by JL Simpson
“You wanted Paul to visit you for a booty call?”
Solomon chuckled.
Daisy sighed. “Can we not talk about Paul?”
“Problem?”
“Do you think he’s safe at the house on his own?”
“You want him to stay with us?”
“I’m not sure he would agree. He’s worried something will happen to the house if he leaves it empty.”
“No harm in asking, Princess.”
“I’ll give him a call later. Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Not being an arsehole.”
Solomon laughed. “Bollocks, my cover must be slipping.”
“Don’t get carried away. I’m sure your inner arsehole is in there somewhere waiting to show itself.”
“We can but hope, darlin’. But if not can we keep this revelation to ourselves? I’ve spent years working on my bad-boy persona.”
“Why?”
He glanced at her. “Why keep it quiet?”
“No, why do you want a bad boy persona?”
Solomon shrugged. “Life’s easier that way.”
“You mean if you behave like a git people won’t care about you. That’s really sad.”
“This is real life, Princess. No one cares about me and it’s best for everyone it stays that way.”
Daisy gazed at the brake lights flashing red on the back of the car they were following. “I care about you. So does Paul. He cared about you even when you were a git.”
The Aston Martin slowed as Solomon took a left turn. “I’m still a git. Maybe you can use your phone to check that charity on the Internet.”
Had his childhood really been so tough he couldn’t accept anyone cared about him? Too bad. Once this was over she’d build bridges. Sherman would love to have his godfather back as an honorary uncle, and Paul needed someone to get drunk and act the fool with.
*
Solomon concentrated on the road ahead. The car purred along, and he relaxed back in the seat. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down. Daisy had told Belinda that a woman not doing as she was told was his kryptonite, but she was wrong. He glanced at Daisy. She was focused on her phone as she scrolled through Google results. A woman saying she cared about him with real feeling was his weakness, but he’d never let another member of the fairer sex lead him around by the balls again. Not even one married to his best mate.
Daisy’s voice broke the silence. “I think I might be on to something.”
“What’s that?”
“The charity helps homeless men. Their website shows the board of trustees.”
“And?”
“My old boss Clive Lewis is one of them.”
“Interesting.”
“So is Phat Kitty’s manager, Jason Tyler.”
He recalled the conversation he’d had with Phat Kitty and Jason. “Shite. Can you find out if they’re putting on a charity show tonight?”
Solomon negotiated Winchester’s one-way system. The benefit of driving a car worth more than most people’s houses was that other vehicles got out of the way. No one wanted to have to ring their insurance company and tell them they’d damaged an Aston Martin.
“Royal Bath Hotel in Bournemouth from seven.”
“Does it have any other details?”
“You can buy tickets online. They cost five hundred pounds a head for dinner and entertainment.”
Solomon blew out a breath. Steep, but the insurance company was covering his expenses. If he was going back to Bournemouth he’d be able to try and retrieve his phone. “Can you email me the link? I’ll buy a ticket when we get home.”
“One ticket? What about me?”
“You’ll be busy, Princess.”
“Doing what?”
He flashed her a smile. “I thought Paul was coming over. If not, then I’ll think of something.”
“Why can’t I come? I might be able to help.”
“You’ll be recognized.”
“And you won’t?”
“I don’t have your pretty hair and memorable figure.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, mister. I thought we were in this together?” She stared at him and frowned. “Do you really think my hair’s pretty?”
He chuckled. “Daisy, a lady never fishes for compliments.”
“Lucky I’m not a lady, then. So do you?” She twirled a curl of her hair around a finger and stared at it.
He shook his head as he pulled into the car park and found an empty space. Daisy dropped her phone into her bag and climbed out as soon as they were stationary. He got out and locked the car before following her across the lumpy asphalt toward the main street. They were bang on time. Hopefully Mike Morrison would be in a sharing mood.
Daisy waited for him to catch up. “What do you think you’ll find out tonight anyway?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “No idea, but I’ve a feeling the charity is a key to solving this whole thing.”
“Liam said Stuart Bligh’s son went missing. He could have decided to leave money to a charity he thought might be able to help him if he’s living rough. It could be a coincidence.”
“I don’t like coincidences. There are hundreds of charities for homeless people. What are the chances he would randomly choose the one that your friend Clive and the manager of another potential beneficiary of an insurance policy under investigation are involved in?”
“Do you think it was Clive who set the killers on to me?”
“That would be my guess, Princess.”
“And he works for Maroni.”
“That he does.”
“But Clive thinks I’m looking for Toby. What does that have to do with the insurance policies?”
“Right now I have no idea. I guess time will tell, but at least we’re making progress.”
“I suppose.”
They walked the rest of the way to the accountant’s office in silence. Daisy had a point. Belinda had told them Tobias used to live in a squat. Did his disappearance have something to do with the insurance policies? That was something to look into. When they reached the accountant’s office, Solomon pushed the chrome-and-glass door open and waited for Daisy to step inside before he followed her.
The middle-aged receptionist glanced up. “Can I help you?”
