‘Your turn to talk,’ Dan was insistent. Fair trade, which was just as well because Dan needed time to invent nonsense about the post-mortem. ‘Who killed Jimmy? I know for a fact he was murdered so it’s pointless telling me otherwise.’ Dan was feeling his way, not certain of anything, but he had to sound sure of himself and was being forced now to look Seth right in the eye while Seth scrutinised him carefully.
Seth whispered. ‘His cellmate was responsible for his death.’
Cellmate? According to Vic, his cell mate wasn’t even in the showers that day, but he couldn’t bring Vic into it, so he looked right at Seth and coolly said, ‘Who, Reggie?’ Seth’s eyes popped.
‘Shhh,’ he mouthed. ‘How do you know Reggie?’
Reggie? The guy who’d snatched Naomi on her way to his trial? Oh, Dan knew about Reggie and didn’t care if spilling his name here would spell trouble for him later.
But Dan didn’t have to explain because Gavin spoke up. ‘Right lads, time’s up. Let’s see what we’ve come up with collectively.’ End of conversation with Seth. Unfinished business.
The following day, Dan got permission to send a short email. All day, he’d been writing it in his head, wondering how to word it without drawing attention. Banana – codename for Reggie. Who talked about bananas in emails? With someone looking over his shoulder and with a window of about three minutes, he regurgitated from his memory:
Hey! Time we caught up. I’ll be brief because there’s not much news. But I wanted to say, if you visit again, please bring fruit. Fruit is scarce in here and I’ve started craving it. Tried to discuss it with my cellmate the other day, but he wasn’t up for it. He humoured me for about a minute because he prefers TV to talking. Anyway, I asked him to tell me his top three fruits and he was definite about bananas, but then he dried up. Left me guessing about the other two, but we got there in the end. Ha ha! You can see how dull the conversation can become when two blokes are shut away together. Anyway, got bananas on the brain now. Wish I could rip into one. This could be the most stupid email I’ve ever sent, so I’ll stop there lol.
Got to go. Time’s up.
Dan.
The note was studied. It brought a yawn. The screw, whose name was Steve, said, ‘Of all the things to crave.’
‘I know,’ Dan said. ‘It’s crazy.’
Steve read over it again, glanced at his watch. ‘OK, send. Go and get your dinner, Stone.’
‘OK, boss.’ Dan said, uncharacteristically. He typed in the memorised email address, wrote fruit in the subject bar. Pressed send.
***
Solomon had sensed a change in Naomi twenty minutes into the flight when he’d attempted to initiate a conversation and run into a wall. After that, he’d sat back and studied her intently. There was nothing beyond the window to hold her attention and yet she was sitting forward, leaning away from him, gazing out at dense cloud. No reading. No fidgeting. No eating or drinking. Her movements were slow and ponderous.
Captivating! He made a few enquiries.
‘Tired?’
‘I’m OK,’ she’d said, without looking round.
‘Anything I can get for you?’
‘No.’ And she’d shifted a few millimetres closer to the window. Coils of hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Where it was fastened up, he caught glimpses of her neck and the slim gold chain she always wore.
‘Anxious about dinner?’
‘Why would I be?’ This comment had her reaching for her necklace and shifting the cross from side to side. ‘What’s happening afterwards?’
‘We’re staying in a nearby hotel and flying back to Manchester tomorrow.’
She turned now, her eyes wide, accentuated by a dark liner and thick lashes. ‘Two rooms?’
‘Of course two rooms. We’ll check in before dinner and get changed.’
The pitch of her voice dropped. ‘Fine.’
While he had eye contact, he said. ‘Lose the necklace tonight. Does nothing for the dress.’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘I bought you some perfume,’ he said. ‘A particular favourite of mine.’ He handed her a small bag. She took it, but didn’t look inside. She wasn’t with it. ‘Will you wear it?’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
He reached inside his pocket and held out a small box. ‘At least commit to wearing these then. I got them while you were in the salon.’
She took the box and lifted the lid and stared at a pair of drop diamond earrings. Her expression didn’t falter. She didn’t ask if they were real diamonds, how much they cost, didn’t say that she liked or disliked them. She could have been staring at an empty box.
