Текст книги "The Blood Whisperer"

Автор книги: Zoë Sharp

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

92

Dmitry was cruising Brixton giving shit to anyone he thought might have information about Kelly Jacks. According to all those he’d threatened so far, nobody did. He tried not to think about the stubborn resolve on the faces he encountered. Myshka had been right, he acknowledged with a sour smile. His treatment of the kid in the flat had cost him valuable co-operation.

Dmitry’s iPhone rang. Viktor. Dmitry answered it one-handed while he drove. He was tired and frustrated and he badly wanted to go home and stand under a hot shower for a long time.

“Da?”

“She is here,” Viktor said without preamble.

“What?” The tremor though Dmitry’s hand made the Merc swerve slightly. He didn’t need to ask who. “What is she doing there?” And almost as an afterthought, “Where are you?”

“Still with horses,” Viktor said, as always a man of few words. “She is talking to him.”

Dmitry checked his watch and the thickening traffic around him and swore.

“I will be there fast as I can,” he said. “Stall them.”

“How?” He could almost hear Viktor’s frown.

“Use your imagination! Don’t forget—you were there too.” At the warehouse. You held her down while we killed the boy . . .

But even as he disconnected and threw the cellphone onto the passenger seat he knew with a terrible feeling of constriction in his chest that Myshka’s grand scheme might all be over.

93

“So,” Harry Grogan said, his voice a whisky-dry rumble, “you want to tell me who put you up to crashing in here threatening to nobble my best horse?”

“When it comes to threatening, you damn well started it,” Kelly fired back.

Grogan was leaning in the open doorway apparently relaxed but carefully blocking her exit at the same time. He’d told everyone else to make themselves scarce, including the hulking Russian who’d clobbered her. Kelly wasn’t sure whether to be reassured or not by his desire to banish potential witnesses.

Now Grogan sighed and fixed her with an implacable stare. “I think you’d best explain that—while there’s still a chance we can sort this out . . . amicably.”

Kelly felt laughter bubbling up in her throat, recognised a wisp of underlying hysteria and swallowed it back down again.

She had taken her foot away from the grey colt’s foreleg and he’d twitched himself out from her grasp to stretch towards his owner near the doorway, hopeful of some treat or other. Grogan rubbed the animal’s sleek head without taking his eyes off Kelly.

“Where do I start?” she queried. “How about with the warning you sent to my boss Ray McCarron—to keep his nose out of your business? A warning that came wrapped in a beating bad enough for him to need surgery.”

“Ray McCarron? Never heard of him,” Grogan said flatly. “Next?”

The blatant denial shocked but at the same time didn’t surprise her. She pressed on. “What about setting me up to take the fall for Tyrone Douet’s murder?”

“Now that does ring a bell. I believe I saw it on the news,” he said without a flicker. “But I believe the police were fairly sure you were the one they were after. So how exactly did I manage that little party trick?”

“By having one of your Russian thugs stick the knife in my hand after they’d dosed me with ketamine—probably supplied by your crooked vet.”

“Ah that’s why you were asking for Stubbsy,” Grogan said. “Who happens to be a very good vet I’ll have you know. He may have one or two personal weaknesses but as long as he indulges them in his own time then quite honestly I don’t give a monkey’s.”

“I notice you don’t deny the Russian thugs are yours.”

Grogan shrugged. “I have offered employment opportunities to a number of people from the former Soviet Union,” he agreed blandly. “And if they’re lacking in the social niceties, shall we say, that’s only to be expected. Practically a Third World country these days isn’t it?”

Kelly thought of Steve Warwick’s wife Yana who’d apparently been traded like a chattel. Third World was too advanced, she decided. Medieval was more like it.

“Are you trying to tell me you have no control over your own men?” Kelly demanded. “That you let them rampage around London beating up whoever they like and using your name as justification for it?”

The grey colt had taken another step forwards and was nuzzling Grogan’s pockets now, impatient for his due. Grogan ignored him.

