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eyeballing her suspiciously because she’d turned up somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. She could change her hair, her clothes, her lifestyle; but it wouldn’t cut any ice if the wrong people became suspicious. ‘But what if they do, Hugh? What if someone looks at me and thinks, wait a minute, that looks like old Marie who used to run the print shop in Trafford Park?’
    â€˜Christ, Marie. It’s not going to happen, right. You’re the best person for the job, that’s what it comes down to. You can do it.’
    Jesus, he was trying to flatter her now. Flattery wasn’t one of Salter’s strong points. His compliments always sounded insincere, she assumed because he didn’t really believe that any other person could match the towering talent that was Hugh Salter. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Hugh,’ she said. ‘You’ve just come to me because I’m convenient. If you tried to give this to one of your youngsters, you might actually have to put some effort into training them.’ She paused, conscious that she was coming close to saying something that she really might regret. ‘Do I actually have any choice in this?’
    â€˜There’s always a choice, sis. But I really want you to give it a go.’
    â€˜I’ll think about it.’ She knew that she might as well have saved both their time and just said yes there and then, but at least she could string out his discomfort for a day or so. ‘Chester?’
    â€˜Chester,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a different world. Jesus, it’s nearly Wales. Safe as houses. No contact with the Manchester bunch at all, so far as we know.’
    So far as we know. Hardly the ring of bloody confidence. How much did they know? Three-fifths of fuck all, if past experience was anything to go by. ‘Drug trafficking?’
    â€˜Mainly.’ There was a look of relief on Salter’s face, even though he was trying hard to hard to keep it hidden. He knew he had her hooked now. Once you started talking about the detail, there was no going back. ‘One of those who’ll bring in anything if the price is right. Some cigarettes and booze, but mainly the hard stuff. Comes across from the east coast ports, and then they distribute it around Chester and North Wales.’
    â€˜But not Manchester or Liverpool?’
    â€˜There are bigger fish operating up there. No point in this one trying to compete. He’s got a nice little niche of his own, without antagonising the competition.’
    It made sense. The north west was carved up pretty thoroughly by the big boys. That elite bunch had included the infamous Jeff Kerridge, until Salter had blown off the side of Kerridge’s head, supposedly in self defence. They’d had intelligence that Kerridge’s widow, the very redoubtable Helen, was continuing her late husband’s good work. And now Pete Boyle, Kerridge’s former protégé turned competitor, was out of prison and, by all accounts, also rebuilding his influence around Manchester.
    That was the real source of her unease, even now. There’d been a point, six months before, when she was convinced that Salter was on Boyle’s payroll. Salter had claimed that, with no one to trust, he’d been forced to go freelance to gather definitive evidence against Kerridge and their corrupt former boss, Keith Welsby. Welsby had ended up behind bars, and was still awaiting trial after a botched suicide attempt. Salter had emerged smelling of roses. But Marie had suspected that the scent concealed a more noxious stink. If Boyle had been looking to depose Kerridge, maybe Salter’s intervention hadn’t been so public-spirited after all. And that in turn raised questions about the manner of Kerridge’s death.
    She’d agreed to join Salter’s team because she wanted some closure on all that. She wanted to find out the truth. But the last six months had proved