No one has the right to take a life, Dan said, but only in his head. ‘How do you work that out?’
‘I’m clever,’ he said, in the unique way that broad Mancunians speak. Clevor. Which made him sound anything but. ‘Stay away from Seth Holloway. Bad news.’
‘Who?’
‘Seth, the Skinhead.’
Two thugs, each desperate to know what Dan knew about the Solomons. Each one on opposing sides, Dan guessed. All Dan wanted to do was swerve away from trouble, but it was proving difficult. Prison was about trading. Too late, Dan had found out from Vic Meredith that it’d been a grave mistake to give up food without demanding something in return. Nobody except the weak and gullible gave away anything for free in this place because everything could be used as currency: food, clothes, drugs, alcohol, you name it . . . and the holy grail – information. And Dan was beginning to wonder what he’d have to trade in order to acquire the report that Vincent wanted.
Enough information for one day. Trading closed. Dan left Payne in the yard and returned to his cell. It was time to open Naomi’s letters and glean what he could from them. No choice anymore. The Hamiltons were in much deeper crap than they realised and Dan could have wept about it.
But he didn’t. He climbed past Vic who was watching Cash In The Attic, and lifted the first of a pile of unopened letters. Then he inserted his forefinger into a little slot and gashed open the top.
***
The day had been eventless apart from the note. Annabel had texted, wanting to discuss the family rift with Camilla, but Naomi had wriggled out of the conversation by pedalling more stories about having to help Siobhan. The exchange with Annabel had left Naomi incapable on her bed, staring at the ceiling, questioning what kind of a person she was. She’d muttered a few insults at herself, wrestled a great lump in her throat, felt hopelessly lost and alone.
She was in a stranger’s house risking everything for Dan and Dan wasn’t even responding to her. Had months in custody and then prison pressed all the humanity out of him and rendered him incapable of feeling? Did Dan think she’d abandoned him when he needed her most? She studied his picture.
‘Neither of us are free, Dan,’ she told him in a whisper. His expression didn’t change. A wave of pain creased the muscles in her face and squeezed out some tears. ‘Don’t give up on me. Please.’
She took hold of the cross around her neck, closed her eyes, and mumbled some words that seemed to have been festering in the innermost parts of her. She fished and hauled them to the surface and let them out.
Then she checked the time. Five-fifty. One hour to dinner? Was Solomon already cooking downstairs? Maybe the cooking would begin at seven and she’d have to help. Everything felt alien. She’d have to learn how to behave and survive here.
She’d heard no sounds around the house. It was ghostly quiet. She needed to shower and dress. For no reason that she could fathom she felt the need to impress him. She justified it immediately. This was for Dan. If Solomon decided not to keep her here, the deal would be off, so it was prudent to hold his attention.
She snatched her keys and left her room and hurried downstairs. The kitchen was vacant. No food being prepared at all. She closed and locked the door. She’d gone down to start the game. In the card room, the chess pieces waited patiently, each one perfectly centred in the squares. Be decisive. This was the beginning only. The very first move. So she very decisively lifted the white pawn in front of her king and placed it, dead centre, two squares closer to the opposite pieces. Pawn to king four. A simple, classic move.
That done, she hurried to her room to shower, make herself up, select something to wear from the treasure trove (because she’d brought no fancy dress of her own) and ensure, above all, that she wasn’t a second late.
***
Solomon had known for hours what he was wearing for dinner, so there was no choice to be made. At five p.m., as refreshed as could be hoped from a pill-induced sleep, he got up and took a long, hot shower. He stepped out, towel-dried his hair and stalked naked around his room until the moisture evaporated from his skin. Then he sat at his laptop in his birthday attire and responded succinctly to emails, messages and the general hassle that goes with urgent business, after which, he headed for his favourite space: dressing room, safe room.
It was 5:56 when he sat down in front of his screens, the shredded ten pound note still on the floor, where he intended to leave it. The thrill of anticipation swept through him as he checked the cameras that rolled faithfully 24/7, every day of the year, logging everything. He scanned through Naomi’s morning in twenty minutes. Predictable stuff. Poking, prodding, opening, searching. Blah, blah. Disappointed she hadn’t touched her piano, he was keen to get to the part where she’d collected the bin and returned it to the garage.
