Tyrone’s would-be opponent released the choke hold with some reluctance.
“Tell it to him,” the man said mockingly, not even out of breath. “He’s the one who jumped me.”
Tyrone saw the way Kelly’s eyes jerked, wondered what the guy had said that made her look so haunted. His ears grew hot. “He was asking for the boss’s room,” he protested, “and I just—”
“—wanted to protect him,” Kelly finished kindly, her voice careful. “I’m sure the nice detective will forgive your burst of enthusiasm for making a citizen’s arrest.”
Oh great—the Old Bill. Just what I need.
The man was staring at Kelly with the kind of dark assessing gaze the boss used when he was checking over crime scenes.
“Have we met?”
Kelly shook her head. “We don’t need to,” she said shortly. “Trust me—I recognise the type.”
13
He even smells like a cop, Kelly thought. What was it about these guys that made them favour aftershave with the same curiously musky overtones? Either way she felt her pulse rise as her body primed for flight in some kind of associated response.
“DI O’Neill,” the man said now by way of introduction, flashing a warrant card like sleight of hand.
“Ah,” Kelly said. “And what interest does CID have in a simple mugging?” She caught the way Tyrone’s mouth opened then closed again quickly as he registered the flicker of her eyes.
“Ray McCarron is a retired police officer,” O’Neill said not giving any sign he’d noticed the exchange. “We look after our own.”
“Is that so?” She allowed her voice to drawl a little with contempt and watched the faint flush steal up past his shirt collar.
He took a breath as if to stay his patience, asked, “And you are?”
She bypassed the obvious invitation. “We work for Ray.”
“Dedicated,” O’Neill said dryly. “I need to talk to him.”
“Talking to him would not be a problem. But if you’re expecting him to talk back you’re out of luck.” Pure stubbornness forbade her to add, for the moment.
He frowned. “I understood his injuries weren’t that serious.”
Kelly regarded him a moment, bristling. How crass can one man be with only one head? “Try having a baseball bat or whatever it was taken to you with a vengeance and then define ‘serious’ why don’t you?”
“I wasn’t trying to make light of the situation,” he said grimly. “I was told he was conscious at least.”
“He was,” she allowed. “But now he isn’t.” Kelly was aware she was out of line. Way out of line. But the anger and guilt were welling inside her and he was a convenient target. “I’m afraid this is one occasion where a blue flashing light and a siren will not make things happen any quicker.”
He put his hands on his hips, glancing from Kelly to Tyrone at her shoulder. A smile twisted his lips.
“You two got a problem with authority?” he asked. “Wouldn’t have thought that’s an asset in your line of work.” He paused. “Maybe I should ask you both to turn out your pockets.”
“Maybe you should have ‘just cause’ first,” Kelly shot back.
He sighed, tiring quickly of this game. Unworthy opponents, Kelly judged.
“Cut me some slack would you? If not for me then for him.” He nodded towards the room behind her causing a twinge of additional guilt that did not make her like the man any better. “Mr McCarron called us yesterday about something. I’m here simply to check this is not . . . related.”
You and me both.
But even as the thought formed, Kelly noted the careful choice of words. Mr McCarron not Ray as a friend or former colleague might refer to him. And called us rather than called me. O’Neill might simply be the one who drew the short straw when it came to follow-up at this time in the morning.
She kept her voice cool as her eyes. “Do you have any reason to suspect it might be related, detective inspector?”
He hesitated which was an answer in itself even before he matched his tone to hers. “Not right at this moment, no.”
“What? I mean, this is the Lytton thing, yeah?” Tyrone broke in suddenly, up on the balls of his feet like a boxer. “The boss tells you lot no way it was suicide and then he gets the crap beaten out of him and there’s no connection? That how it works now?”
Kelly struggled not to take an audible breath. Not only that Tyrone had put it all together—her own thoughts and fears—but that he’d voiced them in front of a copper.
O’Neill frowned again, went dangerously still.
“If you take my advice,” he said heavily, “that’s not the kind of speculation you want to be indulging in.”
Kelly recalled Ray’s own words about not turning over rocks because of what might lie beneath.
“Can’t trust anyone …”
She knew she should have backed off then. Backed right off and stayed there but maybe she was just sick and tired of always being on the retreat. Maybe it was time for a reckless stand. She was only partially aware of the tension in her neck as her shoulders went back, head tilting.
“And if we don’t want to take your advice?”
O’Neill fixed her with a brutal stare, one there was no way through and no way around.
“I remember you. You’re Kelly Jacks,” he said abruptly, his voice silky enough to send ice through to her bones. “Well, Kelly Jacks, you don’t want to go there.”
Not again.
He didn’t add it but he didn’t need to. Kelly shivered. Much like Ray, she thought bleakly, I get the message.
14
About the time Kelly Jacks was heading across the river home from the hospital Dmitry was having a leisurely breakfast at South Mimms service station at the junction between the A1(M) and the M25 London orbital.
Whatever its drawbacks his time working for Harry Grogan had taught him to appreciate the finer things in life. The old man had shown real pleasure when Dmitry’s uneducated palate had finally developed enough to distinguish a properly aged steak or a favourable year for a grape.
“If you’re ordering the best you’ve got to know you’re getting it and not being ripped off with a cheap substitute,” Grogan had told him. “Don’t trust nobody not to have their hand in the till.”