Читать книгу Trust No One - Alex Walters, Alex Walters - Страница 15

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. She had to keep reminding herself that she wasn’t single. It was one of the problems of this job. You threw yourself wholeheartedly into a fictitious life, and soon it seemed more real than the world you’d left behind.

‘Marie Donovan,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘You bought the dress,’ he said. ‘Must have thought it was a bloody good cause to pay that much.’ He leaned back in his chair and eyed her body appraisingly. ‘Mind you, it’ll look great on you.’

She thought that she ought to feel offended, but his tone was good-natured, perhaps even slightly satirical, rather than straightforwardly lecherous. More to the point, he was attractive enough for her to feel mildly flattered.

‘At that price, I’d hope so,’ she said. ‘At that price, I’d expect it to look good on you.’

He laughed. Around them, bored-looking waitresses were serving the starter – some overdressed variant on a prawn cocktail.

‘I get the impression this isn’t your natural environment,’ he said.

‘Is it anybody’s?’

‘Oh, yes.’ He gestured towards the rows of tables in front of them. ‘Look at them. Enjoying every moment. Every mouthful of rubber chicken.’

‘Rubber prawn,’ she pointed out. ‘Rubber chicken’s next.’ She was beginning to find herself intrigued by this man. ‘So – why are you here?’

He pointed along the table. ‘Work for Jeff. Three-line whip for his top team.’

That was interesting, she thought. She hadn’t registered the name at first, but now she recalled her briefing notes, all the details that she’d painstakingly squirrelled away in her memory. James Morton. Apparently known as Jake. Director of finance for Kerridge’s legitimate holding company. But rumoured also to be a significant player in the other, more clandestine parts of Kerridge’s business. Definitely someone worth getting to know.

‘He does a lot of this, does he? This is my first time.’

He shrugged. ‘Well, that’s Jeff for you. Likes to do his bit for the community.’

‘Very commendable.’

‘Especially his own community. Local councillors. Business types. People he wants to get onside. Customers. The big customers. And a few suppliers like yourself, if you’re very good.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You know who I am, then?’

‘You’re the print lady, aren’t you? Came highly recommended, I understand.’ There was an undertone to his words that was unmistakable.

‘Glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘I hope I’ve lived up to expectations.’ She’d already completed the trial order, ahead of schedule and at what she knew was a very competitive price.

‘Done some good work so far, from what I hear. Printing, and all that.’

‘And all that,’ she agreed.

‘Jeff appreciates a good supplier. So far I’m told you’ve done well.’

‘Not the cheapest, but the best.’

‘Something like that.’ He smiled. ‘Mind you, don’t get me wrong. Jeff appreciates a cheap supplier as well.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind. And that you’re the finance director.’

‘Got me sussed too, then? Well, yes, that’s my job.’ He paused. ‘For what it’s worth.’

‘Quite a bit, I’d have thought.’

‘It pays well enough, if that’s what you mean. Though maybe not enough to compensate for evenings like this.’

‘And I was trying so hard to be sparkling,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘Funnily enough, the evening’s rather brightened up in the last few minutes.’

‘That’ll be the prawn cocktail.’

He lifted his glass of white wine. ‘Yeah, and the Chateau Toilet Duck. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

That had been it, she thought. That trivial, jokey salutation. As they’d clinked their glasses, she’d felt as if something had passed between them. Some coded, inarticulate message. Some unspoken pact. Both knowing more than they were able to say. Not quite trust. Perhaps, at that point, nothing more than a balance of suspicion. But something.

That was where it had started.

That night, too, was the first time she really had an inkling of what she might be letting herself in for. It was the first opportunity she’d had to get anywhere close to her key targets – the smooth Jeff Kerridge and his much rougher number two, Pete Boyle. She already felt that she half-knew them from the files and reports that she’d worked her way through in preparation for the assignment, but meeting them in the flesh, after everything she’d read, was something else again. Everything she’d read indicated that, appearances aside, they were an unpleasant pair. Kerridge had built a business empire by ruthlessly jamming his hands into every pie he could find, legal or otherwise. He was what passed for the brains of the outfit, running a complex network of on- and off-shore companies that allowed him to funnel cash wherever he wanted for tax avoidance and laundering purposes. The forensic accounting team had tracked through some of those movements, but they didn’t yet have enough to be confident that a case would stick.

Boyle was a different matter. A hard-case from Hulme who, by dint of being that bit brighter than his associates, had managed to claw his way up to near the top of the pile. The word was that Boyle looked after most of Kerridge’s dirty work, and that some of that work could get very dirty indeed. Unlike Kerridge, who’d managed to stay squeaky-clean, Boyle did have a record, though it was mainly petty stuff from his youth. These days, he tended not to risk messing up his own Hugo Boss suit, if he could pay others to do the work for him. They were getting closer with Boyle. They’d picked up two or three of his associates over the last year or so on a variety of charges – GBH, demanding money with menaces, manslaughter in one case. No one had actually blown the whistle on Boyle, but they were gradually piecing together enough evidence to collar him. He’d left his metaphorical fingerprints in a few too many places.

