Being a CSI must have been a good responsible job and a source of pride to her even if it had served to alienate her family. That exile had spurred her to succeed and from what he’d read she’d been well-respected in her field. Along with that kudos naturally came a nicer flat in a better area than her current address demonstrated, a newer car and no doubt a wardrobe befitting her position.

The woman who’d emerged from her ordeal was far different—tougher inside and out. She might be able to scrub up as she put it, but now it would always be make-believe where once it had been the real Kelly. She was even carrying her ordinary clothes with her in the small backpack she’d brought with her from her flat as if not wanting to be entirely separated from her old persona.

“You scrub up very nicely indeed.”

“Are you sure this is necessary?” she asked, tugging at the front of the jacket.

“If we bump into racecourse security it’s best to look like we belong rather than we’re casing the place.”

She shrugged. “Isn’t that what we’re doing in a sense—casing the place?”

“I hope so.” He stepped back, inviting her to join him. “Come on. Come and see exactly what Vee got up to and then—seeing as you’re dressed up for it—I’ll buy you lunch.”

As she moved past he put a hand in the small of her back. She stopped and glanced down.

“I can walk,” she said. “But keep that up and you might not be able to.”

43

O’Neill spotted Frank Allardice as soon as he walked into the little tapas place just outside Covent Garden. The retired detective chief inspector was holding court at the bar, a pint of lager half-drunk by his elbow, giving the barman the benefit of his vast experience.

O’Neill paused in the doorway. Allardice was just the same as he remembered. Older maybe, browner of skin and thicker of waist, but still the same arrogant sod he’d always been.

Allardice turned at that moment and spotted him, giving the barman chance to beat a hasty retreat.

“Vince! Good to see you, old son.” Allardice thrust out a meaty hand for a bone-crushing shake. “What’ll you have—a pint? My shout.”

“Just a half, Frank,” O’Neill said, disengaging his fingers while they still had feeling. “Some of us have got to work this afternoon.” And the days of turning up half-cut after long boozy lunches went out about the same time you did.

“If you say so. Hey! Half a lager down here rápido, por favor.”

O’Neill leaned an elbow on the bar, friendly but less rooted than taking the next stool along. “So how’s life on the Costa Del Crime these days?”

“Flourishing, my son,” Allardice said taking a swig of his lager and pulling his lips back in appreciation. “Better than this poxy shit-hole that’s for sure. Any time you fancy packing in the daily grind and coming out to run another bar for me, sergeant, you let me know.”

“It’s inspector now,” O’Neill said mildly, nodding his thanks to the barman who put down the half-pint and fled again.

Allardice pursed his lips. “Is it now? Well done, old son. Always knew you were destined for greatness—right from when you were a newly minted DC still wet behind the ears and only just old enough to shave the bum-fluff off your chin.”

It was hard to tell, O’Neill reflected, if Allardice was being sincere. His style of delivery had always veered between sardonic and outright sarcastic.

“So what can I do for you, Frank?” he asked. “I assume you didn’t ask for a meet to discuss my career prospects.”

Allardice grinned at him. “Still the same old impatient Vince eh?” he said. “All cut to the chase and no foreplay with you is there?”

“I can dance when I have to,” O’Neill said taking a sip of his drink. It was cold enough for condensation to have formed already on the outside of the glass. “But your ego was always plenty healthy enough without any stroking from me.”

“You got that right, old son,” Allardice agreed amicably. “You must have learned to play the suck-up game though. You’re still a bit of a whippersnapper to have made DI.”

O’Neill suddenly got the impression he was being sounded out about something. He kept his expression neutral. “Didn’t you hear, Frank? Our policemen are getting younger every day.”

Allardice laughed out loud at that. “Too right,” he said. He slid off his stool and picked up what remained of his drink. O’Neill noticed that the man’s hands were starting to liver-spot and although the hair on his head was still suspiciously dark and glossy, the mat visible at the open neck of his shirt was looking decidedly grizzled. Allardice and Quinlan had been contemporaries but the chief super had aged if not better then certainly more gracefully.

“Let’s go sit out back while we’re still allowed to have a smoke there at least,” Allardice said with a jerk of his head.

O’Neill picked up his lager and followed the ex-copper out to a tiny yard at the rear of the bar. A couple of rickety patio tables were huddled together under a space heater. An attempt at landscaping had been made with a scatter of half-hearted plants in terracotta pots that had been used as ashtrays. Allardice sat and looked around him with contempt. He fished in his pocket for a red and white pack of Fortuna cigarettes and offered them across.

“Gawd. If they gave me charge of this place for six months I’d double their turnover for them,” he remarked, lighting up. “No worries.”

“Quite the expert aren’t you?”

Allardice grinned and raised his glass. “I’ve three bars and a restaurant now,” he said. “Bloody entrepreneur that’s me.”

O’Neill tired of the swagger. “Why did you come back, Frank?”

“I heard the news about Kelly Jacks—up to her old tricks again,” he said. “Thought you might want all the gen straight from the horse’s mouth. Doing you a favour.”

“Heard the—” O’Neill began and his eyes narrowed. “It was only released this morning.”

“So? Spain’s a civilised country. Our EU brothers and all that. Besides, I had a bit of business back home anyway, so—two birds. I pulled a few strings and hopped on the first cheap package jet out of Málaga. Rang you from Heathrow.”

“Why the big hurry?”

Allardice regarded him for a moment with that expressionless gaze he’d used to such effect during his years as a copper on a tough patch. “Because I warned ’em when they locked her up that she was one loopy bitch. They should have thrown away the key but she was clever. Clever enough for there to be an element of doubt about why she did it.”

“The amnesia plea you mean?”