Текст книги "The Blood Whisperer"

Автор книги: Zoë Sharp

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

71

“Miss Olowayo, is it?”

Even with her eyes closed Tina could guess what she was going to see when she opened them. The owner of that voice, the way the question was phrased, it had cop written all over it.

Wondered when you’d get here . . .

She let her breath out slow and risked it. Sure enough the guy hovering in the hospital room doorway carried himself tough, almost cocky. She didn’t like the shrewd look in his eye though, like he’d heard it all and seen more. If she had to deal with them at all, Tina preferred her cops dumb.

She straightened in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair by the bed not sure if the creak she heard was from the plastic or her bones and jerked her chin towards the newcomer’s jacket.

“Let’s see it then.”

The man sighed as he reached for his warrant card. Tina took it from him and compared the photo to the face, going over it a careful twice. Detective Inspector Vincent O’Neill.

She returned the ID as if losing interest, her eyes sliding back to the still figure under the sheets. They’d partially shaved his head in theatre. Elvis was gonna hate that she thought, more than anything. There was a ventilator tube holding his lips parted, dressings covering one eye and his reset nose. His arm was busted so they’d told her, and most of his ribs like he’d been stomped on.

Tina didn’t know for sure what had gone down. Elvis hadn’t woken up in the ambulance on the short ride to King’s College Hospital which had the nearest A&E Department, nor since he’d come out of surgery. They weren’t saying if they expected him to wake at all.

She thought about a future stretching away where she was alone again. The possibility hurt like a son of a bitch.

All in all, it had been a long night and it was nowhere near over yet.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” O’Neill said, straightforward, without the ‘had it coming to him, sooner or later’ attitude Tina had been half expecting.

She swallowed. “Me too.”

He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned against the door jamb. Tina took in those wide shoulders and wasn’t fooled by the relaxed pose—he was blocking her escape and they both knew it.

“Want to fill me in on what happened?”

Tina took her eyes away from Elvis’s pale face for a moment. “He clumsy,” she said keeping it just this side of insolence. “He trip and fall.”

“Yeah and I would say he hit every fist and boot on the way down.”

“Don’t know.” Tina shrugged, let her gaze fall away. “Wasn’t there.”

O’Neill fell silent. Tina resisted the urge to look at him, knowing that was what he wanted—a sign of weakness.

And right now I am real close to giving in.

She heard him move again, caught a glimpse from the corner of her eye and stole a quick look only to find O’Neill had plonked himself in another visitor’s chair on the far side of the bed and was watching her. She snatched her gaze away, scowling.

“You’re looking good Tina,” he said softly. That got her attention full on.

“Excuse me?” She bristled. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you,” he said. “My DC’s been telling me all about you. What you’ve been up to over the last few years. And I meant what I said—you’re looking a hell of a lot better than you did on your last arrest photo.”

“I wasn’t doing so good back then,” she allowed, keeping her voice even. “You track me down just to tell me that?”

“No but even without this—” he gestured to the hospital in general, “—we’d have been having a conversation sooner or later.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You see, you fall into the category of Known Associates of one Kelly Jacks. And she is someone we definitely do want to track down.”

“Who?”

He smiled and it wasn’t a friendly smile. “Come on Tina, I’m trying to be nice. Don’t spoil things by trying to play me for a fool. You and Kelly were inside together.”

Tina sat back setting the chair bouncing slightly and glared at him. “So I knew her. So what? Knew a lot of people inside. Prisons is overcrowded—didn’t they tell you?”

“Just shows we’re doing our job.”

“Yeah, putting people away who’s innocent. That sound like your job?” And just for a moment she thought she saw a flicker in his face like the barb had hit home. Then it was gone.

“I read your case file. It was a cock-up—start to finish,” he said frankly. “But Kelly got you out. In fact she did more than that didn’t she, Tina? She straightened you out too. You owe her. Big time.”

Tina continued to glare. “Debt’s paid,” she said, her voice gruff to stop it being hurt and angry.

O’Neill’s eyes flicked from her to Elvis’s bruised and battered face, his brows drawing down. “You mean Jacks is responsible for this?”

“Who knows?” But the macho disbelief in his tone smarted enough for her to add, “You don’t think she got it in her? Not when she went in maybe. But she learned fast inside—and there was plenty gunning for her. Ex-cop—”

“She wasn’t a cop,” he said quickly.

