The Blood Whisperer (16 page)

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.

She swallowed, looked away. Lytton was watching her over the rim of his cup. There was something brooding in that observation that suddenly unnerved her.

“Well, that answers
that
question I suppose,” she said, aiming for wry and not quite bringing it off.

Lytton lowered his cup and raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“If O’Neill was going to keep enough of an open mind to look elsewhere,” she said, absently brushing the toast crumbs left on her plate into a pile at the centre. “It seems he’s going for the easy option. Surprise, surprise.”

She thought of the bag of her own blood in the fridge a few feet away. She was glad she’d taken the second sample and at the same time disappointed to be proved right to have done so.

“Not necessarily,” Lytton said. “Even if he was pursuing other avenues you’d still be his first port of call. He either has to break you or clear you. Until then he can’t move on.”

“You’re defending him now?”

He took another sip of his coffee and shook his head as he swallowed. “Hey don’t get me wrong. I didn’t like him much either. I’m just trying to see both sides.” He paused, fixed her with a straight level gaze. “You have to face it though, Kelly. The longer you stay on the run, the more guilty it makes you look.”

Kelly drained her own cup and got to her feet. “I’d better not waste any more time then, had I?”

Across the other side of the river, lying alone in bed in Harry Grogan’s luxury penthouse, Myshka watched the same news report and smiled.

Dmitry had done well she decided with a flush of pride. But he had been well taught. The secret of a great man was not simply to avoid mistakes but to recognise them for what they were and deal with them effectively—simply, quickly—once they had been made.

She would have to think of a special way to reward him.

She picked up her iPhone and flicked through the contacts until she came to Steve Warwick’s number and hit it, longing for a cigarette. Even
she
daren’t smoke inside while Grogan was away and that fact rankled.

The call was answered—Warwick’s slightly petulant tone demanding, “Where the hell have you
been
? I’ve been calling!”

“I’ve been busy,” Myshka said carelessly.
Deal with it.
“Tell me again about the hospitality arrangements. Which entrance will the caterers use? Not the basement?”

She heard his gusty sigh—that of a cranky child made to perform in order to receive a treat. “We’ve been over all this a dozen times. The basement car park entrance will be closed off the day before. They’ll come in at ground level and use the service lifts from there.”

“Good boy,” she said her voice turning husky. “There, that wasn’t so hard was it? But if you can tear yourself away from your desk I will make it hard for you, yes?”

Warwick gave a groan. “I’m due at the venue this morning,” he said in an agony of indecision. “I could always cry off but—”

“No!” Myshka let her voice rap him smartly then dropped it again to a soothing purr. “I will deal with you . . . later. The anticipation will make it worth the wait, I promise.”

Another groan. “Good God, Myshka—what the hell did I do before I found you?”

He ended the call. Myshka lay back against the sheets and smiled up at the ceiling.

“You suffered,” she said.

An hour later Kelly took a deep breath and dialled a number from her own contacts list.