Nowhere To Hide

Jesus, then there was Liam. When she’d finally broken the news that she was going back out into the field, he’d responded better than she’d feared. He’d taken the news calmly, shrugged, told her that, yes, of course she had to keep things going at work. He absolutely understood that. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

She’d enjoyed a few seconds of relief at his reaction before she became concerned. At first, she thought that Liam was reverting to the passive-aggressive style he’d perfected in the early days of his illness. But this felt different. This felt sincere. And that raised questions about what was going on in Liam’s head. There were times, already, when he seemed like a different person.

She’d tried to put all that from her mind as she’d made her way up here. She and Liam had danced round the issue of her departure, talking about the practicalities rather than the emotional impact of their separation. The practicalities had been challenging enough. She’d had to ensure that a suitable care regime was in place for Liam. He was already barely capable making his way around the house, even in the wheelchair, and was no longer able to look after himself reliably. He had two carers, funded by social services and supplied through some agency, who had been coming in twice a day to prepare him a meal and, essentially, check that he was okay. After a little negotiation, they’d managed to add another visit in the evening while Marie was away. Marie had had the impression that the main carer, Sue, hadn’t been all that impressed by the idea of Liam being left alone overnight. But what other option did Marie have?

‘Mrs Yates?’

Shit. She almost missed her cue. That was why, in some cases, undercover officers stuck with their real names, or at least their real forenames, to minimise the risk of that moment’s hesitation. Or, worse still, of reacting to a name that wasn’t supposed to be yours.

She recovered herself in time. ‘Miss, actually,’ she said. ‘Divorced. I decided to go back to my maiden name. Don’t ask.’ She laughed, rising to her feet and holding out her hand for McGrath to shake. ‘But please call me Maggie. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ McGrath was observing her with an expression that managed to remain just the right side of lecherous. ‘Please come through – Maggie.’ He gestured for her to precede him into his poky office. She could feel his eyes making a full appraisal of what was likely to lie underneath her clothes. If she’d harboured any doubts about actually getting the job, she began to feel more confident now that it was in the bag.

‘Please. Take a seat,’ he said from behind her. There was a faint trace of an Irish lilt in his voice, she thought, though you had to listen for it. Or know something of his history. She lowered herself into the chair facing McGrath’s desk, and waited while he seated himself opposite. The desk was a mess – unsorted piles of paperwork, messy looking files, a discarded coffee cup.

‘Good to meet you, Maggie,’ McGrath said. He’d wasted no time in taking up her invitation to use her first name. ‘You come highly recommended.’

She smiled. McGrath’s non-professional interest in her was so transparent that it was difficult not to play up to it. ‘Not too highly, I hope. I don’t know if I can live up to it.’ She knew exactly how highly she’d been recommended, and by whom. More of the string-pulling that they were so adept at in the Agency. It was clever stuff. It was usually a tame informant who’d set the wheels in motion, getting the word about her out on the grapevine. In this case, according to Salter, they’d got wind of the fact that McGrath was looking for a discreet administrator to help him keep the various strands of his business in order. Looking at this place, she wasn’t surprised. McGrath had positioned himself, as so many of them did, as a legitimate businessman, running a more or less straight operation in parallel with his seamier activities. But, looking at the desk, she could imagine that administration wasn’t McGrath’s strongest point.

The key word, of course, was discreet. In her short telephone conversation with McGrath, they’d maintained the fiction that she would be looking after the above-board element of McGrath’s business – an import/export business which, according to the records she’d checked at Companies’ House, had a turnover barely large enough to cover her requested salary. But the grapevine had been very clear that McGrath was looking for someone to help run all parts of his business, including those elements that were kept hidden from the light of day.

Maggie Yates came highly recommended to fulfil that particular brief. The story was that she’d been the brains behind her ex-husband’s business, an East End mix of legitimate market-trading and more clandestine dealing. She’d given her husband loyal support, up to the point where she’d caught him dipping his hands into the till to subsidise his affair with some Dalston pole-dancer. She’d withdrawn a sizable sum from the business account, packed her suitcases, and headed north, leaving her ex with a pregnant pole-dancer and a pile of debts. It was a decent story, filtered skilfully through a succession of friends of friends. Creating an undercover legend was a little like money-laundering, she’d sometimes thought. The original source gets lost along the way, and the story becomes a little more legitimate each time it’s passed on. The figure who’d recommended her to McGrath had sincerely believed everything he’d said, having received the story himself from someone he considered reliable.

Marie had been nervous about it, because again they’d had so little time to prepare the ground. It had been well-handled, but there was always the risk that someone would pick up the phone and speak to the wrong person, and the whole house of fictional cards would come tumbling down.

It might still happen, but she felt more confident now that everything had been running for a few weeks. The rules were different in this world. If you wanted the right person, you couldn’t call the JobCentre or some local temp agency. All you could do was rely on word of mouth. And McGrath wasn’t entirely stupid. He’d take his time, trust her only as far as he needed to until he was confident of her loyalty and discretion. The recommendation might get her through the door, but it was her own abilities that would keep her there. That, and the fact that already McGrath was virtually panting like a lascivious dog.

‘We’re a small but ambitious business,’ McGrath was saying, in the tone he probably reserved for the local Chamber of Commerce. ‘On the way up, you might say.’

