by JL Simpson
Solomon raised an eyebrow. Perhaps the reason the cops had warned him off was because Zut was working undercover. In which case her original guitarist’s sudden fortune was probably government funded. A guy with a drug habit would be easy enough to manipulate. Even better if he had a big ego you could stroke.
“Why didn’t you tell me this when I asked the other day?”
“I was protecting Zut. He told me he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He joked he was an alien and he’d be locked up, like the ones they found in Roswell.”
“Why didn’t Jason tell me about him?”
“Zut’s been missing for a couple of days. Jason says he’s gone off on a drug bender, and it wouldn’t help my image to be seen to be looking for a man with a record for dealing.”
“But you don’t do drugs, do you?”
She shook her head. “Not for the last two years. I got off it.”
“And your relationship with Zut? He clearly wasn’t your dealer.”
Her smile was brittle and her voice shook. “He’s a brilliant guitarist.”
“But that’s not it is it? Is he the father of your baby?”
Maureen’s eyes opened wide and she grabbed his hand. “How did you find out? You can’t say anything. Jason thinks it’s his.”
He took her hand in his and patted it. “Your secret’s safe with me, darlin’. Now, why do you think Zut’s missing?”
“He didn’t turn up for rehearsals for tonight’s show. Even if he was on a bender he would never let me down. I tried to call him, but he didn’t pick up.”
“Why call me?”
“I didn’t know who else to ask without Jason finding out. The police wouldn’t care less. Zut used to be homeless. He says he has episodes where normal everyday life is too much, and he has to escape to the simplicity of only worrying about surviving a day at a time and not thinking beyond a place to sleep and his next meal. Jason said to let him go. He was a loser, and we didn’t need him.”
“Does Zut know about the baby?”
Maureen nodded. “That’s why I’m worried. He said he would get his shit together and was ready to make a go of things and be all that we both needed.” She smiled through her tears. “He was so happy when I told him. He gave me a pull from a Coke can as an engagement ring. Got down on one knee in the hotel room in Paris stark naked and asked me to make him the happiest man in the world. It was dead romantic.”
Solomon sighed. He was fairly sure Maureen wasn’t behind the attempt to blow them up, but someone knew he was going to be at the car park and had planted the tracking device he’d left on Zut’s car. Even the cops wouldn’t sink so low as to kill a man for digging into their business. “Did you tell anyone I was looking for Zut?”
Maureen shrugged. “I might have mentioned it.”
“To?”
“Jason’s cousin’s wife. She’s lovely, nothing like her husband. She says she’ll help me sort things out, and tell Jason about the baby and that Zut and I plan to marry.”
“Who are these people? Are they here tonight?”
“Kylie couldn’t make it, but Adrian is around somewhere.”
“Adrian?”
“Adrian Maroni.”
Solomon sucked in a breath. He’d never seen that coming. Jeysus. The weaselly-looking man with Jason was Adrian Maroni, eldest son of Manfred Maroni and seriously bad news. He’d started out with petty crime, but after getting off a burglary charge, rumor had it he was now in full training to take over from his dad.
The door to the dressing room opened and a man with blonde dreadlocks hanging down to his waist stuck his head into the room. “Hey, Moor. Can I use Zut’s white Strat? Mine’s busted. I can’t get a fucking note out of it.”
Maureen glanced toward the corner of the room, and Solomon’s focus followed. Bleedin’ hell. He got to his feet and took a closer look at the signature on the front of the obviously vintage guitar. He’d hit the feckin jackpot. A smile curled up his lips. Daisy would be really pissed off when she worked out who was who, and how she’d been well and truly fooled. However, if the guitar was sitting in Bournemouth without its owner, Solomon knew that Zut, aka Lord Tobias Wareham, was no longer missing of his own free will.
“Can I, Moor?” the musician pleaded.
“Sure, sweetie, but please be careful with it.”
“Treat it like a baby. I know how much Zut loves it.”
