The Darkness Visible (The Midnight Saga Book 2)

by Tori de Clare

  ‘And Nathan Stone has a First in Philosophy. Clean record. Neither are candidates for an attempted murder investigation.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And Lorie Taylor?’

  ‘Same. Can’t find any dirt. She’s worked for the Hamiltons for seven years. Model employee. She had borrowed money off the Hamiltons that she intended to pay back. Likely story until she gave me the key to her flat. Money was there labelled with Henry’s name. I gave it to him earlier on.’

  ‘In cash?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dobson paused. ‘Why?’

  ‘She said she thought Henry would prefer it that way.’

  ‘Odd.’

  ‘The whole thing is odd. The Hamiltons treated Lorie like a daughter, thought she was the bees knees until now.’

  ‘Which leaves Naomi herself.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Watt leant forward and tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘A girl who’s been isolated most of her life. Hardly any friends. Part musical wizard, part loner. Left school twice, went to uni at eighteen. Religious, she says, a virgin – she’s painting herself as whiter than white. Too good to be true?’

  Dobson raised one eyebrow again. ‘Usually.’

  Watt continued, ‘This is the same girl who boldly knocked on a stranger’s door to pay her husband’s debt and offered him extra money to teach him a lesson. Does that sound like a naïve school dropout to you?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘I agree.’ A long pause. Des Watt scratched his nose. Tiredness caused him to fidget. He was desperate for food, drink and bed. ‘Want to know something else?’

  ‘I’m throbbing with anticipation.’

  Watt pressed on, ignoring the sarcasm. ‘She was abducted as a kid in South Africa. What are the chances of lightning striking twice?’

  A twitch of the mouth, eyebrows and shoulders. ‘Slim.’

  Watt lowered his voice. ‘Unless it just gave her a great idea. Someone with a vivid imagination has meticulously planned this whole thing.’

  ‘Do musicians have vivid imaginations?’

  Watt leant back and stretched his legs under the desk. ‘I’m tone deaf. What the hell do I know?’

  A long pause. ‘So, what’s your gut feeling?’

  ‘Well, I tracked down Naomi Hamilton’s closest friend, a really odd girl at the college called Siobhan Dougherty. Trying to get information out of her was like trying to squeeze juice from a chocolate orange.’

  ‘No joy?’

  ‘No nothing. So I tracked down the only other person who’s ever been close to Naomi, a guy called Tom Butterworth, the only other guy she’s been out with.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I had to press him quite hard. Turns out he cheated on her with her sister.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  Des stifled a yawn. ‘Yep. So Naomi dumped Tom and refused to engage with him ever again. Wouldn’t accept an apology even two years on. He said she’s intolerant and unforgiving.’

  ‘Easy for him to say after he’d wrapped his tongue around her twin’s tonsils.’

  ‘Yeah, well he had nothing good to say about Annabel either.’

  ‘Bad kisser?’

  A little snort came out of Des’s nose. He tried to laugh but lacked the energy. ‘So I asked him if he thought Naomi was capable of revenge. He wouldn’t rule it out, was his response.’

  Dobson straightened another wayward stray pencil on his desk. ‘So what’s your gut feeling about all this? The whole weird lot of it?’

  ‘Initial impressions?’ Watt waited for a silent nod on the other side of the desk. ‘I think Naomi Hamilton’s a chip off the old block. Her mother’s a fruitcake. Need I say more? Serious issues going on. Do I think she’s dangerous? No. She likely planned revenge. She’s been dumped on in the past. First, boyfriend with sister. Then fiancé with best friend. That’s gotta hurt. Maybe she wanted them both behind bars, or a public humiliation at least. I don’t really understand why Dan got involved.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Probably. I don’t think she ever envisaged it getting out of hand like this and Dan Stone being arrested. And now she’s panicking. She’s a kid who needs a psychiatrist and maybe I should recommend it. That’s what I think.’

  Dobson tipped his head to one side. ‘The press are all over this story.’

  ‘It’s a great story, of course they are. Guess who rang the station this afternoon?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Vincent Solomon. Remember we got an anonymous call Sunday night when we brought Nathan and Lorie in? Solomon has identified himself as the caller and offered whatever help he can.’

