O’Neill smiled in spite of himself. “Well that fits I suppose, in a warped kind of way.”
“What does?”
“You were dosed with ketamine,” he said. “You must have come across it in your time. The trendy young things take it for a real out-of-body experience. It has considerable hallucinogenic properties.”
“Well I can vouch for that first hand,” she muttered, staring at the scratched aluminium tabletop without seeing it. She frowned then looked up sharply. “Grogan has racehorses. And ketamine is—”
“A veterinary anaesthetic,” O’Neill finished for her.
“I don’t suppose he has a tame vet on call for his animals does he?”
O’Neill smiled. “One who happens to have a bit of an addiction problem and is therefore open to . . . suggestion, shall we say.”
“Drugs?”
“No, good old-fashioned drink.”
“Ah.” Her mouth twisted thoughtfully. “Ketamine,” she murmured. “No wonder I had a bitch of a headache when I came to.”
“Mm, it was probably a lot stronger than whatever you were dosed with last time,” he agreed taking a swig of hot chocolate. He picked up his toastie again—the outside seemed almost cold—and began to eat, watching her while he chewed.
Kelly sat very still, the frown locked in. Only her eyes moved, flicking back and forth as if reading some internal document. Eventually she looked at him with narrowed eyes. According to her official description they were brown but he noted that in reality they were hazel flecked with all kinds of greens and copper and gold.
“‘Last time’” she repeated flatly. It was more a challenge than a question.
He nodded, swallowing the last of his food. Hers was barely touched. He didn’t think temperature had anything to do with that.
“You didn’t need to cut yourself open to prove it Kelly,” he said gently. “Traces of ketamine would have been detectable in your hair for months.”
Her head dipped suddenly so the peak of the cap hid her face. O’Neill wiped his fingers, reached out and flipped the hat off her head. She flinched but didn’t otherwise move.
Under the hat he found her features clenched, eyes tight shut. She looked even paler than when he’d first seen her and more fragile.
O’Neill let it pass over her. He’d seen this kind of reaction from suspects before. Not when they were accused but when they were exonerated. The near-collapse of relief when they realised that finally somebody believed them.
“Why is Grogan after you?” he asked then.
It seemed to take a long time for the question to penetrate. When it did she raised her head slowly.
“I may be wrong and it’s not him at all,” she said with a weary smile. “There was some youngish guy who tried to grab me yesterday when I was in . . . south-west London. And I’m sure I remember him from the warehouse. Not how he looked but his aftershave. And the accent.”
“Accent?”
“He sounded Russian, maybe Ukrainian, something like that.”
O’Neill felt something spark in the back of his mind, dredged through his memory for the cause and remembered the triple-nine caller who’d reported Douet’s murder. A Russian accent. He kept the connection from showing on his face.
“What have you done to possibly tread on Harry Grogan’s toes?”
“If I knew that . . .”
“But you’ve been trying to find out.”
“What else can I do?” She shrugged helplessly. “It’s all a bit academic now though isn’t it?”
O’Neill studied her for a long time but when he came to a decision he made it fast, on instinct. Call it a hunch.
“Not necessarily,” he said.
76
“Tell me everything Kelly, right from the beginning. And don’t leave anything out.”
And because she was too weary to argue, she did—almost. When it came to Matthew Lytton she felt the need to be slightly more reticent and she wasn’t sure why. She still couldn’t quite decide what she felt about him and because she would struggle to explain that to the detective, she left it out.
Throughout, O’Neill sat without fidgeting, without interruption and let her tell the story in her own way.
At the end of it she picked up half the toastie, now completely cold and finished her lukewarm chocolate. The rain had petered out into indifference leaving behind dirty grey clouds like a sulk.
“I want to offer you a deal Kelly,” O’Neill said. His voice was terse as if a part of him disapproved of what he was about to do even as he did it. “All unofficial and off the record. I can take care of the CCTV outside the lab so neither of us was ever there. If you’re caught I’ll deny this conversation ever took place.”
“You make it sound so tempting,” she shot back. “What do I get out of this?”
“The chance to prove your innocence—and not just for Tyrone Douet’s murder.”
Kelly eyed him with mistrust. “OK, let me rephrase that. What do you get out of this?”
O’Neill shook his head. “Let’s just say I have my reasons and leave it at that. I don’t think you’re in a strong bargaining position here.”
“Why me?”
He shrugged. “Why not? With you on the loose certain people might come out of the woodwork and show themselves.”
Kelly gave a short bitter laugh. “You want me to act as bait.”
“In a way,” he agreed. “But I have to act on evidence as much as instinct. You have a free hand. No restrictions, no rules.”
“Not to mention no retreat, no resources and every copper in London on the lookout for me.”
“We’ve taken the watch off your flat,” he said casually. “Can’t justify tying up the manpower when you’d be an idiot to go back there.” He smiled. “At least you’ll have a bolt-hole. And transport—if that heap of rust you own actually runs.”
Kelly knew this was a trap of some sort but right now she was short on options. And it was better than the alternative which offered no choice at all. Absently she broke a corner off the remaining half of her toastie then let it fall. Her appetite had deserted her.
“I don’t know where to start,” she admitted at last.
O’Neill clearly took that as a sign of acquiescence. He rose, reached into his jacket and pulled out a photo of an elderly man with a whiskery face threaded by veins, wearing a check shirt and quilted waistcoat that marked him as country rather than town.
Kelly took the picture cautiously. “Who’s this?”