‘We’ll go to a cash machine,’ he offered finally.
‘And get out a couple of hundred quid? Where will that get you, Morgan? A train ticket to London?’
She didn’t believe he had any serious intention of using the gun – that was well beyond Jones’ pay grade. But he might do anything by accident.
‘Put the gun down,’ she said again. ‘Let’s talk about it. See what we can do.’
She’d left it too late. He didn’t believe her. She watched his trembling hand as he took a step towards her. His sweating finger was tensing on the trigger. The poor bastard didn’t know what he was doing.
It was over in a second. She allowed him another step, then reached and grabbed his wrist, twisting it painfully, making sure that the gun barrel was pointed away from them both.
The gun could easily have gone off then, if Jones’ finger had gripped the trigger. The bullet would have missed them, but who knew what the ricochet might have done in a room this size. At the very least, they’d have had an interesting time explaining it to Basil Fawlty.
As it was, Jones reacted as she’d hoped, his already tremulous grip loosening on the gun. She caught it smartly as he dropped it, snapped on the safety catch, and tossed it calmly into the far corner of the room. The benefits of firearms training. She should probably relieve him of the bloody thing, but she’d no desire to be saddled with an illegal weapon. Instead, she gave Jones’ wrist another painful twist, and reaching for his throat, she thrust him back hard against the wall.
‘Don’t ever try anything like that again, eh, Morgan? Other people won’t be as tolerant as me.’
He mumbled something she didn’t catch. She thought she might as well take the opportunity while he was terrified out of his wits. ‘Those photographs, Morgan. Where’d you get them? Just out of interest.’
She loosened her grip on his throat. ‘Sent them,’ he grunted. ‘Someone sent them. Texted them. Don’t know who. No number.’
She opened her hand further. ‘Someone sent them to you? Why you, Morgan?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘There was a message. Said they’d be of interest to you.’
‘Just shows how wrong people can be,’ she said. ‘So who knows you’ve met me, Morgan?’
He shook his head. ‘Nobody. Haven’t told anyone.’
‘You sure?’ She tightened her grip threateningly. ‘You’re not lying to me?’
His head-shaking grew more vehement. ‘No. Really. I’ve not seen anybody.’
She remembered the man who might have been following her through the Arndale Centre before her first meeting with Jones. Anything was possible. She was inclined to believe Jones’ protests, if only because he looked too shit-scared to be lying.
She pulled him around and tossed his shaking body towards the bed. He fell, half on the mattress, half on the floor.
‘Take care of yourself, Morgan. Get away if you can.’
She made her way downstairs. Basil Fawlty was sitting behind the reception desk, fiddling unconvincingly with a computer keyboard. He looked up with undisguised curiosity as she passed.
‘Nice place,’ she said. ‘But you need a better class of clientele.’
Before he could respond, she’d stepped outside into the damp air. Ahead of her, the skeletal framework of Blackpool Tower loomed above the grey rooftops. Ignoring the drizzle, she strode confidently off down the dreary street, back towards the town centre.
It was only when she reached the car that she realized that her hands were still shaking.
Part Three
Winter: Outside
Chapter 20
The last time she’d seen Jake, it had just been another midweek evening. He’d called her up late in the afternoon and suggested they meet for a few drinks, maybe a pizza afterwards. Perhaps go to one of the bars on the quays, as it had been a half-decent day for the time of year.
She’d had an exhausting day in the shop. Joe had been off delivering some completed work to one of their bigger clients, and she’d been left to deal with Darren by herself.
‘Yeah,’ she’d said to Jake, ‘a few drinks sounds good. A lot of drinks sounds even better.’
They met in an old-fashioned real-ale pub round the back of the Bridgewater Hall. The pub was one of Jake’s favourite haunts, on the nights when they fancied nothing more complicated than a few beers. It was a warren of cluttered rooms linked by narrow corridors, not much to write home about in itself, but with a real buzz to it even on a quiet midweek night. Later in the week, it would be heaving, drinkers squeezed together in a fug of alcohol and noise. Tonight it was relatively peaceful, just a few groups of office workers enjoying a beer at the end of the day and a gaggle of students trying to work out whether they could afford another round.
Jake was edgier than usual, she thought. Things had been more difficult for a few weeks, ever since he’d finally committed himself as an informant. She’d sensed the change almost immediately. She realized that he was trying to protect her, keep her at arm’s length from himself, from Kerridge and his business. If he was grassing on Kerridge, he didn’t want her to end up as collateral damage. If he only knew. But there was no way that she could tell him.
She could sense a growing unease in their relationship. There’d always been a tension – Marie had been conscious of her own caginess in talking about her past, her private life. But now there was a growing gulf. Two people who wanted to share everything, but couldn’t even be honest about who they really were.
She’d been thinking seriously about ending it. She didn’t want to. As time went by, she’d begun to feel that this relationship was more real, more important, than whatever she had with Liam. But it couldn’t work. Whatever happened next – with Jake, with Kerridge, with Boyle – it would blow things apart, one way or another. She wanted to get out before that happened. Before he discovered who she really was. Before he realized the extent of her betrayal.
That night, she’d begun to wonder whether it might be Jake who’d act first. He was tense, withdrawn, almost losing his temper over some trivial half-joke she’d made about the beer. Not the usual laidback Jake at all. She had the sense he was building up to something.
An hour and several drinks later, they’d got a cab back to the quays, and were enjoying a pizza and a bottle of wine in some chain Italian. Jake’s mood had lightened slightly, but he still seemed uncomfortable.
‘OK?’ he said instead, gesturing towards her pizza.
‘I’ve had worse.’ She picked up her glass. ‘Wine’s good, though.’
‘Hope you’re not thinking of driving home?’ Her flat wasn’t far away, but far enough not to be walkable.
‘That a proposition, Mr Morton?’
‘Suppose so. If you’re up for it.’
‘More a question of whether you are, I’d have thought. You’d better pace the drinking.’
He smiled, silent for a moment. ‘Been thinking,’ he said.
‘No good’ll come of it. I’d stop now.’ She was aware that her facetiousness masked an anxiety about what he might be about to say. She could think of some men who might invite her to bed as a preamble to dumping her, but she’d never put Jake in that category.
‘About the future,’ he said. ‘About us.’
She looked at him warily. ‘Go on.’
‘It’s just . . . well, I can’t really explain. Not yet. But there are things happening. With Kerridge. With the
