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It wasn’t quite that basic, of course. The databases did a lot of the work, highlighting links and trends. Even so, when it came to the detail of a specific case, there was still a heavy dependency on the individual analyst. The most important links were often the least obvious. An odd piece of data – a name, a number – that had snagged in the back of your mind from another file. Sometimes it was little more than intuition, a feeling that there was a link you’d missed or a pattern you’d overlooked. She knew she was good at it. She could cope with the tedium, and she had a gift for finding information that others had missed.
In any case, after everything that had happened, she’d needed a break. She’d nearly been killed, for Christ’s sake. But then so had Salter, and he showed no obvious signs of mental trauma. And it was Salter, in the end, who’d killed Jeff Kerridge and exposed Welsby as corrupt. He’d been acclaimed as a hero and become the new rising star. Marie had watched uneasily from the sidelines, suspicious of Salter and his motives, convinced that, beneath that clean-cut ambition, he was as corrupt as their former boss. But Salter had sailed serenely on, enjoying the fruits of promotion, apparently untroubled by anything that had happened.
So she’d been happy to step back from the front line and lose herself in the rhythm of facts and figures. For the last six months, every day had been the same. The semi-comatose journey up the Northern Line, the short walk along the Embankment, takeaway latte from the staff restaurant. Settle at her desk and boot up the computer. Check emails, then access the database or pull out the files. The same every day. A sandwich at her desk, or lunch with a couple of the other analysts. More data-crunching till it was time to get the Tube home. Despite herself, she’d begun to enjoy the routine, the predictability.
Maybe Salter had hoped she’d be climbing the walls by now. She might have predicted it herself. She’d done this kind of work before and been happy with it, but that was a long time ago. She had been a different person then, she thought, with different expectations. But perhaps she’d changed less than she imagined.
In fairness, she’d always intended to return to the front line eventually. After they’d brought her in from the field, they’d had her formally assessed by Winsor, their pet psych. In his inimitable style, Winsor had stated the blindingly obvious in language that no one fully understood. The upshot was that she’d suffered a major psychological trauma. Well, thanks for that, she’d thought. If you hadn’t brought it up, I might not have noticed.
Winsor’s conclusion was that she was a resilient character, and that there would be no long-term effects as long as they didn’t push her too hard. She had no idea what evidence he had to support this assertion, but she felt no need to challenge it. If they wanted to stick her in a quiet office for a few months, that was fine by her. She had plenty of other problems on her plate, after all.
She looked up at Salter’s blankly smiling face, wondering how to play this. There was no point in trying to match Salter at the gamesmanship. All she could do was play it straight down the line. ‘I take it you’ve cleared this idea, Hugh?’
For a moment he shifted in his seat, his body-language suggesting that he couldn’t fully answer her question. But she knew Salter well enough to recognise that he wouldn’t go into something like this half-cocked. He’d always make sure his backside was covered. ‘I’ve been through the procedures, if that’s what you mean. What do you think this is?’
Well, that was the question. But, as Salter well knew, it was a question she couldn’t begin to answer. ‘It all just seems a bit irregular, Hugh. I mean, the protocols–’
‘The protocols are there as guidance. We’re professionals, Marie. We have to exercise judgement.’ It was the first time he’d used her name. A sign that he was shifting things up a gear.
‘And your judgement is that this is safe?’ she asked.
‘As safe as these things ever are. Christ, Marie, it’s my neck on the block if things go wrong.’
She doubted that. If things went wrong, she would be the one at immediate risk. And she was willing to bet that Salter had made sure he wasn’t in line for any professional blame. One way or another, he’d have everything covered. ‘But it’s the same area. And it’s only been six months. That must be a risk.’
‘There’s always a risk,’ he said. ‘But it’s not the same area. Not the same network at all. We’ve looked at it very carefully.’