At the dinner, true to form, Kerridge had been charm personified, chatting amiably with Marie during the earlier part of the evening. He had an old-fashioned manner which stayed just the right side of flirtatious. Probably just as well, Marie thought, eyeing Kerridge’s fearsome-looking wife. ‘Ah, Miss Donovan,’ he’d said. ‘The printer. I’ve heard some very good things about you. Your work comes highly recommended.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘I hope I manage to live up to my reputation.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ He turned and waved in the general direction of his wife, who was standing just a few inches behind him. ‘My wife, Helen. This is Miss Donovan—’

‘Marie.’

‘Marie, who’s handling some printing for us at the moment. You two should get together. I’m sure you’d have a lot to discuss.’

The two women gazed at each other with expressions that confirmed their obvious lack of any common ground. Helen Kerridge was a certain sort of Cheshire lady, Marie thought. Well-off, self-made, dismissive of those who thought their characters might be defined by something other than material possessions. Marie could imagine the older woman patrolling the upmarket clothes shops and restaurants of Wilmslow or Alderley Edge, killing days that had little other purpose.

‘We could do lunch sometime,’ she said, mischievously.

Helen Kerridge gazed at her for a long moment without speaking. ‘Sometime,’ she said finally, in a tone that suggested they should aim for one of the chillier days in hell.

Marie had seen Boyle only from the other side of the room. He was a broad muscular man, who clearly still devoted considerable time and energy to working out. He looked awkward in his undoubtedly expensive suit, a glass of fizzy wine in hand, with the air of a man who would much rather have been propping up some bar downing a pint of lager. Every now and then, his eyes scanned the room, his shaven head twisting on his thick neck, as if keeping watch for signs of trouble.

Marie’s only real objective for the night had been to begin building her own profile, become acquainted with one or two of the right people, get her own face recognized. She’d wondered whether to approach Boyle, but couldn’t find a reasonable opening. In the end, she’d been happy enough chatting to Jake Morton, who seemed the most promising route into the Kerridge empire.

Towards the end of the evening, when they’d finished eating and had moved on to brandy and liqueurs, Jake made his excuses and slipped away from the table. ‘Got a three-line whip for a debrief with Jeff,’ he’d said. ‘He likes to make sure we’ve all done our bit.’

She’d found herself stuck with some pompous old fool who ran a haulage company in Macclesfield, nodding politely while he ranted on about fuel duty and VAT. After a while, while he’d gone off to secure himself another brandy, she’d slipped away from the table herself and made her way out into the hotel lobby.

She’d only ever been a social smoker and it was years since she’d had a cigarette at all. There were moments, though, when she could envy the little amicable groups congregating around the front doors of the hotel. She slipped past them and walked out into the car park, enjoying the cold of the night air after the alcoholic fug of the function room. It was a chilly night, but the sky was clear and full of stars. She paused for a moment, enjoying the relative silence. The hotel was in the hills, on the edge of the Pennines, and, as she crossed to the edge of the car park, she could see the lights of Manchester and the Mersey Basin spread out below.

She had been standing for a few moments staring at the view when she heard the sound of raised voices behind her. She turned, peering into the darkness. There was a small group of men standing twenty or thirty metres from her, clustered in the lee of a large 4x4 parked near the entrance to the car park. She could make out the flicker of cigarette ends, the sound of some sort of altercation.

Her curiosity piqued, she moved slowly and silently around the edge of the car park, keeping close to the fence, trying to hear what was being said. None of her business, probably, but she shouldn’t miss the opportunity to pick up anything that might be of value.

She stopped suddenly and held her breath. Now she was closer, she could make out Jake Morton’s voice. She took another few steps then peered out from behind the row of parked cars.

It was Morton, no question. And next to him was the unmistakable bulky silhouette of Pete Boyle. There was another figure facing them, but she couldn’t make out his face.

It was Boyle’s slightly louder voice that she’d first heard. ‘It’s all right for you, desk monkey,’ he was saying now. ‘It’s not you taking the risks.’

‘From what I see, it’s not you either, Pete,’ Morton said. ‘So don’t come the martyr. I just say that we should play it cautious. If we go off half-cocked, we just risk drawing more attention.’

‘Bugger caution. I’ve tried being cautious. That’s why we’re in the shit.’

‘We’re not in the shit, not yet. We just have to be careful, that’s all.’

‘We’ve had three people picked up in the last three months. Bail refused in every case. Somebody’s grassing.’ She could see Boyle drop his cigarette butt and crush it hard under his shoe. He looked as if he was envisaging performing the same action on some more animate object.

‘We don’t know that,’ Morton said. ‘Shit happens.’

‘It’s happening too often lately. We need to do something. Send a fucking signal.’

‘We can’t take somebody out just because you think he might be a grass—’

‘Why the fuck not?’ Boyle said. ‘Even if we’re wrong, we’ve sent a message.’

‘We’ve sent a message that we’re a bunch of fuckwits who don’t know what we’re doing.’