Daisy walked to the counter. “Daisy Dunlop to see Mike Morrison.”
“Please take a seat.”
Solomon sank onto a dark brown sofa, and Daisy perched on the edge next to him. He tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned her head. “You worked in finance?”
She nodded.
“Okay, you take the lead.”
“Cool.” Her smile lit up her whole face. You’d swear to God he’d told her she’d won the lottery, not that she could question some crusty old sod in glasses and a brown cardigan.
A man wandered into the reception area, and Solomon decided he’d short changed the guy. Brown cardigan was such a stereotype. The old sod’s cardigan was closer to gray.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Daisy sat on the sofa and stared at the vision in a tux that stood the other side of the room. Solomon scrubbed up pretty well for a git. “Not bad but you should accessorize.”
“How’s that?”
She smiled. “I think a strawberry blonde in a sleek cream dress on your arm would be perfect.”
“Sorry, Princess. No can do. I have no idea who’ll be there, and I promised to keep you safe.”
“They tried to blow you up too, remember?”
He ran a finger over the healing graze on his face. “I do remember. Don’t tell me you’re worried about me?”
“Nope. I couldn’t care less.”
He chuckled as he tugged his French cuffs so they showed just below the sleeves of his Givenchy jacket. “What time will Paul be over?”
“About ten, he said. He wants to make sure our house is locked up tight and no one is hanging around before heading out.”
&nb
sp; “You remember how to set the perimeter alarm and disarm it to let him in?”
“Yes. Stop fussing and get going or you’ll be late.”
“I don’t want to be the first to arrive.”
“You don’t want to be the last either.”
“If you need me you’ve got my new number in case I can’t find my other phone at the car park.”
“You do realize even if you do find your old phone there’s every chance it’s cooked to a crisp.”
“True. You know where everything is. There are some dinners in the freezer you can reheat when you’re hungry. What is it that you plan to do while I’m gone?”
“I’m going to do some research into that charity, Anthony the Abbot, and Jason Tyler. I can’t help thinking about that poor man.”
“Which man?”
“Stuart Bligh.”
Solomon sat next to her on the sofa. “Why?”
“He lost his son and then died with everything he owned mortgaged to the hilt. Once the bank sells off the house and gets the proceeds of the property insurance their will only be the life insurance money. Instead of getting a sizeable inheritance the butler gets about ten grand, everything else goes to the charity. Stuart must have been worried sick about his debts. Do you think he killed himself?”
“The police found no sign of the fire being anything other than an accident.”
“I wonder where all his money went?”
“It seems we’ve another mystery to solve, Princess.”
“Do you think the missing money is related?”
“Undoubtedly. If you spend any time in this business you soon start to notice a pattern. Nearly everything comes down to sex or money.
Daisy sighed. “Or maybe sex and money. If he was still alive and the whole thing was a way to scam money from the insurance company, why give it to charity? It makes no sense.”
“If it all made sense we’d be out of work, would we not?” Solomon glanced at his watch. “Now, I’d better get going. Will you be all right by yourself?”
“If I say no will you let me come with you? I could glam up in jiffy.”
He chuckled. “Nope. As much as I’d love to see your particular version of glam, I’d cancel and stay home.”
“In that case, I’ll play Cinderella and stay here and you can go off and be Daniel Craig.”
Solomon frowned. “What?”
“The tux. The Aston Martin. You’re a real-life 007. If the women knew the heat you were packing they’d definitely be throwing themselves at you all night.”
“Is it heat that I’m packing? That’s a new one on me.”
Solomon raised an eyebrow and Daisy felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. She’d been talking about his gun, not his dangly bits but, apparently like every other man, his life and thoughts revolved around his penis.
Solomon lifted an eyebrow. “Are you jealous?”
Daisy laughed. “That you’re packing heat? No way. That you’ll be the belle of the ball? Nope. I’m not into women.”
Solomon leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “If the women of the world ever find out you would write them all off so easily they’ll be greatly disappointed. I’ll be late so don’t wait up. See you for breakfast. Make sure you set the alarm as soon as I’ve gone and only switch it off long enough to let Paul in. I’ve got a remote to disarm it when I get back.”
“Yes, sir.” She grabbed his arm as he started to rise from the sofa. “Be careful.”
“I’ve no intention of being anything else, Princess.”
“Are you taking your gun?”
He shook his head. “It’s safely locked in my study. I don’t think I’ll be in danger in a public venue, and I don’t want to be caught with it if the police are still at the car park when I go looking for my phone.” He winked at her. “The only heat I’m packing tonight is my own.”
“A nine millimeter and not a cannon, then.”
Laughter bubbled out of him. “And there I was thinking you had good observation skills.”
She followed him to the front door and waited until he pulled away in his car before locking up. The alarm pad was in the kitchen next to a screen that showed the view from the camera overlooking the front gate. She watched the Aston Martin flash past and disappear into the night. After punching in the code to arm the alarm she pondered checking the freezer for food but decided against it. She wasn’t hungry and would be eating for entertainment. What she needed was a drink, and something to take her mind off things. They both knew Solomon was walking into potential danger. She just hoped he came back in one piece. Funny, a week ago she couldn’t have cared less what happened to him.
