Kelly’s heartrate stepped up. What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait?

As much for Tyrone’s benefit as the nurse’s Kelly said blandly, “Work I expect.”

“Hmm.” The nurse let her eyes slide up and down Kelly’s figure as they bustled towards the ward. “Of course love.”

Eventually she led them to a doorway and stopped with a decisive squeak of soft-soled shoes on polished lino.

“Here we are. One of you only, if you don’t mind,” she said sternly. “And no more than five minutes please.”

If anything, Kelly thought Tyrone seemed relieved not to be going in there. She couldn’t blame him for that. She didn’t want to see her boss—her mentor, her friend—like this herself.

“I’ll wait out here, yeah?” Tyrone said jerking his head towards a row of plastic chairs. He slouched off without waiting for a reply. Kelly bit her lip as she watched him go, then stepped into the room the nurse had indicated.

Inside Ray McCarron lay very quiet amid the sheets. He presented a grey figure, suddenly an old man, helpless and vulnerable. In all the years Kelly had known him she’d never seen him like this.

They’d fastened together the cuts on his face and arms with Steri-Strips rather than stitches and immobilised his left arm. His hand just peeped out from below the dressing. It was swollen and angry, the fingers beginning to blacken. They could do little for the other bruises that had bloomed into a swirling mass under the surface of his skin, spreading and darkening even in the short time since she’d last seen him.

“Hi Ray,” she said softly.

McCarron opened one eye—the one he still could. “’Lo Kel,” he mumbled.

“Ray I’m so sorry—”

He swallowed with obvious difficulty. “Don’t be,” he said more firmly this time. “No’ your fault. Bas’ard got the jump on me s’all.”

“Who?” Kelly urged. “Who got the jump on you?”

“Dunno,” he said his voice almost dreamy. The puffy lips attempted a smile. “Don’t need to. Got the message. Loud an’ clear.”

She resisted the urge to shake him but only just. “What message?”

“’Bout turning over rocks, Kel. Never know what might be unnerneath ’em.” His eyes were starting to glide and he refocused with an effort. Even then she couldn’t be sure who or what he saw.

“I wasn’t intending to turn over any bloody rocks.”

“Good girl. Keep it that way.” He nodded, winced, nodded again sagely. “She’s not worth it. Don’ wanna see you like this. Can’t trust anyone …”

“Wait! Ray is all . . . this because I queried the Lytton job?” Kelly leaned over him, smelled the iodine and antiseptic wipes they’d used to bathe his minor wounds. “Ray?”

But he’d drifted off into a drug-induced doze. Considering the painful alternative, Kelly hadn’t the heart to wake him.

12

Tyrone sat in the hallway outside the boss’s room with elbows on knees and his head sunk. He didn’t like hospitals, never had. Not since his dad anyway. They were places connected with temper and sorrow. No facts, just feelings. Even the smell was enough to set off the memories, none of them good.

His dad had died of bowel cancer when Tyrone was just a kid and it hadn’t been quick. His childhood was stained with long periods spent on chairs like this while his mother sat by his father’s bedside and listened to him rage against the pain and the unfairness of it. It had been a long slow downhill journey with no possibility of reprieve. The old bastard had taken it with ill grace and a large amount of morphine. Just being inside the building was giving Tyrone the jitters.

Being here because of what some thieving sod had done to the boss—that was even worse.

Tyrone’s hands were loosely clasped but every now and again his fingers would tighten, stretching the skin taut across his knuckles.

He wanted to hit someone. Hit them hard and keep hitting them. He’d done his share of fighting as a kid. First on his own account and then for his younger brother and sister. The standard threat of “I’ll set my dad on you!” hadn’t been an option. If you wanted you-and-yours left well alone you had to show them you weren’t an easy target, weren’t to be messed with. Nobody messed with the Douet kids after that.

But this was different. There was nobody to fight, nobody obvious to blame. And he was getting a weird vibe from Kelly like she knew what was going on and was afraid to tell him.

Or maybe it was because he’d given himself away he realised, flushing painfully. That brief contact had been enough to send his pulse bounding into overdrive. In the far recess of his mind he knew Kelly viewed him just as a workmate but that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream. And tonight she’d looked so vulnerable, like she needed someone to protect her for once, not the other way around.

Maybe she thought he couldn’t handle it whatever it was. Tyrone’s hands flexed again. There ain’t much I can’t handle.

Growing up in a tough area had taught him how to handle plenty. The first lesson was spotting trouble at fifty paces. So as soon as the big guy in the leather jacket walked in asking for Ray McCarron’s room Tyrone’s instincts screamed that here was all the trouble he could wish for.

The guy had dark hair and a young-but-old face with a nose that had been broken more than once. He carried himself with an aggressive muscular stance that had Tyrone launching out of his plastic seat. If you think you’ve come to finish what you started mate you gotta get past me first.

Since he started playing football, rugby and ice hockey up at the club in Walthamstow Tyrone had learned to use his size to best advantage. Now he ducked his shoulder intending to bounce the newcomer off the wall nearest the boss’s room. It was the kind of vicious body check that would have had him sent off the ice for half a game. The guy should have gone down hard and stayed there. Those with any sense usually did.

Tyrone wasn’t expecting to be expertly flipped somewhere in mid-tackle so it was his own back that slammed up against the wall with an explosive thump. Before he knew what was happening a rock-hard forearm was wedged against his throat.

“For God’s sake children, if you’re going to play rough take it outside.” Kelly’s voice was a low growl. Tyrone’s eyes slid sideways—the only part of his head he dare move—and found her glaring up at the pair of them from the doorway. She suddenly filled it like she’d fluffed up her fur.

Tyrone’s would-be opponent released the choke hold with some reluctance.

“Tell it to him,” the man said mockingly, not even out of breath. “He’s the one who jumped me.”

Tyrone saw the way Kelly’s eyes jerked, wondered what the guy had said that made her look so haunted. His ears grew hot. “He was asking for the boss’s room,” he protested, “and I just—”