Trust No One

by Alex Walters

  But this was different – lighter than domestic wiring, with the air of having been hastily installed. It trailed back to some sort of unit in the far corner. It took her a few moments to work out what she was seeing. Covert recording equipment. Voice activated. One of the Agency’s machines. So the question was even more pertinent.

  What the fuck was Salter’s game?

  She was on the point of making her way back towards the entrance to the attic, when she heard a sound from outside.

  A car.

  She stepped rapidly back along the planks, wondering whether she would have time to make her descent into the hallway before Salter came through the door. She would rather keep Salter in the dark about her discoveries up here. Though, looking down at her dust-covered clothes, she had to admit that this was probably an optimistic goal.

  In any case, the question was academic. Already, she could hear a murmur of voices from outside the front of the house. Salter was not alone. Whatever his game might be, it was becoming more convoluted by the minute.

  Moving quickly, she leaned down to pull up the ladder and drag the trapdoor back into place. She had expected that the weight might be too much for her, but the counter-weighted design was as easy to operate from above as from below. Even so, she was only just in time. As the trapdoor clicked into place, she heard the fumbling of a key in the front door below.

  She quietly straightened up and looked around. On her way into the loft, she’d noticed a small pile of rusting tools left, presumably forgotten, just inside the entrance. She flicked through them and selected an old screwdriver, its shaft rusting, its handle thick with dried paint.

  She laid herself carefully down along the length of the planking, her face close to the ceiling boards. Then, as silently as she could, she used the screwdriver to bore a small hole in the plasterboard. She worked away at it for a few moments until it was large enough for her to gain a clear view of the hallway below.

  Salter himself entered first, still talking to someone behind him. He sounded nervous, she thought, his voice a little too high, words a little too fast. Well, she knew how he felt. She was already wondering about options for escape. Would it be feasible to break out through the roof itself, push through the tiles? It would still leave her with the problem of how to reach the ground, but that shouldn’t be impossible. Not ideal, but better than nothing, if it came to that.

  As the second figure came into sight below, she caught her breath.

  Kerridge. Jeff fucking Kerridge.

  There was no question. She had seen that figure too often – the body running to fat, the greying slicked-back hair, the clothes slightly too expensive for the circles he usually mixed with.

  So much for keeping her secure. So much for Professional Standards. So much for this sodding safe house. Her instinct had been right again. She’d walked straight into it. From frying pan to fucking fire, in one not-so-smart move.

  Salter had snatched her from Boyle’s clutches just to hand her straight over to Kerridge. Now she understood why Salter had been pumping her about what evidence Morton might have against Kerridge. They knew – or thought – she had something. Morton’s ‘insurance policy’, as Salter had called it. They’d probably been afraid that if she’d ended up in the frame for Jones’ death or even dead herself, the material might still leak out. So they wanted to get their hands on it. She’d given nothing away to Salter last night. Now they’d come to get the information out of her, no doubt using the same techniques that Boyle’s people had used on Jake.

  She’d kept her eye fixed on the hallway as the third figure entered. Welsby. So Salter had been telling the truth about that at least. Welsby really was on Kerridge’s payroll. Salter had just omitted to mention that Welsby wasn’t the only one.

  She heard the three men move into the sitting room. Moving as silently as she could, she edged her body slowly forwards along the planks, until she judged that she was above them. Conscious of every creak in the wooden joists, she pressed her ear to the plasterboard ceiling, hoping to hear something of the conversation below.

  Their voices carried clearly through the thin boarding, and apart from a few mumbled words, she had no difficulty following their discussion.

  ‘Of course it was Boyle,’ Salter was saying. ‘Who else would it have been?’

  ‘So how the fuck did he work out who she was?’ Kerridge’s voice was low and growling, the voice of someone used to getting his own way. She’d never seen this side of him. In his few dealings with her, he’d always displayed an old-fashioned courtesy that, she’d thought, was only just the right side of patronizing sexism. Outside of that, she’d seen him only in unctuous mode, glad-handing the great and good at business and charity events.

