Time dragged. It was a feature of her new life, the way the fingers of the clock didn’t shift the way they used to. As though time, as she knew it, had stopped the minute Dan had grabbed her in the car park and changed her life.
Naomi attached her earphones and listened to a Rachmaninoff prelude without hearing it. At least it went some way to calming the sickness in her stomach. While the minor chords of the sixth prelude raged inside her head, she thought of Lorie, how she was a constant presence coming between the family even now, casting a shadow. Her belongings still filled a small chest of drawers in the spare room. No one went in there. Evidence of her years of work filled the house. Notes she’d written, lists she’d made, clothes she’d ironed, tables she’d polished. Naomi couldn’t open a drawer or cupboard without being reminded that Lorie’s fingers had touched everything, and that her eyes and ears had blotted every secret of the house. And that she’d used it all to destroy the family.
And she’d failed and succeeded.
The wounds she’d inflicted hadn’t been dressed or treated. They were open still. There was no ointment for shock. No pill to wipe the memory. No scalpel to neatly cut away the fabric of another life integrally blended into the details of your own and that of your whole family. Discussing it might have roped everyone together and created some strength. Thin strands might have braided together to form a stronger whole, except Camilla had forbidden the use of Lorie’s name.
And Lorie was free. Nathan was free. The word seemed farcical the more she considered it. And this while Naomi was a suspect for their crimes and a prisoner inside the cell of her own head, captive inside her own home, her body reacting unbearably to any suggestion of threat.
Naomi switched the music off and checked the time. She’d been lying still for hours with no concept of time. It was well past eleven. Beyond tired, she knew she wouldn’t undress or clean her teeth tonight. It sapped her final reserves to slide beneath the duvet fully clothed, and flick off the bedside light. The room went black then gradually drifted back again.
Unsettled October winds rattled the trees outside. The house itself was noiseless, nothing stirring from the upstairs rooms. The central heating had been silenced too, which meant that Camilla had gone to bed. Too exhausted for sleep, Naomi lay on her back and listened to her body. She could hear her heartbeat and feel the tide of blood pulsating in her neck. Her breathing was slow and steady. What was it about darkness and silence which accentuated pain and magnified problems? The blackness seemed to press down on her chest and steal oxygen from the room.
Then from nowhere, a vibration beneath the bed. Naomi stiffened. The pace of her pulse notched up. The darkness seemed to solidify. A mobile phone? She didn’t have one. Had Annie been in and left her phone? It was a stupid idea, but her brain reached for reason, logic. There it was again. A vibration, slight but sudden. A disturbance. And now stillness, but for the violent banging of her heart.
The third time it happened, a pallid light pierced the darkness.
Naomi shuffled carefully to the edge of the bed and rolled onto her stomach. She logged the source of the light just before it went out. Guided by memory, she stretched out her hand and lifted the skirt of the bed trim and fumbled. Her fingers connected with the corner of a cold, glass screen. She dragged it from under the bed and found the indentation of the only button on the screen. Bottom and centre.
She rolled onto her back and pressed. The screen lit up. An assortment of things happened at the same time. At moments of acute distress, events slow down. She’d experienced it before. Her entire life had felt this way since the wedding – suspended and surreal.
Here’s what happened: two words were on the screen. Guess who? A black figure was standing beside the bed and moving towards her, arm outstretched – probably lunging at great speed, but she had time to watch him closing in, time to register that he’d clamp her mouth unless she screamed. She had the presence of mind to draw a lungful of air. She couldn’t convert it into sound. A powerful hand closed over her mouth. She had time to ponder the possibility that she’d drifted into sleep, then to decide she hadn’t; time to wonder if the end had come and consider the odd regret as a body slid in bed beside her.
Total time? One second, maybe two.
Another second and he was on top of her, his weight crushing her to the bed.
Then his voice hissed in the darkness, ‘Make a single sound and your sister suffers. Understand?’
