that most of this material related only to Kerridge, with few references to Boyle. It seemed that Jake had held back this side of his evidence – the other half of the picture – because he hadn’t known who to trust.
She opened one more file, this one intriguingly labelled ‘Stamps003’. To her surprise, it was a series of images showing just that – photographs of postage stamps. She skimmed through them, momentarily baffled. It looked like a child’s stamp collection. Some British, others clearly foreign. What was this doing in here?
It took her a few moments to understand. Money laundering again. She was no expert, but she’d attended a few lectures on emerging trends. One of the trends was investment in high-value, low-volume commodities. They didn’t come much lower volume than rare postage stamps. You might even make a profit on your dirty money.
There were further image files devoted to other commodities. Racks of wine, artwork, even rare books. All of these would open up more paths they could follow up, join yet more dots.
Her attention was caught by a movement in the corner of her eye. She realized she’d become engrossed in the material, forgetting where she was. She looked up, conscious now of the value of the evidence in her possession, her sense of vulnerability increasing.
She’d opened one of the car windows when she had pulled into the lay-by, but the interior had steamed up. She rubbed at the windscreen and peered out, then turned on the engine and heater.
She didn’t know what had caught her attention. There were still few cars parked at this end of the car park. Several more had passed, but she’d become aware of something else, something she’d intuitively perceived as threatening.
It was only when the rear window had fully cleared that she spotted it. Just near the entrance to the car park, a few hundred metres behind her, sited directly in line with her, there was a parked car. A small anonymous grey saloon, almost unnoticeable from where Marie was sitting. At a conscious level, she couldn’t be certain how long it had been there.
She was in no real doubt, though. The car’s arrival had half-registered in her peripheral vision while she was engrossed in the material on the laptop.
She watched the car for another minute or two, hoping that the driver would decide to depart, having consulted his map, made his call, or completed whatever task he’d parked up to perform.
But the car remained motionless.
She made up her mind in an instant. Always assume the worst. That was a maxim that Keith Welsby had taught her. He applied it as a general guide to life, but she’d adopted it only as an operational rule of thumb. As Welsby had often pointed out, at least it meant you wouldn’t be disappointed.
The car engine was running. She checked in the rear-view mirror that there were no cars entering the car park behind her. Then she released the handbrake, put the car into gear, and floored the accelerator.
She’d picked this car partly for its performance. Deceptively nippy, the review had said. One way of putting it. She headed across the car park going far too fast, and then pulled out on to the perimeter road, by now getting close to sixty. A moment later, she was on the access road to the motorway, already well above seventy. She pulled out suddenly, cutting neatly between a lorry and a white van, then across into the outside lane. She was a trained high-speed driver, accustomed to velocities and circumstances more challenging than this. Even so, she could almost feel the animosity of the drivers she’d cut up.
She took a glance in the mirror, trying to see whether the grey car had pulled out in pursuit, but there was no sign of it. She kept up her speed, undercutting traffic in the outside lane, putting distance between herself and anyone who might be following her.
She didn’t want to keep this up for too long. For all her skill, there was always the risk of coming up against some less accomplished driver. And if she got caught doing this speed, Salter wouldn’t be pulling too many strings on her behalf.
There was a junction ahead. She contemplated turning off, but decided she needed to confuse things first. Give her pursuer – assuming there was a pursuer – some options to play with. She sped past the junction, waited for another.
Minutes went by with no sign of a turn-off. It was bloody typical. She should have seized the first opportunity.
Finally, she reached another junction, a link with the M65. As far as she could remember, if she headed west she could do a loop round the end of the motorway and join the northbound M6 at an earlier point than if she continued along the M61. If there was anyone behind her, it would help confuse things, open up more options about where she might be heading. She looked in the mirror. No sign of the grey car.
She hesitated briefly, then hit the brake and pulled the wheel to the left, cutting across all three lanes to the exit, momentarily startled by the appearance of a lorry bearing down on her in the inside lane. The driver flashed his lights in warning, but there was no real risk. She was already past, heading up the slip road, her speed undiminished.
There were a couple of cars following her up the exit, but none of them was grey. She pulled on to the M65, still keeping her speed up, then, when she was more confident that no one was behind her, she slowed down to the legal limit.
She realized she’d been holding her breath for some time. Gripping the wheel, she inhaled steadily, calming herself, the adrenaline slowly receding.
She could still see the startled expression on the lorry driver’s face as she’d swept across in front of him. And she didn’t need any great powers of deduction to know what he’d been thinking.
Chapter 17
Each time she’d met Jake over the preceding months, things seemed to have moved on. The first drink had turned out to be both less complicated and more successful than she’d really expected. They’d met in some upmarket bar-cum-restaurant just off Deansgate, shared a bottle of wine and eaten a pretentious sandwich. Jake had pitched it perfectly, she thought. Slightly more than just a drink, but nothing as significant as a dinner date. And Jake himself had been the perfect gentleman – almost disappointingly so, she’d thought later. She’d half-expected that he’d try it on at some point and had wondered how she’d react if he did. But the question never arose, not then at least. He’d organized her a taxi back to her flat and seen her off with an entirely decorous kiss on the cheek, but not before she’d agreed to another date.
He was a smooth operator, there was no question of that. Not remotely pushy, but with each step neatly judged. She had no problem with that. After all, her job was to get closer to Jake, in order to get closer in turn to Kerridge’s operation. It looked like Jake intended to make the first part of her task relatively easy. The challenge was to make sure that her judgement remained as sound as Jake’s.
On a personal level, she’d enjoyed the evening. Jake was good company – relaxed, personable, good humoured, an easy conversationalist but also a good listener. All the kinds of qualities, it struck her, that had first attracted her to Liam not so very long ago. She had pushed that thought from her mind. This was just work.
The second dinner felt somehow more significant, though, as if she were taking a step into a new territory. As if, at least in her own head, she’d already crossed a line and knew there was no going back. Once again, she’d had to admire Jake’s perfect pitch. She’d somehow expected that he’d invite her to one of the swanky hotel restaurants adorned with the name of some celebrity chef. Instead, he took her to a small, French-style restaurant tucked away in some dark corner of the Northern Quarter, where the decor initially seemed a little rough and ready, but the atmosphere was relaxed and intimate. The food was unpretentious but excellent, and the wine flowed a little more freely than she’d intended. She still didn’t feel that she was being actively wined and dined. This was nothing more than a pleasant supper between friends, Jake’s manner suggested. But she recognized that the laidback ambiance probably would make her more susceptible to Jake’s charms than if she’d had a starched waiter standing at either shoulder.
Nevertheless, she kept a careful watch on her tongue even as they moved on to a second bottle of wine. She was getting better at this now, chatting amiably about her fictitious life, steering clear of the danger areas. Even so, it required concentration. At one point, she almost found herself talking about one of Liam’s paintings. She bit back
