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 . . .”
161
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.
And all the time he was searching for another sign of Kelly. But she didn’t present herself to him or his in-laws and when the church had emptied out he could not see her hiding in the shadows.
He thanked the vicar and handed over the promised donation cheque for a job well done. Outside on the bowed stone steps he shook his father-in-law’s reluctantly offered hand and air-kissed his mother-in-law’s powdered cheek. He was amazed the caked layer of makeup hadn’t cracked from the sheer effort of holding her disdain in check.