Trust No One. Alex Walters

if he had something, he’d have kept hold of it?’

      ‘Christ, how would I know?’ she said. ‘I never got the opportunity to see how he reacted to torture.’ She took a long sip of her tepid coffee, waiting to recover her composure. ‘Maybe. You’ve searched his place, presumably?’

      ‘Yeah,’ Salter said. ‘Pretty thoroughly. Best we could before the plods took over, anyway. If there’s anything there, it’s well hidden.’

      ‘Or it was found by whoever killed him.’

      ‘Or it was found by whoever killed him,’ Salter agreed. ‘Which brings us back to the same question.’

      ‘To which we don’t have an answer,’ she pointed out. ‘I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say.’ She could feel her emotions bubbling away and was having to concentrate on keeping control.

      ‘You knew him better than most, sis.’

      Salter’s tone was studiedly neutral. She found herself losing patience with the game-playing.

      ‘I’m not your fucking sister, Hugh,’ she said quietly. ‘Sometimes I’m not even sure we’re the same fucking species.’ She leaned back in her chair, regarding him coolly. ‘What about Morton’s handler? He’d be closer to Morton than anyone. He must have some insights. What does he say?’

      She realized almost immediately that she’d struck a chord. Salter exchanged a glance with Welsby, a shadow of shared unease in their eyes. She watched Salter.

      ‘Who was his handler?’

      Salter shrugged. ‘Me. I took it on.’

      That was interesting. Not exactly against the rules. Salter had operated as an intelligence handler before he’d moved into undercover work, so he had the skills and experience to do the job. But, given the risk of exposure, it was unusual for an intelligence source to be handled from within the under-cover team.

      ‘Why you, Hugh?’

      Salter glanced again at Welsby and shrugged. ‘Sensitive one this, sis. We thought it best to keep it in the family. Keith’s idea.’

      Welsby was rocking back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he had spotted something noteworthy up there.

      ‘You think there’s a mole, then, Keith? Is that it?’

      His eyes switched back to her, his expression suggesting that he had momentarily forgotten where he was. ‘Some kind of zit, anyway,’ he said.

      ‘You think so, too, Hugh?’

      ‘We’ve had stuff leak out. Morton was just the latest and the worst.’ He paused. ‘What we don’t know is what else might have leaked. What else might be out there.’

      ‘Jesus, Hugh. I’m out there.’ The thought was frightening. There were always risks. But you had to start from the assumption that the foundations were secure. Now, suddenly, she didn’t know who to trust.

      Salter shook his head. ‘You’re as safe as you can be, sis. It’s only a handful of people that know about your role. You know how it works.’

      ‘I know how it’s supposed to work. And I know how it was supposed to work with Morton. Doesn’t fill me with confidence.’

      ‘We can bring you back in,’ Welsby said. ‘If that’s what you want.’

      She looked at him. He was still swinging back on his chair, the metal legs looking as if they might buckle under his weight. She’d always liked Keith. She respected him. But she knew the way his mind worked.

      ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘If it looks as if I’ve been compromised – if you get a fucking inkling that I might be in trouble – then I want to know. But there’s no point jumping the gun.’

      ‘Good girl,’ Welsby said.

      He sounded sincere, and she didn’t know whether she wanted to hug him or punch him.

      ‘If there is a mole,’ she said, ‘any clues as to who it might be?’

      Salter shook his head. ‘Not enough to go on. Morton’s the only biggie. The rest could be accidental.’

      ‘We shouldn’t have accidents,’ she said. ‘Not in this game.’

      Salter smiled wearily, as if he too had once shared this utopian view of life. ‘Yes, well, sis. We’re all human, aren’t we?’ He paused, his smile broadening as if they were sharing some private joke. ‘Even you.’

       Chapter 6

      She’d first met Jake Morton at one of Jeff Kerridge’s charity events. It had been during her first few months undercover, when she was working to build herself a network and some credibility, using all the contacts that Salter and her predecessor had passed on to her. It was hard work. She found herself parked endlessly on the phone, trying to set up meetings, pitch her wares, drum up some interest. In the end, she was little different from any other business start-up, struggling to get herself noticed in a market where everyone had a million better things to do than listen to her.

      Slowly, though, she was making progress. Her persistence, along with a glowing recommendation from her predecessor, had secured her a meeting with Jeff Kerridge, supposedly to discuss his printing needs. Kerridge had ducked out at the last minute, presumably to demonstrate that he was far too busy for the likes of her. But she’d had a decent meeting with some not-too-junior underling and had come away with a trial print order and some heavy hints about other, less legitimate services that they might consider. More surprisingly, a week or so later, she’d received a lavishly printed invitation to a charity dinner that Kerridge was hosting at some country house hotel in deepest moneyed Cheshire.

      ‘You better go for it, sis,’ Salter had said. ‘It’ll be Kerridge’s first test. If you’re not generous enough towards his favoured bunch of disadvantaged kiddies, you can kiss any future orders goodbye. Just don’t go donating too much if you’re expecting to claim it on expenses.’

      Even in less tense circumstances, this kind of event would have been her idea of hell in a posh frock. As it was, she was still finding her feet, working out where to pitch things. The first part of the evening was a charity auction, dominated by macho local businessmen trying to outdo each other to buy football shirts autographed by United or City players even Marie had vaguely heard of. Through a mix of boredom and embarrassment, she ended up bidding far too much for a designer dress donated by some local upmarket clothier. But no one seemed to mind, or even to notice much. By then the drink had been flowing freely and – as everyone kept reminding her – it was all in a good cause. The main good cause being, as far as she could make out, their own individual business interests.

      At the formal dinner that followed, she was amused to find herself seated at the top table, just a few seats along from Kerridge himself. She had no illusions about why she’d been accorded this honour, or indeed why she’d been invited in the first place. In this world, unattached, semi-presentable women were always at a premium. She’d spent most of her time batting off half-hearted passes made by overweight businessmen whose wives were generally no more distant than the other side of the room.

      ‘Why do we put ourselves through it, eh?’ the man on her left said, as if echoing her thoughts. ‘All this crap.’

      ‘It’s all in a good cause,’ she said, echoing the mantra of the evening.

      ‘Oh, right,’ the man said. ‘Nearly forgot that. Surprised nobody mentioned it earlier. Jake Morton, by the way.’

      He wasn’t exactly George Clooney, but he was an improvement on most of the men in the room. Trim with neat, slightly greying hair, an expression of amused tolerance on a slightly battered face. A former rugby player, from the look of it. A few years older than her, probably, but not enough to matter.

      Jesus.