The door to the dressing room opened further, and Jason appeared behind the musician. “Isn’t this cozy?” He looked at Maureen. “Why don’t you sort out your makeup in the ladies’ room and go and get on stage ready to begin? I want a word with Solomon.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Daisy stretched and yawned. She’d been on the Internet for hours. The vegetarian lasagna she’d heated up was long gone. A dirty plate in the middle of the coffee table was the only evidence she’d eaten anything.
A saxophone wailed softly in the background. She’d found Solomon’s extensive library of tunes and even mastered his digital computerized sound system. Smoky jazz set the scene for Paul’s arrival which was, she glanced at the clock, another hour away. The fire was starting to die down. She got to her feet, opened the fire’s glass door and shoved in some logs from the basket before giving the embers a poke. The air filled with the sound of crackling as the flames leapt back to life.
The whiteboard stood in the corner of the room. She crossed to look at it. She’d thought the link had to be the Somerset Club or Langdon College but, while she had no doubt they had something to do with it, all the evidence was pointing to Anthony the Abbot. Her online research had brought up a newspaper report of Frank Mayberry’s brother going missing back in the late eighties. Two out of three of the apparent deaths they were investigating having links to homeless people seemed a big coincidence. Without seeing Frank’s will she couldn’t be sure the charity benefited from his estate, but she’d put money on it. Giles Beckitt was connected through Maureen and probably left the charity a legacy as well.
She’d wondered why a legitimate charity would be caught up in something as sordid as an insurance scam. A cursory look at their online financial reports showed some strange anomalies, including large payments to businesses that were owned by trustees. There was a singular lack of detail about the services those companies provided to the homeless on behalf of Anthony the Abbot. The charity also owned a large property in the Canary Islands, along with a salubrious yacht supposedly used for rehab. She added some notes to the white board. Until Solomon got home she was stuck. As far as she could tell she’d exhausted all the information she was going to get off the Internet.
She took a seat on the sofa, lifted the mouse, and wondered how to pass the time. Maybe she’d do some research into Solomon. She made the assumption he had his mother’s surname not his father’s, as he was adamant he didn’t know the man. A quick search for his mam’s name brought up a death notice in the Belfast Telegraph. Her name, Etian Liffey, was unusual, and that had made it easy. She scanned the notice. Solomon was the only named relative. Daisy placed the laptop on the coffee table and went through to the kitchen to grab the notepad and pen Solomon kept on the counter. On her return she wrote down his mother’s address.
She sat and chewed the end of the pen. Should she go any further? He must have read his own birth certificate. He would have needed it to do all sorts of things. She topped up her wine glass and took a sip. Solomon might know full well who’d fathered him but was afraid of rejection, in which case she could make the first move and see if the man was willing to recognize the child he’d created.
After placing her glass back on the table she took a deep breath and opened the website that allowed you to order a Northern Irish birth certificate. She filled in all the details. The only question that gave her pause for thought was why she wanted a copy. She typed in that she was his spouse. They weren’t married, but they were partners of sorts, even if it had never, and would never, be anything more than in
a business sense. Once the application was complete she hit the final button. The moment of truth arrived, but the message on the screen made her sigh with frustration. How could he not have a birth certificate? She went back to the beginning and started over. Same result. Apparently Solomon either wasn’t born in Northern Ireland, or his mother had moved over the years.
A loud trill, and the buzz and clatter of her phone dancing across the coffee table, made her jump. “Shit.”
She grabbed it and checked caller ID before hitting accept and holding it to her ear. “Paul.”
“Hey, beautiful. What does a man have to do to get access to Fort Solomon?”
Her heart raced at the sound of Paul’s voice. Daisy put the laptop next to her on the sofa and got to her feet. “I’ll let you in. You’re early.”
“Got something for you.”
“Oh. Will I like it?”
“You’ve never complained before.”