“Tech—whatever. Still one of you wasn’t she?” Tina flapped a hand. “Try explaining the difference while you’re having your pretty face cut up in the showers. See who listens then.”

“So why would she do something like this to Elvis?” he asked. “Did he try to cut her up, is that it?”

Tina clamped down on the possibility that Elvis had let his own greed get the better of his judgement. She’d found him spread all over the living room floor when she’d rushed back from the shelter, had called for an ambulance right away. And while it was coming she’d searched just in case for anything nearby that Elvis wouldn’t want found.

She knew he carried a blade—for self-protection. Made sense given the area but it wasn’t on him. Kelly must have taken it away from him in the fight.

And there had been a fight, of that she was quite sure.

The text message from Kelly that had brought Tina hurrying home still haunted her.

“SORRY 4 ELVIS—BSTRD SOLD ME OUT.”

So yeah, she might have owed Kelly for her freedom, for helping her get back some control of her life. That still counted for something but not everything.

Not now.

“Don’t know who did this to Elvis,” Tina said suddenly weary. “Like I said, I wasn’t there.”

O’Neill sighed again. “Even if Kelly didn’t lay a finger on him, she’s still wanted in connection with a murder.” He paused. “If you know where she is you need to tell me, Tina. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

“I don’t know where she is,” she said, stubborn now.

He stood, out of patience. “If I find out you’ve been harbouring a wanted fugitive you’ll end up back inside,” he promised, cool enough to make her shiver. “And this time the case will be watertight.” He turned for the door.

“I don’t know where she is,” Tina repeated. He heard something in her voice, stopped and turned back. Tina took another long look at Elvis, at the bandages and the breaks and the bruises. “But I know where she’ll be . . .”

72

Myshka sipped her espresso and watched Dmitry over the rim of her cup with brooding eyes.

“I did what needed to be done,” Dmitry said with more than a hint of defiance in his tone as if he was trying to convince himself as much as her. “I must show these dogs who is master, yes?”

He was sprawled on the long white leather sofa in the living area of Harry Grogan’s penthouse apartment, looking very much at home. The man himself was out watching his wretched horses work. Viktor was driving him.

Myshka put down her empty cup and gathered the silk kimono closer around her body. If Dmitry was going to make a habit of calling on her before noon she decided, she was going to have to start rising earlier or he would never treat her as an equal. But Grogan had been out until late and had required entertaining before she was allowed to sleep.

Sometimes she was unsure if Viagra was the best or the worst thing that ever happened to old men who kept young mistresses.

Not so young anymore though, are you?

“Dog? He was a pup, nothing more,” she said evenly. “Beating him half to death was perhaps . . . unwise.”

“It is not like you to be sentimental, Myshka.” Dmitry gave a dismissive snort. “It was necessary. And there have been no reports, so—” he smiled, “—he is maybe not yet dead, hmm?”

“Yes, but—”

His good humour evaporated. He lurched forwards to slap a hand down hard against the top of the coffee table making her start. “Do not question me on this! You know it was right. Would you have me let them disrespect me? Have them laugh behind my back? Say that I am weak?”

She got to her feet without response, turning away from him to hide her surprise at this rebellion and the flare of her own temper. Standing by the glass wall that looked down across the river and wrapping her arms around her body she was aware of a sudden chill in the air.

So it begins, she thought with cold clarity. Your disrespect of me.

She did not hear Dmitry get to his feet and move behind her until his hands slipped around her waist, his face in her hair.

“Do not let us fight when we are so close,” he murmured in her ear. “I need you, Myshka . . .”

To whore for you, Myshka supplied silently and could not resist a final gently chiding reminder.

“It is I who have brought us this far Dmitry.”

She felt him tense then relax. “I know,” he said. “I will not forget.”

He kissed her neck, let her go and a few moments later she heard the apartment door bang shut behind him.

Myshka continued to stand at the window, frowning. She could see her reflection in the glass—a pale hunched figure with a worn face, wearing a borrowed robe, in a home that did not belong to her.

And for the first time the future looked uncertain.

73

DI O’Neill turned up the collar of his jacket and shouldered a little closer to the blockwork to keep out of the steady rain.

Behind him was an ugly but otherwise unremarkable office block that housed the Forensic Science Laboratory. Its only distinguishing feature seemed to be the large stone construction at the front which he was using for shelter. As far as he could tell, the sole purpose of this square lump with its flared top was to display in large digits the number of the building he was lurking outside together with a sign warning visitors they were under surveillance.