“My name carries weight in certain circles,” he said. “If people choose to bandy it about without my knowledge that doesn’t mean I’m responsible.”

“I suppose you’re not responsible for the ten grand price you put on my head either?” she threw back at him.

The mention of money finally seemed to have some effect. Grogan raised an eyebrow, looked her up and down. “What is it you’re supposed to have done that makes you worth that kind of money?”

Kelly knew she should take her time about replying. That now she had actually provoked a response, however slight, she should make the most of it, play her cards close to her chest. Instead she allowed him to exasperate an answer straight out of her.

“What have I done?” she repeated. “I spotted the botched job your men made of Veronica Lytton’s so-called suicide. And ever since then you’ve been trying to shut me up—one way or another. Well, it may have worked last time but there’s no way anybody’s putting me away again for something I didn’t do.”

Grogan took a breath. She saw his chest rise, his mouth open, then a large figure stepped suddenly into view, grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and yanked him away, spinning him against the outside wall of the loose box.

The grey colt scuttled backwards swinging his hindquarters dangerously close to Kelly. She jumped out of the way.

When she looked back at the doorway the big Russian who’d thumped her was standing firmly planted in the aperture. The double-barrelled shotgun Kelly had seen earlier was pulled up hard into his shoulder. He was aiming it square at Kelly’s chest.

She watched dumbfounded as the knuckles of his fingers began to whiten around the first of the triggers.

94

Dmitry flashed an Audi saloon that was dawdling in the outside lane of the M4, muttering furiously under his breath as the offending vehicle moved over with leisurely arrogance.

He had pushed and bullied his way out of London in record time and was now heading west at slightly over a hundred and twenty miles an hour. It was the kind of speed where other traffic was constantly in his way and his temper was in shreds.

But he had told Viktor to use his imagination when it came to dealing with Kelly Jacks and that, he realised, could well turn out to be a huge error of judgement on his part.

Viktor was a man whose imagination usually leaned towards extreme violence.

Dmitry took his hand off the wheel just long enough to stab the redial button on his iPhone but Viktor was still not answering. Dmitry’s own imagination painted all kinds of nasty pictures about why that might be.

He pressed his right foot down a little harder on the accelerator.

95

Harry Grogan stood in the stable doorway staring down at the inert figure lying face down in the horse’s bedding. There was surprisingly little blood but what there was, the shavings were doing a good job of soaking up.

“Is he dead?” the girl asked, her voice strangely composed.

Grogan gave her an assessing glance. “Take more than a shovel round the back of the head to kill old Viktor,” he said. “Stupid bugger, waving a bloody shotgun around near my colt.”

He set the shovel down to one side of the doorway and glanced at his horse. The animal was going spare, clattering against the kickboards at the back of the box as if trying to climb out over the walls. Grogan winced at every knock against those priceless legs.

The grey colt was not happy about being approached. His fear translated into a display of temper with ears laid flat and back hunched, stamping his feet down. Sweat darkened his coat in patches, the veins popping through.

There was movement in the stable doorway and the lad who looked after the colt elbowed Grogan aside as he went to his charge, making soothing noises in his throat. Any other time, Grogan would have sacked him for behaviour like that, but the way the horse was immediately reassured made him hold his tongue.

“We need to move him out of here sir,” the lad said over his shoulder. Grogan couldn’t tell if he was the one being addressed or the trainer, who’d reappeared also.

“What about him?” the trainer asked nodding to Viktor’s body sprawled in the entrance to the stable.

“What about him?” Grogan asked brusquely. He turned to the lad. “Just get on with it son. If the horse tramples all over the big daft bastard while he’s about it, maybe it’ll teach him a lesson.”

Between stable lad and trainer they managed to get a bridle onto the colt’s aristocratic head and led him out. The horse made a big production of needing to sniff at Viktor before he’d step over him then lifted each leg exaggeratedly high and bounced away across the yard alongside the lad, up on his toes and still blowing hard.

