153
Lying propped up on the bed in the room of his small hotel near Earls Court, Frank Allardice watched events at the racecourse unfold on the TV news.
The cameras had lingered on the tall screens they’d erected around the woman’s body in the parade ring. They were usually brought out to protect the public from seeing fallen horses being put to the bolt but they were just as useful for this kind of eventuality. They’d needed a lot of them though. She’d managed to spread herself over a pretty wide area, poor cow.
When Allardice had seen Lytton’s name connected with the event he’d wondered, just briefly, if Kelly Jacks might show up there. And ever since the news had broken that a woman had fallen—jumped or been pushed, take your pick—from a private box high above the stands, he’d wondered about that too.
Well, hoped, more than wondered.
Having Kelly Jacks as the one splattered all over the parade ring would certainly tie up a few annoying loose ends.
Allardice reached into the ice bucket on the bedside table and dragged out a can of lager he’d bought from the open-all-hours place down the road. He wiped the outside of the can on the duvet, cracked open the ring pull and took a swig.
The news cameraman had finally realised that a set of dark green screens were not exactly photogenic and was panning across the mass of police and emergency services and bomb-disposal personnel. If they’d all paid to get in, Allardice reflected, the racecourse would have doubled their gate.
And then he caught a glimpse of a face he knew.
DI Vincent O’Neill, looking grim-faced and like a right hard bastard.
O’Neill was walking away from the stands, his hand on the shoulder of one of the waitresses. It was only when the girl turned slightly towards him, looked up, that Allardice realised he knew her too.
He reared upright, slopping lager onto his shirt, and stared narrow-eyed at the TV. “Well, well, Kelly bloody Jacks.” He toasted the image on screen. “You got her Vince old son.”
In that case he had no idea who the dead woman was, but if Jacks had been found at the scene of another violent death that wasn’t going to look good for her in court was it? No, the body count was high enough on this one for Kelly Jacks to be locked away until she was a very old lady.
All in all, not a bad outcome.
But as the camera stayed with the detective and his charge a niggle of doubt crept in. If Jacks had been arrested why wasn’t she cuffed? O’Neill wasn’t a soft touch as far as female prisoners were concerned—unless she wasn’t actually a prisoner. Because, now he looked closer, that hand on the shoulder seemed more solicitous than custodial.
Oh shit . . .
Allardice shoved the lager aside and rolled off the bed. Within half an hour he had packed, checked out and was on the Piccadilly line heading for Heathrow.
154
Dmitry came round not in the public First-Aid post but in the Jockeys’ Medical Room reserved for more serious injury, with two uniformed cops standing over him.
“Where is Myshka?” was all he wanted to know. He said the words over and over through clenched teeth.
Eventually, in his best soothing bedside manner, the duty Racecourse Medical Officer broke the bad news.
Despite his injuries, which included a fractured jaw, broken collarbone and cracked ribs, Dmitry went berserk.
One of the constables was later treated for concussion, the other for dislocated fingers. The reinforcements, who quickly arrived, piled in with gusto.
Even so, they had to taser him twice before they could get him under control.
155
Kelly sat in the back of an unmarked police Mondeo, alone and apparently forgotten.
O’Neill had put her into the car with a not unkind command to, ‘Stay there.’ She did not have the energy to do much else.
She knew what came next—a succession of interview rooms and holding cells, having her clothing taken away and replaced with prison garb that always smelled the same and felt the same. Duty solicitors who were overtired and overstressed and didn’t care one way or another if you were guilty or innocent, providing the case was put away neatly.
Prison gates, bars, locks, keys and the smell of sweat and fear and desperation. Years of it.
I don’t know if I can go through all that again.
She thought of Ray McCarron who was on his way back to hospital complaining bitterly but still adamant that he was responsible for Yana Warwick’s death. And if he was feeling guilty enough to take the fall, a part of her so wanted to let him.
It was a bad choice of words, she acknowledged. Or maybe it was apt. She shook her head—such distinctions were currently beyond her.
In all likelihood he wouldn’t go down for it. He would plead self-defence and—regardless of who’d been the last person to touch Yana before she went over—that’s exactly what it was.
Kelly knew her word as a witness would not carry much weight but as far as a jury knew, Harry Grogan was the proverbial pillar of society. He’d already made it clear that he was prepared to look anyone in the eye and swear it had all happened the way McCarron claimed.
She just didn’t know why. Was he hoping such an act would give him a hold over her, or make her grateful enough to stop being such a nuisance?
And if Ray was found guilty—what then? Do I say nothing and let him serve his time? Owning up when it’s all over will create a far bigger mess. They’ll probably send him down for perjury on top of everything else—and me alongside him.
It was a situation not without parallels to the one McCarron had found himself in six years ago. Ironic, in its way.
She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She was tired, she admitted. More tired than she’d ever been in her life.
She thought of Tina and wondered if Elvis had come out of his coma and whether she would ever again be able to speak to the woman who had probably saved her life in prison.
And sitting there amid the noise and confusion, Kelly felt suddenly very alone.
156
Matthew Lytton watched Kelly through the side window for a moment. She looked lost and vulnerable, like a child left in the back seat by a parent who might never return.
He took a breath and opened the car door. Her eyes shot wide, twisting instinctively to meet the threat as he slid in alongside her and shut the door behind him.
There was a second of silence between them.