The Blood Whisperer (9 page)

Straight ahead along the hallway was an open door with light beyond. Lytton poked his head cautiously through the gap and found a living room with misted double-glazed doors standing open onto a tiny weather-beaten balcony. The room itself was overpowered by an ugly sofa and cheap bookcases. The empty shelves sagged as if still exhausted by the memory of books. The kitchen was off to one side separated by a narrow breakfast bar. The cupboard doors on the units badly needed realigning. Apart from an upturned plate rack on the drainer the room was devoid of the usual clutter of occupation.

Lytton turned back towards the front door. As he did so a figure moved out of one of the other rooms off the hallway. A woman, but unlike the boys near the lift there was nothing amateur about her. In her right hand was a tightly rolled magazine which she gripped like a relay-runner’s baton.

“Miss Jacks,” Lytton said gravely, eyeing her. “Do we shake hands or are you going to beat me into submission like a badly behaved dog?”

There was a long pause. “That depends if you’re planning to make a mess on the carpet,” she said. “I’ve spent all morning cleaning up.”

Her voice was light but he caught the way her body uncoiled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he said more sober now. “And don’t worry—I’m reasonably well house-trained.”

“I’m glad
somebody
is,” she murmured.

He looked around. “What happened here?”

“Junkie suicide,” she said distractedly. She was frowning. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I wanted to speak to you again.”

Lytton watched her face as he spoke. There was no coy reaction and if anything her frown increased and became overlaid with wariness. Whatever value she put on herself it was not in her powers of attraction.

“How did you find me?”

“Via the woman in your office.”

Kelly groaned. “It’s an answering service. I will
so
have words with her later,” she said. “No way is she supposed to give out that kind of information.”

“I was at my most persuasive.”

Kelly’s glance told him she doubted that very much but she didn’t say so out loud. She folded her arms, making her oversuit rustle like disapproving whispers.

“So . . . talk.”

Lytton tried a smile. It bounced off.

“First off I wanted to say how sorry I was about your boss.”

She stiffened—not the reaction he was expecting.

“‘Sorry’ how?” she demanded. “Sorry to hear what happened to him? Or that it was necessary?”

“Hey I—”

“And how did you know about it anyway? It only happened last night and I can’t believe our office blabbermouth told you any details about
that.
”

Temper flashed through him and died away just as fast.

“Don’t you bloody start,” he said tiredly. “I’ve just had the third-degree from some snotty policeman called O’Neill, that’s how. And whether you choose to believe it, that’s not how I do business.”
Not if I can help it.

She subsided slowly, almost with reluctance as though she’d been spoiling for a fight and was disappointed to be denied.

“I’m sorry,” she said shortly. “Was that all? Only I’m on a bit of a deadline here.”

“No it wasn’t all. But don’t let me stop you working while we talk. I’m sure a woman of your many talents numbers multitasking among them.”

She skimmed her eyes over him briefly as if looking for any sign of mockery.

“Well, if you can stand the smell you’re welcome to stay.”

She put the magazine down next to the phone on the side table in the hall and jerked her head for him to follow. Lytton nodded to the gradually unfurling pages.

“Not the most lethal means of self-defence I’ve ever seen,” he said.

Kelly’s only response was a raised eyebrow, maybe the faintest quirk of the corner of her mouth. “You can punch one of those things through an internal door,” she said in a voice that suggested she’d either seen or done it herself.

Probably best not to pursue that.

Inside the bedroom the chemical odour was so pungent it almost made his eyes water.

The room had been stripped clear. The walls glistened from wipe-down and even the skirting boards had been levered off. Close to one wall was an oval stain on the floor that had darkened to black.

“Is that—?”

“Blood? It was. Don’t worry—it’s all scrubbed and disinfected now.”

“When you said this was a dead junkie I assumed he’d overdosed or something.”

