banks to open.
They’d rebuilt all this area after the IRA bombing in the mid-1990s. Marie couldn’t remember the city as it had been before, but most of the locals seemed to think that the Provisionals had done the place an inadvertent favour. The old Arndale Centre had been rebuilt, and they’d opened up the heart of the city from St Anne’s Square up to the cathedral. There were new open spaces, fashionable-looking cafes and bars, striking buildings, with just a few remnants of the old city left standing as you approached Victoria Station. It was an attractive city, she thought, with its blend of modern aspiration and Victorian heritage, and it was much more approachable in scale and impact than London. She wondered now how well its optimism and vibrancy would withstand the impact of recession and cuts in public funding. Now that times were getting tough again, the money might melt away. You didn’t have to go far from the city centre to find real poverty.
The likes of Kerridge and Boyle thrived on that. They might not get their own hands dirty, but their trade was anything but clean. Their people brought in drugs, firearms, exploited labour, porn, illegal booze and cigarettes. Anything they could sell for a profit. The end users were the flotsam and jetsam of the receding economic tide, poor bastards with nothing else to live for.
That was why she’d wanted to do this job in the first place. She loved the adrenaline rush, the sense of risk. But above all she wanted to make things happen, to have a real crack at people like Kerridge. The wealthy men floating above the misery they caused, casually creaming off the money, untouched by anyone – the police, the Revenue, immigration. The small fry went down, the big fish could afford the best advice. You never caught them in the act. You needed a different kind of policing – monitoring, gathering intelligence, building a case painstakingly step by step. That was what she’d wanted to do.
Now the rug had been pulled from under her. They’d finally got Boyle into custody, and what had happened? Their key witness was dead. The only loose cannon who’d been involved in that killing had been murdered himself. Her own position looked to be fatally compromised. Even if she somehow managed to talk her way out of the worst of this, it was difficult to see how she’d rebuild her position or credibility. She’d be out of the field, back behind a desk.
It was nine thirty-five now, and the first shoppers were beginning to appear. She pushed open the door of the bank and stepped into the warm interior.
This early, the place was empty. The sales desks were deserted – they were probably all out back receiving a pre-work pep talk from the sales manager. Even the cashiers were looking bored. Marie walked up to one of the cash desks and explained that she wanted to make a withdrawal.
She had half-expected some objection when she named the amount, but the cashier merely noted down the sum and said, without looking up, ‘I’ll need two ID. One photo.’
Marie pulled out her passport and driving licence, and slid them through to the cashier. The young woman glanced at them briefly and then looked up at Marie’s face. Her eyes flicked back down to the two photographs on the documents, but there was no sign of suspicion.
‘That’s fine.’ She pushed the documents back across to Marie, and began to tap on the keyboard in front of her.
Marie momentarily tensed again. Maybe they’d imposed some blockage on her account already. Maybe there’d be some warning on there: If you see this woman, press the panic button.
But it was unlikely. Even if the relevant wheels were already in motion – and experience told her that, for once, bureaucracy was likely to be her ally here – it would take them a little time to track down her personal account. But not long. A few phone calls would give them everything they needed. But then they’d need the relevant authorization. It would take a little while. Maybe an hour or two.
‘How do you want it?’ the cashier said. ‘Fifties OK, or do you need something smaller?’
Marie almost laughed in relief. ‘I could do with some twenties and tens. If you can do a couple of hundred in those, and the rest in fifties, that’d be great.’
The cashier noted down the request. ‘I’ll need to get it from the back. Just bear with me.’
It was an anxious few minutes for Marie. She was still half-expecting that this wouldn’t work. They’d have insufficient cash. They’d want to know why she needed all this money. The manager would appear and murmur quietly, ‘If you could just step this way, Ms Donovan . . .?’
But none of that happened. After a few moments, the cashier reappeared and carefully counted out the money.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you today?’ she asked finally. It was a routine question, part of the spiel they were trained to deliver. Marie was tempted to ask whether she had any tips on avoiding police manhunts.
Her relief lasted little longer than the few minutes it took to return to the open street. She’d overcome one hurdle. She was solvent, with enough cash to last her till – well, when exactly? Till all this was resolved, one way or another, she supposed. If things weren’t sorted within a few days, they’d catch up with her anyway.
But almost immediately, she felt vulnerable again. As if everyone who passed was staring at her, as if they’d seen her picture or read her description. As if they knew exactly who she was and what she was supposed to have done. Down at the far end of the road, at the junction with Market Street, two police officers, a man and a woman, were standing chatting with a street-cleaner. It took all her willpower not to run. Instead, she forced herself to walk casually towards them, heading back towards the centre of town.
By the time she reached the corner, the police officers were already disappearing into St Anne’s Square. She walked further along Corporation Street and then paused for a moment outside an upmarket-looking hairdressing salon, before pushing open the door. The receptionist looked up as she entered.
‘Can I help you, madam?’
Marie looked past the receptionist into the interior of the salon. There was one customer having her hair washed. Two stylists were sitting drinking coffee and chatting about last night’s television.
‘I know it’s short notice,’ Marie said. ‘I’m just in town on business for a couple of days. Wondered if there was any chance of fitting in an appointment today at all?’
The receptionist gave her a look that suggested the chances were somewhere between slim and zero, and pulled the appointments book towards her.
‘We’ve just had a cancellation,’ she said. ‘Was supposed to be ten fifteen.’ She glanced up at the clock over the desk. ‘Might be able to fit you in now.’ She called over her shoulder. ‘Jo, can you fit this lady in now instead of Mrs Tremlett?’
Jo – one of the two chatting stylists – put down her coffee with a look of weariness. ‘Yeah, that’s fine. Just give me a minute or two.’ She gestured for Marie to take a seat.
An hour later, Marie emerged from the salon feeling, externally at least, like a different person. The stylist had been slightly surprised by her request for a radical change, cropping her shoulder-length hair into something much shorter, colouring her hair darker.
‘Do a lot of sports,’ Marie explained. ‘Get sick of it getting in my eyes.’
The stylist had expressed some scepticism about the change, but ultimately just shrugged. When the new style was complete, she’d shifted her position to claim full credit. ‘Yeah, said it would suit you,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t work with everyone’s face, but looks good with yours.’ Marie decided to accept that as a compliment.
She stepped back out into the street and made her way up Market Street towards Piccadilly Gardens. It was approaching eleven fifteen. Her window of opportunity was rapidly closing. It might have been sensible to use her phone before getting her hair changed, but she felt much less conspicuous now. Her hope was that her phones would have been left operational for the moment, in the hope that she might make contact or even allow them to trace her movements.
She entered a chain coffee shop, bought a caffe latte and a sandwich, found a discreet corner, and switched on her secure phone.
As she’d expected, there was a string of messages. She listened to the most recent first. Salter’s sharp voice, ‘For fuck’s sake, Marie, just call in.’ She didn’t bother with the rest.
She wanted to get a heads-up, find out what was happening. Her first thought was to call Salter, but instead she dialled Welsby’s number. On balance she was inclined to trust him slightly more than Salter, if only because he was less likely to shaft her simply to advance his own career.
‘Keith. It’s Marie Donovan.’
There was a momentary pause, and she wondered whether Welsby was trying to have her location tracked. They’d have been waiting for her to make contact. She couldn’t afford to talk for long.