  Dobson tapped the desk. ‘Interesting! Do we know Solomon?’

  ‘Not on our radar at all. Naomi and Dan keep referring to him as a gang leader. Sensational stuff, if you ask me. We’ve never heard of him or anyone who works for him. Gangs, by nature, struggle to keep a lid on things.’

  ‘He isn’t associated with the well-known gangs then?’

  ‘No. He lives in a quiet residential area of Gately. I’m paying Solomon a visit tomorrow at his invitation. Meanwhile the CSIs have been examining the Roller.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was immaculately clean apart from a single hair found on the driver’s headrest, attached to the stitching.’

  ‘Good, good. Root?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘That’s helpful.’ He drummed the desk. ‘Anything further on that?’

  ‘It’s being fast-tracked to the Lab, so we should have a result by tomorrow, hopefully with a full DNA profile.’

  Dobson nodded. ‘Good. Listen, I’ll go and see Solomon tomorrow. I want to get a feel for this guy.’

  ‘Fine,’ Watt nodded, past objections. ‘Anything new on Simon Wilde?’

  ‘We had a surprisingly poor response actually. Trail’s cold really. His mother rings me several times a day, out of her mind with worry.’

  ‘Poor woman.’

  ‘Yep.’ Dobson snatched a sharp intake of breath and hunched over his desk. ‘Get Naomi in for questioning.’

  ‘I’m giving her until lunchtime tomorrow.’

  ‘Put her under pressure if necessary and see if she cracks.’ The phone rang on Nick Dobson’s desk. He reached out and took hold of it without picking up. ‘Now go home and get some sleep, Des. And eat something, you’re skin and bone, man.’

  9

  Vincent Solomon pressed a four-digit number – his father’s death date – and opened the small safe in his cardroom. He withdrew a thousand pounds in crisp ten and five pound notes, and placed them precisely in the centre of the card table beside a brand new deck of cards still sealed in cellophane.

  He left the room, habitually locking it behind him, then strolled through his impeccable sitting room, pausing a moment to switch on a tall lamp and admire the room. His polished shoes echoed across the wooden floor as he exited the room and locked the door behind him, and proceeded through the hall into a room beside the kitchen which had a bar equipped with every imaginable drink, plus a few unimaginable ones. In front of the bar, four tall stools padded with black leather, lined up. A two-seater leather sofa sat in the bay window and a pool table occupied the centre of the room. One huge and vivid painting hung on the wall.

  He checked the drinks and the fridge behind the bar, which was fully stocked. Solomon had strict rules on booze. He wouldn’t be driven by anyone who’d consumed even a drop of it within twelve hours. Even if he wasn’t getting in the car himself, no one visiting his house or leaving it, was allowed even one drink if they were driving. No one was permitted to arrive in a taxi or leave in one. He didn’t want taxi drivers near his house. No exceptions. So his staff took turns to drive, and drivers miserably drowned sorrows in J2Os and cola.

  Tonight was different. No one would be leaving tonight.

  Solomon selected some jazz music to set the tone – Diana Krall – and hushed her voice to background level. At two minutes to nine, supremely confident that his in
vited guests would already be outside, he sent a one-word text to one person, which said simply, ‘Come.’ Then he lifted four glasses down from a shelf, arranged them carefully on the bar two inches apart, dimmed the spotlights, and headed for the front door.

  No one rang the bell. Unnecessary noise was on Vincent Solomon’s list of intolerable things, along with poor time-keeping, clutter of any kind, and unpolished shoes. He checked his watch again, waited the few seconds it took to register nine p.m. exactly, then he opened the door. Three bodies, smartly dressed, congregated inside his open porch. He eyed them critically from the feet up, before nodding once and stepping aside to allow them in.

  ‘Evening.’

  They muttered return greetings as they trooped in, removed their shoes and stood in a row awaiting further instruction. Solomon closed the door, locked it and invited everyone to follow him through to the bar.

  An hour later, the conversation was flowing, glasses had been refilled several times, buttons were being loosened at cuffs and collars. Solomon was getting ready for the business part of the evening. Having thrashed everyone at pool, he instructed Carter to carry a bottle of whisky and a bucket of ice, and led everyone through the hall to his sitting room. He unlocked the door, allowed entrance, relocked the door, then performed the same ritual at the door to his card room.

