Текст книги "The Blood Whisperer"

Автор книги: Zoë Sharp

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14

About the time Kelly Jacks was heading across the river home from the hospital Dmitry was having a leisurely breakfast at South Mimms service station at the junction between the A1(M) and the M25 London orbital.

Whatever its drawbacks his time working for Harry Grogan had taught him to appreciate the finer things in life. The old man had shown real pleasure when Dmitry’s uneducated palate had finally developed enough to distinguish a properly aged steak or a favourable year for a grape.

“If you’re ordering the best you’ve got to know you’re getting it and not being ripped off with a cheap substitute,” Grogan had told him. “Don’t trust nobody not to have their hand in the till.”

And he was right. The last waiter who’d taken one look at Dmitry’s longish tangle of hair and leather jacket and decided he wouldn’t be able to tell shit from toothpaste had ended up with both hands rammed repeatedly in the drawer of the cash register. After that word got around.

But now, rather than some high-class restaurant—not that he had any choice here—Dmitry was up sitting at a table by the window in the service station’s open-plan food court.

Western junk food had not been a part of Dmitry’s experience growing up. He had only made the glorious discovery when he first arrived in the UK. Of course he quickly realised that to live on nothing else would be bad for his health but Dmitry was nothing if not a man of utter control. So he treated the occasional greasy burger and extruded potato-starch fries as an indulgence, a reward for good behaviour or a job well done.

Last night’s work he considered qualified as both.

As a compromise he ate slowly, chewing every mouthful and keeping his elbows off the table. He was early and in no hurry. Around him his fellow diners fell on their food with disgusting gusto, stuffing their faces like the pigs they were.

Dmitry allowed nothing of his disdain to show on his features. He didn’t need to. Disdain was an impotent emotion whereas he had the ability and the temperament to beat any one of them to death for no better reason than their table manners offended him.

He sat with his back to the security cameras out of habit although he was confident that his face would not set any alarm bells ringing. He’d always been very careful about that.

The man he’d come to meet however, that was another matter and Dmitry had no wish to come to official attention merely by association.

So he kept a close eye out for the make and colour of vehicle he’d been told to expect and spotted the dark blue Land Rover Defender the moment it swung into the car park.

He glanced at the time display on his iPhone. The man was only a couple of minutes late which—if not exactly pleasing Dmitry—at least did not put him in too black a mood.

Without appearing to hurry he wiped his fingers fastidiously on a paper serviette and strolled out leaving the debris of his meal on the table behind him. Important men did not clear up after themselves—not food wrappers anyway.

Despite the steadily climbing sun there was still a residue of night chill outside which did not encourage people to linger. Nevertheless Dmitry gave the surrounding area a casually thorough survey as he walked across the car park.

He approached the stationary Land Rover from an oblique angle in the blind spot to the rear. When he rapped his knuckles on the side glass the driver started in his seat before opening the window a crack.

“Whatever you’re selling I’m not buying,” he said, his voice abrupt. He was a big man with fleshy jowls and the lacework of thread veins across his cheeks that indicated a lifetime spent outdoors in all weathers. Even through the small opening Dmitry could smell the earthy odour of animals and wet cloth.

He kept his face stony. “It is fortunate then that I am buying.”

But as he stepped back to let the man climb out from behind the wheel Dmitry saw the beginnings of a shift in his expression, the sly calculation blossoming in his eyes.

Like a snake Dmitry launched against the Land Rover door. It cannoned into the big man’s bulk bursting a grunt of pain and surprise from his lips and pinning him there by his shins, half-in half-out.

Dmitry leaned his body weight a little more onto the edge of the door, watching the man’s annoyance turn to fear as his discomfort leapt another notch.

“Your brother vouched for you. We are here to do business my friend,” he said quietly, ladling on the Russian accent because he knew the effect it would have. “Let us not have any . . . unpleasantness that may come back on your family, yes?”

“Y-yes!” the big man said, his voice a gasp as if he daren’t take a breath. “I mean no! No unpleasantness—you have my word on it.”

Dmitry eased back, opened the door wide and gave a mocking bow. “This is good,” he said smiling. “You have the . . . merchandise with you of course.” It was not a question.

If the big man had been thinking of trying to cheat him Dmitry reckoned he was now too unsettled and flustered to follow through. Instead as he slithered down onto the tarmac he clutched the door frame with hands that trembled slightly.

The two of them moved around to the back of the Land Rover and Dmitry waited while the man opened the rear door. As he did so the man glanced round in a way guaranteed to draw attention to the pair had anybody been watching them. Dmitry suppressed a sigh. He hated dealing with amateurs.

