by Zoe Sharp
“Kel! How is he?”
She twisted to see Tyrone barrelling towards her still clutching his bike helmet. He came straight over the top of the cobbled artwork without noticing it was there.
So much for deeper meanings, Kelly thought and something of her self-pity seemed to collapse with the pretence.
“He’s out of surgery,” she said forcing optimism into her voice. “Going to have us waiting on him hand and foot for weeks after this I bet. We’ll be lucky if he puts the kettle on and makes the rest of us a brew ever again.”
Tyrone nodded like he knew exactly what she wasn’t saying and asked hesitantly, “Do they know who?”
Kelly shook her head. “The police have asked for the CCTV from the office but I doubt it will tell them much. He was in the hallway so the car park camera won’t have caught much and we’ve no coverage inside the building.”
“This happened at work?” He frowned. “I thought he was, y’know mugged or somethin’. How did you . . . I mean . . . who . . . ?”
“I found him.” Kelly looked down at her hands. “The security company rang me. Apparently he set the code but then didn’t shut the outer door within the time and the silent alarm triggered. They couldn’t raise Ray as the main key holder so they called me as secondary.”
Tyrone swore softly under his breath. “Bastards. Did they take much?”
“No. Upstairs was untouched.” She paused unsure how much to put onto Tyrone and decided it wasn’t fair to lumber him with anything—not until they knew for certain. So she hedged. “Maybe they were disturbed.”
“I’ll disturb ’em if I get hold of ’em.”
She put a hand on his arm, a gesture of comfort and solidarity. She felt him tense under her fingers then he shifted, leaning down to envelop her in a big hug. A warning note sounded in the back of Kelly’s mind. She disengaged herself gently and offered Tyrone a sympathetic smile. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Across the courtyard a door opened and a nurse stuck her head out. “Miss Jacks, is it? Can you come? Mr McCarron’s asking for you.”
Kelly lurched to her feet, aware of Tyrone edging closer as if he expected her to faint. She had never fainted in her life and wasn’t going to start now.
She put out a hand to stay him, asked instead, “Is he …?”
“Oh, sorry love it’s not like that,” the nurse said breezily. “He’s as comfortable as can be expected for what he’s been through. If you’d like to follow me?”
She disappeared leaving Kelly to hurry after her. Tyrone tagged along behind, shoulders hunched into his bike jacket.
Kelly caught up with the nurse halfway along the corridor. “I didn’t think he’d be allowed visitors,” she said. “Not yet anyway.”
“He shouldn’t by all accounts but he won’t settle—not ’til he’s had a word with you he says.” Her tone suggested she doubted the urgency of this request and was humouring the pair of them by going along with it.
Kelly’s heartrate stepped up. What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait?
As much for Tyrone’s benefit as the nurse’s Kelly said blandly, “Work I expect.”
“Hmm.” The nurse let her eyes slide up and down Kelly’s figure as they bustled towards the ward. “Of course love.”
Eventually she led them to a doorway and stopped with a decisive squeak of soft-soled shoes on polished lino.
“Here we are. One of you only, if you don’t mind,” she said sternly. “And no more than five minutes please.”
If anything, Kelly thought Tyrone seemed relieved not to be going in there. She couldn’t blame him for that. She didn’t want to see her boss—her mentor, her friend—like this herself.
“I’ll wait out here, yeah?” Tyrone said jerking his head towards a row of plastic chairs. He slouched off without waiting for a reply. Kelly bit her lip as she watched him go, then stepped into the room the nurse had indicated.
Inside Ray McCarron lay very quiet amid the sheets. He presented a grey figure, suddenly an old man, helpless and vulnerable. In all the years Kelly had known him she’d never seen him like this.
They’d fastened together the cuts on his face and arms with Steri-Strips rather than stitches and immobilised his left arm. His hand just peeped out from below the dressing. It was swollen and angry, the fingers beginning to blacken. They could do little for the other bruises that had bloomed into a swirling mass under the surface of his skin, spreading and darkening even in the short time since she’d last seen him.
“Hi Ray,” she said softly.
McCarron opened one eye—the one he still could. “’Lo Kel,” he mumbled.
“Ray I’m so sorry—”
He swallowed with obvious difficulty. “Don’t be,” he said more firmly this time. “No’ your fault. Bas’ard got the jump on me s’all.”
“Who?” Kelly urged. “Who got the jump on you?”
