Kelly drained her own cup and got to her feet. “I’d better not waste any more time then, had I?”
37
Across the other side of the river, lying alone in bed in Harry Grogan’s luxury penthouse, Myshka watched the same news report and smiled.
Dmitry had done well she decided with a flush of pride. But he had been well taught. The secret of a great man was not simply to avoid mistakes but to recognise them for what they were and deal with them effectively—simply, quickly—once they had been made.
She would have to think of a special way to reward him.
She picked up her iPhone and flicked through the contacts until she came to Steve Warwick’s number and hit it, longing for a cigarette. Even she daren’t smoke inside while Grogan was away and that fact rankled.
The call was answered—Warwick’s slightly petulant tone demanding, “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling!”
“I’ve been busy,” Myshka said carelessly. Deal with it. “Tell me again about the hospitality arrangements. Which entrance will the caterers use? Not the basement?”
She heard his gusty sigh—that of a cranky child made to perform in order to receive a treat. “We’ve been over all this a dozen times. The basement car park entrance will be closed off the day before. They’ll come in at ground level and use the service lifts from there.”
“Good boy,” she said her voice turning husky. “There, that wasn’t so hard was it? But if you can tear yourself away from your desk I will make it hard for you, yes?”
Warwick gave a groan. “I’m due at the venue this morning,” he said in an agony of indecision. “I could always cry off but—”
“No!” Myshka let her voice rap him smartly then dropped it again to a soothing purr. “I will deal with you . . . later. The anticipation will make it worth the wait, I promise.”
Another groan. “Good God, Myshka—what the hell did I do before I found you?”
He ended the call. Myshka lay back against the sheets and smiled up at the ceiling.
“You suffered,” she said.
38
An hour later Kelly took a deep breath and dialled a number from her own contacts list.
She almost lost her nerve in the time it took the phone to connect and start to ring at the other end, and again with every unanswered second.
“This is such a bad idea,” she muttered.
But then the receiver was lifted, a mumbled greeting given and it was too late to go back.
“Mrs Douet?” she said. “Please don’t hang up. This is Kelly—Kelly Jacks.”
She heard the woman’s sharp intake of breath and rushed on. “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t hurt Tyrone. He was my friend. I know what they’re saying but I wouldn’t do that. Not to him—not to anyone.” She heard the break in her own voice and took a breath to steady it. “Please believe me.”
There was a long pause, to the point where Kelly feared Tyrone’s mother had let go. She had a brief remembered image of a careworn woman with a permanent stoop that added a decade or more to her probable age. Kelly wondered how much extra weight Tyrone’s murder would add onto her shoulders and her throat tightened.
“Why you running then child?” Mrs Douet asked almost gently. “Why don’ you just give in—talk to the policeman—let the law decide?”
“Because I’ve been here before and the law decided wrong.”
“You know? Or you think?” she asked, her voice slightly disconnected as if she’d been given something to take the edge off her grief. “I can’t talk to you now child. I should, I know . . . but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Kelly wondered almost angrily about the woman’s friends, neighbours and family who were letting her field calls at all in that state . . .
Oh shit.
“Look I know you have to go,” Kelly said quickly. “I just wanted to tell you—that I’m innocent. I did not do this to Tyrone. And I don’t believe I killed anyone before, either.” She spoke past Mrs Douet to the people she knew were also listening. “That girl who was beaten to death all those years ago. It wasn’t random bad luck—she was murdered to silence her. Nobody would believe me and when I kept asking questions they found a way to shut me up too. Well it won’t work again. And if the police won’t find out who did do this to your son, I will.”
39
DI O’Neill reached across very gently and took the receiver out of the woman’s nerveless fingers. Her dulled eyes, red-rimmed from weeping, swivelled in his direction.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you said if she called to keep her talking but I just couldn’t . . .”
“It’s all right Mrs Douet,” O’Neill said. He looked to the technician sitting at the dining table. The man gave him a brief thumbs up. “You did enough. I know how difficult this must have been. We’re very grateful to you.”
She nodded vaguely. “I met her a few times—Kelly I mean,” she offered. “She seemed so . . . nice. And she say Tyrone is her friend. Why would she—?”
“I see people hurt—killed—by their closest friends all the time.”
She nodded again, starting to fade as the nervous energy receded. One of the neighbours, a big strident woman, glared at O’Neill and hustled across to envelop Mrs Douet in a protective cloud of shawl and scent. She guided her to the floral sofa where the other children sat—a younger boy and a girl. They were huddled together watching with wide eyes every move of the police personnel around the cramped flat. At the moment they were scared and maybe even a little excited. Only later, O’Neill knew, would it sink in that their big brother wasn’t ever coming home.
He moved through to the tiny dining area. “Where is she?” he demanded of the technician, keeping his voice low.
“Just the other side of Battersea Park,” the man said scrawling down an address and handing it over.
O’Neill glanced at it, his brows drawing down. “You have to be kidding me.”
The technician wisely said nothing to counter this disbelief in his abilities, just gave a quick shake of his head. “She didn’t even withhold the number.”
O’Neill reached for his phone, stabbed at the buttons with growing anger.
“Dempsey!” he snapped when the call was answered. “Where the hell are you?”
“Sitting outside the bird’s flat boss. Where else would I be?”
“And you haven’t been off for a slash or a kebab—even for five minutes?”