The Blood Whisperer (2 page)

Kelly shook her head and for once didn’t lighten up. Every now and again she could be like that—all quiet. Like she folded in on herself.

It bothered him at first. He’d worried it might be something he’d done or said, but in the end he’d accepted that prison made people go that way. He’d seen enough of it to know.

Tyrone wasn’t sure what Kelly had been inside for and it wasn’t something he would ask. But she knew stuff about the scenes they were sent to that she shouldn’t—
couldn’t
—know unless she’d worked right there up alongside death all close and personal.

Tyrone didn’t think he had an overactive imagination but sometimes Kelly freaked him out just a little too.

“It’s the blood,” she said now, almost to herself. “There’s something not right with the position of the blood.”

Tyrone bit back the comment about how maybe that was because blood was supposed to be worn on the
insides
of a body. Besides, he always tried to look beyond the mess to what was underneath it. Their job was to put things back the way they were before—to wipe out not just the mess but the memory.

He and Kelly had done jobs where they’d had to rip out skirting boards because of what had leaked behind them, scrub textured ceilings, take down light fittings. And they bantered while they worked. It was the only way to deal. But this was the first time he’d heard her so
unsure
about anything.

It worried him.

He looked at the bath trying to see it through those cool brandy coloured eyes. Like the bathroom the tub itself was huge—big enough for a family to stretch out in easily—with fancy whirlpool fittings and real gold taps. The tub was sunk into a raised platform by the pair of tall plain glass windows where you could just lie back and enjoy the view. No need for coy frosting when the nearest neighbour was a mile away.

So much luxury and yet this Veronica Lytton chick had still wanted to end it all in a way that was all drama and
real
messy, he thought. A way guaranteed to cause maximum grief to her family.

Man, that was
cold.

Tyrone shook his head. This woman had the kind of up-there lifestyle he knew a black kid from Tower Hamlets was never going to live this side of legal. Maybe that’s what was making him so uneasy—the feeling that the likes of him didn’t ought to be here.

The bathroom in the housing association flat he shared with his mum and younger brother and sister was about the same size as the walk-in shower in this place. At home the pedestal sink overhung the loo cistern on one side and the half-length bath on the other. Getting fixed to go out in the mornings was a battle of wits and wills and elbows between the four of them. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have so much
space,
all to yourself.

Bloody miserable, if Mrs Lytton was anything to go by.

“Look, if Plod wasn’t satisfied it was suicide they would never have let this Lytton guy call us in, yeah?” he tried, aware that time was getting on and they were not.

“Hmm,” Kelly said, distracted. “Still, I’m going to give the boss a call—maybe even send him the ‘before’ pix and see what he makes of them.”

She stepped back, stripping off the blue nitrile gloves and making for the door with that loose-limbed yet compact stride. The one he always thought made her seem like a long distance runner.

“Kel—” Tyrone protested. She stopped, glanced over her shoulder as she pulled off her booties. Tyrone spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t get it. We done gunshot suicides before. What’s so different about this one?”

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she said flashing a rare smile. “Until then . . . see if you can work it out.”

By the time she’d got hold of Ray McCarron, sent over the pictures and waited for his opinion, twenty-five minutes had gone past. It was quite a trek back to the bathroom on the upper floor from the van parked in the courtyard to the rear of the house—the tradesman’s entrance. Nobody wanted a big white Mercedes Sprinter bearing the name McCarron Specialist Cleaning Services parked smack outside the front door.

May as well issue open invitations to gawp.

Kelly was halfway up the sweeping staircase when she heard raised voices from above. She increased her pace, jogging the last flight and hurrying along the plush corridor to the master suite. The house was cool inside but the van was parked in the sun and she’d stripped her oversuit halfway off while she talked to Ray, tying the arms around her waist. She was aware that she didn’t exactly present a picture of authority but it would have to do.

