And then he caught a glimpse of a face he knew.

DI Vincent O’Neill, looking grim-faced and like a right hard bastard.

O’Neill was walking away from the stands, his hand on the shoulder of one of the waitresses. It was only when the girl turned slightly towards him, looked up, that Allardice realised he knew her too.

He reared upright, slopping lager onto his shirt, and stared narrow-eyed at the TV. “Well, well, Kelly bloody Jacks.” He toasted the image on screen. “You got her Vince old son.”

In that case he had no idea who the dead woman was, but if Jacks had been found at the scene of another violent death that wasn’t going to look good for her in court was it? No, the body count was high enough on this one for Kelly Jacks to be locked away until she was a very old lady.

All in all, not a bad outcome.

But as the camera stayed with the detective and his charge a niggle of doubt crept in. If Jacks had been arrested why wasn’t she cuffed? O’Neill wasn’t a soft touch as far as female prisoners were concerned—unless she wasn’t actually a prisoner. Because, now he looked closer, that hand on the shoulder seemed more solicitous than custodial.

Oh shit . . .

Allardice shoved the lager aside and rolled off the bed. Within half an hour he had packed, checked out and was on the Piccadilly line heading for Heathrow.

154

Dmitry came round not in the public First-Aid post but in the Jockeys’ Medical Room reserved for more serious injury, with two uniformed cops standing over him.

“Where is Myshka?” was all he wanted to know. He said the words over and over through clenched teeth.

Eventually, in his best soothing bedside manner, the duty Racecourse Medical Officer broke the bad news.

Despite his injuries, which included a fractured jaw, broken collarbone and cracked ribs, Dmitry went berserk.

One of the constables was later treated for concussion, the other for dislocated fingers. The reinforcements, who quickly arrived, piled in with gusto.

Even so, they had to taser him twice before they could get him under control.

155

Kelly sat in the back of an unmarked police Mondeo, alone and apparently forgotten.

O’Neill had put her into the car with a not unkind command to, ‘Stay there.’ She did not have the energy to do much else.

She knew what came next—a succession of interview rooms and holding cells, having her clothing taken away and replaced with prison garb that always smelled the same and felt the same. Duty solicitors who were overtired and overstressed and didn’t care one way or another if you were guilty or innocent, providing the case was put away neatly.

Prison gates, bars, locks, keys and the smell of sweat and fear and desperation. Years of it.

I don’t know if I can go through all that again.

She thought of Ray McCarron who was on his way back to hospital complaining bitterly but still adamant that he was responsible for Yana Warwick’s death. And if he was feeling guilty enough to take the fall, a part of her so wanted to let him.

It was a bad choice of words, she acknowledged. Or maybe it was apt. She shook her head—such distinctions were currently beyond her.

In all likelihood he wouldn’t go down for it. He would plead self-defence and—regardless of who’d been the last person to touch Yana before she went over—that’s exactly what it was.

Kelly knew her word as a witness would not carry much weight but as far as a jury knew, Harry Grogan was the proverbial pillar of society. He’d already made it clear that he was prepared to look anyone in the eye and swear it had all happened the way McCarron claimed.

She just didn’t know why. Was he hoping such an act would give him a hold over her, or make her grateful enough to stop being such a nuisance?

And if Ray was found guilty—what then? Do I say nothing and let him serve his time? Owning up when it’s all over will create a far bigger mess. They’ll probably send him down for perjury on top of everything else—and me alongside him.

It was a situation not without parallels to the one McCarron had found himself in six years ago. Ironic, in its way.

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She was tired, she admitted. More tired than she’d ever been in her life.

She thought of Tina and wondered if Elvis had come out of his coma and whether she would ever again be able to speak to the woman who had probably saved her life in prison.

And sitting there amid the noise and confusion, Kelly felt suddenly very alone.

156

Matthew Lytton watched Kelly through the side window for a moment. She looked lost and vulnerable, like a child left in the back seat by a parent who might never return.

He took a breath and opened the car door. Her eyes shot wide, twisting instinctively to meet the threat as he slid in alongside her and shut the door behind him.

There was a second of silence between them.

“The child locks are on,” Kelly said dryly. “So I hope you brought a flask and sandwiches because you’re stuck in here with me now.”

I can live with that.

He smiled. They’d taped a dressing over his scalp wound that felt like a comedy hat perched on top of his head. Whenever he moved his face the tape pulled at his skin.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said. “Without you chasing all this down I would never have known what really happened to Veronica.”

“I can’t say with complete honesty that I did it willingly—or for your benefit.”

“I know,” he said. “Result’s the same though.”

She nodded gravely, paused. “Do you think we ever will really know what happened?”

“Yana had Vee’s BlackBerry—O’Neill showed it to me,” he added when she looked surprised. “I can’t think of a legitimate reason for Yana to have kept it all this time and not given it back to me unless . . .” He shrugged. “I never guessed, all this time, that Steve was having an affair with his own wife. How bizarre is that?”

“It’s perfect when you think about it,” Kelly said. “After all she was never going to divorce him over it was she?”

“She was a vampire,” Lytton said. He thought of his charming, flawed partner. O’Neill had shown him the body too. He’d concentrated on the details to make a formal ID, a small scar on the back of Warwick’s left hand, his watch and wedding ring. Anything so he didn’t have to look at the dead man’s face. What was left of it.