“Of course I haven’t.” DC Dempsey’s voice was righteous. “There’s been nobody in and nobody out since I got here.”
“Well how come she’s just made a phone call here from her home number then?”
“What? There isn’t a back way boss. I checked.”
“Well check again. Get yourself up there—right now!”
40
Kelly scanned up and down the street before opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat of the Aston Martin, dumping a small backpack into the footwell as she did so.
Behind the wheel Lytton turned down the radio and twisted towards her, his eyes hidden behind slim designer sunglasses. “How did it go?”
Kelly tipped her head back against the leather and let out a long breath. “Better than it might have done,” she said. “She didn’t call me a murderer outright if that’s what you mean.”
“But?”
“She wasn’t alone.”
“You think the cops are watching your place?” Lytton glanced over his shoulder automatically.
“I imagine so.”
“Did they see you?”
Kelly smiled. “Not unless they were watching by helicopter or satellite.”
Lytton raised an eyebrow. “Where now?”
Kelly sighed. He’d already put on hold his plans for first thing this morning in order to swing past the forensics lab in Lambeth. It might have been Kelly’s old ties that called in the favour to begin with but it was Lytton’s cash that secured the promise of a fast-track service. She picked up the backpack, suddenly wary. Was this bout of helpfulness merely a way of keeping a close eye on her?
“Look it’s enough that you gave me a place to bunk down last night—not to mention paying for the lab tests,” she said awkwardly. “I can hardly expect you to play taxi driver for me all day as well.”
“One of the nice things about being the boss is that I’m answerable to myself for how I spend my time,” he said. “Besides, if I get some answers about Vee from all this it will be worth it.”
Kelly was aware of that stab of doubt again. If he was involved he was good at maintaining a convincing facade. She found herself unwillingly believing him, believing in him.
“Even so,” she argued, stubborn, “you must have commitments on your time.”
He checked his watch. “I’m supposed to be meeting with my business partner at the racecourse after lunch. Vee was organising corporate hospitality for us.” He paused. “Why don’t you come with me? It would give you a chance to see what she did—get a feel for how she worked. You saw things at the house that the police missed. Maybe you’ll do the same again.”
Kelly glanced down at herself ruefully. She had taken the opportunity to grab some more clothes from the flat. The borrowed silk shirt, beautiful though it was, was folded neatly in the backpack ready to return to him. She was now wearing a set of desert cam combat pants and a clean halter top under the hoodie. On her feet were old Red Chili climbing shoes.
The contrast with Lytton’s quiet affluence was marked. She was aware that anyone glancing in at the pair of them could be forgiven for the assumption she was carjacking him.
She ran a hand through her choppy hair, scowled. “Yeah ’cause I’ll fit in so well with corporate hospitality.”
“We can soon fix that.” He twisted in his seat and smiled at her. “Besides, I could point out that I’ve done you some favours and now I’m calling them in.”
“But you wouldn’t do a thing like that,” she said gravely, hiding the jolt his words provoked.
“You might see the surface trappings of success and mistake me for a gentleman,” he said and Kelly remembered again her first impression that here was not a man to cross.
“Aren’t you forgetting that I’m a wanted fugitive?” she said, almost a taunt.
“I think of little else,” he drawled. “But I can live with it if you can.”
41
“Bit of a cock-up all round, Vincent, wouldn’t you say?” remarked Chief Superintendent John Quinlan.
DI O’Neill hated being called Vincent. Only his mother used his full given name—usually when he’d disappointed her in some way. These days she used it a lot when she reminded him of his increasing age and lack of prospective wife, never mind the patter of tiny O’Neills “while she was still young enough to cope with grandchildren”. He wondered if she and his boss had been talking.
“Yes sir,” he said stiffly.
The chief super was standing with his back towards him, apparently transfixed by the view out of the narrow window of his office. As soon as O’Neill had got back to the station after his abortive attempt to track-and-trace Kelly Jacks he’d received the summons from on high. Quinlan had a good quality carpet up here and he liked to put people on it.
In truth O’Neill was just as pissed off about the way things had gone this morning. Dempsey had gone straight up to force entry into Kelly Jacks’s flat. He’d found clear signs that she’d been there only minutes before, including the clothes she’d undoubtedly been wearing at the warehouse.
The only clue as to how she’d managed to get in and out without being seen from the street was an unlatched skylight. Even that might have gone unnoticed had O’Neill not recalled a snippet from Jacks’s conduct record while she’d been inside. About how much time she’d spent on the prison climbing wall.
A climbing wall—in prison for Christ’s sake! Why not just let them build a glider in Handicrafts and have done with it . . .
Quinlan turned away from the window and caught O’Neill’s scowl of irritation. He let his breath out fast down his nose like a snorting horse.
“Oh take that bloody stick out of your arse and sit down Vince, for God’s sake. No way could that young idiot Dempsey have known he was dealing with Spiderwoman.”
“No sir,” O’Neill agreed tightly. He paused. “I should have figured it out as a possibility though.”
The chief super snorted again louder this time. He was a lean man with the whippet-thin stringy build of a marathon runner and movements to match—quick and impatient. No-one would ever accuse John Quinlan of being handsome but his features had improved a bit with the cragginess of age.
He moved over to the ever-present coffee pot, sloshed liquid dark as coal tar into two cups and handed one to O’Neill.
Quinlan had joined the Met earmarked as a high-flier with a rich wife and all the right social connections to sit in the chief constable’s chair. But now only a month or so from retirement he was destined to see out his service at chief superintendent. Rumours said the old man liked to get stuck in to the sharp end of policing too much to ever have ridden a desk all the way to the top. It was hard to tell how Quinlan himself felt about it one way or the other.