The Darkness Visible

by Tori de Clare

  ‘Not particularly.’ She leant forward again, elbows on the table, dividing her stare between the two of them.

  ‘Humour me,’ Crush said, sifting through the pile of stuff inside the file. He withdrew a few sheets of A4 paper stapled together, and turned to the second page. ‘From Nathan’s statement. Here it is verbatim.’ He cleared his throat. “‘I didn’t want to be apart from Naomi that night. We’d never had intercourse or any intimate contact and I’d waited a long time for that. She put her coat on. I offered to get the necklace. She refused. I told her I’d go with her. She put her shoes on and left the room ahead of me. I put my shoes on and got dressed and called her immediately from my phone. We spoke the whole time she was making her way to the car. She found her necklace in the car. I tiptoed up to her and grabbed her from behind. She screamed then yelled my name. I picked her up. A car screeched out of the car park. When I looked up, I thought it looked like Dan’s car. Naomi assured me I was imagining it. I put it out of my mind and carried her back to the hotel room via the lift. We made love on and off until we left for our flight at five am the following morning.’”

  He put the statement down and knitted his iron fingers together and let the silence settle. ‘So,’ he lengthened the word. ‘What’s your response to that?’

  She actually looked for the nearest wall, tempted to throw a punch. Calm down! When she could trust her voice not to tremble with fury, she said, ‘It’s completely false.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘The part when I reach the car. I’ve already given my statement. Dan was there. He grabbed me. I dropped my phone. My car keys were snatched. Nathan collected them both. I still have a scab on my right side where Dan’s knife cut into me. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘No doubt you have a scab, Naomi. I’m afraid it doesn’t prove that you were taken by Dan Stone or that you didn’t go on your honeymoon.’

  ‘This is crazy,’ she blurted out. ‘What do I have to do to prove to you that I’ve been betrayed by Nathan and Lorie?’

  ‘An excellent question.’ Crush’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘But it isn’t the first time.’ A pause. ‘Is it?’ He was waiting now. For what?

  Naomi drew breath and held it. She let out, ‘What do you m –’

  ‘That you’ve been betrayed,’ he finished. His eyebrows raised. His chin lowered. The smug little git was enjoying himself.

  ‘I might as well have been buried in that cemetery and left to rot,’ she answered. ‘It feels as though you’re digging me up piece by piece and unearthing things that are not yours to find.’

  ‘How very imaginative.’ Crush allowed a few silent moments before, ‘Do you have a vivid imagination, Naomi?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  Crush glared at her from across the table. Naomi could feel the pulse in her neck. She cupped her neck in her hands to cover it.

  ‘We’ve talked to Tom Butterworth.’

  Something snapped. ‘Unbelievable,’ she said, a surge of energy bringing her to her feet. ‘So now you know that this is the second time I’ve been betrayed.’ She placed her hands on the table and leant forward. ‘What has Tom Butterworth got to do with . . . anything?’

  ‘Sore point?’

  ‘Irrelevant point.’

  ‘It’s also the second time you’ve been snatched and taken in a car, apparently.’

  She stood still while her mind raced all over the place. ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘It’s my job to know. Can I ask you to sit down please?’ His voice was quiet but had an edge. She didn’t budge. ‘Sit,’ he barked, and Naomi obediently dropped into her chair. It felt more like her legs gave way. Crush glared at her and softened his tone. ‘You seem a little stressed.’

  ‘You’re talking about my life, the most difficult parts of it.’ Her voice wavered on the final word.

  There was no gap. No sympathy. No time wasted. ‘Tell us about your relationship with Dan Stone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is the second time you’ve tried to evade this question. I don’t know which part of it you don’t understand.’

  ‘The part that insinuates that I’m in a relationship with Dan Stone. We met for the first time the night of the wedding. He kept a balaclava on for almost a week. I didn’t know who he was or what he wanted with me. I didn’t know where he’d taken me. I didn’t know he’d saved my life. I was terrified of him, until . . .’