She ran to the kitchen and buzzed him in. Once his truck cleared the gate she reset the alarm and made her way to the front door. She flung it open as his headlights pierced the darkness and swung an arc coming to rest on the garage door as he killed the engine. The night swallowed the truck. Paul appeared from the gloom, and she ran into his arms. He swung her off her feet and kissed her neck. She wrapped her legs around his middle and grabbed his hair, pulling him into a long, passionate kiss.
They came up for air and Paul groaned, “Man, I’ll have to deliver your mail more often. Do you get this horny when the postman slips the envelopes through our front door in the mornings?”
She slid to the ground, grabbed his hand, and dragged him inside. He slammed the door behind them and tossed her letters on the hall table. “Where’s Solomon?”
“Out.” She pulled Paul into the lounge.
He smiled. “Oh, nice fire. When will he be back?”
Daisy shoved Paul’s jacket off his shoulders. “Later.” She glanced at her watch. “Much later.”
“You do know you’re starting to sound like him don’t you? Next you’ll become a clean and tidy freak.”
Daisy frowned. There was a thought guaranteed to kill the mood.
Paul ran a finger up her arm. “Want to defile his place and make out on his hearth rug?”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, “I thought you’d never ask.”
*
Solomon twitched. Something was tickling his nose. Molly. She loved to tickle. He raised an eyelid. Dark. He shifted on the cold, rough, hard surface and groaned. He was flat on his back. Sharp aching pain pierced his skull, and joined the rhythm section of pins and needles playing the tango up his arms. No wonder they were numb, he was lying on the fecking things. He struggled to sit but failed, rolling facedown instead. His head hit concrete, and he moaned as the pain ricocheted around his skull, like a hamster on speed.
“Buddy. You awake?”
He shuffled awkwardly, pulled his legs up under his body, and fought to a kneeling position. No amount of tugging could free his hands, which appeared to be tied behind his back. It took him a minute to get used to the gloom and for the pain in his head to subside from a volcanic eruption to a low grumble. A man sat with his back to the wall a few feet away. Knees pulled up, his hands dangled between his legs, and he twirled a feather in his fingers. The man peered at him. His long hair was matted, but he was still clad in his signature Lycra and leather.
“You with us?”
“Shite. Lord fecking Tobias Wareham.”
He smirked. “The man from the pub.”
“Solomon.”
“I suspected the kissing and slapping thing with that Daisy was an act. She doesn’t take any prisoners, does she? That had to sting.” Tobias laughed.
Solomon glared at him. “Where the feck are we, and how do we get out?”
Toby shrugged. “No idea.” He shifted his position and pushed to his feet. “Want me to untie your hands?”
Solomon nodded.
The man dropped the feather and squatted behind him. “So, did you know who I was all along? Or did you just work it out?”
“I figured you were undercover, but had no idea you were Tobias Wareham until I saw your autographed guitar in Maureen’s dressing room at the benefit in Bournemouth.”
The ropes tugged as Toby worked the knots free, making Solomon’s shoulders ache.
“Is she all right? Maureen?”
“Fine. She knows you’re missing. She called me to look for you.”
“Bad move. Did you tell her my real identity?”
Solomon’s arms flopped to his sides as the ropes fell free. The pins and needles made him grimace. Shite. He grit his teeth, riding the pain, knowing it would pass once the blood started to flow.
“Did you tell her?”
Solomon slowly pushed to his feet, to avoid setting off his headache again, and shook his arms. “No. I’d only just realized when Tyler turned up with Adrian Maroni. Next thing I know I woke up here. Where are we?”
Arms no longer aching, Solomon walked the perimeter of the cool, damp room. A heavy timber door stood in one corner, a bucket Toby had obviously used as a toilet, in the other.
Toby shrugged. “I told you already, no idea. I was drugged and woke up in here. I’m not even sure how many days I’ve been missing. Hard to tell with no window and room service isn’t what it could be.”
“So who are you working for? What are you investigating? And if they have no idea who you are, why are you here?”
“All good questions. I’m here because I had the gall to fall in love with Maureen.”
“And get her in the family way.”
