Trust No One

Chapter 21

It was an old building; Victorian or Edwardian. A hotel, perhaps, or maybe a school. She should be able to tell just by looking inside one of the endless series of doors. At the beginning – or was it later? – she’d been given an entry card which was supposed to provide access, but each time she tried to use it the light remained fixed on red.

In any case, there was no time. She had to continue pacing down these endless corridors in search of Jake. She’d forgotten why that was necessary, or why Jake was there in the first place, but she knew it was important. A matter of life and death.

She turned corner after corner, expecting that she would find something to help her get her bearings. A sign, or some familiar landmark.

But the corridors just ran on, each as characterless as the last. Blank white walls, dark wooden doors. From time to time, she noticed CCTV cameras observing her, black lenses turning slowly to follow her as she passed.

At last, she rounded yet another corner and found that the corridor came to an abrupt end. There was one more door ahead, unrevealing as the rest. She fumbled for the entry card, knowing that this was her objective, that this time the card would fit. This was where she would find Jake.

As she fumbled in her pocket to extricate the card, her mobile phone began to ring somewhere else in her jacket. Struggling to find the phone, which she knew she’d had only minutes before, she looked up to see that the door was beginning slowly to open . . .

The ringing continued, shriller now but more distant. She opened her eyes. The dream was already fading, the details lost. She rolled over in the bed, squinting at the alarm clock. Not yet seven. Who the hell was calling at this hour?

She grabbed her dressing gown. The bell was pressed again, more insistent this time. Out in the hallway, she pressed the response button on the entryphone. It was a relatively sophisticated system, part of the security arrangements that had attracted her to this place, with a video screen linked to a CCTV camera in the lobby. She switched on the screen, expecting to see the postman or some other familiar early morning caller.

‘Yes?’

It was someone she didn’t recognize, a round-faced man with slightly overgrown hair. Two other men stood behind him. He was holding a wallet towards the camera. She couldn’t make out the detail of the card it contained, but she didn’t really need to. She had a similar one tucked away in a concealed side pocket in her handbag.

‘Police, madam. Wonder if you could spare us a few moments. It is rather urgent.’

It was the exaggerated politeness that alerted her. She’d heard that tone before. Christ, she’d used that tone before. Usually in the phony war before you were in a position to read someone their rights. At least one of the men behind was uniformed, she thought, though it was difficult to be sure through the camera. Three of them, though. That wasn’t casual.

She pressed the microphone. ‘Sorry – you woke me up. Give me a second to get myself decent.’

She knew that she wouldn’t have much more than that notional second. If she delayed, whatever suspicions they had would be confirmed and they’d be inside the place. In this job, though, you were always prepared. Like a fucking Boy Scout.

She grabbed the small case she always kept ready. She’d sometimes joked to Liam that it was like being pregnant, having your bag ready for the maternity ward. She wasn’t sure he’d ever got the joke. She thrust the bag into the bathroom, then grabbed a set of clothes and dressed rapidly. Practical stuff. Jeans and a jumper. But she kept the jeans off for the moment, leaving her legs bare. She tossed the jeans, along with a pair of trainers, by the case in the bathroom, then emerged and closed the door behind her.

She pressed the entryphone. ‘Sorry to keep you. Just getting presentable.’ She fingered the buzzer and watched the three men push their way into the building.

She used the few seconds it took them to reach her flat to check her purse. Some cash, not enough. Credit cards. Those might not be much use, she thought.

She realized suddenly that she was already thinking of herself as a fugitive. Christ, she didn’t even know what the police wanted yet. And even if, as her instincts were telling her, it was something serious, she knew she could extract herself from most things with a single call to Salter or Welsby. Assuming she could trust Salter or Welsby.

That was it, she thought. It was the sense she’d had for days, only half-acknowledged, that she’d already been cast adrift, that she was out here on her own. And it was the recognition that, somewhere deep inside, the idea wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

There was a sharp knocking at her front door. She opened it, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around her so it wouldn’t be evident that she was partially dressed underneath.

The round-faced man was still holding out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Blackwell,’ he said. He made no effort to introduce the two men – one uniformed, one CID – behind him. ‘Miss Donovan?’

She leaned forwards and made a play of examining his warrant. Lone woman, vulnerable, she thought. Encourage that thought.

‘Ms,’ she corrected pointedly. ‘How can I help you?’ Her face suggested blank incomprehension. Blackwell’s was equally unrevealing.

‘Do you mind if we sit down? It might take a few minutes. We need to check a few details.’