Naomi frantically nodded her head until he eased his hand away and she could draw air again.
14
Henry was at his laptop in the downstairs study. The small wall-mounted TV played quietly in the background. He’d made a promise of following Camilla up to bed that he knew he wouldn’t keep. He checked the time on his Rolex watch. 11.17. She’d be asleep by now, or would be staging sleep. It made no sense to follow her, not really. She’d gone on shutdown, become holed away in the darkest recesses of herself, well out of reach; locked in secret chambers that were a mystery even to her. She’d create some drama if pressed and pick a fight about something unrelated to the current troubles, to distract her from the weary battle against her own demons.
He’d already been through the whole production in his head and shrunk from going there. Guilt jabbed at him, of course. He wanted to help her, really he did. He longed to comfort, to support, to empathise, to be a husband. But the painful lesson over the years had been this: it was only possible to be those things with her consent. Camilla wouldn’t let him play his part unless he’d read her script. And that involved a role he’d rather refuse.
At the close of a tense day, his only agenda was to flit around some car sites, maybe find a decent read for his new Kindle, and generally wind down. A name on the local news summoned his attention. Simon Wilde. Henry pulled his glasses down his nose, grabbed the remote and put the subtitles on. The study was almost directly below his bedroom. He didn’t want to increase the volume. His eyes flicked left to right along the screen. A reconstruction of Simon’s last known movements was being played out, with commentary.
He’d left home at approximately 3 p.m. on Sunday afternoon and had last been seen striding purposefully into a Tesco superstore for bits. What bits, they couldn’t say. He’d evidently used a self-service checkout and had been recorded on camera leaving the store, bag in one hand, large cluster of flowers in the other. But who were those flowers for? The question hung while the re-enactment carried on and Simon returned to his navy BMW, threaded to the exit and signalled left out of the car park. The camera stayed put while the vehicle headed away and shrank.
The next scene showed his mother, or an actress, setting the table in a spacious dining room, before returning to the kitchen to finish dinner. Were the flowers intended for her? And now a faint female voice for the first time, maybe his mother’s real voice. He read her words. She told how she’d been expecting Simon for dinner that day. He’d texted to say he’d be late. She explained that he was punctual, ordered, reliable. She expressed the wonder that was her son. A generous, quiet man, honest and hard-working, successful and independent, yet devoted to a close-knit family.
More words paraded across the screen. How police were piecing clues together, which amounted to a patchy picture at best. That one hour after Simon left the supermarket, his BMW had been seen at a car park in Salford Quays, by a local dog walker who’d noticed the private registration because it included the famous Wimbledon postcode SW 19. Police had studied surveillance footage of the car park and watched the car roll up, and Simon get out and head towards the apartments overlooking the water. A short time later, he left and the car pulled away. Simon Wilde had not been seen since that time and neither had his car. His phone had been found abandoned by the river close to the Quays. The sim had been removed.
Police were investigating, the reporter said in his concluding comments, whether or not Simon Wilde’s disappearance was linked with the Stone brothers, and with the very strange and ongoing case
of Naomi Stone’s disappearance just a couple of weeks before. She’d turned up alive and well, he’d said, before a pause. The hope now was that Simon Wilde would do the same. A plea for more information and the news switched to a story of a pair of whales beached at Skegness.
Henry pointed the remote at the TV and made the screen go blank.
<><><>
His clothes were chilled, the scent of his breath familiar as he pinned her still, watching her. The faint outline of a smile played on his lips.
‘We must stop meeting like this.’
Breathing was difficult. Shock had snatched the air and winded her, but oddly, she wasn’t afraid. Or maybe it was stubborn refusal to show fear. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘Your parents are very stupid,’ he whispered. ‘They left the front door gaping open, and virtually invited me in. I had time to get food from the kitchen and make myself at home before settling in your room.’
Her muscles writhed against him. ‘Get off me.’
