the surface.’ He took a first drag on the cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke, more or less in Salter’s direction. ‘Now, Hughie boy, it’s good to talk and all that, but are you going to get me that pint, or do I keel over from fucking dehydration?’
Chapter 13
The second time she’d met Jake, it had been unexpected. She’d spent the previous few days trying to think of a decent-sounding excuse for getting back in touch with him. She’d known after her meeting with Salter that she wanted to see Jake again. She tried to tell herself that her reasons were simply professional. He was an important contact, the most direct route she was likely to find into Kerridge’s inner circle. If she wanted to make a success of this job, if she wanted to prove to the likes of Salter and Welsby that she really could hack it, this was her best chance. Even if it did mean making use of what Welsby would no doubt call her feminine wiles.
In her heart, though, she knew that her motives were no longer quite so pure. She was attracted by Jake. She hadn’t quite registered it at first, or at least had been aware of it only as the vaguest inkling, the kind of half- stirring you might feel for some passing acquaintance. After all, they’d had a pleasant enough evening at Kerridge’s charity do, chatting easily, knocking back a few glasses of wine. As the evening ended, and they made their way to the pre-booked taxis, she’d expected he might try it on, or at least ask her out. But he’d simply wished her a polite goodnight, and headed back for some sort of debrief with Kerridge. Looking back, the sensation she’d felt had been less than disappointment, but it had still been discernible.
Then, as the days passed, she could tell that it was growing into something stronger. Not so much a physical attraction, she thought, though she couldn’t deny that there was that, too. It was a longing for friendship, for humour, for the warmth they’d briefly shared on that mildly boozy evening. The kind of relationship she had with Liam, she thought, and then caught herself wondering whether that was still the case. Perhaps that was why, suddenly, she felt so attracted to Jake Morton. Because he offered her something that she hadn’t even realized she’d lost.
She was tempted just to pick up the phone and call him, but she didn’t want to seem too eager. Like some teenager playing hard to get, she laughingly told herself. But she hadn’t quite lost sight of her professional objective. She had to tread warily here. Whatever she might think about Jake at a personal level, he was still on Kerridge’s team. She couldn’t afford to give him any reason to be suspicious of her motives, even if she wasn’t entirely clear about them herself.
She spent a few more days struggling to concoct a good business reason to call him, always hoping that, against the odds, Jake might decide to call her first. With every day that passed, it was feeling increasingly like an unrequited adolescent crush. Then one morning, just when she’d decided that she might as well take the plunge, she received a phone message from Ken Anstey. According to the records, Anstey was another of Kerridge’s associates, once or twice removed, but with no link to Kerridge’s legit operations. Anstey described his business as import-export, but most of it was import and all of it was dodgy. Small-time stuff for the most part – alcohol, cigarettes, occasionally drugs or serious porn. Most was sold into Kerridge’s networks, and as always, Kerridge creamed off a decent slice for himself.
The authorities weren’t that interested in Anstey himself. They were keeping tabs on pretty much everything he brought in, and he would be picked up eventually. For the moment, though, they were only too happy for him to keep doing his bits of business. Step by step, they were tracing Anstey’s networks, following where the goods went, seeing who was selling and who was buying at each end. Anstey and his cronies got their hands dirty, but the real interest was in those who kept their hands clean.
‘You don’t know me,’ Anstey began laughably. From what she’d heard, every officer up here knew Anstey, if only by name and half-cocked reputation. ‘But I might have a bit of business to put your way. Give me a call when you can. Next day or two.’
Anstey left his name and a mobile number. She knew there was no point in leaving it more than the stated day or two. The number would be a pirated SIM card, operational for a few days then discarded.
She phoned Anstey back and did the deal. It was one of her first pieces of under-the-counter business, but straightforward enough. He wanted documentation, legitimate-looking shipping notices that indicated that duty had already been paid. A fallback in case they were picked up by customs. Easy enough to get produced, though unlikely to be effective if customs hadn’t already been briefed not to detain Mr Anstey. Marie didn’t tell Anstey that, though. She just quoted him a price and a delivery date.
Anstey never said so, but Marie knew she’d have been recommended by Kerridge’s people. When she moved up here, the Agency had pulled the strings to spread the word among the right people. They’d have had her checked out, but everything would have seemed kosher. She’d built a good reputation in her previous patch – she was known as a fixer, someone who got you what you needed, even when others couldn’t. Not difficult, when you had the resources and protection of the Agency behind you. But it made her look good. She delivered.
It had taken a month or two for the word to spread, but finally the business was starting to come in. She had the contacts. She could get you people, she could get you equipment. She could get you vehicles – untraceable, available when needed, then gone again. She could get you documentation, though behind the scenes that needed authorization in triplicate and there were limits as to what was permissible. The ability to produce fake passports would have given them a neat advantage in tracking movements across national boundaries, but that was a definite no-no.
The other thing she didn’t deal – couldn’t deal – was firearms. But it seemed easier for her to hold that line than it had been for her predecessor. In this skewed world, it was what they expected a woman to do. Women just had higher standards. The men didn’t understand it, but they respected it. No one ever thought to question why she’d chosen to draw the line just there. If anything, coming from a woman, it was the kind of thing the pond life around Kerridge tended to respect, God help them.
Anstey was based in Bury, and she’d arranged to meet him at Birch Services on the M62. It was an anonymous place, a small service station located a mile or two off the junction with the M60, where the motorway was beginning to climb up into the Pennines. Up ahead was the bleak expanse of Saddleworth Moor. Behind, the drop towards the Mersey Basin and the Cheshire Plain. No one’s idea of a destination. Just a place to pass through.
She’d had the documents prepared without difficulty. Decent forgeries that would fool a layperson without unduly challenging an experienced customs detection officer. Ten minutes in the service station car park, a handover of envelopes. Job done. Anyone who saw them would assume they were sales reps going about their business.
She arrived a few minutes early and bought a newspaper and a takeaway coffee from the Italian-style concession. It was mid-morning, the place relatively quiet – a few people like herself sitting in their cars, killing time before business appointments or stopping to make phone calls.
Anstey was late. Not a great surprise. From what she’d heard, Anstey was usually late. He liked to give the impression that he was a busy man – lots of important irons in the fire, only just time to squeeze in a meeting with the likes of her.
A car pulled in, swept round the car park and pulled in a few spaces along the row from her. She glimpsed the driver’s face momentarily as the car passed. Not Anstey, but a face she knew. Not a coincidence, surely.
Kerridge’s usual policy was to keep people like Anstey at a lot more than arm’s length, so what was one of his inner circle doing butting into this meeting?
She watched as Jake climbed out of the car – a small Polo, not his usual style, she suspected – and strolled casually towards her. She could already feel her body tense, her heart beating faster, as she tried to read his expression. Maybe she’d been rumbled, after all. Or maybe for once the fates had just decided to give her a helping hand.
She waited just long enough to make him pause, then lowered the window.
‘Morning, Jake. This your usual stamping ground?’
He looked around him, as if he’d not previously registered where he was. ‘Not if I can help it. How you doing?’
