Текст книги "The Blood Whisperer"

Автор книги: Zoë Sharp

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

43

O’Neill spotted Frank Allardice as soon as he walked into the little tapas place just outside Covent Garden. The retired detective chief inspector was holding court at the bar, a pint of lager half-drunk by his elbow, giving the barman the benefit of his vast experience.

O’Neill paused in the doorway. Allardice was just the same as he remembered. Older maybe, browner of skin and thicker of waist, but still the same arrogant sod he’d always been.

Allardice turned at that moment and spotted him, giving the barman chance to beat a hasty retreat.

“Vince! Good to see you, old son.” Allardice thrust out a meaty hand for a bone-crushing shake. “What’ll you have—a pint? My shout.”

“Just a half, Frank,” O’Neill said, disengaging his fingers while they still had feeling. “Some of us have got to work this afternoon.” And the days of turning up half-cut after long boozy lunches went out about the same time you did.

“If you say so. Hey! Half a lager down here rápido, por favor.”

O’Neill leaned an elbow on the bar, friendly but less rooted than taking the next stool along. “So how’s life on the Costa Del Crime these days?”

“Flourishing, my son,” Allardice said taking a swig of his lager and pulling his lips back in appreciation. “Better than this poxy shit-hole that’s for sure. Any time you fancy packing in the daily grind and coming out to run another bar for me, sergeant, you let me know.”

“It’s inspector now,” O’Neill said mildly, nodding his thanks to the barman who put down the half-pint and fled again.

Allardice pursed his lips. “Is it now? Well done, old son. Always knew you were destined for greatness—right from when you were a newly minted DC still wet behind the ears and only just old enough to shave the bum-fluff off your chin.”

It was hard to tell, O’Neill reflected, if Allardice was being sincere. His style of delivery had always veered between sardonic and outright sarcastic.

“So what can I do for you, Frank?” he asked. “I assume you didn’t ask for a meet to discuss my career prospects.”

Allardice grinned at him. “Still the same old impatient Vince eh?” he said. “All cut to the chase and no foreplay with you is there?”

“I can dance when I have to,” O’Neill said taking a sip of his drink. It was cold enough for condensation to have formed already on the outside of the glass. “But your ego was always plenty healthy enough without any stroking from me.”

“You got that right, old son,” Allardice agreed amicably. “You must have learned to play the suck-up game though. You’re still a bit of a whippersnapper to have made DI.”

O’Neill suddenly got the impression he was being sounded out about something. He kept his expression neutral. “Didn’t you hear, Frank? Our policemen are getting younger every day.”

Allardice laughed out loud at that. “Too right,” he said. He slid off his stool and picked up what remained of his drink. O’Neill noticed that the man’s hands were starting to liver-spot and although the hair on his head was still suspiciously dark and glossy, the mat visible at the open neck of his shirt was looking decidedly grizzled. Allardice and Quinlan had been contemporaries but the chief super had aged if not better then certainly more gracefully.

“Let’s go sit out back while we’re still allowed to have a smoke there at least,” Allardice said with a jerk of his head.

O’Neill picked up his lager and followed the ex-copper out to a tiny yard at the rear of the bar. A couple of rickety patio tables were huddled together under a space heater. An attempt at landscaping had been made with a scatter of half-hearted plants in terracotta pots that had been used as ashtrays. Allardice sat and looked around him with contempt. He fished in his pocket for a red and white pack of Fortuna cigarettes and offered them across.

“Gawd. If they gave me charge of this place for six months I’d double their turnover for them,” he remarked, lighting up. “No worries.”

“Quite the expert aren’t you?”

Allardice grinned and raised his glass. “I’ve three bars and a restaurant now,” he said. “Bloody entrepreneur that’s me.”

O’Neill tired of the swagger. “Why did you come back, Frank?”

“I heard the news about Kelly Jacks—up to her old tricks again,” he said. “Thought you might want all the gen straight from the horse’s mouth. Doing you a favour.”

“Heard the—” O’Neill began and his eyes narrowed. “It was only released this morning.”

“So? Spain’s a civilised country. Our EU brothers and all that. Besides, I had a bit of business back home anyway, so—two birds. I pulled a few strings and hopped on the first cheap package jet out of Málaga. Rang you from Heathrow.”

“Why the big hurry?”

Allardice regarded him for a moment with that expressionless gaze he’d used to such effect during his years as a copper on a tough patch. “Because I warned ’em when they locked her up that she was one loopy bitch. They should have thrown away the key but she was clever. Clever enough for there to be an element of doubt about why she did it.”

