Текст книги "The Blood Whisperer"

Автор книги: Zoë Sharp

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

62

It was late afternoon before Kelly finally plucked up the courage to contact Matthew Lytton.

A part of her was aghast that she could possibly want to have anything to do with the man. But another part wanted—no needed—an explanation. About why he’d done what he’d done.

If she was going down again at least this time she’d know the reason behind it.

Email seemed like the coward’s way but she went for it. He’d spelled out his private email for the forensics lab and Kelly had always been good at remembering details like that.

She set up an anonymous email account and composed a brief message but her fingers stilled with the cursor hovering over the send icon.

Annoyed with herself, she pushed back her chair and jumped restlessly to her feet, shoving her hands into her pockets as if to stop them doing something she’d regret.

“Let it go Kel,” she said out loud. How many times had she said those words to herself? They didn’t help.

She was glad she was alone in the flat. Tina had a job manning the phones at a local centre for battered wives. Elvis was . . . wherever he drifted to during the day—when he could peel himself off the sofa. Kelly was still not entirely sure of the relationship between Tina and the silent youth. As far as she was concerned it was none of her business.

Besides if he wasn’t encouraging Tina to shoot up, beating her or pimping her out, then he sounded like a real step up on half the male company her friend had endured over the years. It was a pleasure to see her clean and focused.

Still, there were worse things a man could do to a woman. Betrayal came top of Kelly’s list.

“I’ll regret it if I don’t do this,” she said, decisive now. And she sent the email winging through cyberspace before she could think better of it.

The laptop displayed a busy symbol for maybe a second or so, during which time Kelly was nearly overwhelmed by the temptation to pull the plug on her impulse. Then it was gone and too late.

For the next half an hour nothing happened and she was filled with a sense of anticlimax.

He might not reply for days, she considered. He might not reply at all.

If Tina was here she knew her friend would be giving her stick for reaching out to Lytton. For giving him a second chance.

Would those five years inside have been easier to bear she wondered, if she’d known who and why?

No probably not.

She busied herself activating the phone which had been charging since Tina brought it in. Then she stood by the window gazing down into a tiny paved square that the planners no doubt envisaged as a communal play area between the blocks rather than the windswept No Man’s Land it had become.

Below her the figure of a black teenager with a lanky stride walked diagonally across the square, hands deep in the pockets of his sweatshirt, baseball cap slanted to a hip angle. Kelly was reminded—suddenly and painfully—of Tyrone. Of his clumsy affection. A crush he’d never have the chance to outgrow. She felt her eyes threatening to fill.

As if coming to her rescue the laptop let out a subdued ping. She bent towards it and saw one new email waiting for her. The address was anonymous like the one she’d just set up herself but there was no mistaking the sender.

Lytton.

This was what she’d been waiting for but now it was here she was strangely reluctant to open it. She shook herself and punched the key. The message was not what she’d been hoping for. A two-word terse response.

Call me.

A cellphone number followed. Nothing else.

Kelly sank slowly into the chair still staring at the words. True, her own message had not been much longer but she’d expected more than this.

Again she hesitated. She wasn’t clever enough with computers to know if staying online was dangerous. The tangible rather than the virtual had always been her field of expertise. Could he backtrack her location?

Somehow she doubted the police would be hovering over his shoulder at this moment as they had been with Tyrone’s mother.

As a halfway house measure she switched to instant messaging instead.

KJ—Just tell me why.

He swapped over without a blink, the answer batting straight back at her.

ML—Could ask you the same question. Why run out on me?

Was he testing her to see how much she knew?

KJ—Why did you send him after me? she countered.

ML—Send who?

She paused. Ah well . . .

KJ—You know who—the man at the racecourse. The one from the warehouse.

Again the response was almost instant, with exasperation coming through loud and clear.

ML—I know nothing about this. YOU were using ME remember?!?

Kelly sat back. She’d expected placatory lies not indignation. She’d expected to be able to cling to a righteous anger of her own, not be beset by sudden doubts.

KJ—Just tell me WHY Matthew.

She realised after she’d sent it that the words held nothing but a weary defeat.

There was a longer pause before his reply this time. She imagined him sitting frowning over a laptop of his own somewhere—somewhere more upmarket than Tina’s Brixton bolt-hole that was for sure. At last another message came through.

ML—We NEED to talk. I’ll meet you. You choose where.

He was clever she acknowledged. Somewhere safe would be too public. It would invite recognition and capture. Somewhere remote would do half his work for him.

Damn him.

Kelly picked up the cellphone and stabbed at the keys.

“Matthew Lytton.”

“I’m listening,” she said. “So talk.”

“Kelly! Where are you? No don’t answer that,” he said before she could do so—even if she’d been inclined. “I don’t expect you to tell me.”

