Текст книги "The Blood Whisperer"

Автор книги: Zoë Sharp

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

59

Bumping along a rutted track in the back seat of a Range Rover Vogue, Steve Warwick couldn’t help the feeling he was taking his last ride to nowhere.

Of course, he’d gone along willingly—to a point. Harry Grogan had asked for this meeting in as much as a man like Grogan ever simply asked for anything. In truth Grogan had told Warwick when and where he’d be picked up without giving him the opportunity to refuse. So Warwick had allowed himself to be whisked away out of London like a lamb to the proverbial slaughter.

He sat back and watched the scenery which had turned progressively greener since they’d left the M4 motorway and struck out across the Downs. He tried to keep his face relaxed, almost a little bored, and hoped the trickle of nervous sweat along his temple wasn’t obvious to the two men in the front seats.

The driver didn’t worry him so much. He was big, yes, and from here Warwick had a good view of a squat, domed head that widened from ears down to collar into a bull neck like a mastiff. But he had the look of a slow bone-cracker and Warwick had been fast enough on the rugger field to know he could probably outpace him if he had to.

It was the passenger who set his nerve ends tingling with apprehension. The passenger was younger, apparently more languid, with rather girlie hair and designer stubble of a kind Warwick had always despised. But the eyes . . .

There was nothing behind the man’s eyes.

Warwick gripped the centre armrest as the big car lurched through another pothole, as much for comfort as to steady himself. And he wished not for the first time that he’d had the chance for a quick snort before this summons arrived. Something to bolster his confidence. Just a little.

The silent driver had turned off the road about a quarter of a mile back and since then they’d been crawling up this winding track to God-knows-where. It looked for all the world like they were taking him to his unmarked grave.

Warwick let out his breath. It emerged long and slow but shaky. He saw the front passenger’s eyes flick to his in the wide-angle rearview mirror, thought he detected a flicker of amusement there, but it was hard to be sure. Warwick swallowed, checked the knot of his tie, shot a cuff and willed himself to calm.

All it takes is nerve Steve old son, he told himself. You’ve always had plenty of balls in the past. Don’t go soft now . . .

At last the Range Rover reached more even ground, the bushes petering out into a wide expanse of lush grass that seemed to stretch for miles, offering a gently rolling view. The driver veered to the right and Warwick saw white rails and the first of a set of brushwood steeplechase fences.

Of course—the man and his damned horses!

Another Range Rover was already parked there together with an old Land Rover, its sides splattered with mud. The driver pulled up alongside them and cut the engine. He climbed out and opened Warwick’s door, indicating with a jerk of his head that he should vacate. It was not a suggestion and Warwick wasn’t foolish enough to take it as such.

Nevertheless he took his time as if not intimidated, stepping down into the wet grass. It immediately soaked through the turn-ups of his suit trousers. He growled under his breath and caught another twitch of a smile from the guy in the passenger seat.

The other Range Rover had an oversized sunroof over the rear seats. The bulky top half of Harry Grogan was visible poking out through it, a set of binoculars to his eyes. Warwick approached but was wise enough not to speak. Instead he turned and stared in the same direction shading his eyes with his hand.

Standing near the front wing was a whiskery grey-haired man with a face like old wood. He was wearing moleskins and a quilted jacket and battered flat cap. He nodded to Warwick without enthusiasm but didn’t speak. Warwick smelt horse on him and didn’t move closer.

They heard the pack before they saw them, the thrumming vibration of a dozen three-quarter-ton thoroughbreds at full stretch, each obeying the inherent instinct to get their flared nostrils in front of the others.

On the outside about halfway back was a grey horse that stood out from the rest and not just for the colour. Where the others were wholly extended, the grey horse seemed to be almost idling yet covered the ground with coordinated ease. As they came level, the grey’s jockey began to ask and the horse responded at once, accelerating effortlessly on the leaders.

They swept up a slight incline hugging the rails as they thundered past. Grogan tracked them all the way, only lowering the binoculars reluctantly when they’d disappeared from view. Even then he continued to stare after them narrow-eyed across the Downs.

“Well?” he demanded of the old man in the cap.

“He’s fit to race,” the man said shortly, surprising Warwick with his public school accent. Warwick got the impression he was no more eager to be here than him. At Grogan’s nod of dismissal the man hurried to the Land Rover keeping his gaze downcast as if to emphasise how little he’d seen and heard and bumped away down the track.

“D’you know as much about horses as your partner Mr Warwick?” Grogan asked then, offhand.

Warwick thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced up, keeping his voice casual. “I know I’d save that grey colt before all the others in a fire,” he said, dismissive. “He’s got world class written all over him.”