“Dunno,” he said his voice almost dreamy. The puffy lips attempted a smile. “Don’t need to. Got the message. Loud an’ clear.”
She resisted the urge to shake him but only just. “What message?”
“’Bout turning over rocks, Kel. Never know what might be unnerneath ’em.” His eyes were starting to glide and he refocused with an effort. Even then she couldn’t be sure who or what he saw.
“I wasn’t intending to turn over any bloody rocks.”
“Good girl. Keep it that way.” He nodded, winced, nodded again sagely. “She’s not worth it. Don’ wanna see you like this. Can’t trust anyone …”
“Wait! Ray is all . . . this because I queried the Lytton job?” Kelly leaned over him, smelled the iodine and antiseptic wipes they’d used to bathe his minor wounds. “Ray?”
But he’d drifted off into a drug-induced doze. Considering the painful alternative, Kelly hadn’t the heart to wake him.
12
Tyrone sat in the hallway outside the boss’s room with elbows on knees and his head sunk. He didn’t like hospitals, never had. Not since his dad anyway. They were places connected with temper and sorrow. No facts, just feelings. Even the smell was enough to set off the memories, none of them good.
His dad had died of bowel cancer when Tyrone was just a kid and it hadn’t been quick. His childhood was stained with long periods spent on chairs like this while his mother sat by his father’s bedside and listened to him rage against the pain and the unfairness of it. It had been a long slow downhill journey with no possibility of reprieve. The old bastard had taken it with ill grace and a large amount of morphine. Just being inside the building was giving Tyrone the jitters.
Being here because of what some thieving sod had done to the boss—that was even worse.
Tyrone’s hands were loosely clasped but every now and again his fingers would tighten, stretching the skin taut across his knuckles.
He wanted to hit someone. Hit them hard and keep hitting them. He’d done his share of fighting as a kid. First on his own account and then for his younger brother and sister. The standard threat of “I’ll set my dad on you!” hadn’t been an option. If you wanted you-and-yours left well alone you had to show them you weren’t an easy target, weren’t to be messed with. Nobody messed with the Douet kids after that.
But this was different. There was nobody to fight, nobody obvious to blame. And he was getting a weird vibe from Kelly like she knew what was going on and was afraid to tell him.
Or maybe it was because he’d given himself away he realised, flushing painfully. That brief contact had been enough to send his pulse bounding into overdrive. In the far recess of his mind he knew Kelly viewed him just as a workmate but that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream. And tonight she’d looked so vulnerable, like she needed someone to protect her for once, not the other way around.
Maybe she thought he couldn’t handle it whatever it was. Tyrone’s hands flexed again. There ain’t much I can’t handle.
Growing up in a tough area had taught him how to handle plenty. The first lesson was spotting
trouble at fifty paces. So as soon as the big guy in the leather jacket walked in asking for Ray McCarron’s room Tyrone’s instincts screamed that here was all the trouble he could wish for.
The guy had dark hair and a young-but-old face with a nose that had been broken more than once. He carried himself with an aggressive muscular stance that had Tyrone launching out of his plastic seat. If you think you’ve come to finish what you started mate you gotta get past me first.
Since he started playing football, rugby and ice hockey up at the club in Walthamstow Tyrone had learned to use his size to best advantage. Now he ducked his shoulder intending to bounce the newcomer off the wall nearest the boss’s room. It was the kind of vicious body check that would have had him sent off the ice for half a game. The guy should have gone down hard and stayed there. Those with any sense usually did.
Tyrone wasn’t expecting to be expertly flipped somewhere in mid-tackle so it was his own back that slammed up against the wall with an explosive thump. Before he knew what was happening a rock-hard forearm was wedged against his throat.
“For God’s sake children, if you’re going to play rough take it outside.” Kelly’s voice was a low growl. Tyrone’s eyes slid sideways—the only part of his head he dare move—and found her glaring up at the pair of them from the doorway. She suddenly filled it like she’d fluffed up her fur.
Tyrone’s would-be opponent released the choke hold with some reluctance.
“Tell it to him,” the man said mockingly, not even out of breath. “He’s the one who jumped me.”
Tyrone saw the way Kelly’s eyes jerked, wondered what the guy had said that made her look so haunted. His ears grew hot. “He was asking for the boss’s room,” he protested, “and I just—”
“—wanted to protect him,” Kelly finished kindly, her voice careful. “I’m sure the nice detective will forgive your burst of enthusiasm for making a citizen’s arrest.”