“He set off by swallowing, snorting or injecting his entire stash,” she agreed. “But then he took a razor to his wrists and managed to slice through his radial artery. That’s when he either panicked or changed his mind. He started out in the bathroom, searched the kitchen for a First-Aid kit.” She nodded to the phone on the hall table. “He tried to call for help—forgetting his phone had already been cut off for non-payment—then collapsed on his bed and finished bleeding-out into the mattress.”

Her matter-of-fact tone was more shocking somehow than the words themselves.

The landlord in Lytton compelled him to ask, “How long before he was found?”

“Two weeks,” she said. “By which time the smell and the flies were too much for the neighbours to ignore any longer, even round here. They called the letting agent and he came round with a couple of guys and broke in.” She paused and he thought he detected the vaguest hint of a smile. “We had to clean up their vomit as well.”

“Speaking of ‘we’, where’s your young apprentice today?”

The twinkle of amusement snuffed out and the caution was back. “Tyrone’s taken the mattress and the rest of the contaminated waste for disposal. We have to use sites licenced for biohazardous material—it’s not exactly the kind of thing you can dump in your local landfill.” She peeled back her sleeve to glance at her watch. “I
was
expecting him back by now.”

He looked at the oval stain again.

“It’s a far cry from being a CSI, Kelly,” he said quietly and noted the fractional pause.

“Not really. They’re opposite ends of the same road wouldn’t you say? As a CSI I’d be one of the first at a scene and working for Ray I’m one of the last.” She shrugged. “Still the same scene though. The same tragedy.”

“But it’s no longer your responsibility to work out what happened is it?” he asked. “So what was it yesterday—old habits?”

She regarded him with steady eyes. They were nominally hazel he saw, but that didn’t begin to describe the flecks of amber and gold and grey that radiated out from the centre.

“You’ve been digging, Mr Lytton.”

When he’d had time to think about her name—about why it was familiar to him—he’d certainly had some digging done. There was plenty of info to go at. “Please, call me Matthew.”

She gave a hollow laugh and drawled, “Oh yes, because first-name terms make insults and innuendo
so
much more civilised.”

He leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “I didn’t come here to insult you.”

“Really?” She picked up a plastic drum with a hose and spray nozzle attached to the top of it, forced him to move aside so she could transfer it into the hall. “So why exactly
did
you trek all this way into London?”

“You saw things at the scene of my wife’s death that all the other so-called experts missed,” he said. “That made me curious.”

Kelly picked up another chemical drum and brought it back into the bedroom. The drum was clearly full but she hefted it with practised ease. She might appear small, even delicate, but she had a deceptive strength that intrigued him.

“It’s standard procedure to photograph the scene and email before-and-after pictures back to base for every job,” she said at last. Her voice was both evasive and strangely bleak. “You may be giving credit where it isn’t due.”

He shook his head. “Your sidekick let it slip yesterday that
you
were the one who saw something and reported back, not the other way around. Why try to deny it now?”

She slammed the drum down so hard Lytton heard the contents slosh around inside. He hoped whatever was in there wasn’t as volatile as Kelly herself.

“Because since then somebody beat the crap out of my boss—who also happens to be one of the few true friends I have—and in no uncertain terms warned him off. The only people who knew anything about it were us, the police, and you. So tell me,
Matthew,
in my position what would
you
do?”

He cocked his head on one side and regarded her with cool eyes that seemed to see right through her skin and lay bare all the insecurities beneath.

Then after a long lingering inspection he gave a crooked smile.

“Deny all knowledge and keep a low profile, probably,” he admitted. “Is that what you’re doing?”

Kelly tried to ignore the disappointment in his words—as if he’d hoped she had more spine.

Easy to think that way if you’ve never had to face the consequences.

She’d struggled hard not to show shock and anger at him turning up like this. Since her release she’d worked hard to guard her privacy. The thought of being so easily uncovered was . . . unsettling.

