‘Christ, Marie. Where the hell are you?’
‘In a bit of trouble, Keith. That’s where I am.’
‘Too fucking right you are. What the fuck’s going on?’
‘I’ve been set up, Keith.’
Another pause. ‘That right, girl?’ It was impossible to read his response.
‘I didn’t kill Morgan Jones. Why the hell would I want to do that?’
‘You tell me,’ Welsby said. ‘Way I’ve heard it, your prints were all over Jones’ room.’
‘I know,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘I went to see Jones yesterday. He said he had some business for me. That was part of the set-up. And how did anyone know they were my prints? They turned up on my doorstep at seven this morning. They wouldn’t have had time to trawl through the database. Someone tipped them off.’
‘That doesn’t make you innocent.’
‘Christ, Keith, you don’t think I did it?’
‘Not looking good, girl. Even got your prints on the murder weapon.’
So Blackwell had been holding back that bit of information. Not really a surprise.
‘They found the gun, then?’
‘Dropped in a bin along the road. Didn’t take a lot of finding.’
‘Of course not, Keith. Do you think I’d be that bloody careless if I really had done it?’
‘So how come your prints were on it? Jonesie asked you to fondle his weapon, did he?’
It didn’t matter whether he really didn’t believe her, or was simply protecting his own backside. Quite probably, there were others listening in. Either way, she was getting nowhere.
‘He made a half-arsed attempt to threaten me. I grabbed the gun off him and threw it across the room. Maybe he did it to get my prints on there.’
‘Frame you for his own murder? Even Jones wasn’t that much of a fuckwit.’
‘They misled Jones. He thought he was helping set me up. He just didn’t know what he was setting me up for.’
‘You need to work on your story, girl. When we catch up with you, you’ll be telling it to more cynical buggers than me.’ Another hesitation. ‘Something else you ought to know. You asked why you’d have killed Jones. You might have had a motive.’
‘What motive? I hardly knew him.’
‘What I hear, looks like Jones was involved in Jake Morton’s death.’
‘Jones wouldn’t have had the bottle,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t a killer.’
‘Maybe there to hold their coats. But looks like the gun that killed Jones was the one that killed Morton. They found some traces of blood on Jones’ clothing – the used clothes in his wardrobe, I mean. The ones he was wearing were liberally covered with his own. This stuff’s different. We’re getting it checked but it could be Morton’s.’
‘So what?’ she said. ‘I wasn’t happy about Morton’s death, but it’s not turned me into a screaming vigilante.’
‘That right? One more thing you should know, girl.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Word is,’ Welsby said, ‘that you and Morton were close. Any truth in that rumour?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Keith. He was one of our major contacts, one of our best potential routes into Kerridge and Boyle. Of course I kept close to him. It was what I agreed with Hugh.’
‘Maybe too close?’
‘I’m a professional, Keith.’ She could feel the lies dragging her further into the mire. How the hell did they know all this, anyway? Was it something else the phantom tipster had thrown into the pot? ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I’m trying to say nothing, girl. Just letting you know what’s being said. Ugly things, rumours.’
‘Keith, it’s all bollocks. I’ve not done anything.’
‘Then get in here, lass, and let’s sort it out.’
‘I can’t, Keith. I don’t know who to trust.’
‘You can trust me. Get yourself in here. You’re only making things worse.’
She was almost tempted. Everything would become straightforward, one way or another. She simply had to keep telling her side of the story. Answer their questions. Point out the things that didn’t make sense. Get forensics to prove she couldn’t have fired Jones’ handgun. Nice and simple.
Except that she didn’t believe it would be. They’d got their claws into her now. The case was open and shut. Why would the local police complicate things by ignoring what appeared to be the obvious? Could forensics even prove a negative? After returning from her meeting with Jones she’d showered, changed her clothes, and put most of the old set into the wash. After all that, there’d probably be no evidence of her firing the gun in any case.
‘I can’t come in, Keith. Not yet.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘It’s not like that, Keith. I wouldn’t be able to deal with just you, would I? Somebody’s set me up, and it’s somebody pretty close to home.’
Before Welsby could reply, she cut the call. She turned off the phone, swallowed the dregs of her coffee, and made her way out of the coffee shop. In the street, she paused for a moment, took out the secure phone, opened the back and removed the SIM card. She dropped it to the pavement and ground it slowly under her heel. She repeated the process with the card from her own phone. Over the top, but she felt more comfortable with all links cut off.
She was conscious that, even in the limited time she’d been talking to Welsby, they might have got some sort of fix on her location. She hurried away from the Gardens up towards Piccadilly Station. She considered just jumping on the next train to anywhere that wasn’t there. But they might have the station under surveillance. She was better off staying put.
Looking more confident than she felt, she made her way up the station approach, and then crossed through the glossy concourse, keeping her eyes peeled for any signs of police. There was a British Transport police officer hovering by the entrance to the platforms, but for the moment he was distracted by an elderly man asking for directions. She hurried out of his sight, down past the entrance to WH Smith, across to where the escalators led down to the taxi rank at the rear of the station. At that time of the morning, there were plenty of taxis, bored drivers chatting in the brightening sunshine. She approached the front of the rank and gave the driver the name of one of the large city centre hotels.
The hotel itself was less than half a mile away, but she felt disinclined to spend any more time out on the street. She was also conscious that she was about to arrive at a relatively upmarket hotel with no reservation, credit card or much in the way of luggage. Maybe the taxi would make her appear more credible.
The taxi driver was, fortunately, one of the taciturn types, and said nothing till they’d arrived outside the hotel. ‘Up on business?’ he said, as he counted out her change. She’d asked for a receipt for appearances’ sake, though she couldn’t imagine that Welsby would be too keen to reimburse this trip.
‘Just for a day or two,’ she said.
‘Hope the weather improves for you.’
‘Won’t see much of it, anyway,’ she said. ‘Stuck inside most of the time.’ That was true enough, anyway.
She made her way into the expansive lobby of the hotel. It was a new construction, another offshoot of the city centre regeneration, with a well-reviewed first-floor restaurant with views over the city. She’d met clients here a couple of times.
She’d selected it partly on the grounds that it was more upmarket than Welsby or Salter would expect her to use. More upmarket, that was, than the soulless urban hotels where she typically met Salter. Those were the places the Agency budget stretched to. Functional, comfortable enough, but not luxurious.
It was likely that, once they realized she’d stayed in the city, they’d do a trawl of all the hotels. But she hoped that this place wouldn’t be high on their initial shortlist, and it was large and discreet enough for her not to be exposed too easily. It was a counter-intuitive decision. Her first thought had been to seek out an anonymous back-street bed and breakfast, but she’d felt that would leave her too exposed. A suspicious landlord might ask questions about a woman travelling on her own, and, if her disappearance had been reported in the media, put two and two together. In this place, she’d be just one of many.
