Crime thrillers, most of them, paperbacks thrust back on to the shelf in no particular order. Or, at least, in no order that would mean much to anyone other than Marie. They were, for the most part, in the order that she’d read them – sometimes scattergun, sometimes splurges of a single favoured author. She leaned forwards and ran her eyes across the spines.
She straightened and looked around, racking her brain. The rack of CDs. The cupboard against the far wall where she kept various personal documents and files – utility bills, bank statements, various domestic detritus.
In the end, she made her way carefully around the room, peering intently at the edges of the carpet, occasionally bending to touch the skirting board, running her nail carefully between the wood and the plaster.
Finally, she walked back into the hallway and returned to the front door. She crouched in front of it, her face inches from the entry mechanism. Her finger gently reached out and touched a mark on the wood.
‘Shit,’ she said.
Chapter 10
She was back in the underground car park, away from the lift. Through the metal railings, she could taste the damp night air, hear the rustle of wind through the surrounding trees. The car park was half-full, rows of expensive- looking family saloons and the odd little sporty hatchback, like hers.
‘Shit, come on, Hugh.’ He always took an age to answer the secure line, keeping her waiting on purpose since there was only ever one possible caller.
‘Sis?’ He was fumbling with the phone. Somewhere in the background there was the thud of music, voices chattering. ‘You know what time it is?’
She didn’t, in all honesty. She glanced at her watch, and realized she would be unsurprised by whatever it showed. It felt like hours since she’d left the office.
‘It’s only eight fifteen, Hugh. Some of us are still working.’
‘You think I’m not?’ He’d moved the phone away from his face and momentarily the music grew louder. ‘This is where the real work gets done. You know that.’
‘Yeah. Boys’ work, Hugh.’ She was in no mood for the usual badinage. ‘I’ve got a few problems, as it happens.’
‘What’s the trouble, sis? Tell Uncle Hugh.’ He sounded pissed, she thought. Not very, but enough. Though, knowing Salter, it could be just an act, another way of throwing her off guard.
‘Someone’s broken into my flat, Hugh. Or at least it looks that way.’
‘Looks what way?’ He sounded genuinely puzzled. Third or fourth pint, she thought. Chewing the fat with Welsby and his mates.
‘Professionals, Hugh. People who knew what they were doing.’
‘You sure, sis?’ He sounded more sober suddenly.
‘Not absolutely, no. Professionals. That’s the point.’ She briefly recounted what had happened with the entry system, then with the laptop. And the other things she’d spotted.
‘It doesn’t sound much. Sure you’re not imagining things?’
‘No, Hugh, I’m not fucking sure. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have wasted my fucking time.’
‘All I’m trying to say is—’
‘Look, Hugh. We both know how this game is played. We both know there are people out there who can do this in their sleep. There are probably one or two of them in the pub with you right now. The only surprise is that I spotted anything at all.’
‘Assuming you have spotted something.’
‘Yes, Hugh,’ she said patiently. ‘Assuming I have spotted anything. That’s the thing with professionals, you see. They make it hard to be sure. Thought I’d made that point.’
‘So what do you think, then? Kerridge’s people?’
‘Well, that’s one possibility, isn’t it?’ she said. She allowed the silence to build, giving Salter time to contemplate the alternative.
‘You think it’s us?’ he said, when it was clear she wasn’t going to continue.
‘You tell me, Hugh.’
‘Jesus, Marie. If it is, nobody’s told me.’
He sounded sincere for once, if only because he’d actually used her bloody name.
‘But it’s possible,’ she prompted.
‘Anything’s bloody possible,’ he said. ‘What do you think, that we’re checking up on you?’
‘Like you say, Hugh, anything’s possible. You and Keith seemed to think that Morton might’ve had something he’d not shared. You also seemed to think that I might know something about it, Christ knows why. So no, I wouldn’t put it past you to be doing some checking up on me.’
‘Not me, sis,’ Salter said. ‘Not my style.’
But she’d noted the first person singular. ‘What about Keith? You think it’s his style?’
‘Can’t see it. But it’s a bit of a madhouse here at the moment, truth be told. I’m not sure what to think.’
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I must really be in trouble if I come running to you, mustn’t I?’
‘It’s what I’m here for, dear sister. Your buddy and mentor.’
‘Thanks for that, Hugh. I feel so much better.’
‘Hang on in there.’
She cut the call, feeling the cold of the windswept car park. Where had that got her? All she’d done was expose another sliver of vulnerability to Salter. And discovered that, yes, it was quite possible that it was her own lot who’d broken into the flat.
She walked over and stood by her car. Her instinct was to get in and drive. Just drive. Not to any particular destination. Certainly not home, if that’s what it still was. Not to Liam.
It was the first time she’d consciously acknowledged that thought. There had been a time, not too long ago, when she would have seen Liam as her refuge. Whatever else might go wrong, she had known she could go back there.
And suddenly she didn’t want to. Had she fallen out of love? Or was it even simpler than that? Was it just that, before too long, she might be the one doing the looking after? That Liam might turn out to be not a refuge, but a burden? Was she really that shallow?
Shallow, or just out of her depth. Miles out of her fucking depth.
There was a flash of angled light across the far wall of the car park. Headlights, turning into the entrance. Another resident returning after a night out or an overlong day at work.
She walked back over to the lift, not wanting to be caught down here on her own. The long drive could wait. One day – one day soon – she’d do just that. She’d get in the car and drive, keep driving, maybe through the Tunnel south into Europe, or maybe a ferry north. One day.
The lift doors opened and she stepped in. One day. But not today, and not tomorrow. Tomorrow she had an appointment to keep.
She slept badly. She’d downed the remaining Rioja across the evening, in the vain hope that it would help her relax. It hadn’t, of course. She’d become increasingly anxious, unable to concentrate even on some inane reality show on TV. She’d spent a good half-hour, earlier in the evening, running through the supposed evidence of a break-in, more and more convinced now that she’d been mistaken after all. Before she’d phoned Salter, she’d felt certain that the books and CDs on her shelves had been reordered. But maybe she’d moved them herself. She remembered pulling some of the books out looking for one she’d offered to lend to Joe. Had she put them back in the same order? Probably. Maybe.
And the laptop? Was she really that much a creature of habit? Why had she been so sure?