‘It’s the north west. There are bound to be overlaps. It just takes one person–’
‘We’ll take care of it. You’ll look different. You’ll be a different person. Even if you should happen to stumble across somebody from before, there’ll be no link. Nobody will have any reason to make the connection.‘
It didn’t sound convincing, she thought. They reason they had protocols was because, whatever the odds, shit still tended to happen. She’d experienced it herself. Some past contact eyeballing her suspiciously because she’d turned up somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. She could change her hair, her clothes, her lifestyle; but it wouldn’t cut any ice if the wrong people became suspicious. ‘But what if they do, Hugh? What if someone looks at me and thinks, wait a minute, that looks like old Marie who used to run the print shop in Trafford Park?’
‘Christ, Marie. It’s not going to happen, right. You’re the best person for the job, that’s what it comes down to. You can do it.’
Jesus, he was trying to flatter her now. Flattery wasn’t one of Salter’s strong points. His compliments always sounded insincere, she assumed because he didn’t really believe that any other person could match the towering talent that was Hugh Salter. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Hugh,’ she said. ‘You’ve just come to me because I’m convenient. If you tried to give this to one of your youngsters, you might actually have to put some effort into training them.’ She paused, conscious that she was coming close to saying something that she really might regret. ‘Do I actually have any choice in this?’
‘There’s always a choice, sis. But I really want you to give it a go.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ She knew that she might as well have saved both their time and just said yes there and then, but at least she could string out his discomfort for a day or so. ‘Chester?’
‘Chester,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a different world. Jesus, it’s nearly Wales. Safe as houses. No contact with the Manchester bunch at all, so far as we know.’
So far as we know. Hardly the ring of bloody confidence. How much did they know? Three-fifths of fuck all, if past experience was anything to go by. ‘Drug trafficking?’
‘Mainly.’ There was a look of relief on Salter’s face, even though he was trying hard to hard to keep it hidden. He knew he had her hooked now. Once you started talking about the detail, there was no going back. ‘One of those who’ll bring in anything if the price is right. Some cigarettes and booze, but mainly the hard stuff. Comes across from the east coast ports, and then they distribute it around Chester and North Wales.’
‘But not Manchester or Liverpool?’
‘There are bigger fish operating up there. No point in this one trying to compete. He’s got a nice little niche of his own, without antagonising the competition.’
It made sense. The north west was carved up pretty thoroughly by the big boys. That elite bunch had included the infamous Jeff Kerridge, until Salter had blown off the side of Kerridge’s head, supposedly in self defence. They’d had intelligence that Kerridge’s widow, the very redoubtable Helen, was continuing her late husband’s good work. And now Pete Boyle, Kerridge’s former protégé turned competitor, was out of prison and, by all accounts, also rebuilding his influence around Manchester.
That was the real source of her unease, even now. There’d been a point, six months before, when she was convinced that Salter was on Boyle’s payroll. Salter had claimed that, with no one to trust, he’d been forced to go freelance to gather definitive evidence against Kerridge and their corrupt former boss, Keith Welsby. Welsby had ended up behind bars, and was still awaiting trial after a botched suicide attempt. Salter had emerged smelling of roses. But Marie had suspected that the scent concealed a more noxious stink. If Boyle had been looking to depose Kerridge, maybe Salter’s intervention hadn’t been so public-spirited after all. And that in turn raised questions about the manner of Kerridge’s death.
She’d agreed to join Salter’s team because she wanted some closure on all that. She wanted to find out the truth. But the last six months had proved nothing. As far as she could tell, Salter had played everything by the book. He was still tasked with rebuilding the case against Pete Boyle that had collapsed with Welsby’s exposure and Kerridge’s death. They’d arrested Boyle with the expectation of a successful prosecution, but the evidence had been irredeemably tainted by Welsby’s corruption. In Marie’s eyes, the whole affair had ended just too well for Boyle and she suspected that Salter had been part of that.
