Trust No One

whole set-up. Don’t know where it’ll leave me exactly. But it might be a way out.’

‘Very cryptic,’ she said. ‘Kerridge about to go bust?’

‘I can’t tell you what’s going on. I want to. But not yet. But it’ll change things.’

‘And what does that mean for us, then? What are you saying?’

‘I don’t know exactly. But it might give us the chance to do something different. Have a new start. Together.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘Get married even.’

Jesus, had he just proposed to her? She sat in silence for a moment, wondering how to respond. He seemed, just in that moment, different from the man who’d been with her for the rest of the evening; he was suddenly childlike, enthusiastic, as if he’d glimpsed a future that really might offer something new.

What could she say? That she couldn’t be part of that future? That she wasn’t the person he thought she was? That she’d been lying to him all along?

That she already had a partner back home?

There was no answer she could give. Finally, when the moment had extended far too long, she said, ‘That’s great, Jake. We’ll talk about it. When things become clearer. That’s really great.’

It wasn’t enough. She could tell from his face that her words had sounded like a rejection. That he knew now that her view of this relationship was different from his. That, one way or another, it was already all over.

She didn’t even know whether that was what she wanted. Part of her wanted just to say yes. Wanted this to go on, for them to build some new future together. Why should that be so impossible?

Tomorrow, she’d thought. I’ll think about it tomorrow. I’ll think about what I want, and whether there’s any way we could make this work. I’ll think about what we can do.

They’d finished the bottle of wine, gone into one of the hotel bars for a last drink. They’d tried to talk, but the conversation suddenly felt stilted, as if both were conscious that the gulf was widening. Finally, too late, a little too drunk, they’d gone back to Jake’s flat, gone to bed. Made love, and it was OK, but it had changed nothing. At last, they’d both slept.

And sometime after midnight, Marie had found herself awake, staring into the darkness.

That was the last time she saw Jake.

Chapter 21

It was an old building; Victorian or Edwardian. A hotel, perhaps, or maybe a school. She should be able to tell just by looking inside one of the endless series of doors. At the beginning – or was it later? – she’d been given an entry card which was supposed to provide access, but each time she tried to use it the light remained fixed on red.

In any case, there was no time. She had to continue pacing down these endless corridors in search of Jake. She’d forgotten why that was necessary, or why Jake was there in the first place, but she knew it was important. A matter of life and death.

She turned corner after corner, expecting that she would find something to help her get her bearings. A sign, or some familiar landmark.

But the corridors just ran on, each as characterless as the last. Blank white walls, dark wooden doors. From time to time, she noticed CCTV cameras observing her, black lenses turning slowly to follow her as she passed.

At last, she rounded yet another corner and found that the corridor came to an abrupt end. There was one more door ahead, unrevealing as the rest. She fumbled for the entry card, knowing that this was her objective, that this time the card would fit. This was where she would find Jake.

As she fumbled in her pocket to extricate the card, her mobile phone began to ring somewhere else in her jacket. Struggling to find the phone, which she knew she’d had only minutes before, she looked up to see that the door was beginning slowly to open . . .

The ringing continued, shriller now but more distant. She opened her eyes. The dream was already fading, the details lost. She rolled over in the bed, squinting at the alarm clock. Not yet seven. Who the hell was calling at this hour?

She grabbed her dressing gown. The bell was pressed again, more insistent this time. Out in the hallway, she pressed the response button on the entryphone. It was a relatively sophisticated system, part of the security arrangements that had attracted her to this place, with a video screen linked to a CCTV camera in the lobby. She switched on the screen, expecting to see the postman or some other familiar early morning caller.

‘Yes?’

It was someone she didn’t recognize, a round-faced man with slightly overgrown hair. Two other men stood behind him. He was holding a wallet towards the camera. She couldn’t make out the detail of the card it contained, but she didn’t really need to. She had a similar one tucked away in a concealed side pocket in her handbag.

‘Police, madam. Wonder if you could spare us a few moments. It is rather urgent.’

It was the exaggerated politeness that alerted her. She’d heard that tone before. Christ, she’d used that tone before. Usually in the phony war before you were in a position to read someone their rights. At least one of the men behind was uniformed, she thought, though it was difficult to be sure through the camera. Three of them, though. That wasn’t casual.

She pressed the microphone. ‘Sorry – you woke me up. Give me a second to get myself decent.’

She knew that she wouldn’t have much more than that notional second. If she delayed, whatever suspicions they had would be confirmed and they’d be inside the place. In this job, though, you were always prepared. Like a fucking Boy Scout.

She grabbed the small case she always kept ready. She’d sometimes joked to Liam that it was like being pregnant, having your bag ready for the maternity ward. She wasn’t sure he’d ever got the joke. She thrust the bag into the bathroom, then grabbed a set of clothes and dressed rapidly. Practical stuff. Jeans and a jumper. But she kept the jeans off for the moment, leaving her legs bare. She tossed the jeans, along with a pair of trainers, by the case in the bathroom, then emerged and closed the door behind her.

She pressed the entryphone. ‘Sorry to keep you. Just getting presentable.’ She fingered the buzzer and watched the three men push their way into the building.

She used the few seconds it took them to reach her flat to check her purse. Some cash, not enough. Credit cards. Those might not be much use, she thought.

She realized suddenly that she was already thinking of herself as a fugitive. Christ, she didn’t even know what the police wanted yet. And even if, as her instincts were telling her, it was something serious, she knew she could extract herself from most things with a single call to Salter or Welsby. Assuming she could trust Salter or Welsby.

That was it, she thought. It was the sense she’d had for days, only half-acknowledged, that she’d already been cast adrift, that she was out here on her own. And it was the recognition that, somewhere deep inside, the idea wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

There was a sharp knocking at her front door. She opened it, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around her so it wouldn’t be evident that she was partially dressed underneath.

The round-faced man was still holding out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Blackwell,’ he said. He made no effort to introduce the two men – one uniformed, one CID – behind him. ‘Miss Donovan?’

She leaned forwards and made a play of examining his warrant. Lone woman, vulnerable, she thought. Encourage that thought.

‘Ms,’ she corrected pointedly. ‘How can I help you?’ Her face suggested blank incomprehension. Blackwell’s was equally unrevealing.

‘Do you mind if we sit down? It might take a few minutes. We need to check a few details.’

She glanced at her watch, allowing a look of mild impatience to cross her face. ‘Yes, of course. Can I get you some coffee or something?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ In charge now, he led them without hesitation into Marie’s sitting room. He looked around appraisingly, with the air of an estate agent surveying a new property. ‘Decent view.’