Grogan peered down at him sharply, his expression forbidding. For a second Warwick feared he’d gone too far with his praise, that he’d been horribly misinformed about the man’s favourite animal, his weak spot.

If you’ve sold me a line, Myshka . . .

Grogan ducked back down into the car. A moment later the rear door swung open and he was beckoned inside. The privacy glass made the interior darker and the lazing engine kept the temperature even.

“Looks like you do know your horses son,” Grogan said settling back in a corner. He pressed a button on the armrest and the sunroof buzzed closed, shutting out the sky. The car was a long wheelbase with plenty of room in the back. Warwick crossed his legs negligently and forced himself to wait as if he’d time to dawdle. As if there was nothing at stake here.

“I hope you didn’t mind this little ride out into the country Mr Warwick,” Grogan said pleasantly. “I like to come and see my horses work out every week rain or shine.” He removed the stopper from a crystal decanter in the polished rack between the front seats and splashed a measure of dark amber liquid into two heavy tumblers.

“At the start of it I only bought a couple of horses just to please my Irene,” he continued in conversational tones as he handed a glass across. “You know what women are—got to have something to keep them occupied or they get up to mischief. She loved the gee-gees did my Irene.” His face betrayed a hint of wistfulness. “Not any more of course.”

“I’m sorry,” Warwick said awkwardly. “Is she . . . no longer with us?” He dipped his nose into the glass and recognised bourbon—not his tipple of choice.

“She’s in a nursing home in Southend,” Grogan said easily. “Early onset dementia so the quacks tell me. Went doolally in her fifties poor cow.”

Warwick took a slug of bourbon anyway just to fortify himself. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Don’t be,” Grogan said. “She’s happy as Larry out there. Away with the fairies. As long as they keep to her routine and nothing upsets her. Mind you I find as I get older I’m becoming a man less tolerant of . . . surprises myself.”

Grogan sat back, sipping his drink with satisfaction, and between one mouthful and the next his demeanour turned cold. “I don’t like changes of plan for instance—or agreements that aren’t followed to the letter. You get my meaning?”

Oh shit. Warwick took another gulp of bourbon, set the glass back in its slot. “Oh, I quite agree,” he said, unconsciously letting his voice drawl.

“That’s good,” Grogan said stonily, “because the latest shipment is on its way from St Petersburg as we speak. It’s a big shipment Mr Warwick, even by my standards. One I’ve bought and paid for up front like we agreed when you said you wanted the goods brought in. We clear so far?”

“Crystal.”

Grogan nodded. “So you won’t have any trouble understanding my concern that your interim payment—due as soon as the merchandise was on its way—seems to be delayed for some reason. That sounds like an unwelcome change of plan to me.”

“My dear chap you’ll have your money,” Warwick said willing himself not to perspire further. “You have my word on that.”

Grogan sat back and linked his hands together. He had very soft white hands Warwick noticed. The kind of hands that stayed a long way from the dirty work.

“Sadly Mr Warwick, a gentleman’s agreement means bugger all to me—not being a gentleman.” He showed his teeth, a flash of white like a shark in murky water. “I need cold hard cash in advance or I’ll find another buyer. I’m offering top quality merchandise. There’ll be no shortage of takers. But if I have to go to that extra trouble there will be . . . penalties to pay. You crystal on that too?”

Fear pulled tight at the base of Warwick’s skull leaving him breathless. He felt the ground shift under him, saw opportunity begin to tilt away and fought to keep his balance mentally and physically. He paused as if considering then said, “How about I include a bonus—on delivery? Full payment plus shall we say an extra five percent? To ensure future goodwill.”

Grogan continued to stare at him, chin sunk down as if the only thing he was contemplating was a mid-morning nap. “Ten percent,” he said at last.

“Seven.”

“Make it eight Mr Warwick and you’ve got a deal,” Grogan said giving no sign of pleasure at the extra profit. “This time. But I better have it in triplicate from the gnomes in Grand Cayman that the money’s sitting pretty in my account before that ship unloads or I will be . . . upset Mr Warwick. Very upset.”

“It will be there.” Warwick offered his hand to shake on the deal but Grogan continued to stare like a fat reclining toad. After a few awkward seconds Warwick withdrew his hand and climbed out blinking in the unaccustomed brightness. By the other Range Rover the sumo-style driver was waiting with the rear door already open for him. The passenger lounged against the front wing watching.

“Oh, and Mr Warwick?”

He turned to find Grogan had lowered the rear window and was leaning towards the aperture.

“Yes?”

“Muck me about again son, I’ll cut off your balls and feed them back to you. Understand?”