  Crush looked over at Bailey again which shut Naomi up.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Until I realised that my husband was the monster, and not Dan. Up to then, I thought he might hurt me. I was desperate to escape, to let my family know I was alive. I pictured them, devastated. And Nathan working with the police to hunt for me.’

  ‘The irony!’ The smugness! ‘Nathan was looking for you, for days. It was all over the news. He was desperate to find you.’

  ‘Even though he knew he never would. He thought I was buried in a Manchester cemetery.’ Her voice started to fail. Tears of exhaustion and frustration collected in her eyelids.

  ‘He’s one hell of an actor, in that case.’

  ‘Finally, we agree on something,’ she said.

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question about Dan Stone. Take your time.’

  A single tear slipped down one cheek. A lump throbbed in her throat. She tried to swallow. More tears were escaping. She couldn’t stop them. Bailey reached inside a brown briefcase and withdrew a packet of tissues and slid them along the desk in Naomi’s direction. She took one from the pack and mopped her eyes.

  ‘Once Dan told me what had happened . . .’ She wiped her cheeks. ‘Well obviously things changed. At first I didn’t believe it. But like you said, it was all over the news, so . . .’ She covered her face with her hands to shut him out. The sight of him made her queasy. ‘Anyway, Dan got me through the next week, somehow. He was kind and gentle. My life had ended, just like that. Everything gone.’

  ‘Yet here you are.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the problem.’

  ‘Problem?’

  She sighed, allowed her head to drop. ‘Life is . . . agony at the moment. I’m having panic attacks. All I see, all I feel is darkness. Emptiness. Crushing pain.’

  No polite pause. ‘Can you answer the question please?’

  ‘Huh?’ Naomi looked up, disorientated, trying to remember what it was. Two words shuffled forward. Relationship. Dan.

  ‘Dan,’ she muttered as his name ran through her head. ‘Well, you can’t have an intense experience like that without becoming involved.’

  ‘Involved?’ he sat up straighter. ‘What kind of involvement do you have with Dan Stone?’

  ‘You don’t understand –’

  ‘Help me to.’

  She sighed. ‘Dan . . . he risked everything for me. I feel safe when I’m with him. My feelings for him are just . . .’ She had to search for words. ‘ . . .Very mixed up at the moment.’

  Crush’s lips, what little he had, tightened into a straight line. ‘Would you say – to borrow your words – that you’re a very mixed up kind of person?’

  Naomi sat, tense and stunned. Her eyes leaked warm tears. ‘No, I would not.’

  <><><>

  Camilla was hovering near the top of the stairs. She could hear Henry shuffling about in the hall. She leant over the bannister and saw his hand reach into a drawer in the hall table. He grabbed his large bunch of car keys.

  ‘Where are the girls, Henry?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know.’

  ‘Annabel’s not answering her phone. I’ve left two messages. Maybe we should go and look for them.’

  Henry strode into view and tipped his head back. He was thinning on top and fattening everywhere else. She scribbled a two-word mental note: smaller portions.

  ‘Where would we look? They’re not children, Camilla. They’ll find their way home.’

  ‘How do we know they’re safe?’

  ‘We’ll h
ave to trust them.’

  Trust? What did trust ever do apart from encourage people to depend on something unreliable? ‘There’s too much trust in the world, Henry. There’d be a lot less suffering if the general policy was to trust no one.’

  ‘And there’d be a lot more cynicism, loneliness and negativity.’

  ‘We’re straying from the point.’

  ‘What is your point, Camilla?’

  Henry’s tone was cutting. He wasn’t himself. She scrutinised him for a moment, the puffiness around his eyes, the uncombed hair. ‘Why are you so grouchy today? We both know that that’s my role. I don’t want to job-share.’

  It was a stab at humour, but Henry didn’t smile. He shrugged wearily.

  ‘You’re tired,’ she observed.

  He drew breath noisily. His words were cushioned by a lot of air as he exhaled, ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Hmm.’ A moment of silence, then, ‘What do you know about this boyfriend of Annabel’s?’

