Trust No One (15 page)

Once they'd eaten, she showered and dressed, and then followed Liam through into what had originally been the house's second bedroom, but which had long been adopted by Liam as his studio.

‘Couple of new ones,' he said. ‘Did them while you were away.'

She'd never doubted that Liam had real talent. She knew nothing much about art herself but she'd heard others, who knew what they were talking about, praising Liam's work to the skies. At least one of his lecturers at art college had been convinced that Liam would be the next big thing, and had done his utmost to promote his work. But, so far at least, it just hadn't happened. It wasn't so surprising, he kept telling her. Talent – even if he really did have it, which Liam himself seemed to doubt – was only part of the equation. The rest was a mix of luck, confidence and a knack for unabashed self-promotion. None of those qualities, she was forced to concede, had been noticeably evident in Liam's life to date.

For her own part, while she had no idea of the commercial value of Liam's work, she did think it was rather good. Once or twice, he tried to explain to her why he painted the way he did, who his influences were, but all that sailed immediately over her head. What she liked was the semi-abstract quality, the sense that you could almost pin down what he was depicting, but then somehow it slipped away. You were left with a wonderful mélange of colours that always threatened to cohere into something recognizable before once again melting back into uncertainty.

The new paintings were, as far as she could judge, at least the equal of anything he'd painted previously. She could see no sign that his talents were waning or – perhaps more pertinently – that the illness was having any adverse effect on his abilities. Though that didn't necessarily mean very much. She had no idea how much effort it might have cost him to paint the new pictures, whether he was finding the task harder than before.

‘Beautiful,' she said, gazing at the pictures. She had the sense that she ought to say something more profound. ‘Really beautiful,' she added.

‘They're OK,' he conceded. ‘Not my best. But not bad. It's not quite gone yet.'

She had the sense that he was trying to provoke some response with the last comment, but was determined to resist the bait. ‘I won't ask what they're about,' she said instead.

He shrugged. ‘That one's about eighty centimetres by sixty. The other's a bit bigger.'

‘Ho, ho. Are they finished?'

‘More or less. Or at least I've got to the point where I should abandon them. I keep making minor tweaks, but I'll probably end up ruining them.'

‘Leave them, then.'

She looked up and peered out of the window at the patchwork of narrow gardens that stretched between the two rows of terraces. It was a perfect autumn day – a clear blue sky, no wind. One of those days when South London could look almost enticing.

‘Let's go out,' she suggested. ‘Up to the Common, maybe.'

So they did. They drove Liam's adapted Corsa – one of the few benefits of his illness had been that he'd qualified for the mobility allowance that paid the monthly rental – and parked up on the edge of Wimbledon Common. They spent the morning walking among the trees, enjoying the dappled sunlight, kicking the piles of newly fallen leaves. Like it used to be, she thought again. With no need to speak, no reason to bicker. No sense of doing anything much, except enjoying the moment, sharing the day. Enjoying each other.

It had been a perfect day, she thought later. Liam had seemed almost his old self, not quite able to skip among the leaves, but certainly stomping amiably behind her, half-resting on his stick, looking pleased to be there. They'd thought about stopping for lunch at one of the pubs on the Common – The Hand in Hand or The Billet, maybe – but everywhere was packed on what might well be the last fine weekend of the year. So, instead, they drove back home, and then took a walk through into the Abbey Mills, a cluster of old shops and craft stalls tucked around the River Wandle just behind their house.

It could be a bit naff, Marie thought, but it was ideal for a day like today. They could wander around, gaze at assorted trinkets they were never likely to buy, grab a pint in the pub, have an early supper in one of the restaurants.

With the sun setting over the pylons and industrial estates to the west, they sat outside the pub, sipping their beers and watching the endless flow of the narrow Wandle.

‘Been a good day,' she said.

He took a swallow of his pint and nodded. ‘One of the best. For a while, anyway. Mind you, I'm knackered.'

She looked at him. Now he'd said it, he did look tired. Maybe she'd pushed him too far. She kept having to remind herself that he was ill, that he wasn't the person he'd once been. Looking at him now, she could see that his hand was shaking, that he was struggling even to hold his glass steady.

‘Are you OK?'

‘Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Just tired, that's all.'

‘They're good, you know. Your new pictures.'

‘My . . .' He looked baffled, suddenly, as if she'd raised an issue that was too complicated for his understanding. ‘What?'

‘You sure you're OK, Liam? We can head back now if you like.'

‘I . . .'

The change had come over him abruptly, the smiles of a few moments earlier wiped from his face. Now, he looked frightened, as if he'd suddenly stepped into some unfamiliar territory. He peered down at his glass as if wondering what it was. Then he looked back up at her, blinking, his expression returning to something closer to his usual self.