‘You said it was primarily import/export?’ she asked, feeding back the line that McGrath had given her over the phone. ‘What sort of things?’

‘Pretty much anything that I can sell at a profit, if I’m honest,’ McGrath said. ‘We’re probably more of a distribution business than a straight importer. Take stuff off people’s hands, then sell it on for a bit more.’

Marie didn’t doubt it. From what she understood, most of McGrath’s legitimate business comprised the kind of tat that was sold on market stalls or by street vendors. Tawdry plastic items from China. ‘A middle man?’ she offered.

‘That’s about it. Cream off a little slice for myself, that’s the idea. So, Maggie, tell me about yourself. I understand you’ve experience in this kind of line.’

She nodded, and began to trot out the well-rehearsed lines about her ex-husband. She didn’t go into the detail of how and why she’d supposedly split up with the fictitious ex, but she knew that all that background would have been carefully fed to McGrath. He was clearly as interested in her marital status, or lack of it, as he was in whatever relevant work experience she might have.

That side of the job made her feel uneasy; but she knew that as a female undercover it was almost inevitable that you’d sometimes make use of your femininity to gain some advantage, particularly over men like McGrath. You couldn’t be too precious in this line of work. If the likes of McGrath were so easily distracted by the simple fact that she was a half-presentable woman, it would be stupid not to benefit.

In any case, she told herself, this time it was just part of her new character. The glamorous divorcee. She knew she was pretty decent-looking – enough to attract a few overlong glances in a male-dominated office, at least. But her usual instinct was to play down her appearance – minimal make-up, neat but low-key business suits, nothing that might attract unwanted attention.

As Maggie Yates, though, she’d raised everything just a notch or two above how she would normally choose to appear. She was wearing a business outfit that was slightly more brash, that showed an inch or two more leg and cleavage, than she would normally consider. She was wearing a little more make-up, her hair dyed a shade or two lighter than usual. She’d even managed, to her great amusement, to persuade Salter to cough up for a couple of pairs of earrings on expenses.

She’d been surprised, when she’d first effected the changes, by how much her new outward appearance influenced the way she felt and behaved. She felt a different kind of confidence, aware of the impact her appearance had on a certain type of male. Even Salter had seemed more flustered in her presence. McGrath, on the same basis, looked as if he might dissolve into a small puddle on the office floor if she were to gaze at him too intently.

McGrath nodded as she finished her brief account. ‘So, do you think you’d be up to handling things round here?’ The innuendo was inescapable, even if unintentional.

She looked coolly around her – at the shabby office, at the piled mess on McGrath’s desk. ‘I wouldn’t imagine there’s anything here I couldn’t handle,’ she said. Jesus, she thought to herself, don’t push it too far. McGrath might not be responsible for his actions. She smiled innocently. ‘I can give you a little run through my past experience, if you like, Mr McGrath.’

‘Andrew,’ he coughed. ‘Andy, that is. Please call me Andy. Everybody does.’ He picked up a pile of papers from the desk and shuffled them as if trying to imbue the documents with some significance. ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I’ve already heard very good reports about you.’

‘So what is it I’d be doing?’ she said. ‘If you were to offer me the job, I mean.’

‘Well,’ he coughed again, ‘eventually, I’d be looking to you to keep the place ticking over. I’m out of the office quite a lot of the time, what with one thing and another. I have to be out there getting the deals. So I need someone who can keep the show on the road in my absence.’

Marie glanced towards the door. ‘What about your secretary?’

McGrath shrugged. ‘Lizzie’s just a kid, really. She can answer the phone, type a few letters. Bright enough, you know, but not really able to keep on top of a place like this.’

‘Well, that would suit me down to the ground,’ she said. ‘I’m used to running my own show, more or less, so I’m happy to do as much or as little as you need.’

McGrath frowned slightly and she wondered whether she might have overplayed her hand. ‘Well, obviously there’s a lot I’ll need to hand over to you. It may take a while.’

She nodded, trying to look contrite. ‘Yes, sorry. It’s just that I’m keen to get this. It’s been a difficult time… well, you can imagine. Need to build my confidence up a bit, probably. Prove that I’m still up to it–’

It was McGrath’s turn to look embarrassed. ‘No, I didn’t mean – look, I’m sure you’ll be perfect in the job. When can you start?’

She blinked, as if the offer had taken her by surprise. ‘You mean I’ve got the job? Well, thank you. Really. I won’t let you down. I can start more or less immediately if you’d like.’

McGrath rose from his chair, holding out his hand. ‘Well, pleased to have you on board,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to … lick us into shape.’ The innuendo had returned, she noticed, now she’d accepted the job. She was beginning to suspect that this was going to be a long few months.

She took McGrath’s hand. He shook her hand firmly, in the manner of one who’d seen fictional businessmen doing this kind of thing in films, then, almost inevitably, held on for just a few seconds too long. ‘Yes, good to have you on board,’ he repeated. ‘One of the family and all that.’ He paused, his smile broadening. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve made too many friends up here yet,’ he added. ‘Perhaps we should celebrate your arrival? Over dinner, maybe?’

Oh yes, she thought. It was going to be a bloody long few months.

5

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.

6

‘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.’