The Blood Whisperer (52 page)

The inaugural Lytton-Warwick Cup had not exactly gone according to plan, but it had certainly gained so much publicity—good and bad—that next year was a done deal. The TV people had already signed up, although Lytton had told them in a dry tone that he couldn’t promise peripheral events would be quite so . . . exciting in future.

And he’d changed the name slightly. Calling it the Lytton-Warwick
Memorial
Cup now seemed doubly appropriate.

The police had finished questioning him weeks ago, the business had been put into a holding pattern and the country house was already half packed up and on the market. He had an exclusive and very private resort in the Bahamas all picked out for his own personal getaway.

All he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do was get on a plane.

Lytton stepped back from the window and swallowed the last of his coffee, placing the empty cup down on the desktop. His broadsheet daily was still spread across the surface and his eyes slid again to the news item on Kelly Jacks.

In the days immediately following events at the racecourse Kelly’s face had been plastered all over the front pages. They’d vilified her unchecked as some kind of psychotic rampage killer. Over the weeks that followed she had been tried, convicted and practically crucified in the press all over again.

Lytton had learned that Kelly was being held on remand at Holloway prison but so far she had refused all his requests to see her. Lytton had tried to arrange to pay whatever bail amount was necessary to get out, only to learn she hadn’t asked for bail to be granted in the first place.

And now, today, when he should be giving all his thoughts to the memory of his dead wife and to his imminent guests, Lytton found himself distracted by the image of a small slim woman with wary eyes the colour of good aged brandy. He remembered watching with his heart in his open mouth while she effortlessly scaled the outside wall of the house near Battersea Park, then transformed herself in the lavender dress and jacket for lunch at the racecourse.

He thought of her fierce determination throughout to prove her own innocence. And he wondered exactly when, where and
why
that fire had gone out of her.

Kelly Jacks walked along an all but deserted beach of pale yellow sand, watching as a stately Mediterranean sun winched itself out of the sea to the east, ready for another day.

She wore a skinny top and shorts and carried her sandals so she could walk up to her ankles in the surf where the water felt warm as a Jacuzzi. After only a couple of days her skin had lost its prison pallor and taken on a healthier glow.

Since her arrival here she had eaten seafood so fresh it practically still wriggled, swum, snorkelled and slept like the dead.
All the esses,
she thought idly.

And if certain faces still haunted her, at least they’d stopped crying through her dreams.

She felt rested, yes, but not yet relaxed.

Not yet.

Further offshore the swell was languid, the water therapeutic as it came and went on the beach, dragging the sand oozing from beneath her heels and between her toes. It would be so easy to stay here, where nobody knew her, to burrow in and hope the rest of the world would forget about her too.

Kelly gave a snort of self-derision. “Yeah, like
that’s
going to happen.”

She veered away from the water’s edge, trudging through the softer sand and bypassing the serried rows of empty sun loungers with their folded parasols. She headed towards the pretty little promenade with its cafés and bars. Some were already preparing to open for breakfast and the smell of cooking drifted evocatively on the morning air.

She climbed the half-dozen concrete steps and padded still barefoot towards the table of the nearest, where a man sat reading an English newspaper. He was wearing sunglasses and a pale shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal a pink explosion of freckles.

“I hope you’ve put sunblock on today,” Kelly observed as she took the seat opposite. “Otherwise they’ll be able to fry eggs on you.”

Detective Constable Ian Dempsey lowered the paper and inspected his scorched arms with a slightly sheepish expression.

“Factor fifty.” He lifted the sunglasses, wincing as the true extent of his sunburn became apparent to him.

Kelly glanced at the headline on the newspaper he’d put aside. Finally, some other disaster had relegated her to the inside pages.

“Maybe the furore
has
actually begun to die down,” she said without much conviction.

“At least until you get home,” Dempsey reminded her with a cheerful lack of tact. He reached for his cellphone, which lay face up on the table and waggled it at her. “Just had the call, by the way. You ready?”

She slid her feet into her sandals and rose. “I’ve been ready for six years.”

He flushed a little at that. “Um, look Kelly, you
are
going to let the locals handle things, aren’t you?” he said. He fumbled through the unfamiliar coinage to pay for his coffee, not quite meeting her eye. “I mean, if
I’m
here as a courtesy then
you’re
here ’cos somebody much higher up the food chain than me did some serious arm twisting. I don’t want to have to explain, through an interpreter, how justified you were in kicking this bloke’s bollocks into his throat.”

“I’ll be good,” she promised meekly.

He shot her a quick look as if suspecting derision. Then he shook his head and smiled.

“To be quite honest, I wouldn’t blame you if you
did
let him have it,” he admitted. “But I didn’t say that, of course.”

“Of course.”

Together they strolled along the street, stopping occasionally to read the menu boards. Kelly tried to behave casually, as if their eventual choice was entirely random. The rapid thunder of her heart made it hard to swallow.

They loitered a moment longer, then Dempsey murmured, “Shall we?” and they walked into the dim interior.

Inside, the bar was a mix of old English polished wood and splashes of local decoration, terracotta and brass. A surprisingly successful blend of two cultures that really should not have worked but somehow blended smoothly. Ceiling fans turned lazily to keep the temperature cool and pleasant as a temptation to wander in out of the pre-noon heat and stay late into the evening.

This early, though, the place was empty except for three men sitting at a table in the back. As soon as he saw them enter, one of the men got to his feet and came forward to greet them.

“We’re not quite ready to serve breakfast yet, folks,” the man said, “but can I get you coffees or a . . .” As soon as he got his first good look at the pair of them his voice shrivelled into silence.

“Hello Mr Allardice,” Kelly said in a deadly soft tone. “Remember me?”