‘Christ, sorry. Just felt – I don't know – dizzy or something. No, not dizzy exactly. More a bit . . . well, lost . . .' His voice trailed off, as if he didn't quite know what he was saying. Or more, she thought, as if he didn't want to be saying it.

She hesitated, wanting to tell him yet again that he should go back and see the neurologist. But she knew that she'd just provoke another row, and that was the last thing she wanted at the end of a day like today. She felt already as if what had just happened – whatever it was – had cast an unexpected shadow.

‘Shall we get home?' she said.

He took another swallow of his pint. ‘Yes, let's do that,' he said. ‘I must be more tired than I realized. Been having too much fun.'

Yes, that was it, she'd thought, as they'd made their slow way along the narrow riverside path that led back to their house. For once, they'd both been having too much fun.

Later that night, she'd lain awake again in bed, listening to Liam's gentle snoring and the distant sounds of the night. Liam had collapsed into bed almost as soon as they'd got in, looking all in. She'd half-heartedly watched some Saturday night television, drunk another glass of wine, and then had followed him up. But sleep had proved elusive.

It was all like a dream, she thought. For a few moments, earlier that day, she thought they'd recaptured it, that perfection they'd had when they'd first been together. Briefly, everything had seemed right again, and she could imagine a future – here, with Liam, watching him paint, not worrying about her own career. Just getting by with each other. Now, it felt as if all that had just melted away, like a dream that you can scarcely remember on waking.

She didn't even know why. OK, so she'd been reminded yet again that Liam was ill. That his condition was worsening. That it would continue to deteriorate. That whatever future there was here was at best uncertain.

But she'd known all that. For a short period, she'd been able to put it aside, pretend that it didn't exist, or at least that it didn't matter. Now, everything had come flooding back. Liam's condition. Her own isolated life and work up north. The reality that she'd have to face again once this weekend was over.

And Jake. Jake who meant nothing to her, except as a potential target for her work. Jake who was firmly on the other side. Jake who could be her entry point into Jeff Kerridge's inner circle.

Jake who was taking her for a drink in just a few days' time.

Later, when she was back up north and everything was beginning to slip out of her control, she would look back at that weekend as perhaps the last time she'd felt genuinely happy, truly content. The last time she'd felt really close to Liam.

The last time things had been simple.

Before Jake.

Chapter 14

‘Are you OK? You look all in.'

She paused in the doorway, suddenly conscious of how exhausted she was feeling. ‘Thanks, Joe. You know how to brighten a girl's spirits on a Monday morning.'

‘It's my sole aim in life,' Joe said, slumping down into the seat opposite her. ‘No, you look fabulous as always. But knackered.'

‘Stop digging. You're already in well over your head.'

‘Sorry. Just thought you've not been quite yourself lately. None of my business, of course, so tell me to bugger off. But if there's anything I can do . . .'

She regarded him for a moment. The staccato, nervous delivery of the words was characteristic, but the content less so. Even in the pub, Joe's conversations rarely veered into personal territory.

What with everything that had happened since, she'd almost forgotten her unsettling encounter with Joe a few evenings before. When she'd returned to the office after meeting Morgan Jones, her brief suspicions had melted away, insubstantial compared with the potential break-in and Jones' disturbing claims.

After the events of this last weekend, any anxiety about Joe had slipped even further into the background. She'd had a late night, little sleep, an early morning and a long drive, and was at the point where she could barely think straight. Prior to Joe entering the room, she'd been staring vacantly at the company's accounts, scarcely registering, let alone making any sense of, the figures in front of her.

‘No, I'm fine, Joe. Just not sleeping well for some reason.' She gestured towards the empty mug on her desk. ‘Need less of this stuff.'

‘If you're sure . . .' Joe made as if to rise from the chair, then paused. ‘I mean, I'm happy to hold the fort if you wanted to take the day off.'

‘When did you know me to throw a sickie, Joe?' She felt, momentarily, her suspicions flooding back.

‘Wasn't thinking of a sickie. Just a day's leave. Months since you took any time off. Not as if we're run off our feet.'

Maybe that was it, she thought. Perhaps he thought that the business was in trouble. If so, she could understand his concerns. The business was doing pretty well in fact – and still would have been even if its capital hadn't been under-written by the Agency. But times were tough. Joe was skilled in his field, but the market wouldn't be awash with suitable vacancies. It was only a few months since he'd been made redundant from his last job. They'd had a quiet few weeks. Marie herself wasn't worried because she knew there was enough business in the pipeline and plenty of good opportunities emerging from her marketing efforts. But that wouldn't be obvious to Joe, whose sights focused on the next job at hand.

She also wondered, sometimes, if she was fooling herself. It was easy to be blasé when you knew it wasn't your real livelihood. Marie paid herself a salary out of the business for form's sake – the accounts had to be audited for real – but the money was offset against her Agency salary. She worked hard at the business, but it was all play-acting. And there was another question. If she decided to pull out of the field – or if the powers that be decided for her – something would have to happen to the business.

