The Blood Whisperer

by Zoe Sharp

  I don’t have much time.

  Kelly pressed the back of her clenched fist to her forehead willing clarity of thought but her mind still seemed to be functioning with a wretched slowness. Otherwise, why did it take her so long to come to another obvious conclusion?

  They gave me something to knock me out—to make me forget.

  Her defence counsel had insisted on a tox screen last time but it had been carried out with obvious reluctance after a long delay and the testing had been stingily brief. That it came back negative for any illegal substances which might have explained her actions came as no surprise to anyone. By that time not even to Kelly herself.

  This time she swore there would be no such delays. Carefully she let go of the wall and tried an unaided step. Then another, and another.

  Her legs still did not feel as though they entirely belonged to her but it was getting better.

  And if it’s getting better that means whatever’s in your system is disappearing fast.

  She turned. Their clean-up kit was still lying where they must have dropped it when they were attacked. She made it across and opened the handles. Inside was a roll of clear plastic ziplock bags which they used for collecting biological debris. Would it be strong enough?

  Kelly shrugged. It was all she had. But when she searched through the kit she couldn’t find any kind of a blade. Then she caught sight of the bloodied knife still lying where she’d put it down and made an instant decision.

  She picked up the knife and took a sterile wipe out of the kit. It grieved her to do this but she had no choice. With great care and attention to detail she cleaned every scrap of Tyrone’s blood and tissue from the blade.

  Then she gripped the handle firmly in her right hand, opened up one of the bags and drew the tip of the knife sharply across the exposed skin of her left forearm before she lost her nerve.

  For a moment there was only a thin red line then the blood began to swell out. It ran around her arm and dripped into the bag she quickly held below it. The wound burned and stung but she flexed her fingers to maintain the flow. It felt disturbingly hot against her skin.

  By this clumsy and highly unscientific method she managed to fill a corner of the bag with her own blood. More than enough, she thought fiercely, to test for Rohypnol or something similar.

  What makes you think they’ll go that far? After last time do you think they’ll bother wasting resources on lab work to tell them what they think they know already?

  No, she realised. They won’t.

  Kelly had never thought of herself as squeamish—it wasn’t a luxury she’d ever allowed. But even she could not suppress a small shudder when she unpeeled a fresh bag from the roll and forced the clotting wound open for a second time.

  29

  It took constables Ferris and Jacobson thirty-four minutes to arrive at the location. It was an unpromising-looking warehouse building obviously in the midst of renovation into offices. The only commercial vehicle parked at that end of the estate was a big van belonging to some cleaning company.

  Still, they’d had the additional information on the way over that there had been a death at the same place only the day before. That one was all done and dusted and the scene handed back to the building owner.

  “This’ll be just another wino most likely,” Ferris said with a dismissive sniff as they pulled up outside. Jacobson, he noticed with a sneer, screwed his peaked cap firmly into place as soon as he stepped out of the car.

  You’ll learn.

  Despite his casual comments Ferris kept one hand on the baton at his belt as he entered the building. The crunch of his boots on the gritty surface was much too loud.

  “Police officers,” Jacobson shouted behind him, a slightly squeaky note in his voice betraying his apprehension. “Show yourself!”

  “Oh yeah ’cause that works every time.” Ferris abandoned the quiet approach and stumped up the concrete stairs. On the first floor landing was a fire door. Ferris kicked it open and peered through without immediately going in. It swung shut again on a self-closing mechanism.

  Nobody launched any kind of attack but what Ferris saw in that brief closing snapshot made him hesitate before trying the door a second time.

  This was no hoax.

  “Call for backup,” he told Jacobson in an urgent whisper. “Do it now!”

  Behind him he heard the youngster fumbling through the radio message.

  Not so bloody keen now are you mate?

  Ferris didn’t want to go in there either but at least he’d never pretended any different. He drew the baton, flicked it down and away so it locked out fully extended, then nudged the door open again.

  Despite his hopes for an optical illusion the slashed corpse was still lying where he’d glimpsed it. He tore his eyes away and gave the rest of the open space a thorough scan just to be sure they weren’t about to get jumped themselves. Apart from a couple of pigeons scuttering up around the rafters like grubby flying rats the place was deserted.

  Jacobson came in behind him with all the enthusiasm of a man edging out onto a narrow ledge above a long drop.

  “Aw . . . Jesus Christ,” he gulped when he saw the body.

  Although Ferris knew he’d be giving Jacobson some stick for a long time to come over his reaction, deep down he couldn’t blame the lad. It was a bad one, no doubt about that, with the gaping wounds and the blood. Like the work of a madman.

