Nowhere to Hide (16 page)

They were often like that. That one up on the moors. He knew what was going to happen, and he seemed simply to accept it. Perhaps it had been a relief. He'd been running for a long time, and now he was able to stop.

So now everything was done. He'd texted the code to the anonymous number to confirm it was finished. No need for more contact than that. After a short time, the remainder of the money would arrive. Clean cash sent to a designated PO Box, that he'd pay in instalments into a range of bank accounts. No sums large enough to excite any suspicion.

For once, he already had another job in place. Usually he had to wait. He was good at the job and had a reputation in the right places, so the commissions came in often enough. But it was a niche service. And there were risks in being too busy. He might get careless, cut corners. Usually, he was happy to get a job done, and then slip off the radar for a month or two.

But this had been a golden period. One commission after another, but with freedom to work at his own pace. He knew, or at least he thought he knew, who and what was behind it. But it wasn't his business to care about that. The requests came through the usual channels, and the required upfront retainer was paid. That was all he was bothered about. After that, it was just a job.

Even this one.

He admitted to himself, though, that this one was different. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise. There was nothing wrong with feeling some emotion. But you had to recognise the fact. You had to make sure it didn't cloud your judgement.

So there would be a personal dimension to this one. He would feel something, for sure. The question was what.

That was his real worry. That he couldn't be sure of his own feelings. He felt anger, resentment. A sense of humiliation. But also something more positive. A lingering affection. Love even. He didn't know what love felt like, but there had been times when he had thought, just maybe, it might feel like this.

‘It's a mess, I'm afraid,' McGrath acknowledged ruefully.

He could say that again, Marie thought. Not just a mess. A towering heap of crap that had clearly just been allowed to grow for years. If nothing else, it ought to mean that she had a job here for as long as she wanted it. ‘It would benefit from a little organisation,' she offered, tentatively.

They were standing in the room that McGrath had designated as her office. It was approximately a quarter of the size of McGrath's own, and largely filled with piles of unsorted documents. Invoices, bills, letters, company brochures. And almost anything else you cared to name. There were two battered filing cabinets, both empty. Beside those, squashed into the corner of the room, there was an equally decrepit desk, with an ancient-looking computer perched on top. Without moving some of the papers, it would be impossible for her even to sit at the desk.

‘Well,' McGrath said, ‘that's why we need you. This isn't really Lizzie's strong point.'

‘We all have different talents.' Marie preferred not to think about where Lizzie's might lie. She picked up a handful of papers from the nearest file, examining them as if they might offer a solution to McGrath's administrative problems. ‘You'd like me to sort these?'

‘As best you can, anyway.' McGrath was already backing towards the door. ‘I imagine a lot of it can be thrown.' He leaned over, apparently to peer at the documents she was holding, although also securing a lengthy look at her cleavage in the process.

‘I imagine so.' The papers were clearly in no kind of order, chronological or otherwise. Some dated back several years, others were relatively new. She wondered whether the bills had actually been paid. ‘Should keep me out of mischief, eh?' She raised her gaze back up to McGrath, who hurriedly averted his own from the upper half of her body. ‘Is there anything else I need to know?'

McGrath had said that there was a lot to hand over to her. She suspected she was probably looking at most of it. She wondered whether the material related solely to the legitimate side of McGrath's business, or whether it might contain evidence relating to his shadier affairs. Given McGrath's disorganisation, anything might be possible.

‘Don't think so. Lizzie can show you all the domestics. Tea and toilets and all that. I've got a few bits of business to attend to. See you later.'

He'd left the room before she could make any response. That was a relief in one respect, at least. She'd had a fear that McGrath might spend the day breathing down her neck – or some other parts of her body – as she tried to get on with things.

She stood back and regarded the pile of papers. Several weeks' work there, without question. It might be an evidential treasure trove, or it could be the pile of rubbish it appeared. There was only one way to find out.

