Nick ran. When the insomnia gripped him, exercise was the only thing that soothed his mind. The only drug he was willing to take.
It was 5:45 a.m. but the sun had been up nearly an hour. For as long as he could remember, Nick had run at this time of day. Something about the quiet of the early morning always helped him to achieve some measure of peace as his feet found a rhythm all their own through the deserted streets.
It hadn’t taken him long after moving to Kendal to work out a series of testing routes. There was plenty of hill work. Every road out of the grey stone town involved a steep climb. The only drawback used to be tearing himself away from Lisa’s warm body.
Not any more.
He could still remember the day, weeks ago, when he’d got home to find Lisa gone, and Sophie gone with her. Lisa had taken her clothes and most of Sophie’s favourite toys. It had been all he could do not to weep. He increased his pace, feeling the muscles start to block and burn, glad of the pain.
They’d had a pretty combative relationship but he’d always thought they were well suited, underneath the sparks. It was certainly never dull. He still couldn’t work out where it had all gone wrong.
At least having a case of sorts to work on would keep him from wallowing. Otherwise, before you knew it, he’d have the old photo album out, and the Jack Daniel’s, and he’d seen too many friends take that long slide to oblivion.
No, better to sweat it out. What better way to outrun his demons?
This morning he’d chosen the most punishing circuit. He was on the home stretch, alongside the River Kent, past the weir and, on the far side of the river, the old Provincial Insurance building that had been converted into upscale apartments. There were two swans in the water, a dead tree, a flutter of ducks.
Nick crossed over the narrow footbridge, ran the length of the car park on New Road and dropped back onto the path again before he checked his watch and finally slackened his pace as he reached the nearby flats. The wind was sharper here, funnelled by the concrete, bottled in. His sweatshirt was stained dark and the early chill bit right through.
The case was not as interesting, he acknowledged, as the CSI who was working it. There was something about Grace that triggered responses he’d thought were dormant. He was aware of momentary reflex guilt, shrugged it away.
The path widened out. Up ahead was another footbridge across the river to Aynam Road where home was a flat in what was once an old organ works. Not much industry left in the town now—not with the insurance giant and the shoe factory gone.
As he approached the bridge, Nick glanced over and saw a man on the other side, near the entrance to his own building. A brief glimpse of a smallish, slimmish figure in a dark suit, not an obvious threat. But something about him pricked Nick’s senses, and he hadn’t survived five years of undercover assignments by ignoring his instincts.
He allowed his fatigue to show while he considered his options. There was a time when he’d never gone anywhere without a weapon, even out running. Especially out running. It took a moment to remember he didn’t lead that kind of life any more.
Nick jogged up onto the bridge, slowing as he neared the midway point and finally recognised the man. Matthew Mercer. There’d been a time when Mercer had known Nick’s habits well enough to realise where he was likely to be at this hour, if his car was in its designated bay and there was no answer to the bell.
Nick stopped altogether then, leaning forwards with his hands braced on the guard-rails at either side of the bridge.
“Mercer,” he said, not loud, but loud enough. “What are you doing here?”
Mercer crossed the deserted road without haste, climbed the steps onto the bridge, and started out towards him. Nick was surprised. From what he remembered of him, Mercer wasn’t the type to meet you halfway on anything. He waited until he was a few yards away.
“What do you want?”
Mercer stopped, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his suit. “Oh, Nick,” he said with that wide open smile of his. “Is that any way to greet an old mate?”
“No,” Nick agreed flatly. “Call me fussy, but I don’t count people who’ve tried to have me killed as mates. Sorry.” He showed his teeth without humour, added, “Sir.”
If anything, Mercer’s smile broadened. “Operational snafu. That’s the way it goes sometimes with undercover. You of all people should know that.”
“You lot covered your own backsides and left mine swinging in the wind,” Nick said. “I don’t think it qualifies.”
Mercer shrugged, dismissive. “Well, you’re looking fit, anyway. No lasting effects. Still getting those headaches?”
Nick ignored him, turning sideways to rest on his forearms and stared down into the water eddying around a half-submerged rock. He tried to work out if the momentary satisfaction he’d gain from chucking Mercer into the river would be compensation for a ruined career.
Way things are going, will it make much of a difference?
“I can’t believe you’ve come all the way up from London just to enquire after my health. So, what nasty little business does Special Branch have in a backwater like this?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mercer said cheerfully. “I’m on my way up to deal with some ‘nasty little business’ in Glasgow, so this is just a detour. And you’re behind the times. It’s the CTC now—Counter Terrorism Command. Should have joined us while the offer was on the table, Nick. We have all the best toys to play with.”
“Yeah, but I’m fussy who I work with, too.”
Mercer laughed. “And this coming from a guy who used to mix with the scum of the earth…”
“Exactly.”
The laughter dried but Mercer continued to regard him with a lingering smile. Irritated that he recognised the bravado for what it was, Nick straightened, moved to step past.
“So, you’re reduced to investigating dead dogs.” Mercer’s voice was conversational but enough to halt him. “Is that all you’re up to these days?”
