Shadows to Ashes

by Tori de Clare

  In the garage, Vincent took out his phone and called Charlie. She answered after two rings.

  ‘Vincent!’ she said.

  ‘I see you’ve vacated my house.’

  ‘Like you said.’

  ‘Good. Club ownership – I’ve had the legal documents drawn up,’ he said.

  ‘OK.’

  She was trying to play it cool, but her excitement was oozing down the phone. He looked at his watch 1:40 a.m. ‘Meet me at Queen 3 at 2.30 a.m. I have the keys to the club and almost 3k for you in cash, outstanding wages.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘Because I said so. Changeover has to happen tonight. The morning will be too late.’

  ‘Why?’

  He cut her off. Just left her holding the question.

  Vincent rolled his bike out of the garage and fired it up. As he rode through the streets, a cool breeze fanning his back, the thought chased him that it could be too late. Annabel could have given birth. Naomi could be on her way to the police station, with the file.

  But Vincent had never operated on ‘coulds’. So he increased his speed.

  ***

  Vincent was well used to being out at this time, but tonight was different. The moon was bright; the night was deepening. The traffic was as sparse as the stars overhead. Somewhere up there, light years away, two stars had been christened after Naomi and Dan. As ludicrous as the concept was, those two stars felt too close and too all-seeing tonight, the eyes of The Almighty watching him, almost.

  At St Mary’s hospital, he followed signs to the maternity unit and scoured the car parks closest to it. Car, three gaps. Car, five gaps, that’s how it went. He weaved through little roads and parked cars, his head twisting inside his helmet, searching for a Polo. The Polo. No luck.

  He rode down another street, behind another building. Then suddenly, he spotted a possibility in car park 4 and hope bubbled within his chest. He swung the bike past a couple of cars, couple of gaps and ended up behind the black Polo, studying the plate. Bingo.

  The bike engine was raw and raucous so he flicked it off and dismounted. He circled the car. The file wasn’t on the passenger side or on the back seat. He shone a light in the dark foot wells behind the seats, and could see the tip of a folder which had been pushed under the driver’s seat. His folder.

  He took a look around him and found himself alone, so he fished inside a pocket for the string. Old car. Pull up button lock. Easy to break into and he was prepared. He threaded the string round the driver’s door and began to pull carefully down on each side, fixing his attention on the loop, which was now inside the car on one length of the string. With steady hands, he manoeuvred the loop until it slotted around the pull lock. Then he squeezed tight. The loop gripped and he yanked it up. Pop. It’d taken under a minute.

  He opened the door, leant inside the car and dragged the folder from under the seat. Then he jammed it inside his jacket before relocking and closing up. Within another minute he was clear of the hospital grounds and was sitting astride his bike on a side street, watching the hospital, wondering what was going on inside. He killed the engine again. Removed his helmet. Took a moment to reflect.

  Naomi and Lorie, working together. Who’d have thought? And as a result, Vincent needed a long and urgent shower. The compulsion was to scrub his skin clean of her. It was a rare event for him to be seized by surprise, but to be caught so spectacularly off guard as Lorie had managed . . . it was both shocking and invigorating. Devious imagination never failed to impress him. Tonight’s events had slapped him, brought him round and fuelled him with sufficient energy to do what needed to be done now.

  He took out Lorie’s phone and looked for P.C. Kerry Marshall’s number. And, what do you know, he found it.

  ***

  ‘Wait for the contraction. Don’t push yet,’ the midwife said, her head at the foot of the bed. She was recording notes. Strange time to be scribbling. ‘You’re doing really well. I can see the head. He doesn’t have much hair.’ She smiled at Naomi and jotted something down. Just another night at work for her.

  Annabel was panting, silently hanging on to her pain with her eyes squeezed shut. She’d had a shot of something earlier, but the relief had worn off now. She didn’t seem to be taking in anything that was said to her. Joel was wetting her face. Naomi was gripping her hand. Annabel dug her nails into Naomi’s palm.

  ‘Can’t do this anymore,’ she muttered to no one in particular.