“This might be enough to put him off his game for the big race,” the trainer muttered as he hurried after them, not waiting for a response.

Because he had a bloody good idea what that response might be . . .

Grogan pulled out a large white handkerchief to clean his hands. “Nothing like making your excuses before you begin is there?” he said dryly.

The girl gave no reply. He looked over and found she’d picked up the fallen shotgun and was now aiming it in his direction with a certain degree of competence about her.

He carried on wiping his hands, apparently unconcerned. “Know what you’re about with one of those things do you?”

“I’ve fired a few in my time.”

He grunted. “Shooting into some water tank in a ballistics lab is not the same thing as into flesh and blood though, is it?”

“Hadn’t you heard?” she asked tightly, almost a taunt. “Killing people isn’t a problem for me.”

Grogan paused, staring at her. “I’ve met some killers in my time sweetheart,” he said. “But you’re not one of them.”

She smiled. “Want to put that to the test?”

No he didn’t. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket keeping his movements nice and slow and said instead, “Why did you come?”

“I wanted to talk to Brian Stubbs.”

“Like I told you, he’s not here,” Grogan said. “You want to talk? Fine, let’s talk.” He glanced down. “But I’m not standing around up to my knees in horse shit out here to do it, so either we go inside and sit down like two adults or you can sling your hook.”

And with that he turned and walked out of the stable, stepping over Viktor’s unconscious figure a lot less carefully than the colt had done.

It wasn’t until he’d made it unmolested across the yard that he felt the tension go out of his neck.

96

Inside the farmhouse was old-fashioned and slightly scruffy. Kelly took one look at the cluttered worktops, the overflowing sink and the soot stains above the ancient Rayburn and decided that the trainer probably lived alone.

The walls were largely covered with pictures of horses. Black and white shots of old victories going back forty years.

The kitchen itself was empty apart from a couple of ancient Labradors sleeping close to the front of the Rayburn. One dog raised its head when Kelly entered, gave a wide yawn and settled down again.

She moved quietly across the dull tiles, still clutching the shotgun. Only one door out of the room stood open and she could hear movement beyond. She hesitated just outside then stepped through quickly as if expecting an ambush.

The room was a small bare sitting room with French doors leading out onto a mown but otherwise bare garden. Kelly could see the post and rail fence bordering the driveway beyond. The room boasted a large boxy television set and a video recorder stacked with tapes labelled for old races. Racing papers formed decorative stacks at either side of a well-worn armchair.

Harry Grogan was standing at a sideboard on the far side of the room with his back to her, pouring a stiff Scotch on the rocks. He turned as she came in, lifting the bottle.

“Join me?”

Kelly shook her head.

“You can put that thing down,” Grogan said nodding to the shotgun. “I’ve said we’ll talk. I like to think I’m a man of my word. You’ll not get any more out of me that way.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Kelly let the twin muzzles droop until the only thing they menaced was the ugly floral pattern on the carpet which, she felt, probably had it coming.

“I have to hand it to you,” he said sipping the drink and watching her closely while he did so. “There’s not many people would have the guts to beard the lion in his den as it were.”

“I think you’ll find it’s the lionesses who do all the hunting.”

Grogan raised his glass in salute. “And the lion who gets to muscle in on the kill afterwards and take the best for himself without the work.”

Kelly sighed. “Shall we stop waving our dicks around here?” she said. “Because I think that’s one contest you’re always going to win.”

His face didn’t register anything but she thought she caught the faintest glimmer in his eyes. They were small and deep set, seeming to dominate within his shaven skull. She had the impression of a man who knew his own strength on many levels. And not just so he could crack open a man’s head with a shovel.

“I don’t know about that sweetheart,” he said at last. “You may not have a dick but you’ve certainly got balls.”

He moved round the armchair and sat down, ignoring the way she darted back as he approached.

“So,” he said, “you think I’ve put a price on your head for interfering in my business in some way, is that it?”

“More or less.”

