Trust No One Read online

  But, as far as she could tell, there’d been no trace of alcohol on his breath.

  Her mind was still churning as she turned off the motorway and took the filter lane back in towards the city centre. She couldn’t start building paranoid fantasies about Joe Maybury, of all people. And on the flimsiest of pretexts. It had been raining and windy, for Christ’s sake. Joe could have swallowed a packet of mints before leaving the pub. It was hardly grounds for suspecting him to be . . . well, what, anyway? What exactly was she afraid of?

  If her position had been compromised – if Kerridge or anyone else was on to her – she was potentially in some danger. But even Kerridge would think twice or three times before taking action against someone who was, to all intents and purposes, a police officer. Killing Jake was one thing. He was one of their own, a potential key witness, and his death would be a warning to others. But there was no mileage in stirring up the kind of shitstorm that would result from the death of an undercover officer. The smart move would be to frighten her off his patch, make enough trouble to ensure she was taken out of the field. Undermine her credibility as a possible witness. Which might be exactly what he was doing.

  She came into the city centre along Deansgate, and then turned off left towards Salford. She was still getting to grips with Manchester and its bloody one-way systems. Even now, she constantly found herself trying to take what appeared to be the most obvious route to some destination, only to discover that her path was blocked by the sudden sweep of the tramlines or some jumble of filter lanes that allowed her to drive in any direction except where she wanted. But at least now she could navigate back from the print shop to her flat without getting lost.

  She pulled off the main road into the network of side streets that led to the apartment block and the entrance to its underground car park. It probably wasn’t where, given a choice, she’d have opted to live. She’d have preferred to be out of the city, maybe somewhere down in leafy Cheshire. But it was pleasant enough, she supposed, in its own way. The flat was spacious and nicely furnished. The block was located on the edge of the city centre, and she had a partial view of the higher landmarks – the new Hilton, the CIS Tower, almost compensating for the fact that most of her windows overlooked neighbouring apartments. And – above all, given her current frame of mind – the place felt secure, built for the kind of residents who had a little more money than had been usual in this part of the city.

  She waved her electronic pass through the car window at the entrance barrier and drove into the car park. There was even a reserved space allocated to her flat, just a few yards from the lift. For someone in an advanced state of paranoia, the place was usefully reassuring.

  She parked up, grabbed her handbag, locked the car and, with only a single glance over her shoulder at the brightly lit underground space, she pressed the call button on the lift.

  As she watched the descending indicator lights, she felt the vibration of the phone in her pocket followed by the shrill buzz of Liam’s ringtone. This time, she calmly pulled the phone from her pocket. Not Liam – she assumed he’d time his call for some far less convenient moment – but the same number as before. She pressed the call button and held the phone to her ear.

  ‘Yes?’

  She half-expected another silence. Instead, a voice said, in what sounded like a stage whisper, ‘You’re on your own now?’

  Just what she needed. A perv. ‘Tell you what,’ she responded amiably, ‘why don’t you just go right off and fuck yourself?’

  She was about to end the call when the voice said, ‘I’m calling about Jake.’

  She paused, her finger resting on the button. ‘Who is this?’ She glanced back behind her at the deserted expanse of the car park, feeling suddenly uneasy. She had taken the opening question as some loser’s half-arsed attempt at intimidation. Now she recalled that the first call had been terminated at the moment that Joe had appeared unexpectedly by her car.

  ‘We need to talk,’ the voice said, still semi-whispering. ‘Tonight.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, keeping her voice even.

  There was another silence. ‘I was an associate of Jake’s. You don’t know me.’

  ‘So give me one good reason to trust you.’

  ‘Jake sent you something.’

  She hesitated before replying. Too long, she thought. ‘Tell me who you are.’

  ‘We need to meet.’

  ‘If you’ve got something to tell me, just say it.’

  ‘Somewhere public, then. The place you used to go with Jake on Saturday mornings.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Nine thirty, tomorrow morning. I’ll know you.’

  She opened her mouth to find some response, but the line was already dead. She thumbed back to the ‘last call’ number and pressed the send button. There was a moment’s silence, then the repeated mantra: ‘Call failed’ in her ear. She tried again with the same result. The number was unobtainable.

  She could ask Salter to try to track down the number. But she knew already that it would not be registered, or would be registered to some party unconnected with her mysterious caller. A pirated SIM, discarded after use. That might mean something or not much. Jake had always mixed with people who put a high premium on being untraceable.

  But this was someone with an interest in Jake. And who now, for whatever reason, seemed to have an interest in her. In her current state of mind, that was disturbing, though she couldn’t decide whether that made her more or less inclined to accept his invitation.

  That decision could wait till the morning, she thought, as the lift doors opened. She entered, waved her entry card at the electronic sensor and then pressed the button for the third floor. As the lift rose, she glanced at the CCTV camera that stared unblinking above the doors.

  The corridor was as silent as ever. There were three flats on the floor and all were occupied – she’d even met her neighbours once or twice, waiting for the lifts. But most of the time there was little sign of life. It was the kind of place that attracted bored businessmen, living away from home during the week, working late at the office for lack of anything better to do. Just like her. Maybe she should have responded more positively to the overweight man who’d made a halfhearted pass at her as they waited by the lift a few weeks back. Perhaps they had more in common than she’d thought.

