Trust No One Read online

  Or maybe because the lock was just faulty and the break-in had never taken place.

  Sometime later, with the wine bottle nearly empty, she realized that she’d forgotten about the data stick. Bloody typical. Only a few hours earlier, it had been the one thing on her mind. Then, in a few minutes, all this had knocked it clear out of her head. And she was supposed to be a professional herself.

  Pouring the last of the wine, she turned on the laptop. She’d checked it earlier for any signs of intrusion, but the computer was no more revealing than anything else she’d checked. The machine was highly secured, but in any case she kept nothing on there that might be of interest to any third party, legitimate or otherwise. As far as her inexpert eye could judge, there was no sign that anyone had attempted to access the machine. But she knew that her inexpert eye was incapable of judging very far.

  She slipped the data stick into one of the USB ports and waited, her brain mildly fogged by the wine, to see what might be revealed. Almost immediately, she was disappointed. The data stick was password-protected, and she had no idea what password Jake might have chosen. She tried a few obvious ideas – Jake’s and then her own middle name, the name of the street where Jake had lived – but with no success.

  Why would Jake send her this unless he thought she had a reasonable chance of guessing the password? Which meant that the password must be something obvious. But the harder she thought, the foggier her mind became. More sensible to try again in the morning when she was fully sober.

  The perfect end to the perfect evening. Jake had sent her something that might be of vital importance, and she was too stupid even to work out how to read it.

  She slipped the data stick back into her purse, stuck it safely under her pillow, and went off to bed, accompanied by a pint glass of water, already steeling herself for the hangover she’d face in the morning.

  It was only as she was getting into bed that she remembered that the front door was still unlocked.

  It probably didn’t matter. If someone had broken in earlier, the electronic lock hadn’t prevented them. No one else was likely to turn up tonight. But she felt exposed enough already. She stumbled back into the living room, grabbed a wooden chair, and jammed it under the door handle. Not elegant, but probably a damn sight better at keeping out intruders than that electronic bollocks.

  With the chair in place, she felt more secure, but as it turned out, that didn’t help her sleep. At some point in the night she found herself awake, staring into the darkness, listening to the unceasing sounds of the night – the buzz of a car on the main road, a distant drunken singing, somewhere a faint sound of machinery.

  That was it, she thought. One of her sources of unease. If it had been her own people who had broken in – if they had suspicions about her behaviour, or if they thought she was holding something back – they’d have done more than just search the flat.

  It was what they did. They had people who were experts at that – breaking into houses, planting intercept devices, slipping away with no trace that they’d been there. It was why, almost instinctively, she’d made her call to Salter from out in the car park. Because now she had to work on the assumption that she might be under surveillance.

  She lay in the darkness, dry-mouthed, already faintly hungover, thinking about the implications, wondering whether there really was a tape machine in here somewhere or maybe even cameras, sound or movement activated, slipping softly into action as she entered the flat, spoke on the phone. Tracking her every move around the apartment.

  Well, more fool them, if so. Whoever they were, they wouldn’t get much out of observing her flat, in either information or entertainment value. But the thought of being watched by some pervert, officially sanctioned or otherwise, didn’t do much for her comfort. And already they could have watched her unthinkingly insert the data stick into her laptop. Instinctively, she rolled over in bed and felt under the pillow for her purse.

  Jesus, she thought, I can’t go on like this.

  It felt as if she’d fallen asleep only minutes before the alarm woke her at seven. She felt like death, a dull ache at the back of her head, her mind still dulled by the aftereffects of the wine. In the last moments before she’d fallen asleep, her brain had been running repeatedly through possibilities for the data stick’s password, the options growing increasingly surreal as sleep crept over her. There’d been a point, just before she lost consciousness, when she’d been sure she’d cracked it – the solution had sprung into her mind as clearly as if Jake had whispered it into her ear. But now, in the pale morning light, she had no idea what that brilliant insight might have been.

  She dragged herself out of bed, showered, and rapidly downed two pints of water, a black coffee and half a slice of toast. Feeling at least marginally more human, she began to consider what to do next.

  She knew now that she was going to keep the rendezvous with her mysterious caller. She’d harboured some vague idea that whatever was on the data stick might clarify things. But with that option now closed, at least for the moment, she felt she had to pursue every lead, however tenuous. The caller might turn out to be some irrelevant crazy, but there was no risk in meeting him in a public place.

  She had little doubt where the caller had meant. Place you and Jake used to go on Saturday mornings. Every once in a while, they’d go at weekends for a coffee and breakfast in a café bar up on the edge of the Northern Quarter. Sometimes they met there, sometimes they’d already been together all night. The place was nothing special – one of half a dozen places selling Italian-style coffees and pastries where you could find a quiet corner to chat, read the papers, relax. They’d chosen it because it wasn’t one of the chains and because, at that time in the morning, it was less busy than most, tucked away in a back street.

  She felt uneasy going back there, anxious that the memories might prove too much. She knew she still hadn’t fully come to grips with Jake’s death. Perhaps this would bring it home, one way or another.