But she could prove nothing. He’d asked to take on the Boyle case, supposedly as unfinished business, but perhaps simply to ensure that it remained under his control. Whatever his motives, he’d appeared to make some progress. They’d gathered more intercept evidence against Boyle, they’d pinned down one or two more witnesses. A few more tiny pieces of the jigsaw had fallen into place. They were still a long way from having anything they could be confident would stand up in court. But, given that the Prosecution Service had already ended up with egg on its collective face once before, building a new case was always going to be a slow process.
It might be that Salter was simply going through the motions, recognising that he had to be seen to be doing something about Boyle. But Marie had seen and heard nothing that might confirm her suspicions.
And now this. Sending her back to the edge of Boyle’s stamping ground. Pushing protocol to its limit by assigning her to an area where she might be recognised. It wasn’t against the rules exactly, but it wasn’t standard practice.
The generous explanation was that Salter was, in his inimitable style, just jerking her around. He knew the situation with Liam. He knew how difficult things were getting. His initial promise had been that, even when it was time for her to go back into the front line, he’d find some operational role that kept her reasonably close to home. She’d accepted that, at least for the time being, it wouldn’t be possible for her to continue in an undercover position. She assumed they’d find her some investigation or enforcement job in London. It wasn’t exactly the career move she was looking for, but it would do till, one way or another, things became easier on the domestic front.
So maybe this was just Salter pulling the rug from under her, handing her a whole new set of problems to contend with. The less benign interpretation was that he was using her. If her suspicions were correct, and Salter really was on Boyle’s payroll, then maybe she’d been selected to do some of Boyle’s dirty work. As Salter had implied, any drug dealers in Chester were operating on the edge of Boyle’s territory. Perhaps Boyle was looking to expand his empire and her role was to help take out the competition.
Salter was leaning back in his chair, his relaxed manner suggesting that he was confident he’d achieved his objective, even though his words remained tentative. ‘Just give it some thought, sis. That’s all I want. Sleep on it overnight. We can chat about it again tomorrow.’
You smooth bastard, she thought. Whatever other qualities you might or might not have, you’re good at this. You know how to play people. You know I want to be back in the field really; you know the kind of work I want to be doing. You may even know that I’m just looking for a way to trip you up, to prove some link between you and Boyle. You’ve pitched this just right, going out on a limb yourself so you can lure me out after you.
And maybe, her mind continued before she could control her thoughts, he knows what you want at home, too. Maybe he realises that all your talk of wanting to stay near home, of needing to be there for Liam, is so much bullshit. Maybe he knows that you’re looking for a reason to get away.
Maybe. If so, Salter knew her better than she knew herself. She thought she’d reconciled herself to doing whatever it took to stay near Liam. To give him the support he needed. She’d come to terms with that – right up to the point where Salter had dangled this assignment in front of her.
She pushed herself up from her chair, determinedly looking Salter in the eye. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it. And I’ll tell you tomorrow.’
Salter smiled back at her, his expression unrevealing. ‘That’s all I can ask of you, sis. All I can ask.’
2 (#ulink_905a5417-c55a-5679-89bd-e1ea2d296204)
‘Just about there,’ the DI said, pointing to an apparently unremarkable point on the hard shoulder. He gestured off towards the steady stream of traffic heading along the dual carriageway. ‘Cool bastard. It was well out in full view. Wouldn’t have been much traffic at that time of night, but even so…’ His tone sounded almost admiring.
‘You reckon a professional job?’ Brennan asked. It was a miserable day for early autumn. Not raining yet, but leaden skies low over the horizon. Pity any poor bugger who’d just arrived here on holiday. They were standing in a gateway to a field beyond the road. A bleak landscape. Flat grassland, windblown hedges. The tang of the grey sea in the air.
Sheep were munching unheedingly behind them, and Brennan was growing conscious of the layer of mud caking his expensive shoes. Should have changed into an old pair before setting off, but he hadn’t reckoned on getting brought on a field trip quite so quickly. Clearly, they were keen for him to see what he wanted and get out of their hair as speedily as possible.
