‘Something. Anything.’ Fresh energy was being generated from somewhere now. Maybe it was shame. Guilt? She began to feel restless. Sitting still was an effort. Naomi reached inside her drawer and dragged out a stack of letters. ‘I can start by getting dressed and posting these. Then I can go and confront Vincent Solomon and ask him why he thinks he has the right to ruin my life.’
‘Naomi, no.’
‘Annabel, yes. What is there to lose now? I’m just hiding away here like a mouse in a hole, letting him win.’
‘Win? Lose? Doesn’t matter anymore. Don’t play into his hands by confronting him.’
‘What do you think he’s going to do to me?’
‘I don’t even want to think about that.’
‘Maybe he thinks I haven’t got the guts to face him.’
‘Who cares? Look, it’s finished, Naomi. It’s terrible what’s happened. I’m sure Dan’s lawyers will appeal or something. But there’s nothing anyone can do now, least of all you.’
Naomi wasn’t listening. She hurled herself out of bed, which made her head light. Then she stepped into a pair of jeans and started to yank them up her legs. They slid on too easily. Her legs were leaner. ‘If Dan had thought like that, I wouldn’t be here now and Lorie would be with Nathan and they’d be wealthy on my money and I’d be in a cemetery in Manchester instead of them. Think of that.’
‘I do think of that.’
‘Well then. I owe Dan everything. I wanted to spend my life with him, Annie, and I love him.’ She fastened her jeans and forced the tears back. ‘I need some answers. Solomon has them, it’s that simple. The questions are frying my brain and he knows it. I’m prepared to risk anything for some answers.’
‘Even your life, Naomi?’
‘My life?’ She laughed, tears swilling round her eyes. ‘Yes, even that, for what it’s worth.’ She pushed her feet into some shoes. Threw a jumper over her head. ‘Dan’s lost his life already because he risked everything for me. And life without him is worth nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Annabel stood up, moved closer. ‘Naomi, listen to me. Nathan’s dead. Lorie’s dead. Simon Wilde is dead. Dan’s in prison. How much more tragedy before you realise you can’t take this guy on? I’m begging you, stay away from him.’
‘I have to do this. It isn’t even a choice. I’m just delaying the inevitable, don’t you see?’
‘No. Dan wouldn’t want you near Solomon.’
‘That’s why Dan’s never going to know.’
Annabel had tears slipping down her cheeks now. Naomi took three steps forward and drew Annabel into a tight hug. ‘Come on, Annie, be strong. Nothing’s going to happen to me.’
Annabel snivelled on Naomi’s shoulder. ‘At least let me come with you if you’re determined –’
‘No. No. I don’t want you involved. You need to look after yourself.’
‘So do you.’
‘I will. I promise. Look, I won’t do anything stupid. I just need to see him, talk to him. He won’t hurt me.’
‘He already has. Look at you.’
Naomi held Annabel at arm’s length. ‘True. Which is why I can’t let this go. You’ve got to trust me, OK? I have things to settle with him.’ Annabel closed her eyes and lowered her head. Silence fell on the room.
‘I’m expecting a boy.’ Annabel looked up.
‘A boy?’
‘Yes.’
Another torrent of tears threatened, but Naomi held them back.
‘That’s amazing.’
‘I want you to be around when my baby’s born, Naomi.’
‘Of course I’ll be –’
‘I mean I want you there at the birth with me.’
‘The birth?’ They looked at each other. ‘What about Joel?’
‘Him too. But I need you there. It’s always been you and me. From the beginning. I can’t do this on my own.’
Naomi took hold of Annabel’s shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Of course I’ll be there. I won’t let you down.’
They eyed each other a moment. Annabel said, ‘Take care of yourself then. I mean it. Don’t ever tell me your life’s worth nothing, because you’re important to me.’
Her voice cracked. Naomi looked at Annabel, at her bright blue eyes behind a film of tears, and golden strands of hair plastered to the moisture on her cheeks. The swell of her belly beneath a tight top. Naomi needed to leave quickly, before her courage failed.