  Henry looked perplexed. ‘Only what Annabel has told me.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Camilla, please.’

  ‘Henry!’ she raised her voice.

  ‘OK,’ he sighed, defeated. ‘He’s from Gateshead. He was in Tokyo when he met Annabel. They were neighbours. They got along very well. Annabel needs a strong character – someone to hold her interest and keep her on her toes. Maybe she’s met her match in Joel.’

  ‘Her match?’

  ‘I don’t mean literally. I mean he matches her strength, her wit. He makes her laugh. He returned to Tokyo to visit her and she met up with him when she was home last Christmas.’

  ‘Why didn’t I know about that?’

  ‘Because you were too busy waging war with her at the time, and not trusting her to make her own decisions.’

  ‘That T word again . . .’

  ‘It inevitably crops up.’

  ‘She was right about Nathan though. You have to concede in hindsight, she made the right choice about not coming to that farce of a wedding,’ Camilla said, clutching the stair rail with both hands.

  Henry nodded. ‘She has more maturity than you give her credit for.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that, and whether or not she’s met her match. I need to meet this Joel.’

  ‘By all means arrange it.’ Henry wandered towards the front door and out of view. ‘I need to wash the Jaguar. It’s a fortnight overdue.’

  The front door opened and closed, leaving Camilla alone with her agitation. She wandered into Naomi’s room. Two suitcases still crowded the floor, contents scattered.

  ‘Dear me.’ She ran her eyes all over the room. ‘Unacceptable.’

  She slowly moved, sidestepping piles of stuff. Everything was chaotic including the bathroom. There was an air of audacity about the crumpled wet towels, the strewn underwear, the clumps of hair in the shower and the abandoned blobs of toothpaste on the sink. The room seemed to yell, So what’re you going to do about it?

  I haven’t brought my girls up to live in squalor, she argued silently. The room stayed stubbornly still. Nothing stirred. Mentally, she cleaned and straightened things as she stood in the bathroom doorway. It was only a distraction. Her mind had fastened onto the small black book she’d seen inside the larger suitcase. Naomi’s diary. The thought had germinated and was making her limbs twitch now.

  She didn’t want to look inside or read the contents. So why were her legs striding towards the suitcase suddenly, bending down, her hand cooperating and reaching for the book, her fingers colluding enough to flick through the pages? Her head caught up and issued a stern warning that she was trespassing on private property. She straightened up, book still in hand. She did not want to do this. She really didn’t. So her fingers worked quickly, only allowing her eyes enough time to absorb odd words and sentences.

  It was movement from the garden that interrupted the search. She looked up and saw a figure in dark clothing slipping between the bushes. In a burst of energy, she abandoned the diary, tore down the stairs and thundered through the front door.

  ‘Henry? Henry?’ she yelled.

  Henry came hurrying from the garage.

  ‘There’s someone trespassing in our garden. I saw him from upstairs.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Just search would you?’

  ‘A reporter?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Check the treehouse,’ Camilla barked.

  While Henry obediently headed for the oak tree, Camilla carefully searched every square metre, head swivelling as she examined the treetops as well as every dim corner that she knew so intimately. Nothing. At the top of the drive, a black car sped away as she hurried towards the gates. She watched it disappear, then covered the same ground again in reverse, and returned to the house with Henry. He followed her into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

  ‘Whoever it was, he’s gone.’

  ‘It’s the final straw, Henry. We need to move.’

  ‘There’s no need to rush into a decision just because –’

  ‘I never rush into decisions,’ Camilla cut in. ‘I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, but since the wedding it’s been so blatantly obvious. We need to

  move immediately.’ Henry scratched the back of his head and found nothing to say. ‘You’ve retired. There’s nothing holding us here. We don’t need to sell the place first. We have plenty of money. This house is too big anyway, and it can sell when it sells. I’m past caring about it.’

  ‘Camilla, you might want to consult me before making a big decision like that.’

  Camilla busied herself making a pot of tea. ‘I am doing.’

