#3 in The Midnight Saga:
Shadows to Ashes
By Tori de Clare
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This book, as in all of my work, is dedicated to my husband and children. They are my reason for doing everything that I do. They teach me so much.
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Acknowledgements
Authors always need help with research and technical details. I begged for a few favours whilst writing Shadows to Ashes and wonderful people gave their time to help me, for which I’m very grateful. Thanks to Stephen Meredith, my very knowledgeable CSI friend who – once again – gave hours of his time to my cause, without complaint. He’s helped me throughout the trilogy very ably and willingly. I don’t know what I’d have done without his input. Thank you to Deb Bartlett who – again, for the third time – supplied the book cover for me and did all the things I cannot do. Thanks to Steve Kennedy who’s served years in prison – not as a prisoner, but as a prison officer. He supplied invaluable information. And thank you to my family who have encouraged and supported me throughout the process. My eldest daughter for posing on the front cover and to my youngest daughter for the hours of chat about the plot. To my sons for their wisdom and their practical contribution in the final stages, and also to my husband for cheering me on ceaselessly. It’s been a family effort; I love you all. I’m also indebted, in particular, to two others: my sister, Mary, and my dear friend, Irina, the first two people to read this book pre-publication. Their response to my writing over the years has helped to shape it. Their insights have been inspirational. Their very kind words about Shadows to Ashes touched me very much, helping me to feel that the years of dedicated effort has been worthwhile. Shadows to Ashes is the last book in the trilogy, so it’s goodbye to these characters now. Maybe I should thank them too. They have been my constant companions for such a long time. I may just miss their company.
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No part of this work may be reproduced, electronically transmitted or photocopied in any way or by any means without the express permission of the author and publisher
Copyright © Tori de Clare 2017
Tori de Clare has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved
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Shadows to
Ashes
By Tori de Clare
Shadows
To
Ashes
Prologue
The footsteps behind her weren’t easy to detect in the newly fallen snow. She tuned in to a faint crunching and her defences stepped up. She scanned her surroundings. The street was deserted apart from a woman in tan boots in the distance who’d reached the end of the road and was about to turn the corner. She watched the woman vanish out of sight and felt oddly vulnerable.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Seemed louder. And closer.
A glance over her right shoulder told her that there was only one other person on the street, several paces behind. A man, head down, collar up. The crown of his head was dark. He had his hands in his pockets and was dressed in black. That’s as much as she saw – a silhouette on the snow, black on white, shifting towards her, gaining ground from the sounds of things.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
She attempted to accelerate, but her shoes slopped and skidded until she felt unsafe on her feet.
Keep upright. Keep walking.
It was daytime. Morning, in fact. Why be concerned? But for weeks she’d had a feeling that her movements away from the house were being tracked. That someone was monitoring her every step. So it was hardly a surprise that a nagging voice in her head was yelling, danger. She needed to listen to her instincts, to trust them even. But seeing every stranger as a threat had drawbacks too. Her inner voice was urging her to break into a run and escape him. To make it to a place dense with people and traffic.
That haven was close enough. She could hear the distant traffic and visualise random strangers, roaming in safety. But she couldn’t rush. Not on soft snow. Not in heels and a long wool coat that was heavy and burdensome.
Adrenaline was being secreted into her bloodstream now, pressing her to hurry. The end of the road was about twenty, thirty metres away. This street was narrow, claustrophobic. Wooden fence to her left, office buildings to her right with countless windows veiled in blinds.
To be safe, she was considering ducking into one of the office buildings until he’d passed. She wished she’d gone the long way round and avoided this shortcut, this narrow winding street. But suddenly, she realised that the footsteps behind her had fallen silent. She looked around, a full long look over each shoulder. She was alone.
Relief swept over and through her, loosening the muscles in her face. She let go of the tension by inhaling deeply and panting out the air. The street appeared to widen, to brighten. She slowed her pace to something more comfortable, settling her breathing to the new rhythm of her footsteps.
‘Paranoid,’ she muttered.
Then, two paces later, there was a yell and a loud thud to her left which made her jump. It came from beyond the fence. She found she’d stopped walking. She turned to her left, stared, listened, tried to make sense of what she was hearing. The six-foot fence shielded whatever was going on behind it. There was a shuffling sound, then footsteps, running away at speed. Then, for seconds, no noise at all. Until the groaning began. Someone beyond the fence was wailing for help.
She hated herself for stalling. For glancing at her watch and weighing the cost of involvement. She had no time to spare. Important things to do. The end of the street was enticingly close now. The urge to reach it was making her hands tremble. The pleas for help continued. Options flashed through her mind. She could carry on. She could call an ambulance, then carry on. She could look for assistance. She could. But she didn't.
She surveyed the street once more, only to confirm that she was alone. She was wasting time the other person might not have. She found an opening in the fence a few metres ahead and cursed her hesitation. What kind of person turns a blind eye? The opening was a foot wide. One plank had broken off at knee height. She pushed her head through the gap and found a junk yard. In half a second she logged crumpled cars piled high and a heap of a million metal parts, a skip, a white van that looked intact.