  She grabbed her coat and car keys, remembering, as she saw the propped chair against the front door, that she still had to deal with the entry system. For the moment, there wasn’t much she could do. As she waited for the lift, she called Kev the caretaker. He wasn’t there, predictably enough, but she left a message on his voicemail. Sometime, maybe in the next six months or so, he’d get around to calling her back. Sometime beyond then, ideally within the next decade, he might organize a repair. In the meantime, she was just grateful that she had no possessions of any great value.

  It was a fine day, she realized, as she headed back into the city centre. She hadn’t been able to face opening the curtains in the flat, and the sudden glare of the sunshine surprised her. The first signs of spring, maybe, at long last. It was still early, but the traffic was already backing up on the main roads, endless streams of commuters heading into work. She was used to driving against the flow and was surprised by the weight of traffic. She was already running late.

  She followed the inner ring road round past the arena and Victoria Station, the 1960s monolith of the CIS Tower on her right, before turning off towards the Arndale Centre car park. It was the easiest place to park at this time of the day, and still relatively empty as she drove in. She parked and made her way down the grimy concrete stairs into the upper floor of the shopping mall. Like the car park, the Centre was largely deserted, many of the shops not yet open.

  She’d been conscious, driving into the car park, of another car following her up the ramps, twenty or thirty feet behind. She’d parked as soon as she reached a floor with plenty of space, and had assumed that the car behind her would do the same. Instead the driver had continued past.

  She’d noted the car at the time, alert for any sign that she might be followed. A dark grey Mondeo, though the rear registration plate was too grimy for her to make out in the gloom of the car park.

  Now, walking through the empty mall, a feeling of unease overtook her. She’d registered the car before it ha
d followed her into the car park. It had been behind her for some distance, three or four cars behind on the ring road. Perhaps coincidence, perhaps not.

  As she took the escalator down to the ground floor, she glanced back over her shoulder. The upper concourse was deserted, apart from a bored-looking security guard staring vacantly into the window of the Apple Store. Then, at the opposite side of the mall, she caught sight of another figure, someone in a long black coat, collar turned up, who had just emerged from the entrance to the car park. She observed him for a moment, wondering whether to wait at the bottom of the escalator to see whether he followed her down. See how he reacted, see if she recognized the face.

  But the man – she assumed it was a man, though it was impossible to be sure from this distance – had also paused. He had a hand to his ear, and she realized that he was talking on a mobile phone. She waited another moment, but he showed no sign of ending his call. He had turned his back, staring blankly into one of the store windows, apparently unaware of her presence.

  Finally, she made her way through the ground-floor concourse and out on to Market Street. Suddenly she wanted to be out in the open air, among the early morning commuters, the crowd streaming down from Piccadilly Station into the heart of the city. She turned left and hurried up towards Piccadilly Gardens, where people were stopping to enjoy the morning sunshine, cardboard cups of coffee clutched in their hands, grabbing a few restful moments before heading to work.

  She turned left into Oldham Street and hurried through into the network of back streets that comprised the city’s Northern Quarter, a bustling mix of fashionable shops, bars and cafés. The place she was going to was tucked away in a secluded courtyard, part of a converted warehouse building, down one of the side streets running parallel with Piccadilly.

  She pushed open the door, enjoying the welcoming warmth, the rich scent of coffee and baking. She could see no one who might be her mystery caller. There was a young woman in a smart suit studiously thumbing some extended message into a BlackBerry. A couple of older women chatting over coffee and croissants. One young man in the queue ahead of her, dressed in a garish cycling outfit, helmet in his hand, clearly just getting a coffee to take out.

  She glanced at her watch. Just gone nine thirty. Maybe her caller wasn’t here yet. Or maybe he wasn’t coming.

  She ordered a latte and a pastry, and carried them carefully to a table at the rear of the room. The café had a rack of newspapers, so she took one of the tabloids, positioning herself facing the door. How long should she wait? Thirty minutes, maybe. As long as would be reasonable for someone killing a little time before an appointment. Not enough to make her conspicuous.

  She’d dressed in a simple but smart business suit, slightly less expensive than it appeared – the look she adopted when meeting a client, rather than the more pragmatic jeans and jumper outfits she usually wore in the print shop. She wasn’t sure why she’d bothered dressing up. Something about looking inconspicuous – another businesswoman running a little early for an appointment. But also about wanting to feel in control.

  ‘Ms Donovan?’ the voice said from behind her.

  She turned, as calmly as she could, and gazed up at the short, plump man hovering a few feet from her table. Where the bloody hell had he sprung from?

  ‘Sorry if I startled you,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts. He gestured behind him. ‘I was out having a smoke. They’ve a shelter out there to accommodate the addicts.’

  She noticed now, looking past him, that the door which she’d thought led only to the lavatories also led out to the rear of the building.

  She did know him after all, she realized, or at least she’d met him before. It was the faint Welsh accent that had reminded her. Somebody Jones. Morgan Jones. A low-rent associate of Kerridge’s, one of the hangers-on who picked up bits and pieces of dirty work. The kind of person they’d call on when they wanted something low-risk done on the cheap. She’d seen him a few times at meetings with Kerridge’s people, hanging about in the background like a bad smell.

