He put down what he was carrying, plastic cutlery, a bowl and plate and what few possessions he was allowed. The cutlery and plate reminded him of time at the cottage, when he’d left food for Naomi in red plastic, and had refused to look at the fear in her eyes. What he wouldn’t give to go back to that time now. To have her with him.
Dan didn’t know what else to do but climb onto the bed. So he did that, lay down on a grotty mattress full of lumpy patches, found one tired pillow. He looked at a cracked ceiling edged with ghostly strands of cobwebs.
So this was it, his life now. It had reduced to walls, an army of hard men who shouted and stared a lot, and the inescapable smell of unclean bodies. And in this moment, for the first time, Dan knew. Knew it was over. Knew the dream of marriage and a family had been blotted out. Knew he’d never let Naomi see him in here, visit this place. Knew that, much as he loved her, he’d sever contact immediately and permanently. Almost eight years inside. With good behaviour. A survival regime of staying on the right side of the screws without getting a good beating from hard cons. A terrifying balancing act about which, Dan was a novice. But he knew he wouldn’t allow Naomi to wait for him or to cling on to false hope. Cut ties, that was best. Cruel to be kind. He wouldn’t allow her to sacrifice and suspend her life for him. No way.
I sentence you to sixteen years in Her Majesty’s Prison, Manchester, formally known as Strangeways.
So this was it. His life now.
***
Ten in the morning on a crisp day in April and the house was noiseless and tranquil. Birds sang in gleeful chorus outside. Solomon was preparing for sleep having been up all night at the club. Preparing meant one whisky, two sleeping pills. He was ready to shed his suit and shirt and encase his bare skin in fresh sheets and find a few blissful hours of oblivion.
So when the bell rang and then the door knocker rattled two seconds later, Solomon was irked. His bed routine was a kind of ritual. Disturbing it disturbed him, took him out of the zone. Sleep was difficult enough to achieve.
It wouldn’t be Naomi. Not yet. The Muscles never called round uninvited and Charlie knew better than to disturb him after an all-nighter at the club. It had better not be the Jehovah’s Witnesses asking him if he believed that the lion would someday lie down with the lamb, or else the lion was going to pounce on the lambs right there on the doorstep, and tear a holy strip off them. After which they’d hear only two words. The second would be off.
He was leaning towards ignoring whoever was at the door until the bell ripped through the house again and bounced off all the walls. He hated that bell. Anyone who knew him knew not to use it. He should get it removed. Agitated now, Solomon took off his shoes and walked silently through to the lounge to look out. A pair hovered near the doorstep. He studied them through his angled shutters. Not Jehovah’s Witnesses. These were Bobby’s Witnesses. Police. He recognised Kerry Marshall.
His kneejerk reaction upon seeing them, was to review his recent life and wonder what might have brought them here. During these few moments of careful self-searching, Kerry Marshall stepped forward and bashed the door knocker again. They weren’t giving up.
Solomon exited the lounge and unlocked the front door and opened it.
‘Mr Solomon?’ Marshall said, as if she might be wrong. As if! Here she was, in the flesh, his favourite girl in blue. The one who’d risked her life to save Naomi’s. No doubt she’d still be having nightmares and seeing screaming trains from her bed, but she looked as fresh as a newly opened daffodil here on his step. He’d thank her one day, for yanking Naomi from the path of a train and condemning herself to a life of intrusive flashbacks.
‘That’s right.’
She was standing with a young copper who looked full of his own importance. Second thoughts, the lad looked about fifteen. The erect stance with hands behind his back, chin held high – it was a cover only. He was standing a pace behind Marshall, using her to shield his lack of experience; his need to grow a pair.
‘My name’s PC Kerry Marshall and this is PC Jake Shearing.’ Shearing nodded his head, then the chin shot up again.
At ease, soldier.
So Marshall was introducing herself as if they knew nothing about each other. An interesting game. He’d go along with it for now.
‘Please come in.’
Shearing lunged forward now, pushing in front of Marshall, who hung back, in no rush. Solomon didn’t like Jake Shearing.