“Too bloody right,” she said crisply.

He sighed. “Look Kelly I don’t know what’s going on with you but I thought we were in this together. You came to me, remember? Were you really just stringing me a line like you told Yana?”

“No,” Kelly said. She opened her mouth to throw more of Yana’s allegations back at him then shut it again quickly. What would it achieve beyond a quick pointless release of temper? He was hardly likely to confirm what Yana had said and it could make an already bad situation even worse for the poor woman.

“You’re the one who’s been stringing me along,” she said coolly. “Setting me up for your pal Grogan to take care of.”

“Grogan?” he repeated with what for all the world sounded like a genuinely blank note in his voice. “What the—?” He broke off. “Kelly what the hell are you talking about? You mean Harry Grogan? He’s no pal of mine I can promise you that.”

“Nice try,” she said. “So how come I found a picture of the two of you looking very pally over some champion racehorse?”

“Hell, you’re condemning me on the strength of a photo taken God knows how long ago?” he fired back. “Yes I owned a part-share in that bloody horse—along with half a dozen other people. Grogan elbowed his way into the syndicate just so he could stand in the winner’s enclosure at Epsom. I sold my share soon afterwards and I haven’t dealt with him since. I would have expected you of all people to keep an open mind about circumstantial evidence Kelly.”

That stung, as it was intended to.

“And is it circumstantial that the same man who was at the warehouse when Ty–Tyrone was killed just happened to turn up at the racecourse yesterday?” She managed to keep her voice firm even though she stumbled over Tyrone’s name just a little. “Who else knew I was going to be there, Matthew?”

“I told nobody,” he said, brusque. “If I’d wanted to do anything to you I’d have done it the night before while you slept in my arms.”

She shivered at the intent behind his words. Here again was the ruthless streak she’d sensed in him, the drive and ambition. How far did he let it command his actions?

This is a huge mistake!

“Kelly,” he said quickly as if he knew she was about to cut the call. “Look, I get that we’ve only known each other a few days but when are you going to realise you can’t do this alone? Sooner or later you’re going to have to trust someone. Why not make that someone possibly the one person who wants to find out what the hell is going on just as much as you do?”

Kelly wavered and hated herself for it. But she still had too many questions. About his Russian dealings mainly. What had his wife discovered which so upset her shortly before her death? And had Matthew Lytton indeed murdered her?

“Clapham Common,” she heard herself say. “Near the Long Pond. Know it? You’ve got an hour.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised. “Just make sure you are.”

63

DI O’Neill drove across London with the chief super’s orders to “shake some trees” foremost in his mind. He hoped it would prove a viable defence if his visit provoked some flak.

The connection to Kelly Jacks was tenuous but it was a connection nevertheless and he would be neglecting his duties if he didn’t chase it down.

Yeah, and I can just hear you spouting that pious rubbish at your disciplinary hearing, Vincent old son.

He’d left Dempsey in the office still working his way down the list of known associates, so far without success. It seemed that anyone Jacks mixed with socially before her conviction—even her own family—had not picked up the threads again after her release. It was hard to tell if it was her choice or theirs.

Of the people she had spent time with recently, her boss was still in hospital after a vicious beating by person or persons unknown and her closest colleague was dead.

Proper little Typhoid Mary aren’t you Kelly?

O’Neill swung the pool Mondeo into the private car park and saw the figure of a man striding towards a low-slung sports car, arm outstretched to disarm the security system. O’Neill accelerated briefly and pulled up directly behind the man’s space, blocking him in.

Matthew Lytton already had the door to the Aston Martin open but he jerked round at the sound of the Mondeo’s handbrake being roughly applied. O’Neill noticed, not without satisfaction, that there was a distinct edge of guilty shock in his face.

And just what are you up to, sunshine?

“Mr Lytton,” O’Neill said cheerfully as he stepped out the car. “Going somewhere?”

The other man stiffened. “I have an appointment, detective inspector,” he said pointedly eyeing the obstruction. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“This won’t take long sir,” O’Neill said keeping his own expression blank and official. “Here or down the station—it’s up to you.”

Lytton gave a heavy sigh and closed the Aston’s door. It shut with a solid expensive thunk. “Let’s get on with it then shall we? Believe it or not I have a business to run.”

“Of course you do sir,” O’Neill said soothingly and watched the slight relaxation of the other man’s shoulders before he hit him with the next question. “Kelly Jacks—you wouldn’t have heard from her by any chance?”

Lytton was good. If O’Neill hadn’t been watching intently he wouldn’t have caught the betraying little tells of tension in the other man’s face and body, the way he shifted his feet as if for a sudden getaway.

