Trust No One

by Alex Walters

  Or maybe just the leaver of the second message plucking up the courage to speak. That wheedling intonation, the faint Welsh lilt. Morgan fucking Jones, though he didn’t give his name.

  ‘Sorry about the other day. Cold feet. Don’t know who to trust. But we need to talk. I’ve got out of town. I’ll text you the details. Come and see me. I won’t be going out.’ The last sentence spoken with attempted irony, but he sounded like he was bricking it.

  She checked the number Jones had called from, but it had been withheld. Then she looked at the texts. One new message. Two words, ‘Mayfield’ and ‘Wilson’, followed by a sequence of letters and numbers. A postcode. Presumably Jones being security conscious.

  She sat down at her desk and opened up her internet browser, typing the postcode into Google Maps. A back street in Blackpool, fifty or so miles up the coast. Jesus. Jones expected her to drive up there?

  She had no idea whether she could trust him, anyway. Put it another way, in other circumstances she’d trust Jones a lot less far than she could throw his chubby Welsh body. He was the sort who’d have a good idea of the market rate of his grandmother. The question was whether she could trust him now. He was shit-scared, no doubt about that. That might just push him in her direction, particularly if he thought they were in the same boat. Or it might do the opposite. He might try to use her as collateral to talk his way out of trouble with Kerridge.

  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 H
odder 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 han
dwriting.

  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.