“That doesn’t necessarily mean whoever she might—or might not—have been involved with felt the same way,” Kelly said. “Jealous rage is an age-old motive.”
Lytton nodded, his face impassive. “I very much doubt Veronica was capable of inspiring such emotion but I’ll make some enquiries,” he said reminding her suddenly of the policeman O’Neill. “Anything else springs to your expert mind?”
A picture of Ray McCarron lying bruised and broken in his hospital bed. Of Ray telling her not to turn over rocks. She took a breath.
“As far as you know she wasn’t stressed or desperate or having an affair. You didn’t love her and you didn’t hate her, and nobody else wanted her dead,” Kelly murmured almost to herself. “Which only leaves . . . you.”
“Me?”
“Mmm,” she said. “Have you thought that Veronica might have been killed to send you a message?”
“Really.” His raised eyebrow denied it. “What kind of a message?”
That was as far as he got before the front door of the flat swung open and two big heavyset men shoved their way inside.
17
Tyrone bounced up the stairs to the fourth floor taking them two at a time and not feeling the strain. He was pleased to note he even managed to whistle while he was doing it. All those early mornings spent pounding the running track at the Mile End Leisure Park were paying off.
He jogged along the corridor leading to the flat where they’d been working all morning hoping Kel wouldn’t think he’d been loafing. He couldn’t slice through traffic in the van quite like on the bike. Still, he couldn’t get a blood-soaked mattress on the back of his old Honda either.
It was only when he got near the door that he heard voices inside the flat. Deep voices gruff from smoke and booze. The kind that came from men with thick necks and knuckles scarred from dragging along the pavement when they walked.
And Tyrone remembered what had been done to the boss—by big men who knew what they were about—and he slowed to a cautious shuffle along the cracked concrete.
Kelly!
He nudged the door open with the tips of his fingers and edged through suddenly wishing he was armed with something more than just the keys to the van. When he swallowed he found someone had sucked all the saliva out of his mouth when he wasn’t looking.
A man stepped out of the open doorway to the bedroom and Tyrone almost thumped him in shock and reflex. The man seemed as surprised as he did.
Out of context it took Tyrone a second to place him as the Lytton guy with the massive country place who’d kicked up a stink about the bathroom where his missus blew her brains out—or had some help doing it, according to Kelly. Tyrone had no reason to doubt her word.
“What you doing here?” Tyrone asked roughly. “Where’s Kelly.”
“I’m just leaving,” Lytton said. He jerked his head towards the bedroom. “She’s in there.”
As he brushed past Tyrone managed to register that whatever Lytton had come for he probably hadn’t got—not if the scowl on his face was anything to go by.
So what was you after then?
Tyrone didn’t stay to watch the man exit. He threw himself into the open doorway to the bedroom with the blood pumping hard in his ears and arms flexed to take on all-comers.
The occupants of the room jerked up fast as he burst in. The voices he’d heard belonged to two men who suited them—hard cases in black cargo pants and bomber jackets like nightclub bouncers. They were bent over Kelly who was crouched on the floor between them. Tyrone started forwards.
“Ah there you are Tyrone,” Kelly said calmly getting to her feet. “Any problems?”
“Erm . . . no. All sorted.”
“Good.” She nodded, turned her attention back to the men. “As I was saying, you can’t get blood out of floorboards but we’ve scrubbed and disinfected it so the floor structure won’t be affected and as you can see with the coat of sealant I’ve sprayed on you can’t tell it was ever there. Or more to the point your future tenants won’t be able to tell. I’d leave it twenty-four hours before you put new carpet down just to let it harden completely.”
“You’ve done a great job,” said one of the men. “Couldn’t believe the state of this place when the boss had us break in, could we Gary?”
“Shocking—it was rank in here,” Gary agreed. “You’ve even got rid of the stench. No-one’d ever know.”
“I’m glad you’re satisfied,” Kelly said. “I’ve checked with the office and the fee’s already been transferred into our account so as soon as we’ve cleared out our gear you can re-secure the door.”
“Cheers,” said the first man. “You need a hand?”
“We can manage thanks,” Kelly said when Tyrone would have taken them up on the offer. He didn’t miss the pointed look she jabbed in his direction as she swung the drum of sealant up into his arms and gathered the rest of the stuff.
Uh-oh.
She didn’t say nothing until they were back in the van and she was cranking up the motor. Then she sat back in her seat and sighed.
“Look Tyrone I know you’re only looking out for me but you were lucky those two didn’t rip your arms off when you came charging in like that. What were you thinking?”
He stared down at his hands and mumbled, “Dunno.”
She sighed again.
“You’re upset about Ray,” she said. She put her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “I am too. But you can’t go for the clients Ty-ger or we’ll be out of business in no time.”
He nodded. Pleasure at the nickname warred with shame at the feeling he’d somehow let her down. He didn’t speak again ’til they were cruising through traffic a few minutes later.
“So what was he doing back there—that Lytton guy?”
“To be honest I’m not entirely sure.” She glanced across frowning. “He said he wanted to know what really happened to his wife.”
Tyrone’s head came up. “And you believe him?”
Kelly shrugged, her focus on changing lanes without swapping paint with the pushy courier who zipped alongside. “Believe him? Maybe,” she said then. “But trust him?” She flashed a brief smile. “Not as far as I could throw him.”
18
Lytton was in his Aston Martin DBS and north of the river heading through Belgravia before his cellphone rang. He touched the Receive button on the hands-free kit.
“Matthew Lytton.”
“Matt!” Steve Warwick’s voice boomed inside the car. “Where are you?”
“Near Victoria heading back to the apartment,” he said. He checked the time on the classic analogue clock in the Aston’s centre console. “Problems?”