  She slid the entry pass into the slot in the door and waited for the click and green light that signalled the door was unlocked. But nothing happened. She cursed, and inserted the card again, wondering quite how this system was better than a simple key. Still nothing.

  It wasn’t the first time. Usually, it was because she’d allowed the card to rest too close to her mobile phone, or so Kev the caretaker had told her. It was a pain in the backside, because the only option was to seek out Kev himself, who spent most of his time sitting around in his tiny flat, but was reliably elusive when actually needed. She swore again, louder this time and, in frustration, jammed hard down on the door handle, as if she might break in through brute force.

  To her surprise, the handle dropped and the door opened.

  She gently pushed back the door, her unease returning. She could see nothing unusual, no sign that anything had changed while she had been away. She paused, holding her breath, listening hard.

  Nothing.

  She stepped into the hall. Still nothing but the usual sounds of the flat – the flat click of the central heating thermostat followed by the distant rumble of the boiler firing up. The gentle rhythmic ticking of the warming radiators. The dripping tap that was waiting for a new washer.

  She opened the first door on her left, her bedroom, and turned on the light. Empty, and as far as she could see, undisturbed. She moved quietly, opening each door in turn – the en-suite bathroom, the second bedroom, the small kitchen. No one and nothing.

  Finally, she pushed open the door at the end of the hallway. The main living room. Empty, of course. She waited a moment before switc
hing on the lamp, watching lights from the surrounding buildings, the distant glow of the city centre.

  She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up. It was one thing to walk this tightrope when things were under control. But nothing seemed under control now. Maybe she was losing the plot, but it was beginning to seem that nobody else had much idea now what the plot should be anyway.

  She moved into the kitchen, her mind already fixed on the bottle of Rioja waiting for her.

  Then she stopped and looked back into the living room, her finger frozen on the light switch.

  She didn’t know at first what had caused her to hesitate. The room was apparently undisturbed. There was a sofa, two armchairs, a desk facing the window that she used when working at home. On the desk was a scattering of papers relating to the business, bits and pieces of office paraphernalia – stapler, hole punch – and her laptop.

  Her laptop.

  That was it. She always left her laptop open. Liam chided her about it, because it allowed the screen and the keyboard to become dusty. But it was a habit, just one of those things she always did.

  Except that today she hadn’t. The laptop sat closed on the desk. She walked forwards slowly and peered at it, trying to recall her actions that morning. She’d showered, eaten some toast in the kitchen, come in here to finish her coffee while watching the news headlines on TV. It was two days since Jake’s death, and there’d still been no mention on the news, national or local. She’d collected some papers from the desk before leaving. Nothing unusual. She hadn’t even looked at the laptop. She’d have noticed if it were closed, surely.

  Crazy. Of course, she could easily have closed it without thinking, maybe last night, when she was tired, when she was still annoyed with Liam, when she’d had a couple of glasses of wine.

  She looked more closely at the laptop, then, without touching anything, at the papers that surrounded it. Slowly, she moved across the room and looked carefully at the rows of books on the shelves behind the television. Crime thrillers, most of them, paperbacks thrust back on to the shelf in no particular order. Or, at least, in no order that would mean much to anyone other than Marie. They were, for the most part, in the order that she’d read them – sometimes scattergun, sometimes splurges of a single favoured author. She leaned forwards and ran her eyes across the spines.

  She straightened and looked around, racking her brain. The rack of CDs. The cupboard against the far wall where she kept various personal documents and files – utility bills, bank statements, various domestic detritus.

  In the end, she made her way carefully around the room, peering intently at the edges of the carpet, occasionally bending to touch the skirting board, running her nail carefully between the wood and the plaster.

  Finally, she walked back into the hallway and returned to the front door. She crouched in front of it, her face inches from the entry mechanism. Her finger gently reached out and touched a mark on the wood.

  ‘Shit,’ she said.

  Chapter 10

  She was back in the underground car park, away from the lift. Through the metal railings, she could taste the damp night air, hear the rustle of wind through the surrounding trees. The car park was half-full, rows of expensive-looking family saloons and the odd little sporty hatchback, like hers.

  ‘Shit, come on, Hugh.’ He always took an age to answer the secure line, keeping her waiting on purpose since there was only ever one possible caller.

  ‘Sis?’ He was fumbling with the phone. Somewhere in the background there was the thud of music, voices chattering. ‘You know what time it is?’

  She didn’t, in all honesty. She glanced at her watch, and realized she would be unsurprised by whatever it showed. It felt like hours since she’d left the office.

  ‘It’s only eight fifteen, Hugh. Some of us are still working.’

  ‘You think I’m not?’ He’d moved the phone away from his face and momentarily the music grew louder. ‘This is where the real work gets done. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah. Boys’ work, Hugh.’ She was in no mood for the usual badinage. ‘I’ve got a few problems, as it happens.’

  ‘What’s the trouble, sis? Tell Uncle Hugh.’ He sounded pissed, she thought. Not very, but enough. Though, knowing Salter, it could be just an act, another way of throwing her off guard.

