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.
‘You can see why he picked it,’ Brennan said. Somewhere behind him, he could hear Hodder struggling for breath. Brennan glanced over his shoulder. ‘You okay?’
Hodder stumbled to a halt, wheezing slightly. ‘Not as fit as I thought, obviously.’ He straightened up and looked around. ‘Jesus, where the hell are we?’
‘Long way from anywhere. Just where I’d have wanted to be if I was Stephen Kenning.’
‘I suppose,’ Hodder said, doubtfully. He looked around at the sweep of the hillside, the drop to the road behind them. ‘Impressive views, if you like that kind of thing.’ His tone implied that he didn’t include himself in that category.
‘You can see a long way. That’s what would have appealed to Kenning. He could see the bastards coming.’
‘He didn’t, though, did he?’ Hodder had regained his breath and drawn level with Brennan.
‘We all have to sleep sometime.’
‘That the place?’ Hodder gestured towards the white-rendered cottage another half mile or so ahead of them.
‘Don’t see any other candidates, do you?’ As far as Brennan could see, there was nothing else for miles. Just bare open moorland stretching off to the horizon. Apart from the single-track road where they’d left the car, there was no other sign of human habitation. The perfect hideaway – or not, as it turned out, but as good as Kenning was likely to find.
‘Come on. Let’s get this over with.’ Brennan began to trudge slowly up the footpath towards the cottage, Hodder following a few feet behind. As they drew closer, he caught sight of a black-clad figure, pacing alongside the cottage. Brennan glanced at his watch. They were fifteen minutes late. Wakefield was, as always, on time.
They walked the last few hundred yards to the gate. The path continued on over the next hilltop. Probably a few walkers made their way up here, but not many.
By the time they reached the cottage, Wakefield had come forward to greet them. He was finishing off a cigarette, tossing the butt with practised nonchalance into the overgrown garden.
‘You want to be careful,’ Brennan said. ‘You’ll have the whole place up in smoke.’
Wakefield smiled, as at a well-rehearsed witticism. ‘Rain we’ve had up here, you couldn’t cause a fire with a fucking flamethrower.’ He regarded Brennan for a moment. ‘How you doing, Jack?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘Not so bad. Considering.’
‘Considering. Not dead yet, then?’
‘That’s probably disappointed a few people.’
‘I imagine.’ Wakefield pulled out his packet of cigarettes, waving it towards Brennan and Hodder, who both shook their heads. He was a tall thin man, with swept-back grey hair and sallow skin. He was probably forty or so, but looked older. ‘There’s still a few of us on your side.’
‘Didn’t see many putting their heads above the battlements. Present company excepted.’
‘Not everyone’s as dumb as I am. But there are a few who think you’ve been treated shittily.’
‘That’s a great consolation,’ Brennan said.
Wakefield waved his lit cigarette towards Hodder. ‘Didn’t know it was “bring your kid to work” day.’
Brennan glanced round at Hodder. ‘Pure jealousy. When you’re a decrepit old has-been like Rog, the only pleasure you’ve got left is taking the piss out of the younger generation.’ He ushered Hodder forward. ‘Andy Hodder, a very capable officer despite his tender years. Roger Wakefield, a crap old copper, for all his decades of experience.’
Wakefield laughed and shook Hodder’s hands. ‘If you’re coping with Jack Brennan, you must have something about you. He’s got many good qualities, but not being a pain in the backside isn’t one of them.’ Wakefield turned back towards Brennan. ‘Okay, Jack, you’ve dragged me up here to the arse-end of nowhere to open up for you. What’s this about exactly?’
‘Wild goose chase, probably. But since I’m kicking my heels over in the ivory towers, I thought I should come and see where Kenning met his unfortunate end.’
‘Why the sudden interest in Kenning? It’s not like there’s any great mystery about his killing.’
‘Except that you don’t actually know who killed him.
‘No, and I don’t suppose we ever will. I think I’ll learn to live with that.’ Wakefield was fumbling in his pocket for the keys to the cottage. ‘He was a grass. He was living on borrowed time. He got taken out. Simple as that.’
‘So who took him out?’
‘Buggers he put behind bars,’ Wakefield said. ‘But we’ll never prove it. It was a pro job, and a good one.’ He led them to the door of the cottage and, after trying a couple of the keys on the chain, found the one that fitted the front door. He unlocked the door and led them inside.
‘Who’s the cottage belong to?’ Hodder said from behind. ‘The Force?’
‘Funded from the witness protection programme’, Wakefield said. ‘We’d think about selling it but no one would want to buy up here. Keep it for the next daft bugger who blows the whistle.’
‘Take