Alex Walters - Trust No One

Welsby nodded, his eyes fixed on the last gleaming dregs of the setting sun. ‘That’s the phrase I’ve been searching for,’ he said. ‘Fuck-up. Trust you to find the mot juste.’

‘My literary background, sir. The real question, though, is who fucked up?’

‘That’s the question, right enough. Suggests we’re not quite as watertight as we’d like to think.’ Welsby dropped his cigarette butt and ground it under his heavy black shoe. ‘Which is interesting.’

‘One word for it,’ Salter said.

‘Ah, well. I lack your literary background. CSE in metalwork, that’s my limit.’

‘Very practical, guv. I don’t like the idea that we’re not secure, though.’

Welsby was lighting up another cigarette, hand cupped around the guttering flame with practised skill.

‘Well, start getting used to it,’ he said finally. ‘Or, better still, start finding out who’s leaking.’

‘Not many of us knew about Morton,’ Salter pointed out. ‘Not officially, anyway.’

Welsby shrugged. ‘Internally, we’re a bloody sieve,’ he said. ‘I reckon nearly everyone had wind of this. Not necessarily the details. But the fact that we’d got a key bloody witness. Talk of the building.’

‘You reckon?’ Salter leaned forwards, his gangling limbs splayed awkwardly. ‘Whoever did this had more than office gossip.’

‘Too right they did.’ Welsby took a deep final drag on his latest cigarette, then tossed it disdainfully in the approximate direction of the canal. ‘We couldn’t organize a nun-shoot in a bloody nunnery.’

‘They knew what they were doing,’ Salter mused. ‘Morton wasn’t short on security. They knew where the alarms were. Knew how to disable them. As for what they did to Morton – well, maximum pain for minimum effort, I’d say. Pros. Top of the range pros.’

‘You get what you pay for,’ Welsby observed. ‘So who was paying them? And how did they find out Morton was our man?’

‘Maybe Morton slipped up. Wouldn’t be the first grass to have shot his mouth off inadvisably.’

‘Can’t really see it. Morton struck me as a degree or two smarter than the average grass. Still, it’s a line we can peddle. Generate enough smoke to make sure our own arses are covered. But this is still fucking embarrassing.’ He paused, and began to fumble painstakingly for another cigarette. Finally he looked up. ‘How’s it going, son?’

Salter looked over his shoulder, alerted by the change in tone. Hodder was hovering expectantly by the open windows.

‘Just about done,’ he said brightly. He’d tackled the task of searching a blood-drenched house with as much enthusiasm as an ambitious young officer could muster.

‘Found anything?’ Welsby scrutinized the young man with an expression that indicated a pre-emptive scepticism of anything he might be about to say.

‘Not to speak of,’ Hodder admitted. ‘There’s a laptop. Some official-looking papers, a notebook of some sort. And there’s Morton’s wallet.’ He enumerated the list as if he had committed it carefully to memory. ‘That’s about it.’

‘What about this mystery woman?’

‘No signs. Certainly not anybody living in. Maybe somebody he picked up for the night. If so, it’s possible she was in on it, I suppose. Gives a whole new dimension to the phrase “get lucky”, doesn’t it?’

‘If you say so, son. You’ve been through the rooms thoroughly?’ Welsby’s question was addressed as much to Salter as Hodder.

Salter nodded. ‘Proper job. Best we can with just the two of us, anyway.’ He placed only the faintest emphasis on the number. ‘I can’t absolutely swear there’s nothing in there, but if there is, Morton hid it bloody well.’

Welsby pulled himself slowly to his feet. ‘You never know,’ he said. ‘Glass half-full, that’s me. Might be something on that laptop.’

Salter rose awkwardly, straightening his long limbs with the air of a baby deer trying to walk for the first time. ‘Morton was holding stuff back all right, but I reckon he was too smart to keep it here.’

Welsby stood, staring down at the grey waters of the canal, his crumpled face giving no clue to his thoughts. ‘Probably. And even if there was something, that bunch will have got it out of him. You don’t do that much damage to someone for fun.’ He paused, taking one more look around him, and then began to make his way back into the flat. ‘Well, not just for fun, anyway,’ he added.

Chapter 5 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Part Three - Winter: Outside Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 An Interview with Alex Walters About the Author About the Publisher

Marie was momentarily tempted to pull into one of the several unoccupied spaces reserved for disabled drivers, but decided against it. The last thing she needed was more guilt, let alone the risk of being clamped. Instead, she parked as close as she could to the entrance, and then sprinted across the car park, pulling her coat tight against the pounding rain. She reached the hotel with her head and upper body soaked, rain oozing coldly down her collar. Jesus, she thought, and all those bloody disabled spaces standing empty.

It was Liam she was thinking of really, of course. Liam who would be perfectly entitled to park in those spaces. Liam and his condition, and the unknown, unknowable prognosis. She had a superstitious half-belief, barely acknowledged even to herself, that if she didn’t tempt fate, everything might be all right. Whatever all right might turn out to mean.

She stood in the reception, dripping rainwater gently on to the thick pile carpet. It was the usual sort of place; an anonymous, soulless business hotel, suitably mid range, conveniently positioned minutes from the M60. There were a dozen or more such venues, scattered around the city centre and the suburbs, catering to sales executives, visiting middle managers, off-site business meetings. Comfortable enough, with all the right facilities, but nothing too flash. They rotated the meetings around the various hotels, trying to ensure that they didn’t become too familiar to the reception staff. It wasn’t difficult. Most were transient youngsters, generally from Eastern Europe, here to make a few bucks before moving on or returning home. If she came back to the same venue six months later, the faces would all have changed. No one would remember who she was, or why she’d been there before.

‘Ms Donovan,’ she said to the bored-looking receptionist. ‘Small meeting room.’ She gave the company name. The receptionist smiled momentarily in a manner that suggested that she had, at least, received some instruction in how to greet customers, and began to thumb listlessly through a card index. Finally, as if in testament to her own considerable efforts, she triumphantly held up Marie’s reservation. ‘Meeting room for three,’ she confirmed. ‘Coffee at nine thirty and eleven. No lunch.’ Her tone on the last words suggested disapproval of Marie’s parsimony.

She collected the card key and made her way to the first floor. A small meeting room in this kind of place meant, in effect, a semi-converted bedroom – a fold-up bed disguised as a wardrobe, an imported table and office chairs. Coffee with a plateful of overpriced biscuits. Branded writing pads and pens. A bottle of water refilled from the tap.

She walked to the window. A view of the rear car park, a retail park, a cluster of trees half-concealing the M60 busy with the morning traffic. Anytown, UK.

As far as Joe and Darren were concerned, she was out seeing a client. She’d cultivated a routine of visiting the major clients at their offices. It was good business – they appreciated the personal touch. And it gave her the freedom she needed to pursue this double life.