Nowhere to Hide

by Alex Walters

  Brennan gave a low whistle. ‘But you’ve no proof?’

  She glanced across at Brennan, wondering if she’d said too much. Christ, she didn’t know that Salter hadn’t sent Brennan here precisely to winkle this out of her. How had she allowed herself to be so indiscreet? Those baby blue eyes again?

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘And half the time I think I’m wrong. I’ve been watching Hugh like a hawk for the last six months and I’ve seen no evidence of anything untoward.’

  They had reached the edge of the park. They crossed over the road and stood together looking at the water sparkling in the afternoon sun. ‘Begs another question,’ Brennan said. ‘If he is on Boyle’s payroll, why’s he employed me to help on the case?’

  ‘Good point. When the powers-that-be dropped the prosecution last year, Hugh made out he was furious. Said we shouldn’t let the bastard off the hook. Result was that he was given the Boyle file. I wondered whether he’d engineered that to keep control of it. Could still be true. He’s made some progress in building a case against Boyle, but we’re still a long way from anything that would stand up in court.’

  ‘But the fact that he’s brought me into it suggests he might be serious after all?’

  ‘Maybe. A more cynical view would be that, well, you’re damaged goods. He’s given you a role that involves you trying to coordinate with the very people who’ve offloaded you, possibly chasing up links that don’t exist. Trying to build a case that might be tainted just by your involvement.’

  ‘You really know how to build someone’s self-esteem, don’t you?’

  ‘You wanted me to be straight,’ Marie pointed out. ‘I’m just saying that Hugh’s smart enough to play that game.’ She paused, staring out across the water. ‘Might even be that he’s using you to spread the word about Boyle. Boyle doesn’t even need to do much, if he’s got the police linking every gangland killing back to him. Good way to put the wind up the competition.’

  ‘That really is a cynical view. Ever thought of a career in politics?’

  ‘However cynical I am, you can bet that Hugh Salter’s more so. That’s the trouble with this business. You end up not knowing what to think or who to trust.’ She decided to chance her arm. ‘You, for example. I’ve opened up here, told you precisely what I think of Hugh. Probably a really stupid thing to do. Maybe he’s sent you here just to find out what I’m thinking.’

  Brennan turned back from the river and took a step or two away from her. ‘If you think that, there’s no way I can persuade you otherwise, I suppose. But it’s not true. I wanted to speak to you – well, partly to get some context and background, like I said. But mainly because I don’t trust Salter either. I’ve no real grounds for it. Just something about the whole thing that doesn’t feel right to me. I feel I’m being used. Even if I don’t know quite how.’ He paused and glanced at his watch. ‘We haven’t even talked about Boyle, yet. Fancy getting that coffee now? Lunchtime rush should have died down.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Live dangerously.’ She began to follow him back across the park. ‘Look, all that stuff about not trusting you. It’s just that – well, in my life of work you can’t afford to be too trusting of anyone. I’ve just taken a big risk. I hope my instincts are right.’

  He smiled. ‘They are, even if I can’t prove it. Look, we should–’

  She never discovered what he was about to say, because there was a sudden burst of music from his jacket. His mobile ringtone. The Clash, she noted, with slight amusement. ‘Police and Thieves’.

  Brennan pulled out the phone and glanced at the screen. Then he frowned, gave her look that she couldn’t immediately read, and took the call. ‘Brennan.’

  He listened without responding for a minute or two. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I’ll give it a go, though I don’t expect they’ll slaughter the fatted calf or anything when I turn up. But if you’ve cleared it, they might at least let me in. Okay. Cheers.’

  He thumbed off the call. ‘Talk of the devil,’ he said. ‘That was our friend and colleague, Hugh Salter. Apparently he’s just had a call from on high bearing news from Manchester. Jeff Kerridge’s widow. She’s been murdered.’

  10

  ‘Well, well, well. Look what the cat’s thrown up. Didn’t think you’d have the nerve to show your face around here for a while.’

  Brennan gazed at DCI Renshaw impassively. ‘Fuck off, Rob,’ he said amiably.

