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The full wine glass had been sitting untouched on the kitchen surface in front of her. She picked it up and took a large swallow. ‘What kind of stuff, Jack?'

‘If you go through the files over the years, it's interesting how often evidence just seems to fall into Salter's lap. As long as it's a case involving one of Boyle's rivals. And it's interesting how little substance there is in any of the evidence against Boyle.'

‘With respect, Jack, that's not going to get you very far. It might confirm your suspicions and mine, but it's not going to cut much ice with a misconduct panel.'

‘But that was just the start. I went out and called in some favours from mates in the Force up here – I've still got a few. Got them to put out feelers with their informants. Wasn't easy because a lot of people clammed up when they knew what I was after. Boyle's got people pretty nervous up here.'

She had a sense that this might be going nowhere, that Brennan was clutching at straws. ‘So did you get anything?'

‘Yeah, I did, in the end. I got a couple of grasses who were prepared to talk. On the record. I've got taped testimony, and I've got their commitment that, if we promise them protection, they'll say it again in a formal statement.'

‘Are you sure about this, Jack?' She knew from experience how often such promises melted away once informants realised what they'd agreed to. ‘What's in it for them?'

‘Boyle's made plenty of enemies over the years. There are enough people around who want to get back at him. And nobody likes a bent cop.' The last sentence was expressed with some feeling. ‘I know it's a long shot. But I think I could land them, with a bit of internal help. But that's not the best of it.'

‘Go on,' she said, cautiously.

‘After I'd got people to put feelers out, I received a package in the post. Sent anonymously. A CD-R. Just a few files on it. But all of them interesting. A handful of photographs of Salter meeting people whose faces I recognised. Not the kind of people you'd expect Salter to be meeting.'

She found herself holding her breath. ‘Including Boyle?'

‘Sadly not. Smaller fry. But awkward enough for Salter.'

‘It's good,' she agreed. ‘But probably not good enough. You know Salter. He'll talk his way out of it. They'll suddenly become his informants. He'll come up with perfectly legitimate reasons why he had to be talking to them.'

‘There's still more. A couple of audio files. Tapes of conversations. One of the voices unmistakeably Salter. The file names suggest that the other parties were among those in the photos, though I don't know the voices myself. But the subject matter isn't the kind of thing that someone in Salter's position should be discussing. Accepting payments for favours rendered. Or blind eyes turned.'

She realised that, without noticing, she'd finished the glass of wine. Phone in one hand, she poured herself another. ‘That's better,' she said. ‘But still not great. We'd have to prove for certain that it really is Salter. We'd have to be certain who he's talking to. And we'd have to ensure there was no context that might provide a legitimate explanation for what he appears to be saying.' She was familiar enough with the lengths that defence councils went to in casting doubt on the quality of prosecution evidence. She had no doubt that Salter would know all the same tricks.

‘It's not perfect,' Brennan acknowledged. ‘But it never will be. Not with someone like Salter. It's going to be a question of scraping together whatever we can find and hoping we get enough to make it stick.'

‘Okay,' she said. ‘So what are you going to do with this?' She could suddenly envisage some great tit-for-tat corruption battle between Brennan and Salter. Or, worse still, Brennan attempting to blackmail Salter into dropping the misconduct charges. Salter would make mincemeat of Brennan, she suspected. It wasn't just that he was smarter, or at least more cunning. It was that he had the whole of the Agency's resources behind him.

It was clear that Brennan thought the same. ‘I don't think I can do much,' he said. ‘I'm too compromised. It'll look as if I'm just throwing mud to see if I can get any to stick. It'll be too easy for Salter to pull it apart.'

It was all too clear where this was heading, she thought. She took another large mouthful of wine. ‘You want me to do something with it?'

‘I don't know. But it seems to me that you've got more chance of being listened to than I have. You're still trailing clouds of glory from dealing with Kerridge and Welsby.'