“Why would I?” He should have left it there but was unable to prevent himself adding, “She cleaned part of my house—once. On that basis we’re hardly likely to exchange Christmas cards are we?”

O’Neill leaned his hip against the Aston’s rear quarter, folding his arms. “I think there’s a little more to your relationship than that isn’t there, sir?” And he noted with interest the uncomfortable reaction but Lytton didn’t make the mistake of bluster. He took a moment to resettle himself and then merely cocked an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

O’Neill glanced around at the upmarket cars surrounding him, at the heavily revamped building they were parked outside and his eyes narrowed, assessing. “This one of your developments is it?”

“Yes it is. And?”

“Made quite a tidy sum out of the property game over the years haven’t you Mr Lytton? I understand it’s all a question of luck—happening across the right place at the right time for the right money. That so?”

“Yes,” Lytton said curtly and this time he didn’t try to expand or explain. O’Neill took that as his cue to cut to the chase. No point in playing with someone if they weren’t prepared to play.

“Four years ago you bought a warehouse in . . .” O’Neill let his voice trail off, making a show of hunting through his notebook for the address and then reading it out. “It’s now a rake of luxury offices and apartments. You made quite a killing on it so I hear.”

Lytton made a gesture of impatience. “I may have bought the building you describe, detective inspector,” he said. “My company buys a lot of property all over the world. Without going through the files I couldn’t say.” He peeled back the cuff of his dark wool overcoat to check his watch. “It doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Really sir?” O’Neill pursed his lips. “Only, I thought this one might have stuck in your mind for some reason.”

A muscle twitched in the side of Lytton’s jaw. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

Got you jumpy now haven’t I?

“Because that particular building was on the market almost derelict for nearly two years before you bid them peanuts for it,” O’Neill said quietly. “Do you recall why that was?”

Lytton had gone very still, his gaze resting coolly on the detective. “Go on.”

“Well according to the information that’s come to light sir, no buyer had been found because of a very nasty murder that took place there. A young barman by the name of Callum Perry was stabbed to death on the second floor.”

“I’m sorry I still don’t—”

“He was killed by a woman called Kelly Jacks.”

Lytton’s mouth snapped shut. He was silent for a long time, brows drawn down into something resembling a scowl.

O’Neill watched him closely. “Ring any bells now sir?”

“I didn’t make the connection,” he said tightly. He looked up, expression smoothing out, back into confidence and, O’Neill felt, arrogance. “It was a long time ago and like I said, detective inspector, I buy a lot of property.”

How very convenient.

O’Neill waited to see how long Lytton would spin out his memory lapse. Not long if the way the man soon checked his watch again was anything to go by.

“I doubt you came all the way over here just to remind me about a time several years ago when my path might have crossed with Kelly’s, even at a distance,” he said. He reached for the Aston’s door handle again. “Now, I’m going to be late for a very important meeting. Was there anything else?”

“Just one thing sir,” O’Neill said heavily. “I’d hate you to feel you . . . owed her anything for any reason. So I’d just like to remind you that if she should happen to get in touch we’re open twenty-four hours a day.” He handed over a card which Lytton took with obvious reluctance. “Please call us.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you sir. I’d hate to have to pursue you for aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive. Not on top of your recent . . . tragedy, that is.”

But his subtle warning was lost as Matthew Lytton slid behind the wheel of the Aston and fired the throaty engine. The reverse lights were already blazing before O’Neill was back inside the Mondeo.

O’Neill took his time buckling the seatbelt and starting the engine before he put the car into gear and pulled slowly out of the way. Lytton shot out of his space and chirruped the tyres on the block paving as he dumped the big car into first.

“Wherever you’re going sunshine, you’re certainly in a bloody hurry to get there,” O’Neill said out loud.

He briefly considered tailing the Aston just to make life awkward for its owner. The impulse didn’t last long. Lytton was not above making his feelings felt, O’Neill guessed. One irate phone call to the chief super—or the press—and I’ll be down-sized onto shit duty in some godforsaken ghetto.

Still it hadn’t been a wasted journey by any means.

He picked up his cellphone, pressed the office speed dial.

“Dempsey?” he said when the line was answered. “Do me a favour will you? Put in a request for Matthew Lytton’s phone records—home, office and cellphone. Let’s see if he’s been in contact with Jacks.”

“You think he might have been boss?”

“Yeah I do.” He cut the call, sat for a moment deep in thought. “Why else,” he murmured to the empty car, “would you refer to a woman—one you claim to have met only once—by her first name? Only a small slip, Mattie boy, but still a slip . . .”

64

Kelly checked her watch and shut down the laptop. She knew she was cutting it fine to get to Clapham Common in time to meet with Lytton but the last thing she wanted was to hang around somewhere public. She reckoned he’d give her five minutes’ leeway.

