Trust No One (20 page)

Chapter 21

It was an old building; Victorian or Edwardian. A hotel, perhaps, or maybe a school. She should be able to tell just by looking inside one of the endless series of doors. At the beginning – or was it later? – she'd been given an entry card which was supposed to provide access, but each time she tried to use it the light remained fixed on red.

In any case, there was no time. She had to continue pacing down these endless corridors in search of Jake. She'd forgotten why that was necessary, or why Jake was there in the first place, but she knew it was important. A matter of life and death.

She turned corner after corner, expecting that she would find something to help her get her bearings. A sign, or some familiar landmark.

But the corridors just ran on, each as characterless as the last. Blank white walls, dark wooden doors. From time to time, she noticed CCTV cameras observing her, black lenses turning slowly to follow her as she passed.

At last, she rounded yet another corner and found that the corridor came to an abrupt end. There was one more door ahead, unrevealing as the rest. She fumbled for the entry card, knowing that this was her objective, that this time the card would fit. This was where she would find Jake.

As she fumbled in her pocket to extricate the card, her mobile phone began to ring somewhere else in her jacket. Struggling to find the phone, which she knew she'd had only minutes before, she looked up to see that the door was beginning slowly to open . . .

The ringing continued, shriller now but more distant. She opened her eyes. The dream was already fading, the details lost. She rolled over in the bed, squinting at the alarm clock. Not yet seven. Who the hell was calling at this hour?

She grabbed her dressing gown. The bell was pressed again, more insistent this time. Out in the hallway, she pressed the response button on the entryphone. It was a relatively sophisticated system, part of the security arrangements that had attracted her to this place, with a video screen linked to a CCTV camera in the lobby. She switched on the screen, expecting to see the postman or some other familiar early morning caller.

‘Yes?'

It was someone she didn't recognize, a round-faced man with slightly overgrown hair. Two other men stood behind him. He was holding a wallet towards the camera. She couldn't make out the detail of the card it contained, but she didn't really need to. She had a similar one tucked away in a concealed side pocket in her handbag.

‘Police, madam. Wonder if you could spare us a few moments. It is rather urgent.'

It was the exaggerated politeness that alerted her. She'd heard that tone before. Christ, she'd
used
that tone before. Usually in the phony war before you were in a position to read someone their rights. At least one of the men behind was uniformed, she thought, though it was difficult to be sure through the camera. Three of them, though. That wasn't casual.

She pressed the microphone. ‘Sorry – you woke me up. Give me a second to get myself decent.'

She knew that she wouldn't have much more than that notional second. If she delayed, whatever suspicions they had would be confirmed and they'd be inside the place. In this job, though, you were always prepared. Like a fucking Boy Scout.

She grabbed the small case she always kept ready. She'd sometimes joked to Liam that it was like being pregnant, having your bag ready for the maternity ward. She wasn't sure he'd ever got the joke. She thrust the bag into the bathroom, then grabbed a set of clothes and dressed rapidly. Practical stuff. Jeans and a jumper. But she kept the jeans off for the moment, leaving her legs bare. She tossed the jeans, along with a pair of trainers, by the case in the bathroom, then emerged and closed the door behind her.

She pressed the entryphone. ‘Sorry to keep you. Just getting presentable.' She fingered the buzzer and watched the three men push their way into the building.

She used the few seconds it took them to reach her flat to check her purse. Some cash, not enough. Credit cards. Those might not be much use, she thought.

She realized suddenly that she was already thinking of herself as a fugitive. Christ, she didn't even know what the police wanted yet. And even if, as her instincts were telling her, it was something serious, she knew she could extract herself from most things with a single call to Salter or Welsby. Assuming she could trust Salter or Welsby.

That was it, she thought. It was the sense she'd had for days, only half-acknowledged, that she'd already been cast adrift, that she was out here on her own. And it was the recognition that, somewhere deep inside, the idea wasn't entirely unwelcome.