From where Marie was sitting, none of it felt glorious. Brennan was right, up to a point. The problem was that she didn't know what dirt Salter might have on her. How much did he really know about her relationship with Jake Morton? Did he or didn't know that she'd met with Andy McGrath after his disappearance? What kind of innuendo would he spread about her night at Brennan's flat? If she tried to confront Salter, she could imagine he'd have an armoury of ammunition to use against her.

On this other hand, this was what she'd been wanting for the past year. Surely she could do something with it. She had a duty to help Brennan. The misconduct hearing would be weeks or more away. There had to be an opportunity to use the material Brennan had to build a real case against Salter.

‘Look, Jack,' she said, ‘I'm making no promises. Like I say, it's good stuff but it's maybe not good enough. If we're going to make anything stick against Salter, we need to have something substantial. Not necessarily something that would stand up in court. But enough to make the powers-that-be take a really serious look at him. Do we have that?'

There was a silence. ‘I don't know,' Brennan finally acknowledged. ‘I mean, you're right. It's not definitive. I don't see how Salter could talk himself out of all of this, but I can see he'd have a damn good try. Look, Marie, I'm too close to all this. It's been a shock, the last day or so. Just when I thought I was getting somewhere, the whole fucking rug gets pulled from under me. I'm not sure I'm thinking straight –'

‘Make a copy of the disc. Stick it in the post to me, special delivery. I'll look at it and tell you what I think. See if it's got legs.'

‘That would be good,' Brennan said. ‘You know Salter much better than I do. You know how he'd react to this stuff.'

‘I don't think anyone knows Hugh Salter,' she said. ‘Not even Hugh Salter. Okay, Jack, I'll do my best. If I can nail Salter and help you out of the shit, I will. But no guarantees.'

‘No, of course not. But I need all the help I can get at the moment.'

‘I'll do what I can. Should I call you on this number when I've had chance to look at the disc?'

‘Yes, use this one. Don't want any risk of Salter keeping tabs on me.'

‘Okay, Jack. Trust me, I'll do my best with this.'

She picked up the bottle of wine. It was half-empty already. She stared at it for a moment and then refilled her glass. She wasn't sure how she felt. For the first time since the Welsby affair, there was at least the possibility of building a case against Salter. But she felt a growing unease. Maybe it was the fear that, once again, Salter would be one step ahead. Maybe it was anxiety that Brennan was pinning his hopes on not very much. Whatever it was, she thought, it just didn't feel quite right.

Things had changed, that was obvious.

No one had briefed him, but that wasn't a surprise. Nor was he much bothered. He didn't like to receive too much information from the client. In principle, it was good if the client kept him in the picture. In practice, even in the early days of a job, he soon knew more than the client did. So he made a point of finding out for himself.

And, as this case showed, clients weren't brilliant at keeping you up to speed. When things went pear-shaped, or just took a turn they hadn't been expecting, they tended to have problems of their own to deal with. They forgot that you were out there, working on their behalf, representing their interests. By the time they remembered, it might be too late.

He took all that in his stride. He kept watch, made his own judgements, and decided what to do next.

A day or two before, he'd watched her return to the house. He'd kept watch on her movements the previous night, guessed from the tracker location where she'd spent it and wondered about the significance or otherwise of that. He wondered whether she knew that the policeman was under surveillance and had been for some days. That was interesting too. The surveillance looked official – if less expert than his own efforts – and he could guess who had ordered it. Something was brewing here. It was like the first moments of subsidence or decay in an apparently sound building, the point where the first cracks appear. There might be nothing obvious to the naked eye, but the slow destruction has already begun.

He was becoming philosophical in his middle age, he thought. A dangerous tendency in this job. Better to stick with simple pragmatism. His instincts told him he needed to take care. Get this job done, whatever it now turned out to be, and then get away for a while.

He noticed that, on the way back from the policeman's, she'd made another stop. He'd done his research and knew whose flat she'd stopped off at. He knew who lived there and, more than that, who was staying there at the moment. Another interesting development. He wondered whether that flat was also under official surveillance. He thought that it was quite possible. If so, he was not the only one joining these various dots. In the circumstances, he wondered whether his own presence here was strictly necessary. But that wasn't his call. And, after all, his role was different.

