Trust No One

Chapter 27

‘You OK?’

She still felt dazed, dream-like, as if none of this was real. ‘Guess so. Considering.’

‘Sorry,’ Salter said. ‘That was closer than I’d intended. Too fucking close.’

They were heading back towards the bypass, enclosed in the warmth of Salter’s car. His driving was characteristic – precise, cautious, unostentatious. Efficient.

‘How come you’re here?’ Marie said finally, as her mind came to grips with the question that had been troubling her. It was as if her wits had been slowed by her brush with death. Every thought seemed out of reach. She felt like a toddler reaching to grab floating bubbles. When she caught one, it melted in her grasp.

‘Hellhound on your trail,’ Salter said. ‘I was right behind you. Well, almost. Nearly got caught out at the end. Sorry about that.’

‘You were right behind? Since when?’

‘Since this morning. With a bit of unofficial help from young Hodder. Before then, really. But this morning was when it mattered.’

She pressed her back against the passenger seat, enjoying its solidity beneath her aching spine. ‘Christ, I thought I was off and running. Turns out the whole world was following me. I’m beginning to think I’m not cut out for this job.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up too much, sis. You ran rings around the local plods. You weren’t to know that I’d already got you under surveillance.’

She could feel her bafflement mutating into anger as his words sank in. ‘I’m not getting this,’ she said. ‘I’m supposedly in the frame for Jones’ murder. You’ve already got me under surveillance – Christ knows why – and then you allow me to slip away under the noses of the police. What the fuck’s going on, Hugh?’

‘You didn’t kill Jones, sis.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Of course I didn’t kill Jones. I was set up.’

‘So that’s the question, isn’t it? Who set you up?’

‘Kerridge and Boyle, I presume. They’re the ones who benefit. Boyle, anyway.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Boyle, anyway.’

‘Jesus, Hugh. I’m knackered, confused and I’ve just come within ten seconds of having my fucking head blown off. Don’t play games.’

‘Your friend Joe back there,’ he said, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Take it that was a bit of a surprise?’

‘Well, what do you think, Hugh? That I’d commissioned him to blow my own brains out?’

‘No, sorry. Stupid question. Out of idle curiosity, I did a bit of digging on Mr Morrissey.’

‘Morrissey?’ She’d known him as Joe Maybury. ‘That his real name?’

‘Apparently. Scouser by birth, though he’s lived in Manchester most of his adult life. Minor criminal record. Juvenile stuff. Then he disappears off the official radar for a bit. But he pops up again a year or two back. One to keep an eye on.’

‘I had him checked out,’ she said. ‘He came to the shop from the Job Centre. I got the office to run him through the system.’

‘Yeah. Isn’t that interesting?’

‘Shit. You mean . . .?’

‘Reckon someone intercepted your request. Report you got didn’t make the connection with Morrissey, so you drew a blank.’

‘So what about him, then?’

‘Reason he appears on our radar is that he’s an associate of Boyle’s. Maybe legit, maybe not. Not clear what the nature of his dealings are. But we think he’s one of those Boyle hires to do his dirty work.’

‘Hitman?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Christ. And he’s been working with me for the last six months.’

Her mind went back to the evenings she’d spent alone with Joe, finishing off some late order. She’d felt comfortable in his presence. She could even recall using the word ‘unthreatening’ to herself. She’d meant in a sexual way, and maybe that at least had been true. A safe pair of fucking hands. Half an hour earlier, one of those hands had been around her throat.

‘Have you tracked down who intercepted my request? There must be something on the record.’

‘Maybe,’ he said ambiguously. ‘Speaking of Morrissey, it’s probably time we let someone know he’s there. I’d hate anything bad to happen to him.’

Salter had clubbed Morrissey over the head with a piece of concrete he’d found at the edge of the car park. It had been, he’d admitted to Marie, a more improvised solution than he’d planned. He’d followed Joe’s car all the way from the hotel – his had been the second set of headlights that she’d glimpsed, Marie presumed – but judged it too risky to follow them immediately off the bypass. He’d continued past the turning up the beach, done a U-turn and pulled into the car park of a pub further down the road to allow them a few minutes to get ahead. But he’d taken a wrong turn in trying to find his way back to the beach in the darkness and had found himself caught up in a warren of residential streets. He’d wasted precious minutes retracing his route, before finally following them down the correct road to the sea.

