Trust No One Read online

  He stretched himself back on the sofa. ‘Ah, now, that’s an interesting question.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You’re assuming that Kerridge and Boyle are, as it were, one entity.’

  ‘Well, aren’t they? As it were? Joined at the hip, from what I’ve seen.’

  ‘Always been that way, hasn’t it? Kerridge the intellectual, the business brains. Boyle doing the dirtier work, but still managing to keep his hands more or less clean. The perfect partnership.’

  ‘You’re saying it isn’t?’

  ‘Not quite. Not any more. Or so it seems.’

  ‘My heart grieves. Wonder who’ll get custody of the kids.’

  He smiled, very faintly. ‘Impression I get is that Mr Boyle was perhaps getting a bit too big for his boots. Taking too much for granted. Maybe becoming a wee bit of a threat to the old man. Not so much Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? as Oedipus Rex, you might say.’

  ‘I’ll take your word,’ she said. ‘All that book learning will get you into trouble one day. So what’s the upshot of all this?’

  ‘The upshot,’ Salter said carefully, ‘is that Kerridge shafted Boyle.’

  She looked up, surprised for the first time. ‘You mean Boyle’s arrest?’

  ‘Looks that way. A lot of information came our way. Interesting thing was, most of the evidence implicated Mr Boyle while leaving Mr Kerridge squeaky clean.’

  ‘Maybe Kerridge was just smarter.’

  ‘Could well be. But it was all just a little too neat. We’ve been pursuing this bunch for years, and then this stuff falls handily into our lap. Very convenient.’

  ‘Where did it come from, this evidence?’

  ‘Various sources, over the last few months. Most recently, quite a lot from your friend Morton.’

  ‘You think Morton was doing this for Kerridge? I can’t see it. He wanted to shaft both of them.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. You knew him better than me.’ He left the comment hanging in the air for a beat or two. ‘I reckon Morton acted in good faith. If you can ever say that about a grass. But I think Kerridge had him sussed.’

  ‘As an informant? Jesus.’

  ‘Well, that’s where our leaker comes in. Could be that Kerridge had been tipped off. And was able to use Mr Morton as a nice little conduit to spread more poison about Boyle.’

  ‘Honour among thieves. Still, I imagine you didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  ‘Christ, no. Only too happy to have a bit of internecine warfare if it helps us do our job. We want to get both of them, of course, but Boyle will do nicely for the moment. The worrying thing is the leak, though. It might have helped us with Boyle, but it leaves everyone exposed.’

  ‘Including me.’

  ‘Including you.’ He paused. ‘If I’m not mistaken, you provided us with one or two useful titbits on Boyle.’

  It was true. The information had been nothing spectacular, just intimations she’d picked up on the grapevine about deals that Boyle had supposedly been involved in. Something and nothing, most of it, but stuff that was worth logging if it added to the sum of intelligence. She couldn’t even recall where most of it had come from. Just whispers. But who had been doing the whispering?

  ‘You reckon he might have had me sussed as well?’

  ‘I don’t know. But, yes, we think so.’

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘That’s scary.’

  ‘Yeah. Potentially means that all our operations could be compromised. And all our agents.’

  She could feel a rising tide of anger. How long had Salter known this? How long had he allowed her to stay out there, knowing that her role had been exposed? Had he been happy to leave her at risk, hoping that she might become another nice conduit?

  ‘What about Morton? Who killed him?’

  ‘Boyle’s people. They’ve been systematically shutting down anyone who might provide witness evidence. Couple of grasses just disappeared. Frightened off, I’d guess. Probably couldn’t frighten Morton so went to the next step—’

  ‘And me,’ she said quietly. ‘Framed.’

  ‘Yeah. And you. Framed.’

  ‘That why you think I’ve been sussed?’

  ‘One reason. But, yes, if Boyle thinks you’re worth bothering with, there’s a reason for that. I don’t know whether he’s got you pegged as undercover, but my guess is that he at least thinks you’re a grass.’