  Joel bent down and kissed her forehead and she lashed out and swatted him away.

  ‘It’s coming,’ she whispered. She was talking to herself rather than communicating.

  Naomi felt sick. If only they could divide the burden and share it. The midwife slammed her pen down and paid attention. A line of concentration penned itself between her eyes. ‘OK, push down, Annabel, into your bottom. Push, push, push!’

  Annabel’s face contorted in agony and she pushed for seconds without breathing, the veins bulging in her neck. Then she came up for air, panted, held the air, pushed hard again for all she was worth.

  ‘That’s it. Good girl. Keep going.’

  Annabel was flushed in the face with the effort. Her hair was damp and plastered back. Joel stood helplessly watching her, ready to cool her down when the worst had passed.

  The contraction abated and Annabel breathed shallowly again, and let out tiny yelps, her body still gripped with agony. She kept her eyes closed and tipped her head back. Joel got to work on her face and neck. Wiping her with cold water, fanning her face. This pattern went on and on – the note-taking, the buoyant midwife yelling encouragement and instructions like a fitness coach, the contractions and the endless pushing with Annabel’s life in the balance. How would a head emerge from that small opening? And when?

  Somehow it did, on the next contraction. With a titanic effort and some deep groaning, Annabel forced the head out until it was jammed between her legs. The midwife summoned Joel who shifted to the other end of the bed and stood, watching, his eyes glazed with tears.

  The midwife, her movements deft and practical, raised her voice to reach Annabel, who seemed to be breathing her final breaths.

  ‘Shallow breaths now, Annabel. Almost there. He’s a gorgeous little chap. Just hold on now. Not much longer.’

  The baby’s head was miraculously turning. A tear ran down Joel’s cheek. He held his hands to his face. The pain hit another crescendo and Annabel gripped Naomi’s hand and yelled out in torment. Naomi could barely watch. She found she wasn’t breathing either, as Annabel pushed into the pain, even though it seemed to be killing her, and the midwife said, ‘That’s good. Last one. Come on.’ She took hold of the baby’s protruding head and pulled him clean out of Annie in one go.

  Joel wiped his eyes and gazed at the new born between Annabel’s legs. The midwife was talking and smiling. Naomi saw her lips moving without really hearing her. Annabel was unmoving on the bed. Her eyes were closed, head flopped to one side. The midwife cut the cord and the baby was very offended about it. He yelled and waved his arms and wondered where his snug world had gone. The midwife told him all was well and wiped him down and picked him up. She cleared his mouth, turned him, rubbed him, turned him back. He wasn’t pleased at all.

  Naomi looked at Annabel’s hand, limp now. Their fingers were laced together on the bed. Maybe they’d once touched hands like this inside the womb, before Annabel led the way out and Naomi had followed, either side of midnight.

  ‘Annie?’

  Annabel opened a sleepy eye and a fat tear snaked out.

  Naomi bent down and kissed her cheek and the salty tear smeared her lips. ‘You did it. It’s over! He’s beautiful. Look at him.’

  When Naomi looked up, Joel had been given charge of the baby and they were a perfect pair, Joel looking down, assuring him that he was a very clever boy indeed, and the baby, wrapped and comforted now, was listening hard. Joel brought him straight to Annabel and laid him across her chest and she folded her arms
around him and opened the blanket to look at him, pressed her lips to his face and took in the wonder of his flawless little features, his covering of fair hair coated with wax, his tiny hands and feet.

  Joel was absorbed in the moment and Naomi watched him, her chest tight. Vincent and Charlotte Solomon’s half-brother, and Annabel was perfectly unaware of it. Naomi felt sick and elated, confused and weak all at the same time. She studied the three of them, a family now – a unit, and decided she’d have to leave them alone. She’d have to trust Joel with her twin.

  She stood. ‘Annie, I’m going to go. I’ll call Mum and Dad, OK?’

  Annabel couldn’t take her gaze off the baby, but she nodded in acknowledgement. The midwife was waiting to take him and weigh him now and Annabel wasn’t ready to let him go.