Then she saw the victim lying on the ground beside the fence. A man curled up, white jumper bathed in blood, back to her, groaning, cradling his head, needing attention, urgently.
She could smell petrol, oil, rubber. A pungent, unpleasant mix. The snow was slippery, slushy, wet underfoot. She stepped over the broken plank, lifting her long wool coat, careful not to catch it.
‘Hold on,’ she called.
He didn't answer. He seemed to have gone still in the snow. A thick baton of wood lay near his head.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and flicked up a number pad. She was holding back, reluctant to approach him.
‘I'm calling an ambulance now.’
No response. He wasn’t moving. Was he breathing? She pressed the number nine three times with a trembling thumb then rushed towards him. The call seemed to be struggling to connect.
‘Come on,’ she told her phone. His eyes were closed. He was utterly still. A ring tone yelled in her ear and she bent down to check for a pulse. Her fingers never reached his neck. He exploded into movement. Sprang up, knocked her to the ground. The ground was rough and cold. Stones dug into her back, her legs. Dazed, she saw the sky, the sun. A hand. He clamped her mouth, yanked her to her feet and pulled her in front of him. Then he powered her toward the white van, pushing from behind.
How could I have been so stupid?
Her feet slipped desperately along b
umpy ground as she tried to resist the move towards the van. But he continued to make progress towards it on this waste ground full of scrap metal. He was strong. Stocky. Huge hands. Weighed twice what she weighed. She was in heels, a long coat. Her bag was still tangled over her shoulder and was bashing against her side. At the rear of the van was a black coat on the ground. This guy was the silhouette, it hit her now. He capably held her captive and managed to open the back doors. She was looking into an empty metal box, no access to the driver’s space.
She was going in. She thought it, and then it happened. The black coat was thrown in after her.
No contest. She couldn’t fight.
She knew it was hopeless.
The doors slammed shut.
1
OCTOBER
(FIVE MONTHS EARLIER)
The sky was profoundly blue though it was late afternoon. The temperature was tropical, the colours vivid. The odd billowing white cloud tried to assert itself against the mighty sun only to wither in the attempt. Soon there’d be no clouds at all. The sun would vaporise them all and would cast an unchallenged glare upon the islands, having conquered the skies. And those beneath would worship at its feet.
These were Solomon’s thoughts as he digested his surroundings and walked in dark trousers, short-sleeved shirt, along a wooden jetty to a magnificent-looking water bungalow perched on stilts above shallow water. The honeymoon nest. He was aware of the chill at the base of his spine, creeping up. Charlie, Solomon’s sister, was following close behind.
‘Do you ever feel overdressed, Vincent?’
Now was not the time for talking. He needed quiet, concentration, a clear head. He continued to walk and drink in his surroundings, hands in trouser pockets. The sand on his shoes was an irritation.
‘Never.’ She pursued him in silence until, several paces from the door, Vincent turned to her, lifted his sunglasses and ran his eyes over her for the first time. She was spilling out of a white bikini top which was little more than a couple of triangles of material held together by strings. This she’d paired with some tight white shorts and gladiator sandals. ‘Classy,’ Vincent muttered. ‘Do you ever feel underdressed at all?’
‘Never.’ She smiled and held out a key. ‘Here.’
He took it from her, but didn’t return the smile. There wasn’t a single smile in him. That was for the carefree. Solomon wasn’t free, which was a care he carried alone.
‘Where did you get this key?’
‘I stole it from one of the maids yesterday. I won’t bore you with the details.’
‘Correct.’ He approached the door then rotated carefully to face her again. ‘This doesn't mean you’re off the hook and all’s forgotten. I’m incensed about this entire business. I shouldn’t need to be here. I’ve never been a fan of plan B, you know that.’
‘I did tell you not to come. I could have handled –’
‘Fact, Charlie: you let me down. And the added fact that I’m here means that you’ve mishandled things completely.’
The smile shrunk, then vanished altogether. ‘How is it my fault that Joel betrayed us?’
Solomon took a step towards her and lowered his voice, though there wasn’t a soul around. ‘It was your job to be vigilant enough to know that Joel intended to betray us. I can’t tolerate surprises, you know that too. Who knows for how long Dan and Naomi were seeing each other behind your back. Which is effectively my back. You are my hands and ears, and therefore my back. Understand?’
Charlie said nothing. She stood, weight on one leg, hand on hip, the other hand shielding her eyes from the sun.
Solomon continued, ‘You were sleeping on duty. Too much got past you and so here I am, mopping up the mess while you strut around in strings and triangles.’
‘These strings and triangles have helped you out, I’ll have you know.’
‘And how is that?’
‘I had to think quickly, but I stopped the wedding.’
A pause. ‘Go on then, amuse me. How do strings and triangles halt a wedding?’
‘See this?’ she said, holding up her wrists. He lifted his glasses, dropped them again. Her inner wrists were badly bruised. ‘Self-inflicted yesterday. And this.’ She showed him the inside of her left thigh and reached to lift the shorts, unveiling another dark bruise.
