option, is it?’
The whole thing felt wrong. Too soon. Too risky. Too ill-prepared. Shit, the last time she’d done this they’d spent months preparing her for it. They’d had the legend worked out to the last detail. Every minute of her fictional past. Every last nuance of her character and personality. She’d had an answer worked out to every possible question that might be thrown at her.
They’d put her through exercise after exercise. Memory tests. Role playing. Even that bloody farce where they’d snatched her from the airport car park and terrorised the life out of her. By the time she’d hit the street, she’d been note-perfect.
And now, what? Just over three weeks of scrambled briefings, cobbled-together documentation, hurried liaisons with informants who clearly thought they had better things to do that make her life any easier. And here she was, sitting outside the head honcho’s office about to stick her head firmly on the block. The whole thing felt so bloody amateurish.
The smart-suited young secretary emerged again from the main man’s office and regarded Marie with a look of disdain. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said, with no obvious sign of sincerity. ‘He really won’t be much longer.’
The secretary didn’t bother to offer any explanation for the delay, but Marie hadn’t really expected any. She’d already assumed, perhaps unfairly, that this man, McGrath, was most likely just sitting in there with his feet up reading the Daily Star. For all that she felt unprepared, Marie had seen through this place immediately.
She smiled at the secretary. McGrath doubtless called her his PA. ‘Not a problem,’ Marie said. ‘I appreciate how busy Mr McGrath must be.’ She smiled warmly at the young woman, who now smiled uneasily back, perhaps growing conscious that her assumptions about Marie might not be entirely justified.
That was the only consolation, Marie thought. She might feel as if she’d been tossed carelessly into the deep end, but she’d already seen enough to know that, for the moment at least, she wasn’t out of her depth. Bunch of cowboys, she thought, glancing around at the large secretary’s office. All show, and no substance.
It had taken her a few minutes to register the fact when she’d first arrived. On the surface, it had all looked impressive enough. A neat little unit in a serviced office block just off the main drag near the centre of Chester. Half a mile and a world away from the city of Roman remains and bijou fashion shops, but it probably still had what the property agents would describe as a prestigious address. The Victrix Business Park, for Christ’s sake.
Inside, though, it wasn’t quite right. The place was an old factory that had clearly been converted hurriedly. Okay, perhaps not quite as hurriedly as she’d been converted into Maggie Yates – and, come to that, couldn’t they have found a more prestigious name for her as well? – but more hurriedly than the building’s pretensions required. She was no expert, but even sitting here Marie could see that the wallpaper was badly applied, the paintwork sloppy, the carpet cheap and already beginning to wear. Even the office furniture looked outdated. Not, she suspected, the kind of image that McGrath was hoping to project.
There were other signs, too. As the secretary had led her in from the chilly unattended lobby, Marie had glimpsed the rear courtyard through one of the windows. A miniature junkyard – an old fridge, a discarded sink unit, a broken table lined with paint pots, all overgrown with weeds. If the offices had been recently converted, she might have thought it was just waiting to be tidied, but this place was no longer new.
Even the staff weren’t up to scratch. There had been no one at the reception desk in the lobby, and no response when Marie had pressed the electric bell on the desk. After a while, she’d used her mobile to phone the number she’d been given. The secretary had answered the call and, after a few minutes, had bustled officiously through into the lobby. Marie suspected that the secretary and McGrath himself were the only occupants of this part of the building.
She knew that these thoughts were partly just a displacement activity, a way of not thinking too hard about the fragility of the ice beneath her. Salter had been full of reassurance and had even wheeled out Winsor, the psychologist, to confirm just how emotionally resilient she would be in the face of diversity. Or something like that. Winsor had spouted his familiar professional gobbledygook and she’d nodded politely, knowing by then that it was all going to happen anyway.
Jesus, then there was Liam. When she’d finally broken the news that she was going back out into the field, he’d responded better than she’d feared. He’d taken the news calmly, shrugged, told her that, yes, of course she had to keep things going at work. He absolutely understood that. He wouldn’t want it any other way.
She’d enjoyed a few seconds of relief at his reaction before she became concerned. At first, she thought that Liam was reverting to the passive-aggressive style he’d perfected in the early days of his illness. But this felt different. This felt sincere. And that raised questions about what was going on in Liam’s head. There were times, already, when he seemed like a different person.
She’d tried to put all that from her mind as she’d made her way up here. She and Liam had danced round the issue of her departure, talking about the practicalities rather than the emotional impact of their separation. The practicalities had been challenging enough. She’d had to ensure that a suitable care regime was in place for Liam. He was already barely capable making his way around the house, even in the wheelchair, and was no longer able to look after himself reliably. He had two carers, funded by social services and supplied through some agency, who had been coming in twice a day to prepare him a meal and, essentially, check that he was okay. After a little negotiation, they’d managed to add another visit in the evening while Marie was away. Marie had had the impression that the main carer, Sue, hadn’t been all that impressed by the idea of Liam being left alone overnight. But what other option did Marie have?
‘Mrs Yates?’
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
