The Blood Whisperer Read Online Free PDF Page B

With the emphasis on shut. ”

    “Doesn’t make it right though,” Kelly said.
     
    McCarron sighed again, pulled open his desk drawer and brought out a bottle of vodka—the good stuff. There was a jam jar on the desk holding a letter opener and a collection of pens. He tipped out the contents, gave the jar a cursory wipe and poured slugs into that and his empty coffee mug.

    “Aye well sometimes this job stinks Kelly love,” he said handing over the jar. “In more ways than the obvious.”

    “Ain’t that the truth,” she murmured. They touched rims and sipped in companionable silence.

    The office was small, tucked away on the upper floor above the garaging for the vans. No way could he afford to leave them parked on the street overnight. He’d tried it briefly when the business was starting out. The signwriting proved an irresistible attraction for every local toerag with a ghoulish sense of curiosity. After the fifth smashed side-window in so many weeks he’d bitten the bullet and rented somewhere secure.
     
    The loft space above the garaging had seemed an extravagance at the time but as the company had taken off he’d gradually expanded into it. A bit of studding and a dash of plaster and it was now a neat layout of storerooms and offices. He kept a posh executive lair of his own right next door to this one. It was spotless and Spartan with a stainless steel desk that resembled a mortuary table—possibly because that’s what it had once been.

    That office presented the kind of clean, uncluttered, efficient workspace that clients expected and admired but McCarron found it impossible to get anything done there. So he hid himself away in this untidy little bolt-hole and only nipped through the connecting door when clients had been buzzed in and were on their way up.
     
    He felt more at home this side of the door. The office was cramped and messy but it was reasonably clean. There was even a scuffed sofa that he’d frequently kipped down on when the working day stretched into the working night, when the business was on the way up and his marriage was on the way down like the two facts were on opposite ends of a seesaw.

    Kelly sank onto the sofa now, leaned her head back and shut her eyes. She cradled her vodka almost untouched in her lap having taken no more than a taste. And that, McCarron knew was just to be sociable. These days Kelly was careful to the point of paranoia about what she allowed into her system.
     
    Can’t blame her for that I suppose.

    He’d never known her go out simply for her own enjoyment, to let her hair down. In fact she didn’t seem to have any friends outside work—something that had cost her dear in the past, he knew.
     
    Sitting there as close to relaxed as she ever got, McCarron thought she seemed young and frail—both of which he knew were just an illusion. But she also looked tired, he realised. The kind of tired that comes from stress as much as physical labour.

    Allison had recently had her nose pierced just the same as Kelly and he resisted the urge to ask what happened when she got a cold.

    After a few moments he set down his mug, cocked his head on one side and said, “Want to tell me about it?”

    Kelly didn’t open her eyes. “Old ghosts,” she said simply.

    “Should’ve thought about that,” he said, gruff. “Sorry Kel. Never crossed my mind … ” He shrugged. “Sorry. Saw the upmarket postcode and wanted my best team on it that’s all.”

    “Flatterer.” She lifted her head, shook it like a dog out of water. “Don’t worry about it Ray. Not your problem.” But the smile she’d intended to be reassuring came out wan instead. “I just walked in there and knew the scene had been staged—and you know as well as I do that it bloody was—and it . . . brought it all back.”

    McCarron tensed. “All of it?”

    “Well.” She lifted a shoulder, gently swirled the colourless liquid round the inside of the jar without meeting his eyes.