loud and clear, that this was no time for anyone to fuck with him.
‘What did they say, Morgan? What did they tell you?’
He swallowed. ‘They told me what they’d done to Morton. Told me they had to apply a few . . . measures.’
‘Did they?’ Marie had not sought to discover any more details about Jake’s death. The hints dropped by Salter had been more than enough. She certainly had no desire to hear it from Jones.
‘They said that he’d become more . . . forthcoming. That was when he mentioned me. Said I was a grass. He couldn’t have known that, though. Not for sure.’
Maybe not for sure, she agreed, but it wouldn’t have been a difficult guess. Jones was just the kind who became a low-level informant – self-centred, eager for approbation, weak-willed, in need of a few quid. No conscience about selling his mates down the river. The only problem with the likes of Jones was that, in the end, you got bugger all out of them. Nobody trusted them, so they had nothing of value to sell.
Jake had probably just been trying to buy time, give them some titbits in the hope of getting them off his back. Morgan Jones would have been one of the first names to spring to mind. Jake had presumably had no idea that the same Morgan Jones was sitting in the car outside.
‘Like to have been a fly on the wall when your name came up, eh, Morgan?’
‘Jesus,’ Jones said. ‘When they told me – Christ . . .’ He shook his head. ‘They laughed about it in the car. Didn’t take it seriously.’
She leaned forwards. ‘Oh, they’d have taken it seriously. They were playing with you, Morgan. You won’t trouble them, a small-timer like you. But one day, when you’re not expecting it . . .’
Keep him on edge, she thought. He’s more likely to tell the truth if he’s scared.
He was looking back at her now, though, a different expression on his face.
‘But they mentioned other names Morton had come up with. Names they seemed to take a lot more seriously.’ There was a note of bravado in his voice now, as if he’d rehearsed this part. ‘Yours, for example.’
She laughed. ‘You’re not very good at being menacing, are you, Morgan? I don’t care what Morton might or might not have said. I imagine he’d say anything if he thought it might save his skin.’
His eyes were fixed on her, defiant. ‘I know about you and Morton,’ he said.
She held her breath for a moment, wondering again whether Jones had seen her that night. ‘There’s nothing to know about me and Morton,’ she said. The lie felt almost corrosive. If she’d been the religious type, she might have thought of asking God to forgive her. ‘You’re a slippery old sod, Morgan. I don’t know what to make of you. The other day you looked so shit-scared you almost got me feeling sorry for you. Now it sounds like you’re trying to threaten me.’ She looked around the shabby hotel room. ‘And you’re so sure of yourself that you’re hiding away in this rat trap.’
‘I’m scared all right,’ he said. ‘I know Boyle. You don’t cross him. You don’t even let him think you might cross him. If he thinks he can’t trust me . . .’
Suddenly tired of all this, she rose and walked over to the bedroom window. She wasn’t expecting a sea view. The room looked out over a small overgrown garden. There was a clothes line with an array of what she took to be table napkins. The rain was still falling and the napkins looked greyer than the heavy sky.
‘You know what he’ll do, Morgan. So where do I fit into this picture?’
‘I could make life difficult for you,’ he said. ‘They told me what Morton said about you. He reckoned you were the real deal, a serious grass. Seemed to me they were taking it seriously. You’re a pretty big fish in their eyes. Not small fry like me.’
‘Glad to see you’ve got life in perspective, Morgan.’ She was staring out the window still, ignoring the whining figure behind her. But she was also conscious of a growing unease.
‘They’re checking you out,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right about me. If I get on the wrong side of them, I’ll disappear one dark night. But you’re different. You know Kerridge and Boyle. They’ve trusted you to deliver. You’re like Morton, close to the inner circle.’
‘I’m very flattered,’ she said, without turning. ‘But you’re talking bollocks.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He was sounding more confident now. ‘I think there’s something in it.’ There was an edge in his voice that made her turn around. He was holding a mobile phone, some smart new model with a large screen. ‘Have a look.’
She threw him a look of disdain, and then stepped forwards to peer at the screen. She was half-expecting some photograph of her scurrying away from Jake’s flat on the night of his death. But it was a different scene, one she recognized immediately. It was one of the string of charmless hotels where she’d held a liaison meeting with Salter a month or two back. The image showed her emerging from her car, though she doubted that anyone else could have identified her with confidence.
‘If you’re thinking of taking up photography, I’d stick to the day job,’ she said. ‘Assuming you’ve got a day job, that is. Why are you wasting my time with this crap, Morgan?’
‘What about this one, then?’ Jones switched to the next image. The same hotel car park. Another car. Salter, this time. Where in Christ’s name had Jones got these pictures?
‘You aiming for the portrait market, Morgan? You need to get a bit closer.’
‘Got it on good authority that he’s filth,’ Jones said.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ she said. ‘Why are you wasting my time with this crap?’
There was nothing particularly incriminating in the pictures themselves. It would be hard enough to confirm her identity in the previous shot, although her car might be more recognizable. And even if Salter could be clearly identified, their arrival might have been coincidental. Though the receptionist might remember that they’d met.
The really interesting questions, though, were who’d taken the photographs and how they’d come into Jones’ possession. She presumed that he hadn’t got them from Kerridge or Boyle. More likely, they’d been obtained by whoever was responsible for the leaking. She’d need time to absorb the implications of that.
‘I’m just thinking,’ Jones said, ‘that these images will be of interest to certain parties.’
‘You reckon?’ she said. ‘Well, you’d better go and talk to them, hadn’t you? I’ve had enough of this, Morgan. You’ve dragged me all the way up here with some cock and bull story about Morton. And now you’re boring me with your photo collection. What is this? Come up and see my etchings?’
He’d obviously expected a different reaction. The whine had returned to his voice. ‘I thought we could do a deal,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to get you into any trouble, Marie. I could give you these pictures or destroy them. For a price.’
‘I don’t know what you think those pictures are, Morgan, or why you think I’m interested.’ She made a move towards the door. He reached out and grabbed her arm.
‘Christ, can’t you see I’m scared?’ he said. ‘You’re right about Kerridge and Boyle. Shit, if they think I’ve crossed them . . .’ He stopped. ‘I thought maybe I could buy their goodwill with these.’ He waved the phone at her. ‘But Christ knows what that would be worth.’
‘Bugger all, I’d say. Don’t think “goodwill” is a term they’re familiar with.’
‘I need to get away, that’s all. I’ve barely got a penny. Not enough to get right away from here. I could go to London, lose myself there. But I wouldn’t be able to get a job. I should maybe go overseas. But that costs money.’
She was already turning away. ‘I can’t think of one good reason why I should help you. You’ve told me that you were involved in the murder of someone I thought of as a friend. You’ve tried some witless attempt at blackmail. You’ve wasted my fucking time. Just go fuck yourself, OK, Morgan?’
Her hand was on the door when she heard him say, ‘What about this, then? Does this change anything?’
She turned. He was holding a gun, some battered handgun. Christ knew where he’d picked it up. His hand was shaking, but he was pointing it approximately in her direction. Close enough at this range, anyway.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Morgan. Don’t be more of an idiot than you need to be. Put that fucking gun down before you hurt yourself.’ She stood motionless at the door, trying to keep her voice calm.
‘You’re all I’ve got left,’ he said. He sounded much less calm than she did. His eyes kept flicking down towards the gun, as if he couldn’t believe that he was holding it. ‘I know you’ve got money. You can help me.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Morgan. Put the gun down.’
‘Help me.’
‘What do you think I’m going to do? Pull two grand out of my handbag?’
He blinked, suddenly confused, as if he hadn’t considered the logistics beyond pulling the gun.