‘Not much doubt,’ the DI said. ‘All very efficient. Clean as a whistle. Nothing much for forensics.’ Not a Welshman, Brennan thought. Maybe a hint of Scouser there. Come over the border to do missionary work.
‘What about the victims?’ Brennan had read the files and, in his usual way, had memorised most of the salient points. But it was always useful to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Sometimes you heard stuff that they didn’t want to write down. ‘Known?’
‘One of them. Mo Tallent. Small time freelance: runs errands for anyone with a bob or two. The pride of Rhyl. No Talent, we called him.’
‘Very droll.’ Brennan moved to stand next to the DI, who was staring at the grass before him as if the two bodies were still lying there. ‘What about the other?’
‘No record. But one of the immigration officers at the port remembered him driving a car with Tallent in the passenger seat. False passports, so the names don’t tally. False plates on the car, but a match with Tallent’s passport and with the car type and colour if anyone did a cursory check.’
Brennan nodded. ‘So they were on business.’
‘Seems like it. Someone else’s business. Tallent wasn’t connected enough to set up those kind of arrangements on his own.’
‘But we’ve an idea what the business was?’ Brannan straightened up and looked at the DI. Like getting blood from a sodding pebble, he thought, even though we both know I’ve read the bloody file.
The DI nodded. ‘Four of them in the car, according to the border records. Tallent. Mr X. And two women. Working girls, we’re assuming. Probably illegals, being taken to a nice new home in the big city – Liverpool or Manchester. That’s where Tallent did most of his bigger business.’
Brennan turned and surveyed the flat, unenticing landscape. There was some fine country in North Wales. This wasn’t it. ‘What about Tallent’s associates?’
The DI shrugged. ‘We’re pursuing that, of course. But everyone’s clammed up, as you’d expect.’
‘And the women?’ Brennan had already begun to walk back towards the road and their parked car. He couldn’t imagine that he was likely to learn much more from being out here. Other than never to wear his best shoes to work.
‘Nothing. We presume they were taken.’
‘Jesus.’ Brennan paused, his eyes fixed on the passing traffic. ‘Pieces of meat.’
‘Pretty much.’ The DI caught up with him, sounding slightly out of breath. ‘I imagine they’ve probably ended up in your neck of the woods.’ He made the words sound slightly accusatory, as if Brennan had been casting aspersions on local morality.
‘I dare say,’ Brennan agreed. ‘So what do we think this was, then? Turf war?’
‘Something like that. But if so, it’s a bloody serious one. This isn’t just some local hoodlums giving the opposition a warning. This is two very bloody corpses. Expertly dispatched.’ The DI paused, fumbling in his pocket for the car keys. ‘But then I imagine that’s why you’re here.’
Brennan nodded, strolling back along the hard shoulder to where the DI’s car was parked. Just a few yards from the spot where the victims’ car had been parked. ‘Well, I assume that’s why I’m here,’ he said, smiling now. ‘But frankly, at the moment, your guess is almost as good as mine.’
‘Shit. Shit!’
She could hear the voice from the rear of the house, and for a moment she was tempted to turn around, step silently back outside, and head for the pub. There was nothing wrong here that a good evening’s drinking couldn’t cure. Except, of course, that there was. She’d tried drinking it away once or twice. It brought a temporary respite, but everything was still there the next morning. And you had to face it with a hangover.
She closed the front door noisily, making sure she’d unmistakably announced her entrance. ‘Liam?’
‘In the back.’ The fury of his previous utterance had drained away. There was another tone in his voice now. Something not too far removed from despair. Christ, she thought. Another fun-filled night in the Donovan household. Almost immediately she regretted the thought. This wasn’t about her. Whatever this was like for her, it was a thousand times worse for Liam. Of course, she knew that. And of course it didn’t help in the slightest.