  Naomi switched her phone on as she left the delivery room. Exhaustion held her still while her phone booted up. Three phone calls from her dad and a message – she and Mum were on their way. It’d been sitting there a while, which could only mean one thing. They were already here.

  51

  Kerry Marshall had gone to bed at 8:30 and struggled to sleep. Her body hadn’t been ready to rest and her head had been crowded with stuff. But she was due in work at five and her alarm was set for 4:00. Sleep was essential. But the necessity of it only seemed to cause an obstruction, making her body more restless and her mind more weighed down.

  Tomorrow was an important day at work, the culmination of months of intensive investigative work. She needed to be sharp. According to the superintendent, who’d laboured the point a dozen times, it had been the most ambitious operation in the Force’s history, to weed out drug dealers and suppliers and clean up the streets. It was an impossible task of course, tip of an almighty iceberg and all that, but they’d made progress. Several dawn raids were planned in various parts of the city. They’d need to happen simultaneously. So officers had been called in on mass and Kerry had tried to do the sensible thing by getting enough sleep.

  It felt too early for the alarm when it went off. Still dark outside. Her eyes were glued together and her head – still swimming with scattered dreams – was so heavy that she couldn’t lift it off the pillow. So she used her arm to reach out and snatch her phone from the side of the bed. As she lifted it, the dreams drifted away and it dawned on her that it wasn’t the alarm at all, but her phone that was ringing. She unsealed one unwilling eye to look at the screen. A number she didn’t recognise. This brought her round enough to speak.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘How safe is your safe house, Kerry? Seems your guest has terminated her stay.’

  Sleep fled. Her heart began to thud. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Come on now. You can do better than that.’

  One name filled her mind. ‘Vincent Solomon?’ Where was he? She was already getting to her feet on shaky legs, and walking to the window to look out.

  ‘How are things, Kerry? I never did thank you for saving Naomi’s life.’

  Silence. The inside of Kerry’s mouth was utterly dry. She fought to generate some moisture. ‘How is Naomi? I know she’s been staying with you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, she’s gone. I decided it was never going to work out between us, so I ended our arrangement and asked her to leave. She really didn’t want to go in the end.’

  ‘What do you mean, ended your arrangement?’

  ‘Kerry, I’m disappointed. I can hear the insinuation in your tone. Naomi’s at the hospital with Annabel. Her sister’s having the baby.’

  Kerry processed this and wondered if it was true. What the hell had happened with Lorie? She daren’t mention her name.

  ‘What do you mean by the safe house?’ An attempt to tread carefully, pick up clues.

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. I mean Lorie isn’t there. She went walkabout and appeared in one of my bedrooms. Ghosts can do that kind of thing.’

  Crap.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Oh, she disappeared as mysteriously as she came. Who knows where she is now.’

  Kerry almost collapsed. Her mouth had fallen open. Lorie knew nothing about police operations, so who’d been talking? Nick Dobson had been certain for a while that there was a mole. Kerry had overheard something she shouldn’t have heard.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Kerry. Nobody told me. I guessed. I already knew that the police were tracking me and then when Lorie showed up and mentioned a safe house, it all made sense. See, nothing is free anymore is it? I guessed she’d had to spill a few gems to earn her keep, which started a few balls rolling for you. But ultimately, Lorie’s loyalty is to me. You’ll find Naomi will be the same.’

  ‘I think you’re deluded.’

  ‘We’ll see. Meanwhile, you have two immediate problems. Lorie is wandering around Gatley barely clothed and I have a meeting at Queen 3.’

  ‘Queen 3?’

  The line went dead.

  Kerry swore and cursed as she groped around in the dark for the light switch. Having found it, she got dressed in record time and left the house.

  ***

  Naomi had a text from Lorie. She wouldn’t respond to that yet. Too much to think about. Lorie had been in Vincent’s file under the heading Henry’s daughter. Beside her name, it said deceased. Lorie was the last person in the file. Had Vincent added her after her staged death, for the record? Or did Lorie know she was in there beside the words, Henry’s daughter? It had to be a mistake, surely.