There was a sharp knocking at her front door. She opened it, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around her so it wouldn't be evident that she was partially dressed underneath.

The round-faced man was still holding out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Blackwell,' he said. He made no effort to introduce the two men – one uniformed, one CID – behind him. ‘Miss Donovan?'

She leaned forwards and made a play of examining his warrant.
Lone woman, vulnerable,
she thought. Encourage that thought.

‘Ms,' she corrected pointedly. ‘How can I help you?' Her face suggested blank incomprehension. Blackwell's was equally unrevealing.

‘Do you mind if we sit down? It might take a few minutes. We need to check a few details.'

She glanced at her watch, allowing a look of mild impatience to cross her face. ‘Yes, of course. Can I get you some coffee or something?'

‘That won't be necessary.' In charge now, he led them without hesitation into Marie's sitting room. He looked around appraisingly, with the air of an estate agent surveying a new property. ‘Decent view.'

‘If you like office blocks, I suppose.' She moved past him to sit down, making sure she chose the armchair closest to the door. ‘How can I help you?' she said again. ‘I don't have much experience in – what's that phrase? – helping the police with their enquiries.'

Blackwell regarded her for a second with what might have been scepticism. Then he lowered himself on to the armchair opposite her, waving to the two other officers to take the sofa.

‘Do you know a . . .' He paused and glanced at a notebook he'd pulled from his jacket pocket. ‘A Morgan Jones?'

Christ, she thought, quit the play-acting, Blackwell. She'd sat through too many interviews not to know all the tricks. The dramatic pauses, the quizzical looks, the silences. The un necessary consultation of the probably blank notebook.

‘Morgan Jones?' she repeated. ‘Yes, I know him. Not well, but I know him.'

‘Can I ask exactly how you're acquainted with him?'

‘A sort of business acquaintance, I suppose.'

‘A business acquaintance,' Blackwell echoed, his tone suggesting that this was an unfamiliar concept. ‘What business are you in, Miss Donovan?'

‘Printing,' she said. ‘Reprographics.'

‘And Mr Jones is in the same line of business, is he?'

She shrugged. ‘I've no idea, to be honest. I got the feeling he had his finger in a few pies.'

‘So how did you know him?'

She noted, with a slight chill, the past tense. She didn't know whether that had been a slip on Blackwell's part or a deliberate nudge. He seemed smart enough to know what he was doing.

‘Can't remember where I first came across him,' she said. ‘Friend of a friend thing, I think. But he gets in touch now and again. Tries to push bits of business my way.' Careful to stick to the present tense.

‘Printing business?'

‘That's what we do,' she said. ‘If he comes across opportunities, he passes them on to us.' It was a lie, but the most innocuous one she could think of. And like all the best lies, not a million miles from the truth. Jones had put business her way. Just not usually printing.

‘Very altruistic.'

‘Not really. If it comes to anything – which it has once or twice – I pay him a commission. A lead's a lead, wherever it comes from.'

‘And when did you last see Mr Jones?'

There was no point in lying. If the police were here, they already had some information about her and that could well include knowledge of her movements the previous day.

‘Yesterday, actually,' she said. She stopped, as if the possible implications of their visit had only just struck her. ‘What's this all about?'

‘Why did you see him yesterday?'

‘What's this all about?' she said again. ‘Has something happened to Jones?'

‘Why did you see him?' Blackwell's tone had changed slightly. She recognized that tone, too. Getting down to business. Cutting the crap.

She shrugged, acknowledging that her question wasn't going to be answered. ‘Usual stuff,' she said. ‘He'd contacted me about what he thought might be an opportunity for us. Some graphics work for an exhibition. Turned out not to be our sort of thing. Too specialist.'

‘But you went up to see him? All the way to Blackpool. Long way to go for an opportunity . . .' His tone placed verbal quote marks around the last word.

‘Maybe. I wasn't feeling too brilliant yesterday. Thought a breath of sea air might do me good. So I decided to kill two birds with one stone.'

