The Blood Whisperer (35 page)

“I notice you don’t deny the Russian thugs are yours.”

Grogan shrugged. “I have offered employment opportunities to a number of people from the former Soviet Union,” he agreed blandly. “And if they’re lacking in the social niceties, shall we say, that’s only to be expected. Practically a Third World country these days isn’t it?”

Kelly thought of Steve Warwick’s wife Yana who’d apparently been traded like a chattel.
Third World
was too advanced, she decided.
Medieval
was more like it.

“Are you trying to tell me you have no control over your own men?” Kelly demanded. “That you let them rampage around London beating up whoever they like and using your name as justification for it?”

The grey colt had taken another step forwards and was nuzzling Grogan’s pockets now, impatient for his due. Grogan ignored him.

“My name carries weight in certain circles,” he said. “If people choose to bandy it about without my knowledge that doesn’t mean I’m responsible.”

“I suppose you’re not
responsible
for the ten grand price you put on my head either?” she threw back at him.

The mention of money finally seemed to have some effect. Grogan raised an eyebrow, looked her up and down. “What is it you’re supposed to have done that makes you worth
that
kind of money?”

Kelly knew she should take her time about replying. That now she had actually provoked a response, however slight, she should make the most of it, play her cards close to her chest. Instead she allowed him to exasperate an answer straight out of her.

“What have I done?” she repeated. “I spotted the botched job your men made of Veronica Lytton’s so-called suicide. And ever since then you’ve been trying to shut me up—one way or another. Well, it may have worked last time but there’s no way anybody’s putting me away
again
for something I didn’t do.”

Grogan took a breath. She saw his chest rise, his mouth open, then a large figure stepped suddenly into view, grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and yanked him away, spinning him against the outside wall of the loose box.

The grey colt scuttled backwards swinging his hindquarters dangerously close to Kelly. She jumped out of the way.

When she looked back at the doorway the big Russian who’d thumped her was standing firmly planted in the aperture. The double-barrelled shotgun Kelly had seen earlier was pulled up hard into his shoulder. He was aiming it square at Kelly’s chest.

She watched dumbfounded as the knuckles of his fingers began to whiten around the first of the triggers.

Dmitry flashed an Audi saloon that was dawdling in the outside lane of the M4, muttering furiously under his breath as the offending vehicle moved over with leisurely arrogance.

He had pushed and bullied his way out of London in record time and was now heading west at slightly over a hundred and twenty miles an hour. It was the kind of speed where other traffic was constantly in his way and his temper was in shreds.

But he had told Viktor to use his imagination when it came to dealing with Kelly Jacks and that, he realised, could well turn out to be a huge error of judgement on his part.

Viktor was a man whose imagination usually leaned towards extreme violence.

Dmitry took his hand off the wheel just long enough to stab the redial button on his iPhone but Viktor was still not answering. Dmitry’s own imagination painted all kinds of nasty pictures about why that might be.

He pressed his right foot down a little harder on the accelerator.

Harry Grogan stood in the stable doorway staring down at the inert figure lying face down in the horse’s bedding. There was surprisingly little blood but what there was, the shavings were doing a good job of soaking up.

“Is he dead?” the girl asked, her voice strangely composed.

Grogan gave her an assessing glance. “Take more than a shovel round the back of the head to kill old Viktor,” he said. “Stupid bugger, waving a bloody shotgun around near my colt.”

He set the shovel down to one side of the doorway and glanced at his horse. The animal was going spare, clattering against the kickboards at the back of the box as if trying to climb out over the walls. Grogan winced at every knock against those priceless legs.

The grey colt was not happy about being approached. His fear translated into a display of temper with ears laid flat and back hunched, stamping his feet down. Sweat darkened his coat in patches, the veins popping through.

There was movement in the stable doorway and the lad who looked after the colt elbowed Grogan aside as he went to his charge, making soothing noises in his throat. Any other time, Grogan would have sacked him for behaviour like that, but the way the horse was immediately reassured made him hold his tongue.

