For a moment he stiffened then a gradual smile widened his mouth. And although he made an annoyed sound in his throat she knew the moment of strain between them had passed.
“Do you not mean jellyfish?”
He folded the paper neatly, rose with the economy of movement she’d always admired and opened the window for her, standing aside with a mockingly gallant bow.
She gave him another slight regal nod and stepped out onto the roof terrace. It was too chilly to be comfortable and she shivered again with less enjoyment this time and wrapped the kimono closer to her body.
Dmitry shrugged out of his leather coat and draped it around her shoulders. She took it as her due, folded herself into one of the cushioned rattan chairs and reached for the cigarette pack. Dmitry lit for both of them.
As the first hit of nicotine curled into her lungs Myshka regarded him through a whisper of smoke.
“The danger from Veronica Lytton may not be over,” she said.
Dmitry raised an eyebrow. “I do not think McCarron will pursue things,” he said easily. “I was very . . . persuasive.”
“He is not the problem. The bitch who works for him, she may be.”
“London can be a dangerous city for a woman to live in,” Dmitry said meaningfully, sitting back in his chair. “Anyone can become a victim of violent crime. It’s shocking.”
Myshka smiled. Sometimes Dmitry had such a simple answer to every question. If she wasn’t around to rein him in, she mused there would be a trail of blood behind him wherever he went.
“It cannot be handled like that. Not this time.” She shook her head, regretful. “There is a policeman—how do you say?—sniffing around her. Another ‘accident’ and even he may become suspicious.”
Dmitry showed his teeth. “Being a policeman can be a dangerous job also,” he offered.
Myshka laughed out loud, put a hand on his knee briefly. “There is no need,” she said. “Certain information has come to light about the woman. If we are clever we can use it to deal with everyone involved at one time.”
She leaned forwards in her chair tilted her cigarette into an ashtray and told him, keeping her voice low and focused, everything that Steve Warwick had uncovered about an ex-CSI called Kelly Jacks. And about the plan that had come to Myshka after she had climbed back into bed this morning and lay sleeplessly alongside her lover.
When she was done, her cigarette had smouldered into ash and Dmitry’s face was creased in concentration.
“It’s too complicated,” he said doubtfully.
“No—don’t you see? Is simple,” she argued, conviction in her voice. “Dmitry, is perfect. There will not be a better way.”
He was silent, staring downward into empty space. She knew him well enough to let him think it through in his own time. So she rose, leaving his leather coat on the chair, and went back indoors closing the sliding window behind her.
She was pouring coffee when Dmitry opened the glass and stepped back inside.
“You are right—as always,” he said without expression. “It is perfect. But—”
“What is?”
The voice made them both turn. Harry Grogan stood in the bedroom doorway, his skin still pink from too hot a shower, fastening cufflinks at the wrists of another handmade shirt.
“A gift,” Myshka said smoothly. “Dmitry has a special girl. He asked my advice on what would . . . please her.”
Grogan regarded the pair of them for a moment unsmiling, adjusted his tie. “Well you should know sweetheart.” He nodded to Dmitry. “Tell Viktor to bring the car round and wait,” he said. “I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
Dmitry nodded, his own face carefully expressionless. “Of course.”
But Grogan’s eyes were on Myshka. She had allowed the front edges of the green kimono to slide provocatively apart almost to her naval. “Is that coffee fresh?” he asked. “Bring me a cup into the study there’s a love. I’ve a couple of calls to make.” And with that he disappeared back into the bedroom.
Myshka tightened the thin robe again, aware of an aching stab both of relief and disappointment.
Dmitry gathered up his newspaper from the table and nudged her under the chin with his forefinger as he came past.
“Do not worry,” he murmured. “I know what needs to be done and I will see to it.”
And if there had been any lingering uncertainty in his tone when he had come back in from the roof terrace it was gone now.
20
Kelly lifted the steam vacuum into the back of the van and peeled off her nitrile gloves. Behind her, Tyrone appeared in the doorway leading to the flats carrying a drum of enzyme cleaner and the sharps’ bin.
He swung the two items easily up into the back of the van and hopped in after to secure them. Kelly noticed he’d split the back seam of another Tyvek suit. She really would have to speak to Ray about getting hold of a better range of sizes.
Her face clouded briefly at the thought of her boss. They’d kept him in awaiting surgery on his shattered elbow. She’d been to the hospital to see him again this morning. He was still groggy and in a lot of pain although they were talking about letting him out at the weekend. She made a mental note to go round if they did, take him some food. He wouldn’t be up to looking after himself for a while.
The letting agent hovered from foot to foot while she filled in the paperwork for him to sign. He was far less appreciative of their efforts than Gary and his mate at the flat south of the River. Kelly didn’t need to be told that he was desperate to get them out of here now the job was done.
The flat they’d just sanitised had not been the scene of a crime other than bad judgement. It had been mistakenly let to a pair of drug addicts who had eventually trashed the place before scarpering, several months behind on the rent.
Normal cleaning firms baulked at dealing with contaminated needle debris. The letting agent had admitted—eventually—that he’d discovered one of the tenants was positive for either HIV or hepatitis. He claimed not to know which.
Kelly made a guess that he’d failed to report any of this to his superiors or the building owner and was paying for the cleanup out of his own pocket. Hence the undue haggling about the price.
Even now he had a nervous twitch about him that Kelly recognised.
“You’ve agreed you’re satisfied with the job and we specified payment on completion so I’ll take that now OK?” she said offering him the clipboard and pen. “Cash or credit card will be fine.”
“Look if I don’t need an official receipt surely we can . . . come to some kind of arrangement about the price eh?” he said with a nervous laugh. “I mean you guys aren’t cheap but if it’s cash you must be able to do better than the estimate.”