  He was still hovering above her table, looking awkward. ‘You OK for a drink? I’m getting myself another one.’

  ‘I’m fine. You go ahead.’

  She watched him as he queued, wondering what this was all about. Jones didn’t look relaxed exactly – his manner was too uncomfortable for that – but he seemed a different figure from anything she’d imagined from the previous night’s call. He had the air of an unsuccessful businessman – which she supposed was pretty much what he was – in his cheap, ill-fitting suit.

  He returned bearing a tray with a mug of tea and two croissants. ‘Thought you might like some breakfast,’ he said, lowering himself into the seat opposite her.

  She shook her head. ‘Morgan, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m impressed. People don’t usually find me that memorable.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes helpful in our line of work.’

  She ignored the implied collusion. ‘What’s this about, Morgan? Why’d you call me?’

  He picked up one of the croissants and took a large bite, showering crumbs. ‘Sad news about Jake.’

  ‘Very,’ she said. ‘Why’d you call me, Morgan?’

  ‘Always took you for the straightforward type,’ he said. He made the adjective sound pejorative. ‘No messing about.’

  ‘More than I can say for you. I’m thirty seconds from buggering off, unless you’ve something to tell me.’

  ‘You heard what happened to Jake?’

  ‘I heard rumours,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s saying much.’

  ‘No, well. You heard he was a grass?’

  ‘That’s one of the things I heard. I don’t know if it’s true.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Jones said sadly. ‘They’d got him down as a witness.’

  She took a swallow of her coffee. More bitter than usual, she thought. ‘They didn’t look after him very well, then. According to the rumours.’

  ‘What do you expect? No one likes a grass.’

  She picked up her briefcase, as if preparing to leave. ‘We just here to exchange philosophies, Morgan, or do you have some reason for wasting my time?’

  ‘Nasty what happened to Jake at the end. You’ll have heard the rumours about that, too?’

  ‘I’ve heard something,’ she said. ‘Like you say, no one likes a grass.’

  ‘You were close to Jake?’

  None of your fucking business, she thought. ‘Not really,’ she said calmly. ‘I liked him. He was a laugh.’ She shrugged. ‘Just goes to show.’ She was watching Jones closely now.

  ‘Word is,’ Jones went on, ‘that they thought Jake was just the tip of the iceberg. That, before they killed him, they tried to get him to spill the beans on who else might be involved.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Word is,’ Jones said, ‘that your name was mentioned.’

  ‘That right? Always nice to be in people’s thoughts.’

  ‘No one likes a grass.’

  ‘Oh, just fuck off, Jones. Don’t try the hardman act. It fits you as well as that fucking suit.’

  ‘I’m just saying . . .’

  She had started to rise from the table. ‘For what it’s worth, Jonesy – and Christ knows why I’m even bothering to talk to you – Morton and I were friends, but that’s it. I thought he was OK, God help me. If he was a grass, it’s nothing to do with me.’

  She was turning to leave the table when Jones said quietly, ‘Morton named me as well.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Told them I was a grass.’

  Something in his tone made her hesitate. ‘And are you?’

  He didn’t respond. His head was down, his eyes fixed on his now empty mug.

  ‘Jesus, Morgan.’ She sat herself back down.

  ‘I’m not a grass,’ he said quietly. ‘I mean, I never meant . . .’

  They never did. They never intended it to end up that way. That was one of the skills of the handlers. They identified the right people. They played
on their weaknesses, insecurities. Their aspirations and desires. They did it slowly, slowly, step by step, each a tiny increment on what had gone before. So there was never an identifiable moment when it happened. Never a point where the informant could say, ‘I used to be that, and now I’m this.’

  ‘Do you want to talk, Morgan?’

  He looked up at her, and she thought perhaps she’d taken a step too far. His expression was blank, as if he’d used up his last hope and was resigned to whatever the fates might throw at him.

  ‘I’ll get you another tea,’ she said. ‘Something hot and sweet.’

  How English, she thought. How do you respond to a crisis, except by offering a cup of tea? But she wanted to give Jones a few moments to think, reflect on his options. Ease him gently in her direction.

  Jesus, here Jones was, apparently on the point of mental collapse, and all she could think of was how to take advantage of it. How to play him along. It was what she was good at. It was her job.

  She queued behind some office-type getting a tray of hot drinks to take out. Occasionally, she glanced over at Jones, who was still sitting, head bowed, looking as if he just received some devastating news.

  The woman in front finally finished her order, picked up the cardboard tray and departed. ‘Hot drinks?’ the young man behind the counter said, in a tone that sounded like an instruction.

  She ordered a tea and another small caffè latte, fumbling in her purse for change. As the young man busied himself with the espresso machine, she glanced back towards Jones.

  The table was empty. In the few seconds since she’d looked away, Jones had upped and gone, presumably through the same rear exit he’d used earlier. For a moment, she wondered whether to pursue him. But Jones was nothing more than a joker, a lightweight. Most likely, all this was bullshit, Jones chasing some half-arsed agenda of his own.