Former Detective Chief Inspector Frank Allardice was not a stupid man. He had recognised her instantly and, having done so, it only took another moment for him to size up Ian Dempsey and make him for a copper, even burnt Brit red and in his civvies.

He had too much bottle to actually run, but Allardice shoved past the pair of them and made for the street at a brisk walk. The snarl on his face as he went dared them not to get in his way. Dempsey stepped aside and let him go.

The two men at the back of the bar were on their feet by then. The first watched Allardice make his exit and then he
did
run, tearing out through the rear kitchen in a flash. The last man hesitated only for a second. His eyes made fleeting contact with Kelly’s before he was sprinting too.

And if the first man was only vaguely familiar she would have known the other anywhere.

Detective Inspector Vincent O’Neill.

“Fleeing at the first sign of customers, eh?” Dempsey shook his head in mock dismay. “Now that’s no way to run a business.”

Outside there was a burst of noise—harsh shouts in Spanish and swearing in English, followed by scuffling feet and the solid thuds of subduing blows. Kelly listened, hoping for more, but it seemed the fugitives submitted with disappointing speed.

Members of the
Cuerpo Nacional de Policía
poured in through both front and rear entrances, hustling their three handcuffed prisoners before them like they were running bulls.

The tall slim officer who seemed to be in charge shook hands with Dempsey and the two began a brief conversation that was largely conducted in gestures and pidgin.

Kelly edged quietly around the group of cops until she was only a metre or two away from the prisoners. Allardice glared at her with all the arrogance she remembered so well from interrogation. But she saw the sweat on his forehead begin to dribble at his temples, and knew he was seriously afraid. It was only the presence of his fellow detainees that gave him any remaining spine. Like he could take it, just so long as he wasn’t taking it alone.

Her eyes passed to Vince O’Neill. He returned the stare impassively for a moment before offering a wry smile.

“Nice to see you off remand, Kelly,” he said. “Although if you hadn’t been so stubborn Matthew Lytton would have stood bail for you weeks ago.”

Kelly shrugged to hide her pleasure and surprise. “It gave me time to think,” she said, “about the massive civil action I’m going to bring for wrongful arrest, conviction, and imprisonment.”

At that the third man’s head snapped up. His gaze swivelled between Allardice and O’Neill as if trying to work out which of them had sold him out fastest.

“Look,” he began, trying in vain to catch the eye of any Spanish officer who might possess half a dozen words of English. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’ve just retired from a very high-ranking job with the British police, and I’m merely visiting two old friends . . .”

But then the lead Spanish officer finally understood what Dempsey had been trying explain, mostly via the medium of mime.

“Ah,
si
!” the man cried, a huge grin appearing from beneath his generous moustache. He pointed at Vince O’Neill and said, “
Clandestino,
eh?” and then rattled off orders to his men.

They broke into wide answering smiles. The one standing nearest to O’Neill quickly undid the cuffs, offered him an apologetic shrug.

Kelly watched the realisation grow in the third man’s eyes, that this was no random event but more of a carefully orchestrated operation. That his reputation, his pension and his marriage were about to go to hell and all his dirty little secrets were going to be spread across the tabloids like intestines across a butcher’s slab.

After a few moments she turned away without speaking. There was nothing she wished to say to the man who had engineered her ruin and now would be the instrument of her redemption.

O’Neill nodded his thanks to the Spanish cop, then jerked his head to Dempsey. “Nice work, Ian,” he said. “Your collar, I think.”

Kelly thought Dempsey flushed with pride, but it could have been the sunburn. He stepped forward.

“
Ex
-Chief Superintendent John Quinlan,” he said in a calm and steady voice. “I am arresting you for conspiracy to pervert the course of justice . . .”

Thank God it’s nearly over.

Sitting in the front pew of the ancient church, the words ran through Matthew Lytton’s head.

The vicar was into his Benediction. Vee had been an occasional churchgoer—more for its social implications than out of any true belief—so at least the man was able to speak from slight personal acquaintance.

Then there was only one more hymn to go before Lytton could get out of this suffocating place and this suffocating suit. And, above all, away from these utterly suffocating people.

The vicar was meandering his way towards a solemn close. Lytton shifted on the old wooden pew and was suddenly aware of the feeling he was being watched.

As casually as he could he glanced back over his shoulder—straight into the eyes of Kelly Jacks.

He felt the jolt of her unexpected presence like a physical blow to his gut. He tensed in visceral response and forced himself not to turn and stare.

Even so, there was no mistake.

In that brief glimpse he registered her bare head among the sober hats, her shoulders draped with an overlarge black topcoat that drowned her small frame.

His mind began to race. What the hell was she doing here? There had been no official announcements and he’d been following the whole travesty with a close eye. Christ . . . had she escaped?

He realised the vicar had stopped speaking, the organist was flexing his fingers and the rest of the congregation was rising around him with a chorus of coughs and shuffles. His mother-in-law glared at him from across the aisle, as if not being first up was a sign of disrespect.

He had put his foot down about the final piece of music. Vee had always loved the intricacies of Bach, and in particular the chorale movement
Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.

His mother-in-law had been vaguely horrified at the suggestion. “But, it’s so . . . unsuitable, Matthew. You had that played at your wedding.”

“All the more reason to play it again at her memorial service then, don’t you think?”

In the end the woman had given in with some attempt at grace, although he noted from the Order of Service that she had disguised his choice by using its lesser-known German title—
Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben, Bach-Werke-Verzeichnis 147.

He stood silent while the vastness of the Bach cantata washed over him, but felt only impatience for it all to be over.

Kelly . . . here . . .

Even then he couldn’t make an immediate escape. He was expected to stand in a receiving line with Vee’s parents, accepting clammy handshakes and the awkwardly mumbled conventional expressions of regret.