  ‘How the hell would I know?’ Salter said. ‘Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just worked out that she was close to Morton. Maybe he’s just flailing in the dark like we all are.’

  ‘Bollocks. Boyle does nothing without thinking. If he thought Donovan was worth putting down, he must have had a good idea who she was.’

  Marie felt a chill down her spine. Putting down. Like a fucking dog.

  ‘Someone tipped Boyle off, then.’ Welsby’s voice.

  ‘Well, what the fuck do you think? Boyle’s smart, but he’s not a fucking clairvoyant. How the hell else does he know that Donovan’s one of yours?’ There was silence for a few moments, then Kerridge went on. ‘OK, tell your story again and let’s see if it sounds any more convincing this time.’

  This was clearly addressed to Salter. After another pause, Salter said, ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate—’

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ Kerridge said. His voice had dropped, and Marie could hardly made out the expletive. He sounded even more intimidating when speaking quietly. ‘I’m not insinuating. I’m telling you to your fucking face that I don’t fucking trust you. Little Boy Scout who’s suddenly decided to join the bad guys. That clear enough?’

  ‘Crystal,’ Salter said. His voice was icy, but to Marie’s ears he still sounded the most nervous of the three of them. Out of his depth, she thought. Well out of his depth. ‘I just thought I was doing you a fucking favour.’

  ‘Very generous of you. So tell me again.’

  ‘I’ve been keeping tabs on her,’ Salter said. ‘Like we agreed.’

  ‘You didn’t tell us she’d been to see Jones.’ Welsby’s voice again. ‘Not till after he was dead.’

  ‘I didn’t get the chance,’ Salter said. ‘I didn’t think Jones was significant. I thought he was small fry.’

  ‘He is fucking small fry,’ Kerridge said. ‘But he’s small fry who works for Boyle.’

  ‘Christ, I didn’t know—’

  ‘That’s your trouble, Hugh. There’s a lot you don’t know. And you don’t even know how much you don’t know.’ Welsby sounded dismissive, as though he was wearily trying to deal with a student who’d failed to live up to his initial promise.

  ‘I don’t know why I fucking bother, that’s what I don’t know,’ Salter said. He was trying to match their aggression, Marie thought, but he succeeded only in sounding petulant. ‘I’m not a fucking clairvoyant either, you know.’

  ‘So you kept tabs on her after she slipped out of brother Blackwell’s clutches,’ Welsby said. ‘Why didn’t you tell us where she’d hidden herself away? Why wait till now?’

  There was another pause. ‘I don’t know,’ Salter said after a moment. ‘Just being a bit too smart, like you say. Maybe I just felt a bit sorry for her. I thought I could get whatever she’s got without things coming to this. I thought she’d trip up and I’d get it out of her. Then things moved a bit quicker than I expected.’

  ‘Story of your life, Hugh,’ Welsby said.

  ‘Don’t notice you doing all that much better. Don’t notice you having much success in keeping a lid on all this,’ Salter said. ‘Don’t notice you doing much at all. Seems to me that we could all be up shit creek if Boyle gets hold of this stuff and uses it against Ke
rridge.’

  ‘We don’t even know that there is any stuff.’ Kerridge. ‘Unless you’ve got your hands on something you’ve not told us about.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Salter admitted. ‘But she’s got it. Or knows where it is.’

  ‘And you think Morrissey was after the same thing?’

  ‘Sure of it. I stood there listening for a bit. She’d said she’d got something in her handbag. That could have been a bluff, though. She threw it at him. Tried to distract him.’

  ‘Resourceful lady,’ Kerridge said. ‘Maybe you should have let Morrissey finish the job.’

  ‘Then we’d be even deeper in the shit, wouldn’t we? Wouldn’t have had any way of getting hold of it.’

  ‘Might have stayed buried,’ Welsby pointed out.

  ‘Not if Morrissey had found it. Anyway, Donovan’s not stupid. She’d have made some insurance arrangement of her own. She’s probably got someone lined up to release the material to the authorities if anything happened to her. That boyfriend of hers, for example.’