  Death made it hard to put an age on what had once been a person but he realised this guy had probably been no more than a teenager despite his size.

  “Drug deal most likely,” he declared, taking in the dead kid’s race. Jacobson was studiously checking out everywhere but the body.

  Next to it lay the knife that had made such short work of the victim, the blade gleaming like evil chrome.

  “Wiped clean by the looks of it,” Ferris said, more to make Jacobson look than anything else. No surprises there—all the little scumbags watch the TV forensics’ shows these days.

  But what did make him rock back, shocked, was the object that had been placed on the corpse’s ragged chest.

  “What the . . .?”

  It was a clear plastic bag containing a greasy puddle of blood like you sometimes got around vacuum-packed meat in the supermarket. And on the bag was scrawled a message in black marker pen. A confession? Or a denial?

  I DID NOT DO THIS.

  30

  Balanced on a couple of inches of protruding brickwork outside one of the glassless windows with her fingertips wedged into a crumbling mortar joint Kelly listened to the policeman’s shocked exclamation.

  She closed her eyes, tried to relax to regulate her breathing and control her panic. Not easy when she was suspended between her outstretched arms, one leg crossed behind her for balance, foot pointed. It was twenty feet or so to the ground—a dangerous distance. Not far enough to kill her unless she was unlucky, but injury was a certainty.

  The only way to go was up.

  Still she hesitated, aware of the muffled squawk of the police radios just inside the building. All her life she’d thought those in authority knew best. She had trusted them to do the right thing by her.

  Until she’d put that trust to the ultimate test and they had failed her.

  Nevertheless her first instinct when she’d heard the car draw up below and seen the policemen emerge to head so obviously in her direction was to give herself up.

  That instinct lasted for only a few seconds and was disregarded by her scornful inner voice of reason.

  Yeah, because look how well that worked out for you last time.

  Kelly opened her eyes, carefully unclamped the whitened finger ends of her lower hand from the edge of the brick and stretched up for the next handhold.

  She had already jettisoned the bloodstained Tyvek oversuit, letting it go from the window before she’d climbed out of the aperture. The breeze coming up from the river had caught it almost instantly, semi-inflating it like some weird balloon and
sending it billowing skywards.

  Inside her shirt, still warm next to her skin, was the second bag of her own blood. She needed to hang on to that at all costs.

  She’d bound up the gash on her arm with the heavy duty duct tape they always carried in the cleaning kit. The last thing McCarron’s reputation could afford was to leave a trail of decomposing fluids as they carted disposal bags out to the van and duct tape was sure to seal any leaks.

  Right now Kelly was more worried about remaining at liberty until she’d had the opportunity to get the blood independently tested.

  She moved with desperate caution knowing any slip would send loose grit and dust scattering down the outside of the building. With no glass to damp out the sound they were bound to hear her.

  But she climbed almost every day—not rock but urban faces like this one. She willed herself to stay calm, to pretend there was nothing more at stake than gaining a high place from which to enjoy the view.

  Who are you trying to kid?

  With a grim twist of her lips that became more grimace than smile she reached the sagging line of the gutter. And from below she could see that the rusted fastenings were mostly loose in the powdery brickwork. There was no way she could use it to lever herself onto the roof.

  Kelly bit back a groan of frustration. She was running out of both time and options. The tension was making her muscles quiver with the effort of holding herself flattened against the wall. That and the after-effects of whatever muck they’d pumped into her system. She couldn’t stay here much longer.

  She glanced quickly each way and saw a threaded rod sticking a few inches out of the wall about three or four feet to one side—part of a steel tie put in some time earlier to stop the old building bulging out of shape.

  With the last of her strength Kelly swung for it.

  31

  “What was that?” PC Jacobson demanded, jerking round.

  “What was what?”

  “I dunno. I heard something—from outside I think.”

  PC Ferris gave a dry chuckle. “You’re getting jumpy my son,” he said. But when Jacobson still faltered he waved a hand towards the open windows. “Go on, have a gander if you’re so sure you heard something.”

  “Probably nothing,” Jacobson muttered but he went across to the line of windows in the back wall of the building. Anything was better than standing around trying not to look at the dead body while they waited for the promised reinforcements.

  He stuck his head out with great care, only enough to expose one eye. There was no fire escape or other means of easy egress. He even craned his neck to look up and saw nothing but yet more pigeons squabbling over window ledge territory rights above him. Jacobson drew his head inside quickly. He’d no desire to get dumped on even if it was supposed to be lucky.

  “Well?” Ferris said with a distinct taunt in his voice.

  “Nothing,” Jacobson admitted. “Must have gone well before we got here, eh?”

