“Yes, but—”
His good humour evaporated. He lurched forwards to slap a hand down hard against the top of the coffee table making her start. “Do not question me on this! You know it was right. Would you have me let them disrespect me? Have them laugh behind my back? Say that I am weak?”
She got to her feet without response, turning away from him to hide her surprise at this rebellion and the flare of her own temper. Standing by the glass wall that looked down across the river and wrapping her arms around her body she was aware of a sudden chill in the air.
So it begins, she thought with cold clarity. Your disrespect of me.
She did not hear Dmitry get to his feet and move behind her until his hands slipped around her waist, his face in her hair.
“Do not let us fight when we are so close,” he murmured in her ear. “I need you, Myshka . . .”
To whore for you, Myshka supplied silently and could not resist a final gently chiding reminder.
“It is I who have brought us this far Dmitry.”
She felt him tense then relax. “I know,” he said. “I will not forget.”
He kissed her neck, let her go and a few moments later she heard the apartment door bang shut behind him.
Myshka continued to stand at the window, frowning. She could see her reflection in the glass—a pale hunched figure with a worn face, wearing a borrowed robe, in a home that did not belong to her.
And for the first time the future looked uncertain.
73
DI O’Neill turned up the collar of his jacket and shouldered a little closer to the blockwork to keep out of the steady rain.
Behind him was an ugly but otherwise unremarkable office block that housed the Forensic Science Laboratory. Its only distinguishing feature seemed to be the large stone construction at the front which he was using for shelter. As far as he could tell, the sole purpose of this square lump with its flared top was to display in large digits the number of the building he was lurking outside together with a sign warning visitors they were under surveillance.
Like you could ever miss it.
He supposed he’d always taken the odd structure for granted—walked quickly past it on his way in and equally quickly on his way out. Now that he was forced by the boredom to study it up close he wondered if it had some deeper meaning.
The building itself was dirty concrete and brown brick and glass at odds with the surrounding architecture as only public buildings can manage. O’Neill reckoned they sent planners to a special school to learn how to draw such monstrosities.
He had gone to Lambeth straight from his visit to King’s College Hospital which was only a few miles away. But morning traffic was already starting to build and the journey had been frustratingly slow. He knew he should have used the time to call Dempsey to update him on his interview with Kelly Jacks’s old cellmate Tina Olowayo, but he was strangely reluctant to do so.
He knew it was partly pride that kept him from calling. He wanted to see how the information Olowayo had divulged panned out before he checked in. She was a tough cookie who’d given little away of her real feelings for Jacks. And this despite the distinct impression that Jacks had been responsible—directly or indirectly—for the beating. Still, he couldn’t dismiss the chance that she’d sent him off on a wild goose chase just for the hell of it.
Even if it had all sounded entirely plausible.
Which was why he’d been skulking under the overhanging stonework for nearly an hour getting drips from the encroaching tree branches down the back of his neck and stretching his ever-thinning patience further with every passing minute.
I’ll give it another half an hour, he determined. Then I hand it over and it all becomes official—to hell with her.
No sooner had the thought formed than he heard quick footsteps jogging up the short flight of steps that led to the front entrance. He risked a glance around the edge of the stonework and clocked the slight figure with a baseball cap pulled well down and her hair tucked mostly beneath it.
She had a backpack but no jacket and the shoulders of her hooded sweatshirt were dark with rain. He saw that she had removed the stud from her nose. With the slim almost boyish figure and her fluency of movement she could have passed for a teenage student rather than a forty-year-old ex-con.
No wonder we haven’t caught her.
He rolled out of concealment and planted himself in her path, hands loose and ready like the ball was in the air and you never knew where it was going to come down for the catch.
“Hello Kelly,” he said softly.
Kelly Jacks lurched to an awkward halt as if her legs had suddenly forgotten how to function in sequence. Her eyes flew to his, haunted and vulnerable. Watching closely, he saw the moment she considered running.
“Don’t,” he advised. “I’ve had a good night’s sleep and eaten my wheaties for breakfast this morning. You, on the other hand, look like you’d blow over in a strong wind. I’d have you before the end of the street.”
Her shoulders drooped a little but her voice was calm.
“How did you know I’d come here?”
O’Neill shrugged. “Because you didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
74
Kelly sat opposite the detective at a little corner café only a few hundred yards away from where he’d intercepted her. They were outside at one of the small tables squeezed under an awning between the violently pink outer wall of the building and the busy road junction. The noise and the continuing drizzle were enough to ensure they were alone and uninterrupted.
O’Neill had kept her close while he ordered two cups of hot chocolate and a couple of toasted sandwiches from the counter inside, not giving her the chance to make a run for it even if she’d been inclined to do so.
Kelly’s instinct and experience told her this was not how arresting officers behaved if they were following the rule book. That O’Neill had another agenda was obvious. What that agenda might contain, on the other hand, was harder to anticipate.
So for the moment she was prepared to go along with this irregular interrogation. She had nothing to lose and no real choice in the matter.
And besides, as he’d pointed out, she hadn’t eaten since the night before. Better by far to let him feed her before making a break for it, if it came to that. She snuck a sideways look at him without turning her head. He was a big guy who clearly spent enough time out of the office to keep a paunch at bay. A decent weekend footballer rather than a rugby player, she judged, despite the broken nose. She had no doubt that he could have made good on his promise to chase her down if she’d tried to bolt.