When he had arrived in the car park, it had taken him a further few anxious minutes to locate Marie and Joe on the beach. He’d finally spotted Joe’s flickering flashlight along the shoreline and realized immediately that things weren’t right. Up to that point, he said, he hadn’t been quite sure what game was being played and by whom. At that moment it has become clear that, whatever the game might be, Marie was definitely losing.

He’d grabbed the piece of concrete – part of a decaying wall along the edge of the car park – in the absence of any other weapon. Even in the last few seconds as he approached the struggling pair, his crunching footsteps drowned by the roar of the wind and the sea, he hadn’t been sure what he was going to do. As he drew closer, he’d seen that, whatever it was, he had to do it quickly.

He’d tried not to hit Joe too hard, intending only to stun him. In the event, Joe had collapsed forwards, unconscious or worse. Salter had grasped Joe’s shoulder, dragged him back from Marie, turned him over on to his back. Still breathing, thank Christ. Spark out, though. No blood, as far as Salter could see, but he’d have the mother of all headaches in the morning.

Marie had scrambled to her feet, face white with shock. Salter left Joe and went to help her, letting her lean on his shoulder as she recovered her breath.

‘Come on,’ he’d said. ‘We’re out of here.’

She’d looked at him blankly. She was still dazed, but she’d assumed that this was it. That Salter would call the police and an ambulance, and she’d have to wait to face the music. In a way, it would have been a relief.

Instead, Salter had left Joe lying unconscious on the sand, and helped Marie stumble back towards his car. He’d hesitated momentarily, wondering what to do about Joe’s gun, but then had left it on the beach by Joe’s head.

‘What about Joe?’ she’d said, as they reached Salter’s car. ‘We can’t just leave him there.’

‘You care?’ Salter had asked, then shrugged. ‘I’ll put a few miles behind us, then we can call him an ambulance.’

‘He’ll shop me,’ she said. ‘He’ll say I brought him out here and tried to kill him. He’ll tell the police I was here.’

‘I doubt it. Because then he’d have to explain why you didn’t kill him. Also, I don’t think Mr Morrissey will want to spend any more time with the police than he has to. If he wakes up before the ambulance comes, he’ll make himself scarce. If he doesn’t, he’ll concoct some story. Mugged while out dogging or something. Did you know this place used to be the dogging centre of the north-west?’

‘So I understand,’ she said, wondering quite why it was that everyone seemed to want to share that titbit of information with her.

He waited till they were back on the bypass, then dialled 999. He used a secure phone, untraceable, and gave a false name. Just a tip-off about an unconscious man on the beach. He didn’t even bother using the hands-free, Marie noted. Not the usual cautious Hugh Salter.

She’d expected him to head back towards the city, but instead he’d turned north. She was baffled now, wondering what he was up to. For the moment, he didn’t seem inclined to enlighten her. They sped on through the night in silence. In spite of everything, Marie found herself beginning to doze, overcome by sheer exhaustion.

She came awake as they turned off the main road. She’d missed the sign and had no idea where they were.

‘You must be knackered,’ Salter said, in a tone that sounded almost kindly. ‘Not far now.’

‘Where are we?’

‘At the seaside. Edge of Southport. One of your better resorts. What passes for upmarket up here.’

‘Can’t wait.’ She looked at the clock on the dashboard. She’d been asleep half an hour or so.

She could see what Salter meant about the town. Most British seaside resorts were long past their best, but this still retained a Victorian elegance. Wide streets, open spaces. It looked as if there was probably some money about. She could imagine that it would be bustling and attractive in the summer. At this time of year, at this time of the night, though, for all its natural charms, the town still looked a little bleak and drab, with rows of shuttered shopfronts, closed bed and breakfasts, everything waiting to be spruced up for the summer. Salter drove through the town centre, then headed north along the main street. The Irish Sea was off to their left, invisible behind rows of Edwardian buildings.