He'd been back waiting outside her house when she'd returned. He could see she was nervous from the way she parked, a few hundred yards down the road, and from the cautious way she approached the house. He could have told her there was no need to worry. Last night's intruder had not returned.

Half an hour or so later she'd re-emerged, this time lugging two large suitcases. She left them by the front door for a moment while she moved the car next to the house, then slung both the cases into the boot. This looked pretty permanent, he thought. He wasn't surprised she wanted to vacate the house after the previous night's events. And there was no reason for her to continue the assignment up here. Presumably, she was returning to base.

He watched as she locked up the house, returned to the car and set off down the road. Well, that was it, he thought. From this point, his instructions were unclear. He'd been told to keep watch on her up here, that was all. He hadn't even known whether his other services would be required. In a way, he was sorry that they hadn't been. It would have been interesting to test whether he could maintain detachment. He would have done the job successfully, but it would have required a little more effort than usual.

He assumed there would be no requirement for him to follow her back south. Not for the moment, at least. He would send in his anonymous report as usual – the intruder, where she had spent the night, her visit this morning, her apparent departure. He would keep an eye on the tracker, just in case her leaving was only temporary. He would wait patiently for his next instructions, whatever they might be.

If this really was the end of this case, he probably would act upon his thought, which had come to him only that morning, to take a break. Not for long. Just a month or two. Somewhere warm, where he could just relax, lose himself. Just long enough for this, whatever it might be, to come to a head.

‘Yes?' It was the Maggie Yates mobile. That was interesting. Even though the mission had been effectively aborted, the line hadn't yet been cancelled and no one had asked for the phone to be returned. Perhaps Salter had wanted to discover what calls she might receive on it. She picked the phone up from the table and carried it out of the back door into the cold night.

The caller's number was withheld, but from the first spoken syllable Marie recognised the voice. Lizzie. She interrupted hurriedly. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘The battery on this is nearly dead. Can you call me back on another line?' Not giving Lizzie the chance to speak, she gave Liam's number and then repeated it more slowly, hoping that the Lizzie would have the nous and the means to take it down. She cut the line.

That probably meant that she couldn't continue to use Liam's line as an alternative. If Salter was having the Maggie Yates line intercepted, he'd very soon be trying to do the same for the number she'd just given. If she was right about Salter, she wondered if he was doing it all by the book. Whether he was getting warrants to justify the interceptions. Probably, at least as far as Brennan was concerned. And maybe she was just being paranoid about her own position. Salter wouldn't go any further out on a limb than he had to. On the other hand, the Brennan case probably provided him with the justification he needed to spread the net more widely. There was no point in taking chances.

She began to worry that Lizzie had failed to take down the number. Then Liam's phone buzzed on the desk and she picked it up.

‘Are you okay to talk?' Lizzie said.

‘Yes, I'm fine. Just being cautious.'

‘You think the other line's bugged?'

‘It's possible. It's an Agency phone.' After her conversation with Brennan the previous evening, it had occurred to her that they might also have planted some surveillance devices in her home. The very thought made her angry, though she recognised that, in her line of work, it would be hypocritical to complain about invasion of privacy. It was this that had made her take the phone out into the small back garden.

‘I'll keep it brief,' Lizzie said. ‘I told you that Dad wanted to see you.'

Marie was silent for a moment. She had no desire to meet Keith Welsby again. The last time she'd encountered him, he'd been threatening her life. Part of her still hoped that, in the end, he wouldn't have gone through with it. That he'd have found some other way of extricating himself from the mess he'd created with Jeff Kerridge. She'd respected Welsby once. For a time, she'd almost thought of him as a model of what a policeman should be – iconoclastic, challenging, difficult but still fundamentally honest. As it had turned out, while he might have had the first three of those qualities, he'd certainly lacked the last. ‘I don't see how it's going to be possible, Lizzie. He's still technically on remand.'