Marie had moved a step or two closer, listening hard. It was the kind of stuff they needed to get on surveillance, she thought. Which was presumably why Boyle and Morton were having this conversation out in the car park, in case they were bring tapped in their hotel rooms or cars.

‘Come on, lads. Bit of teamwork. We’re all pulling in the same direction.’ It was the third figure who’d remained silent up to this point. Kerridge himself, she realized. He gently interposed himself between the two younger men with the air of a boxing referee who can see the bout slipping out of control. ‘You’ve both got a point.’

There was nothing in what he was saying, she thought, but he had a natural, easy-going authority that had immediately reduced the other two men to silence. His own voice was unexpectedly soft, so that Marie had to strain to make out his words.

‘Way I see it,’ Kerridge went on, ‘we’ve got some big deals coming up. Drugs, especially. That Rotterdam consignment’s the biggest we’ve done to date. Can’t afford for that one to go tits up.’

Marie made a mental note of the reference to Rotterdam. It was quite possible that her relevant colleagues were already on to it, but if not it would be another piece in the jigsaw.

‘Too fucking right—’ Boyle began. But Kerridge was continuing to speak, halting Boyle without raising his voice.

‘But that’s Jake’s point. If we go stirring up trouble now, without knowing what we’re about, that might be misinterpreted. We’re moving into a different league with some of this new stuff. We don’t want our suppliers to think we’re a bunch of amateurs.’

‘I don’t—’

‘I know you’ve got the best interests of the business at heart, Pete. And I’m not saying you’re wrong.’ He paused, in a way that seemed theatrical, though Marie could see that he was lighting a cigarette. ‘But we need to get our ducks in a row. Do a bit of digging. If there is a grass, then, yeah, we dispose of him. Quick and clean. Take him out.’ Another pause. ‘I’ve no problem with that.’

Marie suddenly realized that she was wearing only her thin evening gown and its silly, largely decorative jacket to protect her from the cold. Even so, it wasn’t the temperature that sent a chill down her spine. It was the clinical language. Dispose. Take him out. She was finally beginning to recognize the reality that she was dealing with.

She pulled her useless jacket more closely around her shoulders and moved another step or two, watching the three men. She was reminded, grotesquely, of a bunch of middle managers discussing a redundancy. Except that in this world, termination had a more literal meaning.

Up to now, though she hadn’t realized it, this had felt like a game. Like another of Winsor’s exercises. It was hard. It was a challenge. But there were no real consequences. If she failed, it might set her career back a notch or two. Maybe cause her a bit of feminist embarrassment.

But of course it was much more than that. She was dealing with people who, if they thought she was a threat, wouldn’t hesitate to deal with her. Take her out. Dispose of her.

Jesus. For the first time, she began to wonder whether she was really up to this.

‘What do you think, Jake?’ she heard Kerridge say. ‘You OK with that?’

Morton had taken a step or two backwards, she thought, as if he were trying to disassociate himself from the other two. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part. She’d liked Jake, maybe even been attracted by him. She didn’t want to think that he was really part of all this.

‘It’s the sensible way,’ he said. ‘We don’t want any more screw-ups.’

And that was it. That was all he said, leaving her in the air. Not knowing whether he was really on board or just going through the motions. She knew what she wanted to believe, but she wasn’t sure what she really did.

She heard no more of what the men said, because there was a sudden sweep of headlights from beyond the car park entrance. She glanced at the luminous face of her watch. Nearly midnight. This would be the first of the taxis arriving to ferry guests home.

She was about to slip back along the edge of the cars when the taxi pulled into the car park, turning to the left to arc round towards the hotel entrance. She was caught momentarily in the full blaze of its headlights, dazzled by the glare. She stopped, breathless, feeling like an unprepared actor gripped centre-stage by a spotlight. She was sure, in that moment, that everyone could see her. Kerridge and his cronies. The taxi driver. The clustered smokers.

Then the lights swept by and she was back in darkness. Kerridge, Boyle and Morton were tracking back towards the hotel now, apparently oblivious to her presence. Beyond the car park, lower on the hill, she could see the flicker of more cars arriving.

She paused by the car park fence, safe now in the night, waiting for her heart to stop pounding.

Shit, she thought. I’m really not cut out for this.

‘Have you any real grounds to think so?’ Salter had asked a few days later when she’d first brought up her thoughts about Morton. She remembered Salter slumped back in the hotel armchair, his feet propped up on the coffee table. It was impressive, she thought, the way he managed to sound simultaneously both scathing and uninterested. As if he couldn’t quite be bothered to tell her what a stupid suggestion it was.

She shrugged, then made a show of pouring herself another cup of coffee, ignoring Salter’s empty cup. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Just a hunch.’

‘Ah. A hunch.’ Salter rolled the word round in his mouth, his expression suggesting that he might be about to spit it out physically. ‘One of those.’

‘Woman’s intuition, Hugh. You know how it is. We’re just better at that kind of stuff.’ She smiled. ‘You lot have parallel parking instead.’