When they were standing in the hall, Solomon said, ‘Can I get either of you a drink?’
Both refused.
‘Would you like to sit down?’
‘Here’s fine, thank you,’ Marshall said. ‘We won’t take much of your time.’
Solomon nodded. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘We’re here about Lorie Taylor. You knew her?’
‘I did.’
‘Were you friends, or . . .?’
‘Friends, yes.’
‘So you’re aware she passed away just recently?’
‘I heard. Suicide, wasn’t it?’
‘We’re waiting for the coroner’s official verdict, but yes, everything points to suicide.’ She paused to shift her weight to her other foot. ‘So where did you two meet, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘She used to work at the nightclub I own. Lorie was very hard-working. Any employer’s dream.’
‘Right.’ Kerry Marshall nodded. Neither of them took any notes. ‘Any idea why she’d resort to taking her own life?’
‘Are the circumstances suspicious?’ Solomon asked.
Marshall fiddled with the cuff of her jacket. It was her way of breaking eye contact. She was nervous and was determined to cover it. ‘Not at all. We’re just trying to build a picture of where she was emotionally. Suicides are particularly agonising for families. So many unanswered questions. Dreadful guilt involved as you might imagine. It helps just to build a picture and try to get some idea of the circumstances that preceded her death.’
‘Of course.’
‘Your number was the last one Lorie called. She was obviously desperate to reach you that night. Any idea why?’
‘I didn’t talk to her, no. I was very busy that night.’ As you know, Kerry, because, no doubt, you know that your friend was abducted and you know that I flew to her rescue. You wanna pretend though? Be my guest. I can do pretence with the best of them. ‘Perhaps it was a cry for help. I rang her as soon as I could, but evidently, it was too late by then.’
‘Hmm.’
Shearing, determined to grope his way into the questioning, cut in, ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’
‘A few days before she died. Look, I’ll say now, she was in love with me. She rang me a lot and for her own sake I was unresponsive sometimes. No point leading her down the garden path, so to speak.’
A few quiet moments passed where the three of them regarded each other in the confines of the hall.
‘Have you ever been in a relationship with her?’
‘I’m not remotely obliged to answer that question, officer,’ Solomon said, staring directly at Shearing, who shuffled his feet. ‘But in the interests of putting things to rest, the answer is no. Our relationship was purely platonic at all times. It was necessary to be very direct with her about that.’
‘That must have been difficult for her.’
‘No doubt it was, but that’s life.’
Marshall looked carefully at him before saying, ‘We understand she spent the last few months in Australia, living in Sydney?’
‘That’s right. She was renting a house and I visited her there.’
‘Really?’ This seemed to surprise her. Maybe it was news. Better to be upfront. Transparency always confused and disappointed the police when they were sniffing around. It bruised egos and conflicted with preconceived ideas. ‘Do you know what prompted her to come home?’
‘She missed the English weather.’
Shearing smirked and let out a puff of air, which said, You’ve
got to be kidding me.
Solomon glared at him. ‘Have you ever visited Australia, PC Shearing?’
He coughed his throat clear. ‘Er, no.’
‘I thought not. The heat can be savage. Deadly insects, snakes, Great Whites, crocs. Nature’s a menace. You have to be vigilant. Lorie spent the summer here then flew into the beginnings of the Aussie summer and stayed for months. She decided, from there, that the grass wasn’t green enough.’
Shearing’s expression became more sombre. ‘And didn’t she rent a house of yours here too? We’re told you dumped her furniture at her mother’s without warning. Why would you do that to a friend?’
‘The friendship had run its course. She wasn’t satisfied with friendship so it was becoming untenable. Besides which, her contract had expired by several months and she refused to move her things. I had two options: allow her to take advantage, or make a stand.’
Kerry Marshall managed a brief smile, just a twitch of the lips. She reached inside a pocket and produced an evidence bag with a scrap of paper inside, smeared with blood. Solomon maintained his composure, though the sight of it curdled the fluids in his stomach. ‘Have you seen this before? It was beside Lorie’s body when we found her.’ She held it in front of her. ‘It says, “Alona my heart, oui”.’