  ‘Someone’s broken into my flat, Hugh. Or at least it looks that way.’

  ‘Looks what way?’ He sounded genuinely puzzled. Third or fourth pint, she thought. Chewing the fat with Welsby and his mates.

  ‘Professionals, Hugh. People who knew what they were doing.’

  ‘You sure, sis?’ He sounded more sober suddenly.

  ‘Not absolutely, no. Professionals. That’s the point.’ She briefly recounted what had happened with the entry system, then with the laptop. And the other things she’d spotted.

  ‘It doesn’t sound much. Sure you’re not imagining things?’

  ‘No, Hugh, I’m not fucking sure. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have wasted my fucking time.’

  ‘All I’m trying to say is—’

  ‘Look, Hugh. We both know how this game is played. We both know there are people out there who can do this in their sleep. There are probably one or two of them in the pub with you right now. The only surprise is that I spotted anything at all.’

  ‘Assuming you have spotted something.’

  ‘Yes, Hugh,’ she said patiently. ‘Assuming I have spotted anything. That’s the thing with professionals, you see. They make it hard to be sure. Thought I’d made that point.’

  ‘So what do you think, then? Kerridge’s people?’

  ‘Well, that’s one possibility, isn’t it?’ she said. She allowed the silence to build, giving Salter time to contemplate the alternative.

  ‘You think it’s us?’ he said, when it was clear she wasn’t going to continue.

  ‘You tell me, Hugh.’

  ‘Jesus, Marie. If it is, nobody’s told me.’

  He sounded sincere for once, if only because he’d actually used her bloody name.

  ‘But it’s possible,’ she prompted.

  ‘Anything’s bloody possible,’ he said. ‘What do you think, that we’re checking up on you?’

  ‘Like you say, Hugh, anything’s possible. You and Keith seemed to think that Morton might’ve had something he’d not shared. You also seemed to think that I might know something about it, Christ knows why. So no, I wouldn’t put it past you to be doing some checking up on me.’

  ‘Not me, sis,’ Salter said. ‘Not my style.’

  Like hell it isn’t, she thought. All you mean is that it’s not you this time.

  But she’d noted the first person singular. ‘What about Keith? You think it’s his style?’

  ‘Can’t see it. But it’s a bit of a madhouse here at the moment, truth be told. I’m not sure what to think.’

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I must really be in trouble if I come running to you, mustn’t I?’

  ‘It’s what I’m here for, dear sister. Your buddy and mentor.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Hugh. I feel so much better.’

  ‘Hang on in there.’

  She cut the call, feeling the cold of the windswept car park. Where had that got her? All she’d done was expose another sliver of vulnerability to Salter. And discovered that, yes, it was quite possible that it was her own lot who’d broken into the flat.

  She walked over and stood by her car. Her instinct was to get in and drive. Just drive. Not to any particular destination. Certainly not home, if that’s what it still was. Not to Liam.

  It was the first time she’d consciously acknowledged that thought. There had been a time, not too long ago, when she would have seen Liam as her refuge. Whatever else might go wrong, she had known she could go back there.

  And suddenly she didn’t want to. Had she fallen out of love? Or was it even simpler than that? Was it just that, before too long, she might be the one doing
the looking after? That Liam might turn out to be not a refuge, but a burden? Was she really that shallow?

  Shallow, or just out of her depth. Miles out of her fucking depth.

  There was a flash of angled light across the far wall of the car park. Headlights, turning into the entrance. Another resident returning after a night out or an overlong day at work.

  She walked back over to the lift, not wanting to be caught down here on her own. The long drive could wait. One day – one day soon – she’d do just that. She’d get in the car and drive, keep driving, maybe through the Tunnel south into Europe, or maybe a ferry north. One day.

  The lift doors opened and she stepped in. One day. But not today, and not tomorrow. Tomorrow she had an appointment to keep.

  She slept badly. She’d downed the remaining Rioja across the evening, in the vain hope that it would help her relax. It hadn’t, of course. She’d become increasingly anxious, unable to concentrate even on some inane reality show on TV. She’d spent a good half-hour, earlier in the evening, running through the supposed evidence of a break-in, more and more convinced now that she’d been mistaken after all. Before she’d phoned Salter, she’d felt certain that the books and CDs on her shelves had been reordered. But maybe she’d moved them herself. She remembered pulling some of the books out looking for one she’d offered to lend to Joe. Had she put them back in the same order? Probably. Maybe.

  And the laptop? Was she really that much a creature of habit? Why had she been so sure?

  The more she looked, the less certain she became. She’d thought that part of the carpet had been raised, but when she examined it again, she wondered whether it had just been poorly laid in the first place. She’d even thought that the skirting board had been prised from the wall in one place. Perhaps it had. But if so, it had been replaced very skilfully.

  But that was the thing about these people, whether Kerridge’s or her own. They were experts. They knew exactly how to come into a place like this, do what they had to do, and then leave without a trace. And that raised another question. If they were so skilled, why leave the front door unlocked? Because there was no way to enable the electronic lock again before leaving? Because they wanted to leave just one sign that they’d been, enough to stir her unease?