  If only, Marie thought. She’d had no time to organize any backup arrangement. And, for that matter, no one to arrange it with. Even if things had been different, she wouldn’t get Liam involved in something like this. Still, she was happy to let them carry on thinking it. She’d also noted what Salter had said about listening to her and Morrissey. So the lateness of his intervention hadn’t been entirely accidental.

  ‘Whichever, you went in like some fucking white knight and saved her neck. Hope she was suitably grateful.’ Kerridge let out a salacious snort.

  ‘Not grateful enough to hand over the fucking evidence, it seems,’ Welsby said. ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Must be still in bed,’ Salter said. ‘I slipped her a couple of pills last night to give myself a chance to go through her stuff.’

  ‘But you didn’t find anything?’ Kerridge.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’m ever the optimist,’ Welsby said. ‘I’d expected a bit better of you. Thought you were a smart lad. One of life’s high-flyers even. Imagined you’d be a bit cleverer than this.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘You really must think we’re a right pair of fuckwits, Hughie. That’s what really disappoints me. I expected a bit more respect.’ Marie could hear movement from the room below but couldn’t work out what was happening. ‘Where are they, lad? Where are the fucking microphones? Or is it cameras? Smile, Jeffrey, you’re on candid sodding camera.’

  ‘That’s not—’

  There was a crash.

  ‘Stop fucking us about, lad. This crap about coming across. Doing us a favour. Bit late in the day to change sides, I’d say. We got you sussed, Hughie boy, well and truly sussed.’

  There was more noise. The sound of a struggle. Something breaking. Whatever was happening, it was clear that Salter was getting the worst of it.

  Short of breath, Welsby said, ‘Don’t you try it, son. Just don’t you fucking try it.’

  She could hear some response from Salter but the words were too muffled to make out. Then she heard Kerridge’s voice, slightly softer than Welsby’s. He sounded relaxed, untroubled.

  ‘Take it easy, Keith. We need to think this through.’

  ‘If you think I’m letting this bastard—’

  ‘We’ll deal with him. But we need to get some things straight first. Like who the bastard’s working for.’

  She heard another sound. The crunching, brutal sound of a boot hitting flesh. An agonized groan from Salter.

  ‘So who is it, Hughie boy? For a bit I thought you were working for those buggers in Standards. That right, Hughie? Those bastards put you up to this?’

  Another crunch. More muttered words from Salter. Jesus, she thought, this was almost worse than witnessing it. Her hands were clutched tight to the joists, her head pressed against the ceiling below. Her great fear was that, at any moment, the dust would get into her lungs and she’d explode in a fit of coughing.

  ‘Yeah, and they’ve got us fucking surrounded. You know what, Hughie? I don’t think I believe you. I don’t think you’re working for fucking Standards at all. Which, the way I see it, leaves only two possibilities.’ There was the sound of another blow, another pained yelp from Salter. ‘Christ, you’re pathetic, Salter. Look at you. At least try to show a bit of dignity.’ Welsby laughed. ‘So which is it? Either you’re on some frolic of your own, or you’re working for our friend Peter Boyle. I wonder which you’d rather we believed. Interesting dilemma, that one, Hughie.’

  Another blow, seemingly even harder than before. Another cry, shrill now. The sound of someone with not much more to offer.

  ‘Not sure it matters all that much, Hughie. If you’re working for Boyle, this should send him a clear enough message, I’d have thought. And if you’re not – well, more fool you, boyo. Shouldn’t go playing with the big boys.’

  Another scream from Salter.

  ‘OK, Keith, he’s got the message.’ Kerridge again. ‘Let him stew for a minute. You reckon Donovan’s even here?’

  Marie tensed at her own name. She could hear no sound from Salter now.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Welsby said. ‘Don’t know whether our friend here’s just lying through his teeth, or whether he’s got Donovan tucked away somewhere else. Either way, he wouldn’t just leave her here for us to find.’ There was a pause and some exchange she couldn’t make out. Then Welsby said, ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll go check if it’ll keep you happy.’ More movement. The sound of Welsby tramping through the hall, her bedroom door opening. Some scuffling, more doors being opened. Welsby returning.