Again there was no immediate reaction. He took another sip of whisky, swallowed and then let out a low chuckle.

“Care to share the joke?” Kelly asked, aware of a tart edge to her voice.

“The joke?” Grogan said. “The joke is sweetheart that I’m just a simple businessman—have been for years.”

“Businessman. Is that a euphemism?”

He smiled more fully now, the kind of smile she guessed was not supposed to be entirely reassuring. “One-hundred percent legit.”

“Doing what?”

“Corporate takeovers, property development, import/export—import mainly. I source goods overseas, bring them in, sell them on and make a profit. Same as a thousand other entrepreneurs—only probably a damn sight more successful than most of them. Even Customs have given up tearing apart every load looking for contraband.”

Kelly frowned. “So what’s with the Russian thug outside?”

Grogan shrugged, an expansive gesture. “I have a lot of dealings with Russia. It makes sense to employ some locals. They have a lot of fine craftsmen over there in need of international markets and I provide one of those markets—at great financial risk to myself.”

“Yeah and no doubt great financial reward also.”

“Fortune, as they say, favours the brave.” He paused, eyed her and took another sip. “You should know.”

Kelly felt her certainties crumbling and her focus with them. She shook her head. “I don’t get it. Everybody thinks you’re some kind of gangster.”

“My dad was a gangster—ran with the Krays.” Grogan leaned back, almost reflective. “I had a quite a few interesting ‘uncles’ as a kid. But he died an old man in prison and I decided a long time ago I didn’t want to go out the same way.”

“So, miraculously you’ve lived an innocent and blameless life?”

“Like you, you mean?” he shot back. “Everybody thinks you’re a murderess sweetheart—tried and convicted once, time served. And now it looks for all the world like you’ve run true to form and done it again.” He cocked his head regarding her, waved the hand with the glass. “Want to take a quick poll and find out how many members of the Great British public believe you didn’t do it?”

“No,” she said at last, voice stark. “Why are you telling me all this? Won’t it blow your fearsome reputation?”

“Maybe it would.” He chuckled again, a throaty rasp of sound. “But who are you going to tell?”

97

Ray McCarron was struggling one-handed again. This time he was attempting to manoeuvre a metal box-file out from its entangled corner of the spare bedroom upstairs. The room was too small to fit anything other than a child-sized single bed and had long since been consigned to a junk store for things waiting in vain to be taken up to the attic.

Without his wife to nag him to carry out the second part of this task the room had gradually filled so the door would barely open wide enough for him to squeeze through with his cast.

By the time he’d uncovered the box and wrestled it from its dusty hole Ray was exhausted, sweating and light-headed. Then as he backed out carefully—but not carefully enough—he bumped his bad arm against the door handle and the box-file spilled from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

This time Ray did not make the mistake of trying to catch it. He could only watch as the file landed upside down on the tiny landing, bounced once and disappeared round the newel post. The clatter and crash as it hit random treads on the way down the staircase seemed horrendously loud inside the empty house.

“Bugger,” he said, not having the breath for anything more.

As he edged to the top of the stairs he found an avalanche of spilled paper and torn manila folders. His shoulders drooped in defeat. Sorting through it all had been a hard enough prospect before and now it would be ten times harder.

Very slowly and with much wincing he sat down on the top step and reached for the nearest folder. Lifting it caused more of its contents to slither further down the slope but half the pages still remained clinging to the overstressed paperclip inside.

Ray dragged the folder onto his lap. On the front cover was the familiar crest of the Metropolitan Police. Above the crest was a date more than six years ago and in stark underlined block capitals the words:

MURDER OF CALLUM PERRY

“I’m sorry Kelly love,” McCarron murmured. “But better late than never, eh?”

He took a deep breath and opened the file.

98

“If you’re not after me then who is?” Kelly asked. It should have been a demand—she formed the words that way inside her head but by the time they emerged it had fallen more to the level of a plea. “They murdered my friend, almost crippled my boss, put a young lad into a coma.” She looked up more fiercely now. “And they’re using your name to do it.”