  ‘That was what Joe— Morrissey said. Christ.’ She looked around her at the shabby sitting room. ‘So where does all this fit in?’

  ‘Professional Standards.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m working for Professional Standards. Have been for a year or two.’

  ‘But you’re not—’

  ‘No, well. Covert. Aren’t we all?’

  She stared at him, trying to take in the implications. Professional Standards was the internal division charged with ensuring the integrity of the Agency’s staff. Watching the watchmen. Policing the police. Investigating corruption, vetting staff. An essential function in an organization like theirs, but nevertheless regarded with suspicion and distaste by their colleagues. Big Brother. The Stasi.

  ‘So who are you working to?’ she said.

  ‘The highest. This goes a long way up.’

  ‘Good to know you’re above suspicion, anyway.’

  ‘I don’t imagine I was to start with. They must have had me checked out pretty thorough. But they need someone on the ground. Top brass doesn’t get its hands dirty with stuff like this. They’ve been aware of the problem for a long time. Just didn’t know how to deal with it.’

  ‘Till you came along. Must be very proud, Hugh.’

  ‘God, Marie. It’s the job we do, isn’t it? No different from what I did before. No different from what you do.’

  ‘Except that you’re spying on your own.’

  She knew she was being unfair, that Salter was right. He was just doing what he had to, the way they all did. But she was still angry with him, and she was feeling a growing anxiety, as if the ground was continuing to shift beneath her, as if nothing was certain.

  ‘They’re not our own, anyway, are they?’ he went on. ‘Not if they’re working for the other side.’

  She gazed at him for a moment. ‘OK. No. You’re right. You’re just doing a job. Doesn’t mean I have to like the thought of you spying on me, though.’

  ‘Not you,’ he said. ‘You were never seriously in the frame.’

  ‘Should I be flattered or insulted? Who then? Who is in the frame?’

  There was a long silence. Then, without responding, Salter rose and disappeared into the kitchen. She heard the sound of a cupboard being opened, the clink of glass on glass. A moment later, he reappeared bearing two half-filled tumblers alongside a bottle of Laphroaig.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’

  ‘Or three,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’ What she really needed was food, she thought. A good solid meal inside her. But Scotch would do for the moment.

  Salter reached over to hand her one of the glasses.

  ‘Welsby,’ he said gently.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Welsby,’ he repeated. ‘Our leaker. Welsby. Good old Keith.’ He had finished his own Scotch in a single swallow. He poured himself another, and then handed her the bottle. ‘What do you think of that?’

  She took a large swallow of her own drink. ‘This your idea of a joke, Hugh?’

  ‘Wish it was, sis. Looks as if old Keith’s been on the Kerridge payroll for quite a little while.’

  ‘You’ve got evidence for this?’

  ‘I’m not just trying to screw Welsby to advance my career, if that’s what you mean. Look, sis, this was as much of a shock to me as it is to you. And, yes, we’ve got evidence. Not enough for a court, not yet. But enough for me.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. She wanted not to believe it, wanted to believe that Salter was lying. That this was just some convoluted, cynical game he was playing.

  After a
ll, why should she trust Salter? Because he had saved her life? But the whole situation was increasingly surreal. What were they doing here, late in the evening, drinking Scotch in this glorified holiday home? Even if Salter was telling the truth, she couldn’t begin to fathom where he was heading.

  She poured herself another drink – just half a glass, but probably a bad idea nonetheless. She could already feel her head beginning to spin. Knackered, no food and too much booze. A terrific combination. Perfect for keeping your wits about you.

  ‘I don’t believe Keith’s on the take,’ she said. ‘It’s not his style.’

  But was that really the case? She wanted it to be, but Salter’s claim had the ring of truth. She’d always had the idea, without really articulating it even to herself, that Welsby’s character, his bluff cynical manner, was somehow a guarantor of his integrity. That he was above, or perhaps below, all the usual careerist machinations, the politicking, the sordid temptations that went with this territory.

