Joe was too smart to fall for any half-baked stunts. He wouldn’t waste time searching the handbag. Not while she was alive, anyway. He’d try to get her to talk, then he’d pull the trigger.
She had nothing to lose, then. She swung round quickly, throwing the bag as hard as she could at the gun. At the same time, she flung herself sideways, rolling frantically into the darkness, out of range of Joe’s flashlight.
A moment later, she was scrabbling on her knees, trying to pull herself upright, urging herself to run, away from the light, down the beach.
It was hopeless. The sand sank under her feet, throwing her off balance, slowing her down. Running was almost impossible. She staggered onwards, aware of Joe’s torch beam flickering across the beach, not daring to look back.
When the shot came, it was startlingly loud, even above the pounding rain and wind. She threw herself down again, and the bullet missed her. Joe was already gaining, pounding steadily across the beach, torch and gun held out in front of him.
There was nowhere to run. If she continued along the beach, he’d catch her in seconds. If she tried to get past him, he’d shoot. Out of ideas, she stopped and stood her ground, hoping he’d come closer before he fired again.
He paused, four or five feet away from her, and raised the gun once more.
‘You’re a stubborn cow, aren’t you? Always have to do things the hard way.’
She waited until his hand was steady, watching as he took aim. Then she leaped forwards, hoping to grab his arm and force the gun away from her. It was desperate, hopeless stuff, but it was all she had left. It was the desire to go down fighting, not just to be shot in cold blood. The desire at least to do him some harm before he did the ultimate damage to her.
It almost worked. He was taken by surprise, and she managed to clutch his arm and force it back, sending them both tumbling on to the ground. She thought he was about to drop the gun, but he regained his grip and rolled over violently, forcing her back on to the yielding sand. His hand was on her throat, and, a second later, the barrel of the gun was pressed to her temple.
‘Bitch!’ he hissed. ‘I ought to do more than fucking kill you.’
She could feel the cold metal against her skin, sense the tightening of his finger on the trigger. She closed her eyes, waiting for whatever the end would feel like.
There was a sudden, soft, indescribable thump, scarcely audible above the roaring tide. Joe’s fingers loosened on her throat, the pressure of the gunmetal relaxing against her head. Then Joe toppled sideways, falling away from her on to the sand.
She opened her eyes, bewildered. A tall, thin figure was standing over her, a piece of concrete clutched in his hand.
‘You know your trouble, sis,’ Salter said. ‘You mix with the wrong crowd.’
Chapter 27
‘You OK?’
She still felt dazed, dream-like, as if none of this was real. ‘Guess so. Considering.’
‘Sorry,’ Salter said. ‘That was closer than I’d intended. Too fucking close.’
They were heading back towards the bypass, enclosed in the warmth of Salter’s car. His driving was characteristic – precise, cautious, unostentatious. Efficient.
‘How come you’re here?’ Marie said finally, as her mind came to grips with the question that had been troubling her. It was as if her wits had been slowed by her brush with death. Every thought seemed out of reach. She felt like a toddler reaching to grab floating bubbles. When she caught one, it melted in her grasp.
‘Hellhound on your trail,’ Salter said. ‘I was right behind you. Well, almost. Nearly got caught out at the end. Sorry about that.’
‘You were right behind? Since when?’
‘Since this morning. With a bit of unofficial help from young Hodder. Before then, really. But this morning was when it mattered.’
She pressed her back against the passenger seat, enjoying its solidity beneath her aching spine. ‘Christ, I thought I was off and running. Turns out the whole world was following me. I’m beginning to think I’m not cut out for this job.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up too much, sis. You ran rings around the local plods. You weren’t to know that I’d already got you under surveillance.’
She could feel her bafflement mutating into anger as his words sank in. ‘I’m not getting this,’ she said. ‘I’m supposedly in the frame for Jones’ murder. You’ve already got me under surveillance – Christ knows why – and then you allow me to slip away under the noses of the police. What the fuck’s going on, Hugh?’
‘You didn’t kill Jones, sis.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Of course I didn’t kill Jones. I was set up.’
‘So that’s the question, isn’t it? Who set you up?’
‘Kerridge and Boyle, I presume. They’re the ones who benefit. Boyle, anyway.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Boyle, anyway.’
‘Jesus, Hugh. I’m knackered, confused and I’ve just come within ten seconds of having my fucking head blown off. Don’t play games.’
‘Your friend Joe back there,’ he said, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Take it that was a bit of a surprise?’
‘Well, what do you think, Hugh? That I’d commissioned him to blow my own brains out?’
‘No, sorry. Stupid question. Out of idle curiosity, I did a bit of digging on Mr Morrissey.’
‘Morrissey?’ She’d known him as Joe Maybury. ‘That his real name?’
‘Apparently. Scouser by birth, though he’s lived in Manchester most of his adult life. Minor criminal record. Juvenile stuff. Then he disappears off the official radar for a bit. But he pops up again a year or two back. One to keep an eye on.’
‘I had him checked out,’ she said. ‘He came to the shop from the Job Centre. I got the office to run him through the system.’
‘Yeah. Isn’t that interesting?’
‘Shit. You mean . . .?’
‘Reckon someone intercepted your request. Report you got didn’t make the connection with Morrissey, so you drew a blank.’
‘So what about him, then?’
‘Reason he appears on our radar is that he’s an associate of Boyle’s. Maybe legit, maybe not. Not clear what the nature of his dealings are. But we think he’s one of those Boyle hires to do his dirty work.’
‘Hitman?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Christ. And he’s been working with me for the last six months.’
Her mind went back to the evenings she’d spent alone with Joe, finishing off some late order. She’d felt comfortable in his presence. She could even recall using the word ‘unthreatening’ to herself. She’d meant in a sexual way, and maybe that at least had been true. A safe pair of fucking hands. Half an hour earlier, one of those hands had been around her throat.
‘Have you tracked down who intercepted my request? There must be something on the record.’
‘Maybe,’ he said ambiguously. ‘Speaking of Morrissey, it’s probably time we let someone know he’s there. I’d hate anything bad to happen to him.’
Salter had clubbed Morrissey over the head with a piece of concrete he’d found at the edge of the car park. It had been, he’d admitted to Marie, a more improvised solution than he’d planned. He’d followed Joe’s car all the way from the hotel – his had been the second set of headlights that she’d glimpsed, Marie presumed – but judged it too risky to follow them immediately off the bypass. He’d continued past the turning up the beach, done a U-turn and pulled into the car park of a pub further down the road to allow them a few minutes to get ahead. But he’d taken a