‘Thanks. Seriously.’
‘For what?’
‘For being you.’
Annabel nodded and Naomi headed for the door, her chest unbearably tight, the way it always felt whenever a meeting with Vincent Solomon was imminent.
24
Metal-grey skies drooped over north-west England. Close. Damp. Day after day. Naomi had studied that sky a lot from her bed. Nothing was improving or warming up. The trees were still dozy, like they couldn’t be bothered to get dressed. Naomi knew the feeling. A few tulips had risked exposure. The rest were holding back to see if the temperatures improved; green shoots had tested the air only to find it horribly crisp.
It had been a while since Naomi had stepped out of the house. She counted the letters. Fourteen altogether. One letter a day to Dan.
She went into the post office and bought a large envelope and crammed the letters inside. Then she addressed it to Mr Daniel Stone, HM Prison Manchester, 1 Southall St, Manchester M60 9AH. It was the first envelope she’d written. Every word brought a stab of disbelief. She couldn’t text Dan, call him, hear his voice. It was down to snail mail now, with no guarantee of delivery. She weighed and paid for postage. The cashier put the envelope in a brown sack behind her.
Mission accomplished.
Relief crept over her as she left the shop. She’d done something positive for Dan and broken out of her own little prison to do it. A small victory, but a vital one. Her hands were clammy.
She dropped into her car and looked at her face in the mirror. She didn’t look like her! Her eyes were set back in dim circles. Even the colour of her eyes seemed dull. She dug in her bag for a lip colour and concealer. She even found an old mascara. Why was she fretting about her appearance? The fact that she was concerned bothered her. She carried on even so, until she’d made the best of what was available and a different girl looked back at her.
Twenty minutes later, head frustratingly blank, she crawled down Solomon’s street lined with bare trees, budding with promise. A few cherry blossom trees dotted this garden and that, brightening the place. The shutters were angled in Solomon’s downstairs windows so that she couldn’t see in at all. Naomi stopped the car and reversed until she was under a lamppost ten metres from the house. She took hold of her bag and marched uncertainly along the street while birds sang from the upper branches. Then up the path to the front porch.
She rang the bell and waited. No response. She rang it again and stood back. Something moved in a window upstairs, just a flicker, but enough to flare her pulse.
‘I know you’re in,’ she yelled, aware he didn’t like noise.
A window opened an inch and a quiet voice said, ‘I was asleep.’
‘Open the door.’
‘I’m not dressed.’
‘I don’t care.’
The window closed and a short time later, though she’d heard no approaching footsteps, the front door opened. Solomon wasn’t in view but Naomi stepped forward into the hall, where vibrant art decorated the walls in various frames.
Solomon was standing behind the door. When Naomi had passed through it, he closed and locked it and she swung round to find him standing looking at her without a thing on, combing his fingers through his hair. She didn’t hide the shock, couldn’t, but she fought not to look down, which drew her to his eyes. She fixed on them now. Day-blue. Pale. Pulled from sleep.
‘You have nothing on.’
‘You should be a detective.’ He almost smiled. ‘I told you I wasn’t dressed and you said you didn’t care.’
‘I didn’t know you were naked,’ she said, outraged.
‘My home.’ He shrugged, taking his time, utterly unapologetic. ‘This is how I sleep.’
‘You could have got dressed.’
He held her eyes, slow to respond. His chest was hard and hairless, not overly muscular but zero fat deposits anywhere. ‘I could,’ he nodded. ‘But you were yelling on my path, impatient to get my attention.’ A short pause. ‘Now you’ve got it. I seem to have yours too.’
‘Do you answer the door naked to just anyone?’ she said, aware that she was babbling, holding off, with words, any possibility of silence. Any words she could find.
‘No, I believe this is a first.’ He ran his fingers through his hair again. ‘You’re not just anyone though, are you.’
She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. There was no moisture. Solomon ran his tongue over his lips and tilted his head to one side, challenging her to come back at him or to keep holding his gaze, because there was nowhere else to look. She couldn’t do it. Her cheeks began to flush pink and she turned away from him, pivoting on her feet until she was staring at an art-filled wall, aware that silence had grown between them when she’d wanted to avoid it.