  Renshaw laughed. ‘Well, those are some of the more polite comments you’ll hear, I imagine.‘ They were standing by Renshaw’s car outside the crime scene. Inside, the SOCOs were finishing their work. ‘Giving you a friendly warning, that’s all.’ He gestured over to where a small cluster of DCs were gathered round the rear doors of the police van. ‘Giving you the evil eye, already.’

  ‘I can live with it.’

  ‘You’ll have to, old son, if you’re still hanging round like a bad smell. Thought we’d seen the last of you.’

  ‘Can’t tear myself away, Rob. Must be love.’

  ‘Sod’s law, isn’t it? I can see why the Agency are interested in this one. And I can see why they might want to use you to liaise with us. Even if you are the worst fucking choice in the world, in the circumstances.’

  ‘I don’t think they see it as their role in life to make me feel comfortable.’ Brennan smiled. ‘I’ve got a thick skin, Rob.’

  ‘I’m sure you have, old son. I’m sure you have.’

  Brennan had been slightly relieved to discover that Renshaw was the Senior Investigating Officer on the case. He got on pretty with Renshaw. The DCI was a few years older and several lifetimes wiser than Brennan himself. He’d seen through all the bollocks with Chief Superintendent Craddock from day one. ‘You have to accept it, Jack,’ he’d said. ‘You get the buggers cornered, they start throwing the shit around. And most of the numbskulls round here are too dim to recognise a total bastard when they see one.’

  Renshaw had done the best he could to shield Brennan when the waste-products had hit the air-conditioning. There hadn’t been much he could do, except counter some of the more slanderous accusations flying around. Brennan suspected that Renshaw might have had a hand in fixing up his secondment but the matter had never been discussed between them.

  But if Brennan had to start sticking his nose in a Greater Manchester Police murder case, it helped that Renshaw was the man in charge.

  ‘So what’s the story?’ Brennan said. ‘I only got the bare bones over the phone.’

  ‘Helen Kerridge,’ Renshaw said. ‘Widow of the late unlamented Jeff Kerridge of this parish. Supposed to meet her sister for coffee this morning. Didn’t turn up, which is apparently unprecedented. Didn’t answer her mobile or home phone. Sister gets worried. Comes round here. Can’t get an answer. Checks round the back and finds the door open. Goes inside and finds Mrs Kerridge dead in her bed. Panics and calls an ambulance. Who call us. Asphyxiation, apparently, though the quacks are still checking on that.’

  Brennan looked at the estate around them. Moderately upmarket, he supposed, but still a row of identical boxes. ‘This where she lived? Wouldn’t have thought this was Jeff Kerridge’s style, from everything I’ve heard.’

  ‘Christ, no. Kerridge wouldn’t have been seen dead in a place like this.’ Renshaw paused. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression. No, this wasn’t his scene at all. He was a man for the overpriced exclusive gated community. Keep the likes of us out.

  ‘So how come his widow ended up here?’

  ‘Not because she was short of a bob or two. Kerridge did well enough for himself, and Mrs K’s kept the old business ticking along very nicely since Kerridge went.’ He shrugged. ‘She sold up the old mansion a couple of months back and bought this place instead. Probably looking for a bit of anonymity. Get her head back below the battlements. Kerridge was all swagger and image. He loved all that pillar of the community crap. She wasn’t into all that. Just wanted to get on with the job.’

  ‘That why she�
�d been topped, you think? Because was getting on with the job?’

  ‘Seems likely, doesn’t it? There was a struggle to hold the old empire together once Kerridge was off the scene. Lots of people jockeying for position. But Mrs K seems to have managed it. She’s taken a few hits, but word is that she’s hung on to most of what Kerridge had in place. Probably surprised a few people.’

  ‘Hence the topping.’ Brennan said.

  ‘Looks like a pro job. It was an expert break-in. She had pretty decent security as you’d imagine, but it doesn’t seem to have delayed our chap for long. It’s still early days, but we haven’t found a significant trace of evidence so far. There’ll no doubt be some DNA in there other than hers, but I’m willing to bet now it won’t show up on the database.’

  ‘Any sign that she was being threatened? Someone trying to warn her off?’

  ‘Not that we know of. Most of her associates have gone to ground, as you might expect. Sister reckoned Mrs K was her usual self when they’d met last week. Not unduly worried or out of sorts. But she wouldn’t necessarily share any worries of that kind with her sister. Sister’s straight, as far as we know. Doesn’t even seem to know quite what the Kerridges got up to.’