She turned away, unscrewed the cap on the drum and inserted a spray nozzle with a hand pump, tightening it down.

“You might want to suit up or stand well back—either that or leave,” she said. “This sealant is strong stuff. Get it on those nice clothes and it won’t come out.”

If it had been her hope to make him go that was dashed when he retreated one small token pace and stopped on the far side of the threshold. For a moment she considered giving him an ‘oops-sorry’ squirt to see if that would get rid of him.

“Please—Kelly,” he said then. “All I want is a few minutes of your time.”

Just before he spoke she caught the brief swallow and something about the vulnerability of the gesture beneath all the cool bravado made the decision for her. Besides, if he had any funny ideas he’d very quickly discover that she was not an easy target.

Not anymore.

“You’ve got until I’ve finished up here,” she said pumping the handle to pressurise the drum, not looking at him.

“To tell the truth I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I was hoping you might.”

“My job as a CSI was to gather and interpret physical evidence—to work out
what
happened, not why it did.”

“Even so, you’re far closer to the process than I’ve ever been.”

She began to spray the sealant in even strokes across the floorboards, starting in the far corner and working across.

“I might have been once but not anymore,” she said and tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Now, if that’s all …?”

“No, it isn’t.” He let out his breath in an audible hiss and she tensed automatically. “I came to apologise,” he said gently and Kelly felt her mouth fall open. The taste in the air was enough to shut it again fast. “For being brusque. Yesterday was a bitch to be frank, but that was no excuse to take it out on you and for that I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” she said quickly. “I—”

“My wife is dead, Kelly,” he said, pinning her with those mossy grey green eyes. “The police were convinced it was suicide but then you came along.” He paused, chased and caught her gaze. “
You
came along telling me a different story. I think you know the truth about her. And I need to know what you think that is.”

Kelly’s mouth dried as her brain put instant interpretations and reinterpretations on his words.

Threat or plea?

“What if you don’t want to know the truth?” she asked, scanning his face for another sign of his humanity.
Damn
but he was difficult to read. “Not really. Not deep down. Sometimes knowing for certain can be worse than not.”

Lytton folded his arms and put his head on one side as he regarded her.

“Is that personal experience talking?” And when she shrugged he added, “I read the reports on your trial.”

“What? How the hell did you—?”

“Google,” he said shortly and once again she couldn’t tell if that was a flippant answer or the truth. “Does your defence at the time still stand?”

Kelly’s spine went rigid. She dragged the chemical drum across the floor so the spray nozzle would reach the far corner.

“That I simply have no memory of taking a life you mean?” She fought to keep her voice even and her mind objective. “That I don’t know how—or why—I stabbed to death a complete stranger?”

He gave a fractional nod. “And are you still sure that not knowing is better?”

No!
Kelly wanted to scream.
Because if I don’t know how can I be sure it will never happen again?

But instead she gave him a level stare as she pumped the pressure back up again. “If it turns out your wife was involved in something—something that led to her death—what then?”

Lytton was silent for a moment and it seemed to Kelly that his eyes lingered on the scrubbed and disinfected bloodstain across the old boards. She laid on another even coat letting the nozzle drift back and forth like a metronome.

“That I can only tell you once I know the answer,” he said. Another twist of his lips that mocked himself as much as her. “And then, of course, it will be too late.”

Kelly stopped and straightened. “So, what
was
she doing before her death? Was she stressed about something? Upset? Under pressure?”

He ran a hand through short dark hair that she could tell would start to wave if it was allowed to grow longer. His hands were big, wide across the palm from manual labour but long-fingered to give them proportion. He wore no rings.

She gave herself a mental shake, brought her concentration back on track.

“The police asked me all this at the time,” Lytton was saying. “Veronica was organising the hospitality for a racing event we’re sponsoring—horse racing,” he added before Kelly could ask. “It’s a major undertaking but gala dinners and hunt balls were part of her upbringing. She thrived on that kind of stuff.”