The Blood Whisperer (25 page)

For the next half an hour nothing happened and she was filled with a sense of anticlimax.

He might not reply for days,
she considered.
He might not reply at all.

If Tina was here she knew her friend would be giving her stick for reaching out to Lytton. For giving him a second chance.

Would those five years inside have been easier to bear she wondered, if she’d known who and why?

No probably not.

She busied herself activating the phone which had been charging since Tina brought it in. Then she stood by the window gazing down into a tiny paved square that the planners no doubt envisaged as a communal play area between the blocks rather than the windswept No Man’s Land it had become.

Below her the figure of a black teenager with a lanky stride walked diagonally across the square, hands deep in the pockets of his sweatshirt, baseball cap slanted to a hip angle. Kelly was reminded—suddenly and painfully—of Tyrone. Of his clumsy affection. A crush he’d never have the chance to outgrow. She felt her eyes threatening to fill.

As if coming to her rescue the laptop let out a subdued ping. She bent towards it and saw one new email waiting for her. The address was anonymous like the one she’d just set up herself but there was no mistaking the sender.

Lytton.

This was what she’d been waiting for but now it was here she was strangely reluctant to open it. She shook herself and punched the key. The message was not what she’d been hoping for. A two-word terse response.

Call me.

A cellphone number followed. Nothing else.

Kelly sank slowly into the chair still staring at the words. True, her own message had not been much longer but she’d expected more than this.

Again she hesitated. She wasn’t clever enough with computers to know if staying online was dangerous. The tangible rather than the virtual had always been her field of expertise. Could he backtrack her location?

Somehow she doubted the police would be hovering over his shoulder at this moment as they had been with Tyrone’s mother.

As a halfway house measure she switched to instant messaging instead.

KJ
—
Just tell me why.

He swapped over without a blink, the answer batting straight back at her.

ML
—
Could ask you the same question. Why run out on me?

Was he testing her to see how much she knew?

KJ
—
Why did you send him after me?
she countered.

ML
—
Send who?

She paused.
Ah well . . .

KJ
—
You know who—the man at the racecourse. The one from the warehouse.

Again the response was almost instant, with exasperation coming through loud and clear.

ML
—
I know nothing about this. YOU were using ME remember?!?

Kelly sat back. She’d expected placatory lies not indignation. She’d expected to be able to cling to a righteous anger of her own, not be beset by sudden doubts.

KJ
—
Just tell me WHY Matthew.

She realised after she’d sent it that the words held nothing but a weary defeat.

There was a longer pause before his reply this time. She imagined him sitting frowning over a laptop of his own somewhere—somewhere more upmarket than Tina’s Brixton bolt-hole that was for sure. At last another message came through.

ML
—
We NEED to talk. I’ll meet you. You choose where.

He was clever she acknowledged. Somewhere safe would be too public. It would invite recognition and capture. Somewhere remote would do half his work for him.

Damn him.

Kelly picked up the cellphone and stabbed at the keys.

“Matthew Lytton.”

“I’m listening,” she said. “So talk.”

“Kelly! Where are you? No don’t answer that,” he said before she could do so—even if she’d been inclined. “I don’t expect you to tell me.”

“Too bloody right,” she said crisply.

He sighed. “Look Kelly I don’t know what’s going on with you but I thought we were in this together. You came to me, remember? Were you really just stringing me a line like you told Yana?”

“No,” Kelly said. She opened her mouth to throw more of Yana’s allegations back at him then shut it again quickly. What would it achieve beyond a quick pointless release of temper? He was hardly likely to confirm what Yana had said and it could make an already bad situation even worse for the poor woman.

“You’re the one who’s been stringing
me
along,” she said coolly. “Setting me up for your pal Grogan to take care of.”

“Grogan?” he repeated with what for all the world sounded like a genuinely blank note in his voice. “What the—?” He broke off. “Kelly what the hell are you talking about? You mean
Harry
Grogan? He’s no pal of mine I can promise you that.”

“Nice try,” she said. “So how come I found a picture of the two of you looking very pally over some champion racehorse?”

“Hell, you’re condemning me on the strength of a photo taken God knows
how
long ago?” he fired back. “Yes I owned a part-share in that bloody horse—along with half a dozen other people. Grogan elbowed his way into the syndicate just so he could stand in the winner’s enclosure at Epsom. I sold my share soon afterwards and I haven’t dealt with him since. I would have expected you of all people to keep an open mind about circumstantial evidence Kelly.”

That stung, as it was intended to.

“And is it circumstantial that the same man who was at the warehouse when Ty–Tyrone was killed just happened to turn up at the racecourse yesterday?” She managed to keep her voice firm even though she stumbled over Tyrone’s name just a little. “Who else knew I was going to be there, Matthew?”

“I told nobody,” he said, brusque. “If I’d wanted to do anything to you I’d have done it the night before while you slept in my arms.”

She shivered at the intent behind his words. Here again was the ruthless streak she’d sensed in him, the drive and ambition. How far did he let it command his actions?

This is a huge mistake!

“Kelly,” he said quickly as if he knew she was about to cut the call. “Look, I get that we’ve only known each other a few days but when are you going to realise you can’t do this alone? Sooner or later you’re going to have to trust someone. Why not make that someone possibly the
one
person who wants to find out what the hell is going on just as much as you do?”

Kelly wavered and hated herself for it. But she still had too many questions. About his Russian dealings mainly. What had his wife discovered which so upset her shortly before her death? And had Matthew Lytton indeed murdered her?

“Clapham Common,” she heard herself say. “Near the Long Pond. Know it? You’ve got an hour.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised. “Just make sure you are.”