She glanced at her watch, allowing a look of mild impatience to cross her face. ‘Yes, of course. Can I get you some coffee or something?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ In charge now, he led them without hesitation into Marie’s sitting room. He looked around appraisingly, with the air of an estate agent surveying a new property. ‘Decent view.’

‘If you like office blocks, I suppose.’ She moved past him to sit down, making sure she chose the armchair closest to the door. ‘How can I help you?’ she said again. ‘I don’t have much experience in – what’s that phrase? – helping the police with their enquiries.’

Blackwell regarded her for a second with what might have been scepticism. Then he lowered himself on to the armchair opposite her, waving to the two other officers to take the sofa.

‘Do you know a . . .’ He paused and glanced at a notebook he’d pulled from his jacket pocket. ‘A Morgan Jones?’

Christ, she thought, quit the play-acting, Blackwell. She’d sat through too many interviews not to know all the tricks. The dramatic pauses, the quizzical looks, the silences. The un necessary consultation of the probably blank notebook.

‘Morgan Jones?’ she repeated. ‘Yes, I know him. Not well, but I know him.’

‘Can I ask exactly how you’re acquainted with him?’

‘A sort of business acquaintance, I suppose.’

‘A business acquaintance,’ Blackwell echoed, his tone suggesting that this was an unfamiliar concept. ‘What business are you in, Miss Donovan?’

‘Printing,’ she said. ‘Reprographics.’

‘And Mr Jones is in the same line of business, is he?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, to be honest. I got the feeling he had his finger in a few pies.’

‘So how did you know him?’

She noted, with a slight chill, the past tense. She didn’t know whether that had been a slip on Blackwell’s part or a deliberate nudge. He seemed smart enough to know what he was doing.

‘Can’t remember where I first came across him,’ she said. ‘Friend of a friend thing, I think. But he gets in touch now and again. Tries to push bits of business my way.’ Careful to stick to the present tense.

‘Printing business?’

‘That’s what we do,’ she said. ‘If he comes across opportunities, he passes them on to us.’ It was a lie, but the most innocuous one she could think of. And like all the best lies, not a million miles from the truth. Jones had put business her way. Just not usually printing.

‘Very altruistic.’

‘Not really. If it comes to anything – which it has once or twice – I pay him a commission. A lead’s a lead, wherever it comes from.’

‘And when did you last see Mr Jones?’

There was no point in lying. If the police were here, they already had some information about her and that could well include knowledge of her movements the previous day.

‘Yesterday, actually,’ she said. She stopped, as if the possible implications of their visit had only just struck her. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘Why did you see him yesterday?’

‘What’s this all about?’ she said again. ‘Has something happened to Jones?’

‘Why did you see him?’ Blackwell’s tone had changed slightly. She recognized that tone, too. Getting down to business. Cutting the crap.

She shrugged, acknowledging that her question wasn’t going to be answered. ‘Usual stuff,’ she said. ‘He’d contacted me about what he thought might be an opportunity for us. Some graphics work for an exhibition. Turned out not to be our sort of thing. Too specialist.’

‘But you went up to see him? All the way to Blackpool. Long way to go for an opportunity . . .’ His tone placed verbal quote marks around the last word.

‘Maybe. I wasn’t feeling too brilliant yesterday. Thought a breath of sea air might do me good. So I decided to kill two birds with one stone.’

It sounded feeble even to her, but Blackwell didn’t seem inclined to question her account just yet.

‘What time of day was this?’

‘Late morning. I got there about eleven, I suppose. Stayed there about an hour.’ She had little doubt that Basil Fawlty would remember precisely when she’d been on his premises.

She glanced across to where the junior CID officer was jotting down these points in his notepad. She tried again. ‘What’s this about? What’s happened?’

Blackwell was gazing past her, staring at the view beyond the window, his expression suggesting that he had momentarily forgotten her presence. ‘Jones is dead,’ he said.

‘What happened?’ she said after a moment’s silence. ‘A heart attack?’

‘His heart had stopped beating. But that might have been attributable to the bullet in his brain.’

She stared at him blankly, trying to conceal her shock. After a moment, she allowed her mouth to fall open, the expression of one who has just heard bad news of a not-very-close acquaintance.

‘My God.’

Blackwell’s steady gaze had returned to her. ‘We think you were probably the last person to see him alive.’ He paused just a beat too long. ‘Apart from the killer, of course.’

‘Are you treating me as a suspect?’

He smiled, with no evident trace of humour. ‘We’re not at that stage, Miss Donovan. We’re just trying to ascertain the facts.’

