The local nick was used to calls about all manner of real and imaginary petty crimes from this particular concerned citizen, to the point where they drew lots for the hassle of dealing with him.

On this occasion a young probationer picked the short straw. He made soothing noises while doodling on a scrap of paper but did happen to write down the registration number of the Mini, pompously delivered in the correct phonetic alphabet. In the time it took the man to explain his own importance and demand action, the bored policeman embellished the number by adding a sketch of a hot rod Mini with a naked young lovely sitting on the bonnet.

“Well, thank you very much sir,” the probationer said when the do-gooder paused for breath. Bearing in mind the next unfortunate who would have to deal with him, he added maliciously, “It’s observant members of the public like you that make our job easier. We’ll send somebody round the moment they’re available.”

After he’d hung up the young policeman scrunched the paper up and dropped it into his waste paper basket then paused. He was still new enough in the job not to have had all the enthusiasm kicked out of him just yet.

He reached for the paper, flattened it out and idly ran a quick PNC check just for practice. The result made his eyes pop and had him grabbing for the receiver again.

88

Kelly lay hidden in the long grass at the edge of a small copse of trees overlooking the racing stables where Harry Grogan had his horses in training.

It was mid-afternoon. She’d arrived an hour before and left the borrowed Vauxhall parked up in a lay-by, hiking in across the fields to her present vantage point.

If she closed her eyes she could still conjure the image of the man O’Neill had identified as Brian Stubbs. Sadly, she had no clear idea of how often he made any kind of visit to the stables. O’Neill had described him as Grogan’s resident vet but that didn’t mean he actually lived on the premises, although with animals this valuable she supposed anything was possible.

Waiting was a frustrating business. Kelly gave it another hour, during which time a young lad made a tour of the loose boxes, looking briefly over each door to check all was well. Occasionally he disappeared briefly inside but otherwise the horses were left undisturbed to while away the afternoon doing whatever it was that horses did.

Kelly realised she was going to have to come back tomorrow morning—preferably early—with something waterproof to lie on, and food and drink to sustain her during the wait. Some binoculars would be a good idea too she decided, shuffling backwards out of her position and scrambling to her knees in the wood.

She began to brush the loose leaves and grass from her clothing when the crackle of undergrowth froze her in place.

She turned slowly. There was a man not ten yards away. He was dressed in a similar style to the clothing Brian Stubbs had been wearing in O’Neill’s photograph but the face was younger and the expression had far more steel to it. That impression was reinforced by the battered double-barrelled shotgun he carried broken open over his arm.

“This is private property miss,” he said in an ominous tone. “You’re trespassing.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” Kelly said in her most harmless voice. “I’ll leave at once of course.”

She started forwards but the man sidestepped quickly and snapped the gun closed with a solid metallic click.

“Not as easy as that is it?” the man said. He jerked his head. “Boss wants a word. Then we’ll see.”

Kelly shrugged but her mind was racing. Despite his obvious familiarity with the shotgun she very much doubted the man was prepared to shoot her in cold blood just for a civil offence. On the other hand, being apprehended could be very bad for her. It would only take someone who’d seen a news report over the last couple of days to recognise her face . . .

She flicked a quick glance at the man’s feet, the deciding factor. He was wearing old black Wellington boots, the tops gaping around his tucked-in trousers.

Nobody could run fast in boots that loose.

Kelly darted sideways and set off like a dodging hare through the trees, keeping her head low. Surprise gave her a head start. She’d worked enough crime scenes with shotgun injuries to know that if she managed to pull out a lead of more than thirty or forty yards, the shot would be too spread and too spent to bring her down. She hoped.

The man bellowed something behind her but she didn’t catch the words. His voice sounded distant, growing more so. She risked a quick look over her shoulder just to be sure and saw him begin to falter as though giving up the chase already.

When she looked forwards again, she found out why.

A huge man blocked the path in front of her. He was wearing a suit that strained to contain his bulk, arms forced out from his sides by the slabs of muscle around his torso.

Kelly tried to stop, to change direction, felt her feet skid on the soft earth. She just had time to see the big guy swing one meaty arm—to register a fist the size of a steam iron heading for her face at an alarmingly accelerated rate—and then she ran full tilt into the waiting punch.

The sky cracked open in an astounding blaze of light and pain.

Then darkness fell, and so did she.

89

It took Ray McCarron a long time to answer the front door. He was half-hoping it would be Kelly standing there with that casual tilt to her hips and her hands in her pockets. That by ringing the bell instead of finessing the Yale lock again she was somehow making peace.

Instead when he fumbled the door open he found a uniformed constable waiting impatiently on his doorstep.

“Mr McCarron, is it?” the policeman asked. “Ray McCarron?”

“Yes. Why, what’s happened?”

McCarron noted the policeman’s eyes track over the obvious bruising on his face, the broken arm and the slow careful movements his injuries forced him to make. “Looks like I should be asking you that sir.”

“I was mugged at work a few days ago,” McCarron dismissed stonily. “There’ll be a report somewhere I’m sure.”

Any trace of humour disappeared from the policeman’s face. “Yes, well we’re looking for one of your employees—Kelly Jacks. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you why sir. If she’s here you’d do well to say so now.”

McCarron kept his expression flat. Not difficult when the majority of his face was too stiff and too tender to display much emotion anyway. “Why on earth would you think she’d be here?

“That, sir.” The policeman stepped sideways and pointed. McCarron glanced over the man’s shoulder and saw at once Kelly’s old Mini parked on the other side of the road. It was surrounded by crime-scene tape and being guarded by two more uniforms while a flutter of neighbours gathered to gawk at the show.