She made it sound so easy Dmitry thought, when it was not Myshka who had to see it through. But he remembered the way she’d murdered her inconvenient husband. She had not taken the easy way then . . .

“A coincidence?” Kelly Jacks’s face was blank with shock.

“They happen,” Myshka agreed, obviously enjoying her discomfort. “She did not believe in pills, but her husband he shoots and I knew she would so hate to have that lovely face . . . spoiled.”

“But . . . then you killed Tyrone—the same as . . .” Her voice petered out. She took a couple of tottering paces sideways, steadied herself with hands braced on the back of a chair.

“You were pain in ass by then.” Myshka smiled at her again. “You can thank Matthew for that.”

“What?”

“You did not know? He ask Steve to find out about you on Internet and he delegate to me. Perfect way to deal with you was with your own past.”

“Myshka,” Dmitry warned. “We do not have time for this.”

“No,” she agreed. She checked the time. “He will be back soon.” Her eyes drifted over the two of them, the old man and the waitress, as if they were of no account. “Put them with the others.”

Your word is my command. “Dead or alive?”

She raised a disinterested eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

Dmitry considered for a moment then brought the Glock up double-handed and lined up the sights on the centre of the old man’s chest. McCarron caught the movement and his head jerked up, finally coming out of stasis.

“Wait—”

“What?” Dmitry asked over the gun. “You think you can persuade me to sit down and talk about it?” As he began to take up the pressure on the trigger a blur of light and dark hit his peripheral vision as Kelly Jacks heaved up the chair she’d been gripping.

“Take a seat,” she growled and sent it spinning for his head.

Dmitry swung the gun blindly in her direction and pulled the trigger.

145

DI Vince O’Neill was outside on the lower walkway overlooking the parade ring when he heard the shot. He’d been waiting, not patiently, for the head of racecourse security to authorise someone to release him a set of keys for the storerooms when the sound cracked out overhead.

O’Neill had heard enough gunfire in his time to duck instinctively. He knew there was no mistake even before the glass began to fall around him like deadly shards of rain.

The panic was instant, blossoming outwards as people scattered. The fear transferred itself to the horses in the parade ring—highly strung at the best of times and already snapped tight with pre-race nerves. They shied and skittered as the people bellied outwards away from the building.

It was only when the building didn’t follow the glass down—when the rain became a shower rather than a deluge and no bodies fell—that the crowd’s rush ebbed and a morbid curiosity took over. They stopped, began to stare and point.

O’Neill shifted his gaze upwards too. He saw a blank emptiness at the window of one of the private boxes where he should have been able to see only reflection of sky.

“The whole pane’s gone,” said the man next to him. “Damn lucky nobody was killed, eh?”

But O’Neill didn’t share his relief. He knew what he’d heard.

Nobody killed? That remains to be seen.

“Boss!”

O’Neill turned, saw Dempsey approaching at a run. “Did I hear—?”

“Yes.” O’Neill grabbed his arm. “Keep your voice down and come with me.” They headed for the nearest entrance, pushing against the flow. “What did Cheever say?”

“He was a bit less combative this time round,” Dempsey said hurrying to keep up. “No more helpful, mind you, but not as rude with it.”

“Yeah, well maybe this will change his mind.” O’Neill shouldered open the door and punched the call button for the lift. He glanced at the floor indicators, found them both stuck at the upper levels and headed for the stairs with a frustrated grunt.

When he saw the man half a flight above them—staggering and barely upright, clinging to the banister with blood coating his head and one shoulder—O’Neill’s first thought was that he’d been shot. Putting it all together on the fly it was a logical assumption. He took the intervening steps three at a time and caught the man under the armpits just as he would have fallen.

It wasn’t until he’d propped the injured man against the wall that he realised he knew the face under all that gore.

“Lytton? What the hell happened?” he demanded. “Where are you hit?”

“Over the head,” Lytton said sounding blurry but remarkably calm. “That bitch . . .”

“Jacks?”

“Hmm? What? No, not her—that bitch Steve’s married to,” he mumbled. “Who would have thought it?”

Dempsey leaned in. “Mr Lytton we just heard a shot—”

“No he wasn’t shot.”

O’Neill straightened, exchanged a worried look with his DC and asked carefully, “Who?”

“Steve,” Lytton said. “I think she beat him to death, poor bastard.”

“Where is she now—Yana Warwick?”

“Don’t know.” He tried to stand, swaying precariously. “Probably far away if she’s any sense. Where we should be.”

O’Neill jerked his head. “Get hold of Cheever again,” he told Dempsey. “Tell him we need back-up. Never mind a possible bomb scare—this has just become a murder scene.”

He started up again but Lytton’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “You said ‘possible’ bomb scare?” he queried. “You might want to re-think that one just a little . . .”

146

Grogan was still in the parade ring with his trainer when he saw the window fall. Like O’Neill he had no problem identifying the gunshot for what it was.

His immediate concern was for his horse. The grey colt took any excuse to spook when he was race-fit. At the onset of the commotion he reared up, trying to yank away from his lad.

The prospect of such a valuable animal running amok on a crowded racecourse made Grogan abandon his dignity and grab hold. Eventually, between them—he, the lad, and the trainer—they managed to calm the colt down. As much as he’d allow himself to be calmed.

This could have cost us the race.

By the time he could step away, straightening his tie and wiping his hands, the panic was largely over. Grogan saw a couple of men hurrying for the entrance to the stands and clocked them as police even in civvies. He followed the gazes upwards and saw at once the shattered window in the private box at the top of the stand.