well, less serious than these three. Premises getting torched. The odd beating up. One or two serious Saturday night injuries.’

Brennan’s expression hadn’t changed. ‘You realise that serious Saturday night injuries aren’t that uncommon in central Manchester? It’s a trend even our lot have managed to spot.’

‘Yeah, unlike any of this.’ Salter bent down from the table and lifted a laptop bag on to the table. He unzipped it, fumbled inside for a moment, and then pulled out a plastic wallet stuffed with papers. ‘I’ve been through a stack of those cases. Some I’ve dismissed. A couple of the fires look like genuine accidents or insurance jobs. Some of the beatings are just muggings or domestics of one sort or another. But I’m left with maybe eight or nine incidents, apart from our three biggies, which I could link back to Pete Boyle.’ He pushed the wallet across the table towards Brennan. ‘Have a look.’

Brennan pulled out the papers and flicked quickly through them, stopping every now and then to read one of the reports more carefully. Eventually, he looked up. ‘Okay. I don’t deny it’s interesting. But Boyle’s a big fish in this pond. You could probably link anything back to him if you tried hard enough.’

‘Three murder victims who grew up within half a mile of him? One went to school with him? Another’s dad screwed Boyle’s mum, in more ways than one? Hell of a coincidence.’

Brennan nodded. ‘Let’s say you’ve convinced me. Or half-convinced me. Where are we going with this?’

‘This is why you’re here. The secondment. It’s why I wanted an experienced investigator. Someone local, with decent inside knowledge. Someone who could pull the right levers, if need be, with the local police.’

‘I’m flattered,’ Brennan said. ‘Though I’m not sure you’ve got the right man. If I pull any levers at the moment, it’s likely just to bring a bucket of crap down on my head. I’m not exactly flavour of the month.’

‘They’ll forgive you soon enough once you’re not under their feet as a permanent fucking reminder.’ Salter leaned back in his chair and watched Brennan carefully. ‘I think we’ve got full-scale fucking gang warfare going on here. Boyle’s taking out or warning off all his competition, one by one, step by step. It’s diverse enough that it slips under the radar of you local plods – here, North Wales, Derbyshire, wherever the hell it is. But it’s targeted so that no one on the receiving end of it will have much doubt what it means. And as an added bonus he’s settling a few old scores on the way.’

‘What about Kenning? The grass. He wasn’t competition.’

‘You reckon? Word was that Kenning didn’t turn Queen’s evidence out of the goodness of his heart, but because he’d been promised a nice little nest-egg by someone who wanted to corner the market.’

‘I saw the place he was living,’ Brennan countered. ‘Must have been a fucking small nest-egg.’

‘It’s a sad world. People don’t always deliver on their promises. One of our dirty little secrets. That the life of a superannuated supergrass isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’ Salter pushed back his chair and stood up, in the manner of one indicating that the meeting was coming to an end. ‘So. You game for it?’

‘I’m still not entirely clear what it is,’ Brennan said.

‘We’re trying to build a case against Boyle. It’s been a slow process. Not least because we fucked up so spectacularly last time. So this time we want to do it absolutely by the book. I want you to act as evidence officer. Work through what we’ve got. See if it stacks up. Tell us where the gaps are and what we need to do to fill them. I can give you some intelligence resource from my team, though not much. We’ll give you authorisation to work with the local plods, so you can finagle any information you can from them. Though good luck with that.’

‘I’m an experienced investigator. But I’ve not worked in your environment before. You must have people around who’ve got more of a track record in that kind of work.’

Salter nodded, smiling, as if this was a question that he’d been waiting for. ‘Maybe. But we’re stretched to the fucking limit. I’ve a national team, trying to juggle major operations from here to sodding Portsmouth. Half my lot are so wet behind the ears they’ve barely been weaned, and most of the other half are the kinds of alcoholics and deadbeats who couldn’t swing a return back to proper policing. I’ve got a clutch of officers working undercover that I’m not even supposed to talk about. And I’m not even based up here. I spend half my life stuck in the fucking ivory tower in Westminster filling in forms and writing reports so my superiors can prove to the politicians that we’re not squandering their tax money on liaison trips to the fucking Bahamas, or whatever it is that they think we do when they’re not looking.’ He paused and took a breath. It sounded like a prepared speech, or at least a speech that Salter had delivered before. ‘That’s why I need someone like you, up here, who can get some real nitty-gritty work done.’

Brennan pulled the wallet of papers back towards him. ‘Okay. I’ll give it a shot.’ He looked up at Salter, with what looked like genuine amusement on his face. ‘After all, given what I’ve come from, it’s not like I’m got much fucking option, is it?’

4

The whole thing felt wrong. Too soon. Too risky. Too ill-prepared. Shit, the last time she’d done this they’d spent months preparing her for it. They’d had the legend worked out to the last detail. Every minute of her fictional past. Every last nuance of her character and personality. She’d had an answer worked out to every possible question that might be thrown at her.

