The Blood Whisperer (15 page)

She sounded beaten-down weary. Lytton sighed, moved further into the room. “Well now you’ve started keep going.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the way she tensed as he came past her. He merely went to the cooler and pulled out a bottle of Beck’s. “Drink? I certainly need one after that.”

She shook her head. He dug out an opener and flipped off the lid then drank from the neck not bothering with a glass. “How did you get in by the way?”

She’d turned back to the hob, answered over her shoulder. “Not difficult with the security you’ve got.”

“I had the front door locks changed only a few months ago when . . . when Veronica lost her keys. The guy told me they were nine-lever, whatever that means. He reckoned they were fairly secure.”

Her lips hitched upwards and almost made it to a smile. “Should have got him to change the ones on the sliding windows at the same time then,” she said. “They’re a joke.”

Lytton didn’t point out that the balcony onto which those sliding doors opened out was on the fourth floor because he’d heard the cracks in her voice despite the light hearted words. He put down his beer and studied the strain in her face.

“What’s happened Kelly?”

She had been holding herself rigid but the gentleness of his voice seemed to crumple her. She looked away sharply, took a deep breath before she raised her head again.

“Remember Tyrone?” she asked.

He frowned, was about to ask but then an image of the big black kid she’d been working with opened up in his mind. He nodded.

She took another breath shaky this time. “He’s dead,” she said flatly. “He was murdered today at a crime scene we were supposed to be cleaning in Millwall.”

“Christ,” Lytton said. “When did you find out?”

She fussed for a moment with the pan on the hob turning down the gas to a low simmer before the onions turned to caramel. “When I woke up,” she said in a voice so low he thought for a moment he’d misheard her.

“When you . . .?” he began then stopped. No wonder she’d overreacted when he came in. “My God . . . you were there.”

And crowding in on that thought came a bunch of others. He’d read the trial reports after her manslaughter conviction—about the blackout and the murder. That there’d been no previous history or medical evidence presented to suggest Kelly might be prone to such traumatic lapses. Nothing to say she wasn’t lying about the whole thing.

Clearly judge and jury had believed she was.

So why should he trust her now?

“It happened again,” he said but she shook her head and raked a distracted hand through her short choppy hair. He noticed the bandage on her arm as she did so. Had her victim fought back this time?

“No,” she said more determined now. “I’m beginning to think it never happened in the first place.”

She waited fiercely for his incredulity. He schooled his face not to present any, leaned his hip against the countertop and folded his arms. “So, what did?”

“I think I was framed,” she said twisting restlessly away and beginning to pace. Lytton’s eyes fell onto the knife she’d been using to cut the vegetables. It lay casually on the chopping board in full view but he made no moves to stop her getting back to it.

“I think they gave me something—Rohypnol maybe,” she went on. “Something to make me compliant and make me forget. Then it was just a case of sticking the knife in my hand and leaving me in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Didn’t they test you for possible drugs last time?” he asked.

“Eventually,” she agreed. “And—surprise, surprise—nothing showed up. That’s why I took this.”

She yanked open the fridge door and pulled out a small ziplock bag. One corner was filled with liquid that was a dark rich red.

“Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is?”

She nodded to the bandage on her arm. “I improvised before I left the scene. I was out for half an hour or so and got away from there just before the cops showed up. Maybe whoever did this miscalculated the dose or whatever. Or maybe they couldn’t afford to have me actually unconscious when the cops arrived. Too many awkward questions.”

“And you want to get that tested—independent of the police this time?” he guessed.

She nodded and he saw her desperation in the way her shoulders had begun to sag. If what she said was true he realised she must be in shock to some degree and close to nervous exhaustion. Not to mention suffering a chemical hangover to rival anything induced by alcohol.

But . . .

Lytton put his head on one side. “Why did you come here Kelly?”

She gave him a tired smile. “Process of elimination,” she said. “All this kicked off because I asked questions about your wife’s death. Either you killed her and tried to set me up because I spotted it or you’re completely innocent and you’ll want answers just as much as I do. More, perhaps.”