They'd arrange some cover story – that she was selling up, closing or liquidating the business. A lot would depend on timing. If time allowed the transition to be managed properly, as when she'd moved into the role, the business might be ‘sold' on to another agent. If not – and the signs were that any withdrawal might happen at the shortest of notice – the options were more limited. They might come up with some story about her being taken ill or having to leave for some domestic reason. But that would mean the closure of the business, and Joe and Darren would be out of a job.

Another thing to feel guilty about. You come into this job with big ideals, and you find that all you're doing is dicking around with other people's lives.

‘All the more reason not to be skiving,' she said. ‘Need to be out drumming up business.' She picked up the papers on her desk and waved them towards Joe. ‘We're doing OK, Joe. But we can't afford to be complacent.'
Christ,
she thought,
I sound like a spokesperson for the Institute of Directors.

‘If you're sure. But doesn't do any good if you work yourself into the ground.'

She smiled. ‘It's sweet of you, Joe. But I'm fine. Really. Nothing wrong with me that a couple of early nights won't put right. And a beer with you on Wednesday.'

He pushed himself slowly to his feet, still looking unconvinced. ‘I mean it. You want me to hold the fort, not a problem.'

‘Thanks, Joe. I really appreciate that. And I'll take you up on it sometime. But not just yet.'

Nobody had told her quite how much acting ability this job would take. If this went belly up, she could always think about trying a few auditions. Whatever she'd told Joe, she felt bloody awful. It was mainly just tiredness. They'd spent the previous evening in casualty, going through the endless queuing and waiting that seemed to attend any kind of medical treatment.

When Liam had collapsed on the seafront, she'd initially assumed the worst – even though she didn't really know what the worst might be. In those first few seconds on the rain-soaked promenade, she'd envisaged all kinds of terrors: that he'd been taken out by some lone sniper, secreted away in an upper floor of one of the hotels that overlooked the promenade, aiming for her. Or, more prosaically, that he'd suffered some major physical trauma – a heart attack or a stroke.

It seemed like forever before her rational mind kicked back in, though it could have been only a few seconds. But then she was bent over him, the rain falling harder, as she tried to see what was wrong.

There'd been no gunshot, no wound, no sniper. That was all just her overactive imagination. Blood was oozing down his forehead from where he'd caught his skull on the metal railings, but he looked better than she'd initially feared. His eyes flickered and opened, slightly glazed, looking past her rather than at her face.

‘Jesus,' he said. ‘What happened?'

Her mobile phone was already in her hand. ‘You fell. I was just about to call an ambulance.'

His eyes opened wider. ‘Don't do that, for God's sake. I'll look a total prick.'

‘You're not feeling so bad, then?' she said. They were most likely both of them in shock. Probably not the best time for sarcasm.

He dragged himself upright, grimacing at the wet pavement under his hand. ‘I'm fine. Well, not fine. But not in need of an ambulance.'

She gazed carefully at his face, at the set of his eyes. ‘You don't look fine. We need to get you looked at.'

‘Get my head examined, you mean?'

He reached out for the railings and slowly began to pull himself to his feet, Marie helping to lift him by one arm.

‘If you like. You hit it quite badly. You might have been out cold for a second or two, I don't know. You might have concussion.' She pointed to the cut on his forehead which was still bleeding. ‘And you might need stitches on that, if you don't want to ruin your good looks.'

He touched his forehead, then looked at his bloodstained fingers. ‘Too late for that, I'd have said. But, yeah, OK. I can't deny that my head's hurting.' He paused, as though considering the matter. ‘Hurting a fuck of a lot, now you come to mention it.'

They made it back to the car, and set off in search of the closest casualty department. Predictably, the nearest hospital, which Marie had noticed earlier as they'd driven into town, no longer had an accident and emergency unit, and they'd been redirected further out of town to some newly built monstrosity designed to service the whole county.

Even on a rainy Sunday, the place was heaving with patients – most apparently suffering from gardening or DIY injuries. After a brief triage session during which a nurse ascertained that Liam's condition was not immediately life-threatening, they settled down to nearly five hours of queuing and waiting. Liam was eventually seen by a doctor, who ordered an X-ray. So they waited for the scan, then waited for the result, and then waited for the doctor to pronounce on the result. Then they waited for a nurse to dress the wound, and finally they waited again for some prescribed painkillers to be prepared. By the time they emerged into the night air, it was nearly nine.

‘Well, that was worthwhile,' Liam said, touching his forehead very gently. ‘I got a bandage.'

‘And confirmation that you're not concussed, and that you didn't need stitches.'

‘And a five-hour wait,' he said. ‘Glad you suggested it.'

