The Blood Whisperer (24 page)

Grogan continued to stare at him, chin sunk down as if the only thing he was contemplating was a mid-morning nap. “Ten percent,” he said at last.

“Seven.”

“Make it eight Mr Warwick and you’ve got a deal,” Grogan said giving no sign of pleasure at the extra profit. “
This
time. But I better have it in triplicate from the gnomes in Grand Cayman that the money’s sitting pretty in my account before that ship unloads or I will be . . . upset Mr Warwick.
Very
upset.”

“It will be there.” Warwick offered his hand to shake on the deal but Grogan continued to stare like a fat reclining toad. After a few awkward seconds Warwick withdrew his hand and climbed out blinking in the unaccustomed brightness. By the other Range Rover the sumo-style driver was waiting with the rear door already open for him. The passenger lounged against the front wing watching.

“Oh, and Mr Warwick?”

He turned to find Grogan had lowered the rear window and was leaning towards the aperture.

“Yes?”

“Muck me about again son, I’ll cut off your balls and feed them back to you. Understand?”

Detective Constable Ian Dempsey was so engrossed in the information on his computer screen that he only registered DI O’Neill’s approach in the periphery of his mind and vision. Nothing snapped into focus until a refill mug of coffee was plonked down next to the cluster of empties already vying for desk space by his elbow.

“There you go,” O’Neill said. “You look like you could do with a belt of caffeine.”

Dempsey sat back in his chair and stretched both arms above his head. He was abruptly aware that his deodorant was not living up to its twenty-four-hour promise. He rubbed his hands across his face against a rasp of stubble.

“You got that right,” he said wearily. “Cheers boss.”

The coffee was weak instant but it was hot and wet and for that he was prepared to forgive its shortcomings. Swallowing half of it down in one go he put the mug back on the desktop feeling distinctly more human and glanced across at the huge whiteboard at the far side of the office. A picture of Kelly Jacks was tacked up as the sole candidate under ‘Suspects’. Next to it was a snap of the dead kid Tyrone Douet, smiling broadly. The shot had been cropped down from a larger image of the lad with his five-a-side team. Half a football trophy was still visible on his shoulder.

“Any sightings?”

Dempsey shook his head. “She seems to have gone to ground boss. But we’ve plastered the city with her picture and description so it’s only a matter of time.” He sounded hopeful rather than confident.

O’Neill perched on the edge of the desk and nodded to the computer. “You find anything?”

Dempsey shook his head. “I’ve been going over the old reports on the Jacks case, looking for the kinks.”

“You think there might have been something off with it?”

The DI’s tone made Dempsey sudden cautious. “Not sure boss. The guy in charge—DCI Allardice—was before my time. I mean, he was an effective copper if his record’s anything to go by but reading between the lines he took a few short cuts.”

O’Neill scowled and, too late, Dempsey recalled that O’Neill had worked under Allardice when
he
was a DC.

Bugger. How the hell do I get out of that?

He was saved from doing so by a new voice from the doorway.

“Just because you were Frank Allardice’s blue-eyed boy doesn’t mean you were blind to his faults Vince,” said the chief super.

O’Neill got to his feet and turned to face John Quinlan.

“No sir,” he said neutrally.

Detective Chief Superintendent Quinlan advanced further into the room and Dempsey quickly slid his chair back to get to his feet but Quinlan waved him down again without taking his eyes off O’Neill.

“I hope you’re not letting old loyalties get in the way of the job?” Quinlan said.

“No sir,” O’Neill said again. “But Allardice is retired and well out of it—has been for a while now. What’s the use of digging any of it up unless Tyrone Douet’s death somehow relates to Jacks’s murder of Callum Perry?”

“And does it?”

O’Neill glanced at Dempsey before answering. “Not as far as we know sir.”

“Hmm,” Quinlan said. He came to a halt and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. “When the man who was in charge of an old case jumps on a plane and comes winging over here double quick just to tell you what a slam dunk it was—and how guilty
she
was—it makes my spidey-sense tingle gentlemen.”

