Trust No One (16 page)

Making up her mind, she went out into the shop. Joe had his head down, adjusting the large reprographic machine. He looked up as she approached, his expression quizzical.

‘OK, so you were right, smart-arse,' she said. ‘As always. I'm dead on my feet. If you resist saying I told you so, I'll let you hold the fort for the rest of the day.'

His face showed no surprise at her change of heart. ‘No problem. Any particular instructions?'

‘Just keep Darren from destroying the place.' She glanced over to where the young man was engaged in sorting some reams of paper – a task with no real purpose except to keep him safely occupied.

‘There are limits to my talents,' Joe said. ‘But I'll do my best. You go and get some rest.' He moved away and began to tinker with the machine again, but looked up as she moved towards the door. ‘And Marie – take care, OK?'

She turned, surprised. ‘I always do, Joe. You know me.'

His face was unexpectedly earnest. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I know you.' And he sounded, one way or another, as if he really meant it.

Chapter 15

‘You're sure about this?'

Salter was staring out at the quays below them, watching the cars and the trams and the scattering of ant-like pedestrians. It was a bright, chilly day, nearly lunchtime, and office workers were scurrying out to grab a sandwich or get a breath of air. He turned back and gazed at Hodder for a moment, his blue eyes blank behind his steel-framed glasses.

‘Questioning my judgement, son?'

Hodder blinked and swallowed, as though struggling to come up with the right response. Salter didn't blame him.

‘No. Of course not. I'm just—'

‘Covering your own arse. Quite right. I'd do the same.'

‘It's not exactly—'

Salter leaned back against the car park railing and smiled at the young officer. ‘You're smart enough,' he said. ‘You'll go far if you get the breaks. And, yeah, if you make sure your arse is always covered. Otherwise, you'll get shafted by cynical buggers like me.'

Hodder had no immediate answer to this. He moved to stand next to Salter, following his gaze. For some reason, Salter had chosen to park on the roof of the Lowry car park, the gallery itself immediately ahead of them with its distinctive silver cylinder. Beyond that, across the water, there were the angular lines of the Imperial War Museum, and then the industrial skyline of Trafford Park. Further to their left, there were the quays themselves, Old Trafford and the hazy rooftops of suburban Manchester.

‘I'm just not really sure what this is all about,' Hodder tried again.

Salter smiled. He took a deep breath, as if enjoying the fresh morning air. ‘Me neither, son. That's what I'm trying to find out.'

‘But this isn't official?'

Salter's narrow eyes were fixed on the view below, his expression that of a not particularly benevolent god reviewing his creation. ‘No, son. Not official.' He paused, the smile widening slightly, as if he was perhaps contemplating a thunderbolt. ‘Just using our initiative. Always a good quality in an ambitious young officer.'

‘And she's one of ours? Donovan.'

Salter glanced at the young man, momentarily surprised. ‘Who told you that?'

‘You did. You were talking to her on the phone when we were at Morton's flat. You said she was deep cover.'

Salter nodded, his eyebrows raised. ‘Good memory, son. Useful quality in this business. Yes, she's one of ours.'

Hodder said nothing for a moment. ‘So what's our objective?'

Salter swivelled so that his angular body was against the concrete wall. He brought his hands together in faint, ironic applause. ‘Very good, son. Senior management material.'

Hodder shrugged embarrassedly; he had no clue what Salter was talking about.

‘I'm assuming “What's our objective?” is management-speak for “What the fuck are you up to?”' Salter was still smiling mirthlessly. ‘Good question, as well.'

‘It's just that I don't really understand—'

‘What the fuck I'm up to. No, well, that's fair enough. Not sure I do.' Salter fumbled in his pocket and brought out a cigarette packet. He proffered it vaguely towards Hodder who shook his head. ‘Good lad. Me, I've given up. Till just now. Pressure of work and all that. Thought I'd follow Mr Welsby's good example.' He lit up, sheltering the cigarette from the buffeting wind. ‘Right, son, let's try to answer your question. What the fuck am I up to?'

‘I didn't mean—'

‘It's the right question. See, I'm going out on a limb here. I'm putting some trust in you not to saw through the branch behind me. Not exactly my style.' The humourless smile returned. ‘Mind you, I'm sure you know better than to shaft me.'