She trudged her way slowly through the house and stood in the doorway of the former dining room that Liam had adopted as a studio. He was sitting slumped in his wheelchair in front of his easel. There was paint smeared across the canvas in a way that looked anything but artistic, unless Liam was attempting a radical shift in his painting style.
‘I can’t do it,’ he said.
She didn’t know how to respond. She could offer platitudes, try to tell him it wasn’t true. But they both knew that it was true, at least up to a point. She was no judge of art, though she liked Liam’s paintings. But even she could see that he’d lost something – a sureness of touch that characterised his best work. It wasn’t that his recent work was bad. At least, Marie didn’t think so. She could tell that the same vision was there, the same sense of imagery and perspective. But she recognised that he could no longer render his ideas with his old precision.
She’d tried to reassure him that it didn’t matter. It would just mark a change in style. After all, weren’t there theories that some of the old masters had developed their unique techniques as a result of various medical conditions – poor eyesight, colour-blindness, that sort of thing? Perhaps Liam could work within the confines of his condition to create something new.
It was bullshit, of course, and Liam’s response had been so scathing that she’d never tried the same argument again. But that left her with not much else to say. Even so, Liam stared back over his shoulder at her, challenging her to disagree.
‘What happened?’ she said, finally.
‘Christ knows. I thought I’d have a go at something new. At least try to make a start. I’ve been feeling knackered all week. But I just wanted–’ He stopped, his mouth moving slightly, as if he didn’t have the words to express what was in his mind. ‘I can’t just stop. I’ve got to keep trying.’
She moved forward and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I’ve not done anything for weeks. Not really. I’ve played around putting a dab or here or there, pretending I was improving things–’ He stopped again. It was as if his mouth ran ahead of his brain, so that he had to stop every minute or two for his thoughts to catch up. ‘But I was just fooling myself. Most of it’s not worth trying to improve, anyway.’ He paused again, watching as she dragged a chair from the corner of the room and sat down beside him. ‘So this afternoon I just thought – well, let’s have a go.’ He waved his hand towards the canvas. ‘I’d been doing some sketches. They weren’t very good, but I thought they’d at least be the basis of something. Shit–’
She looked up at the smears of red and brown paint across the blank sheet. ‘I take it that wasn’t what you intended?’
He stopped and smiled for the first time, recognising that she was trying to engage with him. ‘No, not exactly. Christ, I wasn’t even trying to do anything very complicated. Just a few initial brushstrokes. And I couldn’t even do that properly. The lines were all over the place. In the end, I just scrubbed it out.’ He looked back at her, the smile faded, the eyes despairing. ‘Shit, Marie. It’s the only thing I could do, and now I can’t do it any more.’
There was nothing she could say. There was no point in denying it or in trying to offer any attempt at consolation. She knew from experience that he wouldn’t be in any mood to listen to that. She grasped his hand in hers, squeezing slightly, trying to express physically the emotions she couldn’t articulate in words. It wasn’t worth, now, even trying to pretend that his condition might improve. The consultant had made that clear. Liam had gone well beyond the point where they might expect any remission. The best they could hope for – and even this seemed increasingly forlorn as week followed week – was that his condition might stabilise, that he might remain as he now was. Looking at him this evening, that hardly seemed a consoling thought.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll get some supper on. Open a bottle of wine. You’re exhausted now. You can try again tomorrow–’ Even as she said the last words, she regretted them, knowing how Liam was likely to react.
‘Jesus, Marie, haven’t you worked it out yet? I’m always bloody exhausted. I sit around on my arse all day in this bloody contraption, watching fucking makeover shows on TV. And I’m still bloody knackered. It’s not something a good night’s sleep’s going to sort out. Assuming I could even get a good night’s sleep.’