They’d put her through exercise after exercise. Memory tests. Role playing. Even that bloody farce where they’d snatched her from the airport car park and terrorised the life out of her. By the time she’d hit the street, she’d been note-perfect.

And now, what? Just over three weeks of scrambled briefings, cobbled-together documentation, hurried liaisons with informants who clearly thought they had better things to do that make her life any easier. And here she was, sitting outside the head honcho’s office about to stick her head firmly on the block. The whole thing felt so bloody amateurish.

The smart-suited young secretary emerged again from the main man’s office and regarded Marie with a look of disdain. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said, with no obvious sign of sincerity. ‘He really won’t be much longer.’

The secretary didn’t bother to offer any explanation for the delay, but Marie hadn’t really expected any. She’d already assumed, perhaps unfairly, that this man, McGrath, was most likely just sitting in there with his feet up reading the Daily Star. For all that she felt unprepared, Marie had seen through this place immediately.

She smiled at the secretary. McGrath doubtless called her his PA. ‘Not a problem,’ Marie said. ‘I appreciate how busy Mr McGrath must be.’ She smiled warmly at the young woman, who now smiled uneasily back, perhaps growing conscious that her assumptions about Marie might not be entirely justified.

That was the only consolation, Marie thought. She might feel as if she’d been tossed carelessly into the deep end, but she’d already seen enough to know that, for the moment at least, she wasn’t out of her depth. Bunch of cowboys, she thought, glancing around at the large secretary’s office. All show, and no substance.

It had taken her a few minutes to register the fact when she’d first arrived. On the surface, it had all looked impressive enough. A neat little unit in a serviced office block just off the main drag near the centre of Chester. Half a mile and a world away from the city of Roman remains and bijou fashion shops, but it probably still had what the property agents would describe as a prestigious address. The Victrix Business Park, for Christ’s sake.

Inside, though, it wasn’t quite right. The place was an old factory that had clearly been converted hurriedly. Okay, perhaps not quite as hurriedly as she’d been converted into Maggie Yates – and, come to that, couldn’t they have found a more prestigious name for her as well? – but more hurriedly than the building’s pretensions required. She was no expert, but even sitting here Marie could see that the wallpaper was badly applied, the paintwork sloppy, the carpet cheap and already beginning to wear. Even the office furniture looked outdated. Not, she suspected, the kind of image that McGrath was hoping to project.

There were other signs, too. As the secretary had led her in from the chilly unattended lobby, Marie had glimpsed the rear courtyard through one of the windows. A miniature junkyard – an old fridge, a discarded sink unit, a broken table lined with paint pots, all overgrown with weeds. If the offices had been recently converted, she might have thought it was just waiting to be tidied, but this place was no longer new.

Even the staff weren’t up to scratch. There had been no one at the reception desk in the lobby, and no response when Marie had pressed the electric bell on the desk. After a while, she’d used her mobile to phone the number she’d been given. The secretary had answered the call and, after a few minutes, had bustled officiously through into the lobby. Marie suspected that the secretary and McGrath himself were the only occupants of this part of the building.

She knew that these thoughts were partly just a displacement activity, a way of not thinking too hard about the fragility of the ice beneath her. Salter had been full of reassurance and had even wheeled out Winsor, the psychologist, to confirm just how emotionally resilient she would be in the face of diversity. Or something like that. Winsor had spouted his familiar professional gobbledygook and she’d nodded politely, knowing by then that it was all going to happen anyway.

Jesus, then there was Liam. When she’d finally broken the news that she was going back out into the field, he’d responded better than she’d feared. He’d taken the news calmly, shrugged, told her that, yes, of course she had to keep things going at work. He absolutely understood that. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

She’d enjoyed a few seconds of relief at his reaction before she became concerned. At first, she thought that Liam was reverting to the passive-aggressive style he’d perfected in the early days of his illness. But this felt different. This felt sincere. And that raised questions about what was going on in Liam’s head. There were times, already, when he seemed like a different person.

She’d tried to put all that from her mind as she’d made her way up here. She and Liam had danced round the issue of her departure, talking about the practicalities rather than the emotional impact of their separation. The practicalities had been challenging enough. She’d had to ensure that a suitable care regime was in place for Liam. He was already barely capable making his way around the house, even in the wheelchair, and was no longer able to look after himself reliably. He had two carers, funded by social services and supplied through some agency, who had been coming in twice a day to prepare him a meal and, essentially, check that he was okay. After a little negotiation, they’d managed to add another visit in the evening while Marie was away. Marie had had the impression that the main carer, Sue, hadn’t been all that impressed by the idea of Liam being left alone overnight. But what other option did Marie have?

‘Mrs Yates?’

