The Blood Whisperer (10 page)

“Did she?” Kelly challenged, hearing the hint of derision in his tone. “Perhaps that was your perception—your projection even. You needed her to do it so you convinced yourself she could cope.”

His eyes narrowed. “She didn’t
have
to do anything but
she
convinced
me
to let her take it on. I was going to contract the whole thing out—which is what I’ve subsequently done, before you ask.”

“What else?”

“What else what?”

“What else did she do?”

“Charity work mostly. Worthy causes. And she did bits and pieces in the office—arranging my travel plans, sorting out company insurance. Just enough to justify being on the payroll and keep the taxman happy. Steve’s wife does the same.”

“Steve?”

“My business partner.”

“But Steve’s wife isn’t involved in the hospitality for this race meeting?”

Lytton half-smiled. “English isn’t Yana’s first language and she’s shy. I wouldn’t even have suggested it,” he said shortly. “She does a bit of filing, that’s all—makes coffee, goes to the post. That kind of thing.”

“Who benefits from Veronica’s death?”

He laughed outright then and it was not a happy sound. “If you think I offed her for the insurance think again,” he said. His tone had not only sharpened but hardened a little too, taking on a fine serrated edge that grated against Kelly’s nerves. “Between us Steve and I have more life insurance than we know what to do with but they don’t pay out on suicides. If that had been my angle I would have fixed the brakes on her bloody car, not—”

He broke off as if suddenly aware of what he might have been about to say. The silence stretched thick and dark between them.

“Did you love your wife, Matthew?” Kelly asked softly.

His head snapped up and he stared at her directly. Kelly met his gaze without flinching, refusing to be the first to look away. Again she saw that haunted glimmer she’d picked up in the bathroom at his country house.

“I suppose so—in a way. But if you’d asked was I
in
love with her then . . . no. It was mutual,” he said tightly although with a candour that surprised her. “But I didn’t wish her dead and as far as I knew that was mutual too.”

“Was there anyone else in her life?” Kelly asked carefully but he just nodded as if he’d already considered the question and could do so again without heat.

In the time it took him to think about it she made the last couple of passes with the sealant spray-nozzle and moved the drum past him into the hallway.

“If she was having an affair they were being very discreet about it. Vee hated gossip.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean whoever she might—or might not—have been involved with felt the same way,” Kelly said. “Jealous rage is an age-old motive.”

Lytton nodded, his face impassive. “I very much doubt Veronica was capable of inspiring such emotion but I’ll make some enquiries,” he said reminding her suddenly of the policeman O’Neill. “Anything else springs to your expert mind?”

A picture of Ray McCarron lying bruised and broken in his hospital bed. Of Ray telling her not to turn over rocks. She took a breath.

“As far as you know she wasn’t stressed or desperate or having an affair. You didn’t love her and you didn’t hate her, and nobody else wanted her dead,” Kelly murmured almost to herself. “Which only leaves . . . you.”

“Me?”

“Mmm,” she said. “Have you thought that Veronica might have been killed to send you a message?”

“Really.” His raised eyebrow denied it. “What kind of a message?”

That was as far as he got before the front door of the flat swung open and two big heavyset men shoved their way inside.

Tyrone bounced up the stairs to the fourth floor taking them two at a time and not feeling the strain. He was pleased to note he even managed to whistle while he was doing it. All those early mornings spent pounding the running track at the Mile End Leisure Park were paying off.

He jogged along the corridor leading to the flat where they’d been working all morning hoping Kel wouldn’t think he’d been loafing. He couldn’t slice through traffic in the van quite like on the bike. Still, he couldn’t get a blood-soaked mattress on the back of his old Honda either.

It was only when he got near the door that he heard voices inside the flat. Deep voices gruff from smoke and booze. The kind that came from men with thick necks and knuckles scarred from dragging along the pavement when they walked.

And Tyrone remembered what had been done to the boss—by big men who knew what they were about—and he slowed to a cautious shuffle along the cracked concrete.

Kelly
!