O’Neill frowned and Dempsey hid a smile.

“I suppose he
could
have said all that in a phone call.”

“Indeed,” Quinlan said and turned his attention to Dempsey. “So what did you find that’s set
your
spidey-sense atingling?”

Dempsey hastily scrolled up the on-screen file.

“Mr Allardice never ordered blood tests on Kelly Jacks first time round,” he said. “Nor did he look into her statement that Callum Perry claimed to have information to trade—information which might have given someone other than Jacks a reason to want him offed.”

“She was found with the bloody knife in her hands,” O’Neill pointed out with a touch of acid in his voice. “That makes for a pretty compelling case.
You
certainly thought so at the time sir.”

Dempsey tried not to audibly suck in a breath but Quinlan let the pointed remark whizz past him without ruffling his hair.

“I did,” he said heavily. “And if I was mistaken then I want to rectify that mistake—but not loudly and
not
in public.” His stony gaze was a warning. “At the moment we don’t know how the drugs in Jacks’s system got there but we’ll find out. Meanwhile concentrate on finding her and bringing her in. Anything else is secondary.”

“Yes sir.” The assent came from both men.

“And let’s be robust about this, gentlemen. Follow up every lead. We can’t be seen to be going easy on her because she used to be one of us. Get out there and shake some trees—see what falls out.”

He nodded in dismissal and had already turned away when O’Neill asked, “What about Frank Allardice?”

Quinlan paused, considering. “Put someone on him until we know what his game is,” he said at last. “He did his best to give the force a bad name while he was still within it. I’m damned if I’m going to let him succeed now he’s on the outside.”

Myshka unlocked the flat door and yanked it open. Outside she found Steve Warwick with his fist still raised in the act of pounding to be let in. A couple of workmen were passing by on the pavement behind him, their heads turned to watch his antics. They nudged each other and grinned broadly when Myshka appeared in the doorway.

She pulled the silk wrap—in scarlet this time—tighter around her body and glared at all three of them. Her state of undress infuriated her less than being seen with a complete lack of cosmetic armour.

“What is this? What are you doing here?” She kept her voice imperious. “Where is your key that you have to make all this fuss?”

“I left it at the office,” Warwick muttered pushing past her. “I need to talk to you. And no it can’t wait, dammit!” he added when she would have protested.

Myshka cursed inside her head in two languages. Sometimes he could be so
stupid
—just like Dmitry.
Men. Hah!
Coming here like this, causing a scene.
Causing people to remember . . .

She slammed the door behind him. Warwick slumped against the wall of the entrance hall as if exhausted, loosening his tie. She smelled alcohol on his breath.

“Pull yourself together. Why have you come?” She grabbed his arm, gave it a shake. “Tell me!”

Warwick managed to raise a tired smile at being manhandled. “Well for once I haven’t come for
that
darling,” he said managing a bitter smile. It faded as he took in her wrap. “You
are
alone, I take it?”

Her head came up, imperious. “You expect me to be?” But instead of a sharp rejoinder she got only a wave of defeat—and fear. She made her voice soften. “I was going to take bath,” she said more gently. “Come up.”

He looked pathetically grateful to be taken in. But not
so
grateful, she noted, that he didn’t poke his nose inside the tiny bathroom at the top of the stairs. Just to check the bath was full and the room was empty.

The Harrow flat was supposed to be a bedsit but Myshka rarely spent any time there except in bed so there was nowhere to sit. In the bedroom she turned to face him as she lit a cigarette, her eyes never leaving his face.

“Tell me,” she said again.

“He sent for me this morning.”

“Who?”

“Grogan—Harry bloody Grogan! Who do you think?” Warwick raked a hand through his hair, ruffling it out of style.

Myshka hid a smile, pursing her lips. “And for
this
you pee your pants?”

That worked to curb the fear and turn it into a petulant anger instead. “What do you take me for? I played it cool naturally, but it was close—too close,” he complained. “He suspects, I know he does. Good God, I thought those goons of his were going to kill me and bury me out there . . .”