Shit. She almost missed her cue. That was why, in some cases, undercover officers stuck with their real names, or at least their real forenames, to minimise the risk of that moment’s hesitation. Or, worse still, of reacting to a name that wasn’t supposed to be yours.

She recovered herself in time. ‘Miss, actually,’ she said. ‘Divorced. I decided to go back to my maiden name. Don’t ask.’ She laughed, rising to her feet and holding out her hand for McGrath to shake. ‘But please call me Maggie. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ McGrath was observing her with an expression that managed to remain just the right side of lecherous. ‘Please come through – Maggie.’ He gestured for her to precede him into his poky office. She could feel his eyes making a full appraisal of what was likely to lie underneath her clothes. If she’d harboured any doubts about actually getting the job, she began to feel more confident now that it was in the bag.

‘Please. Take a seat,’ he said from behind her. There was a faint trace of an Irish lilt in his voice, she thought, though you had to listen for it. Or know something of his history. She lowered herself into the chair facing McGrath’s desk, and waited while he seated himself opposite. The desk was a mess – unsorted piles of paperwork, messy looking files, a discarded coffee cup.

‘Good to meet you, Maggie,’ McGrath said. He’d wasted no time in taking up her invitation to use her first name. ‘You come highly recommended.’

She smiled. McGrath’s non-professional interest in her was so transparent that it was difficult not to play up to it. ‘Not too highly, I hope. I don’t know if I can live up to it.’ She knew exactly how highly she’d been recommended, and by whom. More of the string-pulling that they were so adept at in the Agency. It was clever stuff. It was usually a tame informant who’d set the wheels in motion, getting the word about her out on the grapevine. In this case, according to Salter, they’d got wind of the fact that McGrath was looking for a discreet administrator to help him keep the various strands of his business in order. Looking at this place, she wasn’t surprised. McGrath had positioned himself, as so many of them did, as a legitimate businessman, running a more or less straight operation in parallel with his seamier activities. But, looking at the desk, she could imagine that administration wasn’t McGrath’s strongest point.

The key word, of course, was discreet. In her short telephone conversation with McGrath, they’d maintained the fiction that she would be looking after the above-board element of McGrath’s business – an import/export business which, according to the records she’d checked at Companies’ House, had a turnover barely large enough to cover her requested salary. But the grapevine had been very clear that McGrath was looking for someone to help run all parts of his business, including those elements that were kept hidden from the light of day.

Maggie Yates came highly recommended to fulfil that particular brief. The story was that she’d been the brains behind her ex-husband’s business, an East End mix of legitimate market-trading and more clandestine dealing. She’d given her husband loyal support, up to the point where she’d caught him dipping his hands into the till to subsidise his affair with some Dalston pole-dancer. She’d withdrawn a sizable sum from the business account, packed her suitcases, and headed north, leaving her ex with a pregnant pole-dancer and a pile of debts. It was a decent story, filtered skilfully through a succession of friends of friends. Creating an undercover legend was a little like money-laundering, she’d sometimes thought. The original source gets lost along the way, and the story becomes a little more legitimate each time it’s passed on. The figure who’d recommended her to McGrath had sincerely believed everything he’d said, having received the story himself from someone he considered reliable.

Marie had been nervous about it, because again they’d had so little time to prepare the ground. It had been well-handled, but there was always the risk that someone would pick up the phone and speak to the wrong person, and the whole house of fictional cards would come tumbling down.

It might still happen, but she felt more confident now that everything had been running for a few weeks. The rules were different in this world. If you wanted the right person, you couldn’t call the JobCentre or some local temp agency. All you could do was rely on word of mouth. And McGrath wasn’t entirely stupid. He’d take his time, trust her only as far as he needed to until he was confident of her loyalty and discretion. The recommendation might get her through the door, but it was her own abilities that would keep her there. That, and the fact that already McGrath was virtually panting like a lascivious dog.

‘We’re a small but ambitious business,’ McGrath was saying, in the tone he probably reserved for the local Chamber of Commerce. ‘On the way up, you might say.’

‘You said it was primarily import/export?’ she asked, feeding back the line that McGrath had given her over the phone. ‘What sort of things?’

‘Pretty much anything that I can sell at a profit, if I’m honest,’ McGrath said. ‘We’re probably more of a distribution business than a straight importer. Take stuff off people’s hands, then sell it on for a bit more.’

Marie didn’t doubt it. From what she understood, most of McGrath’s legitimate business comprised the kind of tat that was sold on market stalls or by street vendors. Tawdry plastic items from China. ‘A middle man?’ she offered.

‘That’s about it. Cream off a little slice for myself, that’s the idea. So, Maggie, tell me about yourself. I understand you’ve experience in this kind of line.’

She nodded, and began to trot out the well-rehearsed lines about her ex-husband. She didn’t go into the detail of how and why she’d supposedly split up with the fictitious ex, but she knew that all that background would have been carefully fed to McGrath. He was clearly as interested in her marital status, or lack of it, as he was in whatever relevant work experience she might have.