Toby smiled. “Yeah, that too.”
“Does Maureen know?”
“That she’s pregnant? Or that I got her that way?” The man’s smile widened.
“I’m glad you find this so damn funny. You do know we’re dealing with killers, don’t you? Does Maureen know you’re working undercover?”
“Am I?”
Solomon crossed the room and walked Toby back against the wall. He growled at the shorter man, grabbed the front of his jacket, and tugged him up onto his toes. “I’ve no time to play games with you. I don’t plan to sit here and wait to die. Neither do I expect which ever useless government agency you work for to give a shite about us. We need to work together. I’m not excited at the prospect, but having me in here with you might just save your scrawny, pompous, upper-class arse. Now who are you working for, and what do you know?”
Toby glared at him but said nothing. Solomon’s nostrils flared. He ground his teeth and fisted his free hand. The unmistakable beat of footsteps echoed outside the door. They stopped. A jingle of metal and the clunk of a key in the lock made Solomon let go of Toby and step back.
“You’ll keep. I’ve ways to make you talk these bastards have never even imagined.”
Toby tugged his clothes straight and glared at him. “You don’t scare me.”
Solomon glared back. “I will, you feckless maggot.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Daisy lay on the soft hearth rug in a post-coital stupor. She let out a sigh and wiggled to snuggle up to Paul, sliding an arm around his middle. He stroked her hair. “I should be going.”
The haze lifted, and she struggled up onto one elbow so she could look at him. “Already?”
“I’ve got the day off.”
Daisy planted kisses across Paul’s damp chest. “So why the rush?”
He grabbed her and rolled her under him. “Because I promised Sherman I’d take him shopping today, and tomorrow we’re going to see Man U play.”
“Oh, I love it when you talk football.”
Paul laughed. “How about when I take a penalty shot and score a goal?”
“You sexy beast.”
He captured her mouth in a long searing kiss and then sighed. “I really should go. Solomon will be back soon.”
“We could take this upstairs.” She ran a finger over his
chest, skimming an erect nipple. “Why don’t you sleep here tonight?”
“Tempting, but I want to drive up overnight and miss all the traffic on the motorway.”
“And you’re going to stay with my parents?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Call me and let me know you’re safe. Maybe I can talk to Sherman. Does he blame me for having him shipped off?”
“Your dad buying tickets to the football game has gone some way to winning your redemption. That, and your parents’ new neighbors.”
“What new neighbors?”
“Apparently their daughter April is shit hot.”
“I hope you told him off for swearing.”
“I’ve given up. When his mother has a potty mouth, what’s the point?”
“Does that mean my debt is forgiven?”
Paul shook his head. “No. Although I’m sure you’ve lost track of how much you owe now.”
“I might have.”
“I’ll take payment in kind.”
Daisy wiggled beneath him. “Sounds like a plan. It’s a huge debt.”
He laughed. “I’ll take payment in kind, later. I have to go home, shower, and pack. If I turn up at your parent’s smelling of sex cooties I’m not sure who’ll have the biggest freak out, Sherman, or your dad.”
He kissed her again and then rolled off and climbed to his feet before offering a hand to help her get up. She pulled on her clothes and watched Paul finish getting dressed. He tugged his T-shirt over his head.
“Any luck with your heir hunting?”
Daisy shook her head. “Nope. No sign of him. Have you got any ideas?”
“Have you tried looking for him under his mother’s maiden name?”
“What do you mean?”
“Most people have little imagination. I lost count of how many missing soldiers I arrested who’d been hiding out with a new identity that was little more than their own first name and their mother’s maiden name. Made my job easier.”
“Good thinking.”
Paul tucked his T-shirt into his jeans, and then sat on the sofa and slipped his feet in his shoes. “What’s in the envelopes I delivered?”
Daisy collected them from the hall table, ripped them open and pulled out the contents. “Birth certificates for Elliott and Tobias Wareham and Elliott’s parent’s marriage certificate.”