Ah, there she was on the tip of his screen on camera five, 11:33 a.m., grabbing the handle, snatching her hand away, bending and taking a look. An uncertain pause then she’s wiping her hand on her jeans and proceeding towards the garage and out of view.
An insect, she’d said. The footage appeared to confirm her tale, though it had seemed odd to him that she’d lowered the garage door, once inside. Solomon did not want her snooping around his garage. At all. Perhaps he’d relieve her of the bin job. Then again, insects were repulsive.
Satisfied now, he stood and moved to his dressing room. Having already sussed her taste, her preferred colours and style, he knew just what to wear. On an entirely private screen in his mind, he was watching her now, darting the length of the clothing-rails with searching fingers, fretting over selection. This, two doors away. A tantalising thought which drew a smile as he opened a drawer and sprayed a rarely used aftershave on his chest. Clive Christian No 1. In his top three. To the suggestion of wearing a dress, Naomi had barked a heated objection. Heated, but hollow. She’d relent, without a doubt. He couldn’t help wondering which one she’d choose, and had a minor wager with himself that it would be the red one.
Solomon took time to dress and fasten his cufflinks. Dinner had been prepared in advance and had sat in the fridge for two days. Two types of meat marinated in sauce then baked with leek, dry sherry, hot paprika, fennel, garlic, tomatoes. He’d serve it with roast vegetables and shower the dish with fresh coriander. Rocket salad on the side. Remaining preparation time: ten minutes. Cooking wasn’t a passion, but when the need arose, he could, well . . . rise to it.
He was ready. His shoes were unworn and spotless. He made his way to the kitchen to retrieve the prepared veg from the fridge. He seasoned and drizzled them and slid them in the oven. Beneath them went the meat dish, to heat. He mixed salad leaves with rocket and tomatoes, made a lemon based dressing. Lastly, table. He set the table for two, turned the lights low, lit candles, found some smouldering music and dimmed that too. Bread! He sliced a crusty loaf in half and rested it on a wooden board beside the knife and a pot of mixed olives and two bottles: balsamic vinegar, olive oil.
Then he sat at the table to watch the kitchen clock. Three minutes to seven. His mind whirred like a kaleidoscope, turning over pleasant thoughts until they shifted and shaped themselves into the beautiful and certain belief that Naomi Hamilton would soon be his.
She’d been lonely for months. Best guess that the last time she’d worn a dress was on her wedding day. The irony! The months since that time had brought her excruciating frustration and acres of thinking time. He’d taken a lead role in those thoughts. Every day had meant long hours of wrestling with agony. Same experience for him. Only different reasons. He well understood where she was.
So, how to handle a girl bubbling with fury and pain? Simple. Ignore her. Smother her and she’ll lash out and hurl all her hurt your way. Ignore her, and her focus will shift, the anger will dissolve into confusion, then die. Doubt will seep in. Without the confidence to dump her blame, seeds of insecurity will begin to germinate. Suddenly, she’s disarmed! A mouth-watering prospect. Yes, he’d hold out until she did the inevitable. She’d c
ome to him.
His back was to the kitchen door, eyes to the clock, counting the seconds down to seven. He smoothed his dark trousers, straightened his watch. At twenty seconds to seven, he heard movement upstairs. Already, the seeds were taking root. Less than twenty-four hours in his house and she was malleable, compliant. Careful footfalls on the stairs and he knew that she was wearing stilettos. The first footstep on the hall floor confirmed it. Red dress. I’m betting red.
Five seconds to seven and the door opened and the footsteps halted. It yelled uncertainty. He didn’t move, but the air had shifted. One second, soulless and still; the next, charged. Filled with her and her delicious self-doubt. She was ripening. The thrill was hardly bearable. He stood, because he couldn’t sit.
