Nowhere to Hide (10 page)

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?'

‘That's the thing with pros. If it's done well, you don't know it's been done at all. One was a hit and run. But the driver had picked the perfect spot, in the middle of bloody Stockport. No witnesses, no CCTV. Drove out by a route that gave us no shot of the car or its plates. Either a fluke or careful planning.'

‘And nobody's linked these killings except Salter?'

‘Three different areas. One possible accident. Two – or maybe three – killings that look like local vendettas. Victims all small-time scrotes better out of circulation anyway. No one's going to waste too much time worrying about the whys and wherefores.'

‘Boyle was the guy who slipped out of the Agency's clutches last year, wasn't he? Bit of an embarrassment, from what I heard. Maybe not surprising that Salter's got a bee in his bonnet about it.'

‘He's got that all right,' Hodder said. ‘He made a big issue of it when the CPS dropped the Boyle case. That was why they gave it back to him. Money and mouth time.'

‘So there you go,' Wakefield said. ‘That's your job. To remove the bee from Salter's bonnet.'

‘Sounds like it,' Brennan agreed glumly. ‘Like I said, a wild fucking goose chase. I'm out of favour and out on a fucking limb. No resource, other than occasional dibs on Andy here. Oh, and I can call on the intel guys in London. Thanks a bunch. How am I supposed to go about collating evidence against Pete Boyle?'

Wakefield laughed. ‘Jesus, Jack. You built a case against your own Chief Super. This should be child's play by comparison.'

‘Thanks for reminding me. That's how I got where I am today.' Brennan stopped and gazed gloomily around the grubby kitchen. ‘Stuck in a shit hole on top of the High bloody Peak.'

She tried calling Liam to check how things were, but the phone rang out. After a moment, she heard her own voice: ‘Please leave a message after the tone–' She ended the call, knowing that these days Liam never checked the messages. Maybe he was asleep or out of reach of the phone. She'd try again later.

It was all procrastination, anyway. Her real task today was to sort out this bloody house, make it at least look the kind of place she might want to live in. At the moment, it was about as inviting as a prison cell.

The Agency looked after her well enough, at least on the material front. If this house was less to her taste than the apartment they'd provided previously, it was still a decent enough place. And the kind of place the fictitious Maggie Yates might choose to live.

For the real Marie Donovan, it was all too clinical and anonymous. A two bedroom new build on an estate that could be anywhere in the country. Nicely fitted kitchen, modern bathrooms, inoffensive decor. A tiny garden at the rear designed for minimum maintenance. Enough driveway at the front to accommodate more cars than would ever be parked here. One among a row of not-quite-identical houses stretching as far as the eye could see. Further into the estate the houses became three-bedroomed, then four, then more, a physical metaphor for social aspiration. Most of her neighbours were young couples – cohabiting or recently married professionals getting their first rung on the housing ladder. As children arrived, they would look to move deeper into the estate, exchanging for the size of house that would meet their changing needs. Marie could see that it was practical, but it sent a chill down her spine.

She'd been here only a couple of weeks, and had met few of the neighbours. There was a retired couple living opposite, who had traded down from one of the larger houses as the children left home and the money grew thinner. They'd made a point of coming out to say hello as she'd arrived with the removal van, the wife bringing her a cup of tea. She'd also met the male half of her immediate neighbours while putting out the refuse bins a day or two earlier. They'd engaged in some brief, early morning conversation about which of the several coloured bins was scheduled to be collected that morning.

But it wasn't a place that encouraged sociability. The estate seemed designed to promote isolation – rows of small detached houses, high fences around the gardens to prevent them being overlooked, no one walking anywhere. If you wanted to do anything – shopping, leisure, recreation – you had to climb into your car. It was the outskirts of Chester but the beauties of the city – the Roman walls, the quaint shops, the rolling River Dee – might have been a million miles away from this drab modernity.

If she was honest, it wasn't all that different from her house in London. Most of her neighbours there commuted into central London every day, and she usually saw them only if they happened to leave the house at the same time. But it didn't feel quite the same. At least there people walked to the Tube, and there were half a dozen pubs and restaurants within a short walk. You didn't meet the neighbours often, but you did see people around.

She had months of this to look forward to. She sat on the neat sofa in the unadorned living room and wondered quite how to make this place inhabitable. She'd buy some pictures – cheap prints, but at least something that she'd chosen. She'd brought up a box of books and CDs to help to make the place hers. And within a few days her natural untidiness would reduce the sterility of the place. But it still didn't feel enough. It didn't feel
real
.

Last time, up in Manchester, she'd had time to adjust to the part she was playing. And it hadn't felt that much of a stretch. Her fictional persona hadn't been all that different from the reality – a person she might have been if her life had taken one or two different turnings.

But Maggie Yates – well, she didn't really know who the hell Maggie Yates really was. She'd always laughed at actors pompously asking about their characters' motivation, but now she needed something like that. Maggie Yates felt like a hastily thrown-together concoction, an idea that seemed okay in the brainstorming sessions with Salter but which was now as insubstantial as a doodle. She couldn't believe she could sustain the role even for a few days, let alone for weeks on end. She'd got through that first interview with McGrath because his attention had been easily deflected by her more superficial characteristics. But even McGrath might eventually display some curiosity about who Maggie Yates really was.

She set about unpacking the small collection of items she'd brought with her. As she did so, she tried to imagine the sort of person Maggie Yates might be. She'd exercised some care in selecting the objects to bring with her. She couldn't have anything that was too revealing – no personal photographs, no items that might be inconsistent with her new life. But she wanted items that conveyed a sense of individuality – some books, some CDs, a few ornaments. But, in so far as those items reflected a personality at all, it was that of the all-too-real Marie Donovan. Maggie Yates remained nothing more than a shadow.

She finished unpacking and stood back to review the effect of her work. It looked like an unambitious stage-set adorned with bric-a-brac from the nearest charity shop. But perhaps that was right. The fictitious Maggie Yates was up here to start a new life. She was divorced and had chosen to leave most of the trappings of her former existence behind. This bland anonymity might be exactly how Maggie Yates would choose to live just at this moment.

Trying to think herself into Maggie Yates's head, Marie went through to the kitchen and filled the kettle to make coffee. Okay, she was a divorcee. A strong woman, an intelligent woman. A woman brought up to live on the edge of the law, surrounded by wide-boys who made a living wherever and however they could. Treated badly by a husband who'd depended on her more than he'd been able to admit. She'd taken her revenge and made her escape. Mid-thirties. Ready to start anew. To do things on her own terms, not taking any crap.

How did that sound? Well, like a start, she supposed. It meant that she could begin to get inside this person. But she needed more, the sort of detail that should have been supplied to her if Salter had prepared this properly. Like what sort of family Maggie Yates might have. She could imagine a father, maybe brothers, operating in the same semi-legitimate territory as her ex-husband. Maybe that was why she'd been allowed to get away with taking the cash out of the business and heading north. Perhaps her ex knew what would happen if he tried taking on the Yates family.