Trust No One. Alex Walters

      ‘No. You finish it. I’ve had enough.’ She drained the last dregs of the red wine, and climbed slowly to her feet. ‘I’m knackered,’ she said. ‘Think I’ll turn in.’

      He poured the last of the wine into his own glass. ‘What time you off in the morning?’

      ‘Not too early. About eight, probably.’

      ‘We can have breakfast together before you go, then.’

      ‘If you’re up.’ She immediately regretted the response, which sounded more sarcastic than she’d intended.

      ‘I’ll be up,’ he said. ‘Want to see you before you go. One last time.’

      ‘It’s not forever, Liam. A month. Then I’m back.’

      ‘For a weekend. Then you’re off again. And so on. Maybe forever.’

      She bit back her exasperation. ‘We’ve been through this, Liam. Dozens of times. It’s what I want to do. It’s a new challenge. It’s terrific experience.’

      ‘I know. I know it’s what you want. I’m not trying to stop you. I don’t have to like it, though.’

      ‘No, well, you’ve made it very clear that you don’t.’

      ‘You’ve said yourself, Marie. It’s risky. We’re having to live apart. You can’t expect me to like that. Or pretend to like it.’

      She nodded. ‘OK. It’s not going to be easy. But we’ll get through it. They won’t let me stay out in the field for too long. No one does. A year. Eighteen months, max.’

      ‘Almost there already, then,’ he said. The tone was ironic, but he was smiling now at least.

      ‘Come to bed,’ she said. ‘It’s our last night. We ought to make it worthwhile.’

      ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Five minutes. I’ll just finish the wine.’

      ‘Don’t drink too much. I don’t want you incapable,’ she half-joked. ‘How are you feeling now, anyway?’

      He shrugged. ‘Not so bad. Tired. Aching a bit. But I’ve been feeling better lately. Not so difficult walking.’

      She looked at him, wondering what was going on in his mind. Whether he was really feeling better or just trying to make the best of things. Since he’d received the diagnosis, he’d become harder to read, more withdrawn. When she tried to talk about it, he just shrugged it off. There was nothing to say, he insisted. Maybe it would be all right, maybe it wouldn’t. All he could do was take each day as it came.

      ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But you don’t want me falling asleep on you.’

      ‘Certainly don’t.’ He raised the wine glass in her direction. ‘Here’s to you, Marie. Here’s to us. Here’s to the future.’

      He sounded very slightly drunk, she thought. And there was no way to tell whether he was being sincere. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘To me. To us. To the future.’

       Part Two Winter: Operational

       Chapter 2

      They’d thrown open the large picture windows and a chill wind was gusting off the canal through the apartment, but the stench of blood was unavoidable. The young officer, Hodder, stood hesitantly in the kitchen doorway, trying to catch Salter’s eye. He looked faintly bilious.

      After a moment, Salter thumbed off the mobile phone and looked up. ‘All OK, son?’ There was only a few years’ difference in their ages, but Salter categorized most colleagues as ‘son’, ‘mate’ or ‘guv’, depending on their relative rank. He was a tall angular man, his head shaved, his eyes staring disapprovingly at the world through narrow steel-rimmed glasses.

      ‘Didn’t want to interrupt,’ Hodder said. He gestured towards the phone. ‘Your sister?’

      Salter stared at him, uncomprehending, then laughed. ‘No, just my little joke. One of our esteemed colleagues, Marie Donovan.’

      ‘Don’t know her.’

      ‘You wouldn’t,’ Salter said. ‘Covert. Deep cover.’

      Hodder shook his head. ‘Don’t know how they do it,’ he said. ‘Months on end. Leading a double life. Must drive you bananas.’

      Salter smiled. ‘It does, son. Take it from one who knows.’

      Hodder blinked, suspecting he’d made a gaffe. ‘No offence. Didn’t realize you’d done it.’

      ‘Years of it. And, yes, it can leave you pretty messed up.’ He gazed impassively back at Hodder, as if daring him to take the conversation further. ‘How are things through there?’

      ‘They’re nearly done with the crime scene stuff. Just finishing up.’

      ‘About bloody time,’ Salter said. ‘Sooner we can all get out of this place the better.’

      ‘It’s a mess in there,’ the young man said. ‘Though they’ve taken the body out now.’ His expression suggested that this was a relief.

      ‘Thank Christ for that. This is a nasty one.’ Salter peered quizzically around, as if his words might apply equally to the compact kitchen in which they were standing. ‘Will hit the resale value, too. That living room’ll need completely stripping back.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘No consideration, those buggers. Still, Morton won’t care any more.’

      He straightened as the scene of crime officer poked his head around the door, his eyes blinking under his protective headgear. Like a bloody tortoise waking from hibernation, Salter thought.

      ‘All done, Hugh,’ he said. ‘Yours to mess up.’

      ‘Beyond even my talents to mess this place up any further, mate,’ Salter said. ‘Anyway, I leave the detecting to you people these days.’

      ‘I was told you lot had commandeered the place. Ordered us plods to keep our size elevens out till you’d done the serious stuff. Imagine that went down well with the boss. No skin off my nose either way.’

      ‘That right?’ Salter shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me, mate. You know me, always happy to help out the local coppers.’

      ‘And up yours as well, former DI Salter,’ the other man said cheerily. ‘You deserve this fucking lot.’

      ‘No one deserves this lot,’ Salter said. ‘Not even me.’

      He followed the SOCO back into the living room. The smell of blood had been strong in the kitchen. Here, despite the open windows, it was almost overwhelming.

      ‘Jesus.’ Salter looked around. There was a large congealing pool of blood in front of the white leather sofa, further smears and splatters around the walls, across the furniture. Everywhere. Another officer was crouched by the door, carefully packing away the remaining equipment. ‘What’ve you found?’

      ‘Plenty of DNA,’ the SOCO said. ‘Most of it’s the victim’s, though, and I imagine you already know who he is.’ There was an unmistakable undertone of irony.

      ‘Don’t worry, we’ll share the good news with you in due course, I’m sure. Anything else?’

      ‘Reckon there was a woman here, too. In the bed.’

      ‘You can tell that from the DNA already? That’s impressive.’ Salter was peering vaguely around the room, giving a convincing impression of disinterest.

      ‘No. Smell of perfume on the sheets. Unless your man was into Versace or whatever it is.’

      ‘Anything’s possible, mate.’ Salter looked up, as if he’d only just realized he was engaged in a dialogue.