Hodder opened his mouth, but realized that no response was possible.

‘So, to return to the question at hand, what the fuck am I up to?' It wasn't clear now whether Salter was talking to Hodder or to himself. ‘I could spin you some bullshit about having Donovan's best interests at heart. And there'd be some truth in that. She's out there, twisting in the wind. We've a duty to keep an eye on her. But, then, one reason we've left her out there is that we don't know what she's up to. You know what I reckon?'

The last question was unexpectedly directed at Hodder. ‘What's that?'

Salter nodded, satisfied that Hodder was still paying attention. ‘I reckon she was a bit closer to Morton than she's letting on. Her business, of course. So long as she didn't get too close, if you get my drift. But I still think she might know some stuff she's not sharing. So that's another reason for keeping an eye on her.' He paused, as if wondering why he was telling Hodder all this. ‘Just filling you in on the mission, you understand? Just clarifying the
objective.'

Hodder said nothing. Despite the morning sunshine and the scattering of iconic buildings, the quays looked a bleak, inhospitable place from this vantage point. Rows of soulless office buildings and apartment blocks. Anonymous hotels and chain restaurants. Acres of industrial buildings in the distance.

‘But the real question,' Salter went on, ‘the question that must be troubling you, is why I've not gone through official channels. Why I've not involved Mr Welsby. Why we're standing out here in the cold without any official mandate to cover our backsides.' He paused, apparently watching a suite of white clouds drifting slowly across the lower part of the sky. ‘Thing is, son, I really don't know who to trust.' He moved his head to look Hodder in the eye. ‘I'm trusting you. That's a big thing for me. But I don't kid myself that you wouldn't go running up the line if you thought I was going too far. In fact, I'd be disappointed if you weren't smart enough to do that. But for the moment, I'm putting my faith in your good nature and your – what's that word? – your integrity. That's why I'm telling you all this. There's some strange shit going on here. Someone's leaking. Donovan reckons someone might be bugging her flat.'

Hodder frowned, trying to work out the implications. ‘You mean, that we might—'

‘Christ knows. I don't, anyway. All I know is that I'm feeling jittery. I just want to know what's going on, that's all. I want to get some control of things. Make sure my own back's covered before I go any further.' He paused. ‘So that's the objective. You up for it, son?'

‘Guess so. If that's all we're talking about.'

‘That's all I'm talking about. Keep an eye on her. See what's going down. Then we can decide whether to take it up to Uncle Keith. Mr Welsby to you.'

‘You don't think he's involved in this?' Hodder looked genuinely shocked.

Salter stared at the young man for a moment. ‘Keith? Christ, no. One of life's line-toers. If I take this to him without knowing what's what, he'll be obliged to take it higher. That's what worries me. Don't know who to trust even up there where the air's thin. So this is just you and me for the moment. If you're in.'

‘Yeah, I'm in.' Hodder smiled, momentarily revealing a different side to his personality. ‘Besides, I like the challenge. Keeping tabs on one of ours. She'll know the tricks, what to look out for.'

‘Too right she will. Don't underestimate Sister Marie. Test of your skills.'

‘I'll do my best.'

‘All you can do,' Salter said. ‘So, any more questions before we kick off?'

Hodder looked around at the grim concrete interior of the car park. The place filled up on Saturdays and in the evenings, when people were visiting the outlet mall or attending a concert at the Lowry, but on a weekday morning the upper floors were largely deserted. ‘Just one. Why'd we come up here?'

Salter pointed towards the quays below them. ‘See that building there. Smart-looking place on the edge of the water-front. You'll know that one. That's the place where we found Mr Morton's mutilated body. You'll remember that.' It wasn't a question.

Hodder peered downwards, wondering where this was going. ‘Don't think I'm going to forget any time soon.'

Salter straightened and pointed towards the blurred jumble of Manchester. ‘And that block there. Square greyish place, just to the left of the Hilton. That's where she lives. Third floor. Decent little place, apparently.'

Hodder followed Salter's gesture, but all he could see was an indistinguishable jumble of buildings. ‘OK.'