Oh great—the Old Bill. Just what I need.
The man was staring at Kelly with the kind of dark assessing gaze the boss used when he was checking over crime scenes.
“Have we met?”
Kelly shook her head. “We don’t need to,” she said shortly. “Trust me—I recognise the type.”
13
He even smells like a cop, Kelly thought. What was it about these guys that made them favour aftershave with the same curiously musky overtones? Either way she felt her pulse rise as her body primed for flight in some kind of associated response.
“DI O’Neill,” the man said now by way of introduction, flashing a warrant card like sleight of hand.
“Ah,” Kelly said. “And what interest does CID have in a simple mugging?” She caught the way Tyrone’s mouth opened then closed again quickly as he registered the flicker of her eyes.
“Ray McCarron is a retired police officer,” O’Neill said not giving any sign he’d noticed the exchange. “We look after our own.”
“Is that so?” She allowed her voice to drawl a little with contempt and watched the faint flush steal up past his shirt collar.
He took a breath as if to stay his patience, asked, “And you are?”
She bypassed the obvious invitation. “We work for Ray.”
“Dedicated,” O’Neill said dryly. “I need to talk to him.”
“Talking to him would not be a problem. But if you’re expecting him to talk back you’re out of luck.” Pure stubbornness forbade her to add, for the moment.
He frowned. “I understood his injuries weren’t that serious.”
Kelly regarded him a moment, bristling. How crass can one man be with only one head? “Try having a baseball bat or whatever it was taken to you with a vengeance and then define ‘serious’ why don’t you?”
“I wasn’t trying to make light of the situation,” he said grimly. “I was told he was conscious at least.”
“He was,” she allowed. “But now he isn’t.” Kelly was aware she was out of line. Way out of line. But the anger and guilt were welling inside her and he was a convenient target. “I’m afraid this is one occasion where a blue flashing light and a siren will not make things happen any quicker.”
He put his hands on his hips, glancing from Kelly to Tyrone at her shoulder. A smile twisted his lips.
“You two got a problem with authority?” he asked. “Wouldn’t have thought that’s an asset in your line of work.” He paused. “Maybe I should ask you both to turn out your pockets.”
“Maybe you should have ‘just cause’ first,” Kelly shot back.
He sighed, tiring quickly of this game. Unworthy opponents, Kelly judged.
“Cut me some slack would you? If not for me then for him.” He nodded towards the room behind her causing a twinge of additional guilt that did not make her like the man any better. “Mr McCarron called us yesterday about something. I’m here simply to check this is not . . . related.”
You and me both.
But even as the thought formed, Kelly noted the careful choice of words. Mr McCarron not Ray as a friend or former colleague might refer to him. And called us rather than called me. O’Neill might simply be the one who drew the short straw when it came to follow-up at this time in the morning.
She kept her voice cool as her eyes. “Do you have any reason to suspect it might be related, detective inspector?”
He hesitated which was an answer in itself even before he matched his tone to hers. “Not right at this moment, no.”
“What? I mean, this is the Lytton thing, yeah?” Tyrone broke in suddenly, up on the balls of his feet like a boxer. “The boss tells you lot no way it was suicide and then he gets the crap beaten out of him and there’s no connection? That how it works now?”
Kelly struggled not to take an audible breath. Not only that Tyrone had put it all together—her own thoughts and fears—but that he’d voiced them in front of a copper.
O’Neill frowned again, went dangerously still.
“If you take my advice,” he said heavily, “that’s not the kind of speculation you want to be indulging in.”
Kelly recalled Ray’s own words about not turning over rocks because of what might lie beneath.
“Can’t trust anyone …”
She knew she should have backed off then. Backed right off and stayed there but maybe she was just sick and tired of always being on the retreat. Maybe it was time for a reckless stand. She was only partially aware of the tension in her neck as her shoulders went back, head tilting.
“And if we don’t want to take your advice?”
O’Neill fixed her with a brutal stare, one there was no way through and no way around.
“I remember you. You’re Kelly Jacks,” he said abruptly, his voice silky enough to send ice through to her bones. “Well, Kelly Jacks, you don’t want to go there.”
Not again.
He didn’t add it but he didn’t need to. Kelly shivered. Much like Ray, she thought bleakly, I get the message.
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.