by Zoe Sharp
“There was no Kelly Jacks either,” O’Neill said dryly. “She could have taken the works with her when she scarpered.”
Despite his years of experience Tate looked almost shocked. “You’re suggesting this wee lassie cold-bloodedly murdered someone she claimed was a friend—I heard the tape of the phone call she made to Douet’s mother by the way—and then calmly gave herself a massive dose of ketamine in an attempt to cover it up?” The rising incredulity in his voice made it a question. “For God’s sake man, why?”
“Why did she wake up next to Callum Perry’s body six years ago?” O’Neill countered. “Who knows what was going on with her back then?”
The CSI paused a moment then said reluctantly, “Her prints were all over the place I admit, although she did have a legitimate reason to be there.”
O’Neill heard the catch, raised an eyebrow. “But?”
“We found a bloody handprint on a pillar. The handprint was Jacks’s—the blood was Douet’s. And the only blood and prints on the knife belonged to the lassie too.”
O’Neill rose, put down the last of his coffee undrunk on the desktop. “Well then,” he said, “she has some kind of brainstorm—again—realises she can’t hope to sanitise the scene before we get there so she goes through this pantomime trying to avert suspicion. How else would she know to leave us a convenient blood sample just in case we didn’t catch up with her before it was gone from her system?”
Tate let him get halfway to the door. “The blood was unnecessary,” he said. And when the detective stopped, turned, he went on, “Ketamine would be present in hair samples—much less painful to extract. These days we can test for it months afterwards. It’s a relatively new process of course—one Ms Jacks may or may not have been aware of. Perhaps she wanted to leave us something that was harder to ignore than a few strands of hair, hmm?”
“What’s this—old CSIs sticking together?” O’Neill asked softly.
Tate made a gesture of annoyance. “It’s called giving the lassie a fair crack of the whip,” he shot back. “Besides, how did she get hold of the ketamine?”
“She’s an ex-con,” O’Neill said, his voice flat. “Trust me there’ll be any number of dodgy people she could turn to.”
58
Kelly woke with a jerk and found herself propped at the chipped Formica dining table in Tina’s flat. Her head was pillowed on her folded arms and she had violent pins and needles in her hands. In front of her, in hibernation, was the borrowed laptop she’d been using to run internet searches on Harry Grogan.
She straightened up cautiously, flexing her fingers. She was suddenly aware that it was daylight outside when the last time she’d checked it was still sodium-lit darkness.
Tina stuck her head round the living room door wearing jogging pants and a skinny top both drenched in sweat. She carried a half-empty bottle of water and a plastic carrier bag. Kelly realised she must have heard Tina returning from her morning run.
“You back in the land of the living?” Tina asked, taking a long swallow of the remaining water. “You was spark out when I left. Didn’t want to wake you.”
“Maybe you should have done,” Kelly said ruefully rubbing a hand round the back of her stiff neck.
Tina bounced over, dumped the carrier on the table next to the laptop. “Cheap pay-as-you-go mobile,” she said. “Got it off the market. My treat.”
“Thank you,” Kelly said, heartfelt. “For everything.”
“No sweat.” Tina nodded to the pile of obviously unused blankets and pillow on the sofa. “You been at it all night?”
“Yeah,” Kelly said. “Thanks for the loan of the computer too.”
“Don’t thank me—it’s Elvis’s and I don’t ask where he got it,” Tina said flashing a quick grin. “And thank the dumb fool a couple of floors down who put in wireless without no password. Half the building jumps on the back of it.”
“Don’t tell me,” Kelly said holding up a hand. “I don’t want to know.”
Tina laughed. “I’m gonna hit the shower,” she said. “Then you can tell me what you found out about this guy who’s after you.” She disappeared, thumping on the second bedroom door as she passed. “Elvis! Get your arse out of bed and down the Job Centre. You know they said they was gonna cut your benefits you idle git!”
Kelly sat back and pressed her fingers against her gritty eyes. The move reminded her painfully of the livid bruise across her cheek. Still, round here half the women went about with black eyes and she’d wanted to blend . . .
It was a far cry from waking up in Matthew Lytton’s beautiful apartment on the river. She blinked suddenly. Waking up there reminded her of falling asleep there. Of being held close and feeling so safe.
She couldn’t believe she’d trusted him. After what happened yesterday—and what she’d found out last night—that wasn’t a mistake she’d be making again.
The thin white boy Elvis drifted through on his way to the kitchen giving a duck of his head in greeting. She heard him shuffling about in there while the shower ran in another room. Somewhere nearby a baby cried continuously and a man banged on a distant wall and yelled for quiet with no sense of irony.
Elvis reappeared holding an opened can of Coke and a crumpled roll-up cigarette that Kelly suspected did not contain purely tobacco. He plonked himself on the sofa and fired up his Nintendo, earbuds in place. Whether that was to keep the noise in or the neighbours out she wasn’t sure. By the time Tina returned, washed and changed, he was engrossed.