“The amnesia plea you mean?”

“Amnesia my arse,” Allardice snorted. “She did it and she knows full well she did it. That was the best she could come up with to wriggle out of a cast iron murder charge. She attacked and killed Callum Perry and tried to get away with it. End of story.”

O’Neill paused. “She keeps bringing up the case she was working on at the time,” he said carefully. “I’ve been looking into the files. A dead prostitute. Remember that one too?”

“I may have gone soft around the middle old son but that doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft in the head. ’Course I remember. Jacks was just trying to make a name for herself—you know how they get. They watch too many TV shows and think it’s all about the geeks. It was just another hooker made a bad decision and paid the price for it. End of story. Jacks just couldn’t face being wrong.”

O’Neill frowned. “Did she even know Perry?”

Allardice took a long pull on his cigarette and shook his head as he exhaled. “Not as far as we could work out. He was just a barman up the East End. Jacks claimed he’d asked for a meet but we couldn’t find anything to support that. She said she didn’t know what he wanted and next thing he’s dead.” He gave a short laugh. “Difficult to claim it was an accident when she stabbed the poor bugger about eighteen times, so she comes up with all that crap about not being able to remember.”

“And you never found out what Perry might have known in relation to the case?” O’Neill asked. He fixed his former boss with a cool eye. “If this is going to come apart on me Frank, I’d like a heads up.”

“Not a sausage,” Allardice said firmly. “Whatever he knew—if there was anything for him to know in the first place—he took it with him. Kelly Jacks made sure of that.”

44

“You look . . . pensive,” Lytton said. He sat relaxed, draping an arm along the back of the empty chair alongside him.

“Wouldn’t you in my position?” Kelly asked. They were in the members’ bar at the top of the modern grandstand. Midweek with no event in progress the place was almost deserted and the view was stunning.

Directly beneath them were the private boxes with their slanted glass walls looking out over the track. The boxes were set slightly forwards of the grandstand seating to give unobstructed sight of the action. Here the privileged could go from expensive lunch to closeted luxury without ever having to mix it with the hoi polloi below.

Kelly glanced at the debris of an excellent meal which had yet to be cleared from the starched tablecloth and admitted, “If this is being on the run I could get to like it.”

Lytton smiled, then asked, “You really think you’ll get to the bottom of this when the police haven’t?”

“I don’t think they’re trying,” she said levelly. “It’s too tempting to go for the obvious explanation and forget the rest. And I worked for the police don’t forget. I was a crime-scene specialist for nearly ten years so I know the real cleanup rate not just the figures massaged for public consumption.”

He nodded and reached for his glass of imported lager. Kelly had started out on sparkling water and was now drinking tea. They sat in comfortable silence until he asked suddenly, “There was something in the news reports about you—from back then—I didn’t quite understand.” Only his raised eyebrow made it a question.

Kelly forced herself not to tense up. “And what was that?”

“Your nickname,” he said. “They said you were known as ‘the blood whisperer’. It’s not a term I’ve ever come across.”

She smiled. “I’m not surprised. It was more a bit of poetic licence than anything else.”

He gestured with his glass. “Go on.”

She took a moment to find the right words, neither too serious nor flippant. “Evidence speaks to me,” she said at last simply. “Maybe I learned how to listen better than most.”

“And what did Vee’s workspace have to say to you?”

“It tells me the kind of person she was.”

“Which is?”

Kelly hesitated again, choosing her words carefully. For all his apparent detachment he still referred to his wife—still thought of her—in the present tense.

“Organised,” she said, “maybe to the point of obsession. She seemed to write everything down more than once. There was a diary and a day-planner—both were filled in and kept up to date. So I would say . . . good on the details, neat, sharp, vain.”

“Vain?”

Again Kelly paused. How do I say that she doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d ruin her good looks by putting the barrel of a gun into her mouth and blowing the back of her head off? Pills yes. Maybe even a hosepipe from the car exhaust. But a rifle? No.

“This suit as a backup for a start. Spare cosmetics and hosiery in her desk drawer,” she said instead. “Clearly she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d be happy being seen out with smudged lipstick or laddered tights.”

Lytton’s mouth twisted. “I’d say you’ve got her taped,” he said. “She never goes . . . never went anywhere without full make-up and her BlackBerry, like a shield and armour. She loved that thing—said the blue matched her eyes. I swear she’d even have it with her in the bath.”

He stopped suddenly aware of what he’d just said. Kelly stepped easily into the awkward moment.

