Trust No One

Chapter 26

Somehow, it was hardly a surprise. She recalled her unease, days before, at Joe’s unexpected appearance next to her parked car outside the shop. She remembered her suspicions, vague and unfounded, but still nagging at her. Trust your instincts, she thought. Always trust your fucking instincts.

‘What’s going on, Joe?’

He looked down at the pistol, as if surprised by its presence. ‘I’m sorry, Marie.’

‘I don’t understand, Joe.’ She had thought she was clutching at straws coming here, but she hadn’t realized how desperate she must have been. Joe had turned up out of the blue, and she’d seen him as the only friend she had. Even when he’d been sitting in her hotel room right next to her fucking handbag, her mistrust had melted away because there was no one else to turn to.

He gestured with the gun. ‘That way.’ He directed her further along the beach, away from the car park, into the darkness. ‘Then we can talk.’

‘Talk about what, Joe?’ She stumbled on the soft ground, her flat shoes sinking into the wet sand. Joe was a few feet behind, the gun barrel pointing steadily towards her. He didn’t look like an amateur, she thought. He looked like someone who’d handled a gun before.

He glanced over his shoulder, judging whether they were sufficiently far from the car park, then pointed the gun down towards the sand. ‘Kneel down,’ he said.

She contemplated whether she could jump him, but knew it was hopeless. By the time she reached him, he could have fired without difficulty. Somehow she knew he wouldn’t hesitate. This Joe was different from the shambling, well-intentioned figure she’d known from the print shop. This wasn’t some innocent who’d been inveigled into betraying her.

She knelt slowly down on the beach, feeling the cold, wet sand through the thick cloth of her jeans. She could hear the roaring wind, the occasional gentle crunch of Joe’s boots. Nothing else.

‘I didn’t want things to end up like this,’ Joe said from above her. There was a note of what sounded like genuine regret in his voice. ‘We could’ve been something.’

‘Spare me, Joe. What the fuck is this about?’

‘You weren’t trusted right from the start. My job was to keep an eye on you.’

So much for deep cover. She’d been exposed from day one, strung along. Was it her own incompetence, or had her presence been leaked?

‘And did you?’ she asked. ‘Find out what I was about?’

‘Just another fucking grass, aren’t you?’ He spat the words out. ‘Scrabbling around for information, selling it for your thirty pieces of silver. Birds of a feather, you and Jake fucking Morton.’

Was that what he knew, or thought he knew? He had her pegged as an informant, nothing more. Not that it would help her now.

He’d moved a step or two closer. ‘You’ve got a choice, though. Doesn’t have to be this way. We can do a deal,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the authority for that.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘You’ve got stuff we want,’ he said. ‘Hand it over. Tell us what you know. Then everything can be hunky-dory.’

It was bollocks. He was just trying to sweet-talk her into handing over the evidence. He wouldn’t let her go, not after this. He’d brought her up here to eliminate her. They’d put her in the frame for Jones’ murder, but she’d made life difficult by slipping away. Or maybe they’d even expected that. Either way, Joe had kept tabs on her. He could have just handed her over to the police that afternoon, tipped them off while she was waiting in the hotel. But this was better. He’d shoot her, make it look like suicide, wait for the body to be discovered.

The police would assume, maybe with some encouragement, that it was some underworld spat. That she’d killed Jake’s murderer, and then killed herself or been bumped off in her turn. They wouldn’t care much, especially if they could dismiss her death as suicide. All the loose ends would be neatly tied up.

The Agency would keep quiet to avoid embarrassment. Strings would be pulled, and her deep cover role would be silently forgotten. Deniable.

For a moment, absurdly as she knelt in the wind-buffeted darkness, her mind turned to Darren, slogging away ineptly in the print shop. Poor useless bugger. He’d be out on the street again.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. ‘What have I got?’

‘We know Morton sent you some stuff. It’s not in your flat, so where is it?’

That answered one question. Her flat had been searched by Kerridge’s men, looking for what Morton had sent her.

‘I’ve not got anything,’ she said. Her handbag was clutched in her hand, the data stick secreted in the lining. ‘You can search me.’

‘This can be simple, you know. You can just hand it over, and I can let you go.’

She hesitated. She could try to buy herself a little time, lure him closer. She might have a chance of doing something. Kneeling here, she had no chance at all. ‘Fine. It’s here,’ she said. ‘In my handbag.’

‘Throw it over. Don’t try anything. Just throw the handbag over here.’

Joe was too smart to fall for any half-baked stunts. He wouldn’t waste time searching the handbag. Not while she was alive, anyway. He’d try to get her to talk, then he’d pull the trigger.

She had nothing to lose, then. She swung round quickly, throwing the bag as hard as she could at the gun. At the same time, she flung herself sideways, rolling frantically into the darkness, out of range of Joe’s flashlight.

A moment later, she was scrabbling on her knees, trying to pull herself upright, urging herself to run, away from the light, down the beach.

It was hopeless. The sand sank under her feet, throwing her off balance, slowing her down. Running was almost impossible. She staggered onwards, aware of Joe’s torch beam flickering across the beach, not daring to look back.

When the shot came, it was startlingly loud, even above the pounding rain and wind. She threw herself down again, and the bullet missed her. Joe was already gaining, pounding steadily across the beach, torch and gun held out in front of him.

There was nowhere to run. If she continued along the beach, he’d catch her in seconds. If she tried to get past him, he’d shoot. Out of ideas, she stopped and stood her ground, hoping he’d come closer before he fired again.

He paused, four or five feet away from her, and raised the gun once more.

‘You’re a stubborn cow, aren’t you? Always have to do things the hard way.’

She waited until his hand was steady, watching as he took aim. Then she leaped forwards, hoping to grab his arm and force the gun away from her. It was desperate, hopeless stuff, but it was all she had left. It was the desire to go down fighting, not just to be shot in cold blood. The desire at least to do him some harm before he did the ultimate damage to her.

It almost worked. He was taken by surprise, and she managed to clutch his arm and force it back, sending them both tumbling on to the ground. She thought he was about to drop the gun, but he regained his grip and rolled over violently, forcing her back on to the yielding sand. His hand was on her throat, and, a second later, the barrel of the gun was pressed to her temple.

‘Bitch!’ he hissed. ‘I ought to do more than fucking kill you.’

She could feel the cold metal against her skin, sense the tightening of his finger on the trigger. She closed her eyes, waiting for whatever the end would feel like.

There was a sudden, soft, indescribable thump, scarcely audible above the roaring tide. Joe’s fingers loosened on her throat, the pressure of the gunmetal relaxing against her head. Then Joe toppled sideways, falling away from her on to the sand.

She opened her eyes, bewildered. A tall, thin figure was standing over her, a piece of concrete clutched in his hand.

‘You know your trouble, sis,’ Salter said. ‘You mix with the wrong crowd.’