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘But please keep struggling. It’s the best fun I’ve had since my honeymoon.’ His hands were clasped firmly around her wrists which he held against the bed above her head. ‘I could kill you,’ he whispered, leaning down enough to faintly touch the side of her neck with his lips.
She squirmed. Nathan held her down with ease. With all his limbs working to secure her, she was worried he might bite her like a vampire. Her skin tingled uncomfortably where his lips made contact.
‘You’re an animal,’ she breathed.
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘No,’ she gasped, twisting her head away from him. ‘I can’t breathe.’
‘I could kill you, Naomi,’ he said again. He was looking down on her now.
‘I heard you the first time,’ she whispered, panting, opting to face him, to glare into the abyss that must have been his eyes. ‘You’re all talk.’ She refused to look away.
Nathan started to silently laugh. His body quivered against her. His breath warmed her face. The stubble on his chin grazed her cheek. She drew in his scent in shallow pants, the familiar hint of woody aftershave that used to be so tantalizing and that stirred once-pleasant memories. The truth had turned them sour. She’d loathe that smell forever now.
‘I have a knife,’ he whispered.
‘So use it,’ she urged. ‘I dare you. Give the police a reason to lock you up for life and get me off this planet.’
He laughed again. ‘What’ve you done with my wife, the dull mummy’s girl who sat at the piano for five hours a day?’
‘She’s dead. Her psychopathic husband saw to that.’
‘I heard he never laid a finger on her.’
‘Well I heard he was a coward who couldn’t keep his filthy hands to himself.’
‘Not true. He was very loyal to his girlfriend, Lorie. See, he could have had his wife anytime, and half a dozen like her, but the wife just didn’t do it for him at all.’
Naomi fought against him. It was futile, a flimsy effort against his strength bearing down.
‘But now . . . ’ he pressed his lips to her ear, ‘I’m finding the new you almost interesting, mildly appealing, even.’
‘Take the knife and use it if you’re man enough, or get off me before I scream the place down.’
‘Try that and Annabel gets hurt.’
‘Yeah right!’ she hissed. ‘You trying to tell me there’s someone in there with her now? I don’t believe you.’
‘You’d take that risk would you? That I’m bluffing?’
A long silence while his words fed her brain and chewed it up. Why search for options when there weren’t any? Nathan was smiling the entire time. Naomi stopped fighting. ‘I detest you.’ Her muscles stopped resisting the force of him. Her head fell to one side giving her a view of the window and the outline of skeletal trees, tossing their leaves aside.
‘You know,’ he sighed, ‘it’s a novelty being in bed with someone who doesn’t want me. I’ve never experienced it before.’
‘First time for everything.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ he said. The smile was in his voice again. ‘Or, did you and Dan –’
‘None of your business.’
‘But you’re my wife.’
‘Not for much longer,’ she said, and another struggle began. Pointless though. She gave up and lifted her head off the pillow, lunging towards his face.
‘What do you want, Nathan?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he whispered, finally lifting himself, releasing some pressure. He climbed carefully out of bed, dragging her with him, and produced a knife from somewhere. ‘There’s a good girl. Let’s take a little walk.’
<><><>
They moved carefully down the narrow staircase. Nathan guided her through the back door – always a pace behind – and secured it behind him. She was wearing socks, no shoes, ripped jeans and a sweatshirt. The wind riffled through her clothes and chilled her right through, right away. A pale and sickly glow emanated from the wall-light beside the door. The moon was a slim crescent and could offer little help. A few stars had pulled holes in the sky only to find a lot of cloud.
Nathan pushed her along the wall. Like rats they scurried in the shadows, following the contours of the house until they were near the front. His fingers dug into the top of her arm. She didn’t know where the knife was and didn’t want to.
‘I’m not going any further with you, Nathan,’ Naomi whispered, swinging round to face him, escaping his grip for just a second.