Just before the final corner she paused, took a steadying breath. Relatives and friends of the violently deceased were often emotionally erratic. Suicides had the worst effect on them. They needed to lash out at somebody and the cleaners were the people eradicating that last link with the dead.

By definition McCarron’s team moved fast and the messier the tragedy the more he charged for making all visible signs of it go away, which in itself could cause bitter resentment. What it was to offer a service that was wanted least when it was needed most.

Usually Kelly was good at spotting confrontations early enough to divert or avoid them but sometimes she was glad of Tyrone’s bulky presence on the job.

This time Tyrone was the one taking flak. He hovered awkwardly in the doorway to the suite, head ducked as if to protect his ears against the verbal blows.

Not that the man with him looked set to get physical. Kelly read anger in the tight lines of his body, yes but not that dangerous boiling rage. She willed herself to relax knowing calm reason was the best form of attack.

“Can I help you?” she called aiming her voice low and pleasant.

Both men twisted in her direction. Kelly kept her body language neutral as she closed the distance between them.

The quick relief in Tyrone’s expression would have been comical in other circumstances but Kelly’s eyes were on the newcomer.

She’d initially thought he must be a member of staff. The comfortably middle-aged housekeeper had let them in. She showed them as far as the right corridor before she fled but a property this size needed more than one domestic to keep it in shape. It would be no surprise if the Lyttons employed a major-domo—the kind who’d get shirty on his employer’s behalf for a job running behind.

The man turned. She caught the way his suit moulded across his back, the fabric draping casually back into place and she didn’t need to spot the exclusive watch and handmade shoes to know she was dealing with serious money.

Uh-oh.

He stood with feet braced apart but arms folded in an unconscious contradiction of gestures that piqued Kelly’s interest.

“You must be Mr Lytton.” She held out her hand so that good manners compelled him to uncoil long enough to respond, turning his upper body away from Tyrone as he did so. The man nodded as he treated her to a fleeting handshake. She said, “We apologise for any distress caused by the delay.”

He studied her for a moment without speaking. There was a compressed energy to him that was not simply anger but also contained more than a trace of shock. It made her suddenly very wary.

“I was just explaining ’bout the blood Kel,” Tyrone put in nervously over Lytton’s shoulder. “I didn’t see it right off but then I spotted it, yeah? The bit you said—”

“It’s all right Tyrone,” Kelly said softly, her eyes still on the client. Lytton had dark hair a little on the long side, styled but not too fancy, a strong nose and eyes the colour of old Welsh slate—dark grey with a hint of green. “I’ve just spoken to the boss. Wait in the van would you?”

Tyrone hesitated. “You sure?”

A brief smile flickered across Kelly’s face. “I’m sure.”

Reassured, he loped off along the corridor with his oversuit rustling as he went. The man watched his hasty exit with an expression that was now hard to discern. Kelly wondered about her earlier conclusions. Had she been wrong about the shock?

“Bit young for this kind of job isn’t he?” he demanded as if Kelly had a say in it. His accent was not the cut-glass she’d expected. So he probably made his money rather than inherited it. She stifled an inward groan. Sometimes with self-made men it was nice of them to take the blame for what they’d made of themselves.

“Tyrone’s a good worker,” she said. “Very competent.”

“I’ve no doubt but is this—” he jerked his head towards the doorway, “—the sort of thing a kid his age ought to see on a regular basis?”

Kelly put her head on one side.
Hmm is that a social conscience I detect?

“He makes good wages. They help support his family. And some of us don’t have the luxury of being shielded from the harsh realities of life Mr Lytton,” she murmured. “Tyrone saw his first OD while he was still in primary school.”

A muscle clenched in the side of his jaw. “And that makes either of you experts at distinguishing suicide from . . . something else does it?”

Kelly felt the jolt of his words go through her but she’d taught herself not to let her emotions show outside her skin. Learned it in a hard place where any sign of weakness got you beaten or killed.

