Hide Me. Ava McCarthy

was still talking.

      ‘It will be a short, sharp infiltration. Nothing protracted or drawn out. We set things up so that you’re taken on as McArdle’s replacement. You talk to them, find out who their target is, what they want you to do and why. Then you can disappear. An in-out job. And of course, you’ll be well paid.’

      Harry lifted her chin. ‘I’m sorry, but this is not the kind of thing that I do.’

      Vasco paused. ‘Perhaps you should reconsider. You seem to forget the awkwardness of your position.’

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘You were following McArdle, right up to the moment he died. The casino cameras can place you tailing him out of the building. By your own admission, you pursued him through the streets, all the way to the Plaza. Where he was ambushed and murdered.’

      For an instant, Harry’s brain shorted out, a synapse misfiring between hearing words and understanding what they meant. She shook her head.

      ‘You know why I was following him. You can’t believe I was involved in his death.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t. But naturally, my investigation must be seen to be thorough. My men will need to dig more into your background, check out your family, your father’s history, involve the relevant Irish authorities. A long, messy process. And from what I’ve heard, your relations with the Irish police are already quite fragile.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I could make life very difficult for you, Miss Martinez.’

      Harry felt her jaw tighten. ‘If you think—’

      ‘On the other hand,’ he went on, ‘if you cooperate with my request, it might go a long way to redeeming your reputation.’

      Harry gaped, her brain still playing catch-up.

      Vasco fixed her with unblinking, lidless-looking eyes. ‘This case is important to me and, one way or another, I intend to get a result. How cleanly you come out of it is up to you.’

      He shot a wrist from his cuff; another showy time-check.

      ‘I have a meeting.’ He got to his feet, gesturing at his colleague by the wall. ‘This is Detective Zubiri, from our Undercover unit. Talk to him, then give me your answer.’

      He snatched a briefcase off the desk and marched out of the room. Harry glared after him, blood seething through her veins. The last thing she needed was to get caught up in a murder case, but Vasco had her in a chokehold. She felt her teeth grind. Suspect or undercover decoy: what kind of half-assed choice was that?

      She flopped back in her seat, exhaling a long breath. The silence in Vasco’s wake was suspiciously restful, like the calm of a receding rogue wave. She cast a doubtful look at the detective by the wall. His shoulders were stooped, his clothes wrinkled. For the moment, he seemed disinclined to take up where his boss had left off.

      Harry glanced around Vasco’s office, absently taking in the ordered shelves and the clutter-free desk. She recalled the Dublin base where Hunter worked: the unwashed mugs, the overloaded in-trays, the Post-its curling up like tongues from the files. She pictured his face, lean and tired, his sandy hair short as a schoolboy’s, and waited for the pang of homesickness to hit her.

      It didn’t.

      ‘You can go.’

      Harry’s eyebrows shot up. Zubiri was ambling towards the desk, his untidy hair coiling out of his head like springs. He gathered up the photos.

      ‘This is no job for someone like you.’ His voice was low, his Spanish accent distorted by transatlantic tones that probably came from watching American TV.

      Harry glanced at the door. Zubiri followed her gaze and shrugged.

      ‘Why should you get involved? Just so he can look good to the Chief?’ He blew out air with a pff through his lips.

      Harry picked at her nail, but made no move to go. She watched him slot the photos back into the folder, McArdle’s bloated face now hidden from view. She leaned forward in her chair.

      ‘Who are these people? Why are you so interested in them?’

      Zubiri shook his woolly head. ‘It’s none of your concern.’

      ‘Inspector Vasco mentioned criminal organizations. What kind of crimes are we talking about here?’

      ‘Every kind. The worst kind. Drugs, human trafficking, extortion, armed robberies, fraud . . .’ He slapped the folder onto the desk. ‘These people crop up in a lot of unconnected cases.’

      ‘And they operate out of San Sebastián?’

      Zubiri shrugged. ‘Spain has always been important to criminals.’

      ‘For drug trafficking?’

      ‘For everything. Spain is a gateway to Europe, especially for the Moroccans and the Colombians. And Latin Americans can exploit the shared language and culture. Even the Italian clans look on it as a home from home.’

      ‘I thought all the crime bosses holed up in the south. In the Costa del Sol. Not here in the north.’

      Zubiri fixed a pair of black eyes on hers, and Harry shifted in her seat. She was stalling and she knew it, caught between a survival instinct to back away and a more ignoble curiosity. Eventually, he answered her.

      ‘The northwest has a long history of trafficking with the Colombians. But security on the Galician coast has tightened up. Now the criminals turn to the ports of Euskadi. The Basque country. My country.’

      Harry blinked. The intensity of his stare was unnerving. She gestured at the folder on the desk.

      ‘So where do the cheaters fit in?’

      ‘Who knows? Dealers, mules, middlemen, hitmen . . .’

      Hitmen. Jesus. An image of McArdle’s white face floated before her, the life gushing out of it in bloody bursts. Her insides slithered.

      ‘Who do you think killed him?’ she said.

      Zubiri didn’t need to ask who she meant. ‘We don’t know. But why should you care?’ He leaned forward, supporting his weight on the desk with his knuckles. The backs of his hands were dark and hairy. ‘McArdle was nothing to you. Just a fat Irish hacker working for criminals.’

      Harry flinched. A shard of guilt twisted in her chest. She knew she’d blanked McArdle out. Hadn’t thought of him as a person. Hadn’t liked him much, if it came right down to it, though they’d never even spoken. She’d dubbed him ‘the fat guy’, and then found him dead.

      She looked up at Zubiri. ‘What else do you know about him?’

      He shrugged, straightened up. ‘Quite a lot.’

      ‘Was he good at what he did?’

      Another shrug. ‘So they tell me. Started hacking as a kid. Broke into school networks, messed with phone systems, that kind of thing.’

      Harry looked at the floor, as if he might catch a glimpse of her own shady past in her eyes. Zubiri went on:

      ‘It might have ended there if it hadn’t been for his sister. She got into debt with a heroin habit. McArdle cut a deal with her suppliers in Belfast: he’d repay what she owed by working for them.’

      ‘As a hacker?’

      Zubiri nodded. ‘He needn’t have bothered. He found his sister’s body in an old warehouse a few weeks later. Overdose. The needle was still stuck in her arm.’

      ‘Jesus.’ Harry closed her eyes briefly, trying to blot the image out. ‘But he kept working for them?’

      ‘Once you’re in, it’s hard to get out. Just knowing these people, knowing what they do, is enough to put you at risk. They own you. Try to leave and you end up dead in a ditch.’

      ‘How long was he with them?’

      Zubiri