“We need to move him out of here sir,” the lad said over his shoulder. Grogan couldn’t tell if he was the one being addressed or the trainer, who’d reappeared also.

“What about him?” the trainer asked nodding to Viktor’s body sprawled in the entrance to the stable.

“What about him?” Grogan asked brusquely. He turned to the lad. “Just get on with it son. If the horse tramples all over the big daft bastard while he’s about it, maybe it’ll teach him a lesson.”

Between stable lad and trainer they managed to get a bridle onto the colt’s aristocratic head and led him out. The horse made a big production of needing to sniff at Viktor before he’d step over him then lifted each leg exaggeratedly high and bounced away across the yard alongside the lad, up on his toes and still blowing hard.

“This might be enough to put him off his game for the big race,” the trainer muttered as he hurried after them, not waiting for a response.

Because he had a bloody good idea what that response might be . . .

Grogan pulled out a large white handkerchief to clean his hands. “Nothing like making your excuses before you begin is there?” he said dryly.

The girl gave no reply. He looked over and found she’d picked up the fallen shotgun and was now aiming it in his direction with a certain degree of competence about her.

He carried on wiping his hands, apparently unconcerned. “Know what you’re about with one of those things do you?”

“I’ve fired a few in my time.”

He grunted. “Shooting into some water tank in a ballistics lab is not the same thing as into flesh and blood though, is it?”

“Hadn’t you heard?” she asked tightly, almost a taunt. “Killing people isn’t a problem for me.”

Grogan paused, staring at her. “I’ve met some killers in my time sweetheart,” he said. “But you’re not one of them.”

She smiled. “Want to put that to the test?”

No he didn’t. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket keeping his movements nice and slow and said instead, “Why did you come?”

“I wanted to talk to Brian Stubbs.”

“Like I told you, he’s not here,” Grogan said. “You want to talk? Fine, let’s talk.” He glanced down. “But I’m not standing around up to my knees in horse shit out here to do it, so either we go inside and sit down like two adults or you can sling your hook.”

And with that he turned and walked out of the stable, stepping over Viktor’s unconscious figure a lot less carefully than the colt had done.

It wasn’t until he’d made it unmolested across the yard that he felt the tension go out of his neck.

Inside the farmhouse was old-fashioned and slightly scruffy. Kelly took one look at the cluttered worktops, the overflowing sink and the soot stains above the ancient Rayburn and decided that the trainer probably lived alone.

The walls were largely covered with pictures of horses. Black and white shots of old victories going back forty years.

The kitchen itself was empty apart from a couple of ancient Labradors sleeping close to the front of the Rayburn. One dog raised its head when Kelly entered, gave a wide yawn and settled down again.

She moved quietly across the dull tiles, still clutching the shotgun. Only one door out of the room stood open and she could hear movement beyond. She hesitated just outside then stepped through quickly as if expecting an ambush.

The room was a small bare sitting room with French doors leading out onto a mown but otherwise bare garden. Kelly could see the post and rail fence bordering the driveway beyond. The room boasted a large boxy television set and a video recorder stacked with tapes labelled for old races. Racing papers formed decorative stacks at either side of a well-worn armchair.

Harry Grogan was standing at a sideboard on the far side of the room with his back to her, pouring a stiff Scotch on the rocks. He turned as she came in, lifting the bottle.

“Join me?”

Kelly shook her head.

“You can put that thing down,” Grogan said nodding to the shotgun. “I’ve said we’ll talk. I like to think I’m a man of my word. You’ll not get any more out of me that way.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Kelly let the twin muzzles droop until the only thing they menaced was the ugly floral pattern on the carpet which, she felt, probably had it coming.

“I have to hand it to you,” he said sipping the drink and watching her closely while he did so. “There’s not many people would have the guts to beard the lion in his den as it were.”