‘You're welcome.' She held his arm, as he limped across the road towards the hospital car park. He was limping a little more now than he had been earlier, she thought. ‘So what happened?'

His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, concentrating on negotiating the kerbs. ‘What do you mean, what happened? I fell over.'

‘But why?' she persisted. ‘You weren't even moving when it happened. You didn't trip or slip. You just . . . fell.'

He made no response, but continued moving forwards until he was level with her car. She helped him lower himself into the passenger seat. It was only as she was climbing into the driver's seat that he offered any answer.

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I just couldn't keep upright. It was as if I'd lost control of my legs. Next thing I was on my back, staring up at your face. There are worse things to be doing, you know.'

‘Has this happened before, Liam?'

There was a silence, and it was clear that he was considering some further light-hearted answer.

‘Falling, you mean?'

‘Yes, Liam, fucking falling. What else do you think I mean?'

Liam hesitated again. ‘Once or twice, yes. At home mainly.'

She was staring straight ahead through the windscreen. ‘What does “once or twice” mean?'

‘Oh, Christ, I don't know, Marie. I haven't kept count. A few times.'

‘Like today? Out of nowhere?'

‘I suppose.'

‘Why didn't you say anything?'

‘I told you about some of them. I'm sure I did.'

‘When I came back last time, you had a bruise on your arm. Quite a big bruise. You said you'd slipped on an icy pavement.'

‘I did,' he said. ‘It was in the snow after Christmas. Everyone was slipping. It was fucking lethal. People complained to the council about it.'

‘What about the other falls?'

‘I don't know. I'm not as . . . as steady as I used to be. What do you expect?'

‘I don't know, Liam. That's the problem. I don't know what to expect.' She started the engine. ‘I don't know where things are going. I don't know if it's safe to leave you. You could have hurt yourself badly today.'

‘It was a tumble,' he said. ‘People have them all the time.'

‘Not the same people. Not all the time.'

She was seeing things now she hadn't noticed earlier. An increased shaking in his left hand. A hesitation in his speech, as if he was struggling for the right words. Her mind went back to that first weekend, when they'd been sitting outside the pub by the river. Liam saying he felt lost. He'd been tired, then, of course, and he was tired now. They were both tired. And she was putting him under pressure. But he looked different. Not the confident Liam she'd always known. He looked drawn, anxious, shaken. Not in control. As if he was glimpsing a future very different from anything they'd envisaged. Just as she was.

She put the car into gear and slowly reversed out of the parking space. ‘Let's get home,' she said. As she spoke, it occurred to her that she didn't really know where that was any more.

Now here she was, less than ten hours later, trying to readjust back into this alternative life. Joe was right. She was knackered. She and Liam had got back around nine thirty, cobbled together some food, collapsed into bed. She'd slept badly, been up again at four thirty, setting off in the frosty dawn for the long drive back up to Manchester, hoping to get past Birmingham before the worst of the traffic, stopping only to grab a black coffee at Hilton Park, her mind numbed by the endless carriageway, the drone of the engine.

She didn't know what she'd left behind, and she had no idea what was waiting for her when she arrived. Worst of all was the sense of isolation. She couldn't burden Liam with this, not now, and there was no one else up here she could talk to. Not Salter, not Welsby.

She'd forgotten to charge her mobile over the weekend, and it had been lying, dead and useless, in her handbag. Struggling to keep her mind focused, she plugged it into the charger on her desk. After a moment's hesitation, she switched on the phone.

There were a couple of messages. The first was just silence, a few seconds' breathing, number withheld. Maybe a wrong number or a marketing call.

Or maybe just the leaver of the second message plucking up the courage to speak. That wheedling intonation, the faint Welsh lilt. Morgan fucking Jones, though he didn't give his name.

‘Sorry about the other day. Cold feet. Don't know who to trust. But we need to talk. I've got out of town. I'll text you the details. Come and see me. I won't be going out.' The last sentence spoken with attempted irony, but he sounded like he was bricking it.

She checked the number Jones had called from, but it had been withheld. Then she looked at the texts. One new message. Two words, ‘Mayfield' and ‘Wilson', followed by a sequence of letters and numbers. A postcode. Presumably Jones being security conscious.

She sat down at her desk and opened up her internet browser, typing the postcode into Google Maps. A back street in Blackpool, fifty or so miles up the coast. Jesus. Jones expected her to drive up there?

She had no idea whether she could trust him, anyway. Put it another way, in other circumstances she'd trust Jones a lot less far than she could throw his chubby Welsh body. He was the sort who'd have a good idea of the market rate of his grandmother. The question was whether she could trust him now. He was shit-scared, no doubt about that. That might just push him in her direction, particularly if he thought they were in the same boat. Or it might do the opposite. He might try to use her as collateral to talk his way out of trouble with Kerridge.