LITMIR.BIZ

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she thought, and all those bloody disabled spaces standing empty.

      It was Liam she was thinking of really, of course. Liam who would be perfectly entitled to park in those spaces. Liam and his condition, and the unknown, unknowable prognosis. She had a superstitious half-belief, barely acknowledged even to herself, that if she didn’t tempt fate, everything might be all right. Whatever all right might turn out to mean.

      She stood in the reception, dripping rainwater gently on to the thick pile carpet. It was the usual sort of place; an anonymous, soulless business hotel, suitably mid range, conveniently positioned minutes from the M60. There were a dozen or more such venues, scattered around the city centre and the suburbs, catering to sales executives, visiting middle managers, off-site business meetings. Comfortable enough, with all the right facilities, but nothing too flash. They rotated the meetings around the various hotels, trying to ensure that they didn’t become too familiar to the reception staff. It wasn’t difficult. Most were transient youngsters, generally from Eastern Europe, here to make a few bucks before moving on or returning home. If she came back to the same venue six months later, the faces would all have changed. No one would remember who she was, or why she’d been there before.

      ‘Ms Donovan,’ she said to the bored-looking receptionist. ‘Small meeting room.’ She gave the company name. The receptionist smiled momentarily in a manner that suggested that she had, at least, received some instruction in how to greet customers, and began to thumb listlessly through a card index. Finally, as if in testament to her own considerable efforts, she triumphantly held up Marie’s reservation. ‘Meeting room for three,’ she confirmed. ‘Coffee at nine thirty and eleven. No lunch.’ Her tone on the last words suggested disapproval of Marie’s parsimony.

      She collected the card key and made her way to the first floor. A small meeting room in this kind of place meant, in effect, a semi-converted bedroom – a fold-up bed disguised as a wardrobe, an imported table and office chairs. Coffee with a plateful of overpriced biscuits. Branded writing pads and pens. A bottle of water refilled from the tap.

      She walked to the window. A view of the rear car park, a retail park, a cluster of trees half-concealing the M60 busy with the morning traffic. Anytown, UK.

      As far as Joe and Darren were concerned, she was out seeing a client. She’d cultivated a routine of visiting the major clients at their offices. It was good business – they appreciated the personal touch. And it gave her the freedom she needed to pursue this double life.

      She supposed she was being accorded some kind of privilege here. Normal practice was that she maintained contact only with Salter. Salter was her liaison officer. Her buddy or minder, as he would say. They had a regular schedule of meetings, once a month in venues like this – to touch base, share information, chew the fat, make sure she wasn’t losing her marbles.

      Salter was her sole conduit back to the Agency. When operations were compromised, it wasn’t usually because of smart counter-intelligence. It was generally because someone had screwed up or, even more likely, had been accidentally exposed – recognized as a face from way back, spotted somewhere they shouldn’t be. She’d already had the experience herself, eyeballed by the sister of some small-time villain she’d put away years ago. She’d seen the woman staring at her, trying to work out if it really was Marie, gearing herself up for an altercation. Marie had passed swiftly on, eyes fixed on some window display, disappearing into the crowd before the woman could collar her.

      So they kept the risks to a minimum. That was why today was unexpected. It was scheduled as one of her routine liaison meetings with Salter. Last night she’d had a call from Salter, through the usual channels, to say that Welsby would be joining them. Salter had been his usual semi-cryptic, game-playing self, but she’d gathered that the purpose was to discuss Jake Morton.

      She wondered whether she should worry about that. But there was no reason why anyone should know about her and Jake, and every reason why Welsby might want to talk to her about the case. Morton had been a key witness in their intended prosecution of Pete Boyle.

      Boyle was a pretty big deal. Their real target was Jeff Kerridge, the most influential player in organized crime in these parts. But Kerridge tended to keep his hands clean, and Boyle was his representative on earth. If they could make a case stick against Boyle, they’d be one step closer to nailing Kerridge. They’d arrested Boyle just a couple of weeks earlier, having finally mustered enough evidence to persuade the Prosecution Service that it was worth a punt. They’d charged him with drug trafficking, but they had a range of other charges, from conspiracy to money laundering, waiting in the wings. She’d no idea what would happen now. They had a wealth of documentary evidence, most of it supplied by Morton, but they’d struggle to secure the prosecution without Morton’s own testimony to back it up.

      There was a knock at the door. She glanced at her watch. She’d been early because she was supposedly the host. But Welsby and Salter were early, too. Welsby would be keen to get this over with, she supposed.

      She pulled open the door. Salter had a beige raincoat wrapped around his skinny body and seemed his usual self – an unholy cross between Tigger and Eeyore. Welsby stood behind, conspicuously furtive in a battered anorak.

      ‘Hi, sis,’ Salter said. He peered round the room. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

      ‘Home from home,’ she said, gesturing for them to follow her in. ‘My flat’s a soulless shoebox as well. Hi, Keith.’

      Welsby nodded. ‘Marie. Been a little while.’

      She poured coffee and set the plate of biscuits between them, feeling the usual mild resentment that this role was, as always, allocated to her by default. Here, she was the notional host, but things would have been no different back at the office.

      Still, she had some time for Keith Welsby – more than for Salter, at any rate. Salter was a smart-arse careerist, a former fast-track graduate now in his early thirties, probably not quite as bright or as capable as he imagined. Harmless enough, she thought, as long as you kept your distance, but his priority was always to protect his own backside. That didn’t make her feel comfortable. In this job, she had no choice but to trust him, even if her first instinct was to play her cards close to her chest.

      Welsby was different. Old school, a couple of years off retirement. His attitudes were, by the standards of the Agency, essentially prehistoric, but much of that was an act. He said what people expected to hear from an overweight, florid-faced old flatfoot. But there were no flies on Keith Welsby, and not just because most of his suits looked as old as he did. He was difficult to fathom. His attitude to her was avuncular and patronizing, littered with half-jokes about the shortcomings of women officers. But then he’d throw in a remark that suggested real respect for her ability. After a while, as she found herself striving to justify his good opinion, she’d concluded that this was just Welsby’s distinctive approach to staff motivation.

      They arranged themselves around the narrow table, Salter leaning forwards, apparently in charge. Welsby was stretched back, a little way from the table, his body language indicating that, despite his senior rank, this was not his show. Fair enough. She and Salter were the same job grade, but the convention was that the ‘buddy’ acted as supervisor for undercover officers. This would normally be a supervisory meeting, an opportunity for her to bounce issues or concerns off Salter and for Salter to check how she was doing.

      ‘How are things, sis?’

      She gazed at him for a moment. ‘Fine, Hugh. So what’s this all about?

      ‘Morton, of course.’

      Welsby leaned forwards in his chair. He was chewing gum, a substitute for his usual cigarettes. ‘You knew him well, Marie?’

      She took a breath and shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say well. He was part of Kerridge’s team. I know them all, more or less.’

      ‘You suggested him as an informant?’

      ‘I got to know him a bit. He’s . . .’ She stopped. ‘He was the most approachable of Kerridge’s bunch, so I used him as a route in. Worked pretty well, I thought.’ It was worth

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