Читать книгу Nowhere To Hide - Alex Walters, Alex Walters - Страница 12

He’d almost lost her. He’d had to look twice, maybe even three times, to be sure it was her. That surprised him. Usually one photograph was enough, if the likeness was a decent one. He had a superstition about that, always approaching it in the same way. He’d stare at the photograph for minutes on end, and then he’d hold the picture to his forehead, as if somehow absorbing its essence.

He knew that the last gesture was little more than superstition. But somehow it had developed as a habit, and now he felt it helped him memorise the face. He knew, though, that it was important to analyse what he was looking at. Not just the superficial trappings – the style or the colour of the hair, whether or not the person was wearing glasses, facial hair or the use of make-up. Those things could be changed.

Instead, he concentrated on the detail of the face itself – the shape of the chin, the nose, the ears, the mouth. Above all, the eyes – not so much the colour or the shape, but their look, their expression. It was harder with a poor photograph, but if the image was a good one, the eyes were the most revealing part of all. If he could look into their eyes, he would recognise them every time.

And he was good at this. They came to him because they knew he’d get it right. He’d identify the targets, no matter what they did. And many of them – most of them, maybe – were keen not to be spotted. They did their best to change themselves, and he had to laugh sometimes at the feebleness of their attempts. The ones who took to wearing sunglasses, or who dyed their hair or grew a beard. Even if he hadn’t studied their features so closely, most wouldn’t have fooled him. They were still essentially the same people – walking and speaking and behaving the same as before.

And once he’d identified them, he would be there, watching and waiting, for as long as it took. He knew what made him good at this, and it was a rare combination of qualities. First, it was all the slow things – patience, attention to detail, willingness to give as much time as it all needed. He would stick with them, wait for the ideal moment. That was when the other qualities kicked in. The fast things. Quick decisions, sudden action. Do what needed doing and get away. Slow and then fast. It was why they came to him. Why he was the best.

But, just for a moment, he’d felt wrong-footed. This should have been one of the easier jobs; maybe that was the problem. It had been a difficult few months. One tricky job after another. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but all with additional complications. And now people were getting jittery. Looking out for him, or for someone like him. He couldn’t depend on the usual element of surprise.

But this one should have been easy. He knew exactly what she looked like, who she was. He’d allowed himself to become complacent. He hadn’t given it enough time. He thought he’d known what he was looking for.

Except that, as it turned out, he’d hadn’t quite. He’d seen her come out of that surprisingly anonymous house and climb into that unfamiliar family car. And he’d thought: shit, I’ve got the wrong place. It was as if the ground had shifted under him. He’d memorised the house number and the road. Of course he had. But perhaps he’d got it wrong – round here, it was all Such-and-such Close and This-and-that Avenue, all variations on the same dull themes. Perhaps this was an Avenue when it should have been a Close, or maybe he’d transposed the numbers.

It had taken him a moment or two, concealed in his discreetly parked car, to realise that he’d been correct all along. It was her. Everything about her looked different – the hair, the clothes, the whole style – but she hadn’t been able to hide who she really was. The way she walked, the way she moved her body. Even the way she’d climbed into the bloody car. He’d known all along. But, somehow, in those first few seconds she’d thrown him.

He swore loudly and started the car engine. The last thing he wanted was to have to chase after her down these lifeless streets. This kind of estate was a tough environment for surveillance. Too quiet, too anonymous. Too rigidly fucking conformist. People didn’t park down here without a good reason, not in the street, anyway. Every driveway was spacious enough to accommodate at least two family cars. People like him stood out like dogshit in a goldfish bowl.

He’d found a way, though. He always did. Having observed the roads on foot for a day or so, he’d found a suitably ambiguous place to leave his unremarkable car. A wider stretch of street where most of the houses seemed to have three or even more cars – teenage children and their friends coming and going. He reasoned that, for a day or two, no one would twig that his small saloon didn’t belong to one of the neighbours’ houses. It worked well enough, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

He caught up with her car as it reached the junction with the main road. He drew into the roadside for a moment, leaving sufficient distance between them. He had a good idea of where she was going. That information had been included in the brief file they’d sent.

As it was, he caught up with her easily enough. The mid-morning traffic had helped, preventing her from getting too far ahead, though he had to take care not to lose her in the endless sequence of traffic lights heading towards the city centre. It didn’t help that her car – a black saloon nearly as anonymous as his own – blended inconspicuously with the countless others streaming through the suburbs. But he kept her in sight until she turned off the main road into the maze of streets that comprised the industrial estate. He felt more comfortable then, confident of where she was heading. He continued along the main road then, a few hundred yards further along, turned into the rear of the estate. He could park up, check where she’d left her car, and keep a discreet watch until she emerged.