“There you go,” the man said gesturing inside with nervousness surging through his voice. “It’s all there—just as we agreed, eh?”

Nestling amid the junk-filled interior was a stained coolbox. Suppressing his distaste Dmitry dragged the coolbox out into the centre of the gritty straw-crusted floor and opened it. The big man leaned in alongside him as if to make sure Dmitry would see what he was supposed to.

Dmitry surmised that, having initially planned to double-cross him in some way, he was now anxious everything should go according to plan instead.

The young Russian pursed his lips as if disappointed by the amount or the quality or both. In truth there was more than he’d anticipated.

Excellent.

Still they engaged in a half-hearted round of haggling which ended with Dmitry paying a little less than he’d expected and the big man able to kid himself he’d driven a hard bargain.

Dmitry handed over the cash still wrapped in its bank paper bands and had to stop the man counting it there and then right out in the open. He pointedly withdrew to the Land Rover’s cab leaving Dmitry to transfer the coolbox across to his Mercedes.

By the time he returned the man was back out lighting up a noxious pipe that reminded Dmitry of the old men back home. In the bad times they smoked just about anything they could shove into the bowl and set on fire. As a child it had made him feel nauseous. Now it made him slightly sentimental.

Perhaps that was why he didn’t kill the big man when he gave him a sideways glance and remarked, “Lot of stuff there. Want it for something special do you?”

Dmitry lit a cigarette of his own, bending his head to his lighter and taking his time about it. Then he gave the man a long stare through the smoke, cold enough to make him shiver.

“Unless you wish to find yourself on the receiving end,” he said, “then it is best for your continued good health if you do not ask such questions, yes?”

15

Matthew Lytton pressed the call button for the lift but didn’t hold out much hope of a response. It looked like someone had tried to pry the buttons out of the wall and taken a cigarette lighter to them when that failed. The steel lift doors themselves were scarred deep with penknife graffiti.

As he waited, the young kid he’d been aware of furtively watching him for the last couple of minutes finally sidled into view.

“S’not workin’ mister.”

Lytton looked over and saw a miniature scally-in-the-making complete with baggy sweatpants tucked into his socks, a knock-off designer baseball cap and a roll-up pinched inside his cupped hand. He had the thin slightly rat-like features of a kid born premature doubtless due to the amount of booze his teenage mother put away while she carried him. They were told stunting the baby’s growth made for an easier delivery.

Lytton gazed at him without expression. Your life was over before it began.

He had no illusions that the kid was being friendly. He knew he’d been sent either to scout him out or distract him so the heavy hitters could make their move. For those reasons he pointedly looked around before replying.

“Tell them it wouldn’t be worth their while,” he said keeping his voice flat and even.

The kid took a long seasoned drag of the roll-up and squinted through the smoke as he exhaled. He might not yet be in double figures but he’d spent a lifetime on the street—long enough to recognise the advice as a genuine warning.

The kid flashed him a dimpled grin then flicked the dog-end towards the gutter and swaggered away. A moment later two larger boys slipped out of the shadows and followed suit.

Amateurs.

Lytton watched them go and then headed for the stairs.

The flat he was after was on the fourth floor. The climb was enough to tell him all the units were rented rather than owned. Once the tenants were safely locked inside nobody gave a damn what was happening to the neighbours or the rest of the building. Still, the proportions of the place weren’t bad and the area was beginning to level off before what Lytton predicted would be an upswing. He made a mental note to check out the finances of the current owner.

Maybe he’ll want to sell—especially now.

Most of the numbers were missing but Lytton counted the doors to the one he wanted. It had been forced open and crudely secured with a hasp and staple but the padlock to connect the two was missing. The door was already ajar and something about that sent the hairs riffling at the back of his neck. There was a strong chemical smell leaching out through the gap, something astringent he couldn’t immediately identify. He pushed the door open with his fingertips, stepped quietly inside.

Straight ahead along the hallway was an open door with light beyond. Lytton poked his head cautiously through the gap and found a living room with misted double-glazed doors standing open onto a tiny weather-beaten balcony. The room itself was overpowered by an ugly sofa and cheap bookcases. The empty shelves sagged as if still exhausted by the memory of books. The kitchen was off to one side separated by a narrow breakfast bar. The cupboard doors on the units badly needed realigning. Apart from an upturned plate rack on the drainer the room was devoid of the usual clutter of occupation.

Lytton turned back towards the front door. As he did so a figure moved out of one of the other rooms off the hallway. A woman, but unlike the boys near the lift there was nothing amateur about her. In her right hand was a tightly rolled magazine which she gripped like a relay-runner’s baton.

