“I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it,” Kelly returned, matching his tone. “Probably.”
He rolled his eyes and went on calmly, “But now Lady Muck is out of the way suddenly I find myself able to do business with Lytton and his partner—what might prove highly profitable business for all of us at that.”
Kelly frowned, remembering the vehemence in Lytton’s tone when he’d talked about Grogan. Was he really a better liar than she’d given him credit for or had she just wanted to trust him to the point it had coloured her judgement completely?
“I don’t believe he’d kill his wife just for that.” But the strange twinge of guilt she’d seen in Lytton—the day she and Tyrone had gone to clean the place—remained obstinately in the back of her mind. And there was no doubt he hadn’t seemed devastated to find himself suddenly a widower.
“Maybe not, sweetheart but his greedy partner just might—and he’s the one who’s been making all the running.”
“Steve Warwick?”
Grogan must have been watching her face as she said the name. Amusement plucked at his mouth. “Make a pass at you did he?”
“I didn’t give him the chance,” Kelly said, acidic. “But his wife was with him. Maybe that cramped his style a little.”
Grogan chuckled again. “Doesn’t normally stop him. Not from what I hear.”
Her tartness only increased. “Well I gather she’s not in a position to say much considering he practically picked her from a catalogue.”
The chuckle became an outright laugh. “That what he told you?”
Kelly didn’t get the joke. “No—she did.”
That seemed to sober him. “Did she now,” he murmured. He seemed distracted for a moment then fixed her with a focused eye. “If I tell you I’ll look into this, sweetheart will you let me do that without going on the rampage—at least until after my horse has run his big race this weekend?”
Kelly hesitated a moment and almost regretfully shook her head. “I could be dead or arrested by then.”
He gave a long sigh. “Let me reach out to a few people—people who owe me favours,” he said. “You got a cell number I can reach you on?”
“Yes—if you give it back to me.”
He humphed out a breath and put the drink down on the arm of the chair long enough to delve in a pocket for the phone she’d taken from McCarron’s house as well as the Vauxhall’s keys. He shook his head a little as he did so, as if he couldn’t believe he was going to all this trouble over her. Kelly had a hard time believing it herself.
There was an awkward pause. Then the silence between them was broken by the sound of a car engine revving hard as it approached along the driveway.
Kelly glanced out of the French door in time to see a Mercedes braking hard at the entrance to the yard. She glimpsed the driver and her heart leapt into her throat and lodged there.
“Ah about time. That’ll be Dmitry,” Grogan said with satisfaction. “He’ll take care of you.”
99
Dmitry barged through the farmhouse kitchen and into the small sitting room, fast and aggressive. The trainer warned him the girl had the shotgun on his boss but threats were not the same as actions.
He knew from his own painful experience that she was not to be underestimated. Maybe if Kelly Jacks had shot her last victim he would have used more caution but she hadn’t. Besides, if there was a certain amount of . . . collateral damage during the struggle, Dmitry reckoned he could probably live with that.
Better than facing the awkward questions that would undoubtedly arise if she and Grogan had a chance to talk.
So he hit the door with his shoulder and kept on coming, aiming to knock aside anyone standing within the arc of its swing or startle her into immobility for those vital few seconds.
Harry Grogan sat alone in the trainer’s old armchair, a glass of whisky in his right hand. Despite the violence of Dmitry’s arrival he seemed unsurprised by it, lifting the glass without a tremble.
“She’s gone,” he said not even turning his head.
Dmitry straightened out of his pounce, saw at once that the French windows were standing open.
“I will go after her,” he said striding forwards.
“No you won’t,” Grogan said. “She’s no problem to us—for the moment. We got other things to deal with that are . . . more pressing.”
Dmitry paused as much at the tone as the words. He scanned around carefully and noted the position of the shotgun only a metre or so away behind the door. He stepped back almost casually to lean against the wall where the gun was within easy reach.
“What is it?” he asked roughly.
Grogan finished savouring his sip and relaxed his arm again. Only then did he look at Dmitry for the first time since he’d entered the room.
“Somebody has been taking my name in vain, Dmitry,” he said. “You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”
Dmitry kept his face still even as his mind began to race. What had Kelly Jacks told Grogan? What did she know for certain and what might she have guessed?
“Who?” He tried not to hold his breath.
Grogan gave him a long cold stare. “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said at last. “Any ideas?”
Dmitry frowned. He knew he should come up with a convincing scapegoat but could not bring himself to do so. Myshka, he knew, would berate him for not being ruthless enough. For not standing on the heads of others to reach the top of the pile. He shook his head.
Grogan nodded as if that was the answer he’d expected. He levered himself out of the armchair, leaving the whisky glass balanced on the racing papers alongside and headed for the door. As he passed Dmitry, he clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“I had to give old Viktor a little tap on the head—he seemed just a bit too keen to shut young Kelly up before she’d had a chance to talk to me,” he said, nothing in his face or voice to betray his emotions on the subject. “Sort him out would you? There’s a good lad.”
He didn’t wait for Dmitry’s agreement. But when he reached the door he stopped, turned back. “And where the hell has Stubbsy got to?”
100
Brian Stubbs sat in a police cell and alternately cursed and sweated.
“Harry’s going to kill me,” he muttered under his breath.
It was not the kind of thing Stubbs would normally ever say out loud—not if there was the remotest chance of being overheard anyway. In the past Harry Grogan had been fairly forgiving of his vet’s little foibles but this time he might just draw the line.