That side of the job made her feel uneasy; but she knew that as a female undercover it was almost inevitable that you’d sometimes make use of your femininity to gain some advantage, particularly over men like McGrath. You couldn’t be too precious in this line of work. If the likes of McGrath were so easily distracted by the simple fact that she was a half-presentable woman, it would be stupid not to benefit.

In any case, she told herself, this time it was just part of her new character. The glamorous divorcee. She knew she was pretty decent-looking – enough to attract a few overlong glances in a male-dominated office, at least. But her usual instinct was to play down her appearance – minimal make-up, neat but low-key business suits, nothing that might attract unwanted attention.

As Maggie Yates, though, she’d raised everything just a notch or two above how she would normally choose to appear. She was wearing a business outfit that was slightly more brash, that showed an inch or two more leg and cleavage, than she would normally consider. She was wearing a little more make-up, her hair dyed a shade or two lighter than usual. She’d even managed, to her great amusement, to persuade Salter to cough up for a couple of pairs of earrings on expenses.

She’d been surprised, when she’d first effected the changes, by how much her new outward appearance influenced the way she felt and behaved. She felt a different kind of confidence, aware of the impact her appearance had on a certain type of male. Even Salter had seemed more flustered in her presence. McGrath, on the same basis, looked as if he might dissolve into a small puddle on the office floor if she were to gaze at him too intently.

McGrath nodded as she finished her brief account. ‘So, do you think you’d be up to handling things round here?’ The innuendo was inescapable, even if unintentional.

She looked coolly around her – at the shabby office, at the piled mess on McGrath’s desk. ‘I wouldn’t imagine there’s anything here I couldn’t handle,’ she said. Jesus, she thought to herself, don’t push it too far. McGrath might not be responsible for his actions. She smiled innocently. ‘I can give you a little run through my past experience, if you like, Mr McGrath.’

‘Andrew,’ he coughed. ‘Andy, that is. Please call me Andy. Everybody does.’ He picked up a pile of papers from the desk and shuffled them as if trying to imbue the documents with some significance. ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I’ve already heard very good reports about you.’

‘So what is it I’d be doing?’ she said. ‘If you were to offer me the job, I mean.’

‘Well,’ he coughed again, ‘eventually, I’d be looking to you to keep the place ticking over. I’m out of the office quite a lot of the time, what with one thing and another. I have to be out there getting the deals. So I need someone who can keep the show on the road in my absence.’

Marie glanced towards the door. ‘What about your secretary?’

McGrath shrugged. ‘Lizzie’s just a kid, really. She can answer the phone, type a few letters. Bright enough, you know, but not really able to keep on top of a place like this.’

‘Well, that would suit me down to the ground,’ she said. ‘I’m used to running my own show, more or less, so I’m happy to do as much or as little as you need.’

McGrath frowned slightly and she wondered whether she might have overplayed her hand. ‘Well, obviously there’s a lot I’ll need to hand over to you. It may take a while.’

She nodded, trying to look contrite. ‘Yes, sorry. It’s just that I’m keen to get this. It’s been a difficult time… well, you can imagine. Need to build my confidence up a bit, probably. Prove that I’m still up to it–’

It was McGrath’s turn to look embarrassed. ‘No, I didn’t mean – look, I’m sure you’ll be perfect in the job. When can you start?’

She blinked, as if the offer had taken her by surprise. ‘You mean I’ve got the job? Well, thank you. Really. I won’t let you down. I can start more or less immediately if you’d like.’

McGrath rose from his chair, holding out his hand. ‘Well, pleased to have you on board,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to … lick us into shape.’ The innuendo had returned, she noticed, now she’d accepted the job. She was beginning to suspect that this was going to be a long few months.

She took McGrath’s hand. He shook her hand firmly, in the manner of one who’d seen fictional businessmen doing this kind of thing in films, then, almost inevitably, held on for just a few seconds too long. ‘Yes, good to have you on board,’ he repeated. ‘One of the family and all that.’ He paused, his smile broadening. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve made too many friends up here yet,’ he added. ‘Perhaps we should celebrate your arrival? Over dinner, maybe?’

Oh yes, she thought. It was going to be a bloody long few months.

5

He’d almost lost her. He’d had to look twice, maybe even three times, to be sure it was her. That surprised him. Usually one photograph was enough, if the likeness was a decent one. He had a superstition about that, always approaching it in the same way. He’d stare at the photograph for minutes on end, and then he’d hold the picture to his forehead, as if somehow absorbing its essence.

He knew that the last gesture was little more than superstition. But somehow it had developed as a habit, and now he felt it helped him memorise the face. He knew, though, that it was important to analyse what he was looking at. Not just the superficial trappings – the style or the colour of the hair, whether or not the person was wearing glasses, facial hair or the use of make-up. Those things could be changed.

