by Zoe Sharp
“Maybe not.”
“Well it could be worth running a full tox screen on it I suppose.” Tate pulled a face. “Depends on the state of the budget I expect and how seriously you take this person—whoever they are.”
“Kelly Jacks,” O’Neill said, almost under his breath.
Tate paused. “Now that name I do recall,” he said. “Bad business when one of our own turns bad.” He frowned. “Didn’t she claim to have some kind of mental breakdown when she stabbed—what was that laddie’s name?”
O’Neill had no time for reminiscences. “Jacks worked with Douet,” he said. “According to McCarron’s the two of them were scheduled to come out here and clean up the tramp’s death yesterday morning. Nobody’s seen or heard from Jacks since.”
“But—” Tate’s mouth opened and closed. With his slightly protruding eyes behind the glass O’Neill was unkindly reminded of a goldfish. “What about the blood? And the message?”
O’Neill was already striding away stabbing a number into his phone. “Maybe,” he threw back over his shoulder, “she’s just getting her defence in place a lot earlier this time.”
36
Kelly woke with a start, body snapping upright and her heart pounding like a fist.
For a few moments she had no clear idea of where she was or how she got there. The blank caused an instant burst of panic that pierced her chest and seized her lungs until she was gasping for breath.
She was in a bedroom, she saw, in one half of a double bed. The other half was empty.
Well that’s good, at least.
The curtains were not drawn at the long windows. Through the glass the soft-hued glow of pre-dawn washed in allowing Kelly to take in the details of the room.
Off to her left was an adjoining door through which she could see a sliver of en suite bathroom. Expensive glossy tiles and a glassed-in shower cubicle with a rose the size of a dinner plate. She looked around the bedroom itself, frowning. The art on the walls looked genuine if a little bland, giving it the impersonal feel of a seldom-used guest room. It was certainly no cheap motel.
Memories returned slowly, layer on layer like falling snow. By the time each of them had settled she began to wish for the amnesia that had once seemed such a curse. She sat, hugging her knees through the fine sheet.
Tyrone’s dead and they’re going to come after me for it.
She remembered her flight from the scene, her brief foray to the office, and finally coming here to the apartment of Matthew Lytton. A man who owed her nothing. A man she’d attacked by way of greeting as soon as he walked into his own home.
“I must have been mad.”
Maybe I was. And maybe I still am.
There was a digital clock on the side table. A glance at it told her it was a few minutes before 5:00 AM. At least she’d managed a couple of hours without the police breaking down the door and dragging her out in chains.
Which means he hasn’t called them.
The realisation gradually released its grip on something that had been clenched tight beneath her ribs.
Does that mean he didn’t set me up? she wondered. Or does it simply mean that he wants to deal with me in his own time?
Soundlessly, she slid out of bed. She was still wearing a thin undershirt and her knickers. When he’d shown her the room Lytton had told her in a neutral voice to make use of anything she found there. A long silk dressing gown was draped over a chair and after only a moment’s pause she slipped it on, knotting the sash around her waist. The material whispered around her legs, cool against her bare skin.
Before climbing into bed she had locked her bedroom door. Now she took a breath and untwisted the key. She paused in the hallway, listening tensely. She had no idea which was Lytton’s own bedroom and she had no desire to disturb him.
But as she stepped out into the open-plan living area she spotted his outline at one end of the low sofa, sitting facing the wall of glass with his back to her. She froze. He was in shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled back. Loosely in one hand he held a squat glass of what might have been whisky.
She was on the point of retreating when his voice floated back to her. It came disembodied from the shadow of his silhouette against the lightening sky.
“Can’t sleep?”
Kelly was silent for a few elongated seconds. She saw his head turn as if to sense her position. Feeling suddenly gauche she moved around the sofa and into his field of view. She told herself that the ungainliness of her limbs was due to nothing other than delayed shock from the day before.
“I managed a couple of hours,” she said with admirable calm. “You?”
“Not a wink,” he admitted, lifting the glass and taking a sip.
“Why?”
The question came out more starkly than she’d intended. It hung between them, glossy with intent.
“Because you’re here,” he said at last, a certain dryness to his tone.
She stiffened. “If I’m making you uncomfortable, I’ll go,” she said quickly, turning away. “I’m sorry. You should have said. I’ll get dressed.”
But as she passed him he reached out and caught her wrist. Everything jolted at the touch. Kelly felt the warmth from his fingers glowing across the surface of her skin. This time her first instinct was not to fight her way free.
She faltered, stared at him wordlessly.
He looked up at her. She felt his gaze soft on her face, her hair, her shoulders. She swallowed.
