‘What about Sister Donovan?’ he asked, as if the question was a natural corollary to his previous thoughts.
‘Marie? What about her?’
‘I was thinking about what you said. About her having trouble at home. This stuff about her flat being bugged. Maybe it’s all bollocks. Maybe she really is just losing the plot.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first.’ Welsby jammed a surprisingly large amount of crisps into his mouth. ‘You’d know about that, Hughie.’
‘What about her and Morton? You think there’s anything in that?’
‘Gossip and innuendo,’ Welsby said mellifluously. ‘Gossip and fucking innuendo. Which doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t true, of course.’ He paused. ‘Dunno. We never actually caught them at it, so to speak. But then Marie’s no fool.’
‘Would have been pretty foolish if she’d got involved with Morton,’ Salter pointed out.
‘Ah, but we’re all fools for love. Even you, I don’t doubt.’
‘Exception that proves the rule. You think it could have been love, then?’
‘Love or lust. Pretty much amount to the same thing in my experience.’
‘Ever the romantic, guv. Whichever, if she and Morton were some sort of item, do you reckon she really did get something from him?’
‘Evidence, you mean, rather than chlamydia? Can’t see it. Like I say, she’s no fool. We gave her enough opportunity the other day. If she had anything, she’d have told us.’
‘Assuming she trusts us.’
Welsby nodded. ‘Well, there is that. But if she can’t trust us, she can’t trust anybody.’
‘That’s pretty much what I was thinking, guv.’
Welsby screwed up the empty crisp packet and tossed it in the approximate direction of the bin behind Salter’s chair. It bounced off the side and fell forlornly to the floor.
‘Why do I get the feeling that you’re fishing for something, Hughie?’
‘Don’t know what you mean, guv. When I go fishing, I generally take a harpoon.’
Welsby pushed himself slowly to his feet. There was a sign on the wall immediately in front of him which politely requested customers to return their trays and utensils and to dispose of any litter in the receptacles provided. He gazed at the sign for a moment, with the air of one wrestling with an unfamiliar language. Then he turned, leaving the remains of his meal scattered across the table.
‘We live in strange times, Hughie. All I can say is, if Marie Donovan’s on the point of losing her marbles, you’d better be fucking sure you hold on to yours.’
Chapter 19
She parked in an anonymous shoppers’ car park, a half-acre of reclaimed space between a down-at-heel supermarket and a row of charity shops. There was little more depressing, she thought, than a holiday resort out of season. And, whatever its publicity might say, this place was hardly at the cutting edge of the leisure industry even in the height of summer.
It had been a fine day when she left Manchester, but as she’d driven along the M55 past Preston she’d seen the first dark clouds coming in from the west. Now, heavy rain was pouring down from a leaden grey sky. A few pedestrians scurried past, shoppers hurrying for shelter, elderly ladies apparently oblivious to the weather. A group of inappropriately dressed young men were stumbling along in the direction of the next pub, jackets pulled half- heartedly over their heads. A stag-do, clearly, but it was difficult to tell whether they were recovering from the night before or preparing for the night to come.
Marie pulled her own coat more tightly around her, fumbling with her umbrella, and began to make her way along the back streets behind the North Promenade.
It had taken her a while to work out what Jones’ two texted words, ‘Mayfield’ and ‘Wilson’, might mean. She had thought it likely that ‘Mayfield’ might be the name of some hotel or bed and breakfast. A few minutes’ online searching had confirmed that – there was a Mayfield Hotel with the postcode that Jones had sent. On that basis, she decided that Wilson must be the name Jones was using.
The Mayfield Hotel was easy enough to find, one of a series of small establishments on a back street running parallel to the seafront. The sea itself was hidden behind the endless rows of Victorian and Edwardian terraces, though she’d briefly glimpsed its grey expanse as she’d made her way from the car park.
The area, like the town in general, had seen better days, a legacy from the times when the North of England used to decamp to the seaside to celebrate its high days and holidays. These days, most of that population would board cheap flights to the Mediterranean or further afield instead, and few would come here for more than a day or two. The town survived on day trips when the weather was decent, drunken stag and hen nights, a scattering of the middle classes on weekend breaks with the kids at the Imperial or the Hilton. She didn’t know who stayed in these back-street hotels. Young people or families on benefits, maybe, who might otherwise be homeless.
Most of the hotels – the word flattered the establishments – looked run-down, paint peeling, letters missing from their signs, front gardens overgrown. There were optimistic ‘Vacancies’ signs in some windows. Others had surrendered to economic realities and closed, boarded windows staring blankly at the deserted street.
The Mayfield looked better than average. It had been redecorated within living memory, and its entrance was kept tidy. It stood at the end of the street, its location within touching distance of the more salubrious residential district beyond. Not exactly luxurious, but respectable.
She pushed open the entrance and stepped into the gloomy lobby. It was a narrow hallway, decorated with a garish wallpaper from a different decade. There was an unoccupied reception desk to the left, a rack of tourist leaflets, a pervasive smell of fried food. On the reception was a neatly printed sign: Ring bell for service. She waited a moment, wondering whether anyone would appear, and then reached out to do so.
‘Help you?’ a voice said from the gloom at the far end of the passage. She squinted at a rounded silhouette framed in what she took to be the door to the kitchen. The figure shuffled forwards, and revealed itself to be a middle-aged man, dressed in a greasy blazer and tie. He had the air of a gone-to-seed army officer. Like everything else around here, he was well past his prime.
‘I’m here to see one of your guests,’ she said. ‘A Mr Wilson?’
He took another few steps forwards and peered at her, in the manner of an immigration officer surveying a probably illegal alien. ‘Mr Wilson?’
She hesitated, wondering whether she had misinterpreted Jones’ text message. ‘He asked me to meet him here.’
‘That so?’ The man’s gaze was still fixed on her, his eyes now travelling over her besuited body with an all- too-familiar semi-sexual interest. It wasn’t difficult to read his curiosity about what the likes of her had to do with the likes of the supposed Mr Wilson.
‘Can you let him know I’m here?’ she said.
The man said nothing, but made his way slowly around behind the reception desk. He lowered himself cautiously down on to a stool that creaked beneath his weight, then shook his head.
‘You’re used to more upmarket establishments than this, love. No phones in our rooms. You’ll have to go and track him down yourself.’ He smiled salaciously, as if the thought of a woman visiting a man’s room was intrinsically erotic. In his life it quite possibly was.
‘What room?’ she said. ‘Four,’ he said.
‘First floor. Up the stairs. Turn right.’
She was gratified to sense that her stare made him uncomfortable. ‘You’re quite right,’ she said finally. ‘I am used to more upmarket places. But you can’t beat a small hotel for service.’
She strode past him up the stairs. His instructions were accurate enough, at least, and she found Room 4 without difficulty.
She knocked and waited. There was a lengthy pause, and then a muffled voice said, ‘Who is it?’
‘Marie Donovan,’ she called back. She had the strong sense that the hotelier was listening from