So she merely raised an eyebrow at the hesitation and didn’t pursue it. “It wasn’t our call to make,” she said instead which was the truth—as far as it went. “My boss has told us to hold fire until he’s double-checked certain disparities in the scene with the investigating officer. Until then everything needs to stay as it is. I’m sorry.”

He sighed, a thin hiss of pure exasperation. “The police told me as far as they’re concerned the case is closed. She killed herself. End of story,” he threw out. “And believe me, they looked hard.”

Not hard enough.
Kelly shrugged and dug a business card out of her back pocket, held it out. The cards held the firm’s name and contact details but no personal information. “You’re welcome to speak to Mr McCarron directly if you like.”

He took the proffered card and fingered it for a moment but made no moves towards a phone. His next words surprised her. If the look on his face was anything to go by they surprised him too.

“Show me.”

She arched an eyebrow.

He gave a shrug of frustration. “You must have seen it first,” he said. “The kid—Tyrone? He mentioned something about the blood.”

Kelly hesitated. Ray insisted that they were efficient, professional, neat and respectful at all times but she’d never encountered this kind of morbid curiosity from the deceased’s nearest and dearest before.

“The blood spatter is inconsistent,” Kelly said at last, keeping her tone neutral.

“Inconsistent,” Lytton repeated flatly. “What does
that
mean?”

All Kelly’s instincts warned her not to get into details. She’d said too much already. If there was the slightest chance the case might be reopened she needed to stay as far away from it as possible. To say anything else was self-destructive madness.

Kelly shifted her stance. “I’m sorry but I can’t say more,” she said. “It’s not my call. Until I’ve had absolute confirmation we can’t disturb the scene.”

“Can’t or won’t?” His eyes narrowed on her face, the scrutiny uncomfortable. She’d met people before with eyes like these. Mostly the wrong sort of people in the wrong sort of places. It had rarely ended well.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, “but I’m afraid you need to speak with—”

His step forwards was enough to cut her off in mid-sentence.

“No,” he said quietly, “I believe the person I
need
to speak with is you.” His head tilted a little as he looked down into her face. “You suspect I had something to do with it? I wasn’t even in the country when Veronica died.”

Kelly felt the angry intensity, the urgency behind his words. It mattered to him that she believe him but she didn’t know why. She suppressed a shiver and hated it. Not the shiver itself but the reason behind it.

“We’re not accusing you of anything Mr Lytton,” she said carefully. She was suddenly aware that she was alone with the guy in part of a house big enough so that a scream from one wing could hardly be heard in another. And she’d stupidly sent her back-up well out of earshot in a misguided attempt to protect him.

He stepped back abruptly and Kelly tensed in automatic response but he swung away from her, staring down into a pit of his own making.

“I did not kill my wife,” he said quietly. “I had no desire to do so and no need.”

He glanced back at Kelly’s expressionless face but she gave him nothing in return. He gave a brief nod as if he’d expected that and turned away.

She let him make it almost to the doorway then said, “How much do you know about high-velocity gunshot wounds?”

He turned back, stuffed his hands casually into the pockets of those well cut trousers.

“I hunt,” he said shortly. “Mate of mine has to cull the local deer population every now and again or they strip his plantation. He doesn’t always choose his marksmen . . . wisely. So yes, I’ve seen what the odd wild shot can do.”

Kelly recalled, perhaps too late, that it was one of the man’s own hunting rifles his wife had apparently chosen for her demise.
Or someone else had chosen for her.

Damn. Ah well too late now.

“Then you’ll know there’s always blowback spatter from the entry wound and forward spatter—projected spray and debris—from the exit.” Her voice matched his own, cool and dispassionate.

“But?”

She hesitated again.
Ah well, in for a penny.

“You’d better see for yourself,” she said and moved over to the bathtub.

He joined her with only fractional reluctance. Kelly wondered if she thought more or less of him for that.

Side by side they stared down into the carnage left by violent death, smeared by the paramedics and the forensics teams that followed. What remained was somehow damaged, dirty and sad.