suspect in his own death. But maybe Jones hadn’t known that was the deal. Maybe he’d thought he was setting her up for something else. That would be just like Jones. Thought he’d done a deal, while all the time he was just setting himself up as the victim.
But with her fingerprints on the murder weapon, even her undercover status wouldn’t give her automatic protection. Murder was murder, whoever had committed it. In time, she could no doubt talk her way out of this. The forensics should prove that she hadn’t fired the gun that killed Jones, whatever her fingerprints might suggest.
But that was assuming that anyone would be prepared to listen to her. That someone out there had an interest in preventing her from taking the fall for this. She didn’t know any more whether she could trust Salter or Welsby or, for that matter, anyone else.
She climbed slowly to her feet, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around her, hoping that Blackwell wouldn’t spot the clothes underneath. When in doubt, follow your instinct.
‘How long’s this going to take?’ she asked. ‘I need to phone my assistant and let him know I’ll be late in.’
‘I think the timing will rather depend on you. You can call from the station.’
‘OK.’ She gestured down towards her dressing gown. ‘Give me a few minutes to get showered and dressed. Help yourself to some coffee if you like. There’s milk in the fridge.’
Blackwell looked for a moment as if he was about to deny this request. Then he nodded. ‘OK. But be quick.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s my time we’re wasting as well as yours.’
She stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Moving as quickly and silently as she could, she discarded the dressing gown and pulled on the jeans and trainers. Then she stepped over to the window and pushed it open.
She’d checked out this escape route before she’d moved into the flat, never seriously expecting that she’d use it. It was one of those things that went with the job, a degree of caution and forward planning that coloured everything she did. However routine each day might seem to be, there was always the risk that something might go wrong. Since she’d taken up this role, she’d lived with the idea that, one dark night or one bright morning, someone might come looking for her. She’d never imagined it would be the police.
The window opened outwards, and was held by a pair of brackets designed, for security purposes, to prevent the panel opening more than a few inches. One of her first tasks after moving in had been to remove the screws that held the brackets in place and substitute a set of dummy screws that slotted only a quarter inch or so into their sockets. She took a metal nail file which she left on the window sill for that purpose, and prised out the four dummy screws, allowing the window to open fully.
Once the window was open, she moved back across the bathroom and turned on the shower, leaving the shower door open so the rushing water would be clearly heard from outside. The sound of the running shower could buy her an extra few minutes.
Finally, she picked up the overnight bag that she’d left tucked behind the wash basin. She lowered the cover of the lavatory, climbed on to it, and eased her way out of the window.
She dropped silently on to the metal landing of the external fire escape that ran along the rear of the building, then she turned and replaced the dummy screws back into the window brackets. With a little luck, they might waste a further few valuable minutes trying to work out how she’d effected her escape.
She hurried down the metal steps, pressing herself close against the wall so that there was no risk that Blackwell or one of his team might spot her from the window.
Within a few moments, she was skirting the perimeter of the building to the underground car park. The reality of what she was doing had begun to hit her, and for a moment she was tempted to give it up, return to the building and throw herself on what might pass for Blackwell’s mercy.
This really was all or nothing. She didn’t even have a plan. Just get away, buy herself some time. Work out who she could trust. Then, if she could find some help, she might be able to talk her way out of this.
It didn’t sound much. Christ, it wasn’t much. But it was all she had.
Within minutes, she’d reached her car and was opening the electronically controlled gates on to the main road. As she pulled away, she glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the heavy gates closing behind her. She felt convinced, in that moment, that she would never pass back through them.
It felt as if part of her life had ended. She probably could live with that. The real problem was that, as yet, there was no sign that anything better was about to take its place.
Chapter 22
As she reached the ring road, she began to think about what to do next. It was as if she’d been operating on automatic pilot, instinct overriding any rational thought. Now she had to make some decisions.
Her first thought was just to get away, to drive as far as possible. Maybe head back down to London. Lie low somewhere near the place she used to call home.
But that wouldn’t work. Any minute now, they’d be kicking off a full-scale search for her. If she was a murder suspect – and if she wasn’t before, she would be now – they’d want to stop her getting out of town. They’d check all the main routes. It wouldn’t take them long to get her car registration. She would have only a few minutes’ head start, and that wouldn’t be enough.
The better option was to lose herself in the city. They’d track her down eventually, but she might buy herself some time. Then all she had to do was work out what to do with it.
She headed towards the city centre. It was still rush hour and the roads were busy with commuters heading into work. She glanced in her rear-view mirror, alert for any sign of pursuit, expecting at any moment to hear the wail of sirens, the pulsing of the blue lights.
She pulled off towards the main shopping area, heading for the large multi-storey car park next to the Arndale. She found a parking space in a corner of one of the lower floors. While the higher floors emptied overnight, these lower floors remained fairly full. Her hope was that the car would stay unnoticed for a day or so until someone registered that it hadn’t been moved.
Breathing deeply to steady her nerves, she turned off the engine and sat silently, contemplating her next move. After a moment, she reached into the back seat for her laptop. She booted it up and inserted her wireless mobile connection. After a tense few minutes, she was able to access the internet.
She had a narrow window in which to get things sorted. Her disappearance would trigger a chain of formal responses – not just the local police search, but also, in due course, a response from within the Agency. Whatever they might think about her motives or behaviour, their first action would be to put a lid on everything. They’d suspend her official bank accounts, stop her credit cards. They’d put a trace on her official mobile numbers and try to use them to track her movements. They might even shut down the business, though more likely they’d allow it to tick along until they found out what was going on, leaving poor old Joe to wonder what had happened to her.
That meant she had to move quickly. She logged into the business account, ran through the security procedures and transferred a substantial sum into her personal account, giving silent thanks that these days transfers were virtually instantaneous. She was breaking all the rules, but could see little alternative if she were to have enough cash to survive even for a few days.
Finally, the transfer completed, she logged out and shut down the laptop. She climbed out of the car, stuffed the computer back in its bag, threw the overnight case over her shoulder, and locked the car.
As she walked away, she felt another tremor of anxiety. It was as if, item by item, she was leaving the trappings of her life behind – first the flat, now the car – with no certainty that she’d ever reclaim them.
She made her way down through the mall into the street. She’d followed the same route the previous week before meeting Jones in the cafe. Involuntarily she glanced back, wondering again about the man she’d noticed then. This early in the morning, the centre was largely deserted, just as it had been before. This time, though, there were no suspicious figures, just a couple of security guards chatting with a woman opening up one of the stores.
Outside, the rain had passed, but the morning air still felt chill and damp. Nearly nine thirty; time for the