“Miss Jacks,” Lytton said gravely, eyeing her. “Do we shake hands or are you going to beat me into submission like a badly behaved dog?”

There was a long pause. “That depends if you’re planning to make a mess on the carpet,” she said. “I’ve spent all morning cleaning up.”

Her voice was light but he caught the way her body uncoiled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he said more sober now. “And don’t worry—I’m reasonably well house-trained.”

“I’m glad somebody is,” she murmured.

He looked around. “What happened here?”

“Junkie suicide,” she said distractedly. She was frowning. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to speak to you again.”

Lytton watched her face as he spoke. There was no coy reaction and if anything her frown increased and became overlaid with wariness. Whatever value she put on herself it was not in her powers of attraction.

“How did you find me?”

“Via the woman in your office.”

Kelly groaned. “It’s an answering service. I will so have words with her later,” she said. “No way is she supposed to give out that kind of information.”

“I was at my most persuasive.”

Kelly’s glance told him she doubted that very much but she didn’t say so out loud. She folded her arms, making her oversuit rustle like disapproving whispers.

“So . . . talk.”

Lytton tried a smile. It bounced off.

“First off I wanted to say how sorry I was about your boss.”

She stiffened—not the reaction he was expecting.

“‘Sorry’ how?” she demanded. “Sorry to hear what happened to him? Or that it was necessary?”

“Hey I—”

“And how did you know about it anyway? It only happened last night and I can’t believe our office blabbermouth told you any details about that.”

Temper flashed through him and died away just as fast.

“Don’t you bloody start,” he said tiredly. “I’ve just had the third-degree from some snotty policeman called O’Neill, that’s how. And whether you choose to believe it, that’s not how I do business.” Not if I can help it.

She subsided slowly, almost with reluctance as though she’d been spoiling for a fight and was disappointed to be denied.

“I’m sorry,” she said shortly. “Was that all? Only I’m on a bit of a deadline here.”

“No it wasn’t all. But don’t let me stop you working while we talk. I’m sure a woman of your many talents numbers multitasking among them.”

She skimmed her eyes over him briefly as if looking for any sign of mockery.

“Well, if you can stand the smell you’re welcome to stay.”

She put the magazine down next to the phone on the side table in the hall and jerked her head for him to follow. Lytton nodded to the gradually unfurling pages.

“Not the most lethal means of self-defence I’ve ever seen,” he said.

Kelly’s only response was a raised eyebrow, maybe the faintest quirk of the corner of her mouth. “You can punch one of those things through an internal door,” she said in a voice that suggested she’d either seen or done it herself.

Probably best not to pursue that.

Inside the bedroom the chemical odour was so pungent it almost made his eyes water.

The room had been stripped clear. The walls glistened from wipe-down and even the skirting boards had been levered off. Close to one wall was an oval stain on the floor that had darkened to black.

“Is that—?”

“Blood? It was. Don’t worry—it’s all scrubbed and disinfected now.”

“When you said this was a dead junkie I assumed he’d overdosed or something.”

“He set off by swallowing, snorting or injecting his entire stash,” she agreed. “But then he took a razor to his wrists and managed to slice through his radial artery. That’s when he either panicked or changed his mind. He started out in the bathroom, searched the kitchen for a First-Aid kit.” She nodded to the phone on the hall table. “He tried to call for help—forgetting his phone had already been cut off for non-payment—then collapsed on his bed and finished bleeding-out into the mattress.”

Her matter-of-fact tone was more shocking somehow than the words themselves.

The landlord in Lytton compelled him to ask, “How long before he was found?”

“Two weeks,” she said. “By which time the smell and the flies were too much for the neighbours to ignore any longer, even round here. They called the letting agent and he came round with a couple of guys and broke in.” She paused and he thought he detected the vaguest hint of a smile. “We had to clean up their vomit as well.”

“Speaking of ‘we’, where’s your young apprentice today?”

The twinkle of amusement snuffed out and the caution was back. “Tyrone’s taken the mattress and the rest of the contaminated waste for disposal. We have to use sites licenced for biohazardous material—it’s not exactly the kind of thing you can dump in your local landfill.” She peeled back her sleeve to glance at her watch. “I was expecting him back by now.”

He looked at the oval stain again.

“It’s a far cry from being a CSI, Kelly,” he said quietly and noted the fractional pause.

“Not really. They’re opposite ends of the same road wouldn’t you say? As a CSI I’d be one of the first at a scene and working for Ray I’m one of the last.” She shrugged. “Still the same scene though. The same tragedy.”

“But it’s no longer your responsibility to work out what happened is it?” he asked. “So what was it yesterday—old habits?”

