Trust No One

Chapter 18

‘Panini and caffè latte,’ Welsby intoned carefully. ‘Do I look fucking Italian?’ He sat down heavily at the table, making a play of dumping his cardboard-packed collation between the two of them. ‘In any case, shouldn’t it be a panino?’

Salter noted, as so often before, that Welsby’s cultural ignorance was less all-embracing than he liked people to think. He peered at Welsby’s lunch. ‘Not really,’ he said finally. ‘You’ve got two.’

‘Which just about equates to one half-decent meal,’ Welsby pointed out. He peeled back the wrapping. ‘Though man cannot live by bread alone. Even with mozzarella and fucking pancetta.’ He looked up at the brightly lit space that surrounded them. ‘How’s it come to this? Coppers need chips and meat pies and full fry-ups. Not mixed-leaf fucking salads and vegetarian bakes. No wonder everyone’s so irritable.’

‘Must take the patience of a saint, guv.’

‘Too right, Hugh, me old chum. Too fucking right.’ He began to munch, with an enthusiasm that belied his previous words, on the warm sandwich, occasionally pausing to take a slurp of the milky coffee.

‘Anything new on Morton?’

Welsby shrugged, then spoke around a mouthful of sandwich. ‘Not so’s you’d notice. But our chums on the force aren’t brimming over with information.’

‘And after we’d been so forthcoming with them, as well,’ Salter said.

‘Yes, well. Need to know and all that. They’ve had the forensics back.’

‘And?’

‘Bugger all. Lots of DNA, but, as expected, most of it Morton’s. Nothing that’s on the database. Mind you, Morton’s wasn’t on the database either.’

‘Professionals, then. But we knew that.’

‘Well, they weren’t after the DVD player,’ Welsby agreed morosely.

‘Anything else?’

‘Not much. Mind you, I don’t imagine this case is exactly top of their to-do list.’

‘Nobody likes a grass,’ Salter said. ‘Even our lot think he had it coming.’

‘Now, now, Hughie. That’s not the attitude. Grasses are our bread and fucking butter.’

Salter nodded. ‘Never been partial to bread and butter. Sticks in the throat. Even the Italian stuff.’

Welsby laughed. He’d already made short work of the second sandwich, and was tearing open a bag of exotically flavoured crisps. He pushed the opened bag towards Salter, who shook his head.

‘Christ, Hugh. Have you got any vices?’

‘Not ones I usually display in public,’ Salter said.

He gazed around them. It was towards the end of most people’s lunch hour, and the tables in the restaurant were starting to empty. He supposed it was a good thing, this replacement for the old canteen. Its new pastel walls and tasteful artwork provided an appropriate backdrop for the healthy, up-to-the-minute cuisine that wound up Welsby so successfully. A pleasant enough place to chill out for half an hour in the middle of the day. It was all a façade, though. The place was riddled with the same old vicious gossip and intrigue as in the days when overweight plods were knocking back the cholesterol pies.

‘What about Sister Donovan?’ he asked, as if the question was a natural corollary to his previous thoughts.

‘Marie? What about her?’

‘I was thinking about what you said. About her having trouble at home. This stuff about her flat being bugged. Maybe it’s all bollocks. Maybe she really is just losing the plot.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first.’ Welsby jammed a surprisingly large amount of crisps into his mouth. ‘You’d know about that, Hughie.’

‘What about her and Morton? You think there’s anything in that?’

‘Gossip and innuendo,’ Welsby said mellifluously. ‘Gossip and fucking innuendo. Which doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t true, of course.’ He paused. ‘Dunno. We never actually caught them at it, so to speak. But then Marie’s no fool.’

‘Would have been pretty foolish if she’d got involved with Morton,’ Salter pointed out.

‘Ah, but we’re all fools for love. Even you, I don’t doubt.’

‘Exception that proves the rule. You think it could have been love, then?’

‘Love or lust. Pretty much amount to the same thing in my experience.’

‘Ever the romantic, guv. Whichever, if she and Morton were some sort of item, do you reckon she really did get something from him?’

‘Evidence, you mean, rather than chlamydia? Can’t see it. Like I say, she’s no fool. We gave her enough opportunity the other day. If she had anything, she’d have told us.’

‘Assuming she trusts us.’

Welsby nodded. ‘Well, there is that. But if she can’t trust us, she can’t trust anybody.’

‘That’s pretty much what I was thinking, guv.’

Welsby screwed up the empty crisp packet and tossed it in the approximate direction of the bin behind Salter’s chair. It bounced off the side and fell forlornly to the floor.

‘Why do I get the feeling that you’re fishing for something, Hughie?’

‘Don’t know what you mean, guv. When I go fishing, I generally take a harpoon.’

Welsby pushed himself slowly to his feet. There was a sign on the wall immediately in front of him which politely requested customers to return their trays and utensils and to dispose of any litter in the receptacles provided. He gazed at the sign for a moment, with the air of one wrestling with an unfamiliar language. Then he turned, leaving the remains of his meal scattered across the table.

‘We live in strange times, Hughie. All I can say is, if Marie Donovan’s on the point of losing her marbles, you’d better be fucking sure you hold on to yours.’