She decided to postpone the evil moment a little longer and wandered back to the office where Lizzie was sitting at her computer, perusing the online gossip pages of some tabloid.

‘Andy said you could show me where to make myself a coffee,' Marie said.

Lizzie looked up, her expression suggesting that Marie had raised some issue relating to quantum mechanics. ‘Coffee? Um, yeah, there's a kitchen at the end of the corridor. Water heater thingie. Coffee and mugs in the cupboard over the sink. Milk's in the fridge. I've got ours labelled. If I don't, the techies upstairs nick it.' An IT company occupied the floor above them, with various other small companies scattered through the rest of the building.

‘Thanks. Want one?'

Lizzie looked genuinely surprised. ‘Yeah, thanks. Look, I'll come through and show you.'

Marie followed the young woman into the small kitchen at the end of the corridor. There was a sink, fridge, row of cupboards, a cheap-looking dishwasher. Marie busied herself preparing the coffee. ‘Been here long?' she asked, idly.

‘Nearly two years.'

‘Straight from school?'

‘Worked in a shop for a bit. Chemist's. But this is a lot easier.'

I bet, Marie thought. ‘How are you finding it?'

‘All right. Left to myself a lot of the time, when Andy's out and about. So I just get on with things.'

‘Andy okay to work for?'

Lizzie nodded. ‘Yeah, really good, actually. Easygoing, generally.' She filled the cups from the water heater. ‘Don't know how he makes any money, though.'

Marie looked at Lizzie with interest. Maybe not quite as dizzy as she appeared. ‘Doesn't seem busy?'

‘Dunno really. I mean, I'm no expert. He gets some business through. But it doesn't seem like much.' She paused to hand one of the mugs to Marie. ‘Maybe there's stuff I don't see.'

Marie nodded, her face expressionless. ‘Probably handles a lot of it himself. Anyway, let's hope he manages to keep us in work, eh?'

Back in the office, she sat on the floor, the coffee beside her, and began to look through the piles of paperwork. Sitting with the mass of documents at eye-level, it seemed like a Herculean task.

It was too much. Not just this – filtering through the world's biggest haystack in search of a needle that might not even be there. But everything.

Especially Liam.

That was the real issue. That was why she was feeling bad. She hadn't driven down to the hospital on Sunday. She'd phoned in the morning and been told that Liam's condition had improved significantly. They were keeping him in for another night but, assuming there was no further relapse, expected to release him on Monday. Ten minutes later, Sue had called and reassured her that everything was in hand. ‘He's been asleep most of the time. I'll pop in again at visiting time.'

‘I think I should come down–' Marie had begun.

‘Well, that's your decision,' Sue responded. ‘But you really don't need to. I know how busy you are.'

‘I can get down for the day.'

‘They won't allow anyone in except during the designated hours. And he's most likely to be asleep. It's a long way for you.'

‘What about tomorrow?' Marie said, wanting to move the conversation on. ‘If he's released. Is everything okay for him at home?'

‘I can be there when he gets home tomorrow. I've spoken to the social worker. She's going to come tomorrow afternoon and do an assessment. See if we need to increase the care package. But it's all under control.'

Marie had noted the ‘we', but wasn't sure who Sue was including in that first-person plural. She was feeling increasingly excluded, even though she knew that she'd chosen to exclude herself. ‘I still think I should come back,' she said, though the offer sounded insincere even to her own ears.

‘There's nothing you could do. Liam probably wouldn't even be aware you'd been.'

‘Well, if you're sure . . .'

‘Absolutely certain. If anything changes, I'll contact you straight away. But there really is nothing for you to worry about.'

‘You'll let me know if there's any change for the worse?'

‘I've just said I will. I'll call you tomorrow morning to update you anyway. If you can't answer, I'll leave a message.'

‘Thanks. That's great. I'll be back next weekend, then.'

‘Whatever you think best.'

Marie had ended the call and stood, in that poky little living room, staring at the phone in her hand. She was tempted to call back, say she'd changed her mind. Head off down the M6 and back home.