She cuffed him around the head lightly, with affection. Elvis swayed from the blow not missing a beat of his game.
“Hangs on my every word,” Tina muttered. “So what you found out?”
That I’ve been a bloody fool.
Kelly sighed. “That too much staring at a small screen really does make your eyes go square,” she said. “Apart from that . . . More than I wanted to, probably.”
Tina put a hand on her shoulder gave it a squeeze and said nothing. Kelly found her silence more encouraging than straightforward encouragement would have been. She took a breath.
“Harry Grogan seems to have done a really good job of sailing close to the wind,” she began. “I can find lots of ‘rumoured to be’ and ‘probably’ and innuendo but he’s never been convicted of anything—never even been arrested for that matter.”
“So he’s clever,” Tina said. “Got to be, to get where he’s at.”
“There are stories about him having links to drugs, arms, prostitution, trafficking—you name it,” Kelly said, suddenly bringing to mind Yana’s stumbling explanation of how she’d come to the UK. A payment. To whom? And for what?
“He’s got a lot of property round here,” Tina said. “And he uses Russians as muscle—like we don’t have enough home-grown thugs of our own.”
Kelly tried to raise a smile. “They come over here, taking our jobs . . .”
Tina grinned back. “You got that right.”
But even as Kelly made the crack something rustled at the back of her mind. Russians. The accent of the man who’d attacked her—first at the warehouse and then at the racecourse—could it have been Russian? Kelly shook her head, realising just how stiff her neck had become.
“On the surface he’s supposed to be a legitimate property developer,” she said. Just like Matthew Lytton. “Owns a couple of racehorses, contributes to charities, hobnobs with the great and the good.”
“If he’s so squeaky why’s he put a price on your head?”
Kelly hesitated. “As a favour most likely.”
“A favour?” Tina’s voice was sceptical. “You know for who?”
“Unfortunately, I can make a good guess,” she said. She leaned forwards, woke up the snoozing laptop and nudged it round to face her friend, clicking on an image she’d minimised at the bottom of the screen.
The picture showed two men standing next to a sweat-lathered thoroughbred, obviously still blown from a hard-fought race. The men looked justifiab
ly pleased—according to the caption they were part of a syndicate which owned the winner of some prestigious horse race.
“The fat bald guy, he’s Grogan, right?” Tina said. “Who’s the other one?”
“That,” Kelly said, her voice remarkably level, “is Matthew Lytton.” She’d already told Tina all about Veronica Lytton’s supposed suicide, Ray’s beating, the warning and what had come after. They’d talked well into the night before Kelly had begun her searches.
Now she pointed to the screen. “This proves Matthew and Grogan are in it—whatever it is—together.”
“All that proves is they each own a leg of some fast donkey.” Tina sat back frowning. “Ten large is some favour, girl.”
That rocked Kelly. “Ten thousand? My God . . . are you sure?”
Tina jerked her head towards the sofa. “I sent Elvis out last night, see what noise he could pick up on the street. That’s what he say.”
Somehow Kelly didn’t see the sullen youth as a good intelligence-gatherer but she was prepared to reserve judgement—out loud at least. As if reading her doubts Tina grinned at her again. “Hey don’t you go underestimating my Elvis. He don’t say much but he knows how to listen.” Her face sobered slowly. “And ten grand is a lot of dough.”
“Dead or alive?” Kelly asked, only half joking.
“Makes no difference.” Tina shrugged. “Round here they’d sell their granny for less.”
59
Bumping along a rutted track in the back seat of a Range Rover Vogue, Steve Warwick couldn’t help the feeling he was taking his last ride to nowhere.
Of course, he’d gone along willingly—to a point. Harry Grogan had asked for this meeting in as much as a man like Grogan ever simply asked for anything. In truth Grogan had told Warwick when and where he’d be picked up without giving him the opportunity to refuse. So Warwick had allowed himself to be whisked away out of London like a lamb to the proverbial slaughter.
He sat back and watched the scenery which had turned progressively greener since they’d left the M4 motorway and struck out across the Downs. He tried to keep his face relaxed, almost a little bored, and hoped the trickle of nervous sweat along his temple wasn’t obvious to the two men in the front seats.
The driver didn’t worry him so much. He was big, yes, and from here Warwick had a good view of a squat, domed head that widened from ears down to collar into a bull neck like a mastiff. But he had the look of a slow bone-cracker and Warwick had been fast enough on the rugger field to know he could probably outpace him if he had to.
It was the passenger who set his nerve ends tingling with apprehension. The passenger was younger, apparently more languid, with rather girlie hair and designer stubble of a kind Warwick had always despised. But the eyes . . .
There was nothing behind the man’s eyes.
Warwick gripped the centre armrest as the big car lurched through another pothole, as much for comfort as to steady himself. And he wished not for the first time that he’d had the chance for a quick snort before this summons arrived. Something to bolster his confidence. Just a little.