He took hold of her again. ‘I only want to talk to you. I don’t have a lot to say.’ He wagged the knife in front of her face. His expression was quite serious now. ‘What about the treehouse?’
He tried to bustle her along, but Naomi wouldn’t budge. ‘You put that knife away –’
‘You keep your voice down.’
She continued in a fierce whisper, ‘Lose the knife or I’m not taking another step with you. I don’t care what you intend to do with it.’
Nathan was becoming agitated. He glanced around him. Naomi stood still. Nathan thrust the knife handle at her until she took it. He stood glaring at her now.
‘Happy?’
‘I will be when you’re out of my life.’
‘It’s your lucky day. A short chat, then I’ll be gone.’
‘You’ve got five minutes.’
‘More than enough,’ he said.
Naomi glanced towards the giant oak tree, thirty metres from the house. ‘After you.’
Nathan bolted into the blackness, opting for the drive and not the lawn. Naomi looked at the knife and thought about Annabel. Was she really in danger? She knew it was a pointless question; knew she’d never take a risk however small. She wrestled with the temptation to return to the house before pressing forward along the same route as Nathan.
The oak trunk was hidden in a thicket of giant laurels. She’d have to cross the soil without protection on her feet. A carpet of leaves littered the ground. She glanced towards the house. The study light was on downstairs, curtains closed. Maybe Dad was still up, she thought, as she plunged between the trees and was swallowed by the laurels. The ground was cold and bumpy. She could see very little now and had her arms outstretched. Her vision adjusted to the darkness and she could make out the ladder against the oak tree just ahead.
As she took hold of it, Nathan leant out of the wooden house and cast faint light to guide her in.
‘Hurry,’ he said.
She’d given no thought to what might be waiting at the top. Lorie? Solomon, armed and murderous? Her imagination had ten rungs to rush around, then she was at the top and Nathan was pulling her in and sealing a little door. Sudden darkness, total and complete. And then a point of light. She found a torch beaming sadly from the floor.
Naomi dropped onto the seating ledge that skirted the wooden house and resented that her legs had weakened. Nathan sat right opposite. They were alone. Very alone, and she sensed her vulnerability as she
clung to the knife and made sure that he could see it. This distance from the house, they could have been in France. It was too late to have regrets. Her fist tightened around the handle.
‘At ease, soldier,’ he said, relaxing now, testing his voice for the first time.
She’d never let Nathan read the terror in her eyes again. If there was one lesson she’d taken from the last few weeks, it was to show no fear. Feel it, suppress it. Fear was food to Nathan. The more fear, the grander the feast.
‘What do you want?’ she began, coolly.
He smiled. ‘It’s cosy in here. What’s the rush? It’s good to catch up.’
She sat watching him in disbelief, clenching her jaw to prevent her teeth from bashing together. This was the man who’d held her close, asked her to marry him, told her he couldn’t live without her. ‘If this is just another of your little games, Nathan, you can play it solo. If you’ve nothing to say –’
‘Oh, I’ve something to say,’ he said, leaning forward, one elbow on either leg, fingers knitted together. He was still wearing his wedding ring. Naomi made no comment.
‘Reach the point, then leave.’
‘OK. How’s this for bluntness – where’s the money?’
‘It’s safe.’
‘Where’s the money?’ he said again.
‘Not your money, not your concern.’
He shuffled forward in his seat while she inched back in hers. ‘The cheque was made out to a Mr and Mrs Stone. If you’re Mrs Stone, guess who Mr Stone is?’
‘You’re not getting a penny of my parents’ inheritance money.’
‘It isn’t your parents’ money. It’s half mine, half yours. Mr and Mrs Stone, get it? Legally, it has nothing to do with your parents now.’
‘What do you care about the law?’
‘Plenty, when it works in my interests.’
Her heart rattled inside her chest. Her forehead felt clammy. ‘You’ve spun so many lies that even your mother is lying to the police to protect you. You stole her ring. She didn’t give it to you.’
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