Trust No One

‘It’s J, I’m afraid,’ Salter said. She could read nothing into his tone. ‘Out of the blue.’

Quite suddenly, she’d run out of words. She held the phone away from her face, breathing deeply, trying to hold herself together. ‘I don’t understand, Hugh,’ she said finally. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say, sis. Poor old J’s dead. Dead as the proverbial fucking doornail, I’m afraid.’

She bit back her first response, feeling bile at the back of her throat. There was a note in his voice she’d never heard before, something that leaked through the veneer of cynicism. He’s pissed off, of course, she thought, that’s part of it. But there was something more.

She spoke slowly, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Hugh, stop playing games. What’s happened?’

‘What I say, sis. J’s dead. Taken in the night. Unexpectedly. Not an easy death, from what I understand. He suffered before the end.’

She lowered herself slowly back down on her office chair, not entirely trusting her legs to support her. Her mind suddenly felt clear, as if she’d been dragged somewhere beyond emotion. ‘Suffered?’

‘Yeah, it’s a bastard. A real bastard. Even that bugger didn’t deserve it.’

She could feel herself clamming up, just wanting to get away from all this. This conversation. This job. This fucking life.

‘Yeah, it’s a bastard, Hugh. So is there anything you want me to do about it?’

There was another pause. ‘He was one of yours, wasn’t he, sis?’

She held her breath again, concentrating, trying to ensure that she gave nothing away. ‘I put his name forward, Hugh, that’s all. Nobody forced him to be an informant.’

‘No, suppose not, sis. Sad to see him go.’ There was no obvious sincerity in his tone. ‘Leaves us in a bloody hole as well. Anything you can do to help will be much appreciated, I’m sure.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, Hugh.’ She cut off the call, aware she was in danger of losing control. She didn’t know what her next reaction would have been – grief at Jake’s death, at the fucking manner of his demise. Tears at her own guilt and impotence. Blind fury at Salter’s smug irony. Whichever, it wouldn’t have been pretty. Now, she sat in silence, staring through the glass partition to where Joe was still patiently taking Darren through the intricacies of the reprographics machine.

It wasn’t her fault. Yes, she’d been the one who’d suggested Jake as a possible informant. But, like she’d said, no one had compelled him to go along with it. He’d had his own reasons. She knew he’d wanted out, that he was sick of the endless brown-nosing to Kerridge and Boyle and their crowd. That was the saddest thing – that Jake probably really thought he was doing a public duty by grassing up Boyle.

She’d known that. She’d judged it just right, known that when they came along with the offer he’d be ripe for the picking. That was what the job was about: spotting the talent. And it didn’t always go right. Sometimes there were casualties.

And sometimes the casualties were lovers.

She knew that at any moment Joe or Darren would glance in this direction and that, when they did, she had to appear normal. A businesswoman struggling with nothing more traumatic than keeping this bloody enterprise afloat in the face of a howling recession.

Calmer now, her mind focused on the image she wanted to project, she opened the office door. Joe nodded and walked across to her, leaving Darren fumbling, apparently aimlessly, with the controls of the machine.

‘Kid’s bloody useless,’ he murmured under his breath. ‘You know that, don’t you? We should cut our losses and sack him before it’s too late.’

‘He’s just a boy, Joe. Give him a chance.’

Joe shrugged. ‘You’re the boss. But you can be too soft, you know?’

‘Take it from me, Joe,’ she said, ‘that’s not one of my failings.’

Chapter 4 (#ulink_7b56a21c-e238-51d4-b01a-565625233cdf)

From somewhere in the next room, Marie could hear the shrill sound of her mobile.

She eased her body down into the hot water and tried to ignore the insistent tone. She contemplated, just for a moment, allowing her head to dip below the surface to enjoy the underwater silence. She fought the temptation to stay down there, hold her breath, let the silence become permanent – though the truth was she could think of worse ways to end it all.

It was a strange bloody paradox, this. Here she was, supposedly out on her own, cut off from all contacts. And she still couldn’t get any peace and quiet.

She closed her eyes and breathed out as the phone finally fell silent. It was a temporary respite, she knew. The call would have gone to voicemail. Liam would leave a message. And then the voicemail would begin its automatic callback, another three bloody blasts of that impossible-to-ignore sodding ringtone.

That was Liam as well, that bloody ringtone. He’d set it up as a supposed joke, a couple of months back during one of her weekends at home. Some pop hit that she hadn’t recognized. She’d no idea what it was and hadn’t taken the trouble to find out, but she assumed – based on previous experience – that it represented some private joke at her expense. Her more knowledgeable work colleagues – possibly even Darren in this instance – no doubt amused themselves whenever her phone rang.