She shrugged into her hooded sweatshirt and picked up the backpack which still contained his wife’s borrowed clothes. At least this gave her the chance to return them—or throw them back in his face. Her hand tightened on the straps. She hadn’t yet decided which.

The slam of the front door to the flat made her start. She glanced up to see Elvis slouch into the living room. He stopped when he saw her, eyes circling to take in the closed-down laptop and the backpack she was holding.

“Tina said you was to stay put,” he said sounding aggrieved. “You need anything I’m supposed to get it for you.”

“I need to go out—just for a while,” Kelly said giving him what she hoped was a placatory smile. “I have to meet with someone—someone who might be able to help me.”

Either that or Harry Grogan’s thug will be waiting for me again.

Elvis shook his head, emphatic. “Not a good idea,” he said, moving forwards so he blocked her path to the door. “Erm, what about after dark? Wait ’til then. Safer, y’know?”

Kelly paused, eyeing his agitation with her own sense of disquiet. “I need to go now Elvis,” she said gently. “In fact I’m probably going to be late, so—”

“You can’t leave!”

“Why not?” Kelly gave a cool stare at his outburst. He shuffled his feet, flushing but didn’t move out of her way.

“You just can’t go, all right?” he said, his voice turning belligerent now but Kelly caught an underlying note of panic there too.

She froze. “Elvis, what did you do?”

“Nothing!” But he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “You just stay here, yeah? And everything will be cool.”

“Round here they’d sell their granny for less.”

She remembered Tina’s opinion on the ten-grand price on her head. Alarmed now, she made to push past Elvis but he gave her an unexpected backwards shove. She stumbled, reaching out for the Formica table to stop herself falling.

When she looked up, Elvis was still in the doorway, defiant. A slim-bladed knife had appeared in his right hand.

“Elvis don’t do this,” Kelly pleaded, getting her feet back underneath her very slowly. “It’s not worth it.”

“What do you know about that?” he threw back at her. He swallowed, tried to purge the whiny note from his voice and failed. “Where else am I gonna get hold of that kind of dosh? It’ll get me started, y’know? It’ll put me on the map.”

He wants to buy drugs most likely, Kelly realised. Ten thousand would allow him to buy in as a mid-level dealer without having to claw his way up from the bottom of the pile—if he didn’t end up dead in six months from stepping on too many existing toes. Either that or he was going to expand his budding stolen electronics sideline, like the laptop sitting on the table just behind her right hand . . .

“You really think they’ll pay you?” she asked. “You think that little blade will stop them coming in here and taking what they want and leaving you with nothing except a bad taste in your mouth?”

“Shut it!” He seemed jittery, wired, unable to keep his feet still. Kelly’s eyes flicked between the knife and the body behind it, trying to gauge experience and intent. Not much of either, she judged, but an unhealthy dose of desperation made him just as dangerous.

“Put the knife down, Elvis and we can all walk away from this—”

She saw the sudden flare in his eyes. “Nobody’s walking away!” he yelled, lunging forwards.

Kelly’s fingers closed on the corner of the laptop. She dragged it off the table and flung it round and out, aiming straight for the boy’s head.

Then she leapt for the knife.

65

Dmitry shot through a set of lights as they flicked up to amber, narrowly avoiding the front wing of a black cab as he did so. The cab driver jumped on the horn. Dmitry barely had time to curse before he was bullying the Range Rover through the choked-up traffic.

I should have used the Mercedes, he recognised. But for this job he needed the extra space not to mention the car’s off-road capability. Unmarked graves were much better dug in the middle of nowhere.

In the passenger seat—seemingly unfazed by the wild ride—was Viktor, who’d driven Steve Warwick out for his meeting with Harry Grogan on Lambourn Downs. Viktor sat with his massive arms folded, chewing gum with his mouth open and his brain shut.

Viktor might be stupid as an ox but he was strong as one too. This time Dmitry was taking no chances with that goddamn woman. He’d brought backup.

His phone buzzed insistently. Without bothering to check the caller, Dmitry threw his iPhone across to Viktor to answer. After his low-slung Mercedes the Range Rover handled like a pig, rolling alarmingly under hard cornering even if it did stick to the road. He needed both hands on the wheel.

Viktor fumbled with the phone’s touch screen controls.

“Da?” There was a long pause during which time the big man’s brow furrowed deeply. He dropped the phone to his shoulder. “How long Brixton?”

“I don’t know!” Dmitry snapped. “Traffic is awful in this city. No respect!” As if to demonstrate, he leaned on the horn in response to a bus that was attempting to creep across into his lane. “I only got the call a half hour ago. We are almost there.”