  They spread around a glass table in front of the window. The shutters were clasped shut; lights were turned low. Someone had body odour. Solomon knew who it was. It was the scent of sweat mixed with anticipation.

  He smiled, stretched out his arm, gathered up the cash and divided it four ways.

  ‘So the plan is to have a little fun. No one can lose. Tonight’s on me. Only pocket money to keep things friendly. Two-fifty each. The challenge is to stop me from winning all my cash back before midnight.’ Looks were exchanged. Palms rubbed together. ‘And don’t make it too easy. Winning is starting to bore me, frankly.’

  Solomon invited Leon Chambers – neck as wide as his face – to break open the seal, remove the jokers, and shuffle the deck. Poker got underway. Solomon won the first game, then the second. The first person to dry up completely was Chambers, who slumped directly opposite Solomon. His shaven head was beaded with perspiration.

  ‘You seem to be out of cards, so to speak.’

  Chambers, who’d just played and lost his last tenner, glanced up, pink in the cheeks. ‘You shafted me.’

  Solomon smiled. The others laughed out loud. ‘With my own money? How do you work that out?’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it, but no one wins as many poker games as you without cheating.’

  ‘Brand new set of cards. You shuffled them yourself, remember?’

  ‘You’re up to something, boss. You always humiliate us when you want to make a point.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you need my help with that.’ Solomon uncrossed his legs and lifted his glass to his lips and sipped. ‘Face it, Leon, poker is a supreme game of skill and subtlety and requires balls of steel.’ He returned his glass to the table. ‘While there’s probably nothing wrong with your wedding tackle, the rest requires improvement.’

  A ripple of laughter followed by a slap on the back for Chambers, who muttered, ‘Get off. I still think he cheated.’

  ‘You would,’ Solomon said, ‘because you’re a sore loser and unprepared to admit that you’re never going to be the smartest card in the deck.’

  A loud crack of laughter caused Solomon to say, ‘Down a little.’

  Chambers reached for his drink, emptied the glass, then stretched his arm towards the bottle in the ice bucket. Solomon caught hold of his wrist. ‘Easy now. The game isn’t over and neither is the fun. You might want to slow down a little.’

  ‘Game’s over for me. I’m out of greens.’

  ‘Well, luckily for you, I’m in a charitable mood tonight.’

  ‘I’m not a charity case,’ Chambers muttered miserably.

  ‘I’m going to overlook the fact that you have a big mouth when you’re drunk,’ Solomon said calmly, counting his winnings. Of the one thousand pounds floating around the table, he held of six-fifty of it.

  ‘I’m not even drunk,’ Chambers spat aggressively.

  Solomon exchanged glances with everyone. ‘I rest my case. Here.’ He handed six hundred to Chambers and retained fifty for himself.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘Redistribution of wealth. A gift, to make things more interesting.’ Solomon eyed his Tag watch. Ten-fifteen, give or take. ‘All you have to do is retain at least one of those notes by the time Charlie gets here. I’ve now got the least money around the table, so you all have a fighting chance of kicking me out of the game.’

  A sudden hush had fallen on the group. No one moved. Solomon carried on sipping his drink noiselessly and studying his cards as if he hadn’t noticed.

  It was Damien Carter, a tank of a guy seated to Solomon’s right, who cracked the silence. ‘Charlie’s coming round?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The only person moving was Solomon. He straightened his cards and put his drink down and stroked his chin.

  ‘What’s going down?’ Carter asked.

  Solomon looked up for the first time in a while. ‘Well, it’s not so much what . . . ’ his cutting blue eyes passed over the group and came to rest dead ahead on Chambers whose head glistened with sweat, ‘ . . . as who.’ Silence. Solomon enjoyed silence, especially when it was heavy with tension and trepidation. ‘Look, I hate playing the knight-in-shining-armour role, it grates on me, but someone’s got to do it. The police are coming to interview me tomorrow at two p.m.’

  ‘The pigs?’ everyone muttered.

  Noel Beresford, another stocky guy seated to Solomon’s left, rubbed his thighs nervously.

