Nowhere to Hide (8 page)

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.

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.