‘You’re not saying no, then.’

The smile grew broader, if not noticeably warmer. ‘Should I treat you as a suspect?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’re the one with the information. How do you even know he was murdered? Bullet in the brain could mean suicide.’ She paused, wondering if she was being too bold. ‘Not what I’d have expected of Morgan. But it’s not what you’d expect of anyone.’

Blackwell nodded, as though giving serious consideration to an idea that hadn’t previously occurred to him. ‘I think the forensics would enable us to discount the possibility of suicide,’ he said after a time. ‘If we hadn’t already spotted that there was no gun in the room.’

She found herself growing tired of Blackwell’s smart-arse style. ‘What do you want from me, then? I’ve told you everything I can.’

‘I doubt it,’ Blackwell said amiably. ‘What about your meeting with Jones? Tell me about that.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘You said he had some business to put your way.’

‘There’s not much to tell,’ she said, conscious of the risks of taking her fabrication too far. ‘It was the usual something and nothing. That was often the way with Jones.’

‘But you still went all the way up there to see him?’

‘I’ve told you,’ she said. ‘It was just a whim. In any case, Jones’ leads have sometimes come good. The way things are at the moment, you don’t ignore any possibility.’

Blackwell’s interest seemed momentarily sparked. ‘Business not so good?’

‘We’re doing all right,’ she said. ‘Better than most. But times are tough for everybody.’

‘And you weren’t surprised that Jones asked you to meet him at a hotel?’

‘I don’t know anything about his personal life. I’ve usually met him either at our offices or over a beer or a coffee. I don’t even know if he lives locally.’ She paused and then corrected herself. ‘Lived, I mean. I don’t know if he was married. I didn’t know anything about him, and I didn’t really want to. No offence, but he wasn’t somebody I’d normally spend much time with.’

‘But you weren’t worried about going to his hotel room?’

‘With Jones? No. I can look after myself if anyone tries it on.’

Blackwell watched her with the air of someone about to spring a trap. ‘And did he?’

‘What? Try it on?’ She shook her head. ‘What’s your idea? That Jones made a pass at me and I shot him in the head?’

‘There was no kind of altercation between you?’

She recalled, just in time, Basil Fawlty’s brief intervention the previous day.

‘No, Jones was sweetness and light. Fell off his chair once, though. Made me wonder if he’d been drinking. He was swinging back on one of those wooden chairs – you know, rocking on the two rear legs like kids do. Then it slipped from under him and he ended up on his back on the floor.’

‘He hadn’t been drinking,’ Blackwell said. ‘No sign of recent alcohol in his body. Perhaps you just made him nervous.’

‘Perhaps he was just clumsy,’ she said. ‘But there was nothing else. He told me about his opportunity. We discussed it a bit, and I decided it was a non-starter for us.’

‘Who was the opportunity with?’

‘He didn’t tell me the name. That was typical of Jones. Liked to be a bit cloak-and-dagger. He was probably worried that, if he spilled the beans too early, I might be tempted to cut out the middleman.’

‘And would you?’

‘No. You’ve got to have some integrity. If you go around shafting people, word gets about.’

‘Did Jones do or say anything to suggest that he might be worried?’

‘Worried?’

‘For example, about the prospect that somebody might be about to put a bullet in his brain.’

‘No more than usual. He was always the anxious type. But he didn’t act like someone who thought he was in danger, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Did he say anything unexpected? Anything to suggest that things weren’t business as usual?’

‘I don’t know what business as usual meant to Jones,’ she said. ‘He was one of life’s wide boys. He did anything he could to make a bob or two. But there was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary.’

‘But you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d got himself mixed up in something risky?’

‘Probably not,’ she said. ‘But there was nothing that suggested it.’ She had a sense that Blackwell was trying to steer her towards some conclusion. He was hard to read. Maybe not as clever as he thought, or perhaps just a little cleverer than she wanted to believe. ‘I’m not sure there’s much else I can tell you.’

Blackwell sat more comfortably back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her. ‘Now I wonder whether that’s true, Miss Donovan. I’ve an inkling there are some things you’re not sharing with me.’

‘Is that so?’ she said. ‘Funnily enough, that feeling’s mutual. Perhaps we’re both wrong.’

He drummed his fingers gently on the arm of the chair, as if his mind was elsewhere. ‘Or both right. I did a little searching on “Holmes”. I was surprised to find a cryptic reference to you.’