  ‘Of course. I invited them here. They’d have banged on my door eventually, but I find it’s better to stay one step ahead and do the unexpected. Anything out of the ordinary disorientates them.’ All eyes were fixed on Solomon. ‘Everyone out of here at eleven a.m. at the latest. Understood?’ He paused. No one moved. ‘So, we have some dirt to clean up, boys. Because of what Dan did, there is a footprint. I don’t tolerate dirt or footprints as well you know. So I’ve told them I have some information for them. Having conducted their interviews, they’ll want to know who it was that Dan Stone met at the cemetery the night his sister-in-law had her mock burial. What am I to tell them?’ He poured himself another small drink, strictly an inch in the bottom. He patiently clasped a hunk of ice and placed it in his glass and absorbed the tension. He sipped and watched everyone while his question remained unanswered and no one moved or spoke. ‘On that score – we give them absolutely nothing. We were all here playing cards the night of the wedding, all evening. Understood? Any questions?’ No one had any. ‘But the thing is, the boys-in-blue really appreciate cooperation and we can’t duck out of the stolen car. So I’m going to make their day and give them a name in connection with the Rolls-Royce, someone I heard whispering about it, someone I suspect it might be, someone who’s great at digging pits.’ He eyed Chambers intently. ‘It’s going to be the same person who returned Henry Hamilton’s car and left Nathan Stone and his girlfriend tied to a cemetery gate for the police to find. We’ll give them one person. A nice neat package.’

  ‘Me?’ Chambers asked.

  Solomon broke into a smile. ‘You, Leon. Like I said, not the shiniest coin in the mint, but we get there eventually.’

  ‘You’re doing it again, stitching me up.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Solomon took a shallow sip of whisky, ‘I’m keeping things clean. The police need to tie up loose ends, close cases. I’m keeping their paperwork down to a minimum. Like I said, I’m helping them out.’

  ‘But what about –’

  ‘You? Patience. I’m coming to that. You were the one at the graveside, but we’ll say you were here with us. There will be several alibis, none of whom have police records.’

  ‘She was drugged u
p anyway. She probably can’t remember much. It was dark. You know the drill. They have to prove me guilty beyond doubt.’

  ‘Well quite. The cemetery lead, like the dead bodies, will go cold. They’ll find nothing. It won’t be in Dan’s interest to dwell on that scene because he was in possession of a firearm, which again, we’ll know nothing about. Go home and make your homes as clean as mine. No dirt anywhere, OK?’ He paused to eye everyone in turn. ‘So the cemetery never happened on the wedding night. We’re rewriting history, but we can’t talk our way out of the car.’

  Chambers had frozen.

  ‘So, let’s think positively. This is only paid leave for you, Leon. You’ll do time during the winter, get free dinners and save on your heating bills. You’ll get a few months at the most. Halve that for good behaviour. I’ll get you the best lawyer I know. Keep your head down, your mouth shut, stay out of trouble, and you could be home for Christmas, with money to spend. The judge will acknowledge the fact that you returned the car. You have Dan to thank for the fact that you kept your filthy hands to yourself that night.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I know you.’

  ‘That Hamilton whore –’

  ‘Naomi to you.’

  ‘That Hamilton wh –’

  ‘You’re trying my patience,’ Solomon cut in quietly, but fiercely, and shuffled forward. ‘Reach the point quickly.’

  Chambers panted through his nose. ‘She’ll tell the police it was you that returned the car keys.’

  ‘She probably already has. And I’ll confirm it. Like I said, I invited them here. I’ll be the knight. I’ll tell them that once I’d found out that one of my employees had taken a brand new Roller, I insisted you return it and oversaw the operation myself.’

  ‘You took fifty grand off her.’

  ‘That was owed money. No apologies there. It isn’t against the law to play poker for money. She was Nathan’s wife, paying his debt.’ Chambers went quiet. ‘So,’ it was a long, drawn-out so. ‘You’ll take one for the team. We’ll keep your seat warm and your account topped up. Everyone’s happy.’ Carter, a wide wall of muscle to Solomon’s right, nodded. Beresford rubbed his thighs up and down. Chambers’ forehead started to drip. ‘And remember, you have the right to remain silent. Use it. Understood?’