  And if both men felt a sense of relief at this thought neither was prepared to admit it to the other.

  32

  Dmitry saw the flashing blue lights in his rearview mirror and pulled the big Mercedes coupé over as far as he could on the crowded street.

  The full-dress squad car came bowling past him, the sound of its siren fading rapidly into the distance as it was swallowed up by the buildings and the other vehicles. Still, it didn’t take a genius to work out where the car was heading.

  Dmitry checked his mirrors again and sedately pulled back into the traffic flow.

  He hit one of the speed-dial buttons on the cellphone sitting in its holder on the dash. In the ear-piece of his Bluetooth headset Dmitry heard the call connect and begin to ring.

  It was answered with a short female, “Da?”

  “It is done,” Dmitry said by way of equally short reply then hit End without waiting for a response. He smiled into the empty car.

  “And now it begins.”

  33

  Getting down from the roof did not present Kelly with as much difficulty as getting up there. Rooftops were her playground and she knew how to pick her way across fragile slate and tile using the timber skeleton underneath. In this case, staying low and avoiding the skylights she shadowed the ridge line to the end furthest away from the entrance.

  The next building was butted up against the one she’d escaped from but was one storey lower. Kelly dangled herself carefully over the gable and edged her way down the brickwork by fingers and toes until she was on the lower level. Her arm throbbed fiercely all the way.

  This building was occupied so in a better state of repair. It was also reasonably compliant with the current regulations regarding fire escapes—in this case a sturdy metal staircase. Fortunately this was mounted on the far side, so while the occupants gaped out of the windows at the activity below, Kelly was able to slip past on the opposite side of the building without being noticed.

  Good job too, Kelly thought. Even without her tattered oversuit she knew she must present quite a picture of a fleeing fugitive. She half-ran, half-tiptoed her way down the old cast-iron treads, moving as fast as she dared.

  The pull-down ladder at the bottom was rusted closed and refused to open out all the way to the ground but jumping the last few feet and rolling through the impact was a small price to pay for freedom.

  Kelly dusted herself down and walked quickly east trying not to look guilty as another police car came barrelling into the estate. She crossed the road, trotted past a modern-designed junior school and yet more developments of high-rise flats. Half a glimpse of the river and the prices rose accordingly, even out here.

  All the way her mind keened for the dead boy she’d left behind. He’d been gauche as a puppy in some ways but as close to a friend as Kelly allowed herself these days, and fervently loyal. She remembered his attack on DI O’Neill at the hospital in defence of Ray. Had he tried to protect her too or was he always the intended victim?

  Aware of Tyrone’s crush on her she’d tried to be gentle of his feelings. And now he’ll never know what it is to fall in love—properly truly in love.

  Eyes blurring, Kelly turned down the first available side street and headed along its length, past the doorway to a small swimming baths that let out a damp belch of heavily chlorinated air across the pavement.

  The street was long and straight enough for Kelly to keep a wary eye out for anyone following. As far as she could tell, she was alone.

  An abandoned shopping trolley next to the fence at the far end sparked an idea. She hurried through a half-empty parade of new shops and crossed over the Inner Dock using the Pepper Street bridge, making for the supermarket on the other side of the railway line.

  She grabbed a bottle of cola and ducked into the customer toilets as soon as she was inside the store, locking herself into the disabled cubicle which had its own sink. The blood on her bare arms and hands had dried and without an abrasive cleaner the cola was the most effective thing she could find.

  She was thankful that she always kept her wallet in a back pocket rather than a handbag which would most likely have been left in the van. At least she had a bit of cash on her even if it wasn’t enough to get her much beyond south Croydon—never mind South America.

  Even the thought of exile made her sink down onto the closed lid of the toilet, her knees suddenly rubbery.

  I am not running away, she told herself sternly. This is a tactical retreat.

  She made sure she brought the empty cola bottle out with her to pay for. No point in getting nabbed by in-store security. In the clothing section she picked up a cheap baseball hat and a hooded sweatshirt discarding the labels in the first waste bin she came across once she was through the self-service checkout and back outside.

  The disguise, such as it was, would not hold for long. As soon as they ran her prints and DNA through the system it would light up like Bond Street at Christmas. All she needed to gain was a little time and distance to find somewhere safe to hide
at least until she could get her own blood sample tested—and by someone she could trust over the result.

  She bought a Day Travelcard from one of the machines in the Tube station at Coldharbour and boarded the first northbound Docklands Light Rail train that pulled in.

  Kelly sat next to the window, swaying to the motion as the train briefly picked up speed again. Her face was turned to the glass so that she watched her own reflection more than the shifting scenery outside. She wasn’t sure she either liked or recognised who she saw there.