The betrayal weighed heavily on her, of coming here with no intentions of ever admitting it to Dan, and knowing how furious Dan would be. And seeing Solomon like this, like she’d never seen anyone else. Every brush with him soiled her by its intimacy, creating secrets between them she knew she’d never share. Not with anyone.
‘Get dressed, Vincent. Then we’ll talk.’ She tried to sound assertive, but the tremor in her voice gave her away.
‘Actually, it’s quite liberating. I feel completely comfortable like this.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
Another horribly lengthy silence, until, ‘What took you so long, Naomi?’
What took me so long? A gush of memories flocked in, of long and painful months fighting for Dan while he prepared for trial, only to end up in a black cellar with no chance of even giving her side of the story. Of being desperate to pin Solomon down and demand to know his involvement, and of him being absent throughout. What took me so long? Me! She wanted to yell at him now, to empty her lungs and hurl violent words his way. To tell him that he’d stripped her of her whole life and robbed her of the only man who’d ever loved her. When she twisted to confront him, he’d moved and was standing closer now. Close enough to touch. She hadn’t heard him move. Her breath seemed to catch, preventing words, so she cleared her throat. Seconds passed, forcing eye-to-eye contact again, close and intense.
‘What took you so long?’ she managed.
‘I’m here now,’ he said, holding out a key he seemed to have produced from nowhere.
‘What’s that?’ she glanced at it suspiciously, glad to break eye contact and focus on something that wasn’t him.
‘The key to all the downstairs rooms. Have a wander and make yourself at home while I get ready. I prefer not to rush.’
She held out an open hand because it seemed the only thing to do and Vincent’s approach happened too slowly, his hand coming towards hers. She didn’t want to think about what she could see out of the corner of her vision. She focussed hard on the key. When he placed it gently down, the tips of his fingers lightly grazed her palm and lingered a second longer than necessary.
She snatched it from him and turned to face the other way. It was only a short wait before she heard light footsteps ascending the stairs, carrying Solomon away. She drew a deep breath and inserted the key in the door to the lounge, hoping her legs had enough strength to transport her to the nearest sofa.
***
In his dressing room, Solomon selected a pair of mid-blue, Versace trousers and a cream shirt, both slim fit. He put them on, slid his feet into socks and then considered the most important part. Shoes. Which shoes? He ran his eyes over a choice of thirty plus pairs in his immediate view. They were in four rows, colour ordered, lightest on the top row, to darkest at the bottom. He decided on a pair of suede lace-ups in soft brown, imported from New York. He chose a matching belt and put them on and consulted the mirror. Great choice. The opinion wasn’t humble. Cufflinks next.
She was here, actually here in his lair. He’d never had any doubt she’d come, but the waiting had been endless and his patience had been as stretched as the days since he’d last seen Naomi Hamilton. And held her. He’d held her ever since, in his mind. She’d never left. Was she a prisoner to him, or he to her? He wasn’t sure, but the thought excited him and no longer mattered because she was actually here.
He wasn’t over the bombshell of Janes showing up the previous night as he had. Which left Solomon with an issue – he refused to think of it as a problem; all problems were merely passing matters to overcome – what to do about Janes. With his mind fixed on Naomi the way it was, it was harder to focus on issues and arrive at clear solutions, so he’d put Janes on hold for now.
Solomon looked at his watch. It had been ten minutes since he’d left her alone downstairs. Long enough for her to become curious. Time to see what she was doing. Time to see if she’d discovered the piano.
His dressing room had a switch lock, like a bathroom door. He locked it and walked the length of the narrow room, past rows of suits, shirts and shoes to what looked like a wardrobe. He took hold of both doors simultaneously and opened. No clothes in there, just a false back, which slid to one side, revealing another door hiding his most secret room. His safe room. Only three people knew about the existence of that room, Vincent one of them. Only Solomon knew the number that opened the door. He pressed it into a keypad and the door gave way.