It sounded feeble even to her, but Blackwell didn't seem inclined to question her account just yet.

‘What time of day was this?'

‘Late morning. I got there about eleven, I suppose. Stayed there about an hour.' She had little doubt that Basil Fawlty would remember precisely when she'd been on his premises.

She glanced across to where the junior CID officer was jotting down these points in his notepad. She tried again. ‘What's this about? What's happened?'

Blackwell was gazing past her, staring at the view beyond the window, his expression suggesting that he had momentarily forgotten her presence. ‘Jones is dead,' he said.

‘What happened?' she said after a moment's silence. ‘A heart attack?'

‘His heart had stopped beating. But that might have been attributable to the bullet in his brain.'

She stared at him blankly, trying to conceal her shock. After a moment, she allowed her mouth to fall open, the expression of one who has just heard bad news of a not-very-close acquaintance.

‘My God.'

Blackwell's steady gaze had returned to her. ‘We think you were probably the last person to see him alive.' He paused just a beat too long. ‘Apart from the killer, of course.'

‘Are you treating me as a suspect?'

He smiled, with no evident trace of humour. ‘We're not at that stage, Miss Donovan. We're just trying to ascertain the facts.'

‘You're not saying no, then.'

The smile grew broader, if not noticeably warmer. ‘Should I treat you as a suspect?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘You're the one with the information. How do you even know he was murdered? Bullet in the brain could mean suicide.' She paused, wondering if she was being too bold. ‘Not what I'd have expected of Morgan. But it's not what you'd expect of anyone.'

Blackwell nodded, as though giving serious consideration to an idea that hadn't previously occurred to him. ‘I think the forensics would enable us to discount the possibility of suicide,' he said after a time. ‘If we hadn't already spotted that there was no gun in the room.'

She found herself growing tired of Blackwell's smart-arse style. ‘What do you want from me, then? I've told you everything I can.'

‘I doubt it,' Blackwell said amiably. ‘What about your meeting with Jones? Tell me about that.'

‘What do you want to know?'

‘You said he had some business to put your way.'

‘There's not much to tell,' she said, conscious of the risks of taking her fabrication too far. ‘It was the usual something and nothing. That was often the way with Jones.'

‘But you still went all the way up there to see him?'

‘I've told you,' she said. ‘It was just a whim. In any case, Jones' leads have sometimes come good. The way things are at the moment, you don't ignore any possibility.'

Blackwell's interest seemed momentarily sparked. ‘Business not so good?'

‘We're doing all right,' she said. ‘Better than most. But times are tough for everybody.'

‘And you weren't surprised that Jones asked you to meet him at a hotel?'

‘I don't know anything about his personal life. I've usually met him either at our offices or over a beer or a coffee. I don't even know if he lives locally.' She paused and then corrected herself. ‘Lived, I mean. I don't know if he was married. I didn't know anything about him, and I didn't really want to. No offence, but he wasn't somebody I'd normally spend much time with.'

‘But you weren't worried about going to his hotel room?'

‘With Jones? No. I can look after myself if anyone tries it on.'

Blackwell watched her with the air of someone about to spring a trap. ‘And did he?'

‘What? Try it on?' She shook her head. ‘What's your idea? That Jones made a pass at me and I shot him in the head?'

‘There was no kind of altercation between you?'

She recalled, just in time, Basil Fawlty's brief intervention the previous day.

‘No, Jones was sweetness and light. Fell off his chair once, though. Made me wonder if he'd been drinking. He was swinging back on one of those wooden chairs – you know, rocking on the two rear legs like kids do. Then it slipped from under him and he ended up on his back on the floor.'

‘He hadn't been drinking,' Blackwell said. ‘No sign of recent alcohol in his body. Perhaps you just made him nervous.'

‘Perhaps he was just clumsy,' she said. ‘But there was nothing else. He told me about his opportunity. We discussed it a bit, and I decided it was a non-starter for us.'