‘We’ll be OK. Police patrols won’t be out till later.’
She couldn’t tell whether or not he was being serious. ‘What about your contact?’
‘He won’t come here. He’ll park further up the shore, walk up the beach to meet us.’
‘The cautious type.’
‘He doesn’t know you. Probably wants to check this is kosher before he shows himself.’ He pushed open the car door. ‘Shall we go?’
All her anxieties were returning again, but there was nothing to be done now. She pushed open her own door and climbed out. The wind from the sea caught her unexpectedly, nearly knocking her off balance. Jesus, it was cold. She stood for a moment, tasting the tang of the salty air, looking around. She could imagine that on a sunny day this would be an attractive place to be. In the dark, it just felt bleak and threatening. At the far end of the car park, there was a dilapidated hut, with signs proclaiming that ice creams and cold drinks could be bought there. Perhaps in the summer, though it looked as if the place hadn’t been used in a while. Ahead of them, there were ragged dunes and beyond those the beach.
‘What now?’ She felt her words being whipped away by the wind, but Joe nodded and gestured towards the sea. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it towards the dunes. There was no sign of life. He looked back at her, shrugged, and began to walk forwards.
‘Joe . . .’ She had a sense somewhere in the back of her mind that this wasn’t right. ‘Be careful.’ But her voice was lost on the wind.
Joe was still walking forwards, his eyes fixed on where the torchlight illuminated the narrow path over the dunes. He began to climb, the loose sand shifting under his feet.
Marie hurried along behind him. He had stopped, momentarily, at the top of the dunes, shining his torch left and right along the shoreline. She caught up with him just as he began to descend towards the beach, his boots crunching in the damp sand. The sea was yards away, luminous spray and spume flung up on to the beach. Out at sea, she could see a scattering of lights. Off to the left, there was the orange glow of Liverpool.
‘Joe, I don’t think . . .’
He’d taken a few more steps forwards and was standing, staring into the darkness, the torch beam playing uselessly across the sand. She drew level with him, baffled now.
‘Joe, this is . . .’
He turned back towards her. The flashlight was held loosely in his left hand, pointing vaguely in her direction. His right hand held something else, an object that glinted in the wavering light. An object that was also pointed, much more steadily than the flashlight, towards her.
‘Jesus, Marie. I’m sorry,’ Joe said.
Chapter 26
Somehow, it was hardly a surprise. She recalled her unease, days before, at Joe’s unexpected appearance next to her parked car outside the shop. She remembered her suspicions, vague and unfounded, but still nagging at her.
‘What’s going on, Joe?’
He looked down at the pistol, as if surprised by its presence. ‘I’m sorry, Marie.’
‘I don’t understand, Joe.’ She had thought she was clutching at straws coming here, but she hadn’t realized how desperate she must have been. Joe had turned up out of the blue, and she’d seen him as the only friend she had. Even when he’d been sitting in her hotel room right next to her fucking handbag, her mistrust had melted away because there was no one else to turn to.
He gestured with the gun. ‘That way.’ He directed her further along the beach, away from the car park, into the darkness. ‘Then we can talk.’
‘Talk about what, Joe?’ She stumbled on the soft ground, her flat shoes sinking into the wet sand. Joe was a few feet behind, the gun barrel pointing steadily towards her. He didn’t look like an amateur, she thought. He looked like someone who’d handled a gun before.
He glanced over his shoulder, judging whether they were sufficiently far from the car park, then pointed the gun down towards the sand. ‘Kneel down,’ he said.
She contemplated whether she could jump him, but knew it was hopeless. By the time she reached him, he could have fired without difficulty. Somehow she knew he wouldn’t hesitate. This Joe was different from the shambling, well-intentioned figure she’d known from the print shop. This wasn’t some innocent who’d been inveigled into betraying her.
She knelt slowly down on the beach, feeling the cold, wet sand through the thick cloth of her jeans. She could hear the roaring wind, the occasional gentle crunch of Joe’s boots. Nothing else.
‘I didn’t want things to end up like this,’ Joe said from above her. There was a note of what sounded like genuine regret in his voice. ‘We could’ve been something.’
‘Spare me, Joe. What the fuck is this about?’
‘You weren’t trusted right from the start. My job was to keep an eye on you.’
So much for deep cover. She’d been exposed from day one, strung along. Was it her own incompetence, or had her presence been leaked?
‘And did you?’ she asked. ‘Find out what I was about?’
‘Just another fucking grass, aren’t you?’ He spat the words out. ‘Scrabbling around for information, selling it for your thirty pieces of silver. Birds of a feather, you and Jake fucking Morton.’
Was that what he knew, or thought he knew? He had her pegged as an informant, nothing more. Not that it would help her now.
He’d moved a step or two closer. ‘You’ve got a choice, though. Doesn’t have to be this way. We can do a deal,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the authority for that.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘You’ve got stuff we want,’ he said. ‘Hand it over. Tell us what you know. Then everything can be hunky- dory.’
It was bollocks. He was just trying to sweet-talk her into handing over the evidence. He wouldn’t let her go, not after this. He’d brought her up here to eliminate her. They’d put her in the frame for Jones’ murder, but she’d made life difficult by slipping away. Or maybe they’d even expected that. Either way, Joe had kept tabs on her. He could have just handed her over to the police that afternoon, tipped them off while she was waiting in the hotel. But this was better. He’d shoot her, make it look like suicide, wait for the body to be discovered.
The police would assume, maybe with some encouragement, that it was some underworld spat. That she’d killed Jake’s murderer, and then killed herself or been bumped off in her turn. They wouldn’t care much, especially if they could dismiss her death as suicide. All the loose ends would be neatly tied up.
The Agency would keep quiet to avoid embarrassment. Strings would be pulled, and her deep cover role would be silently forgotten. Deniable.
For a moment, absurdly as she knelt in the wind-buffeted darkness, her mind turned to Darren, slogging away ineptly in the print shop. Poor useless bugger. He’d be out on the street again.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. ‘What have I got?’
‘We know Morton sent you some stuff. It’s not in your flat, so where is it?’
That answered one question. Her flat had been searched by Kerridge’s men, looking for what Morton had sent her.
‘I’ve not got anything,’ she said. Her handbag was clutched in her hand, the data stick secreted in the lining. ‘You can search me.’
‘This can be simple, you know. You can just hand it over, and I can let you go.’
She hesitated. She could try to buy herself a little time, lure him closer. She might have a chance of doing something. Kneeling here, she had no chance at all. ‘Fine. It’s here,’ she said. ‘In my handbag.’
‘Throw it over. Don’t try anything. Just throw the handbag over here.’