60

Detective Constable Ian Dempsey was so engrossed in the information on his computer screen that he only registered DI O’Neill’s approach in the periphery of his mind and vision. Nothing snapped into focus until a refill mug of coffee was plonked down next to the cluster of empties already vying for desk space by his elbow.

“There you go,” O’Neill said. “You look like you could do with a belt of caffeine.”

Dempsey sat back in his chair and stretched both arms above his head. He was abruptly aware that his deodorant was not living up to its twenty-four-hour promise. He rubbed his hands across his face against a rasp of stubble.

“You got that right,” he said wearily. “Cheers boss.”

The coffee was weak instant but it was hot and wet and for that he was prepared to forgive its shortcomings. Swallowing half of it down in one go he put the mug back on the desktop feeling distinctly more human and glanced across at the huge whiteboard at the far side of the office. A picture of Kelly Jacks was tacked up as the sole candidate under ‘Suspects’. Next to it was a snap of the dead kid Tyrone Douet, smiling broadly. The shot had been cropped down from a larger image of the lad with his five-a-side team. Half a football trophy was still visible on his shoulder.

“Any sightings?”

Dempsey shook his head. “She seems to have gone to ground boss. But we’ve plastered the city with her picture and description so it’s only a matter of time.” He sounded hopeful rather than confident.

O’Neill perched on the edge of the desk and nodded to the computer. “You find anything?”

Dempsey shook his head. “I’ve been going over the old reports on the Jacks case, looking for the kinks.”

“You think there might have been something off with it?”

The DI’s tone made Dempsey sudden cautious. “Not sure boss. The guy in charge—DCI Allardice—was before my time. I mean, he was an effective copper if his record’s anything to go by but reading between the lines he took a few short cuts.”

O’Neill scowled and, too late, Dempsey recalled that O’Neill had worked under Allardice when he was a DC.

Bugger. How the hell do I get out of that?

He was saved from doing so by a new voice from the doorway.

“Just because you were Frank Allardice’s blue-eyed boy doesn’t mean you were blind to his faults Vince,” said the chief super.

O’Neill got to his feet and turned to face John Quinlan.

“No sir,” he said neutrally.

Detective Chief Superintendent Quinlan advanced further into the room and Dempsey quickly slid his chair back to get to his feet but Quinlan waved him down again without taking his eyes off O’Neill.

“I hope you’re not letting old loyalties get in the way of the job?” Quinlan said.

“No sir,” O’Neill said again. “But Allardice is retired and well out of it—has been for a while now. What’s the use of digging any of it up unless Tyrone Douet’s death somehow relates to Jacks’s murder of Callum Perry?”

“And does it?”

O’Neill glanced at Dempsey before answering. “Not as far as we know sir.”

“Hmm,” Quinlan said. He came to a halt and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. “When the man who was in charge of an old case jumps on a plane and comes winging over here double quick just to tell you what a slam dunk it was—and how guilty she was—it makes my spidey-sense tingle gentlemen.”

O’Neill frowned and Dempsey hid a smile.

“I suppose he could have said all that in a phone call.”

“Indeed,” Quinlan said and turned his attention to Dempsey. “So what did you find that’s set your spidey-sense atingling?”

Dempsey hastily scrolled up the on-screen file.

“Mr Allardice never ordered blood tests on Kelly Jacks first time round,” he said. “Nor did he look into her statement that Callum Perry claimed to have information to trade—information which might have given someone other than Jacks a reason to want him offed.”

“She was found with the bloody knife in her hands,” O’Neill pointed out with a touch of acid in his voice. “That makes for a pretty compelling case. You certainly thought so at the time sir.”

Dempsey tried not to audibly suck in a breath but Quinlan let the pointed remark whizz past him without ruffling his hair.

“I did,” he said heavily. “And if I was mistaken then I want to rectify that mistake—but not loudly and not in public.” His stony gaze was a warning. “At the moment we don’t know how the drugs in Jacks’s system got there but we’ll find out. Meanwhile concentrate on finding her and bringing her in. Anything else is secondary.”

“Yes sir.” The assent came from both men.

“And let’s be robust about this, gentlemen. Follow up every lead. We can’t be seen to be going easy on her because she used to be one of us. Get out there and shake some trees—see what falls out.”

He nodded in dismissal and had already turned away when O’Neill asked, “What about Frank Allardice?”

Quinlan paused, considering. “Put someone on him until we know what his game is,” he said at last. “He did his best to give the force a bad name while he was still within it. I’m damned if I’m going to let him succeed now he’s on the outside.”