  Naomi slipped into the nearest toilet in search of solitude. She needed to wash her hands and face, calm herself, call her parents. The day had felt like a week. So many things had happened. She hadn’t had time to sit and think about Lorie’s astonishing return, to properly process that, all this time, Lorie had been the one dropping notes to her in the night at home and guiding her through her time with Vincent. Kerry had been in on the secret, had personally visited the family to tell them of Lorie’s death. Something serious was going on. But there’d been no time for explanations, only time for Lorie to indicate that she was helping the police, and to show her Vincent’s stash of drugs and to explain the family connection – the three of them, Vincent, Charlie and Joel.

  Joel? That had been the second shock. How had she not made the connection with Joel? Who else could have informed Vincent about the wedding but him? She’d immediately snatched the photographs in the cupboard and studied them again. And then she’d seen it with absolute clarity, that Lorie was telling the truth. That Joel was the little blond kid, the third sibling, no mistake. Lorie was behind her, talking, telling her that Joel had never grown up with the other two. That he’d been a victim too, always wanting to be free of them.

  Then Lorie told Naomi that she had a personal score to settle with Vincent and that he’d never respond to her unless he was convinced she was Naomi. At the time, Naomi just felt relief that Lorie wasn’t intending to hurt her and that maybe she could reach Annabel in time for the birth. Without thinking, she’d done a deal and agreed to Lorie’s demands – anything to get away. She’d leave once she’d seen Vincent and spoken to him. In exchange for freedom and Lorie’s car keys, Naomi had pledged to hand over Vincent’s house keys and her necklace. She’d gabbled a few morsels of information about the perfume from Venice, about Vincent’s invitation to come to her following three knocks on the door. Lorie had taken it in and Naomi had vanished from the house as quickly as she could, Vincent’s folder wrapped inside her coat, careful to avoid the camera above the garage.

  Naomi found herself staring into the mirror, peering through herself. Only when she heard a rustle behind her did she realise there was someone in the toilet. This brought her back to her pale face, her bloodshot eyes. She squirted some liquid soap in her palm and began to wash her hands and think about Vincent and Lorie and what might have happened. How was she any better than him, betraying him like this?

  Betraying him? She questioned herself, shook her head. Where’s your loyalty to Dan? You owe Vincent no
thing! To Vincent it had only been a game, a battle of wits and a bid to outplay his opponent. And she’d been his opponent and tonight, she’d won. She’d escaped the house, been there for Annabel, dug out Vincent’s folder and come away with it. From here, she’d hand it over to the police, exposing Vincent’s whole team, those who’d been marked. For Dan’s sake, she had to do it.

  She should be relieved, jubilant, yet she couldn’t ignore the dull ache in her gut or deny the nausea that pulsed around her body in restless waves. As she splashed water on her face and tried to swill the awful feeling away, these haunting words filed into her mind: You free Dan, you kill me. That’s the game we’re playing now.

  Her hands began to tremble and panic overwhelmed her. She took hold of the sink and stood, feeling faint and short of breath. The feeling peaked then receded in degrees. She had to get a grip of herself and take the folder to the police station. It really shouldn’t be in the car. She wondered if Kerry was working a night shift and if she could leave the folder in safe hands.

  What time is it anyway?

  She looked at her phone. 2:10 a.m. Her thoughts were tiring her. They were flying around, adding to a general sense of disorientation. She hadn’t called her parents yet. Before that thought could get away, she searched for Henry’s number, pressed call. The toilet flushed behind her, so she opened the door and drifted into the corridor.

  Three rings, then, ‘Naomi, any news?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. Her head was still light and Henry’s voice seemed distant somehow. The lighting on the corridor ceiling seemed too bright. ‘Baby boy, just as we thought. Annabel’s fine. She’s exhausted, but she’s OK, Dad. She did really well.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness.’ She heard him echoing her words to Camilla. The thought of seeing Camilla brought on palpitations. ‘And the little chap?’