They left the main town behind and entered a residential area. Salter turned left and then immediately right, and Marie saw that they were in a small estate of neatly serried bungalows. They looked as if they’d been built in the 1960s or 1970s to house aspirational young couples. They’d passed through some more modern, more upmarket-looking housing. These looked slightly more down at heel, though hardly neglected. Marie tried to imagine who might choose to live there. Older couples perhaps, retiring to the coast, or maybe still the youngsters trying to get a foot on the housing ladder. One or two of the houses were boarded up, perhaps awaiting renovation or new owners, but the majority seemed well cared for. There were lights burning inside most of the bungalows.

Salter pulled into the side of the road and cut the engine. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Home from home.’ He climbed out into the windy night.

Marie hesitated for a moment, then followed him. ‘Any chance of you telling me what the bloody hell’s going on, Hugh?’

‘Just a few minutes more,’ he said. ‘This way.’ He gestured towards a narrow alleyway between two of the bungalows.

‘If you think I’m going into any dark alleys after what’s happened tonight, you’ve got another think coming.’

Salter smiled as if she’d made a joke. ‘We’re going via the back entrance,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to leave the car too obviously parked outside the place we’re staying. Just in case.’

‘Staying?’ she said. ‘Who said anything about staying?’

‘Don’t think you’ve a lot of choice, sis. We need to keep you out of circulation for a little while.’

He was already striding away down the alley. After a moment’s hesitation, she followed. The alley led to a further passage between the rear gardens of the two parallel rows of bungalows, providing access to their back doors. Salter turned left down this passage then, three or four houses down, unbolted a garden gate and made his way inside.

By the time she’d caught up, he was already at the back door of the bungalow, fumbling with a bunch of keys. In the darkness, the bungalow looked much like all the rest. The garden had apparently been tended, though only in a functional manner – a neat lawn, mowed, some concrete slabs, a few pots currently devoid of plants.

Salter finally succeeded in opening the door and stepped inside, turning on the light as he did so. She followed him into a clean but basic-looking kitchen. Salter stood looking around the room as if it were new to him also.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘All home comforts. Cup of tea?’ Without waiting for a response, he picked up an electric kettle which was standing by the sink.

‘What is this, Hugh?’ she said. ‘A safe house?’

‘Something like that,’ he said, his back turned to her.

She left Salter at the sink, knowing that she’d get nothing more from him till he was ready, and went to explore the rest of the house. It took her no more than a few minutes to check out the remaining rooms, and what she saw largely confirmed her external impressions. Beyond the narrow hallway, there was a small sitting room, a poky bathroom, two double bedrooms. All apparently maintained, newly decorated, but bare and functional. The only gesture towards ornament was a scattering of anonymous pictures on the walls – framed prints of the kind that adorn the walls in budget business hotels. The furniture looked like a job lot from some discount chain store. Nothing offensive, but nothing memorable either.

Salter entered the sitting room bearing a tray laden with a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two mugs. Even a plate of sodding biscuits.

‘Very domesticated,’ she commented.

‘All mod cons,’ he said. ‘You must be hungry. Shall I get something for us?’

‘Jesus. This I’ve got to see. Hugh Salter, domestic goddess.’

‘There’s a freezer full of ready meals and a microwave. That’s as close as you get to the culinary arts.’

‘Fair enough. Yeah, that would be good. In a while. First, though, tell me what the fuck’s going on.’

As if he hadn’t heard her words, he poured tea for them both, leaving her to add her own milk. He sat down heavily on the sofa, gesturing her to take a seat. She lowered herself on to one of the armchairs.

‘So?’

‘We’ve got a leakage problem,’ he said. ‘The Agency.’

‘You said. At our last meeting.’

‘It’s an occupational hazard. You know that. However careful we are with vetting, you get the odd bad apple who’ll take a backhander. But they’re usually juniors. The admin staff who get paid three-fifths of fuck all because we think that their sense of national duty will cover their mortgages. They take a few quid, leak a few titbits. Doesn’t usually do any serious harm. Every now and then we spot one and give them the bullet. Part of life’s rich pattern.’

‘And this is more than that?’

‘A shitload more than that, yes. This is someone at a senior level who seems to be working hand in glove with the other side.’

‘And by the other side, you mean Kerridge and Boyle?’

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 all, 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 the 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.’