Instead, he concentrated on the detail of the face itself – the shape of the chin, the nose, the ears, the mouth. Above all, the eyes – not so much the colour or the shape, but their look, their expression. It was harder with a poor photograph, but if the image was a good one, the eyes were the most revealing part of all. If he could look into their eyes, he would recognise them every time.

And he was good at this. They came to him because they knew he’d get it right. He’d identify the targets, no matter what they did. And many of them – most of them, maybe – were keen not to be spotted. They did their best to change themselves, and he had to laugh sometimes at the feebleness of their attempts. The ones who took to wearing sunglasses, or who dyed their hair or grew a beard. Even if he hadn’t studied their features so closely, most wouldn’t have fooled him. They were still essentially the same people – walking and speaking and behaving the same as before.

And once he’d identified them, he would be there, watching and waiting, for as long as it took. He knew what made him good at this, and it was a rare combination of qualities. First, it was all the slow things – patience, attention to detail, willingness to give as much time as it all needed. He would stick with them, wait for the ideal moment. That was when the other qualities kicked in. The fast things. Quick decisions, sudden action. Do what needed doing and get away. Slow and then fast. It was why they came to him. Why he was the best.

But, just for a moment, he’d felt wrong-footed. This should have been one of the easier jobs; maybe that was the problem. It had been a difficult few months. One tricky job after another. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but all with additional complications. And now people were getting jittery. Looking out for him, or for someone like him. He couldn’t depend on the usual element of surprise.

But this one should have been easy. He knew exactly what she looked like, who she was. He’d allowed himself to become complacent. He hadn’t given it enough time. He thought he’d known what he was looking for.

Except that, as it turned out, he’d hadn’t quite. He’d seen her come out of that surprisingly anonymous house and climb into that unfamiliar family car. And he’d thought: shit, I’ve got the wrong place. It was as if the ground had shifted under him. He’d memorised the house number and the road. Of course he had. But perhaps he’d got it wrong – round here, it was all Such-and-such Close and This-and-that Avenue, all variations on the same dull themes. Perhaps this was an Avenue when it should have been a Close, or maybe he’d transposed the numbers.

It had taken him a moment or two, concealed in his discreetly parked car, to realise that he’d been correct all along. It was her. Everything about her looked different – the hair, the clothes, the whole style – but she hadn’t been able to hide who she really was. The way she walked, the way she moved her body. Even the way she’d climbed into the bloody car. He’d known all along. But, somehow, in those first few seconds she’d thrown him.

He swore loudly and started the car engine. The last thing he wanted was to have to chase after her down these lifeless streets. This kind of estate was a tough environment for surveillance. Too quiet, too anonymous. Too rigidly fucking conformist. People didn’t park down here without a good reason, not in the street, anyway. Every driveway was spacious enough to accommodate at least two family cars. People like him stood out like dogshit in a goldfish bowl.

He’d found a way, though. He always did. Having observed the roads on foot for a day or so, he’d found a suitably ambiguous place to leave his unremarkable car. A wider stretch of street where most of the houses seemed to have three or even more cars – teenage children and their friends coming and going. He reasoned that, for a day or two, no one would twig that his small saloon didn’t belong to one of the neighbours’ houses. It worked well enough, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

He caught up with her car as it reached the junction with the main road. He drew into the roadside for a moment, leaving sufficient distance between them. He had a good idea of where she was going. That information had been included in the brief file they’d sent.

As it was, he caught up with her easily enough. The mid-morning traffic had helped, preventing her from getting too far ahead, though he had to take care not to lose her in the endless sequence of traffic lights heading towards the city centre. It didn’t help that her car – a black saloon nearly as anonymous as his own – blended inconspicuously with the countless others streaming through the suburbs. But he kept her in sight until she turned off the main road into the maze of streets that comprised the industrial estate. He felt more comfortable then, confident of where she was heading. He continued along the main road then, a few hundred yards further along, turned into the rear of the estate. He could park up, check where she’d left her car, and keep a discreet watch until she emerged.

He had no need to reproach himself. Even now, he couldn’t quite believe how different she’d looked. Superficial stuff really, of course. Different clothes, different hair. A whole different style. A new image. She was good, that was the truth. She wasn’t an amateur, like most of them were.

He reached across to the glove box and pulled out a Mars bar and the flask of coffee he’d prepared before setting out that morning. Creature comforts – part of the secret. Make life easy for yourself. Save the hard stuff for when it matters.

He took a first bite of the chocolate and sat back to wait.

As Marie climbed back into her car, she involuntarily glanced behind her. Instinct, or maybe just experience. Sure enough, McGrath was standing at the window of his office, gazing admiringly out at her. She’d managed to fob off his offer of dinner with some excuse about being in the middle of sorting out her new house. But that was only a temporary respite. McGrath didn’t strike her as the type to give up at the first sign of discouragement.