‘Evening.’ His selected tone was inflectionless. She didn’t reply, which pleased him very much. On his feet now and needing a purpose, he strode to the kitchen island where habit overtook him and he washed his hands. She was clipping carefully across the floor in his peripheral vision, standing by the table. The pull to study her was overwhelming. He resisted and dried his hands.
‘Sit, down. Please.’ Same monotone, pitched just above the music.
She didn’t sit. Three heartbeats later and he understood why not. She wasn’t ready to disappear beneath wood, to fold her legs away. She was standing defiantly, hand on hip, ready to be acknowledged. Wanting to be looked at. Which was why he dropped his gaze and attention to the salad bowl next, the bread and olives. He collected them and set off towards the table.
He looked at her now. Full on. His footsteps didn’t falter, but the effort to keep walking and to remain impassive, challenged his limbs, his facial muscles. His patience. Oh – not the red dress, but a dark navy one he’d almost forgotten about. Of course she wasn’t feeling like red. She was feeling blue! This dress was elegant, safe, guarded. She’d pretend it’d been an imposition, this dressing up, but the dress had been a careful choice. Every inch of her oozed taste right down to the subtle lip colour, the tied up hair with loose curly bits framing her face, feathering her neck. Her expression was stern and challenging, her eyes lined heavily with dark pencil. A mask only, to conceal the real Naomi Hamilton. The one who liked to please. Who craved assurance. Solomon licked his lips and juices flooded his tongue until he swallowed. Not the food. Her. She looked absolutely sensational.
‘Time flies, doesn’t it?’ Solomon said, glancing at the broken clock on the worktop that he’d found on the lawn that morning. Her glance followed his to the clock and she said nothing, but her cheeks flushed.
‘The perfect choice,’ he said to her, without a smile, his eyes on her again, glancing right down to the shoes, then back to her face. He sat down and tilted his palm her way, inviting her to sit opposite him.
‘My choice would have been jeans and a jumper,’ she said, sitting down finally, feigning irritation when it was anxiety she was feeling.
‘I don’t recall putting a gun to your head. Your choice to wear the dress.’
This incensed her. The blood rushed to the skin above her collarbone, colouring one patch. He watched, fascinated. ‘I’ve had a virtual gun to my head for as long as I can remember.’
He presented his palms again – a token of surrender. ‘No gun. See?’ She glared at him.
‘“My house. My rules.” Sound familiar? And having me face that mob last night. A virtual gun, all of it.’ She loaded him with a heavy look and lowered her stare to the table, the candles. The red patch above her collarbone was spreading.
‘You were incredible last night, Naomi,’ he said in a gentler tone. The use of her name would lower her defences.
‘Incredible?’ she muttered, as if the word tasted appalling. She shook her head.
‘I mean you handled them well. I approved. No wasted words. If they hadn’t left immediately, I’d have sacked them all, just as you threatened.’
She looked at him suspiciously. The how-do-you-know-about-those-details question crowded her mouth, he could see. She wouldn’t let it out. Instead, she lifted her chin and said, ‘One, I’m not looking for your approval, and two, those cows you employ weren’t worth my breath. And as for those animals in suits . . .’
‘Is that three?’ He soaked up a glare. ‘The girls, yes. Well, envy is an intoxicating emotion, see.’
Her eyes blazed now. ‘I’m not jealous of them.’
His lips collapsed into a smile, which held her attention. ‘No. They are envious of you.’
‘Oh.’ She digested this, refrained from asking why. Her expression was tricky to read. She looked at the bread, the olives.
‘Help yourself.’
She didn’t. Too distracted. ‘You shouldn’t have left me with them.’
‘And how else are you going to learn?’
‘I’m not here to learn.’ Her tone was suddenly sharp.
‘Why are you here then?’
‘You know why I’m here.’ Her voice quivered. ‘Don’t set your guard dogs and their bitches on me again.’