Finally, Salter waved his hand out towards the vast sprawl of Trafford Park. ‘And that little estate over there, those rows of what I imagine are desirable industrial units . . .' He spoke the last three words as if they were somehow obscene. ‘That's where our Marie works. Where she runs her print shop.' He swept his hand through the air as though drawing an invisible line between the three locations. ‘From up here, you see, you've got a vantage point on her whole world.'

Hodder frowned, baffled. ‘That's why we came up here?'

‘Christ, no, son. We're not allowed to smoke in the sodding cars. We're not allowed to smoke in the sodding cafés. We're not even allowed to smoke in the sodding pubs.' He held out the stub of his still lit cigarette. ‘Where the fuck else was I going to go to relapse?'

Hodder's eyes slid across to the large No Smoking sign that decorated the far wall. ‘Strictly speaking, I don't think you're supposed to smoke in here either.'

‘That right?' Salter tossed the stub over the metal railings. ‘Well, sometimes, son, you've just got to break the rules.'

Chapter 16

She'd never have admitted it, but Joe had been right. She was dead on her feet. All the stress of the past week, not to mention the weekend, had finally caught up with her.

She'd initially planned to head straight up to the coast, track down Morgan Jones, get all that – whatever it was – sorted. But after five minutes in the car, she'd realized that she was barely up to the drive, let alone whatever surprises Morgan might throw at her. She turned the opposite way, back into the city, and headed back to the place that perhaps she should learn to think of as home.

She had expected that the flat would still be unlocked, the door still jammed with the folded envelope she had wedged underneath to hold it closed. Now, she fumbled vainly with the catch and realized that the door was locked after all.

Kev the caretaker must have surpassed himself and actually got the work done over the weekend. Probably had taken great satisfaction in calling out an emergency locksmith so he could add the bill to her rent. She fumbled in her purse for the entry card, and then swiped it vainly through the mechanism three or four times. The light remained resolutely on red, and the door refused to open.

Shit. The entry system must have been reset. That meant tracking down Kev. Suddenly, she felt more tired than ever. She wanted nothing more than simply to lie down here in front of her front door and fall asleep.

Sighing, she made her way back downstairs. Kev had a small office just off the main entrance, with his own flat tucked behind it. He was supposedly available 24/7. In practice, it was closer to two days in five, and there was a semi-permanent notice on his door saying:
Back in ten.

For once, though, she was in luck. The door was open and Kev was sitting behind the desk, working his way painstakingly through that morning's copy of the
Sun
, a steaming cup of coffee and a half-eaten sandwich by his side. He looked up, his expression suggesting that he was accustomed to enjoying his break uninterrupted.

‘Miss Donovan,' he said, peering at her over his reading glasses. He made the words sound vaguely salacious.

He cut a slightly disreputable figure, dressed like some faded dandy in a blue-and-white striped shirt and mustard-coloured cardigan. She didn't know if this was a misguided attempt at style, or if he'd just picked up the first clothes he'd found in some charity shop. The directness of his gaze suggested a quasi-sexual appraisal, though she'd seen him direct the same gaze at male residents, and had wondered vaguely about his sexual orientation. She suspected that his interest was generally voyeuristic rather than gender-specific. Behind his desk, there was a bank of CCTV screens linked to the security cameras covering the public areas of the building. It wasn't difficult to imagine that, somewhere in a back room, Kev might have an equivalent unofficial network covering the non-public areas. She could hardly bring herself to care. The more the merrier.

‘How's the door?' he asked, fishing for recognition of his efficiency. ‘Working OK now?'

‘It's successfully keeping me out of my flat, if that's what you mean,' she said.

He nodded, contemplating the significance of this statement. ‘Ah, yes. You'll need the card key resetting.'

She handed over the card. He gazed at it disapprovingly for a moment, as if either it was damaged beyond repair or simply the wrong card entirely. Then he pulled the machine out from beneath his desk and slotted the card into it, his expression now indicating that he was engaged in some highly complex technical operation.

‘There, that should do it.'

‘Thanks, Kev,' she said. ‘And thanks for sorting the door so quickly. Sincerely.'

She was turning to leave when he said, ‘Oh, Miss Donovan . . .'

