Probably best not to pursue that.
Inside the bedroom the chemical odour was so pungent it almost made his eyes water.
The room had been stripped clear. The walls glistened from wipe-down and even the skirting boards had been levered off. Close to one wall was an oval stain on the floor that had darkened to black.
“Is that—?”
“Blood? It was. Don’t worry—it’s all scrubbed and disinfected now.”
“When you said this was a dead junkie I assumed he’d overdosed or something.”
“He set off by swallowing, snorting or injecting his entire stash,” she agreed. “But then he took a razor to his wrists and managed to slice through his radial artery. That’s when he either panicked or changed his mind. He started out in the bathroom, searched the kitchen for a First-Aid kit.” She nodded to the phone on the hall table. “He tried to call for help—forgetting his phone had already been cut off for non-payment—then collapsed on his bed and finished bleeding-out into the mattress.”
Her matter-of-fact tone was more shocking somehow than the words themselves.
The landlord in Lytton compelled him to ask, “How long before he was found?”
“Two weeks,” she said. “By which time the smell and the flies were too much for the neighbours to ignore any longer, even round here. They called the letting agent and he came round with a couple of guys and broke in.” She paused and he thought he detected the vaguest hint of a smile. “We had to clean up their vomit as well.”
“Speaking of ‘we’, where’s your young apprentice today?”
The twinkle of amusement snuffed out and the caution was back. “Tyrone’s taken the mattress and the rest of the contaminated waste for disposal. We have to use sites licenced for biohazardous material—it’s not exactly the kind of thing you can dump in your local landfill.” She peeled back her sleeve to glance at her watch. “I was expecting him back by now.”
He looked at the oval stain again.
“It’s a far cry from being a CSI, Kelly,” he said quietly and noted the fractional pause.
“Not really. They’re opposite ends of the same road wouldn’t you say? As a CSI I’d be one of the first at a scene and working for Ray I’m one of the last.” She shrugged. “Still the same scene though. The same tragedy.”
“But it’s no longer your responsibility to work out what happened is it?” he asked. “So what was it yesterday—old habits?”
She regarded him with steady eyes. They were nominally hazel he saw, but that didn’t begin to describe the flecks of amber and gold and grey that radiated out from the centre.
“You’ve been digging, Mr Lytton.”
When he’d had time to think about her name—about why it was familiar to him—he’d certainly had some digging done. There was plenty of info to go at. “Please, call me Matthew.”
She gave a hollow laugh and drawled, “Oh yes, because first-name terms make insults and innuendo so much more civilised.”
He leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “I didn’t come here to insult you.”
“Really?” She picked up a plastic drum with a hose and spray nozzle attached to the top of it, forced him to move aside so she could transfer it into the hall. “So why exactly did you trek all this way into London?”
“You saw things at the scene of my wife’s death that all the other so-called experts missed,” he said. “That made me curious.”
Kelly picked up another chemical drum and brought it back into the bedroom. The drum was clearly full but she hefted it with practised ease. She might appear small, even delicate, but she had a deceptive strength that intrigued him.
“It’s standard procedure to photograph the scene and email before-and-after pictures back to base for every job,” she said at last. Her voice was both evasive and strangely bleak. “You may be giving credit where it isn’t due.”
He shook his head. “Your sidekick let it slip yesterday that you were the one who saw something and reported back, not the other way around. Why try to deny it now?”
She slammed the drum down so hard Lytton heard the contents slosh around inside. He hoped whatever was in there wasn’t as volatile as Kelly herself.
“Because since then somebody beat the crap out of my boss—who also happens to be one of the few true friends I have—and in no uncertain terms warned him off. The only people who knew anything about it were us, the police, and you. So tell me, Matthew, in my position what would you do?”
16
He cocked his head on one side and regarded her with cool eyes that seemed to see right through her skin and lay bare all the insecurities beneath.
Then after a long lingering inspection he gave a crooked smile.
“Deny all knowledge and keep a low profile, probably,” he admitted. “Is that what you’re doing?”
Kelly tried to ignore the disappointment in his words—as if he’d hoped she had more spine.
Easy to think that way if you’ve never had to face the consequences.
She’d struggled hard not to show shock and anger at him turning up like this. Since her release she’d worked hard to guard her privacy. The thought of being so easily uncovered was . . . unsettling.
She turned away, unscrewed the cap on the drum and inserted a spray nozzle with a hand pump, tightening it down.
“You might want to suit up or stand well back—either that or leave,” she said. “This sealant is strong stuff. Get it on those nice clothes and it won’t come out.”
If it had been her hope to make him go that was dashed when he retreated one small token pace and stopped on the far side of the threshold. For a moment she considered giving him an ‘oops-sorry’ squirt to see if that would get rid of him.
“Please—Kelly,” he said then. “All I want is a few minutes of your time.”
Just before he spoke she caught the brief swallow and something about the vulnerability of the gesture beneath all the cool bravado made the decision for her. Besides, if he had any funny ideas he’d very quickly discover that she was not an easy target.
Not anymore.
“You’ve got until I’ve finished up here,” she said pumping the handle to pressurise the drum, not looking at him.
“To tell the truth I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I was hoping you might.”