Trust No One. Alex Walters

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СКАЧАТЬ and that was unequivocal. Multiple sclerosis. He’d had the scan. They’d been shown the images, the lesions in his brain. Had it all carefully explained. There was no doubt. The only question was how far the disease had progressed. Was it still in the remitting stage, where the symptoms could still come and go? Or was it in the progressive phase, where the likelihood was an inexorable, if possibly slow, decline? The distinction, the neurologist had told them, was not always clear-cut, and Liam’s condition seemed to be on the cusp. That was what she’d said, but Marie had suspected that her eyes, professionally expressionless, had intimated a different story.

      ‘She’ll give you a view. About whether it’s getting worse.’

      ‘I don’t need a view. I’ll know if it’s getting worse.’

      She couldn’t tell whether the future tense was euphemistic. ‘At least get it checked out.’

      ‘If it keeps you happy.’

      ‘It’ll reassure me, anyway,’ she said.

      ‘Just as long as you care.’ The tone was ambiguous. ‘Anyway, you’ve got better things to do than talk to me. I’ll let you go.’

      She knew he didn’t mean it, that he wanted to keep talking, but she could feel her self-control draining away. ‘Look, I’ll call you tomorrow. Same time?’

      ‘Whenever you’ve got a moment.’

      ‘Same time,’ she confirmed. She began to mutter some half-hearted endearment, but he’d already ended the call. Dear God, why did she bother? They hadn’t even made the effort to get married before they’d reached this state. She didn’t know what she felt for Liam any more than she’d known what she felt for Jake. With Liam she really had believed, once, that it was love. Now, it just felt like an old habit, not quite abandoned, but increasingly buried under layers of semi-serious recrimination and bickering.

      She shivered suddenly and realized that she was sitting with only a towel around her shoulders, her body still damp from the bath. The window blinds were open, and she’d probably brightened the day for some old man or pubescent teenager in the flats opposite. Either that, or traumatized some busy-body who’d be penning a shocked letter to the Residents’ Association. The way things were going, she could guess which was more likely.

      Welsby was out on the balcony, chain-smoking, watching the pale sun sinking over the quays and the industrial landscape of Trafford Park. He’d left Salter and Hodder inside, systematically working through the flat. Salter had obviously expected him to lend a hand, but Welsby reckoned that was one of the privileges of rank. Not having to spend any more time than necessary breathing in the stench of stale blood.

      ‘All right?’ Salter said from behind him, the note of irony in his voice more or less concealed. ‘Sir?’

      ‘Not so bad,’ Welsby acknowledged, without looking round. ‘Getting a bit parky out here, though.’ He gestured towards the dominant bulk of Old Trafford on the far side of the canal. ‘And I could do without having to stare at the theatre of bloody dreams. Nearly finished?’

      Salter sat himself down opposite Welsby. ‘Getting there. I’ve left the youngster to finish off.’

      ‘Aye, well, you deserve a break.’ Welsby stretched out his legs and eased back against the chair. ‘Mind you, your arse’ll get numb if you spend too long out here.’ He waved a packet of cigarettes towards Salter.

      Salter shook his head. ‘Giving up,’ he explained.

      ‘Again? Your bloody trouble, Hugh – no willpower. Some of us are properly committed.’

      ‘Don’t imagine my lapse will be too protracted,’ Salter said. ‘Not if I have to deal with many more fuck-ups like this one.’

      Welsby nodded, his eyes fixed on the last gleaming dregs of the setting sun. ‘That’s the phrase I’ve been searching for,’ he said. ‘Fuck-up. Trust you to find the mot juste.’

      ‘My literary background, sir. The real question, though, is who fucked up?’

      ‘That’s the question, right enough. Suggests we’re not quite as watertight as we’d like to think.’ Welsby dropped his cigarette butt and ground it under his heavy black shoe. ‘Which is interesting.’

      ‘One word for it,’ Salter said.

      ‘Ah, well. I lack your literary background. CSE in metalwork, that’s my limit.’

      ‘Very practical, guv. I don’t like the idea that we’re not secure, though.’

      Welsby was lighting up another cigarette, hand cupped around the guttering flame with practised skill.

      ‘Well, start getting used to it,’ he said finally. ‘Or, better still, start finding out who’s leaking.’

      ‘Not many of us knew about Morton,’ Salter pointed out. ‘Not officially, anyway.’

      Welsby shrugged. ‘Internally, we’re a bloody sieve,’ he said. ‘I reckon nearly everyone had wind of this. Not necessarily the details. But the fact that we’d got a key bloody witness. Talk of the building.’

      ‘You reckon?’ Salter leaned forwards, his gangling limbs splayed awkwardly. ‘Whoever did this had more than office gossip.’

      ‘Too right they did.’ Welsby took a deep final drag on his latest cigarette, then tossed it disdainfully in the approximate direction of the canal. ‘We couldn’t organize a nun-shoot in a bloody nunnery.’

      ‘They knew what they were doing,’ Salter mused. ‘Morton wasn’t short on security. They knew where the alarms were. Knew how to disable them. As for what they did to Morton – well, maximum pain for minimum effort, I’d say. Pros. Top of the range pros.’

      ‘You get what you pay for,’ Welsby observed. ‘So who was paying them? And how did they find out Morton was our man?’

      ‘Maybe Morton slipped up. Wouldn’t be the first grass to have shot his mouth off inadvisably.’

      ‘Can’t really see it. Morton struck me as a degree or two smarter than the average grass. Still, it’s a line we can peddle. Generate enough smoke to make sure our own arses are covered. But this is still fucking embarrassing.’ He paused, and began to fumble painstakingly for another cigarette. Finally he looked up. ‘How’s it going, son?’

      Salter looked over his shoulder, alerted by the change in tone. Hodder was hovering expectantly by the open windows.

      ‘Just about done,’ he said brightly. He’d tackled the task of searching a blood-drenched house with as much enthusiasm as an ambitious young officer could muster.

      ‘Found anything?’ Welsby scrutinized the young man with an expression that indicated a pre-emptive scepticism of anything he might be about to say.

      ‘Not to speak of,’ Hodder admitted. ‘There’s a laptop. Some official-looking papers, a notebook of some sort. And there’s Morton’s wallet.’ He enumerated the list as if he had committed it carefully to memory. ‘That’s about it.’

      ‘What about this mystery woman?’

      ‘No СКАЧАТЬ