‘What is it, Kev?'

‘It's just . . .' He was fumbling awkwardly in the top drawer of his desk. ‘I think this is for you.' He held out a slim Manila envelope.

She glanced at the front. It was addressed to her, postmarked more than a week earlier.

Jake's handwriting.

She looked up at Kev, who was smiling smugly back at her, as if he'd just done her a good deed.

‘How long have you had this?' she said.

He shrugged. ‘A day or two.'

She blinked, trying to take this in. ‘Why wasn't it in my post box?' There was a row of sealed pigeon holes in the lobby into which incoming post was delivered.

‘It was delivered to the wrong flat.' His voice took on a defensive note. ‘The address wasn't clear.'

She looked again at the envelope. The paper was rain damaged and the number of the flat had been smudged.

‘Mr— the guy who received it must have sat on it for a few days,' Kev went on. ‘I meant to put it in your box, but hadn't got around to it. I just thought about it when you came in. Is it important?'

She looked at Kev and then down at the envelope. ‘Not really,' she said, then murmured to herself: ‘Maybe just a matter of life and death.'

Back in the lobby, she hesitated. Her first thought had been to return to her flat to open the envelope. But if she was under surveillance there, she didn't want to let anyone know she'd received this, whatever it might be. She returned to the lift and made her way back down to the car park. Her tiredness had melted away, driven out by a surge of adrenaline.

In the middle of the day, the car park was deserted, only a few vehicles still remaining. She looked up at the grey concrete roof and spotted the cameras placed to give coverage across most of the parking area. She moved into a darker corner outside the range of the nearest camera, and carefully tore open the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper, ripped from some reporter's-style notebook. In the centre of the sheet was an apparently meaningless jumble of numbers and letters.

For a moment, she was disappointed. Without consciously realizing it, she had already begun to build expectations about the contents of the envelope – that it would open some new door, offer some fresh insight into the circumstances of Jake's death.

It took her a moment to realize. It was the password, of course. She'd been wasting her time trying to come up with some word that might have had significance for Jake. He had done what the IT security-types always recommended and selected a strong password, nothing more than a random mix of characters. He had sent this and the data stick separately, one to the office, the other to her home, presumably on the basis that if either letter were intercepted, it would be worthless on its own. But he'd assumed that the two items would reach her at roughly the same time, and that she'd be smart enough to make the link.

She folded the paper carefully and clutched it in her hand, making sure that it was not visible to the cameras, as she made her way to the car.

Leaving the car park, she turned down on to the ring road then headed out to the M602. From time to time, she glanced in her rear-view mirror, wondering if she was being followed.

It was impossible to tell. The traffic was busy, and there was a steady stream of cars pulling on to the motorway behind her. The sun was low in her eyes, and it was difficult to concentrate on what might be behind her. When she reached the quieter M61, heading up north to join the M6, it might be easier to judge if anyone was sticking behind her.

A few miles further she reached the junction with the orbital M60, taking the northbound turning that took her across the East Lancs Road to join the M61. Soon she was out in the quieter Lancashire countryside, passing the Reebok Stadium and then the great sweep of Winter Hill ahead of her. There were a couple of cars close behind her, but she had no reason to assume there was anything sinister in their presence.

Nevertheless, when she reached Rivington Services, a mile or two further on, she pulled in, turning unexpectedly, earning a blast of the horn from the car immediately on her tail. She made her way into the car park, turned off the engine and watched other cars entering behind her. Some headed through to get fuel, others stopped. Businessmen making phone calls. Families stopping for a drink or a snack.

The adrenaline had worn off a little, and the tiredness was returning. She climbed out of the car, pulling her coat around her against the chill of the bright day, and retrieved her laptop from the boot. Slipping back into the driver's seat, she fumbled in her handbag for the data stick. When requested, she entered the password scribbled on the piece of paper.

As the window opened on the screen, she glanced up, feeling suddenly exposed. She was parked towards the end of the car park, away from the service buildings, and there were no other cars close by. There was no sign that anyone was interested in her presence.

