without knowing what’s what, he’ll be obliged to take it higher. That’s what worries me. Don’t know who to trust even up there where the air’s thin. So this is just you and me for the moment. If you’re in.’
‘Yeah, I’m in.’ Hodder smiled, momentarily revealing a different side to his personality. ‘Besides, I like the challenge. Keeping tabs on one of ours. She’ll know the tricks, what to look out for.’
‘Too right she will. Don’t underestimate Sister Marie. Test of your skills.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘All you can do,’ Salter said. ‘So, any more questions before we kick off?’
Hodder looked around at the grim concrete interior of the car park. The place filled up on Saturdays and in the evenings, when people were visiting the outlet mall or attending a concert at the Lowry, but on a weekday morning the upper floors were largely deserted. ‘Just one. Why’d we come up here?’
Salter pointed towards the quays below them. ‘See that building there. Smart-looking place on the edge of the water-front. You’ll know that one. That’s the place where we found Mr Morton’s mutilated body. You’ll remember that.’ It wasn’t a question.
Hodder peered downwards, wondering where this was going. ‘Don’t think I’m going to forget any time soon.’
Salter straightened and pointed towards the blurred jumble of Manchester. ‘And that block there. Square greyish place, just to the left of the Hilton. That’s where she lives. Third floor. Decent little place, apparently.’
Hodder followed Salter’s gesture, but all he could see was an indistinguishable jumble of buildings. ‘OK.’
Finally, Salter waved his hand out towards the vast sprawl of Trafford Park. ‘And that little estate over there, those rows of what I imagine are desirable industrial units . . .’ He spoke the last three words as if they were somehow obscene. ‘That’s where our Marie works. Where she runs her print shop.’ He swept his hand through the air as though drawing an invisible line between the three locations. ‘From up here, you see, you’ve got a vantage point on her whole world.’
Hodder frowned, baffled. ‘That’s why we came up here?’
‘Christ, no, son. We’re not allowed to smoke in the sodding cars. We’re not allowed to smoke in the sodding cafes. We’re not even allowed to smoke in the sodding pubs.’ He held out the stub of his still lit cigarette. ‘Where the fuck else was I going to go to relapse?’
Hodder’s eyes slid across to the large No Smoking sign that decorated the far wall. ‘Strictly speaking, I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in here either.’
‘That right?’ Salter tossed the stub over the metal railings. ‘Well, sometimes, son, you’ve just got to break the rules.’
Chapter 16
She’d never have admitted it, but Joe had been right. She was dead on her feet. All the stress of the past week, not to mention the weekend, had finally caught up with her.
She’d initially planned to head straight up to the coast, track down Morgan Jones, get all that – whatever it was – sorted. But after five minutes in the car, she’d realized that she was barely up to the drive, let alone whatever surprises Morgan might throw at her. She turned the opposite way, back into the city, and headed back to the place that perhaps she should learn to think of as home.
She had expected that the flat would still be unlocked, the door still jammed with the folded envelope she had wedged underneath to hold it closed. Now, she fumbled vainly with the catch and realized that the door was locked after all.
Kev the caretaker must have surpassed himself and actually got the work done over the weekend. Probably had taken great satisfaction in calling out an emergency locksmith so he could add the bill to her rent. She fumbled in her purse for the entry card, and then swiped it vainly through the mechanism three or four times. The light remained resolutely on red, and the door refused to open.
Shit. The entry system must have been reset. That meant tracking down Kev. Suddenly, she felt more tired than ever. She wanted nothing more than simply to lie down here in front of her front door and fall asleep.
Sighing, she made her way back downstairs. Kev had a small office just off the main entrance, with his own flat tucked behind it. He was supposedly available 24/7. In practice, it was closer to two days in five, and there was a semi-permanent notice on his door saying:
For once, though, she was in luck. The door was open and Kev was sitting behind the desk, working his way painstakingly through that morning’s copy of the
‘Miss Donovan,’ he said, peering at her over his reading glasses. He made the words sound vaguely salacious.
He cut a slightly disreputable figure, dressed like some faded dandy in a blue-and-white striped shirt and mustard-coloured cardigan. She didn’t know if this was a misguided attempt at style, or if he’d just picked up the first clothes he’d found in some charity shop. The directness of his gaze suggested a quasi-sexual appraisal, though she’d seen him direct the same gaze at male residents, and had wondered vaguely about his sexual orientation. She suspected that his interest was generally voyeuristic rather than gender-specific. Behind his desk, there was a bank of CCTV screens linked to the security cameras covering the public areas of the building. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that, somewhere in a back room, Kev might have an equivalent unofficial network covering the non-public areas. She could hardly bring herself to care. The more the merrier.
‘How’s the door?’ he asked, fishing for recognition of his efficiency. ‘Working OK now?’
‘It’s successfully keeping me out of my flat, if that’s what you mean,’ she said.
He nodded, contemplating the significance of this statement. ‘Ah, yes. You’ll need the card key resetting.’
She handed over the card. He gazed at it disapprovingly for a moment, as if either it was damaged beyond repair or simply the wrong card entirely. Then he pulled the machine out from beneath his desk and slotted the card into it, his expression now indicating that he was engaged in some highly complex technical operation.
‘There, that should do it.’
‘Thanks, Kev,’ she said. ‘And thanks for sorting the door so quickly. Sincerely.’
She was turning to leave when he said, ‘Oh, Miss Donovan . . .’
‘What is it, Kev?’
‘It’s just . . .’ He was fumbling awkwardly in the top drawer of his desk. ‘I think this is for you.’ He held out a slim Manila envelope.
She glanced at the front. It was addressed to her, postmarked more than a week earlier.
Jake’s handwriting.
She looked up at Kev, who was smiling smugly back at her, as if he’d just done her a good deed.
‘How long have you had this?’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘A day or two.’
She blinked, trying to take this in. ‘Why wasn’t it in my post box?’ There was a row of sealed pigeon holes in the lobby into which incoming post was delivered.
‘It was delivered to the wrong flat.’ His voice took on a defensive note. ‘The address wasn’t clear.’
She looked again at the envelope. The paper was rain damaged and the number of the flat had been smudged.
‘Mr— the guy who received it must have sat on it for a few days,’ Kev went on. ‘I meant to put it in your box, but hadn’t got around to it. I just thought about it when you came in. Is it important?’
She looked at Kev and then down at the envelope. ‘Not really,’ she said, then murmured to herself: ‘Maybe just a matter of life and death.’
Back in the lobby, she hesitated. Her first thought had been to return to her flat to open the envelope. But if she was under surveillance there, she didn’t want to let anyone know she’d received this, whatever it might be. She returned to the lift and made her way back down to the car park. Her tiredness had melted away, driven out by a