“Oh I’ll take care of that, sweetheart don’t you worry,” Grogan said, his voice rich with a grim promise that contradicted his earlier claims. The glass was empty in his hand. He glanced into the bottom, rose out of the trainer’s armchair. “Sure you won’t join me?”

Kelly shook her head.

It wasn’t until he’d refilled his drink that he said, “Tell me what you meant about Veronica Lytton’s ‘so-called’ suicide.”

Kelly didn’t reply immediately, just watched him regain his seat with a wary eye. She remained standing although she had put down the shotgun—it now rested barrels-up against the hinge side of the door frame. The gun was within easy reach but would be hidden from anyone entering the room.

Back when Kelly had been a CSI she’d once found a rifle left in just such a position—after a firearms team had supposedly cleared the building. The memory lingered.

As did the memory of the blood spatter in the bathtub at Matthew Lytton’s luxurious country house. And because she couldn’t think of a good reason to withhold the information she told Harry Grogan what she’d found and the warning that had been impressed on Ray McCarron afterwards.

“An interesting tale,” Grogan said when she’d finished, without giving any indication from his face or voice if he found it fanciful or not. “Funny thing is, Lytton always refused to have anything to do with me while his wife was alive.” He regarded her with solemn humour. “I don’t think she approved of my breeding—unlike that grey colt you were threatening outside.”

“I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it,” Kelly returned, matching his tone. “Probably.”

He rolled his eyes and went on calmly, “But now Lady Muck is out of the way suddenly I find myself able to do business with Lytton and his partner—what might prove highly profitable business for all of us at that.”

Kelly frowned, remembering the vehemence in Lytton’s tone when he’d talked about Grogan. Was he really a better liar than she’d given him credit for or had she just wanted to trust him to the point it had coloured her judgement completely?

“I don’t believe he’d kill his wife just for that.” But the strange twinge of guilt she’d seen in Lytton—the day she and Tyrone had gone to clean the place—remained obstinately in the back of her mind. And there was no doubt he hadn’t seemed devastated to find himself suddenly a widower.

“Maybe not, sweetheart but his greedy partner just might—and he’s the one who’s been making all the running.”

“Steve Warwick?”

Grogan must have been watching her face as she said the name. Amusement plucked at his mouth. “Make a pass at you did he?”

“I didn’t give him the chance,” Kelly said, acidic. “But his wife was with him. Maybe that cramped his style a little.”

Grogan chuckled again. “Doesn’t normally stop him. Not from what I hear.”

Her tartness only increased. “Well I gather she’s not in a position to say much considering he practically picked her from a catalogue.”

The chuckle became an outright laugh. “That what he told you?”

Kelly didn’t get the joke. “No—she did.”

That seemed to sober him. “Did she now,” he murmured. He seemed distracted for a moment then fixed her with a focused eye. “If I tell you I’ll look into this, sweetheart will you let me do that without going on the rampage—at least until after my horse has run his big race this weekend?”

Kelly hesitated a moment and almost regretfully shook her head. “I could be dead or arrested by then.”

He gave a long sigh. “Let me reach out to a few people—people who owe me favours,” he said. “You got a cell number I can reach you on?”

“Yes—if you give it back to me.”

He humphed out a breath and put the drink down on the arm of the chair long enough to delve in a pocket for the phone she’d taken from McCarron’s house as well as the Vauxhall’s keys. He shook his head a little as he did so, as if he couldn’t believe he was going to all this trouble over her. Kelly had a hard time believing it herself.

There was an awkward pause. Then the silence between them was broken by the sound of a car engine revving hard as it approached along the driveway.

Kelly glanced out of the French door in time to see a Mercedes braking hard at the entrance to the yard. She glimpsed the driver and her heart leapt into her throat and lodged there.

“Ah about time. That’ll be Dmitry,” Grogan said with satisfaction. “He’ll take care of you.”