He allowed time for the music to gently come between them. ‘It was a valuable lesson for you and for them. They understand the score now. And I settled your quarrel with Carter. All’s square.’ He eyed her carefully, looking right into her dark eyes, daring her to look away. She didn’t. ‘Another thing. Never back down on your word. Last week, you told me I’d never see you again, yet here you are wearing one of my dresses. Seven hours ago, you told me you were fine as you were. Yet here you are wearing one of my dresses.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Of course, I never doubted you’d come, or that you’d wear a dress for me tonight.’
‘It isn’t for you.’
‘Who is it for then?’
Her lips tightened angrily, but she seemed to be aware that he was studying her reaction, testing her. So she switched tactics and held still. Progress. After some thought, she said, ‘It must be dull for you that I’m so predictable.’
‘Actually, no,’ he said. ‘I’d hedged my bets on the red dress.’
Again, the low music. The two candles flickering on the table between them. Solomon uncovered the salad and sawed a hunk of bread. He tipped a pool of olive oil and balsamic vinegar onto his plate and began to break and soak his bread in it.
‘Any idea who murdered our puppy this week? I missed his burial today.’ Vincent looked up. A little vein was throbbing on the side of her neck.
‘Murdered?’
‘Someone fed him poisoned meat.’
‘You’re sure?’ He took his first mouthful.
‘That’s what we were told after he’d been cut open and examined.’
A little cloud. Solomon didn’t like surprises. ‘I don’t know anything about a poisoned dog.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘You shouldn’t. Just remember that everything I do has reason, logic. I think with my head and not with other parts, as some men do. I have no reason to wage war on a dog.’
‘Someone did it.’
Indeed! Janes, still meddling, still on a mission to get even for Jimmy? That guy was becoming a nuisance and no one knew where he was. Vincent would have sent Charlie hunting for him much sooner except he knew that she only wanted him for herself. Which was dangerous now that Janes had money. Charlie liked money. This kind of complexity gave him a headache. Janes was the fly near the buffet, getting too close to the food. He needed crushing quickly, before he drew too much attention.
Naomi took hold of the bread now and cut herself a piece. He watched her intently and she was aware of it. Her movements were careful and inhibited. She added olives to her plate and pressed her fork into one of them and placed it in her mouth. The cloud disappeared as he watched her mouth move. This was an indescribable pleasure, to eat with her.
‘I’ve made the first move on the chess board,’ she said.
‘Good. I’ll respond after dinner.’
She was looking at him, a little vertical line between her brows. Something on her mind.
; ‘Don’t you forget I’m here for Dan. No other reason.’
‘Don’t you forget that either.’ He glanced at the clock and leant forward, ready to stand. The oven needed to be switched off. He wiped his hands on his napkin. ‘I’m going to have to remind you of Dan if you start to have too much fun with me, Naomi. Drink?’
She said nothing as he stood and turned his back on her and walked across the kitchen, carrying with him the pleasing sensation that she was scrutinising him closely, conducting a study of her own now. They were opponents and he intended them to be. For now. She’d have to figure out how to raise her game if she was to compete. It would sap her time and concentration. And while her mind was on him, how could it simultaneously be on Dan Stone?
Game on.
33
There was a constant sound. Naomi was playing in the swimming pool with Annabel in their back garden. They were young. This wasn’t their English house. The flowers and shrubs surrounding them, the sky, the heat, no, this was far from England. Annabel couldn’t hear the persistent humming sound no matter how many times Naomi told her to ‘just listen’. Annabel fooled around in the water in a red swimming costume, unconcerned.
From her position at the side of the pool, Naomi looked up at the sky, twirled full circle, searched for the sound source and couldn’t find it. What she found instead was that consciousness was tugging at her. With it, came an awareness that she wasn’t a child, that this swimming pool was from a past life and that she was simply dreaming – and all this while she could still see Annabel summersaulting in the water, gulping noisy breaths between turns.
The colours were becoming impossible to cling to, and in the next instant, she was back in a comfortable bed, in dense darkness. The blackout curtains at the window allowed no light. Solomon’s house. The second time she’d woken up here. Both times she’d felt immediately alert, as if half of her was resting while the other half kept watch. She lay still. The colours may have vanished, but the humming was still there.
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