Free Trust No One by Alex Walters Page B

bastards.’
    â€˜It’s not over yet,’ Salter said. ‘Morton gave us a lot. Copies of paperwork, documents. Helped us get surveillance devices in there . . .’
    She didn’t want to be reminded how courageous Morton must have been in those last weeks. She still didn’t know what had really motivated him. She’d known he wanted to cut his ties with Kerridge, but there seemed to be something stronger driving him.
    They normally kept Chinese walls between informants and undercover operatives to minimize the risk of leakage, so she’d heard only secondhand reports. At first, they told her, he’d been like every other intelligence source, warily feeding out titbits, constantly suspicious, scared of his own shadow at each meeting with his handler. But once he’d learned the ropes, found out who to trust, his attitude had changed. He seemed to have a mission to bring down the world he’d been part of. With no prompting, he’d offered himself as a prosecution witness in any case that they might bring, and had reinforced the offer by producing file after file of incriminating material.
    She knew from Salter that Morton’s behaviour had worried them at first. They thought he’d either lost the plot, or was playing some complicated double bluff. But after a while they’d concluded that he was serious. It could go on for only so long, but it gave them time to dig some real dirt. A month later, they arrested Pete Boyle, with Morton scheduled to be the key prosecution witness. Another day or two and they’d have taken him into witness protection. Another day or two. Just a question of getting the fucking paperwork in order.
    She turned back from the window. ‘These visitors. What did they do?’
    Salter hesitated. ‘They killed him. Eventually.’
    â€˜Christ.’
    â€˜What they did wasn’t nice,’ Salter said. ‘Punishment. Pour encourager les autres.’
    â€˜As we used to say down the nick,’ Welsby said. ‘And we reckon they were trying to find out how much he’d told us.’ He sat, chewing silently for a moment. ‘And whether he knew anything he hadn’t told us yet.’
    Marie sat down and took a sip of her coffee. Cold and bitter. Appropriate enough. ‘You think he did?’
    â€˜He’d more or less told us so,’ Welsby said. ‘Stuff he wouldn’t hand over till nearer the trial.’ He paused. ‘He still didn’t trust us. Not entirely.’
    â€˜Sounds like he was on the button,’ Marie said tartly. ‘As it turned out.’
    Welsby leaned forwards and picked up one of the biscuits. He regarded it suspiciously, as if unsure of its provenance, then thrust it whole into his mouth. He chewed briefly before speaking, untroubled by the shower of crumbs across his shirt front.
    â€˜True enough,’ he said. ‘Whoever got to Morton knew what they were up to right enough.’
    â€˜You think Kerridge has someone on the inside?’
    Welsby shrugged. ‘It’s possible. Or some poor bugger fell asleep at the wheel. Bastards like Kerridge hoover up every bit of intelligence out there, wherever it comes from.’ He made a play of swallowing the last of the biscuit, then reached for another.
    Salter had risen from the table and was busy, in a halfhearted manner, exploring the interior of the room, pulling open drawers, flicking absently through the bowl of coffee and sugar sachets on the hospitality tray, peering into the built-in wardrobe. It wasn’t clear what, if anything, he was looking for. They all wanted to be out of this box-like room, Marie thought.
    â€˜Poor bastard should have just told us everything,’ Salter muttered, his voice angry. ‘He’d have been safer that way.’
    â€˜Not much,’ Marie pointed out. ‘But it would have made your life easier.’
    â€˜Yeah. Inconsiderate bastard.’ He withdrew his