She regarded him with steady eyes. They were nominally hazel he saw, but that didn’t begin to describe the flecks of amber and gold and grey that radiated out from the centre.

“You’ve been digging, Mr Lytton.”

When he’d had time to think about her name—about why it was familiar to him—he’d certainly had some digging done. There was plenty of info to go at. “Please, call me Matthew.”

She gave a hollow laugh and drawled, “Oh yes, because first-name terms make insults and innuendo so much more civilised.”

He leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “I didn’t come here to insult you.”

“Really?” She picked up a plastic drum with a hose and spray nozzle attached to the top of it, forced him to move aside so she could transfer it into the hall. “So why exactly did you trek all this way into London?”

“You saw things at the scene of my wife’s death that all the other so-called experts missed,” he said. “That made me curious.”

Kelly picked up another chemical drum and brought it back into the bedroom. The drum was clearly full but she hefted it with practised ease. She might appear small, even delicate, but she had a deceptive strength that intrigued him.

“It’s standard procedure to photograph the scene and email before-and-after pictures back to base for every job,” she said at last. Her voice was both evasive and strangely bleak. “You may be giving credit where it isn’t due.”

He shook his head. “Your sidekick let it slip yesterday that you were the one who saw something and reported back, not the other way around. Why try to deny it now?”

She slammed the drum down so hard Lytton heard the contents slosh around inside. He hoped whatever was in there wasn’t as volatile as Kelly herself.

“Because since then somebody beat the crap out of my boss—who also happens to be one of the few true friends I have—and in no uncertain terms warned him off. The only people who knew anything about it were us, the police, and you. So tell me, Matthew, in my position what would you do?”

16

He cocked his head on one side and regarded her with cool eyes that seemed to see right through her skin and lay bare all the insecurities beneath.

Then after a long lingering inspection he gave a crooked smile.

“Deny all knowledge and keep a low profile, probably,” he admitted. “Is that what you’re doing?”

Kelly tried to ignore the disappointment in his words—as if he’d hoped she had more spine.

Easy to think that way if you’ve never had to face the consequences.

She’d struggled hard not to show shock and anger at him turning up like this. Since her release she’d worked hard to guard her privacy. The thought of being so easily uncovered was . . . unsettling.

She turned away, unscrewed the cap on the drum and inserted a spray nozzle with a hand pump, tightening it down.

“You might want to suit up or stand well back—either that or leave,” she said. “This sealant is strong stuff. Get it on those nice clothes and it won’t come out.”

If it had been her hope to make him go that was dashed when he retreated one small token pace and stopped on the far side of the threshold. For a moment she considered giving him an ‘oops-sorry’ squirt to see if that would get rid of him.

“Please—Kelly,” he said then. “All I want is a few minutes of your time.”

Just before he spoke she caught the brief swallow and something about the vulnerability of the gesture beneath all the cool bravado made the decision for her. Besides, if he had any funny ideas he’d very quickly discover that she was not an easy target.

Not anymore.

“You’ve got until I’ve finished up here,” she said pumping the handle to pressurise the drum, not looking at him.

“To tell the truth I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I was hoping you might.”

“My job as a CSI was to gather and interpret physical evidence—to work out what happened, not why it did.”

“Even so, you’re far closer to the process than I’ve ever been.”

She began to spray the sealant in even strokes across the floorboards, starting in the far corner and working across.

“I might have been once but not anymore,” she said and tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Now, if that’s all …?”

“No, it isn’t.” He let out his breath in an audible hiss and she tensed automatically. “I came to apologise,” he said gently and Kelly felt her mouth fall open. The taste in the air was enough to shut it again fast. “For being brusque. Yesterday was a bitch to be frank, but that was no excuse to take it out on you and for that I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” she said quickly. “I—”

“My wife is dead, Kelly,” he said, pinning her with those mossy grey green eyes. “The police were convinced it was suicide but then you came along.” He paused, chased and caught her gaze. “You came along telling me a different story. I think you know the truth about her. And I need to know what you think that is.”

Kelly’s mouth dried as her brain put instant interpretations and reinterpretations on his words.

Threat or plea?

“What if you don’t want to know the truth?” she asked, scanning his face for another sign of his humanity. Damn but he was difficult to read. “Not really. Not deep down. Sometimes knowing for certain can be worse than not.”

Lytton folded his arms and put his head on one side as he regarded her.

“Is that personal experience talking?” And when she shrugged he added, “I read the reports on your trial.”

“What? How the hell did you—?”

“Google,” he said shortly and once again she couldn’t tell if that was a flippant answer or the truth. “Does your defence at the time still stand?”