‘So that’s where it got to,’ Solomon said, coolly.
‘You wrote it?’
‘Yes, and evidently Lorie took it.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Mean?’ He paused theatrically. ‘I’m an artist, Kerry,’ he said, eyeing her scrupulously until the colour in her cheeks blossomed. ‘I don’t explain creativity, I simply express it.’ PC Just-Out-Of-Nappies, hovered beside her, chin drooping a bit, a tad confused and concerned. ‘Let’s just say that it was the beginning of something that will never be finished or realised. It’s irrelevant now. Lorie knew that it meant that she and I were through. For good.’
‘I see.’ She nodded. Solomon sensed her urgency to leave even before she said, ‘Well thank you for being cooperative, Mr Solomon.’ And so they continued the charade as if they were strangers.
Solomon wondered if PC Training Pants, who definitely had the hots for Marshall, knew that she’d waded in too deep with Nathan Stone. Did he even know she’d dragged Naomi from that car seconds before certain death and that the pair were firm friends now? Was he aware that her palms were damp and that her pulse was accelerating? He doubted it, on all counts. Marshall reached inside her jacket again and pulled out another piece of paper.
‘Lorie Taylor scribbled three notes before her death. One was for you.’ Kerry Marshall extended her arm towards him and Solomon took the bit of folded paper and wondered how many grubby hands had touched it before he had.
‘No doubt you’ve read it.’
She glanced down, couldn’t hold his gaze. ‘Yes, we read all of them and made copies.’ She turned away from him now. ‘Well, we won’t take up any more of your morning.’
‘Very considerate of you.’
‘Maybe we can discuss Lorie’s note another time.’
‘Maybe,’ Solomon said. Anything to get rid.
‘There’s a memorial service on Tuesday. I don’t know if –’
‘I don’t think so.’
Marshall nodded, fled to the door and Shearing, like a sheep, shuffled after her.
Brief goodbyes were said and Solomon closed and locked the door and stood still. This bit of paper in his hands threatened to cancel the effects of his pills and cheat him out of sleep. He didn’t want to read it. And he did. But he didn’t.
He’d decide, later. After a battle with his pillow. Which he very much needed to win. But he found he couldn’t win, which irritated him beyond words. Solomon leapt out of bed within fifteen minutes of slumping in it and walked downstairs to the kitchen where Lorie’s note was waiting on the table. He picked it up, unfolded it to find a scrawl of angry words, ending with, You’re going to lose. The Hamiltons will have the last laugh.
***
Naomi, distressed from troubled dreams, had surfaced from shallow sleep with her jaw aching from tension. The contents of her dreams were still swilling around in broken pictures in her head, some details floating away from her. Without the energy or inclination to fight for them, she let them go and mustered the strength to push the covers back and get up.
The bed had magnetic properties and resisted her decision to leave, but she made it to her feet and escaped to the bathroom. There was something she must do and necessity steered her into the shower, then into clothes and a smattering of makeup, then down the stairs and into her car. Having got this far, she then steered her car out of the drive – where a couple of reporters flashed cameras at her and yelled questions pointlessly – and in the direction of Valerie and Matthew Stone’s house.
This was the first time she’d been to Dan’s parents’ house, which seemed farcical when she’d been engaged to Nathan and then to Dan. It wasn’t like she’d never wanted to meet them; the reverse was true. The need to be close to Dan burned inside her to the point where she was incapable of other thoughts. She’d been kept apart from him during the period of his entire probation and his trial, without a choice. Best not to mix key witnesses with defendants. She wanted the best outcome for Dan, so she’d been a good girl and look how that ended up.
