Matthew Lytton pressed the call button for the lift but didn’t hold out much hope of a response. It looked like someone had tried to pry the buttons out of the wall and taken a cigarette lighter to them when that failed. The steel lift doors themselves were scarred deep with penknife graffiti.
As he waited, the young kid he’d been aware of furtively watching him for the last couple of minutes finally sidled into view.
“S’not workin’ mister.”
Lytton looked over and saw a miniature scally-in-the-making complete with baggy sweatpants tucked into his socks, a knock-off designer baseball cap and a roll-up pinched inside his cupped hand. He had the thin slightly rat-like features of a kid born premature doubtless due to the amount of booze his teenage mother put away while she carried him. They were told stunting the baby’s growth made for an easier delivery.
Lytton gazed at him without expression. Your life was over before it began.
He had no illusions that the kid was being friendly. He knew he’d been sent either to scout him out or distract him so the heavy hitters could make their move. For those reasons he pointedly looked around before replying.
“Tell them it wouldn’t be worth their while,” he said keeping his voice flat and even.
The kid took a long seasoned drag of the roll-up and squinted through the smoke as he exhaled. He might not yet be in double figures but he’d spent a lifetime on the street—long enough to recognise the advice as a genuine warning.
The kid flashed him a dimpled grin then flicked the dog-end towards the gutter and swaggered away. A moment later two larger boys slipped out of the shadows and followed suit.
Amateurs.
Lytton watched them go and then headed for the stairs.
The flat he was after was on the fourth floor. The climb was enough to tell him all the units were rented rather than owned. Once the tenants were safely locked inside nobody gave a damn what was happening to the neighbours or the rest of the building. Still, the proportions of the place weren’t bad and the area was beginning to level off before what Lytton predicted would be an upswing. He made a mental note to check out the finances of the current owner.
Maybe he’ll want to sell—especially now.
Most of the numbers were missing but Lytton counted the doors to the one he wanted. It had been forced open and crudely secured with a hasp and staple but the padlock to connect the two was missing. The door was already ajar and something about that sent the hairs riffling at the back of his neck. There was a strong chemical smell leaching out through the gap, something astringent he couldn’t immediately identify. He pushed the door open with his fingertips, stepped quietly inside.
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.