Maybe this was all just Salter’s idea of a joke. She couldn’t believe that McGrath was a serious enough contender to justify their attention. She had him pegged as a small-time dealer with delusions of grandeur. But it was true that the likes of McGrath were often the weak links that allowed them to break apart much bigger chains. He’d have his own network of suppliers, customers and associates, and some of those might provide an entry route to more serious targets. Perhaps that was Salter’s thinking. Perhaps.

In any case, she was stuck with this now. Building up her new life as Maggie Yates, establishing trust and credibility with McGrath, gathering whatever evidence she could along the way. It ought to be a piece of cake. Unless she messed up spectacularly, she couldn’t imagine that McGrath would be bright enough to see through her cover. As long as she kept wearing these slightly too revealing outfits, his mind would be elsewhere. The only challenge would be keeping McGrath sweet while not letting him get too close.

As she drove out of the car park and turned back towards the main road, she glanced in her rear view mirror. Something had made her feel uneasy, though she couldn’t work out what. Perhaps the same instinct that had told her that McGrath would be watching her from the window.

She could see no immediate grounds for unease. The road behind her, which led deeper into the industrial estate, was deserted of traffic. There were a few cars parked here and there, but no other signs of life.

One of those cars, she thought. She had a half-sense she’d seen it before, at some point earlier in the day. Nothing she could pinpoint clearly. She didn’t know where she’d seen it, or why it should have snagged even tentatively in her memory. It was nothing more than an aging silver-grey Mondeo. There were thousands like it.

She reached the junction with the main road, and looked in the mirror again. The car was still parked in the same spot, three or four hundred yards behind. She couldn’t see whether there was anyone inside it.

She pulled out into the traffic. A little way ahead, there was a petrol station with a convenience store attached. She pulled off the road and parked in one of the spaces reserved for customers, reversing in to watch the passing cars.

At first, she thought she’d been wrong. A stream of cars went by, but there was no sign of the grey Mondeo. Then she saw it, or a car very like it, pass by. She had the impression that the driver glanced momentarily in her direction as the car passed, but she could make out nothing but the pale mask of a face. Not even whether the driver was male or female.

She waited a few moments and pulled back out on to the road. But she’d delayed too long and the car had vanished. Although the traffic was moving freely, she didn’t think the car could simply have disappeared from sight along the main road. More likely, the driver had turned off into one of side roads that led into the rows of Edwardian houses that dominated this part of town. She glanced to her left and right as she drove, searching for any sign of the car, but couldn’t spot it.

She was letting her imagination run away with her, but the experience had left her feeling shaken. She was left with a sense that her instinct was right, that the car was significant. But if she really had been followed, then why? Who would have an interest in keeping track of her up here? There were various possible answers, none of them comforting.

The other possibility was that Winsor, the Agency’s pet psychologist, had been wrong. Maybe she hadn’t properly recovered from everything that had happened to her months before. Perhaps this creeping paranoia was some delayed form of traumatic shock. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to go back to this work.

She knew there was no room for complacency. Christ, she’d learnt that the hard way. McGrath might be an idiot, but that didn’t mean she should underestimate what she was involved in. This was dangerous territory – sometimes the idiots were the most dangerous of all – and she couldn’t afford to forget that.

She reached the ring road and turned left, heading back to her new home, conscious suddenly of quite how lonely she was feeling.

6

‘You can see why he picked it,’ Brennan said. Somewhere behind him, he could hear Hodder struggling for breath. Brennan glanced over his shoulder. ‘You okay?’

Hodder stumbled to a halt, wheezing slightly. ‘Not as fit as I thought, obviously.’ He straightened up and looked around. ‘Jesus, where the hell are we?’

‘Long way from anywhere. Just where I’d have wanted to be if I was Stephen Kenning.’

‘I suppose,’ Hodder said, doubtfully. He looked around at the sweep of the hillside, the drop to the road behind them. ‘Impressive views, if you like that kind of thing.’ His tone implied that he didn’t include himself in that category.

‘You can see a long way. That’s what would have appealed to Kenning. He could see the bastards coming.’

‘He didn’t, though, did he?’ Hodder had regained his breath and drawn level with Brennan.

‘We all have to sleep sometime.’

‘That the place?’ Hodder gestured towards the white-rendered cottage another half mile or so ahead of them.

‘Don’t see any other candidates, do you?’ As far as Brennan could see, there was nothing else for miles. Just bare open moorland stretching off to the horizon. Apart from the single-track road where they’d left the car, there was no other sign of human habitation. The perfect hideaway – or not, as it turned out, but as good as Kenning was likely to find.

‘Come on. Let’s get this over with.’ Brennan began to trudge slowly up the footpath towards the cottage, Hodder following a few feet behind. As they drew closer, he caught sight of a black-clad figure, pacing alongside the cottage. Brennan glanced at his watch. They were fifteen minutes late. Wakefield was, as always, on time.

