at the opposite side of the mall, she caught sight of another figure, someone in a long black coat, collar turned up, who had just emerged from the entrance to the car park. She observed him for a moment, wondering whether to wait at the bottom of the escalator to see whether he followed her down. See how he reacted, see if she recognized the face.
But the man – she assumed it was a man, though it was impossible to be sure from this distance – had also paused. He had a hand to his ear, and she realized that he was talking on a mobile phone. She waited another moment, but he showed no sign of ending his call. He had turned his back, staring blankly into one of the store windows, apparently unaware of her presence.
Finally, she made her way through the ground-floor concourse and out on to Market Street. Suddenly she wanted to be out in the open air, among the early morning commuters, the crowd streaming down from Piccadilly Station into the heart of the city. She turned left and hurried up towards Piccadilly Gardens, where people were stopping to enjoy the morning sunshine, cardboard cups of coffee clutched in their hands, grabbing a few restful moments before heading to work.
She turned left into Oldham Street and hurried through into the network of back streets that comprised the city’s Northern Quarter, a bustling mix of fashionable shops, bars and cafes. The place she was going to was tucked away in a secluded courtyard, part of a converted warehouse building, down one of the side streets running parallel with Piccadilly.
She pushed open the door, enjoying the welcoming warmth, the rich scent of coffee and baking. She could see no one who might be her mystery caller. There was a young woman in a smart suit studiously thumbing some extended message into a BlackBerry. A couple of older women chatting over coffee and croissants. One young man in the queue ahead of her, dressed in a garish cycling outfit, helmet in his hand, clearly just getting a coffee to take out.
She glanced at her watch. Just gone nine thirty. Maybe her caller wasn’t here yet. Or maybe he wasn’t coming.
She ordered a latte and a pastry, and carried them carefully to a table at the rear of the room. The cafe had a rack of newspapers, so she took one of the tabloids, positioning herself facing the door. How long should she wait? Thirty minutes, maybe. As long as would be reasonable for someone killing a little time before an appointment. Not enough to make her conspicuous.
She’d dressed in a simple but smart business suit, slightly less expensive than it appeared – the look she adopted when meeting a client, rather than the more pragmatic jeans and jumper outfits she usually wore in the print shop. She wasn’t sure why she’d bothered dressing up. Something about looking inconspicuous – another businesswoman running a little early for an appointment. But also about wanting to feel in control.
‘Ms Donovan?’ the voice said from behind her.
She turned, as calmly as she could, and gazed up at the short, plump man hovering a few feet from her table. Where the bloody hell had he sprung from?
‘Sorry if I startled you,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts. He gestured behind him. ‘I was out having a smoke. They’ve a shelter out there to accommodate the addicts.’
She noticed now, looking past him, that the door which she’d thought led only to the lavatories also led out to the rear of the building.
She did know him after all, she realized, or at least she’d met him before. It was the faint Welsh accent that had reminded her. Somebody Jones. Morgan Jones. A low-rent associate of Kerridge’s, one of the hangers-on who picked up bits and pieces of dirty work. The kind of person they’d call on when they wanted something low-risk done on the cheap. She’d seen him a few times at meetings with Kerridge’s people, hanging about in the background like a bad smell.
He was still hovering above her table, looking awkward. ‘You OK for a drink? I’m getting myself another one.’
‘I’m fine. You go ahead.’
She watched him as he queued, wondering what this was all about. Jones didn’t look relaxed exactly – his manner was too uncomfortable for that – but he seemed a different figure from anything she’d imagined from the previous night’s call. He had the air of an unsuccessful businessman – which she supposed was pretty much what he was – in his cheap, ill-fitting suit.
He returned bearing a tray with a mug of tea and two croissants. ‘Thought you might like some breakfast,’ he said, lowering himself into the seat opposite her.
She shook her head. ‘Morgan, isn’t it?’
‘I’m impressed. People don’t usually find me that memorable.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes helpful in our line of work.’
She ignored the implied collusion. ‘What’s this about, Morgan? Why’d you call me?’
He picked up one of the croissants and took a large bite, showering crumbs. ‘Sad news about Jake.’
‘Very,’ she said. ‘Why’d you call me, Morgan?’
‘Always took you for the straightforward type,’ he said. He made the adjective sound pejorative. ‘No messing about.’
‘More than I can say for you. I’m thirty seconds from buggering off, unless you’ve something to tell me.’
‘You heard what happened to Jake?’
‘I heard rumours,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s saying much.’
‘No, well. You heard he was a grass?’
‘That’s one of the things I heard. I don’t know if it’s true.’
‘It’s true,’ Jones said sadly. ‘They’d got him down as a witness.’
She took a swallow of her coffee. More bitter than usual, she thought. ‘They didn’t look after him very well, then. According to the rumours.’
‘What do you expect? No one likes a grass.’
She picked up her briefcase, as if preparing to leave. ‘We just here to exchange philosophies, Morgan, or do you have some reason for wasting my time?’
‘Nasty what happened to Jake at the end. You’ll have heard the rumours about that, too?’
‘I’ve heard something,’ she said. ‘Like you say, no one likes a grass.’
‘You were close to Jake?’
‘Word is,’ Jones went on, ‘that they thought Jake was just the tip of the iceberg. That, before they killed him, they tried to get him to spill the beans on who else might be involved.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Word is,’ Jones said, ‘that your name was mentioned.’
‘That right? Always nice to be in people’s thoughts.’
‘No one likes a grass.’
‘Oh, just fuck off, Jones. Don’t try the hardman act. It fits you as well as that fucking suit.’
‘I’m just saying . . .’
She had started to rise from the table. ‘For what it’s worth, Jonesy – and Christ knows why I’m even bothering to talk to you – Morton and I were friends, but that’s it. I thought he was OK, God help me. If he was a grass, it’s nothing to do with me.’
She was turning to leave the table when Jones said quietly, ‘Morton named me as well.’
‘What?’
‘Told them I was a grass.’
Something in his tone made her hesitate. ‘And are you?’
He didn’t respond. His head was down, his eyes fixed on his now empty mug.
‘Jesus, Morgan.’ She sat herself back down.
‘I’m not a grass,’ he said quietly. ‘I mean, I never meant . . .’
They never did. They never intended it to end up that way. That was one of the skills of the handlers. They identified the right people. They played on their weaknesses, insecurities. Their aspirations and desires. They did it slowly, slowly, step by step, each a tiny increment on what had gone before. So there was never an identifiable moment when it happened. Never a point where the informant could say, ‘I used to be that, and now I’m this.’