61

Myshka unlocked the flat door and yanked it open. Outside she found Steve Warwick with his fist still raised in the act of pounding to be let in. A couple of workmen were passing by on the pavement behind him, their heads turned to watch his antics. They nudged each other and grinned broadly when Myshka appeared in the doorway.

She pulled the silk wrap—in scarlet this time—tighter around her body and glared at all three of them. Her state of undress infuriated her less than being seen with a complete lack of cosmetic armour.

“What is this? What are you doing here?” She kept her voice imperious. “Where is your key that you have to make all this fuss?”

“I left it at the office,” Warwick muttered pushing past her. “I need to talk to you. And no it can’t wait, dammit!” he added when she would have protested.

Myshka cursed inside her head in two languages. Sometimes he could be so stupid—just like Dmitry. Men. Hah! Coming here like this, causing a scene. Causing people to remember . . .

She slammed the door behind him. Warwick slumped against the wall of the entrance hall as if exhausted, loosening his tie. She smelled alcohol on his breath.

“Pull yourself together. Why have you come?” She grabbed his arm, gave it a shake. “Tell me!”

Warwick managed to raise a tired smile at being manhandled. “Well for once I haven’t come for that darling,” he said managing a bitter smile. It faded as he took in her wrap. “You are alone, I take it?”

Her head came up, imperious. “You expect me to be?” But instead of a sharp rejoinder she got only a wave of defeat—and fear. She made her voice soften. “I was going to take bath,” she said more gently. “Come up.”

He looked pathetically grateful to be taken in. But not so grateful, she noted, that he didn’t poke his nose inside the tiny bathroom at the top of the stairs. Just to check the bath was full and the room was empty.

The Harrow flat was supposed to be a bedsit but Myshka rarely spent any time there except in bed so there was nowhere to sit. In the bedroom she turned to face him as she lit a cigarette, her eyes never leaving his face.

“Tell me,” she said again.

“He sent for me this morning.”

“Who?”

“Grogan—Harry bloody Grogan! Who do you think?” Warwick raked a hand through his hair, ruffling it out of style.

Myshka hid a smile, pursing her lips. “And for this you pee your pants?”

That worked to curb the fear and turn it into a petulant anger instead. “What do you take me for? I played it cool naturally, but it was close—too close,” he complained. “He suspects, I know he does. Good God, I thought those goons of his were going to kill me and bury me out there . . .”

Myshka put her cigarette down into an ashtray and crossed to him. She put one hand on his shoulder and stroked his hair back soothingly with the other. “Hush,” she murmured throatily. “If you are here unharmed then he suspects nothing, hmm?”

She would, she determined, find out later just how convincing Warwick had been. Either from Grogan himself, if he was feeling talkative, or from Dmitry. Dmitry might not be great at picking up on subtleties but he could judge Grogan’s moods well enough by now.

Besides, if Grogan thought Warwick was becoming a problem it would likely be Dmitry who was sent to deal with him.

This could . . . complicate things.

“Relax,” she said now, smiling. “Remember what we talked about. A little bravery now and you will be a rich man. A very rich man.”

For once he twisted out from beneath her hands, his movements jerky with agitation. “The shipment arrives next week,” he said. “And I haven’t the money to pay for it. Hell, I haven’t even the money to pay for part of it which is why I had to promise Grogan a big fat bonus on top, which—”

“How much?”

He stopped, looked a little shamefaced as he admitted, “Eight percent.”

“Eight?” Myshka laughed. “Oh my darling you drive hard bargain. He would usually ask for twenty.”

Warwick lightened momentarily as his ego kicked in but it soon passed. “He may as well have asked for two hundred,” he snapped. “Don’t you understand? I haven’t a hope in hell of paying him. I should never have let you talk me into this! Oh God what was I thinking trying to cross a man like Harry Grogan—?”

Myshka went to him again, letting the edges of the wrap slip apart as she pressed herself against him. His breath hitched, eyes starting to glaze and this time he didn’t push her away. He was so easily distracted.

“You worry too much,” she said softly, her own gaze on his slackening mouth. “Is all taken care of. This time next week you will have no cares, I promise.” A millimetre from his lips she drew back. “You do trust me, hmm?”

“Hell of course I do darling,” he said. “It’s just, you weren’t there today. It’s a big risk.” He frowned, unwilling to confess just how scared he’d been, she realised. Instead he said, “I suppose I don’t like the idea of . . . turning against Matt either. We’ve known each other a long time and—”

Myshka kissed him, long and slow, angling her pelvis into his groin as she did so. “He is holding you back,” she breathed. “You do not need him.”

“No, no I don’t,” Warwick groaned as she sank to her knees in front of him. He heard the slow rasp of his zipper and his eyes flickered to a close. “Not like I need you.”