He met her eyes. “And how do you know which is the truth?”

“By what happens next.”

“Good evening Vince. You’re pulling a late one.”

DI O’Neill glanced up from signing the on-scene log to see the lead CSI approaching.

“Hiya Bob,” he said. “I just heard we ID’d the victim. Kid called Tyrone Douet. That makes it one of mine.”

Bob Tate, a tall cadaverous Scot, lifted the crime-scene tape for him to duck underneath. O’Neill was already wearing booties and gloves. “Oh aye?”

“Douet worked for a specialist cleaning crew—McCarron’s,” O’Neill said. “Couple of nights ago the boss was beaten up pretty badly. Now this.”

“Poor sod,” Tate said, pushing his glasses further up his long nose with the back of his own gloved hand. “I knew Ray McCarron when he was one of us. I hadn’t heard.” He paused. “You think there’s a connection?”

“Doesn’t hurt to look.”

Tate sighed. “Well it’s going to be a wee while before we’re done here I’m afraid. The scene suffers from an embarrassment of riches as it were. It doesn’t help that there was another death here only yesterday.”

“Oh aye?” O’Neill said, echoing him. “Anyone I should be aware of?”

Tate waved a hand towards a dark oily stain around and up against one of the steel support pillars. “Homeless man,” he said. “Managed to set himself on fire with a cigarette and a half-bottle of overproof rum. Bacardi 151 according to the fragments of label. Lethal stuff in more ways than one it seems.”

O’Neill vaguely recalled that Tate was a Presbyterian and a teetotaller.

“Accidental?”

The CSI shrugged. “Not the first time it’s happened and I daresay not the last.”

“But where did a derelict get hold of something that not only just so happens to be highly flammable but also sells for around seventy quid a bottle?”

Tate paused again. A tick of irritation crossed his features, eyebrows drawing down. “It wasn’t my call,” he said grimly. “But I’ll be making it my business now.” His eyes drifted back to the burn marks. “At least the cleaners hadn’t begun to sanitise the scene before young Tyrone was attacked. I’m sorry you missed the body by the way.”

“I spoke to the pathologist on the way in,” O’Neill dismissed. “As you’re only too aware, he never likes to commit himself but he reckoned the fractured skull would have done for the kid. The fourteen stab wounds just made sure of it.”

Tate pursed his lips as he eyed the patch of blood-soaked concrete that had until recently been Tyrone Douet’s final resting place. “And then there’s the blood bag of course,” he added.

“Blood bag?”

“Oh aye. Didn’t they tell you about that?” Tate shook his head. “When the uniforms arrived on scene they found a little sandwich bag with blood in it and a note saying ‘it wasn’t me’ or some such nonsense.” He glanced at O’Neill, his amusement dying as he realised the other man did not share the joke. “A red herring surely?”

“Maybe not.”

“Well it could be worth running a full tox screen on it I suppose.” Tate pulled a face. “Depends on the state of the budget I expect and how seriously you take this person—whoever they are.”

“Kelly Jacks,” O’Neill said, almost under his breath.

Tate paused. “Now that name I
do
recall,” he said. “Bad business when one of our own turns bad.” He frowned. “Didn’t she claim to have some kind of mental breakdown when she stabbed—what was that laddie’s name?”

O’Neill had no time for reminiscences. “Jacks worked with Douet,” he said. “According to McCarron’s the two of them were scheduled to come out here and clean up the tramp’s death yesterday morning. Nobody’s seen or heard from Jacks since.”

“But—” Tate’s mouth opened and closed. With his slightly protruding eyes behind the glass O’Neill was unkindly reminded of a goldfish. “What about the blood? And the message?”

O’Neill was already striding away stabbing a number into his phone. “Maybe,” he threw back over his shoulder, “she’s just getting her defence in place a lot earlier this time.”

Kelly woke with a start, body snapping upright and her heart pounding like a fist.

For a few moments she had no clear idea of where she was or how she got there. The blank caused an instant burst of panic that pierced her chest and seized her lungs until she was gasping for breath.