The yearning to see Dan, to hear his voice, to touch his face and have his arms around her, felt like a tight dress she couldn’t take off, constricting her breathing, making her hurt all over, restricting her movement, generally disabling her. There was no relief hour after hour, day upon day. How long before the thing unpicked at the seams and fell apart taking her with it? Dan’s parents were the last hope, the only ones who’d share those feelings. They’d understand the chasm inside of her, the way that food had no taste, the way that time felt pointless, daunting and unfillable. They’d understand.
Practical matters flashed through her mind, pushing her through the traffic as she prepared her opening sentence to his mum or dad, whoever answered the door. She looked down to see what she was wearing, because she couldn’t remember getting dressed. Black trousers. Plain jumper. Ankle boots. She stretched her spine and glanced in the mirror.
An image assembled itself in her mind. Their front door – dark wood for some reason, and no reason. She imagined the footsteps approaching and then the door opening to reveal a surprised face, masking the pain behind it. She’d have to speak first. Hi, I’m Naomi. Opening sentence? I’m here because we all love Dan. No! We need to pull together now. No! I really wish I could have met you sooner, but. . . Maybe. I know you must have been through a terrible time. Too far! They’d have questions for her too. Best to be natural and not over-prepare.
There’d be hesitation and then a tentative invitation to come in. All journey, she’d anticipated the house, pictures of Dan and Nathan on the walls, a constant reminder of the two sons they’d lost. She’d have to time it carefully, but she wanted to come away with a photograph of Dan. For security purposes, she’d deleted all Dan’s texts from her phone. They’d never taken pictures.
She knew nothing about visiting rights in Strangeways, but she had to find out now. She guessed that prisoners would be allowed limited visitors at certain times. She wanted to tell Dan’s parents that she’d share rights with them, that she understood their need to see Dan too.
She’d offer what strength she had. She’d hoped to lean on them too.
She was wrenched back into the present when her sat-nav announced that she was five-hundred metres from her destination.
Oh crap!
She was weaving through a quiet housing estate of modern houses, the sun shooting blinding arrows at her. She turned into a cul-de-sac. You’ve reached your destination, the sat-nav bleated, which seemed to sum up her entire life. This journey had taken all of her reserves. Life beyond it, she could not imagine.
No reporters lurked outside the house. Despite the sun’s appearance, it was cold as she
opened the car door. The street was quiet and had an air of tension. Maybe the neighbours were avoiding the Stones because they no longer knew what to say to them.
She exited the car on shaky limbs. The house was detached. The gardens were well kept, open plan, no gates or barriers – just an intermittent pattern of lawns with borders and drives. The front door was neither dark nor wood, but was white, uPVC.
She eyed the bell as she walked down the path, clearing her throat. She’d hardly spoken recently and didn’t trust her voice. She watched her forefinger hover in front of the doorbell, trembling slightly. She had to force herself to push. The noise rattled her heart. Before long, footsteps were approaching the door. They sounded laboured, suspicious. The adrenaline flowed. Valerie Stone’s face appeared, registering every bit of surprise that Naomi had envisaged. Naomi prayed for words.
‘Mrs Stone? Hi, I’m –’
Sudden movement and a violent hand crashed against her cheek on the left side, twisting her neck to the right. She felt no pain initially, just intense confusion which knocked all the words out of her.
‘I know who you are. Don’t you ever come to this house again. You stay away from my family, you hear?’ Said with venom just before the white door smashed against the frame, leaving Naomi alone, swaying with the shock.
She gathered some strength and stumbled to her car, never looking back at the windows, the neatly cut lawn, the white door.
22
No one questioned why Naomi barely moved from her room over the next week, not even Camilla. Dan having been sent to prison and sentenced to sixteen years, had brought her some kind of immunity from being disturbed or questioned. People came in like they were entering a church. They brought food and sympathetic smiles and sat looking at her. Their eyes wondered how she was, and she answered them with silence.
It spared her having to explain the visit to Dan’s parents and the look on Valerie Stone’s face which had haunted her dreams. It saved a discussion about a dark cellar, at least, and about being swapped for a ransom at midnight and being collected by Vincent Solomon at a disused railway line. She’d told no one, not even Annabel.
Shadows to Ashes Page 17