But she'd known that she wouldn't. She couldn't cope. She couldn't face the thought of dealing with someone who was growing more and more disabled, more and more dependent. By contrast, Sue seemed unfazed by whatever Liam's condition might throw at her. She'd dealt with clients whose condition was far worse, she said. You just had to get on with it.

Marie told herself that it was easy to be blasé when you could walk away. For Sue, Liam was a professional challenge, not a dependent. But Marie thought she saw signs that Sue's relationship with Liam was changing. That, for good or ill, Sue was beginning to get personally involved. That Liam was something more than just another client.

That was the trouble with this job, Marie thought. Externally, she had to present herself as Maggie Yates. Marie Donovan was locked in her own head, stuck with her own thoughts and imaginings. She sat here, on the dusty floor of this crappy office, concocting fantasies about what might or might not be happening two hundred miles away. She'd no reason to suspect Sue's good intentions. For Christ's sake, the woman had made it possible for her to continue to work and live as she wanted. She could hardly resent her for that.

She wished there was someone she could talk to about all this. Once, Liam would have been there to offer support and reassurance. Now it was Liam she wanted to talk about, and there was no one to listen.

Her thoughts went back to Jack Brennan. Maybe she should meet up with him after all. Salter could hardly complain, given he'd set the whole thing up in the first place. She couldn't talk to Brennan about anything personal – Christ, no – but she could allow herself to be Marie Donovan for a short while. Get outside her own head.

‘How's it going?' Lizzie was peering round the door, staring at Marie and the piles of paper in something approaching awe. ‘Wondered if you wanted another coffee?'

Marie looked at the papers in her hand, and realised that, although she'd worked systematically through more than half of the first pile, she'd taken in almost nothing of what she'd been reading.

‘Not so good, really. Only just scratched the surface.' She sat back on the hard floor and looked at the stacks of paperwork. ‘Coffee would be good. A really, really strong one.'

‘Hello?'

‘Jack Brennan?'

Brennan took the phone from his ear and glanced at the screen. Number withheld. ‘Who's asking?'

‘Colin Barker. DS in Renshaw's team. Rob tells me you're all right.'

‘I think so. Not everyone would agree.'

Barker laughed. ‘You the guy who shafted Craddock?'

‘So they say.'

‘Makes you all right in my book. Not everyone loved that bastard.'

‘Plenty of people seemed quite fond of him at the time.'

‘Protecting their own, weren't they? Worried what else might come to light once you'd turned over the stone.'

‘I dare say. How can I help you, Colin?'

‘More a question of how I can help you. Rob tells me you're interested in Pete Boyle?'

‘More than a bit. You've got something?'

‘I've got a grass who's close to Boyle's team.'

‘Sounds ideal. Any info gratefully received.'

‘You reckon Boyle's flexing his muscles?'

‘That's the theory on this side of the house. One person's theory, anyway. I'm keeping an open mind.'

‘Could be right. Been a bit of tension on the streets. Not exactly open warfare. But things a bit more heated than usual. Couple of assaults on known dealers. Places burnt out. Sporadic, so far, and no obvious pattern. But enough to suggest that something's going on.' Barker paused. ‘And then there's Kerridge's missus.'

‘What impact has that had?'

‘Too early to tell. It's left a definite vacuum, though. Doing bloody well, was Ma Kerridge. Taken over Jeff's reins very nicely. Lots of people reckon she was the brains behind Jeff Kerridge anyway.'

‘Who'll succeed her?'

‘Far as we know, there's no obvious number two. Ma Kerridge learned from what happened with Pete Boyle. If you groom a successor, they end up trying to usurp the bloody throne.'

‘But not having a successor brings other problems,' Brennan pointed out.

‘Too right. But you probably don't care too much once you've gone. We'll get some serious jockeying for position now. All the big players will want in.'

‘Including Pete Boyle.'

‘He'll have been camping out all night, waiting for the sale to start,' Barker said.