There were several dozen files on the data stick, all with uninformative coded names. Some were Word files, but most were PDFs, images or copies of e-mails. She opened one of the image files at random. A series of photographs of Kerridge, taken with a long-distance lens, standing in what looked like one of the city centre car parks. There were other figures, mostly Kerridge's associates. But Marie recognized two other figures in the picture. Two Dutchmen – known players in money laundering. The Agency had been liaising with the Dutch police for a year or more about them. It was the usual story. The authorities on both sides of the North Sea knew exactly who they were and what they were up to. The difficulty was building a reliable case. So far, despite their surveillance efforts, they'd obtained nothing likely to stand up in court. Just as with Kerridge and Boyle.

The real trouble was money. These people operated 24/7, and did their business when other people were unlikely to be around. The cost of keeping tabs on them was enormous. Marie had seen major surveillance operations called off simply because the Agency's overtime budget had been spent.

She skimmed through the photographs in the file. They all showed the same scene, probably taken over a period of half an hour or so, as the group of men had talked, smoked, milled around. At one point, one of the Dutchmen appeared to be handing over a package to Kerridge. Probably nothing significant, she thought. These people wouldn't risk soiling their hands with actual merchandise. This would be a set-up meeting, agreeing the terms of the deal and the logistics of the delivery.

The photographs were hardly conclusive evidence, but they were important, showing a link between two sets of operators which the authorities had suspected, but had so far been unable to prove. They'd enable the investigators to draw another line between the countless dots that might one day produce a solid picture. A small step, but they were all small steps and every one constituted progress.

She closed the file and opened another. More pictures, this time showing Kerridge sitting in the sunshine outside an attractive-looking country pub. She recognized none of the figures other than Kerridge himself, but they would be familiar to some of her colleagues. More dots being joined.

She worked through several more files. There were copies of e-mail exchanges, some from Kerridge, some from other names she recognized, some that meant nothing to her. Again, nothing directly incriminating. But there was enough to help progress a case against Kerridge.

Much of it would be inadmissible as evidence given its uncertain provenance. But it was better than anything else they had, and would open other channels of enquiry. Shapes and details that made no sense in isolation would gain significance as part of a wider narrative.

Christ knew how Jake had pieced all this stuff together. At first, she'd assumed that Jake had turned informant just because he'd had enough, that he wanted out. But she knew from experience that most informants just go through the motions. They give up what they know, but don't go out of their way to dig more. Why would they? You don't expect them to take more risks than necessary. It was one of the key skills of the handler, to put enough pressure on the sources to come up with the goods without pushing them too far.

But she'd sensed that Jake was different. The more he'd talked, during their time together, the more she'd felt that something was driving him. Something more than just weariness at the lifestyle, dislike of his associates. He wanted to do something proactive. To bring down the house of cards.

She couldn't imagine how much risk had been involved. She didn't even know whether Jake had acted alone. But it was an extraordinary collection of material. He'd gone to the limits in exploiting his proximity to Kerridge and Boyle – copying documents, taking photographs, scanning material.

She opened a third file – more images. Photographs of documents taken with a digital camera or mobile phone. Slightly blurred in some cases, as if taken in a hurry. She squinted at the screen, trying to work out what she was looking at. Some were tickets. Ferry tickets for the Hull–Zeebrugge line. It was impossible to make out the details, but she suspected that the tickets were for trips made by Kerridge or one of his associates, probably under some assumed name. If the image were enhanced, it could help identify the alternative identities that Kerridge's people used for their overseas liaisons. They'd picked up one or two through surveillance, but the interaction with Kerridge's people was more frequent than anything they'd picked up so far.

There were more copies of tickets, and copies of invoices from transport and courier companies. They'd suspected, but been unable to prove, that Kerridge was involved in carousel fraud, a VAT scam involving the transfer of real or notional goods between different tax regimes. If they could track down the supposed transfers, they might start to disentangle the network of shadow companies involved.

Further into the file, she came across a series of images taken from passports. An ID photograph she recognized as Kerridge, though his hair looked darker in the picture, as if dyed. The passport was in the name of Stuart Larson. There were more photographs of passports, some with images that she recognized. A driving licence with Kerridge's photograph, again in the name Stuart Larson. Two more passports with Kerridge's image and different names.