Her face was expressionless. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘The police database. Quite a sophisticated beast, these days. You’d be surprised. Or perhaps not.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. You’re saying you found a reference to me on the police database?’

‘Sort of.’ He was looking almost cheerful now. ‘Just your name. With a warning flag.’

‘I’m sorry. I assume that means something to you because it means nothing to me. What sort of a warning flag?’

‘I don’t really know, to be honest,’ he said. ‘I’d never come across one before. Whatever it is, it’s clearly not intended for the likes of me. Basically just told me to alert a higher authority.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know how sophisticated this beast of yours is, but it sounds to me like you’ve got the wrong person. I can’t imagine that the MD of a back-street printing outfit will be of much interest to any higher authorities. I’m even up to date with my VAT returns.’

He frowned. She had the sense that he was disappointed that his great revelation hadn’t produced some more dramatic response. Whatever Blackwell might know or suspect, it wasn’t her job to confirm any of it. She could safely leave that to the judgement of those same higher authorities.

‘Unless you’re involved in something other than printing, Miss Donovan?’

He was off beam, she thought. He’d concluded that she was under some more serious investigation. Just as well for his career that she wasn’t. The Agency wouldn’t have taken kindly to his blowing the gaff on one of their targets.

‘I really don’t know what you’re implying. That I’m some sort of super villain? By day, business cards. By night, bank heists. That sort of thing?’

For the first time, Blackwell looked mildly irritated. Possibly because he was in danger of appearing foolish in front of his subordinates. The smile was still hovering around his face, but it seemed increasingly ambiguous.

‘Thing is, Miss Donovan, I’m not keen on being jerked around. And at the moment that’s how this feels. I’ve got somebody murdered with what, as far as we can judge at the moment, was probably an illegal handgun. There’s no evidence of any straightforward motive such as robbery. That suggests something a little out of the ordinary, though Jones doesn’t seem to have had a criminal record. Then I discover that you’ve made a visit to Jones’ hotel room for what sounds like the world’s least convincing business meeting. And on top of all that I find a reference to you, on our records, telling me to alert the relevant authorities. Which I duly did. And got bugger all back. Now what would you suggest I should be thinking?’

It was the longest speech he’d made, and for a moment it looked as if the effort had taken something out of him.

‘I haven’t a clue,’ she said. ‘With respect, it sounds as if you might be letting your imagination run away with you.’ As Blackwell had been speaking, she’d felt a growing unease. Something she’d overlooked. ‘What time do you think Jones was shot?’

Blackwell stared at her, as if affronted by her impertinence. Finally, he said, ‘We don’t have an exact time yet. Yesterday evening sometime. No one heard anything. The hotel owner was out for the evening, and Jones was the only guest last night. Not exactly peak period.’

‘How was the body found?’ she said. ‘If he was killed yesterday evening, it must have been discovered overnight. Who found it?’

As she had been speaking, a related thought had occurred to her. God, she was slow this morning. It always took a coffee or two to get her brain working.

‘And how come you’re here? I mean, where did you get my name? The hotelier would have told you that a woman visited, but he didn’t know who I was. Even Jones didn’t know my home address. How did you track me down so quickly?’

Blackwell remained silent for another few seconds, then pushed himself slowly to his feet. His body had the same rounded quality as his face. Not exactly fat, but tending to the plump. More comfortable sitting in a chair than climbing out of it. He made his way slowly across to the window and stared out at the jumble of buildings.

‘You didn’t expect us to track you down so quickly?’ he said.

She opened her mouth to speak, but realized he was just playing the same games. ‘I didn’t expect anything,’ she said. ‘Except that I’d be in the office by now. I’m also not expecting that you’re going to tell me anything. But I don’t understand how or why you’ve turned up on my doorstep so quickly.’

There was something he was keeping back. If they’d found Jones’ body overnight, if they’d tracked her down so quickly, that had to mean they’d been tipped off.

She suddenly knew why she felt so uneasy, what else had been nagging at her mind. The gun. Jones’ fucking gun. She’d taken it off him when he’d tried his half-arsed hardman act. She’d held it in her hand. Her fingerprints would be all over the gun that killed Morgan fucking Jones.

‘It’s a very interesting point you make, Miss Donovan,’ she heard Blackwell say. ‘I think it might be helpful if we were to carry on this discussion at the station. I think now’s the time for us to put this on a more formal footing.’

Her mind was still working through the implications. She didn’t even know if they’d actually found the gun. Blackwell had said that it wasn’t in the room. He hadn’t said it hadn’t been found.