She was in a bedroom, she saw, in one half of a double bed. The other half was empty.

Well that’s good, at least.

The curtains were not drawn at the long windows. Through the glass the soft-hued glow of pre-dawn washed in allowing Kelly to take in the details of the room.

Off to her left was an adjoining door through which she could see a sliver of en suite bathroom. Expensive glossy tiles and a glassed-in shower cubicle with a rose the size of a dinner plate. She looked around the bedroom itself, frowning. The art on the walls looked genuine if a little bland, giving it the impersonal feel of a seldom-used guest room. It was certainly no cheap motel.

Memories returned slowly, layer on layer like falling snow. By the time each of them had settled she began to wish for the amnesia that had once seemed such a curse. She sat, hugging her knees through the fine sheet.

Tyrone’s dead and they’re going to come after me for it.

She remembered her flight from the scene, her brief foray to the office, and finally coming here to the apartment of Matthew Lytton. A man who owed her nothing. A man she’d attacked by way of greeting as soon as he walked into his own home.

“I must have been mad.”

Maybe I was. And maybe I still am.

There was a digital clock on the side table. A glance at it told her it was a few minutes before 5:00
AM
. At least she’d managed a couple of hours without the police breaking down the door and dragging her out in chains.

Which means he hasn’t called them.

The realisation gradually released its grip on something that had been clenched tight beneath her ribs.

Does that mean he didn’t set me up?
she wondered.
Or does it simply mean that he wants to deal with me in his own time?

Soundlessly, she slid out of bed. She was still wearing a thin undershirt and her knickers. When he’d shown her the room Lytton had told her in a neutral voice to make use of anything she found there. A long silk dressing gown was draped over a chair and after only a moment’s pause she slipped it on, knotting the sash around her waist. The material whispered around her legs, cool against her bare skin.

Before climbing into bed she had locked her bedroom door. Now she took a breath and untwisted the key. She paused in the hallway, listening tensely. She had no idea which was Lytton’s own bedroom and she had no desire to disturb him.

But as she stepped out into the open-plan living area she spotted his outline at one end of the low sofa, sitting facing the wall of glass with his back to her. She froze. He was in shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled back. Loosely in one hand he held a squat glass of what might have been whisky.

She was on the point of retreating when his voice floated back to her. It came disembodied from the shadow of his silhouette against the lightening sky.

“Can’t sleep?”

Kelly was silent for a few elongated seconds. She saw his head turn as if to sense her position. Feeling suddenly gauche she moved around the sofa and into his field of view. She told herself that the ungainliness of her limbs was due to nothing other than delayed shock from the day before.

“I managed a couple of hours,” she said with admirable calm. “You?”

“Not a wink,” he admitted, lifting the glass and taking a sip.

“Why?”

The question came out more starkly than she’d intended. It hung between them, glossy with intent.

“Because you’re here,” he said at last, a certain dryness to his tone.

She stiffened. “If I’m making you uncomfortable, I’ll go,” she said quickly, turning away. “I’m sorry. You should have said. I’ll get dressed.”

But as she passed him he reached out and caught her wrist. Everything jolted at the touch. Kelly felt the warmth from his fingers glowing across the surface of her skin. This time her first instinct was not to fight her way free.

She faltered, stared at him wordlessly.

He looked up at her. She felt his gaze soft on her face, her hair, her shoulders. She swallowed.

“Sit with me a while,” he coaxed. “Nothing more. Just . . . sit with me.”

Kelly would have pulled back but she heard something in his voice. Not seduction but a need for comfort, for a kind of mutual consolation and she remembered that he too had lost someone. He had as good as told her that his marriage was more partnership than romantic bond. Nevertheless, Veronica was someone he’d known, cared for and lived alongside. And he’d lost her to an act of shocking violence he had neither understood nor been prepared for.

She stood there unable to find the words to express her sorrow for both of them. After a moment he let her arm drop with a quiet exhalation that could have been a sigh.