He nudged the door open with the tips of his fingers and edged through suddenly wishing he was armed with something more than just the keys to the van. When he swallowed he found someone had sucked all the saliva out of his mouth when he wasn’t looking.

A man stepped out of the open doorway to the bedroom and Tyrone almost thumped him in shock and reflex. The man seemed as surprised as he did.

Out of context it took Tyrone a second to place him as the Lytton guy with the massive country place who’d kicked up a stink about the bathroom where his missus blew her brains out—or had some help doing it, according to Kelly. Tyrone had no reason to doubt her word.

“What
you
doing here?” Tyrone asked roughly. “Where’s Kelly.”

“I’m just leaving,” Lytton said. He jerked his head towards the bedroom. “She’s in there.”

As he brushed past Tyrone managed to register that whatever Lytton had come for he probably hadn’t got—not if the scowl on his face was anything to go by.

So what
was
you after then?

Tyrone didn’t stay to watch the man exit. He threw himself into the open doorway to the bedroom with the blood pumping hard in his ears and arms flexed to take on all-comers.

The occupants of the room jerked up fast as he burst in. The voices he’d heard belonged to two men who suited them—hard cases in black cargo pants and bomber jackets like nightclub bouncers. They were bent over Kelly who was crouched on the floor between them. Tyrone started forwards.

“Ah there you are Tyrone,” Kelly said calmly getting to her feet. “Any problems?”

“Erm . . . no. All sorted.”

“Good.” She nodded, turned her attention back to the men. “As I was saying, you can’t get blood out of floorboards but we’ve scrubbed and disinfected it so the floor structure won’t be affected and as you can see with the coat of sealant I’ve sprayed on you can’t tell it was ever there. Or more to the point your future tenants won’t be able to tell. I’d leave it twenty-four hours before you put new carpet down just to let it harden completely.”

“You’ve done a great job,” said one of the men. “Couldn’t believe the state of this place when the boss had us break in, could we Gary?”

“Shocking—it was rank in here,” Gary agreed. “You’ve even got rid of the stench. No-one’d ever know.”

“I’m glad you’re satisfied,” Kelly said. “I’ve checked with the office and the fee’s already been transferred into our account so as soon as we’ve cleared out our gear you can re-secure the door.”

“Cheers,” said the first man. “You need a hand?”

“We can manage thanks,” Kelly said when Tyrone would have taken them up on the offer. He didn’t miss the pointed look she jabbed in his direction as she swung the drum of sealant up into his arms and gathered the rest of the stuff.

Uh-oh.

She didn’t say nothing until they were back in the van and she was cranking up the motor. Then she sat back in her seat and sighed.

“Look Tyrone I know you’re only looking out for me but you were lucky those two didn’t rip your arms off when you came charging in like that. What were you thinking?”

He stared down at his hands and mumbled, “Dunno.”

She sighed again.

“You’re upset about Ray,” she said. She put her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “I am too. But you can’t go for the clients Ty-ger or we’ll be out of business in no time.”

He nodded. Pleasure at the nickname warred with shame at the feeling he’d somehow let her down. He didn’t speak again ’til they were cruising through traffic a few minutes later.

“So what was he doing back there—that Lytton guy?”

“To be honest I’m not entirely sure.” She glanced across frowning. “He said he wanted to know what really happened to his wife.”

Tyrone’s head came up. “And you believe him?”

Kelly shrugged, her focus on changing lanes without swapping paint with the pushy courier who zipped alongside. “Believe him? Maybe,” she said then. “But trust him?” She flashed a brief smile. “Not as far as I could throw him.”

Lytton was in his Aston Martin DBS and north of the river heading through Belgravia before his cellphone rang. He touched the Receive button on the hands-free kit.

“Matthew Lytton.”

“Matt!” Steve Warwick’s voice boomed inside the car. “Where are you?”

“Near Victoria heading back to the apartment,” he said. He checked the time on the classic analogue clock in the Aston’s centre console. “Problems?”