Kelly’s spine went rigid. She dragged the chemical drum across the floor so the spray nozzle would reach the far corner.

“That I simply have no memory of taking a life you mean?” She fought to keep her voice even and her mind objective. “That I don’t know how—or why—I stabbed to death a complete stranger?”

He gave a fractional nod. “And are you still sure that not knowing is better?”

No! Kelly wanted to scream. Because if I don’t know how can I be sure it will never happen again?

But instead she gave him a level stare as she pumped the pressure back up again. “If it turns out your wife was involved in something—something that led to her death—what then?”

Lytton was silent for a moment and it seemed to Kelly that his eyes lingered on the scrubbed and disinfected bloodstain across the old boards. She laid on another even coat letting the nozzle drift back and forth like a metronome.

“That I can only tell you once I know the answer,” he said. Another twist of his lips that mocked himself as much as her. “And then, of course, it will be too late.”

Kelly stopped and straightened. “So, what was she doing before her death? Was she stressed about something? Upset? Under pressure?”

He ran a hand through short dark hair that she could tell would start to wave if it was allowed to grow longer. His hands were big, wide across the palm from manual labour but long-fingered to give them proportion. He wore no rings.

She gave herself a mental shake, brought her concentration back on track.

“The police asked me all this at the time,” Lytton was saying. “Veronica was organising the hospitality for a racing event we’re sponsoring—horse racing,” he added before Kelly could ask. “It’s a major undertaking but gala dinners and hunt balls were part of her upbringing. She thrived on that kind of stuff.”

“Did she?” Kelly challenged, hearing the hint of derision in his tone. “Perhaps that was your perception—your projection even. You needed her to do it so you convinced yourself she could cope.”

His eyes narrowed. “She didn’t have to do anything but she convinced me to let her take it on. I was going to contract the whole thing out—which is what I’ve subsequently done, before you ask.”

“What else?”

“What else what?”

“What else did she do?”

“Charity work mostly. Worthy causes. And she did bits and pieces in the office—arranging my travel plans, sorting out company insurance. Just enough to justify being on the payroll and keep the taxman happy. Steve’s wife does the same.”

“Steve?”

“My business partner.”

“But Steve’s wife isn’t involved in the hospitality for this race meeting?”

Lytton half-smiled. “English isn’t Yana’s first language and she’s shy. I wouldn’t even have suggested it,” he said shortly. “She does a bit of filing, that’s all—makes coffee, goes to the post. That kind of thing.”

“Who benefits from Veronica’s death?”

He laughed outright then and it was not a happy sound. “If you think I offed her for the insurance think again,” he said. His tone had not only sharpened but hardened a little too, taking on a fine serrated edge that grated against Kelly’s nerves. “Between us Steve and I have more life insurance than we know what to do with but they don’t pay out on suicides. If that had been my angle I would have fixed the brakes on her bloody car, not—”

He broke off as if suddenly aware of what he might have been about to say. The silence stretched thick and dark between them.

“Did you love your wife, Matthew?” Kelly asked softly.

His head snapped up and he stared at her directly. Kelly met his gaze without flinching, refusing to be the first to look away. Again she saw that haunted glimmer she’d picked up in the bathroom at his country house.

“I suppose so—in a way. But if you’d asked was I in love with her then . . . no. It was mutual,” he said tightly although with a candour that surprised her. “But I didn’t wish her dead and as far as I knew that was mutual too.”

“Was there anyone else in her life?” Kelly asked carefully but he just nodded as if he’d already considered the question and could do so again without heat.

In the time it took him to think about it she made the last couple of passes with the sealant spray-nozzle and moved the drum past him into the hallway.

“If she was having an affair they were being very discreet about it. Vee hated gossip.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean whoever she might—or might not—have been involved with felt the same way,” Kelly said. “Jealous rage is an age-old motive.”

Lytton nodded, his face impassive. “I very much doubt Veronica was capable of inspiring such emotion but I’ll make some enquiries,” he said reminding her suddenly of the policeman O’Neill. “Anything else springs to your expert mind?”

A picture of Ray McCarron lying bruised and broken in his hospital bed. Of Ray telling her not to turn over rocks. She took a breath.

“As far as you know she wasn’t stressed or desperate or having an affair. You didn’t love her and you didn’t hate her, and nobody else wanted her dead,” Kelly murmured almost to herself. “Which only leaves . . . you.”

“Me?”

“Mmm,” she said. “Have you thought that Veronica might have been killed to send you a message?”

“Really.” His raised eyebrow denied it. “What kind of a message?”

That was as far as he got before the front door of the flat swung open and two big heavyset men shoved their way inside.