“Oh aye?” O’Neill said, echoing him. “Anyone I should be aware of?”
Tate waved a hand towards a dark oily stain around and up against one of the steel support pillars. “Homeless man,” he said. “Managed to set himself on fire with a cigarette and a half-bottle of overproof rum. Bacardi 151 according to the fragments of label. Lethal stuff in more ways than one it seems.”
O’Neill vaguely recalled that Tate was a Presbyterian and a teetotaller.
“Accidental?”
The CSI shrugged. “Not the first time it’s happened and I daresay not the last.”
“But where did a derelict get hold of something that not only just so happens to be highly flammable but also sells for around seventy quid a bottle?”
Tate paused again. A tick of irritation crossed his features, eyebrows drawing down. “It wasn’t my call,” he said grimly. “But I’ll be making it my business now.” His eyes drifted back to the burn marks. “At least the cleaners hadn’t begun to sanitise the scene before young Tyrone was attacked. I’m sorry you missed the body by the way.”
“I spoke to the pathologist on the way in,” O’Neill dismissed. “As you’re only too aware, he never likes to commit himself but he reckoned the fractured skull would have done for the kid. The fourteen stab wounds just made sure of it.”
Tate pursed his lips as he eyed the patch of blood-soaked concrete that had until recently been Tyrone Douet’s final resting place. “And then there’s the blood bag of course,” he added.
“Blood bag?”
“Oh aye. Didn’t they tell you about that?” Tate shook his head. “When the uniforms arrived on scene they found a little sandwich bag with blood in it and a note saying ‘it wasn’t me’ or some such nonsense.” He glanced at O’Neill, his amusement dying as he realised the other man did not share the joke. “A red herring surely?”
“Maybe not.”
“Well it could be worth running a full tox screen on it I suppose.” Tate pulled a face. “Depends on the state of the budget I expect and how seriously you take this person—whoever they are.”
“Kelly Jacks,” O’Neill said, almost under his breath.
Tate paused. “Now that name I do recall,” he said. “Bad business when one of our own turns bad.” He frowned. “Didn’t she claim to have some kind of mental breakdown when she stabbed—what was that laddie’s name?”
O’Neill had no time for reminiscences. “Jacks worked with Douet,” he said. “According to McCarron’s the two of them were scheduled to come out here and clean up the tramp’s death yesterday morning. Nobody’s seen or heard from Jacks since.”
“But—” Tate’s mouth opened and closed. With his slightly protruding eyes behind the glass O’Neill was unkindly reminded of a goldfish. “What about the blood? And the message?”
O’Neill was already striding away stabbing a number into his phone. “Maybe,” he threw back over his shoulder, “she’s just getting her defence in place a lot earlier this time.”
36
Kelly woke with a start, body snapping upright and her heart pounding like a fist.
For a few moments she had no clear idea of where she was or how she got there. The blank caused an instant burst of panic that pierced her chest and seized her lungs until she was gasping for breath.
She was in a bedroom, she saw, in one half of a double bed. The other half was empty.
Well that’s good, at least.
The curtains were not drawn at the long windows. Through the glass the soft-hued glow of pre-dawn washed in allowing Kelly to take in the details of the room.
Off to her left was an adjoining door through which she could see a sliver of en suite bathroom. Expensive glossy tiles and a glassed-in shower cubicle with a rose the size of a dinner plate. She looked around the bedroom itself, frowning. The art on the walls looked genuine if a little bland, giving it the impersonal feel of a seldom-used guest room. It was certainly no cheap motel.
Memories returned slowly, layer on layer like falling snow. By the time each of them had settled she began to wish for the amnesia that had once seemed such a curse. She sat, hugging her knees through the fine sheet.
Tyrone’s dead and they’re going to come after me for it.
She remembered her flight from the scene, her brief foray to the office, and finally coming here to the apartment of Matthew Lytton. A man who owed her nothing. A man she’d attacked by way of greeting as soon as he walked into his own home.
“I must have been mad.”
Maybe I was. And maybe I still am.
There was a digital clock on the side table. A glance at it told her it was a few minutes before 5:00 AM. At least she’d managed a couple of hours without the police breaking down the door and dragging her out in chains.
Which means he hasn’t called them.
The realisation gradually released its grip on something that had been clenched tight beneath her ribs.
Does that mean he didn’t set me up? she wondered. Or does it simply mean that he wants to deal with me in his own time?
Soundlessly, she slid out of bed. She was still wearing a thin undershirt and her knickers. When he’d shown her the room Lytton had told her in a neutral voice to make use of anything she found there. A long silk dressing gown was draped over a chair and after only a moment’s pause she slipped it on, knotting the sash around her waist. The material whispered around her legs, cool against her bare skin.
Before climbing into bed she had locked her bedroom door. Now she took a breath and untwisted the key. She paused in the hallway, listening tensely. She had no idea which was Lytton’s own bedroom and she had no desire to disturb him.
But as she stepped out into the open-plan living area she spotted his outline at one end of the low sofa, sitting facing the wall of glass with his back to her. She froze. He was in shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled back. Loosely in one hand he held a squat glass of what might have been whisky.
She was on the point of retreating when his voice floated back to her. It came disembodied from the shadow of his silhouette against the lightening sky.
“Can’t sleep?”
Kelly was silent for a few elongated seconds. She saw his head turn as if to sense her position. Feeling suddenly gauche she moved around the sofa and into his field of view. She told herself that the ungainliness of her limbs was due to nothing other than delayed shock from the day before.