He had no need to reproach himself. Even now, he couldn’t quite believe how different she’d looked. Superficial stuff really, of course. Different clothes, different hair. A whole different style. A new image. She was good, that was the truth. She wasn’t an amateur, like most of them were.

He reached across to the glove box and pulled out a Mars bar and the flask of coffee he’d prepared before setting out that morning. Creature comforts – part of the secret. Make life easy for yourself. Save the hard stuff for when it matters.

He took a first bite of the chocolate and sat back to wait.

As Marie climbed back into her car, she involuntarily glanced behind her. Instinct, or maybe just experience. Sure enough, McGrath was standing at the window of his office, gazing admiringly out at her. She’d managed to fob off his offer of dinner with some excuse about being in the middle of sorting out her new house. But that was only a temporary respite. McGrath didn’t strike her as the type to give up at the first sign of discouragement.

Maybe this was all just Salter’s idea of a joke. She couldn’t believe that McGrath was a serious enough contender to justify their attention. She had him pegged as a small-time dealer with delusions of grandeur. But it was true that the likes of McGrath were often the weak links that allowed them to break apart much bigger chains. He’d have his own network of suppliers, customers and associates, and some of those might provide an entry route to more serious targets. Perhaps that was Salter’s thinking. Perhaps.

In any case, she was stuck with this now. Building up her new life as Maggie Yates, establishing trust and credibility with McGrath, gathering whatever evidence she could along the way. It ought to be a piece of cake. Unless she messed up spectacularly, she couldn’t imagine that McGrath would be bright enough to see through her cover. As long as she kept wearing these slightly too revealing outfits, his mind would be elsewhere. The only challenge would be keeping McGrath sweet while not letting him get too close.

As she drove out of the car park and turned back towards the main road, she glanced in her rear view mirror. Something had made her feel uneasy, though she couldn’t work out what. Perhaps the same instinct that had told her that McGrath would be watching her from the window.

She could see no immediate grounds for unease. The road behind her, which led deeper into the industrial estate, was deserted of traffic. There were a few cars parked here and there, but no other signs of life.

One of those cars, she thought. She had a half-sense she’d seen it before, at some point earlier in the day. Nothing she could pinpoint clearly. She didn’t know where she’d seen it, or why it should have snagged even tentatively in her memory. It was nothing more than an aging silver-grey Mondeo. There were thousands like it.

She reached the junction with the main road, and looked in the mirror again. The car was still parked in the same spot, three or four hundred yards behind. She couldn’t see whether there was anyone inside it.

She pulled out into the traffic. A little way ahead, there was a petrol station with a convenience store attached. She pulled off the road and parked in one of the spaces reserved for customers, reversing in to watch the passing cars.

At first, she thought she’d been wrong. A stream of cars went by, but there was no sign of the grey Mondeo. Then she saw it, or a car very like it, pass by. She had the impression that the driver glanced momentarily in her direction as the car passed, but she could make out nothing but the pale mask of a face. Not even whether the driver was male or female.

She waited a few moments and pulled back out on to the road. But she’d delayed too long and the car had vanished. Although the traffic was moving freely, she didn’t think the car could simply have disappeared from sight along the main road. More likely, the driver had turned off into one of side roads that led into the rows of Edwardian houses that dominated this part of town. She glanced to her left and right as she drove, searching for any sign of the car, but couldn’t spot it.

She was letting her imagination run away with her, but the experience had left her feeling shaken. She was left with a sense that her instinct was right, that the car was significant. But if she really had been followed, then why? Who would have an interest in keeping track of her up here? There were various possible answers, none of them comforting.

The other possibility was that Winsor, the Agency’s pet psychologist, had been wrong. Maybe she hadn’t properly recovered from everything that had happened to her months before. Perhaps this creeping paranoia was some delayed form of traumatic shock. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to go back to this work.

She knew there was no room for complacency. Christ, she’d learnt that the hard way. McGrath might be an idiot, but that didn’t mean she should underestimate what she was involved in. This was dangerous territory – sometimes the idiots were the most dangerous of all – and she couldn’t afford to forget that.

She reached the ring road and turned left, heading back to her new home, conscious suddenly of quite how lonely she was feeling.