Like you could ever miss it.

He supposed he’d always taken the odd structure for granted—walked quickly past it on his way in and equally quickly on his way out. Now that he was forced by the boredom to study it up close he wondered if it had some deeper meaning.

The building itself was dirty concrete and brown brick and glass at odds with the surrounding architecture as only public buildings can manage. O’Neill reckoned they sent planners to a special school to learn how to draw such monstrosities.

He had gone to Lambeth straight from his visit to King’s College Hospital which was only a few miles away. But morning traffic was already starting to build and the journey had been frustratingly slow. He knew he should have used the time to call Dempsey to update him on his interview with Kelly Jacks’s old cellmate Tina Olowayo, but he was strangely reluctant to do so.

He knew it was partly pride that kept him from calling. He wanted to see how the information Olowayo had divulged panned out before he checked in. She was a tough cookie who’d given little away of her real feelings for Jacks. And this despite the distinct impression that Jacks had been responsible—directly or indirectly—for the beating. Still, he couldn’t dismiss the chance that she’d sent him off on a wild goose chase just for the hell of it.

Even if it had all sounded entirely plausible.

Which was why he’d been skulking under the overhanging stonework for nearly an hour getting drips from the encroaching tree branches down the back of his neck and stretching his ever-thinning patience further with every passing minute.

I’ll give it another half an hour, he determined. Then I hand it over and it all becomes official—to hell with her.

No sooner had the thought formed than he heard quick footsteps jogging up the short flight of steps that led to the front entrance. He risked a glance around the edge of the stonework and clocked the slight figure with a baseball cap pulled well down and her hair tucked mostly beneath it.

She had a backpack but no jacket and the shoulders of her hooded sweatshirt were dark with rain. He saw that she had removed the stud from her nose. With the slim almost boyish figure and her fluency of movement she could have passed for a teenage student rather than a forty-year-old ex-con.

No wonder we haven’t caught her.

He rolled out of concealment and planted himself in her path, hands loose and ready like the ball was in the air and you never knew where it was going to come down for the catch.

“Hello Kelly,” he said softly.

Kelly Jacks lurched to an awkward halt as if her legs had suddenly forgotten how to function in sequence. Her eyes flew to his, haunted and vulnerable. Watching closely, he saw the moment she considered running.

“Don’t,” he advised. “I’ve had a good night’s sleep and eaten my wheaties for breakfast this morning. You, on the other hand, look like you’d blow over in a strong wind. I’d have you before the end of the street.”

Her shoulders drooped a little but her voice was calm.

“How did you know I’d come here?”

O’Neill shrugged. “Because you didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

74

Kelly sat opposite the detective at a little corner café only a few hundred yards away from where he’d intercepted her. They were outside at one of the small tables squeezed under an awning between the violently pink outer wall of the building and the busy road junction. The noise and the continuing drizzle were enough to ensure they were alone and uninterrupted.

O’Neill had kept her close while he ordered two cups of hot chocolate and a couple of toasted sandwiches from the counter inside, not giving her the chance to make a run for it even if she’d been inclined to do so.

Kelly’s instinct and experience told her this was not how arresting officers behaved if they were following the rule book. That O’Neill had another agenda was obvious. What that agenda might contain, on the other hand, was harder to anticipate.

So for the moment she was prepared to go along with this irregular interrogation. She had nothing to lose and no real choice in the matter.

And besides, as he’d pointed out, she hadn’t eaten since the night before. Better by far to let him feed her before making a break for it, if it came to that. She snuck a sideways look at him without turning her head. He was a big guy who clearly spent enough time out of the office to keep a paunch at bay. A decent weekend footballer rather than a rugby player, she judged, despite the broken nose. She had no doubt that he could have made good on his promise to chase her down if she’d tried to bolt.

They moved outside with their hot chocolate. It was loud out there with the rumble of the railway line crossing a low bridge behind them, the constant traffic drone and the intermittent buzz of an air-wrench at the tyre place next door. To complete the set, a police helicopter hovered high overhead.

The songs of the city, Kelly thought wryly. I’ll miss them.

“You’ve led us quite a dance,” O’Neill said then. His voice was cool enough that she could glean nothing from it.

She held out both hands, wrists handcuffs’ width apart. “So what’s stopping you?” she prodded. She gestured towards her hot chocolate, the café in general. “Has the Met introduced a felon service-charter I don’t know about?”