Myshka put her cigarette down into an ashtray and crossed to him. She put one hand on his shoulder and stroked his hair back soothingly with the other. “Hush,” she murmured throatily. “If you are here unharmed then he suspects nothing, hmm?”

She would, she determined, find out later just how convincing Warwick had been. Either from Grogan himself, if he was feeling talkative, or from Dmitry. Dmitry might not be great at picking up on subtleties but he could judge Grogan’s moods well enough by now.

Besides, if Grogan thought Warwick was becoming a problem it would likely be Dmitry who was sent to deal with him.

This could . . . complicate things.

“Relax,” she said now, smiling. “Remember what we talked about. A little bravery now and you will be a rich man. A
very
rich man.”

For once he twisted out from beneath her hands, his movements jerky with agitation. “The shipment arrives next week,” he said. “And I haven’t the money to pay for it. Hell, I haven’t even the money to pay for
part
of it which is why I had to promise Grogan a big fat bonus on top, which—”

“How much?”

He stopped, looked a little shamefaced as he admitted, “Eight percent.”

“Eight?” Myshka laughed. “Oh my darling you drive
hard
bargain. He would usually ask for twenty.”

Warwick lightened momentarily as his ego kicked in but it soon passed. “He may as well have asked for two hundred,” he snapped. “Don’t you understand? I haven’t a hope in hell of paying him. I should never have let you talk me into this! Oh God what was I
thinking
trying to cross a man like Harry Grogan—?”

Myshka went to him again, letting the edges of the wrap slip apart as she pressed herself against him. His breath hitched, eyes starting to glaze and this time he didn’t push her away. He was so easily distracted.

“You worry too much,” she said softly, her own gaze on his slackening mouth. “Is all taken care of. This time next week you will have no cares, I promise.” A millimetre from his lips she drew back. “You do trust me, hmm?”

“Hell of course I do darling,” he said. “It’s just, you weren’t there today. It’s a big risk.” He frowned, unwilling to confess just how scared he’d been, she realised. Instead he said, “I suppose I don’t like the idea of . . . turning against Matt either. We’ve known each other a long time and—”

Myshka kissed him, long and slow, angling her pelvis into his groin as she did so. “He is holding you back,” she breathed. “You do not need him.”

“No, no I don’t,” Warwick groaned as she sank to her knees in front of him. He heard the slow rasp of his zipper and his eyes flickered to a close. “Not like I need you.”

It was late afternoon before Kelly finally plucked up the courage to contact Matthew Lytton.

A part of her was aghast that she could possibly want to have anything to do with the man. But another part wanted—no
needed—
an explanation. About why he’d done what he’d done.

If she was going down again at least this time she’d know the reason behind it.

Email seemed like the coward’s way but she went for it. He’d spelled out his private email for the forensics lab and Kelly had always been good at remembering details like that.

She set up an anonymous email account and composed a brief message but her fingers stilled with the cursor hovering over the send icon.

Annoyed with herself, she pushed back her chair and jumped restlessly to her feet, shoving her hands into her pockets as if to stop them doing something she’d regret.

“Let it go Kel,” she said out loud. How many times had she said those words to herself? They didn’t help.

She was glad she was alone in the flat. Tina had a job manning the phones at a local centre for battered wives. Elvis was . . . wherever he drifted to during the day—when he could peel himself off the sofa. Kelly was still not entirely sure of the relationship between Tina and the silent youth. As far as she was concerned it was none of her business.

Besides if he wasn’t encouraging Tina to shoot up, beating her or pimping her out, then he sounded like a real step up on half the male company her friend had endured over the years. It was a pleasure to see her clean and focused.

Still, there were worse things a man could do to a woman. Betrayal came top of Kelly’s list.

“I’ll regret it if I don’t do this,” she said, decisive now. And she sent the email winging through cyberspace before she could think better of it.

The laptop displayed a busy symbol for maybe a second or so, during which time Kelly was nearly overwhelmed by the temptation to pull the plug on her impulse. Then it was gone and too late.