  But maybe the opposite was true. She thought back to Winsor’s psychometrics. If you were the sort of character who bent the rules, eventually you’d bend them too far. You’d make that almost imperceptible shift from the acceptable to the unacceptable. From good to bad. And, as Marie had seen too many times, once you stepped over that line, it was almost impossible to step back.

  ‘Believe what you like,’ Salter said. ‘It’s true.’

  The implications of Salter’s words were just beginning to sink in. If he was right about Welsby, it blew the whole deal right open. Her own position would have been compromised right from the start. Morton’s death warrant would have been signed the moment they persuaded him to come across. They’d all have been living on borrowed time, or being used for Kerridge’s own ends. The whole thing had been a farce.

  Salter was already pouring himself another drink. He waved the bottle towards her and she topped up her own glass. Half the bottle gone. No wonder she was feeling woozy.

  ‘So what’s your plan now?’ she said. ‘Why’ve you brought me here?’

  ‘First thing was to get you somewhere safe. I thought at first that Boyle would be content with the frame-up. That his plan was just to take you out of commission in the short term and bugger your credibility in the long term.’

  ‘So long as that was all. Wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to me.’

  ‘No, well. We could have got you out of all that, I’m fairly confident. We’d have pulled a few strings, got it sorted. Might have taken a little while, though. With that and Morton’s death, Boyle would have got what he wanted. We’d have had to drop the trial. But then I saw our friend Joe sniffing about your hotel. That was when I did my digging and found the link between Messrs Morrissey and Boyle. Occurred to me that Morrissey’s interest might be – well, professional. It was a smart move from Boyle. If Morrissey had managed to top you, even our lot might not think it worthwhile stirring things up just to clear your posthumous name.’

  She found herself shivering at Salter’s characteristically blunt colloquialisms. ‘Nice to be loved.’

  ‘Just being realistic. Anyway, when I realized what Morrissey might be up to, I thought it best to organize a little hideaway for you. Keep you out of harm’s way until we can get things sorted. Welsby doesn’t know about this place. That’s why it’s a bit rough and ready. Run by Professional Standards, but they don’t have cause to use it that often. Don’t seem to get too many agents grassing on each other, oddly enough.’

  ‘Except you and Welsby?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve grassed no one. This is a big deal. Welsby’s potentially buggered a lot of major operations over the last year or so.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Salter had knocked back yet another glass of Scotch, but was showing no obvious ill-effects. Marie was sipping gently at hers, enjoying the taste and the burn in her throat, but conscious of a growing haziness in her thinking.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ she asked again.

  ‘We can talk about that tomorrow. Get a decent night’s sleep first.’ He gently patted the sofa cushion next to him. ‘Why not come over here? We can relax a bit now.’

  Christ, she thought. Is he making a pass at me? Not here, not now, surely. But Salter wouldn’t let sensitivities like that stop him from going after something he wanted. Or maybe she was just flattering herself. God, she felt tired.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ she said. ‘If I get up now, I’ll probably just fall over.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He was smiling, as if he’d just completed the preliminary step in an extended campaign. He poured himself another Scotch. ‘You?’

  She shook her head, holding up her nearly full glass. ‘Can’t keep up. You’ll have to go on without me. Don’t let me hold you back.’

  He leaned back on the sofa and stretched out his legs, his manner suggesting that he was envisaging a large open fire, rather than the three-bar electric that was actually there.

  ‘What about Morton, anyway?’

  ‘What about him?’ She could feel herself enunciating more clearly, as if trying to compensate for the fuzziness that was beginning to afflict her brain.

  ‘We talked the other day, when Welsby was there, about what evidence Morton might have had. Whether he had anything he hadn’t handed over.’

  Even through her fogged head, she could feel mental alarm bells ringing. ‘Yeah, I remember. It’s possible, I suppose.’

  ‘He gave you no idea?’

  ‘Why would he? You were his handler. Anyway, I thought you said that he was a conduit for stuff coming from Kerridge.’

  ‘Still useful stuff, wherever it came from. And maybe Morton was cuter than that.’

  ‘You reckon?’ She hoped that her words were still clear, but it felt as if her mind was slowly coming adrift of its moorings.