A search of the fridge revealed a bottle of expensive Australian Chardonnay. Solomon would be sucking on champagne all night so he could hardly begrudge her a bottle of wine. Once she’d found a glass she headed back to the living room. Flames danced in the wood heater, giving the room a safe and cozy feel. Daisy filled her glass, set the bottle on the coffee table, and curled up on the sofa with Solomon’s laptop.
*
Solomon sped through the forest toward the coast. He wasn’t a man for social events, but this was too good an opportunity to miss. Had the situation been different he would have loved to take Daisy with him. Any man would be proud to have her on his arm, provided she didn’t drop her dinner in her lap or spill red wine over another guest. He chuckled as he imagined her panic at having ruined some poor woman’s designer dress, and everyone else’s evening.
He relaxed back in the seat, enjoying the feel of the vehicle as it purred beneath him and the miles flashed by. The function would be starting around now. He’d have to go looking for his phone after the dinner.
The drive through Bournemouth to the hotel took some navigating but he eventually pulled into a parking space. As he climbed from the car he could hear the surf pounding the beach. He locked the doors and tugged his jacket straight. Should he check in on Daisy before he went inside? He decided against it. She was fine safely tucked up at his house.
Solomon made his way to the front of the hotel, stepped into the foyer, and followed the directions to the function room. He was greeted by a wall of sound. A pretty blonde approached with a tray of drinks, and he snagged a glass of white wine before stepping into the throng of bodies. Everyone who was anyone was there. In between the round tables set for dinner, society types clinked glasses with entertainers, and local political movers and shakers schmoozed with business tycoons. On top of the price of dinner they were running a silent auction that included such delights as a week on a private island in the Caribbean, and a show by Phat Kitty for you and fifty of your best friends.
The woman of the hour was the other side of the room. Her skimpy costume did a good job of hiding all evidence of Maureen beneath the façade of Phat Kitty. Jason was close to the stage chatting to a dumpy middle-aged couple.
Solomon slipped between the huddles of social activity, intent on speaking to Maureen before she disappeared to prepare for her set. He’d booked his ticket under the name Ronan Liffey to hide his identity, but he wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.
Her head turned as he approached. She made her apologies to the fawning young men who’d been hanging on her every word and moved to meet him. The smile she flashed never reached her eyes. Her hands fiddled nervously with the bottom of her red leather bustier, and he wondered if she should be in something so tight with a baby on board. Not that he could ask. He wasn’t supposed to know she was in the family way.
“Solomon.”
She offered a hand and he took it in his. “Maureen, or should I be calling you Phat Kitty?”
“Maureen’s fine. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I booked at the last minute. It seemed like a good cause.”
“It is. Lots of charities are involved in caring for families, and women and children, but men are the forgotten homeless. Some of them are every bit as vulnerable. A lot of them have mental illnesses
.”
He let her hand go and sipped his wine. She spoke with passion. If the charity was a front for something else either she didn’t know or she was one hell of an actress.
“So, what got you involved?”
She shrugged and glanced across the room toward her manager, who was now deep in conversation with a man Solomon recognized as Clive Lewis. A third man who looked vaguely familiar joined them. He was probably only in his early twenties. His heavy jaw and sharp features were an odd combination.
“The charity is Jason’s baby. My involvement started as a way to improve my public image, but I met someone who showed me how important the work was.”
“Zut?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Did you find him?”
Solomon shook his head, and then placed his half-empty glass on a tray as a waitress passed by. “Is there somewhere we can go and talk?”
Maureen took his hand and led him toward the back of the room and out a side door. She’d ignored all the comments and well wishes. The door opened into a stark white corridor with a polished dark timber floor, but she didn’t stop there. Instead her heels tapped out a staccato rhythm as she marched the length of the hallway. A door at the end stood open, and she stepped inside, dragging Solomon with her before closing it behind them. He glanced around. A white sofa stood against one wall. The other side of the room housed a table, mirror and chair. They’d arrived in a dressing room of sorts.
She leaned back against the door. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Why don’t you take a seat?”
The color drained from her face. “Is he dead? Is that why you didn’t find him?”
Solomon shook his head. “No. I just didn’t find him. Please, will you not take a seat?”
She crossed to the sofa and perched on the edge, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Solomon pulled the chair from the dressing table and sat in front of her. “Maureen. Why were you looking for Zut? And how do you know him? You told me you’d never met.”
She lifted her head and stared at him. A tear trickled down her cheek leaving a dark mascara stained trail through her perfectly applied makeup. “I lied. I’ve known him for months. He filled in for my lead guitarist in the studio when I was recording my last album.”
“What happened to your guitarist?”
“He said he’d come into some money and was going to set out on his own solo career and that I was holding him back. Last I heard he was in rehab again.”