Not even trying to respond to any of this, she climbed to her feet and pushed the wheelchair back through into the sitting room. Depression, she thought. On top of everything else, like some bad joke. Apparently, it wasn’t uncommon for sufferers from multiple sclerosis also to suffer from clinical depression. Liam had had bouts of that before, long before he’d been diagnosed with MS. Just my artistic temperament, he’d half-joked, when they’d first talked about it. But now it looked as though it might have been just one more indicator of this bloody illness. Christ knew, he had enough to be depressed about.
She positioned him in front of the television, searching through the channels to find something that wasn’t entirely mind numbing. That was another thing, she thought. Perhaps the most worrying of all.
She’d expected the physical disability. Maybe not the extent of it or the speed of its progression – but she’d known it was going to happen. She’d steeled herself for it, as best she could.
What she hadn’t expected was the condition would affect him in other ways. His cognitive abilities, to use the jargon that had become so painfully familiar. It wasn’t unusual for MS to have some impact of that kind, but usually the effects were relatively minor – the odd difficulty in remembering a word or in formulating a sentence, some increased forgetfulness. Not that different from the fate that awaits most of us as we grow older, she thought.
But in Liam’s case it already seemed worse than that. He forgot things that had happened only minutes before. He struggled with words. There were activities, familiar day-to-day tasks that he seemed to have abandoned entirely – using their PC, operating the microwave, even using his mobile phone. Some of that resulted from the physical effects, of course. It was increasingly hard for him to get about the house, get into the kitchen, so he was less inclined to do things that previously would have seemed routine. And, as he’d snappily pointed out, if he hardly ever left the house, why would be need to use his mobile phone?
But it was more than that. She’d watched him, on a few occasions when he hadn’t realised she’d been observing, and seen how he’d struggled with what should have been straightforward tasks. Sometimes trying over and over again to complete an action like making a phone call. She’d heard him getting into tangles trying to explain something to a caller – making arrangements for a delivery, say, or change a medical appointment. Once or twice, she’d had to intervene to sort something out, and she’d seen the mix of despair and irritation in his eyes.
He would barely admit that there was a problem. He couldn’t deny the deterioration in his physical condition, but he refused to acknowledge any other problems. If she tried to raise the issue, he cut her off or insisted that it was tiredness. But she’d called the consultant back after their last joint visit – feeling as disloyal as an errant lover in doing so – and asked his view.
‘There’s definitely something there,’ the consultant had confirmed. ‘Some cognitive problems. A degree of disinhibition.’
‘More than you’d usually expect?’ she’d asked.
‘Nothing’s usual with MS. But, yes, definitely something more significant than the norm.’
It was the luck of the draw, the consultant had explained. It very much depended on which areas of the brain were being affected. Generally, the effects were primarily physical. But sometimes, if you were unlucky, there could be a significant cognitive effect as well.
‘We could get the clinical psychologists to have a look at him,’ the consultant had offered. ‘Do some tests. Get a measure of how far things have progressed.’
She’d turned down the offer, at least for the present. She knew there was a problem. She could see no real benefit in finding out quite how much of one. It would be like rubbing Liam’s nose in something he was trying hard to avoid. She’d go down that route only when it was really needed – which would no doubt be when she had to persuade social services to give Liam more support.
Now, though, watching him sit in front of some cosy police series on the TV, she was haunted by the consultant’s concluding comments. She’d asked the doctor what the prognosis might be, what further deterioration might be expected.
As always, the consultant had been unforthcoming. ‘There’s no way of knowing. It might just stabilise–’
‘Yes, I know that,’ she’d interrupted. ‘You’ve explained that. But what do you think?’
There’d been a pause, as if the consultant was considering the idiocy of her question. ‘Well, the only guidance we’ve got is how quickly it’s progressed over the last year or so. And that’s been very rapid. So, well, if you forced me to give you a view, I’d say it’s probable that it’ll continue to progress at a similar rate.’
‘And in terms of his – cognitive abilities? What can we expect there? If I forced you to give an opinion.’
Another pause. ‘Well, the same, I suppose.’
‘And what does that mean? What will it look like?’