“Just wondering how it went that’s all,” Warwick said breezily. “Come on, you can’t yank me from my bed at an ungodly hour in the morning to run Internet searches for you on some mystery woman and not have me itching to know what came of it!” He gave a bark of laughter that sounded unduly harsh through the Aston’s speakers. “So let’s have it—did the lady succumb to your wicked charms?”

“Unlike you, Steve I’m not looking for submission in a woman,” Lytton said dryly. “And if you’re itching for anything you should try a course of antibiotics.”

“Ha. Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it old son.”

Lytton braked hard to avoid a ubiquitous white-van man who swerved into his lane. It took a moment’s continued static silence for him to realise Warwick was still on the line.

“Was there anything else Steve?”

“Not really,” Warwick said casually. “It’s just . . . well, we can’t afford to have anything rocking the boat—not right now. So if this bloody Mrs Mop is going to cause trouble do you want me to—?”

“Kelly Jacks won’t be a problem,” Lytton said. He changed down viciously and launched the big car through a closing gap between two buses that it had no right to make without a scratch. “Leave it to me—I can handle her.”

About the time Matthew Lytton was going hand-to-hand with the thickening rush of traffic near St James’s Park—and Steve Warwick was sitting alone at his desk—the glamorous Myshka was still in bed.

She lay quietly luxuriating in a dockside penthouse that gave just as panoramic a view of London as Kelly’s rooftop aerie, minutely aware of the silk sheets against her naked skin. And Myshka remembered a time when she’d been forced to don every piece of clothing she owned before climbing into bed at night. When not to do so was to risk freezing to death in her sleep.

She had vowed never to be cold like that again.

She stretched enjoying the sensuality of her surroundings. The bedroom was decadently large and decorated in a palette of muted creams and mushroom greys from the glossy doors of the wardrobes that stretched across one wall to the ridiculously deep pile carpet.

On the wall opposite the king-size bed hung a fifty-inch flatscreen TV. This, Myshka felt was an unnecessary indulgence. She had never got a kick out of porn—either watching it or taking part. So who needed a television that size in the bedroom where there were so many other avenues to be explored? But it was a small price to pay.

She turned her head on the pillow towards the wall of glass that looked out onto the immaculate roof garden and beyond over the river and the city. Lying between her and this magnificent view, snoring gustily, was the man she’d had sex with last night.

The price.

Myshka was ambivalent about sex, was neither enthralled nor appalled by it. It was simply a physical activity like Pilates or using a step machine—something that might be a little boring to undertake but the results were worth it. She’d learned to fake a convincing reaction she could never feel and viewed it simply as a means to an end.

On the bedside table her iPhone lit up and began to vibrate. She rolled over carefully and checked the display.

Dmitry.

Myshka slipped softly out of bed and thrust her arms into the sleeves of a thin emerald green kimono as she hurried out into the open living area with the phone still buzzing in her hand.

Dmitry sat at one end of the huge dining table, a copy of one of the financial papers spread out in front of him. He glanced up briefly and cancelled the call he’d made from his own phone.

Myshka hid her outrage and finished putting on the robe without hurry or embarrassment. She was after all used to men seeing her naked. Dmitry, to her amusement—or was it irritation?—studiously kept his eyes on the newsprint in front of him.

“Let yourself in, why do you not?” she said haughtily as she swept past him into the ultramodern stark white kitchen area. “Make yourself at home.”

“As
you
do,” Dmitry fired back. He indicated the closed bedroom door with a sullen jerk of his head. “You’d rather I rang the doorbell?”

Just because he had a valid point that didn’t mean Myshka was prepared to let him off the hook. “Why are you here?”

He showed his teeth, more snarl than smile. “Duty calls. I answer.”

Her annoyance waned. She crossed to him put her arms around his neck and kissed the top of his head, rocking him to her breast. He gripped her arm and squeezed tight for a second and she felt the tension go out of him.

“I do not like to think of you . . . with him,” he said at last, his voice muffled against her chest.

“Soon, Dmitry,” she murmured.

He stiffened, frowning. “Myshka—”

“Hush.” She bent her face close to his roughened cheek and put a finger to his lips. “Soon this will all be over and we will be free together I promise.”