‘Alright. Put it away. I get it. What happened?’
‘Once again, self-inflicted. This morning, I was up very early, watching this place. Dan went out for a walk, right?’
‘So?’
‘So nothing. When Dan and Joel went out for breakfast later, I let myself in here and helped myself to Dan’s phone plus what hairs I could find around his bed and shower. I returned to my hotel reception, asked to speak to the manager and explained to him that a man had tried to rape me on the beach that morning but that I’d wrestled him off and that he’d dropped his phone in the struggle. The manager called the police. I waited and waited. Everything happens at snail’s pace around here, but eventually a couple of policemen showed up and when they saw me in my strings and triangles, they were more than happy to listen to what I had to say, and to help.’
‘Disgusting animals.’
‘They’re just men. I told them it wasn’t OK for anyone to assault me just because I look like this. They agreed.’
‘Is this a long story?’ Solomon was already bored with her. Stuff to do.
‘Wait for it. They gleaned what information they needed from Dan’s phone and caught up with the wedding party at the beach and arrested him for attempted rape before he could say, I do. Give me some credit?’
No chance! Vincent ignored that comment, turned, inserted the key card into the slot by the door. ‘You didn’t need to interfere. I have my own plans for Dan. There’s always a plan B and C, even if I don’t like resorting to them. I want you to pack your case now and go home. Fun’s over.’
‘What? I can’t just leave. The police want me to make a full statement and identify Dan. They’ve told me to go –’
‘And I’ve told you to leave, so you won’t be around, will you! Trust me, by the time I’ve finished with Dan, he’ll have a lot more to worry about than allegations of groping a woman in flimsy strings. I'm taking a further trip from here. I can’t say when you’ll see me next.’
‘What kind of trip?’
‘Business. My business. I’ll contact you. Meanwhile, I need you in Manchester taking care of the club. I’m trusting you to do a good job and entrust the work to no one. I mean no one. Can you manage that, no excuses?’
‘For how long?’
‘As long as.’
Charlie deflated, expelled all of the air out of her lungs. Solomon glared at her through his day-blue eyes until she nodded.
‘I was ready to nail Dan,’ she said.
‘You’ll play this my way. Leave now. I intend to do this part alone.’
‘What if she comes back here?’
‘She won’t want to be alone. After a frantic search for Dan, she’ll stay with her twin and our ex-brother.’
‘What are we going to do about Joel?’
‘There is no we. Leave him to me. That’s an instruction.’
Vincent opened the door without stepping inside and a feeling of dread poured into him. He studied the room and noted the heaviness in his legs. They were reluctant to carry him inside.
‘What are you hoping to find in there?’
Charlie had fractured Vincent’s concentration again. Why was she still bothering him when she’d been given instructions to go? Vincent’s eyes were drawn to the glass panel in the centre of the floor and he took a tentative step inside.
‘Answers,’ he said, before closing the door.
***
Vincent Solomon stood still inside the doorway. The air was refreshingly cool. Two things were moving: rotary fans on the ceiling and tropical fish beneath the glass panel. Wherever he ran his gaze, he was reminded that every centimetre of the place had been designed to invoke some blessed
form of peace. The room was lavishly decorated with soft furnishings in gentle colours, and paintings depicting beautiful scenes. But no amount of manmade extravagance could compete with the views outside. Through floor-to-ceiling glass, sky and sea merged in the most luxurious blues with sunlight scattered on the water, a thousand tiny suns, bobbing up and down.
Solomon tried to borrow just an ounce of peace to calm his raging mind and couldn’t manage it. He could feel the onset of a migraine too. He hadn’t slept in countless hours and would be forced to collapse somewhere soon. His sleeping pills were in his luggage which he’d left securely at the airport.
He strode forward, shoes echoing intrusively across the floor, at odds with the silence outside. The sight of the bed made him queasy though it was perfectly made with no evidence that anyone had ever slept in it. There was another bedroom in which he found a double bed and a hideous shirt of Joel’s that he recognised. A maid had been in here to tidy up the place, but Joel’s shirt and a pair of his shorts had been carefully folded and draped across a chair. Fresh towels lay beside them.
Solomon returned to the main bedroom – the one with the rotary bed in the centre of the room. In a built-in cupboard, he found Dan’s shirts and trousers hung up, and beneath them, two suitcases. One was empty, one filled with clothes, Naomi’s private things. Beneath a stack of shorts and tops, he found swimwear and an assortment of lace and silk, a few tasteful pieces. All white or cream. His pulse stepped up. All of these items were unworn and had been bought with Dan Stone in mind. Some still carried labels. His instinct was to run his hands over the lace and to feel the silk between his fingers. He resisted and instead, closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her clothes and imagined her in them. Then he shut the case and the cupboard door and rotated his head left and right.
There was a card standing on the only surface in the room, a dressing table with a mirror. A wedding card? Solomon sauntered over, tingling with anger. It wasn’t a wedding card.
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