“I think you’ll find it’s the lionesses who do all the hunting.”

Grogan raised his glass in salute. “And the lion who gets to muscle in on the kill afterwards and take the best for himself without the work.”

Kelly sighed. “Shall we stop waving our dicks around here?” she said. “Because I think that’s one contest you’re always going to win.”

His face didn’t register anything but she thought she caught the faintest glimmer in his eyes. They were small and deep set, seeming to dominate within his shaven skull. She had the impression of a man who knew his own strength on many levels. And not just so he could crack open a man’s head with a shovel.

“I don’t know about that sweetheart,” he said at last. “You may not have a dick but you’ve certainly got balls.”

He moved round the armchair and sat down, ignoring the way she darted back as he approached.

“So,” he said, “you think I’ve put a price on your head for interfering in my business in some way, is that it?”

“More or less.”

Again there was no immediate reaction. He took another sip of whisky, swallowed and then let out a low chuckle.

“Care to share the joke?” Kelly asked, aware of a tart edge to her voice.

“The joke?” Grogan said. “The joke is sweetheart that I’m just a simple businessman—have been for years.”

“
Businessman.
Is that a euphemism?”

He smiled more fully now, the kind of smile she guessed was not supposed to be entirely reassuring. “One-hundred percent legit.”

“Doing what?”

“Corporate takeovers, property development, import/export—import mainly. I source goods overseas, bring them in, sell them on and make a profit. Same as a thousand other entrepreneurs—only probably a damn sight more successful than most of them. Even Customs have given up tearing apart every load looking for contraband.”

Kelly frowned. “So what’s with the Russian thug outside?”

Grogan shrugged, an expansive gesture. “I have a lot of dealings with Russia. It makes sense to employ some locals. They have a lot of fine craftsmen over there in need of international markets and I provide one of those markets—at great financial risk to myself.”

“Yeah and no doubt great financial reward also.”

“Fortune, as they say, favours the brave.” He paused, eyed her and took another sip. “You should know.”

Kelly felt her certainties crumbling and her focus with them. She shook her head. “I don’t get it. Everybody thinks you’re some kind of gangster.”

“My dad was a gangster—ran with the Krays.” Grogan leaned back, almost reflective. “I had a quite a few interesting ‘uncles’ as a kid. But he died an old man in prison and I decided a long time ago I didn’t want to go out the same way.”

“So, miraculously you’ve lived an innocent and blameless life?”

“Like you, you mean?” he shot back. “Everybody thinks you’re a murderess sweetheart—tried and convicted once, time served. And now it looks for all the world like you’ve run true to form and done it again.” He cocked his head regarding her, waved the hand with the glass. “Want to take a quick poll and find out how many members of the Great British public believe you didn’t do it?”

“No,” she said at last, voice stark. “Why are you telling me all this? Won’t it blow your fearsome reputation?”

“Maybe it would.” He chuckled again, a throaty rasp of sound. “But who are you going to tell?”

Ray McCarron was struggling one-handed again. This time he was attempting to manoeuvre a metal box-file out from its entangled corner of the spare bedroom upstairs. The room was too small to fit anything other than a child-sized single bed and had long since been consigned to a junk store for things waiting in vain to be taken up to the attic.

Without his wife to nag him to carry out the second part of this task the room had gradually filled so the door would barely open wide enough for him to squeeze through with his cast.

By the time he’d uncovered the box and wrestled it from its dusty hole Ray was exhausted, sweating and light-headed. Then as he backed out carefully—but not carefully enough—he bumped his bad arm against the door handle and the box-file spilled from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

This time Ray did not make the mistake of trying to catch it. He could only watch as the file landed upside down on the tiny landing, bounced once and disappeared round the newel post. The clatter and crash as it hit random treads on the way down the staircase seemed horrendously loud inside the empty house.

“
Bugger,
” he said, not having the breath for anything more.