Nick opened his mouth in instant denial, was afraid he might not pull that one off convincingly. How the truth hurts.
“Come to gloat? What do you want, Mercer?” he asked again, wearily. “Last chance.” He gestured down at his damp clothes. “I’m dirty and I want my breakfast, and unless you have something to say, I feel the need to wash away the stink.”
The sideways insult didn’t go unregistered, he noted, but it was interesting that Mercer didn’t rise to it.
“Yesterday morning you were called out to a Firearms incident involving the wife of a Member of the European Parliament. Angela Inglis.”
“Bit outside your remit, isn’t it?”
Mercer lifted a careless shoulder. “Anything that concerns the politicos falls into our lap, as it were.”
Nick shook his head. “A dog was killing sheep. That’s considered a crime in these parts. Someone shot it,” he said flatly. “And if you want to know more, might I respectfully suggest, sir, that you put in an official request for a copy of my report.”
Mercer let him take a couple of strides.
“Your inspector’s name is Pollock, isn’t it?” he said casually. “Is he an early riser, do you know? Because otherwise, I’m just about to get him out of bed to tell him one of his junior officers is refusing to co-operate with the CTC.”
Nick glanced over his shoulder and found Mercer a picture of innocence, holding up his mobile phone.
Nick let his breath out on a long sigh and delivered a clipped précis of events that gave the bare bones of what had happened without adding anything of Grace’s conclusions.
Nevertheless, Mercer said, “Sharp, this CSI, isn’t she?”
“Very,” Nick snapped. “So, are you going to tell me what your interest really is in all this? I don’t believe you go haring off round the country every time some politician’s wife clicks her fingers. What’s so special about this one?”
“We do random checks every now and again. I promised Angela I’d make sure it was being taken seriously.”
Angela. Something about the way he said the name plucked at Nick’s nerves. Familiarity and connection. More than just professional. More than just a random check. A slip.
“I take every case seriously.”
“Of course you do.” Mercer smiled. “Best man for the job.”
An elderly woman in a tweed cape appeared from the direction of the flats pulling what appeared to be a small fluffy rat on a lead. She didn’t notice the two men until she’d actually stepped onto the bridge, and then she grew wary, tugging the rat tightly against her ankles as they passed. Mercer turned and gave her another of his wide smiles. She gripped the lead even tighter and bolted.
Good judge of character, Nick thought sourly.
“The dog belonged to Inglis, not Frederickson, didn’t it?” he said abruptly, after the woman had gone. “No way would you be going to all this trouble otherwise.”
Mercer said nothing. Nick glanced at his carefully noncommittal face and nodded slowly.
“Why pretend it was his unless she was trying to side-step responsibility? Hardly going to cause a career-breaking scandal for her old man that, is it?”
The sarcasm got a response, not much more than a twitch, but something. Mercer was too aware of his disadvantage in height to step in close, get right in Nick’s face, but his stare was a cool threat all by itself.
“Duncan Inglis is a big wheel. Plenty of people a lot further up the food chain than you or I, take a very close interest in anything that might affect him or his family.” He paused, let his gaze flick across Nick’s sweat-stained figure with the faintest sneer. “If you want to salvage what’s left of your career, detective constable, you might like to bear that in mind.”
He walked away quickly, leaving Nick standing in the middle of the bridge. On standby, an official-looking Volvo appeared out of the car park behind Nick’s building and pulled up as Mercer reached the kerb. He gave Nick a jaunty wave before climbing into the passenger seat. The car had tinted glass and Nick couldn’t see the driver, but he memorised the registration as they pulled away. Quite why, he wasn’t sure; just a reflex.
In the flat, he jotted the number down in his notebook, along with the gist of the conversation. Another habit gleaned from years of undercover work.
By the time he’d finished, the writing covered several pages and his hand had begun to stiffen. He rubbed it absently.
They’d broken all the fingers of his right hand, that last time. When he’d been compromised. Such a sanitised word for the mother of all cock-ups. The enquiry had never quite pinned down blame, but the way Mercer’s Special Branch boys had scrabbled to distance themselves said more than enough.
Whoever was responsible, the result was that Nick’s cover was well and truly blown. The gang he had successfully infiltrated did not take kindly to the discovery of a traitor in their midst. All smiles and slaps on the shoulder, they’d lured him to a meet in a disused warehouse, remote enough that nobody would hear his screams.
As well as his fingers, they’d broken three ribs, his nose for the second time, caused serious internal bleeding, fractured his skull. They’d been rushed, or they would have done more. He’d spent a fortnight either unconscious or so far out of it on the drugs the doctors had pumped into him as to make no difference.
For Lisa, it was the final straw. She’d gone crazy, had every right to. Difficult to repeat his glib assurances that the risks were minimal, calculated. Not with a pair of armed officers guarding the door to his hospital room. She’d caught him at a weak moment, mumbling promises he hadn’t the heart or stomach to go back on afterwards.
Now, sitting in his empty kitchen, listening to the ache in his bones, it seemed to Nick, in a leap of twisted logic, that the man from CTC had cost him everything he held dear.