Nowhere to Hide (9 page)

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.

‘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?'