“That would be the ultimate definition of multitasking,” she murmured. She lifted the lid of the teapot and gave the contents a swirl. “So where is it?”

“It’s . . .” His voice trailed off. “You know, I’ve no bloody idea,” he said at last, surprise in his voice. “I’ve already been through her study at home and it wasn’t there or at the apartment. And we didn’t find it in her desk today—not that she would leave it here. I’ve known her turn around practically at the front gates and drive back to town if she’d forgotten it.”

Kelly said nothing. Her mind had already jumped ahead but she realised that voicing her suspicion—that if the device wasn’t to be found somebody must have taken it—would bring an instant denial. This she had to leave him to work out for himself.

She turned her head and stared out deliberately over the scope of the racecourse while he wrestled with it. After a few minutes he asked, “How long have you known?”

She turned back, found him watching her intently, leaning forwards in his chair. She was almost unnerved by the intensity of those dark grey-green eyes.

“As long as you have, probably,” she said. “She was your wife after all. You’d have known her best.”

His mouth twisted in a derisive smile that held no amusement. “Knowing Vee wasn’t easy,” he said. “Very little pierced that icy façade. Trust me—I tried. Eventually I had to accept that we had signed a contract not a marriage licence. I gave her wealth and she gave me a certain . . . respectability. Anything more wasn’t on the table.”

She heard the frustration and the sadness, opened her mouth but before she could speak another voice broke in.

“Matt! Thought I’d find you up here.”

Kelly heard the annoyed hiss of Lytton’s escaping breath. She twisted in her chair to see a man weaving towards them between the largely empty tables. Fair-skinned and blond he was shorter and more squat than Lytton but in no way running to fat. He wore an expensive suit with careless elegance, one hand stuffed into the jacket pocket.

Trailing behind him was a dowdy woman who seemed to walk with her eyes permanently downcast and her shoulders rounded defensively so that she was almost crabbing. She was so plainly dressed it was hard to put an age on her. Kelly guessed forties but she could have been ten years out either way—it was hard to tell. With her face devoid of make-up and her dark hair pulled back severely from her face the woman seemed completely over-matched by her surroundings and company.

With obvious reluctance Lytton rose and shook the newcomer’s hand. The woman presented her cheek meekly for his kiss. Kelly got the fleeting impression she did so because she knew Lytton expected it but took no pleasure in the greeting herself.

“Steve Warwick,” the man said turning to Kelly and bending over her exaggeratedly as he took her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Kelly pushed her chair back and got to her feet as much to put some distance between them as for politeness. She gave him a purposely limp grip knowing he was the type to take anything else as a challenge.

“No we haven’t,” she agreed smiling sweetly. “Nice to meet you Steve.”

Warwick looked her up and down like he was gauging the price and frowned, glancing at Lytton.

“My business partner,” Lytton said shortly. “And his wife Yana.”

Kelly disengaged herself and reached round Warwick towards the woman hovering in his shadow. “Hello Yana.”

“Am pleased meet you,” Yana mumbled her English heavily accented. She barely touched her fingers to Kelly’s before dropping back as if trying very hard not to be noticed.

“Won’t you join us?” Lytton said with more than a hint of sarcasm as Warwick was already plonking himself down next to Kelly, ignoring his wife. It was left to Lytton to wave Kelly back to her seat and pull out a chair which Yana slunk into.

“So, who are you?” Warwick asked more baldly, something of his bonhomie disappearing. “Only I couldn’t help noticing Matt had signed you in as his PA and I’m fairly sure I know all our staff pretty well.” His eyes wandered up her lower legs in leisurely inspection. “So what kind of tasks do you personally assist Matt with, hmm?”

“Kelly is simply a friend,” Lytton said quickly as if he knew how she was likely to react to this kind of innuendo. Kelly briefly considered smacking Warwick’s legs for him like the snotty child he was. She snuck a quick peek at Yana while all this was going on but the woman kept her gaze firmly on the table linen, frowning as if deep in thought.

“A friend eh?” Warwick said with something close to a leer. “You dark horse you.”

“Steve—” Lytton began warningly but Kelly interrupted him with a bright smile.

“OK let’s get this out in the open,” she said. “I am not shagging your business partner and have no desire to do so—certainly not within days of his wife dying. Nor, if you’ll forgive me for being blunt, do I find you remotely attractive either. And no I’m not a lesbian, since that’s bound to be your next question.” She caught the eye of a lurking waiter. “Now that’s out of the way shall I order more tea?”