“Let’s talk,” he said, needlessly stirring his drink. But he didn’t seem in any hurry to start a conversation.

Eventually Kelly sighed. “So how did you know where to find me?” she asked, then hesitated. “Someone from the lab?”

“No—your former colleagues were very tight-lipped,” he said. “Although having Matthew Lytton pay for the tests gave them a plausible deniability if they’d needed it. Nice touch.”

He’d done his research before he’d laid in wait for her. Somehow the thought made her feel better—that she hadn’t been caught on an off chance.

“Not intentional,” she said with a faint smile. “I simply didn’t have the money.”

He nodded, accepting the candour. “Your friend Tina, on the other hand, is pretty upset about her toy boy.”

Kelly thought again of the slim blade, saw it slicing the air as Elvis slashed at her. “I’m upset about it too, but the little sod pulled a knife on me. He had it coming.”

“Really?”

Kelly heard the dry doubt in his voice and realised she was going to have a hard time proving any of it. Even if she could retrace her steps and find the alleyway in Camberwell, the chances of the knife still being lodged in the drain were minuscule. And all practical forensic trace would be long washed away.

“I don’t think he’ll be pulling a knife on anyone for a while,” O’Neill went on. “But overreacting the way you did is hardly going to help your case.”

“Overreacting?” She heard the acidic note and throttled it back. “Is that what he told you?”

“Broken nose, cheekbone, right arm, four fingers, most of his ribs, punctured lung, severe concussion and a dislocated thumb. With your previous, Kelly, they could easily bump it up from GBH to attempted murder.”

Even though she noted his use of they instead of we Kelly felt her heart step up. “Wait a minute,” she snapped. “Broken ribs? What the hell are you talking about?”

The café door opened and the girl from behind the counter brought out their toasties, molten cheese and ham in a deceptively harmless-looking package. O’Neill waited until she’d gone back inside.

“I’m talking about the fact that having inflicted a catalogue of injuries you’re not going to be able to claim self-defence here. Not by anyone’s standards.”

“I didn’t . . .”

Kelly’s voice trailed away as her brain caught up. She tightened her focus on him, said dully, “It’s hardly worth wasting my breath to say I didn’t do it, is it?”

O’Neill tried an experimental bite of his food that was hopelessly premature. Kelly watched the steam escape. He grimaced and put the toastie aside to cool.

“I’m all ears.”

Kelly took a deep breath, tried to let it out slow and steady. “OK, I did break his nose,” she admitted. “Probably the wrist too. Like I said—he tried to stop me leaving the flat, pulled a knife on me. I did what I had to, to take it away from him, and then I left.”

“And he didn’t try to stop you again?”

“He wasn’t saying much at that point.”

“So the intercranial bleed is on you as well is it?”

Kelly flushed. “I checked his airways and put him into the recovery position with some support under his head,” she said, defensive. “Then I left, OK?”

He nodded slowly. Kelly couldn’t tell if he believed her or was just playing along, trying to give her enough rope for a noose.

“So who finished the job for you?”

Kelly’s recall presented her with a snapshot of Ray McCarron, lying weak and suddenly old in his hospital bed. She pushed for objectivity, risked a bite of her own toasted sandwich while she tried to obtain it.

McCarron’s assault had been cold, calculated, professional. This was amateur to the point of childishness. Did that mean two separate hands were at work? Or the same with differing motives. The first beating had clearly been a warning. The second, by the sound of it, a punishment.

She looked up, found O’Neill watching her closely.

“Why don’t you ask Elvis who did it?” she countered.

“If he ever comes round maybe I will.”

Kelly fell silent again, eyes on the traffic. An amphibious yellow duck-tour bus came past on its way to the river, filled with goggling tourists in wet-weather gear.

“It seems somebody’s put a price on my head—a kind of bounty,” she said without any colour in her voice. “Elvis was trying to collect on it.”

“From who?”

She shrugged, unwilling to lay out all her cards. O’Neill leaned forwards.

“I can make this official if you like, Kelly and maybe—just maybe—you’ll see daylight again before you’re a very old lady.” He waited a beat. “But somehow I doubt it.”

“So why the cosy little chat? What’s there to talk about?” she demanded, provoked beyond sense, hearing the anguish break through when she’d been so desperate to hide it. “If you think I’m so obviously guilty what the hell are we doing here?”