Trust No One by Alex Walters Page B

appropriately polite noises, and would probably be in touch if and when they needed her services. One or two had, to date, ignored her.
    That was actually a decent strike rate, she told herself. She was particularly pleased to have made real progress with Kerridge, who was, after all, the biggest fish in this northern pond. Even there, though, a small voice whispered in her ear that all she had was the trial order for some legit business and the opportunity to hand over some money at a charity do.
    It was that, probably, that made her mention Jake Morton. But what she’d said was true enough. She did have a feeling about him. And she knew from experience that her feelings in such matters were often right.
    â€˜I’m not saying we should approach him now,’ she said. ‘I’m just saying keep tabs on him.’
    She suspected that Salter was more interested than he was letting on. If there was anything in what she was saying, it could turn out to be a big deal. And if there were any big deals in the offing, Salter wanted to be the one doing the dealing. He’d be careful to ensure his backside was covered, but he’d want to grab more than his fair share of any credit that was going.
    Salter picked up the coffee jug, weighed it briefly in his hand, and then looked disapprovingly at Marie’s recently filled cup.
    â€˜You really think he might be interested?’
    â€˜I really don’t know, Hugh. Like I say, it’s no more than a hunch. It was just something in the way he spoke—’
    â€˜What did he actually say?’
    She thought back to her brief, inconsequential, mildly flirtatious conversation with Morton at the charity dinner. What had he actually said? Not much that she could put her finger on. Not much beyond polite small talk.
    â€˜It wasn’t anything he said, Hugh. He’s not an idiot. He’s not going to start blethering on about Kerridge and Boyle and the whole shooting match to someone he’s never met before, is he?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Salter agreed. ‘So what makes you think he’s pissed off?’
    â€˜Oh, God, Hugh. You know how it is. He makes a joke or two that sound like they’re not quite jokes. His tone of voice. Things he doesn’t say. I don’t know.’
    Salter was still toying with the coffee jug, as if he were hoping that it might magically refill itself or, more likely, that Marie might take the hint and order another round.
    â€˜It’s always delicate, you know. If we get it wrong – if we even time it wrong – we’ve blown it for good.’
    â€˜I know that, Hugh. I’m not an idiot either.’ She knew it very well, although unlike Salter she’d never worked as a front-line handler. Her intelligence role had involved collating data on potential intelligence sources – informants, grasses, whatever you wanted to call them. She knew how difficult it was to get the good ones on board, and how sensitive the seduction process had to be. Not the small fry – the ones who’d slip you some usually worthless titbit of information in exchange for fifty quid in untraceable fivers. But the ones who really mattered. The ones who could offer you real access to the people at the top.
    There weren’t many of them, but they were critical. In the end, these people were often the lynchpins of the Agency’s painstaking efforts to build a watertight case against some target villain. They’d be major sources of evidence, maybe even key witnesses in the prosecution case. Success or failure might depend on what they were prepared to say or do, whether they were able to hold their nerve. They all knew the risks they were taking. Whatever steps the Agency might take to protect them – new faces, new identities, new lives – in the end they’d be left turning in the wind. Without friends. Without a past. Maybe without a future.
    Christ knew why