Warwick opened and closed his mouth a couple of times then said faintly, “Erm coffee for me.”

Lytton quietly saluted her with his glass. Yana continued to stare mutely at the tablecloth.

Kelly ordered from the waiter. Silence formed around his departure and she cursed inwardly. Such an outburst was not going to help her stay below the radar but she’d lost patience with oafs like Steve Warwick a long time ago and learned that life was too short to suffer them when she no longer had to.

She grabbed the handles of her bag, sitting next to her chair, and got to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Lytton, “but I think I need to get back. Thank you for showing me round the place. And for lunch.”

“You’re welcome,” he said rising. “I’ll drop you wherever you need to go.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at Yana, receiving no response, and gave Warwick a cool stare. “Goodbye. Meeting you has been . . . interesting.”

“Likewise,” Warwick drawled recovering something of his poise.

She nodded to Lytton and hefted the bag. “I’ll just get changed. I’ll meet you in the car park.”

45

Lytton watched her walk away from the table fascinated by the way the heels emphasised the definition in her calves. All that climbing certainly had an effect.

Warwick leaned in towards him. “For God’s sake Matt are you out of your tiny mind?” he demanded in a savage whisper. “I know who she is. I recognise her from the other day at the house never mind the news reports. What the hell are you doing bringing her here of all places?”

Lytton eyed the other man’s anxiety without concern. How did he explain? It was probably best not to try.

“She was determined to investigate,” he said instead, keeping his voice even, dispassionate. “And in that case it seemed preferable by far to have her on the inside.”

“One phone call and she’d be on the inside all right,” Warwick muttered, “of Wormwood bloody Scrubs.”

Lytton linked his hands on the tabletop, put his head on one side. “Isn’t that a male prison?”

Warwick made an irritated gesture as if flipping away an annoying insect. “You know damn well what I mean,” he complained.

“Of course—but this way she’s keeping me informed every step she takes.”

“I don’t like it. It’s a risk.”

“Risk of what exactly, Steve?” Lytton asked, his voice dangerously soft. “There isn’t anything you want to tell me is there?”

46

In the Ladies’ room, Kelly changed back into her own clothes with a feeling that was half regret and half relief.

She slid the grips out of her hair, ran her fingers through it vigorously to return it to its usual more comfortable casual style. But as she fastened the belt of her cargoes she glanced at the lavender dress hanging on the back of the cubicle door.

“Nice try,” she murmured to herself, “but it’s just not me anymore.”

She folded the dress as carefully as she could into the backpack aware that it was probably going to need dry cleaning just to get rid of the creases.

She wasn’t expecting company so it was a surprise to find Steve Warwick’s wife Yana waiting anxiously by the doorway when she stepped out of the cubicle.

“Hello,” Kelly said cautiously. A frightened mouse the woman might be but she could still recognise Kelly from the news reports.

Yana ducked her head by way of greeting and hurried over with wide pleading eyes.

“You need go,” she said urgently, fingers grasping Kelly’s arm. Her nails were short and discoloured. “Please hurry.”

“Yana, I . . . Why?” Kelly asked flatly.

The other woman looked about to burst into tears. “My husband is bad man,” she said as if the information was being tortured out of her. She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “He do things that are . . . illegal. I do not know what to do.”

“I’m very sorry but—trust me—I’m the last person you should be asking for help right now.”

“Help?” Yana said, her face blank. “No, no! You no understand. I try help you.”

“What?”

Yana shook her head as though frustrated by her own lack of vocabulary, accent thickening. “He deal with peoples from my home country. How you say? Bad men.”

“Gangsters,” Kelly supplied, her mouth going suddenly dry.

“Da! Gangsters,” Yana said. “That how I came here—as payment. You understand?”

Bastards. “Oh I understand.”

Yana nodded, eyes still flitting to the doorway as if expecting her husband to burst in at any moment and drag her out by the hair. “He and Mr Lytton they talk about you just now. Mr Lytton he say he ‘want you where he can keep eye on you’, yes?”

“Did he now . . .” Kelly’s voice was cold but she felt something shrivel into a hard tight knot in the centre of her chest.

“I work sometimes for poor Mrs Lytton. I know she hear something bad—something that make her very unhappy—about her husband.”

“What was it?”

Yana shook her head. “I don’t know. She not tell me. But after two days she dead. And now I scared.” She was twisting her hands together until the knuckles showed white. “My husband he send text to someone—I think about you. You need go now! Before he hurt you too . . .”