  Henry crossed the kitchen and pulled some milk from the fridge. He poured it into a small jug that Camilla had placed on a tray. ‘Maybe we can look at a few places this weekend,’ he conceded.

  Camilla turned around sharply. ‘I don’t mean around here, Henry. I’m talking about returning to South Africa.’

  12

  A grimy car that should have been white pulled up outside Vincent Solomon’s house. It was plain, no police warnings or markings on the outside – just an unsuspecting vehicle slipping unnoticed around the city of Manchester, blending in amongst the people in order to root them out. The car was inexcusably disgusting and needed a thorough wash, but Solomon’s primary irritation was about time. He’d been standing near the window, still as stone, hands in pockets for the last – he checked his watch and noted a swell of frustration that he had to breathe away – eight minutes. Eight whole minutes, which was, he worked out quickly, four hundred and eighty seconds of his life sacrificed to street-watching. Two p.m. had been the arrangement. No mention of ‘about’, ‘approximately’, or ‘something like’. Just two, which in Solomon’s book, meant exactly that.

  The car doors opened. A man and a woman emerged simultaneously. At least the road was wide and lacked any kind of intimacy. The tree-lined pavement afforded privacy from the houses opposite. The trees themselves were stately and mature and reached towards each other, bridging the road. They’d never touch. Leaves were tumbling every minute and congregating in a line along the pavement, and against garden walls and gates. It was the type of neighbourhood where people waved rather than talked, guarded themselves rather than gossiped, were intent on chiselling away at the mortgage through high-power jobs rather than lending a neighbourly hand. The type that had high walls and long drives and thick shrubs and distinct boundaries. The type Solomon could tolerate.

  He crossed the wooden floor in a pristine pair of Italian, soft leather shoes and made his way to the front door and stood behind it until he heard footsteps and voices. Then he opened up before they touched the bell. The pair were almost upon him now, both smartly dressed in suits.

  He pulled the door wide open and issued, with an upturned palm, an invitation to enter. The male officer stretched out a hand.

  ‘Mr Solomon? DCI Nick Dobson. Thank you for agreeing to see us.’


  ‘I invited you here,’ Solomon reminded him, maddened that there was no apology for being late. ‘I spoke with a DC Watt.’

  ‘Des, yes! Currently flat out conducting interviews. This is DC Juliet Knowles.’

  Solomon shook her hand, nodded once, didn’t speak. Knowles had strawberry blonde hair gathered up in a bun. She was tall and skinny and passably pretty.

  Dobson looked around the hallway. ‘I love the paintings,’ he commented, striding towards the largest painting in a white frame. He hovered, studying it.

  Solomon appeared at his side.

  ‘Do you like art?’

  ‘Very much so. Is this a garden?’

  ‘Do you play chess?’ Solomon asked.

  Dobson laughed. ‘A little.’

  ‘So you know the rules?’

  ‘Enough to get by.’

  Solomon pointed to the picture. It was a mass of colour with a patch of green in the centre. ‘A garden, yes,’ he said. ‘This garden is any section of society. You see the light and dark squares of the grass?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘A chess board. The flowers represent people, pawns – the commoners, limited in what they can do, curtailed in their opportunities by the power players.’ He pointed to two strong hedges top left and right of the painting. The tops were shaped like castles. ‘Rooks. Now the pawns, they believe they’re free, but their role is to protect, to the death if necessary. Sometimes in chess, we must sacrifice a piece. Pawns are on the front line, guarding the king, inhibiting the ambition of the queen.’

  Dobson laughed. ‘Are we talking about chess or society?’

  Solomon smiled politely. ‘Human chess games play out in every institution every day. Leaders. Followers. Sacrifice. Survival of the fittest. Winners and losers.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You also see this solitary tree in the centre of the lawn? The king. Alone. Static. Strong. Surrounded, yet untouchable, so long as the major and minor players do their job. And this figure,’ he said, pointing to a blob of yellow against strokes of brown paint, circled in a red ring, ‘has tried to pass the parameter. If a pawn reaches the end of the board unchecked, it’s earned the right to become more powerful, you realise?’