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.
160
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.