Free The Blood Whisperer by Zoe Sharp

Ray’s own words about not turning over rocks because of what might lie beneath.

    “Can’t trust anyone …”

    She knew she should have backed off then. Backed right off and stayed there but maybe she was just sick and tired of always being on the retreat. Maybe it was time for a reckless stand. She was only partially aware of the tension in her neck as her shoulders went back, head tilting.

    “And if we don’t want to take your advice?”

    O’Neill fixed her with a brutal stare, one there was no way through and no way around.

    “I remember you. You’re Kelly Jacks,” he said abruptly, his voice silky enough to send ice through to her bones. “Well, Kelly Jacks, you don’t want to go there.”

    Not again.
     
    He didn’t add it but he didn’t need to. Kelly shivered. Much like Ray, she thought bleakly, I get the message.

14
    About the time Kelly Jacks was heading across the river home from the hospital Dmitry was having a leisurely breakfast at South Mimms service station at the junction between the A1(M) and the M25 London orbital.
     
    Whatever its drawbacks his time working for Harry Grogan had taught him to appreciate the finer things in life. The old man had shown real pleasure when Dmitry’s uneducated palate had finally developed enough to distinguish a properly aged steak or a favourable year for a grape.

    “If you’re ordering the best you’ve got to know you’re getting it and not being ripped off with a cheap substitute,” Grogan had told him. “Don’t trust nobody not to have their hand in the till.”

    And he was right. The last waiter who’d taken one look at Dmitry’s longish tangle of hair and leather jacket and decided he wouldn’t be able to tell shit from toothpaste had ended up with both hands rammed repeatedly in the drawer of the cash register. After that word got around.

    But now, rather than some high-class restaurant—not that he had any choice here—Dmitry was up sitting at a table by the window in the service station’s open-plan food court.
     
    Western junk food had not been a part of Dmitry’s experience growing up. He had only made the glorious discovery when he first arrived in the UK. Of course he quickly realised that to live on nothing else would be bad for his health but Dmitry was nothing if not a man of utter control. So he treated the occasional greasy burger and extruded potato-starch fries as an indulgence, a reward for good behaviour or a job well done.

    Last night’s work he considered qualified as both.
     
    As a compromise he ate slowly, chewing every mouthful and keeping his elbows off the table. He was early and in no hurry. Around him his fellow diners fell on their food with disgusting gusto, stuffing their faces like the pigs they were.

    Dmitry allowed nothing of his disdain to show on his features. He didn’t need to. Disdain was an impotent emotion whereas he had the ability and the temperament to beat any one of them to death for no better reason than their table manners offended him.
     
    He sat with his back to the security cameras out of habit although he was confident that his face would not set any alarm bells ringing. He’d always been very careful about that.

    The man he’d come to meet however, that was another matter and Dmitry had no wish to come to official attention merely by association.
     
    So he kept a close eye out for the make and colour of vehicle he’d been told to expect and spotted the dark blue Land Rover Defender the moment it swung into the car park.

    He glanced at the time display on his iPhone. The man was only a couple of minutes late which—if not exactly pleasing Dmitry—at least did not put him in too black a mood.
     
    Without appearing to hurry he wiped his fingers fastidiously on a paper serviette and strolled out leaving the debris of his meal on the table behind him. Important men did not clear up after themselves—not food wrappers anyway.

    Despite the steadily climbing sun there was