  ‘Any leads?’

  ‘Scores of associates and competitors we’ll need to follow up. But it could be any one of those, or someone else entirely. We don’t know of any specific deal or activity that might have prompted this. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘What about Pete Boyle?’

  Renshaw regarded Brennan for a moment. ‘Well, they have brought you up to speed quickly, haven’t they? Yeah, Boyle’s got to be in the frame. It’s always sad when true love dies, but Boyle and Kerridge were at each other’s throats at the end. Boyle had gone from trusted protégé to thoroughly untrusted competitor. If Kerridge had lived, one of them would have shafted the other before too long. Though I’m not sure which way I’d have bet. Boyle’s gradually been building his empire, so he wouldn’t have been happy with Mrs K’s persistence in keeping Kerridge’s business going.’

  ‘Not exactly a motive for murder, though, is it?’

  ‘Not in your book or mine. But these people don’t necessarily think like ordinary sane human beings.’

  ‘So you’ll be going after Boyle for this, then?’ Brennan looked across to where the DCs and a couple of uniforms were standing. Waiting for the SOCOs to finish so they could carry out a full search of the house. Most were looking in his direction, though he couldn’t read their expressions from here.

  ‘Unless you lot are telling me we shouldn’t,’ Renshaw said. His tone suggested that he was only half-joking. They both knew that there’d been occasions when overzealous police work had messed up some covert operation by the Agency.

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ Brennan said. ‘Though you shouldn’t assume the powers-that-be share all their secrets with me. As far as they’re concerned, I’m still one of you lot.’

  ‘Betwixt and between, eh?’ Renshaw nodded sympathetically. ‘Must be hell. But, yeah, we’ll be interviewing Mr Boyle. Can’t imagine that we’re going to find much of a link between him and this, though. Even if he was behind it, he’ll have covered his tracks.’

  ‘Another of the long list of unsolved gangland killings,’ Brennan intoned. ‘Been a few recently, from what I hear?’

  Renshaw looked at Brennan with more interest. ‘That what you hear, is it? Can’t say I’ve noticed.’

  ‘I’m just fishing, Rob. I’ve heard rumours that Boyle’s been flexing his muscles.’

  ‘Maybe. There’s no doubt that he’s ambitious. And in his business that’s bound to mean rubbing up a few people the wrong way. But I can’t say I’ve noticed much more than normal. Though that’s plenty, of course.’ He smiled. ‘That what they’ve got you chasing up, is it? Pete Boyle’s empire building?’

  ‘Among other things,’ Brennan said, vaguely. ‘They’re just trying to build a sustainable case against Boyle.’

  ‘I heard they fucked it up first time round. Hope they manage to do better with you on board. Can’t help thinking they’d do even better if they were prepared to share information from time to time.’

  ‘Good point, well made.’ Brennan smiled. ‘I’m not holding anything back, Rob. You remember Hugh Salter, the guy that was involved in the business with Jeff Kerridge last year? He’s got some theory that Boyle’s behind a number of killings across the north west.’ He briefly recounted the cases that Salter had described to him. ‘Reckons that Boyle’s got a personal grudge against each one of these, so he’s been settling a few personal scores as well as sending out a message about his business ambitions.’

  ‘And Helen Kerridge would make four? You think there’s anything in this?’

  ‘No idea. Salter’s seen as a high flyer, but there’s something about him. There are one or two reckon he’s on the take.’

  Renshaw laughed. ‘Jesus, Jack. You’ve only been there five minutes and you’re starting again? Don’t you know when to leave well alone?’

  Brennan shook his head. ‘I’m doing nothing. Keeping my nose squeaky clean. I’m just trying to work out where I stand. If Salter is dodgy, I don’t want to find that I’m being used as the dummy.’