They walked the last few hundred yards to the gate. The path continued on over the next hilltop. Probably a few walkers made their way up here, but not many.

By the time they reached the cottage, Wakefield had come forward to greet them. He was finishing off a cigarette, tossing the butt with practised nonchalance into the overgrown garden.

‘You want to be careful,’ Brennan said. ‘You’ll have the whole place up in smoke.’

Wakefield smiled, as at a well-rehearsed witticism. ‘Rain we’ve had up here, you couldn’t cause a fire with a fucking flamethrower.’ He regarded Brennan for a moment. ‘How you doing, Jack?’

Brennan shrugged. ‘Not so bad. Considering.’

‘Considering. Not dead yet, then?’

‘That’s probably disappointed a few people.’

‘I imagine.’ Wakefield pulled out his packet of cigarettes, waving it towards Brennan and Hodder, who both shook their heads. He was a tall thin man, with swept-back grey hair and sallow skin. He was probably forty or so, but looked older. ‘There’s still a few of us on your side.’

‘Didn’t see many putting their heads above the battlements. Present company excepted.’

‘Not everyone’s as dumb as I am. But there are a few who think you’ve been treated shittily.’

‘That’s a great consolation,’ Brennan said.

Wakefield waved his lit cigarette towards Hodder. ‘Didn’t know it was “bring your kid to work” day.’

Brennan glanced round at Hodder. ‘Pure jealousy. When you’re a decrepit old has-been like Rog, the only pleasure you’ve got left is taking the piss out of the younger generation.’ He ushered Hodder forward. ‘Andy Hodder, a very capable officer despite his tender years. Roger Wakefield, a crap old copper, for all his decades of experience.’

Wakefield laughed and shook Hodder’s hands. ‘If you’re coping with Jack Brennan, you must have something about you. He’s got many good qualities, but not being a pain in the backside isn’t one of them.’ Wakefield turned back towards Brennan. ‘Okay, Jack, you’ve dragged me up here to the arse-end of nowhere to open up for you. What’s this about exactly?’

‘Wild goose chase, probably. But since I’m kicking my heels over in the ivory towers, I thought I should come and see where Kenning met his unfortunate end.’

‘Why the sudden interest in Kenning? It’s not like there’s any great mystery about his killing.’

‘Except that you don’t actually know who killed him.

‘No, and I don’t suppose we ever will. I think I’ll learn to live with that.’ Wakefield was fumbling in his pocket for the keys to the cottage. ‘He was a grass. He was living on borrowed time. He got taken out. Simple as that.’

‘So who took him out?’

‘Buggers he put behind bars,’ Wakefield said. ‘But we’ll never prove it. It was a pro job, and a good one.’ He led them to the door of the cottage and, after trying a couple of the keys on the chain, found the one that fitted the front door. He unlocked the door and led them inside.

‘Who’s the cottage belong to?’ Hodder said from behind. ‘The Force?’

‘Funded from the witness protection programme’, Wakefield said. ‘We’d think about selling it but no one would want to buy up here. Keep it for the next daft bugger who blows the whistle.’

‘Take it you’ve had the place cleaned up?’ Brennan asked. The front door led straight into the living room of the cottage, a dark shabby-looking room with a worn sofa, two armchairs and, at the far end, a folding wooden table and a couple of chairs. Brennan walked over and peered at a dark stain on the dull mauve carpet. ‘This where it happened?’

Wakefield nodded. There was still a faint scent of blood in the air, just detectable through the pervading stench of bleach and disinfectant. ‘Yeah, you can see the bullet mark in the plaster behind. Best we can judge from the ballistics, the gunman was actually seated on the sofa.’

‘Doesn’t pay to exert yourself,’ Brennan commented. ‘What’s that mean, then? Someone he knew?’

‘You fishing, Jack? See what you can pump out of an old mate?’

‘You know me better, Rog. If I want to know something, I just blurt it out.’

‘True enough. Go on, then. Blurt.’

Brennan ignored him and moved to stand by the sofa, looking across to the stained carpet. He squatted for a moment, envisaging the passage of the bullet through the air. ‘What weapon?’

‘Nine mil. We think a Glock 17.’

Brennan raised an eyebrow. ‘Police weapon?’

Wakefield laughed. ‘Yeah, we use them. Not one of ours, though. Plenty out there.’

‘You’ve not found the gun?’

‘Like I said, Jack, this was a pro job. He’d have taken the bullet with him if he could. He barely left a trace. Some scraps of DNA, but nothing that matches.’ He paused, then smiled across at Hodder who was standing awkwardly by the open front door. ‘Why do I get the feeling that I’m doing all the talking, son?’

Brennan rose and moved to stand beside Hodder at the front door, peering at the lock. ‘Decent seven-lever deadlock,’ he commented. ‘Lockable bolts. Kenning cared about his security. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? So how’d the killer get in?’