The silent driver had turned off the road about a quarter of a mile back and since then they’d been crawling up this winding track to God-knows-where. It looked for all the world like they were taking him to his unmarked grave.
Warwick let out his breath. It emerged long and slow but shaky. He saw the front passenger’s eyes flick to his in the wide-angle rearview mirror, thought he detected a flicker of amusement there, but it was hard to be sure. Warwick swallowed, checked the knot of his tie, shot a cuff and willed himself to calm.
All it takes is nerve Steve old son, he told himself. You’ve always had plenty of balls in the past. Don’t go soft now . . .
At last the Range Rover reached more even ground, the bushes petering out into a wide expanse of lush grass that seemed to stretch for miles, offering a gently rolling view. The driver veered to the right and Warwick saw white rails and the first of a set of brushwood steeplechase fences.
Of course—the man and his damned horses!
Another Range Rover was already parked there together with an old Land Rover, its sides splattered with mud. The driver pulled up alongside them and cut the engine. He climbed out and opened Warwick’s door, indicating with a jerk of his head that he should vacate. It was not a suggestion and Warwick wasn’t foolish enough to take it as such.
Nevertheless he took his time as if not intimidated, stepping down into the wet grass. It immediately soaked through the turn-ups of his suit trousers. He growled under his breath and caught another twitch of a smile from the guy in the passenger seat.
The other Range Rover had an oversized sunroof over the rear seats. The bulky top half of Harry Grogan was visible poking out through it, a set of binoculars to his eyes. Warwick approached but was wise enough not to speak. Instead he turned and stared in the same direction shading his eyes with his hand.
Standing near the front wing was a whiskery grey-haired man with a face like old wood. He was wearing moleskins and a quilted jacket and battered flat cap. He nodded to Warwick without enthusiasm but didn’t speak. Warwick smelt horse on him and didn’t move closer.
They heard the pack before they saw them, the thrumming vibration of a dozen three-quarter-ton thoroughbreds at full stretch, each obeying the inherent instinct to get their flared nostrils in front of the others.
On the outside about halfway back was a grey horse that stood out from the rest and not just for the colour. Where the others were wholly extended, the grey horse seemed to be almost idling yet covered the ground with coordinated ease. As they came level, the grey’s jockey began to ask and the horse responded at once, accelerating effortlessly on the leaders.
They swept up a slight incline hugging the rails as they thundered past. Grogan tracked them all the way, only lowering the binoculars reluctantly when they’d disappeared from view. Even then he continued to stare after them narrow-eyed across the Downs.
“Well?” he demanded of the old man in the cap.
“He’s fit to race,” the man said shortly, surprising Warwick with his public school accent. Warwick got the impression he was no more eager to be here than him. At Grogan’s nod of dismissal the man hurried to the Land Rover keeping his gaze downcast as if to emphasise how little he’d seen and heard and bumped away down the track.
“D’you know as much about horses as your partner Mr Warwick?” Grogan asked then, offhand.
Warwick thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced up, keeping his voice casual. “I know I’d save that grey colt before all the others in a fire,” he said, dismissive. “He’s got world class written all over him.”
Grogan peered down at him sharply, his expression forbidding. For a second Warwick feared he’d gone too far with his praise, that he’d been horribly misinformed about the man’s favourite animal, his weak spot.
If you’ve sold me a line, Myshka . . .
Grogan ducked back down into the car. A moment later the rear door swung open and he was beckoned inside. The privacy glass made the interior darker and the lazing engine kept the temperature even.
“Looks like you do know your horses son,” Grogan said settling back in a corner. He pressed a button on the armrest and the sunroof buzzed closed, shutting out the sky. The car was a long wheelbase with plenty of room in the back. Warwick crossed his legs negligently and forced himself to wait as if he’d time to dawdle. As if there was nothing at stake here.
“I hope you didn’t mind this little ride out into the country Mr Warwick,” Grogan said pleasantly. “I like to come and see my horses work out every week rain or shine.” He removed the stopper from a crystal decanter in the polished rack between the front seats and splashed a measure of dark amber liquid into two heavy tumblers.
“At the start of it I only bought a couple of horses just to please my Irene,” he continued in conversational tones as he handed a glass across. “You know what women are—got to ha
ve something to keep them occupied or they get up to mischief. She loved the gee-gees did my Irene.” His face betrayed a hint of wistfulness. “Not any more of course.”
“I’m sorry,” Warwick said awkwardly. “Is she . . . no longer with us?” He dipped his nose into the glass and recognised bourbon—not his tipple of choice.
“She’s in a nursing home in Southend,” Grogan said easily. “Early onset dementia so the quacks tell me. Went doolally in her fifties poor cow.”
Warwick took a slug of bourbon anyway just to fortify himself. “I’m sorry,” he said again.