He was early he knew, but this was his first murder enquiry since coming up out of uniform and he didn’t want to blow it. Nobody, surely, could have predicted that Kelly Jacks was going to climb back into her flat via the damn skylight but he was still anxious to shake off the sting of that failure.

DI O’Neill, on the other hand, looked like this was the last place he wanted to be on a Saturday morning with what appeared to be the mother of all hangovers.

As Dempsey eyed him warily, the DI took a slug from the cup, winced predictably and dumped the whole thing into the first waste bin he passed.

“All right Dempsey, let’s hear it,” he said by way of greeting, dropping into his chair.

And it had better be good. Dempsey heard that bit as clearly as if it had been voiced.

“Um, morning boss,” he said making an effort not to look or sound too healthy. “I’ve dug out what I can on Lytton and Warwick’s company. Not much, unless we’ve reason to get a warrant, but I’ve tapped up Companies House and the Revenue—”

O’Neill held up a warning hand with enough authority to stop traffic. “Impress me with your reasoning later sunshine,” he said. “For now, just cut to the chase will you?”

“Yes boss.” Dempsey flipped through the top few pages of the printout on his desk. “There’s not much out of the ordinary. They make a pretty bloody healthy profit, file their returns on time and pay their taxes. The only thing I found that might be interesting is their insurance. They’re both directors of the company and apart from a few office staff everything else is done via subcontractors. I mean, both the wives were on the books as well, but I think that was just a ploy to offset some tax liability—”

“What about the insurance?”

“Um, well, they’ve got a key-man policy each. Or I suppose I should call it key-person these days. Basically, because there’s only really the two of them they’re both considered crucial to the running of the company. So if either or both of them kicks the bucket there’s a huge payout to compensate . . .”

His voice trailed off as he registered the hard stare O’Neill lasered in his direction. The effect was spoilt only by the puffy bloodshot eyes.

“OK, OK,” Dempsey said quickly, suppressing a grin. “Basically, they upped the policy amounts, boss. Back end of last year it went up to ten million apiece.”

O’Neill stopped glaring and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. For a horrible moment Dempsey wondered if this was some kind of elaborate put-down. Your information is so boring it has sent me to sleep.

But after a few seconds O’Neill straightened up. The glare was gone. “Who benefits?”

“Well, essentially—the company benefits.”

“Ah, but if anything happens to Lytton or Warwick themselves, who benefits then?”

“Well, we know from looking into the wills of both Lyttons after the wife’s death that if he’d died first she stood to inherit all his worldly goods, including a good chunk of his half of the company. But as she died before him—and Lytton doesn’t have any other relatives—the company goes lock, stock and two smoking barrels to the remaining director, Steve Warwick.”

“So it wouldn’t be out of the way to assume that the same arrangement is true for Steve Warwick and his wife—he dies, she gets the lot?”

“His wife?” Dempsey queried blankly. He looked up to catch O’Neill actually smiling. “Boss?”

“We’ve been looking at the wrong man,” O’Neill said. “We’ve been looking at Lytton when we should have been looking at Warwick.”

Mystified, Dempsey knew the DI was waiting for him to give in and ask so he gave in and asked, “Why? Looking at him for what?”

O’Neill made him wait a beat longer then said, “It was bugging me. I knew there had to be some connection but I couldn’t see what. You were the one who pointed me in the right direction, as it happens.”

Impress me later with the reasoning—just cut to the chase, Dempsey thought savagely and wished he had the balls to say it out loud.

O’Neill nodded to the manila folder. “I was up half the night going over the files and I finally hit on the connection.”

Chastened, Dempsey reached for the folder, flipped it open to find photocopies of two passports. He recognised the first as Dmitry Lyzchko, a Ukrainian-born Russian employed by Harry Grogan.

The second face was unfamiliar to him but he read the details and it only took a moment for the implications to sink in.

“Holy hell,” he murmured. He glanced up. “What are they up to?”

“Well, we’ve got a shitload of explosives, family connections—or a lack of them—and a sudden increase in life cover. I could hazard a pretty good guess.”

115

Matthew Lytton stood on the balcony of the racecourse restaurant looking down at the gathering throng. Behind him was the same table where he’d sat with Kelly Jacks on the day he’d brought her here.

Lytton gripped the smooth polished rail in front of him. He wasn’t going to think about that—wasn’t going to think about Kelly. There were other things he needed to worry about today. Even if he was having trouble getting her out of his head.

Outwardly, he knew he presented a picture of the successful entrepreneur. He even had a buttonhole pinned to his lapel—a tight combination of lilac and blue rosebuds to remind people of his absent racing colours. Veronica’s idea, subtle but clever like the woman.

Behind him, the waitresses hurried efficiently between the tables, setting up. He ignored them. For the racecourse staff this was just another day. For him it was momentous.

And Steve Warwick was late.

Nothing entirely unusual in that, of course. Steve always did like to be a law unto himself but today of all days . . .

A voice from inside the restaurant filtered out to him. “Hey sweetheart, any chance of some fresh coffee down in the private boxes?” Lytton hadn’t heard that voice for quite a while but it was one he recognised immediately. “The amount you’re charging for them, I’d like a pot—make it hot and strong.”

He turned just as Harry Grogan stepped out on the balcony in an immaculate grey suit with a pale tan overcoat unbuttoned over the top. All he needed was a slanted trilby on his shaven head and he’d be the archetypal gangster.

“Matthew old son,” Grogan greeted him. “Not brought that nice little filly of yours today.”

“Grogan,” Lytton returned calmly. “I didn’t think it was sporting to enter her in a race where I’m the main sponsor.”