DI O’Neill drove across London with the chief super’s orders to “shake some trees” foremost in his mind. He hoped it would prove a viable defence if his visit provoked some flak.

The connection to Kelly Jacks was tenuous but it was a connection nevertheless and he would be neglecting his duties if he didn’t chase it down.

Yeah, and I can just hear you spouting
that
pious rubbish at your disciplinary hearing, Vincent old son.

He’d left Dempsey in the office still working his way down the list of known associates, so far without success. It seemed that anyone Jacks mixed with socially before her conviction—even her own family—had not picked up the threads again after her release. It was hard to tell if it was her choice or theirs.

Of the people she
had
spent time with recently, her boss was still in hospital after a vicious beating by person or persons unknown and her closest colleague was dead.

Proper little Typhoid Mary aren’t you Kelly?

O’Neill swung the pool Mondeo into the private car park and saw the figure of a man striding towards a low-slung sports car, arm outstretched to disarm the security system. O’Neill accelerated briefly and pulled up directly behind the man’s space, blocking him in.

Matthew Lytton already had the door to the Aston Martin open but he jerked round at the sound of the Mondeo’s handbrake being roughly applied. O’Neill noticed, not without satisfaction, that there was a distinct edge of guilty shock in his face.

And just what are
you
up to, sunshine?

“Mr Lytton,” O’Neill said cheerfully as he stepped out the car. “Going somewhere?”

The other man stiffened. “I have an appointment, detective inspector,” he said pointedly eyeing the obstruction. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“This won’t take long sir,” O’Neill said keeping his own expression blank and official. “Here or down the station—it’s up to you.”

Lytton gave a heavy sigh and closed the Aston’s door. It shut with a solid expensive thunk. “Let’s get on with it then shall we? Believe it or not I have a business to run.”

“Of course you do sir,” O’Neill said soothingly and watched the slight relaxation of the other man’s shoulders before he hit him with the next question. “Kelly Jacks—you wouldn’t have heard from her by any chance?”

Lytton was good. If O’Neill hadn’t been watching intently he wouldn’t have caught the betraying little tells of tension in the other man’s face and body, the way he shifted his feet as if for a sudden getaway.

“Why would I?” He should have left it there but was unable to prevent himself adding, “She cleaned part of my house—once. On that basis we’re hardly likely to exchange Christmas cards are we?”

O’Neill leaned his hip against the Aston’s rear quarter, folding his arms. “I think there’s a little more to your relationship than that isn’t there, sir?” And he noted with interest the uncomfortable reaction but Lytton didn’t make the mistake of bluster. He took a moment to resettle himself and then merely cocked an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

O’Neill glanced around at the upmarket cars surrounding him, at the heavily revamped building they were parked outside and his eyes narrowed, assessing. “This one of your developments is it?”

“Yes it is. And?”

“Made quite a tidy sum out of the property game over the years haven’t you Mr Lytton? I understand it’s all a question of luck—happening across the right place at the right time for the right money. That so?”

“Yes,” Lytton said curtly and this time he didn’t try to expand or explain. O’Neill took that as his cue to cut to the chase. No point in playing with someone if they weren’t prepared to play.

“Four years ago you bought a warehouse in . . .” O’Neill let his voice trail off, making a show of hunting through his notebook for the address and then reading it out. “It’s now a rake of luxury offices and apartments. You made quite a killing on it so I hear.”

Lytton made a gesture of impatience. “I may have bought the building you describe, detective inspector,” he said. “My company buys a lot of property all over the world. Without going through the files I couldn’t say.” He peeled back the cuff of his dark wool overcoat to check his watch. “It doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Really sir?” O’Neill pursed his lips. “Only, I thought this one might have stuck in your mind for some reason.”

A muscle twitched in the side of Lytton’s jaw. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

Got you jumpy now haven’t I?

“Because that particular building was on the market almost derelict for nearly two years before you bid them peanuts for it,” O’Neill said quietly. “Do you recall why that was?”

Lytton had gone very still, his gaze resting coolly on the detective. “Go on.”

“Well according to the information that’s come to light sir, no buyer had been found because of a very nasty murder that took place there. A young barman by the name of Callum Perry was stabbed to death on the second floor.”

“I’m sorry I still don’t—”

“He was killed by a woman called Kelly Jacks.”

Lytton’s mouth snapped shut. He was silent for a long time, brows drawn down into something resembling a scowl.

O’Neill watched him closely. “Ring any bells now sir?”

“I didn’t make the connection,” he said tightly. He looked up, expression smoothing out, back into confidence and, O’Neill felt, arrogance. “It was a long time ago and like I said, detective inspector, I buy a lot of property.”

How very convenient.

O’Neill waited to see how long Lytton would spin out his memory lapse. Not long if the way the man soon checked his watch again was anything to go by.

“I doubt you came all the way over here just to remind me about a time several years ago when my path might have crossed with Kelly’s, even at a distance,” he said. He reached for the Aston’s door handle again. “Now, I’m going to be late for a very important meeting. Was there anything else?”

“Just one thing sir,” O’Neill said heavily. “I’d hate you to feel you . . . owed her anything for any reason. So I’d just like to remind you that if she should happen to get in touch we’re open twenty-four hours a day.” He handed over a card which Lytton took with obvious reluctance. “Please call us.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you sir. I’d hate to have to pursue you for aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive. Not on top of your recent . . . tragedy, that is.”

But his subtle warning was lost as Matthew Lytton slid behind the wheel of the Aston and fired the throaty engine. The reverse lights were already blazing before O’Neill was back inside the Mondeo.