The Blood Whisperer

by Zoe Sharp

  “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.

  17

  Tyrone bounced up the stairs to the fourth floor taking them two at a time and not feeling the strain. He was pleased to note he even managed to whistle while he was doing it. All those early mornings spent pounding the running track at the Mile End Leisure Park were paying off.

  He jogged along the corridor leading to the flat where they’d been working all morning hoping Kel wouldn’t think he’d been loafing. He couldn’t slice through traffic in the van quite like on the bike. Still, he couldn’t get a blood-soaked mattress on the back of his old Honda either.

  It was only when he got near the door that he heard voices inside the flat. Deep voices gruff from smoke and booze. The kind that came from men with thick necks and knuckles scarred from dragging along the pavement when they walked.

  And Tyrone remembered what had been done to the boss—by big men who knew what they were about—and he slowed to a cautious shuffle along the cracked concrete.

  Kelly!

  He nudged the door open with the tips of his fingers and edged through suddenly wishing he was armed with something more than just the keys to the van. When he swallowed he found someone had sucked all the saliva out of his mouth when he wasn’t looking.

  A man stepped out of the open doorway to the bedroom and Tyrone almost thumped him in shock and reflex. The man seemed as surprised as he did.

  Out of context it took Tyrone a second to place him as the Lytton guy with the massive country place who’d kicked up a stink about the bathroom where his missus blew her brains out—or had some help doing it, according to Kelly. Tyrone had no reason to doubt her word.

  “What you doing here?” Tyrone asked roughly. “Where’s Kelly.”

  “I’m just leaving,” Lytton said. He jerked his head towards the bedroom. “She’s in there.”

  As he brushed past Tyrone managed to register that whatever Lytton had come for he probably hadn’t got—not if the scowl on his face was anything to go by.

  So what was you after then?

  Tyrone didn’t stay to watch the man exit. He threw himself into the open doorway to the bedroom with the blood pumping hard in his ears and arms flexed to take on all-comers.

  The occupants of the room jerked up fast as he burst in. The voices he’d heard belonged to two men who suited them—hard cases in black cargo pants and bomber jackets like nightclub bouncers. They were bent over Kelly who was crouched on the floor between them. Tyrone started forwards.

  “Ah there you are Tyrone,” Kelly said calmly getting to her feet. “Any problems?”

  “Erm . . . no. All sorted.”

  “Good.” She nodded, turned her attention back to the men. “As I was saying, you can’t get blood out of floorboards but we’ve scrubbed and disinfected it so the floor structure won’t be affected and as you can see with the coat of sealant I’ve sprayed on you can’t tell it was ever there. Or more to the point your future tenants won’t be able to tell. I’d leave it twenty-four hours before you put new carpet down just to let it harden completely.”

  “You’ve done a great job,” said one of the men. “Couldn’t believe the state of this place when the boss had us break in, could we Gary?”

  “Shocking—it was rank in here,” Gary agreed. “You’ve even got rid of the stench. No-one’d ever know.”

  “I’m glad you’re satisfied,” Kelly said. “I’ve checked with the office and the fee’s already been transferred into our account so as soon as we’ve cleared out our gear you can re-secure the door.”

  “Cheers,” said the first man. “You need a hand?”

  “We can manage thanks,” Kelly said when Tyrone would have taken them up on the offer. He didn’t miss the pointed look she jabbed in his direction as she swung the drum of sealant up into his arms and gathered the rest of the stuff.

  Uh-oh.

  She didn’t say nothing until they were back in the van and she was cranking up the motor. Then she sat back in her seat and sighed.

  “Look Tyrone I know you’re only looking out for me but you were lucky those two didn’t rip your arms off when you came charging in like that. What were you thinking?”

  He stared down at his hands and mumbled, “Dunno.”

  She sighed again.

  “You’re upset about Ray,” she said. She put her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “I am too. But you can’t go for the clients Ty-ger or we’ll be out of business in no time.”

  He nodded. Pleasure at the nickname warred with shame at the feeling he’d somehow let her down. He didn’t speak again ’til they were cruising through traffic a few minutes later.

  “So what was he doing back there—that Lytton guy?”

  “To be honest I’m not entirely sure.” She glanced across frowning. “He said he wanted to know what really happened to his wife.”

  Tyrone’s head came up. “And you believe him?”

  Kelly shrugged, her focus on changing lanes without swapping paint with the pushy courier who zipped alongside. “Believe him? Maybe,” she said then. “But trust him?” She flashed a brief smile. “Not as far as I could throw him.”

  18

  Lytton was in his Aston Martin DBS and north of the river heading through Belgravia before his cellphone rang. He touched the Receive button on the hands-free kit.

  “Matthew Lytton.”

  “Matt!” Steve Warwick’s voice boomed inside the car. “Where are you?”

  “Near Victoria heading back to the apartment,” he said. He checked the time on the classic analogue clock in the Aston’s centre console. “Problems?”

  “Just wondering how it went that’s all,” Warwick said breezily. “Come on, you can’t yank me from my bed at an ungodly hour in the morning to run Internet searches for you on some mystery woman and not have me itching to know what came of it!” He gave a bark of laughter that sounded unduly harsh through the Aston’s speakers. “So let’s have it—did the lady succumb to your wicked charms?”

  “Unlike you, Steve I’m not looking for submission in a woman,” Lytton said dryly. “And if you’re itching for anything you should try a course of antibiotics.”

  “Ha. Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it old son.”

  Lytton braked hard to avoid a ubiquitous white-van man who swerved into his lane. It took a
moment’s continued static silence for him to realise Warwick was still on the line.

  “Was there anything else Steve?”

  “Not really,” Warwick said casually. “It’s just . . . well, we can’t afford to have anything rocking the boat—not right now. So if this bloody Mrs Mop is going to cause trouble do you want me to—?”

  “Kelly Jacks won’t be a problem,” Lytton said. He changed down viciously and launched the big car through a closing gap between two buses that it had no right to make without a scratch. “Leave it to me—I can handle her.”