“Sit with me a while,” he coaxed. “Nothing more. Just . . . sit with me.”
Kelly would have pulled back but she heard something in his voice. Not seduction but a need for comfort, for a kind of mutual consolation and she remembered that he too had lost someone. He had as good as told her that his marriage was more partnership than romantic bond. Nevertheless, Veronica was someone he’d known, cared for and lived alongside. And he’d lost her to an act of shocking violence he had neither understood nor been prepared for.
She stood there unable to find the words to express her sorrow for both of them. After a moment he let her arm drop with a quiet exhalation that could have been a sigh.
Kelly moved around the arm of the sofa and sank onto the cushions next to him, tucking her feet up. She felt his surprise in the brief hesitation. Then his arm went around her shoulders and very gently he drew her closer.
This is a bad idea, she thought. But I need this—and so does he.
She allowed herself to fold against the side of his body, her head resting on his shoulder. She put one hand on his chest for balance. Beneath her palm his heart beat strong and steady. He carried the faint trace of good cologne.
Lytton inhaled and then exhaled unsteadily as if letting go of more than simply spent air. He turned his head slightly and his breath stirred her scalp. His hand began to drift along her upper arm in a smooth, unthreatening caress.
Gradually Kelly felt knots she hadn’t even realised were there begin to untie themselves. She sank deeper into him as everything slowed within her. It was a long time since someone had just held her like this, apparently without expectation. A long time since she’d wanted or needed such human contact.
Hazily she wondered, why him?
And then she slept.
***
When Kelly woke the light had solidified into morning. She found herself alone on the sofa, curled up like a cat with the duvet from her bed wrapped carefully around her.
She had no recollection of how long Lytton had stayed with her or when he’d edged out from underneath but she hoped she hadn’t snored.
From somewhere behind her in the apartment she heard the sound of a shower running. To avoid any awkward hellos she stumbled to her feet and hurried back towards the bedroom she’d been given, bundling up the duvet as she went.
She indulged in a long shower. The water was hot and plentiful and she took full advantage of it. The prospect of climbing back into yesterday’s clothes held little appeal.
Although Lytton had
told her to make use of anything she found in the room, she hesitated before pulling open drawers.
To her surprise, the second one she checked held a selection of classy lingerie. The bras were too big but Kelly had never considered herself over-blessed in that department and often went without anyway. She found camisole tops instead and knickers to match.
The wardrobes held suits, blouses, dresses and coats, all with a rake of designer labels. Kelly dithered briefly then took a plain white silk blouse off a hanger and shrugged it on. It didn’t quite go with her grubby cargoes but what the hell. She knotted the front tails rather than tuck them in. Too formal was not her style.
Then she took a deep breath and went in search of her host.
Matthew Lytton was in the kitchen, expertly preparing grapefruit. There was a smell of toast and coffee. In the corner was a muted TV tuned to one of the twenty-four-hour news channels.
Lytton was dressed in suit trousers and a formal white shirt with the collar and cuffs yet to be buttoned. His dark hair was still damp from his own shower. He looked remarkably relaxed for a man whose home had been invaded by a fugitive who’d assaulted him and then more or less passed out in his arms.
He greeted her with a guarded smile and gestured to the coffee pot.
“Help yourself.”
She lifted the knotted tails of the blouse. “I already did. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No, that’s fine,” he said, his eyes flickering over her. “Vee rarely wore half the stuff she kept in her room.”
Her room? You mean you didn’t share?
Kelly hunched a shoulder. “I’ll get it back to you.”
“No need. It looks good on you.” The toast popped up. He fished the slices out of the big chrome toaster and piled them on a plate, adding over his shoulder, “I was going to send the whole lot to Oxfam anyway.”
“In that case tell me which shop. I may stage a raid.”
Her attempt at levity hung heavy between them where last night—early this morning—things had seemed so easy. Perhaps it was because they both knew that if things turned out badly she might be wearing prison garb for the foreseeable future.
“Eat.” He pushed the grapefruit and the plate of toast towards her. “You look better for some rest.”
That brought heat rushing into her face. She busied herself pulling out a stool from the breakfast bar, perching on top. “I feel better. And thank you.”
“What for—breakfast?”
For being there. For holding me.
“Of course,” she said lightly. “Food is the way to a woman’s heart, not just a man’s. Didn’t you know?”
He paused and just when she thought he was going to say something profound he said instead, “Well, I better make sure I feed you well then. There’s juice in the fridge if you’d like some?”
She didn’t but nodded regardless. As he turned away she used the distraction to quickly swap the grapefruit dishes. Lytton put the juice container on the breakfast bar with no sign he’d noticed the substitution.