A shiver of anticipation overcame him as he entered, closed the door and sat on a chair. It was a compact room, three metres by two and no windows. Steel walls, functional, secure. He kept food and water in here in one backpack, and a sleeping bag and airbed rolled into another. He’d never needed to use them, but he changed the food and water, tested the airbed occasionally. Best to be prepared for anything.
Six screens linked to six cameras looked at him blankly from one wall. They were dated now, but he always hesitated to invite anyone in here to change them. He switched them on. Two were trained respectively on the front path and back garden. The other four spied on the downstairs rooms – kitchen, lounge, cardroom, library. The rarely-used library had a chaise-lounge in white leather. On two opposite walls were rows of white bookcases lined with books. This room had an unobstructed view of the back garden, which was just beginning to blossom. The back wall had centred French doors with two floor-to-ceiling glass panels either side. An impressive room altogether, made more striking by a very recent addition.
In front of the doors, angled exquisitely for a garden view, was a new grand piano and stool. A white Steinway on a delicately patterned Persian rug. Solomon hadn’t been certain what or who would arrive first – Naomi or her piano, so the intrigue had sparked a minor bet with himself, which he’d lost. He’d had ten pounds on Naomi arriving first. The piano had won the contest by forty-eight hours. He didn’t mind losing, not to himself, but he did mind not honouring the bet.
In a safe fixed on the wall, he took out a ten pound note and tore it into shreds. He threw it in the air and watched it fall like confetti to the floor. With an odd sense of unruliness that had gripped him since Naomi arrived, he left the bits on the floor and returned to his chair.
He was studying it now, the piano, on his screen, the chaise-lounge to its left, the garden in the background beyond the doors, through which began a semi-circular patio holding stone pots sprouting miniature tulips and dying daffodils.
Naomi was nowhere in view, not in any of the downstairs rooms that he was watching. There were three other rooms downstairs that didn’t have cameras. The utility room, a small study and a bathroom. All of the upstairs was private and sacred. Solomon was no pervert. Just liked to be well on top of things was all, liked to know what was happening in his castle when his back wa
s turned and what those in positions of privilege in his circle, did, when he was absent. Those cameras had been invaluable over the years, and brought tough lessons to a handful of people. Enough that his crew had twigged, finally, that Vincent had eyes and ears everywhere.
Hello!
Vincent sat up and leant forward. Naomi had just walked through the kitchen door, her feet echoing against the tiles, though she was trying to hush the sound. She trailed her fingers along the worktop and looked about her. She wouldn’t find a crumb, a grain of salt or a mark or stain anywhere. She peeked inside a cupboard, which made Vincent smile. She’d only find plates and mugs in there. He noted the disappointment on her face and wondered what she was expecting to find.
She carefully closed the cupboard door so he wouldn’t hear it close, so he’d never suspect that she’d been curious enough to look. He never tired of studying the absurdity of human behaviour, best observed like this when the subject didn’t suspect an audience.
‘Find your piano, Naomi.’
The library was next to the kitchen. As if she’d heard him, Naomi peered out of the kitchen window then headed for the kitchen door, and seconds later was entering the library and looking to her left at a wall of books neatly stocked. The camera was above the door, hidden inside a clock. He had the delight of watching her take a few paces forward then halt.
‘What . . .’ she said. She’d noticed it now. Solomon was so riveted that he could barely breathe. Watching her like this felt wrong and delightful. He stretched his spine, edging closer to the screen. After a long hesitation, she crept over to the piano on her toes to dull the sound. Once on the Persian rug, she walked freely, circling the piano, running her hands over it, stopping at the lid, which was closed.
Solomon heard his own breathing as he watched in silence. Seconds passed and nothing moved.
‘Open up,’ he whispered. ‘Open your gift.’ And she touched the lid, spellbound, unable to resist its pull. He could almost believe she was his puppet here, listening to him, following his instructions. His skin tingled with the pleasure, the fine hairs on his hands lifting. His face felt warm.
Shadows to Ashes Page 19