  ‘He was no fool, was he? Maybe he knew he was being used by Kerridge. He’d still be quite happy to pass on whatever Kerridge might want to give him about Boyle. But he might also have been collecting some stuff on his own. Doing a bit of freelancing, as it were.’

  ‘Stuff about Kerridge?’ She recalled now that the material on the data stick had seemed almost entirely to focus on Kerridge. There had been very little about Boyle.

  ‘Maybe stuff he could use as an insurance policy, if he knew he was being used. Or maybe he did just want to bring them both down. You get that impression?’

  ‘Might be,’ she said. She could feel herself tensing. Salter’s tone was as casual as ever, but his questions felt increasingly pressured, probing. Her head was spinning, and she didn’t trust herself to say the right thing. Whatever the right thing might be. ‘I really don’t know, Hugh. You were closer to him towards the end.’

  Another thought struck her. If Salter was right about Welsby, that would explain why Welsby had wanted to keep Morton’s handling ‘in the family’.

  Salter gazed at her over the top of the glass as though he were reading her mind. Well, good luck with that, she thought. At the moment, I can barely read my own. She swallowed the last of the Scotch and looked at her watch. Just gone ten. It felt a lot later.

  ‘I’m going to turn in, Hugh. I’m knackered.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want anything to eat?’

  She shook her head, and it felt as if her brain was in danger of coming loose. ‘Should have had something earlier. Can hardly keep my eyes open now.’

  She pushed herself slowly to her feet, finding it harder than she’d expected, the room swaying gently around her. ‘Christ. Must be getting old. Can’t take my drink.’

  Salter rose to take her arm. ‘My fault,’ he said. ‘You’re exhausted. Shouldn’t have plied you with spirits on an empty stomach. Let’s get you to bed.’

  She couldn’t work out whether there was any intended undertone to the last sentence, but barely had the energy to care. If he tried anything, she’d no doubt summon the will to knee him in the balls.

  He led her across the hall and pointed to one of th
e bedrooms. ‘You take that one,’ he said. ‘Occurred to me that you’d have left your stuff back at the hotel, so I organized you a few bits and pieces. Washbag, dressing gown. Some basic clothes. Hope they’re more or less the right size. Guesswork.’

  And observation, she thought. Salter wasn’t the only colleague who undressed her mentally, but he was probably the only one who’d make a note of her vital statistics in the process.

  She paused at the bedroom door, taking in the neat double bed, the slightly garish duvet cover, the magnolia walls and beige carpet. The bed, at least, looked irresistibly inviting. She glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘Goodnight, Hugh,’ she said. ‘And thanks. Really.’

  Chapter 28

  She woke in pitch darkness, with a headache, a mouth that tasted like the wet sand where she’d struggled with Joe hours before, and an unaccountable sense of unease. It took her a moment to recognize where she was. After some blind searching, she found the curved shape of the bedside lamp. It took her another few seconds to find the switch, and then the room was flooded with light.

  She lay back, her dazed mind piecing together the sequence of events that had brought her here. The police. The hotel. Joe. The beach. Salter. The sense of unease was mounting as her mind tracked through the incidents of the previous day.

  Shit. Her handbag. She’d left it in the sitting room. She’d been too befuddled to think about it before going to bed, but it had been sitting by the side of her chair. With the data stick still tucked away in the lining. Shit.

  She dragged herself slowly out of bed, trying to get her brain back into gear. She’d stripped off her clothes before climbing into bed and donned a fairly unflattering nightdress that had been left among a neat pile of clothes on the flat-pack dressing table. Now she caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror. Nice taste, Hugh, she thought. But it could have been worse. She could imagine him contemplating some far more revealing outfit. She pulled the towelling dressing gown on over the top and turned to the door.

  She’d been relieved to discover that there was a bolt on the inside. It wasn’t exactly that she didn’t trust Salter. Whatever she might think of him, she couldn’t imagine that he would force his attentions on her against her will. But, after everything she’d been through, she needed the sense of security.