  ‘Who’d have thought it? She’s been here all right. Look at this.’ She heard the sound of something being thrown clatteringly to the ground. Her handbag, she guessed. Her handbag with the data stick still in it. ‘All right, Hughie boy. So if she’s not here now, then where the fuck is she?’

  She could hear Salter saying something, but could make out none of the words. Welsby’s response was clear enough, though. ‘Don’t fuck with me, Hughie. I’m not a happy bunny as it is. You really don’t want to antagonize me.’ Another blow, louder this time, again the awful sound of a boot on flesh. ‘Tit for tat, I’d say, if you really are working for Boyle. I saw what you bastards did to Morton. I’ve got no problem in doing the same to you. What goes around comes around. You got some bad karma, Hughie.’ Another louder sound. Then something falling over.

  Marie could sense that, whatever might be in store for Salter, it would be worse even than the kicking he’d received so far. He might be a duplicitous bastard – Christ, they were all duplicitous bastards – but he didn’t deserve that. She thought back to Jake and what he must have been through. No human being deserved that.

  ‘Now, if you tell us where Donovan is, we can get this sorted nice and gentle, just like my friend here would prefer,’ Welsby went on. ‘If you don’t – well, then we’ll just work on you till you do. Nice and slowly.’

  Finally, she heard Salter’s voice. ‘I’m telling you, Welsby. I don’t fucking know. If I knew I’d fucking tell you. She was here. I left her here . . .’ His voice sounded cracked, as if they’d done something to his throat.

  ‘And you left her the key to that door, did you?’

  ‘The whole place was fucking secured. There’s no way she could have got out. Have you checked . . .?’

  ‘I’ve checked every inch of this sodding place,’ Welsby said. ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘But that’s not . . .’ Salter’s words collapsed into an incoherent gurgle as there was yet another crunch. Something harder than a boot this time, Marie thought.

  ‘Where is she, Salter?’

  ‘I don’t . . .’ That sound again, cutting his words short.

  Marie had been hesitating. The smart move, she thought, would be just to lie low. Hang on until they’d finished with Salter, wait till they left, then just get out. Through the bloody roof if necessary. She told herself she owed Salter nothing. He’d lied to her, used h
er as a pawn in whatever game he’d been trying to play, even risked leaving her to die at Joe Morrissey’s hands. She had no doubt that, if he had known where she was, he’d have betrayed her already.

  But another thought had already struck her. Whatever they were planning to do with Salter, they wouldn’t want any witnesses. They’d already worked out that Salter must have the place wired up with surveillance equipment. They’d assumed Salter was acting alone – it sounded as if his claim to be working for Professional Standards was just so much bullshit – so the equipment would be for recording rather than providing any live feed. But they wouldn’t want to leave any possibility of evidence at the end of this. Which would mean they’d scour the house for any recording or intercept devices.

  Which in turn would mean they’d find her.

  She knew that, if it came to it, they’d treat her the same way they were treating Salter. Sentiment wouldn’t count for very much in Welsby’s world. And I thought he was a fucking father figure, she thought. The sort of father they wrote misery porn about.

  There was another dull thud and a scream from below. Christ, she couldn’t just stay here and allow this to happen. Allow them to complete their work on Salter, and then, in due course, start on her. It would suit them to leave Salter and her here, dead or close to death. They’d probably torch the place. Leave not much but a dealing house – this place must be one of Kerridge’s after all, a fitting location for Salter’s intended double-cross – and two charred corpses. When the corpses had been identified, they’d leave behind only the kind of mystery that doesn’t demand much police time. She was already on the run, suspected of murder. Salter would be denounced as corrupt – maybe even as the suspected leaker. No one would know what had brought them up to this neck of the woods, or what their connections were with whoever had run this place, or even whether their deaths were accidental or deliberate. And no one would care. Whatever the story, they’d just be two bent coppers getting their desserts. Worth no one’s time of day.