‘Back door, we think,’ Wakefield said. ‘Security not quite as tight there. Pretty expert entry, though. Like I say, a pro.’

‘No alarm system?’

‘No. You know, I sometimes think that, if we want people to grass, we should look after them a bit better after they’ve done it. Just my opinion, you understand. Views expressed don’t necessarily represent those of the management.’ He pulled open the door that led out into the narrow hallway. ‘Grand tour?’

‘Might as well now we’ve paid.’ Brennan and Hodder followed Wakefield into the tiny kitchen at the rear of the house. It had been thoroughly cleaned, along with the rest of the house, but still carried a dingy air, the afternoon sunlight barely penetrating the grimy windows.

‘Dream kitchen.’ Wakefield pointed towards the back door. The lock had been replaced, but the splintered wood alongside it indicated that the door had been jemmied open. ‘How he got in. Not subtle, but skilfully done. Minimum damage, minimum noise.’

‘Not all that secure, though.’

‘Once they found out where he was, it would take more than a few locks to keep them out. And if they couldn’t get in, they’d just torch the place. Maybe Kenning wanted an exit route.’

Brennan surveyed the small kitchen. ‘Christ, what a fucking life. Stuck in this dump. Not even a sheep for company. Knowing they’re out there somewhere, waiting to track you down. Jesus.’

‘His lucky day when the mystery assassin turned up. Least he had a bit of company.’ Wakefield watched as Brennan prodded the doorframe. ‘Okay, Jack, I’ve been very patient. Now cough up. Why the interest in Kenning? He’s not the right league for your lot.’

‘Not my lot,’ Brennan pointed out. ‘I’m only on secondment. I’m one of you.’

‘Not most people’s opinion,’ Wakefield said. ‘And I’m starting to have my doubts.’

Brennan glanced across at Hodder, as if he were about to make the young man complicit in some illicit action. ‘I can trust you, Rog,’ he said. ‘Not to shoot your mouth off, I mean. Not just yet.’

‘Depends what you’re going to say.’

‘Nothing very significant. But I get the impression that communications between my bosses and yours aren’t as transparent as they might be. Don’t want to step on any more toes than I can help, just at the moment.’

‘Bit late for that, mate. But okay, if you’re in the shit, at least try to tread water.’

‘I’ve been asked to look at a series of killings. Kenning’s one of them.’

‘But your lot haven’t told our lot.’

‘Above my pay grade. But my boss has asked me to collate the evidence. Guy called Hugh Salter. You know him?’

‘By reputation. DS in the Met, before he went over to your lot. He was involved in that corruption case last year, wasn’t he? Jeff Kerridge and all that. On the rise, from what I hear.’

‘Yeah. We already had a chat about the ironies of the situation.’ Brennan looked across at Hodder again. ‘Sorry if I’m talking out of school, Andy. Just trying to be straight with Rog here.’

Hodder looked slightly surprised at being consulted. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Wouldn’t trust Salter any further than I could throw him.’

‘No way to talk about your elders and betters,’ Brennan said. ‘Interesting you think that, though.’

‘He got me tangled up in that Kerridge business,’ Hodder said. ‘Had me tailing one of our undercover officers, Marie Donovan. I went along with it because – well, because he was senior to me, I suppose. I thought he’d got it officially sanctioned, but he was off on his own. He covered for me, but mainly because he had to make his own story hang together. Didn’t feel right, though. Still doesn’t.’

‘How’d you mean?’

‘I don’t know. The whole thing with Kerridge. Salter came out of it looking good. But there was something not right about it.’ He shook his head, as if dealing with a subject beyond his comprehension.

Wakefield had been watching this dialogue with some interest. ‘So what’s Salter’s interest in Kenning? The guy grassed on a small-time drug ring.’

‘Salter reckons it wasn’t all that small-time. That it was part of Kerridge’s empire. And that Kenning was taken out by Pete Boyle, the guy who’s trying to become the new Kerridge.’

‘Anything’s possible,’ Wakefield said. ‘Boyle marking his territory? Tomcat pissing up the wall sort of stuff?’

‘Warning off the competition. Yeah.’

‘So what’s your role in all this?’

‘Evidence officer. They’re still trying to build a case against Boyle. Some days I just think he’s come up with half-arsed task to keep me out of trouble. Then I think maybe he’s using me. If anything comes of it, he can claim the glory. If it goes tits up or if you lot get arsey, he can always just blame me.’

‘The perfect scapegoat,’ Wakefield agreed. ‘So what do you reckon? Does Salter’s theory have legs?’

‘It’s not completely off the wall. Three incidents of small-timers killed by oddly professional murderers. Look at this one. You might expect Kenning to be taken out eventually, but a pro hit seems more than he merited.’

‘Maybe,’ Wakefield agreed. ‘Though God knows you can’t always fathom the logic of these people. These other cases, they look like pros too?’

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