  ‘That’s the problem when you’ve screwed up as royally as you have, Jack. You become fair game for every shyster.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch for that.’ Brennan was watching the house, where the SOCO team seemed finally to have finished. A couple of them in their white suits were standing on the doorstep chatting to the DCs waiting to go in. He could see one of them gesture in his own direction, clearly offering some observation about Brennan’s presence. ‘You were right about communication, though. All I want is to be kept informed. I’ll do the same with you. I’ll let you know anything that emerges on Boyle. I’m not sure I’m even supposed to do that. Salter didn’t exactly swear me to secrecy, but he won’t be overjoyed that I’m sharing everything with you. But in return I’d like you to keep me up to speed with this. Anything that comes up from your interviews.’

  Renshaw gazed at him for a moment. ‘You know, for a smart guy, you can be very naïve, Jack. Our lot and their lot are both chasing the same prize. If we start sharing information, there’s a danger they might get there first. And, judging from past experience, they’re not too keen to share the glory.’

  Brennan had noted that he hadn’t been categorised as one of ‘their lot’. ‘I’m on your side, Rob. I’m not going to shaft you.’

  ‘Too right you’re not, Jack. Not if you don’t want to find your softer parts spread on toast. Okay, I’ll keep you in the picture. But don’t feed back any of it to Hugh fucking Salter without my say-so. I’m running this investigation, and I intend that it’ll stay that way. That clear?’

  ‘Pellucid,’ Brennan said.

  Renshaw was gazing over Brennan’s shoulder. A police car was turning into the far end of the estate, blue lights flashing but without sirens. ‘Looks like the top brass are here to make a token appearance for the media. Make yourself scarce, Jack. Before your fan club arrives.’

  When she finally turned on her personal mobile, there were three messages waiting. She listened to the most recent first. Sue, Liam’s carer, her voice dripping acid. ‘Just having another go at getting hold of you, Marie. Liam’s stable, but they want to keep him in overnight for observation. I’ll keep you posted.’

  Shit. The previous two messages told the full story. Liam’s condition had worsened that morning and, by the time the carers arrived, he seemed to be having some difficulty breathing. Sue had left a first message seeking Marie’s agreement to call Liam’s GP. Receiving no response, she’d called the GP anyway, and the GP – almost inevitably, in Marie’s experience – had decided to get Liam checked out in hospital.

  She dialled Sue’s number but the phone was busy or turned off. Maybe she was at the hospital with Liam. Double shit. She left a short apologetic message and ended the call.

  Marie paced up and d
own the tiny living room of her new house, wondering what to do. It was four o’clock, Saturday. There was time for her to drive back down to London, check how Liam was, and – assuming he was okay – head back up here sometime on Sunday, ready for McGrath and the start of the working week.

  It wasn’t what she wanted to do, though, unless it was really necessary. As it was, she felt grossly under-prepared for kicking things off with McGrath. She’d been hoping for another day of thinking herself into the mind and body of Maggie Yates. The last thing she needed was a day of being Marie Donovan under pressure, worrying about Liam, making sure he was being properly looked after. And what would happen if she got down there and discovered that he really wasn’t well enough to be left? Could she face telling Salter that she was abandoning her assignment? What would be the implications of that?

  Part of her mind was still distracted by her earlier meeting with Jack Brennan. He’d rushed off after taking the call about Helen Kerridge’s murder, and she’d been left with a frustrating sense of unfinished business. They hadn’t begun to talk about Pete Boyle, Brennan’s purported reason for wanting to meet her. But she’d felt an empathy with Brennan. Maybe it was just that he’d echoed her concerns about Salter. Or maybe it was that, like her, he seemed out on a limb, feeling his way in unfamiliar territory, unsure who to trust.

  Or maybe it was just that he was the best-looking policeman she’d come across in a while. She’d never claimed to be deep.

  Whichever it was, she’d instinctively liked him more than she expected. She could see that there was some vanity there, and some ego, but it was offset by a self-deprecating good humour. She also sensed a warmth and generosity of spirit that had been missing from her life since – well, since Liam had fallen ill. It was only now, as she saw the contrast with Brennan, that she realised how much the illness had affected Liam. She didn’t know who he was anymore, but she was increasingly sure that he wasn’t the man she’d once loved.

  She also knew how dangerous these thoughts could be. She’d recognised in her previous assignment that one of the real problems with this job was the loneliness. There was no space for real friendships. You couldn’t afford to get too close to people. Couldn’t allow them to spot the chinks in your fictional armour. Even going for a casual drink or a meal was fraught with risk.