In any case, after everything that had happened, she’d needed a break. She’d nearly been killed, for Christ’s sake. But then so had Salter, and he showed no obvious signs of mental trauma. And it was Salter, in the end, who’d killed Jeff Kerridge and exposed Welsby as corrupt. He’d been acclaimed as a hero and become the new rising star. Marie had watched uneasily from the sidelines, suspicious of Salter and his motives, convinced that, beneath that clean-cut ambition, he was as corrupt as their former boss. But Salter had sailed serenely on, enjoying the fruits of promotion, apparently untroubled by anything that had happened.
So she’d been happy to step back from the front line and lose herself in the rhythm of facts and figures. For the last six months, every day had been the same. The semi-comatose journey up the Northern Line, the short walk along the Embankment, takeaway latte from the staff restaurant. Settle at her desk and boot up the computer. Check emails, then access the database or pull out the files. The same every day. A sandwich at her desk, or lunch with a couple of the other analysts. More data-crunching till it was time to get the Tube home. Despite herself, she’d begun to enjoy the routine, the predictability.
Maybe Salter had hoped she’d be climbing the walls by now. She might have predicted it herself. She’d done this kind of work before and been happy with it, but that was a long time ago. She had been a different person then, she thought, with different expectations. But perhaps she’d changed less than she imagined.
In fairness, she’d always intended to return to the front line eventually. After they’d brought her in from the field, they’d had her formally assessed by Winsor, their pet psych. In his inimitable style, Winsor had stated the blindingly obvious in language that no one fully understood. The upshot was that she’d suffered a major psychological trauma. Well, thanks for that, she’d thought. If you hadn’t brought it up, I might not have noticed.
Winsor’s conclusion was that she was a resilient character, and that there would be no long-term effects as long as they didn’t push her too hard. She had no idea what evidence he had to support this assertion, but she felt no need to challenge it. If they wanted to stick her in a quiet office for a few months, that was fine by her. She had plenty of other problems on her plate, after all.
She looked up at Salter’s blankly smiling face, wondering how to play this. There was no point in trying to match Salter at the gamesmanship. All she could do was play it straight down the line. ‘I take it you’ve cleared this idea, Hugh?’
For a moment he shifted in his seat, his body-language suggesting that he couldn’t fully answer her question. But she knew Salter well enough to recognise that he wouldn’t go into something like this half-cocked. He’d always make sure his backside was covered. ‘I’ve been through the procedures, if that’s what you mean. What do you think this is?’
Well, that was the question. But, as Salter well knew, it was a question she couldn’t begin to answer. ‘It all just seems a bit irregular, Hugh. I mean, the protocols–’
‘The protocols are there as guidance. We’re professionals, Marie. We have to exercise judgement.’ It was the first time he’d used her name. A sign that he was shifting things up a gear.
‘And your judgement is that this is safe?’ she asked.
‘As safe as these things ever are. Christ, Marie, it’s my neck on the block if things go wrong.’
She doubted that. If things went wrong, she would be the one at immediate risk. And she was willing to bet that Salter had made sure he wasn’t in line for any professional blame. One way or another, he’d have everything covered. ‘But it’s the same area. And it’s only been six months. That must be a risk.’
‘There’s always a risk,’ he said. ‘But it’s not the same area. Not the same network at all. We’ve looked at it very carefully.’
‘It’s the north west. There are bound to be overlaps. It just takes one person–’
‘We’ll take care of it. You’ll look different. You’ll be a different person. Even if you should happen to stumble across somebody from before, there’ll be no link. Nobody will have any reason to make the connection.‘
It didn’t sound convincing, she thought. They reason they had protocols was because, whatever the odds, shit still tended to happen. She’d experienced it herself. Some past contact eyeballing her suspiciously because she’d turned up somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. She could change her hair, her clothes, her lifestyle; but it wouldn’t cut any ice if the wrong people became suspicious. ‘But what if they do, Hugh? What if someone looks at me and thinks, wait a minute, that looks like old Marie who used to run the print shop in Trafford Park?’
‘Christ, Marie. It’s not going to happen, right. You’re the best person for the job, that’s what it comes down to. You can do it.’
Jesus, he was trying to flatter her now. Flattery wasn’t one of Salter’s strong points. His compliments always sounded insincere, she assumed because he didn’t really believe that any other person could match the towering talent that was Hugh Salter. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Hugh,’ she said. ‘You’ve just come to me because I’m convenient. If you tried to give this to one of your youngsters, you might actually have to put some effort into training them.’ She paused, conscious that she was coming close to saying something that she really might regret. ‘Do I actually have any choice in this?’
‘There’s always a choice, sis. But I really want you to give it a go.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ She knew that she might as well have saved both their time and just said yes there and then, but at least she could string out his discomfort for a day or so. ‘Chester?’
‘Chester,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a different world. Jesus, it’s nearly Wales. Safe as houses. No contact with the Manchester bunch at all, so far as we know.’
So far as we know. Hardly the ring of bloody confidence. How much did they know? Three-fifths of fuck all, if past experience was anything to go by. ‘Drug trafficking?’
‘Mainly.’ There was a look of relief on Salter’s face, even though he was trying hard to hard to keep it hidden. He knew he had her hooked now. Once you started talking about the detail, there was no going back. ‘One of those who’ll bring in anything if the price is right. Some cigarettes and booze, but mainly the hard stuff. Comes across from the east coast ports, and then they distribute it around Chester and North Wales.’
‘But not Manchester or Liverpool?’
‘There are bigger fish operating up there. No point in this one trying to compete. He’s got a nice little niche of his own, without antagonising the competition.’
It made sense. The north west was carved up pretty thoroughly by the big boys. That elite bunch had included the infamous Jeff Kerridge, until Salter had blown off the side of Kerridge’s head, supposedly in self defence. They’d had intelligence that Kerridge’s widow, the very redoubtable Helen, was continuing her late husband’s good work. And now Pete Boyle, Kerridge’s former protégé turned competitor, was out of prison and, by all accounts, also rebuilding his influence around Manchester.
That was the real source of her unease, even now. There’d been a point, six months before, when she was convinced that Salter was on Boyle’s payroll. Salter had claimed that, with no one to trust, he’d been forced to go freelance to gather definitive evidence against Kerridge and their corrupt former boss, Keith Welsby. Welsby had ended up behind bars, and was still awaiting trial after a botched suicide attempt. Salter had emerged smelling of roses. But Marie had suspected that the scent concealed a more noxious stink. If Boyle had been looking to depose Kerridge, maybe Salter’s intervention hadn’t been so public-spirited after all. And that in turn raised questions about the manner of Kerridge’s