As he took the stool opposite it struck Kelly that they must have seemed like any normal domesticated couple eating breakfast together. The air of intimacy was unfamiliar and unsettling.
She found herself minutely aware of the size and the shape of him, the way the muscles in his arms shifted as he hooked a slice of toast from the stack. Of the mobile dexterity of his hands. Hands that had stroked her into trustful slumber.
And she was also aware that, for all the veneer of civilised sophistication, here was a man who’d started out at the physical end of the construction business. He still had that tough capability about him and she sensed he would be capable of great ruthlessness to get what he wanted.
Did that extend to killing his wife, she wondered? Or having her killed? The wife he no longer shared a bed with or seemed to mourn?
They ate in silence. Kelly found herself too jittery for it to be a comfortable one, tensing whenever he reached across for the marmalade or to refill his coffee cup. There was a pressure building in the air that made it buzz between them.
She could see the faint bruise braceleting his wrist from the lock she’d put onto him last night. One thing about prison, if you pissed off the guards they gave you an excellent practical demonstration of pain compliance at work.
It was a shame she hadn’t been able to use more of what she’d learned when she was at the warehouse.
“Tell me what you meant last night,” Lytton said suddenly, breaking into her reveries, “when you said you came here because you had nowhere else to go.”
Kelly shrugged. “Just that.”
“No friends? No boyfriend?”
An image of David sprang into her mind, the twist of disgust on his face during that final visit when she was on remand, telling her he couldn’t keep up the pretence. That he couldn’t stand by her—couldn’t stand her—any longer.
She pushed it away, took a sip of her coffee and said calmly. “I always tended to make friends through my work. When the job went bad, the friends went the same way.”
He didn’t press her on that. She remembered that he’d looked up the reports of the time. The tabloids had a field day with David’s abandonment. If even her lover—another copper—didn’t believe she was innocent, they cried, who would?
“No family you could turn to?”
Kelly put her cup down before responding. Was he making small talk or trying to find out if she would be missed? Should she lie?
“I was always the odd one out, the cuckoo,” she said, opting for the truth without quite knowing the reason. “The bright one, the one with her head stuck in a book. The one who had fancy ideas about wanting to go to university.”
“The one who thought she deserved something better than being stuck in a dead-end job for the rest of her life, you mean?” Lytton asked. And when she glanced at him surprised at the insight, he gave a crooked smile. “Been there. Done that.”
“Yes, I suppose you have. And you’re right. I went away to study and was so wrapped up in the course I didn’t see what was happening back home, that they were turning against me in my absence.”
“People despise what they don’t understand.”
She nodded. “I left it too long. I came home qualified and expected them to be proud of me. Instead, all I got were sneers.”
“So they couldn’t wait for you to fall on your arse, you mean?”
If only it were that simple. “When I was arrested my mum had her first stroke,” she said quietly. “They said it was the shock . . .”
Her voice trailed off and there was a beat of loaded silence between them.
“Ah, you’ve made the news,” Lytton said. He picked up the remote for the TV and thumbed up the volume.
Kelly twisted on her stool just in time to see DI O’Neill’s sombre face appear on the screen. A rolling banner hotline number scrolled past underneath him.
“. . . vicious and unprovoked attack on a young man of good character who was well-liked in the community,” O’Neill was saying. “It’s vital we speak with young Tyrone’s colleague, Kelly Jacks. According to our information she was apparently . . . with him at the time of his attack.”
The pause was artful, Kelly thought bitterly. Nobody hearing it could fail to get the hinted meaning even without the interviewer’s next question.
“Is Kelly Jacks a suspect?”
O’Neill stared at the earnest female interviewer for a couple of seconds. “We would advise anybody with knowledge of Ms Jacks’s whereabouts to contact us immediately,” he said. “But not to approach her themselves.”
“Jacks has already served a prison sentence on a previous manslaughter charge. Does she present a danger to the public?” The interviewer made another stab, hardly troubling to suppress the excitement in her voice. She was young, a little brash, only just promoted to the crime beat and no doubt keen to catch the eye of the big networks.
“Let’s just say we have concerns for Ms Jacks�
��s state of mind at this time,” O’Neill said dryly.
He nodded to someone past the camera and the report came to a rapid close. The interviewer did a solemn round-up with the crime-scene tape fluttering behind her. Kelly’s picture appeared in the corner of the screen.
It was the one from her records, taken at the time of her original arrest. Her hair was longer then, the style curving around her face making her look younger, more feminine. Or maybe it was just that five years inside had robbed her of whatever innocence she might have once possessed. Kelly could see the bewildered desperation in her own reflected image, the sheer panic and disbelief.