No!

With a final burst of adrenaline-fuelled anger his wrists came free. The wrench nearly made him pass out, the room spinning crazily so that he had to grab the floor and hold on until it stopped lurching under him.

Hesitantly, he sat up and reached to his face, half afraid of what he’d find. A sticky mess covered his eyes and he groped for the end of his tie to scrub at it until he managed to peel his eyes open.

The first thing he saw was the blood. His hands were coated with it, mostly dried and cracking and laced in deep under his nails. His wrists were raw.

Lytton reached up to his head gingerly but apart from a lump the size of half a tennis ball it felt reasonably intact. He’d seen enough pub brawls in his youth to know scalp wounds could bleed like a bastard.

Good job I have a thick skull.

He looked round then slowly and carefully and saw he was in a storeroom. He could hear the commentator starting the build-up to the big race and realised he should have been out there—both of them should.

Looking down at his hands, at his ruined tie and bloodstained clothing, Lytton couldn’t suppress a twisted smile. Not quite the image of sophistication he’d wanted to present.

Still, getting out of here was a good plan before whoever had dumped him like this came back to finish the job.

He was sitting propped up against some kind of packing case covered with a sheet that slid sideways as he pulled himself to his feet. When the room stopped swaying around him Lytton glanced down at it automatically.

What he saw there had him stumbling back.

“Jesus Christ . . .”

141

When Dmitry’s iPhone rang again he was outside. He was standing on the lower walkway where Kelly Jacks had made her death-defying leap the last time they’d met here, scanning the crowd in vain for any sign of her.

He was reluctant to venture further out onto the racecourse. Something told him his prey was still in the building and being spotted out here by Grogan would be . . . awkward at this stage.

“Da?” he said, terse.

A female tut-tutting noise in his ear made him jerk the phone away as if burned. He checked the display and scowled.

“What do you want Myshka? I’m busy.”

“Is that any way to speak to me when I call to help you?”

“Unless you have access to the racecourse CCTV system and can track one woman in thousands, you cannot help.”

She sniffed. “No faith. You not need to find her if she find us, no?”

Dmitry simmered in silence for a moment. He didn’t mind so much that Myshka was the bright one, if only she didn’t have to gloat.

“Go on.”

“Where are you?” And when he told her she commanded with supreme confidence, “Get back up here—quietly. I have perfect bait. She will come.”

142

The trill of a cellphone caught Kelly by surprise. Not recognising the ringtone, she glanced across at McCarron but he shrugged.

“I only have one cellphone Kelly love and I believe you may have, erm, borrowed it.”

She stood, swung to try and get a bearing and then stilled.

“Oh you have to be kidding me . . .”

The morning suit jacket over the body of Steve Warwick was moving she saw. It shivered gently with each vibrating ring of what must be his own phone, still in his pocket.

With great reluctance Kelly patted him down. Half of her was hoping that the damn thing would stop before she found it but luck was not on her side. The display screen showed a number she was not familiar with.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” McCarron asked.

Kelly gave him a lopsided smile. “Hell no.” But she pressed the button to receive the call anyway. “Hello?”

The tinny speaker emitted a burst of noise so loud and distorted that Kelly almost dropped the phone. It took her a moment to distinguish the voice and another to recognise it.

“Yana?” she said loudly. “For heaven’s sake calm down. Where are you?”

“I–in another box, I think,” Yana sobbed. “They bring me here—”

“Who?”

“Man who work for Harry Grogan. He grab me. They lock me in here. I frightened!” Her voice rose into a wail on the last word.

“Stay with me Yana! We’ll come and find you. Don’t worry.”

“Hurry! She say she kill me—woman who kill Steve. Oh God, they here! I—”

Her voice chopped off into a harsh shriek followed by a background clatter and then silence.

“Yana? Yana?”

McCarron was at her shoulder, his battered face pale enough for the bruises to stand out lividly against the anger. “Where is she?”

“Grogan’s box by the sound of it,” Kelly said without thinking.

He wheeled, had nearly made it to the door before she caught his arm—the one without the cast.

“Ray for God’s sake, what do you think we can do? And how on earth did Yana just so happen to get hold of a phone? This whole thing has ‘trap’ written all over it.”

“And if it isn’t—what then?” McCarron asked. “I’ve stood by in the past and let people get away with murder Kel. I’m damned if I’m going to do it again.”

143

Kelly led McCarron out of Lytton and Warwick’s private box and to the entrance to another that was only two doors down.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Kelly nodded. “Shula gave me a rundown so I wouldn’t get lost with orders.”

“Shula?”

Kelly shrugged and indicated her borrowed uniform. “She’s the one who gave me this.”

But McCarron’s attention had been diverted by the smear of blood on the door handle. “Why grab Yana and then stash her so close?” he wondered aloud. “It makes no sense.”

“There’s a lot about this that doesn’t,” Kelly said looking up and down the corridor before dragging out her makeshift picks. McCarron noticed that she avoided touching the blood as she delicately raked the pins inside the lock. “Ready?”

He took a breath, aware of a sudden tremble at the backs of his knees. “Would it make any difference if I said no?”

Something flickered at the corner of her mouth. “You were the one overcome with gallant bravado a few moments ago,” she said and pushed the door open.