Liam knew he wasn’t supposed to call her on this number. That it wasn’t secure and that his calls could compromise her position. But of course it had been Liam calling. It was always Liam at this time of the evening, and that was another problem.

Every evening, she shut the shop at six, spent half an hour or so catching up with the paperwork, or perhaps redoing whatever task had been allocated to Darren that afternoon. Then she headed back to her flat, getting in at around seven or so. Whatever else she might have planned for the evening – and that was generally work of one sort or another – she tried to create some space for herself, an hour or so without commitments.

Very often, as tonight, that involved running herself a very hot bath, pouring herself a large glass of red wine and digging out some not-too-demanding book or magazine in which she could briefly lose herself. And almost equally often, again as tonight, as soon as she lowered herself into the scalding, scented water, she heard the insistent sound of the mobile from the next room.

She closed her eyes as the ringtone sounded once more. Tonight, of all nights, Liam was the last person she wanted to speak to. She wanted to cut herself off, put the real world on hold. Forget what she was doing, what she was involved in.

What she had done to Jake.

She kept telling herself that Jake had known exactly what risks he was taking. And that, last night, she’d done what she could. If she’d tried to do more, she’d be dead herself.

Even so, as she’d told Salter, it didn’t feel good. Just at the moment, it felt fucking awful. It wasn’t even that she was overwhelmed with grief. She kept expecting that it would hit her – the real emotion, the full sense of loss. But it hadn’t, not really. She felt horror at what must have happened to Jake. She felt fury at those who had done it, and even more, at those who had paid for it to be done. She felt anxiety about her own possible exposure.

But there was a numbness, a dead spot, at the heart of her response. When it came to Jake himself, when it came to the simple fact that Jake was gone, she felt – what? Sorrow. Regret. Loss. But nothing like the depth or strength of emotion she’d expected.

She knew all the emotional clichés. She could envisage exactly what Winsor or the counsellors back at the Agency would say if she were ever in a position to share her feelings. That she was in shock. That she hadn’t yet accepted the reality of Jake’s death. That she had to work through all the fucking stages of grieving. And maybe that was all true. But, for the moment, it didn’t feel that way. It felt like Jake had been a good friend – good company, a good laugh, pretty good in bed – and that now he was gone. The world hadn’t ended. But Jake had left town, and he wouldn’t be coming back.

Christ, she didn’t know what she felt. When she’d embarked on the affair, she knew she was putting both of them at risk. It had been a few months of madness. She’d have ended it soon, whatever happened. It had been a fling – fun, dangerous, exhilarating, doomed. Why should she be surprised that, in the end, such turbulent waters turned out to run shallow?

Beyond the door, the ringtone trilled on. Finally losing patience, she skimmed her magazine across the bathroom floor so that it crashed like a wounded bird against the white-tiled wall. Cursing Liam, she dragged herself out of the water and reached for a towel. Still naked, trying to dry her body as she hurried out of the bathroom into the living room, she picked up the phone. Inevitably, just as she touched it, it fell silent.

She threw the towel around her shoulders and looked at the display. Two missed calls. The first number, sure enough, was Liam’s. The second, though, wasn’t the voicemail service she’d expected, but another mobile number. The number wasn’t one she recognized. If it was important, she thought, the caller would leave a message. Most likely, it would be a wrong number or a cold call. In any case, her instinct now was to let others do the running. If someone had a job, she could be found.

She was still holding the phone when it rang again. Liam’s number. She thumbed on the phone and spoke before he could. ‘I’ve told you not to use this number.’

‘And a good evening to you,’ Liam said. ‘You’re answering now, are you?’

‘Yes, and I shouldn’t be. I’ll call you back.’

Before he could object, she disconnected and fumbled in her handbag for the other mobile. She ought to stop and put on some clothes, she thought. The bedroom was warm enough, but she preferred not to be at any disadvantage when talking to Liam. But if she delayed he’d just call back again on the original line.

It took her a moment to switch on the phone and dial Liam’s number. She expected him to be irritated, but he sounded only resigned.

‘On the right phone now, then?’ he asked. ‘Important to get these things straight.’

She paused, mentally counting to ten. ‘It’s not a game, Liam. I don’t do these things for fun.’

‘You can say that again,’ he said. ‘Though Christ knows why else you do them.’

‘To make a bloody living, Liam,’ she said patiently. Almost immediately, she regretted the words.