‘Are you arresting me?’

‘I think it’s the phrase you used earlier: “Helping us with our enquiries”,’ Blackwell said. The smile had returned. ‘Though that’s often a euphemism, I think. But, no, at this stage I’d just like a witness statement.’

‘And if I refuse to come?’

‘I don’t think you’ll do that, Miss Donovan. You strike me as the co-operative type.’

She wondered whether to call his bluff. But it was too late to play games. She had only two choices. She could go along with Blackwell, get him to put a call in to Salter or Welsby, try to get all this sorted. But she was growing increasingly convinced that this wasn’t just some tangle of coincidence. That she’d been set up. Someone had tipped off the police about Jones’ death. Someone had given them her name. And that could be someone in the Agency. Anyone in the Agency.

As for her fingerprints on Jones’ gun, well, it was difficult to believe that Jones had tried to make her a suspect in his own death. But maybe Jones hadn’t known that was the deal. Maybe he’d thought he was setting her up for something else. That would be just like Jones. Thought he’d done a deal, while all the time he was just setting himself up as the victim.

But with her fingerprints on the murder weapon, even her undercover status wouldn’t give her automatic protection. Murder was murder, whoever had committed it. In time, she could no doubt talk her way out of this. The forensics should prove that she hadn’t fired the gun that killed Jones, whatever her fingerprints might suggest.

But that was assuming that anyone would be prepared to listen to her. That someone out there had an interest in preventing her from taking the fall for this. She didn’t know any more whether she could trust Salter or Welsby or, for that matter, anyone else.

She climbed slowly to her feet, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around her, hoping that Blackwell wouldn’t spot the clothes underneath. When in doubt, follow your instinct.

‘How long’s this going to take?’ she asked. ‘I need to phone my assistant and let him know I’ll be late in.’

‘I think the timing will rather depend on you. You can call from the station.’

‘OK.’ She gestured down towards her dressing gown. ‘Give me a few minutes to get showered and dressed. Help yourself to some coffee if you like. There’s milk in the fridge.’

Blackwell looked for a moment as if he was about to deny this request. Then he nodded. ‘OK. But be quick.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s my time we’re wasting as well as yours.’

She stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Moving as quickly and silently as she could, she discarded the dressing gown and pulled on the jeans and trainers. Then she stepped over to the window and pushed it open.

She’d checked out this escape route before she’d moved into the flat, never seriously expecting that she’d use it. It was one of those things that went with the job, a degree of caution and forward planning that coloured everything she did. However routine each day might seem to be, there was always the risk that something might go wrong. Since she’d taken up this role, she’d lived with the idea that, one dark night or one bright morning, someone might come looking for her. She’d never imagined it would be the police.

The window opened outwards, and was held by a pair of brackets designed, for security purposes, to prevent the panel opening more than a few inches. One of her first tasks after moving in had been to remove the screws that held the brackets in place and substitute a set of dummy screws that slotted only a quarter inch or so into their sockets. She took a metal nail file which she left on the window sill for that purpose, and prised out the four dummy screws, allowing the window to open fully.

Once the window was open, she moved back across the bathroom and turned on the shower, leaving the shower door open so the rushing water would be clearly heard from outside. The sound of the running shower could buy her an extra few minutes.

Finally, she picked up the overnight bag that she’d left tucked behind the wash basin. She lowered the cover of the lavatory, climbed on to it, and eased her way out of the window.

She dropped silently on to the metal landing of the external fire escape that ran along the rear of the building, then she turned and replaced the dummy screws back into the window brackets. With a little luck, they might waste a further few valuable minutes trying to work out how she’d effected her escape.

She hurried down the metal steps, pressing herself close against the wall so that there was no risk that Blackwell or one of his team might spot her from the window.

Within a few moments, she was skirting the perimeter of the building to the underground car park. The reality of what she was doing had begun to hit her, and for a moment she was tempted to give it up, return to the building and throw herself on what might pass for Blackwell’s mercy.

This really was all or nothing. She didn’t even have a plan. Just get away, buy herself some time. Work out who she could trust. Then, if she could find some help, she might be able to talk her way out of this.

It didn’t sound much. Christ, it wasn’t much. But it was all she had.

Within minutes, she’d reached her car and was opening the electronically controlled gates on to the main road. As she pulled away, she glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the heavy gates closing behind her. She felt convinced, in that moment, that she would never pass back through them.

It felt as if part of her life had ended. She probably could live with that. The real problem was that, as yet, there was no sign that anything better was about to take its place.