downstairs.
There was a fumbling with the lock. She wasn’t sure what to expect. Jones’ anxiety at their previous meeting and his caution in setting up this assignation led her to expect a cowed figure, trembling behind a locked door. Instead, he threw it open and stood before her, looking calm enough. He was dressed casually, in chain-store jeans and a neatly patterned sweater. He looked like an off-duty sales executive.
‘You worked out the message, then?’ he said.
‘It wasn’t difficult,’ she said, finding herself troubled by his coolness. ‘Hope nobody else found it as easy.’
He said nothing for a moment. ‘Come in. We need to talk.’
‘You sure you want to talk here?’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I don’t know that Basil Fawlty approves of you having strange women in your room.’
He held up his hands. ‘I’m not going to try anything.’
‘Too fucking right you’re not,’ she said. ‘Not if you want to keep the use of those arms.’
He laughed nervously and ushered her in. It was a bleak place – a single bed, a battered dressing table that Jones was using as a desk, a couple of chairs. There was a sink in the corner, so presumably no en-suite bathroom. Jones’ old suitcase lay open on the floor. It looked as if it had been packed in a hurry.
She pulled one of the chairs round and sat down. ‘What’s this about, Morgan? It’s a long bloody way up here.’
He nodded. ‘I thought I should get away for a bit. Get my head straight.’
‘You’ll need to go a long way if that’s what you want to do,’ she said. ‘Why’d you run out on me?’
‘Lost my nerve.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘Thought someone was watching.’
‘In the cafe?’
‘Probably just being paranoid,’ he said. ‘Some guy at the far end. Reading a paper. Got the idea into my head that he was keeping an eye on us.’
She thought back, but couldn’t remember anyone. Given her own state of mind, that surprised her. If there’d been anyone acting suspicious, she’d have been the first to notice it.
‘So you just legged it?’
‘I’m here now.’
‘Rejoice and be merry,’ she said. ‘So what do you want?’
He stared down at his knees for a moment, then looked up at her. ‘I didn’t tell the whole truth the other day.’
‘That right, Morgan? How will I live with my shattered illusions?’
‘I said I’d heard about Jake Morton’s death. That wasn’t quite true.’
‘Go on.’
It was clear that he was struggling to find the right words. He was looking down again, and she had to listen hard to make out what he said.
‘I was part of it. Part of the team that killed him.’
She acted without thinking. She hooked her foot around the leg of his chair and jerked it savagely to the left. Caught by surprise, he toppled sideways, falling awkwardly on to the worn carpeting. She was on her feet in a moment, her shoe pressed against Jones’ throat.
‘What the fuck are you talking about? Is this one of your stupid games, Morgan?’
It was only afterwards that she realized quite how angry she’d been. All the emotions of the past few weeks – all the fear, loss, resentment and paranoia – had found a release in the fury and revulsion she felt towards Jones’ cowering form. It was fortunate, she thought later, that she’d been wearing low heels rather than stilettos.
She never knew what she might have done. There was a sudden sharp knocking at the door, and from outside the hotel owner was shouting, ‘Everything all right in there?’
She lifted her shoe from Jones’ neck and strode over to open the door. She stared at the elderly man, who was clearly startled that she, rather than Jones, had responded to his shout.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘Sorry about the noise.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘Mr Wilson had a bit of a tumble, but he’s OK now.’
The hotel owner peered past her. Jones was climbing slowly to his feet, looking nothing worse than dishevelled.
The man hesitated, seeking some excuse to continue his intrusion. ‘If you’re sure . . .’ He looked her up and down, though his gaze was possibly admiring rather than voyeuristic now.
‘I’ll let you know if we need anything. Thanks for checking.’ She stood resolutely at the doorway until the man had backed away down the stairs.
When she was satisfied that he was gone, she closed the door and turned back towards Jones.
‘Same question, Morgan,’ she said. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? Don’t try to kid me you were involved in Morton’s death.’ She sat down again, indicating Jones to follow suit.
Jones opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘I was there,’ he said, finally. ‘I mean, I wasn’t involved in . . . all that. Not my style. You know that.’
‘Don’t know what I know, Morgan. But you’re not the sort to get your hands dirty if you can help it.’
‘I was driving,’ Jones said. ‘They’d asked me to sort the car for them, and then drive them. I waited down the street.’ He stopped, struggling for breath. ‘I thought they just wanted to put some pressure on Morton . . .’
She stared at him, offering no response or respite. His story made sense. That was Jones’ level – stealing cars, petty stuff. She’d heard that one of Jones’ few assets was that, through some miracle, he’d never actually managed to acquire a criminal record. His DNA and prints weren’t on file. So he’d been able to make a living doing bits and pieces with no risk that they’d be traced back to him. It was a saleable commodity, even if Jones had little else going for him.
The professionals who’d done the hit were in the same position, of course, though by design rather than happy accident. The value of a professional hitman lay largely in untraceability. Yes, they brought a certain expertise to the party, but their major skill was in melting into the background afterwards. She didn’t know who’d organized the hit or who’d involved Jones, but she knew Jones would have no clue who his colleagues had been. Jones was disposable. If anything had gone wrong with the operation, he was there to carry the can. Probably why they’d recruited him in the first place.
‘So who was it, Morgan?’ she said anyway. ‘Who organized it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said pleadingly. ‘You know how these things happen. I was contacted, given the details of what to do. But I don’t know who was at the end of the chain.’
‘But you can guess?’
He looked up at her, meeting her eyes at last. ‘Well, so can you. It must have been Boyle or Kerridge. Who else would have a reason to kill Morton?’
‘So why are you telling me this, Morgan? This your idea of a good anecdote?’
Another thought had struck her. Whether Jones had seen her leaving Morton’s apartment, seen her driving away.
‘Like I said, I didn’t expect them to do . . . what they did. I thought they were trying to get information. I didn’t think it would go that far.’
‘Don’t come to me looking for absolution, Morgan. You can burn in the fires of hell for all I care.’ She leaned forwards and jabbed a finger in his chest. ‘What do you want? Why bring me all the way out here to tell me about your chauffeuring experience?’
‘Because I heard what they said. In the car afterwards.’
She looked closely at his bloodshot eyes and trembling mouth, wondering if he was telling the truth. If they were pros, they wouldn’t shoot their mouths off in Jones’ hearing. Unless of course they’d wanted Jones to hear.
It was possible. They knew they’d been seen, that she’d been in the flat. That was an unknown quantity for them. So they’d scare the living daylights out of Jones, make sure he kept quiet. And maybe make sure he got the word out to others. A warning.
In any case, this was about territory. Yes, Boyle would have known that Morton’s death removed their key witness. And he’d have wanted to get whatever information he could out of Morton. But ultimately this was about showing he was still in charge. Boyle might be behind bars, at least for the moment, but he was demonstrating,