She just said, ‘OK then.’ And as an afterthought, ‘Thanks.’ She slid them inside her bag and quickly found the clouds again and retreated inside herself and he felt a stab of disappointment which he refused to acknowledge. His instincts were telling him that there was an opportunity here somewhere.
The hours melted and he observed her while she looked out, her limbs tense, jammed up against the cabin wall. Whenever her position shifted even slightly, she took care to avoid contact with him, which opened a small window right into her mind and told him that she was acutely conscious of him.
The plane landed effortlessly at Heathrow airport five minutes early. A more perfect day, Vincent couldn’t remember. And the curtains hadn’t fallen on it yet. Inside the airport terminal they passed through customs and a driver was waiting. Forty minutes later, Vincent found himself alone in his hotel room, Naomi in the room next door. He’d had a suit delivered to the hotel, which had better be hanging in the cupboard. It was.
He took a two-minute shower, shaved, sprayed, dressed, took out his new shoes which he’d chosen on the strength of Naomi’s eyes lingering on them – she’d been unwilling to offer an opinion – and sat in a chair waiting for her. He’d asked her to knock on his door when she was ready. He could have waited in reception downstairs, but he’d wanted to anticipate that tap on the door – imagine that it was late and that her need for human contact had brought her to him.
So he sat, refusing to be drawn into emails and texts, watching his hands, waiting for the knock, an eye on the time. When it came in the form of three gentle raps, the fine hairs lifted on the back of his hands. Even before he opened the door, he had a clear image of her in his mind in the dress, the coat, the shoes and bag, the earrings and perfume. A look that he’d selected for her. He stood and collected his wallet and phone. The short walk to the door was like wrestling with the wrapping of a long-awaited gift. Finally, his hand grasped the door handle and he opened up. His imagination hadn’t fully captured the vision that stood before him now.
41
The restaurant was a short walk from the hotel. Vincent was in silent, staring mode, which suited Naomi’s mood and also unsettled her. He’d said nothing about the outfit on the way out of the hotel, which left her feeling faintly flat, which in turn added to her growing sense of confusion and guilt. What he thought of her was irrelevant. She repeated the words in her head several times until she started to believe them.
Here in England it seemed easier to remind herself that here was the man who had destroyed her life, hers and Dan’s. Which meant he was evil. Didn’t it? She glanced to her right. Vincent was in profile, staring dead ahead. A cold and evil monster? She shook her head, an attempt to remove the thought, because she really shouldn’t be thinking about it. Or him. She consciously shifted her attention onto Dan. The letter was in her new bag. Posting it would break the second commandment: thou shalt not contact Dan Stone.
But thoughts of Venice were still swilling round her mind and it was a struggle to focus on Dan from this elegant street. Wearing these clothes. Walking alongside Vincent Solomon, evil or not, in his new black suit (she had no idea where he’d conjured it from). Meeting up with strangers. This was a foreign world which required her concentration. You’re doing this for Dan, she told herself.
Naomi caught sight of a red pos
t box right ahead. Her heart leapt. Ten metres before they reached it, Vincent touched her arm and led her up the steps to the restaurant door, his hand pressed into her lower back. She really should tell him not to touch her. That she wasn’t comfortable. That she didn’t like it. Trouble was, she did and the realisation made her feel queasy. What kind of a person was she?
At the door, a guy in a black shirt, black bowtie, held open the door.
‘Mr Solomon, wonderful to have you with us again. Welcome to both of you.’
Solomon nodded. ‘I hope you’ve reserved my favourite table.’
‘Of course, sir. It’s ready for you now. Champagne’s on ice.’
‘Collect us from the lounge at 8:30 please.’
‘Very good, sir. Your coat, madam?’
So Naomi handed her coat over, revealing the dress for the first time. The arms were sheer, completely transparent, crowned with cotton cuffs fastened with buttons. Low V-neck decorated with the same buttons down one V which continued to the waist. She hated herself for hoping it would capture his attention. An appreciative glance at least, just for reassurance. It didn’t. When the guy in the bowtie waltzed off with her coat, Vincent turned and fixed his eyes on hers. He leant into her ear, close to the diamond drop earrings, until she could feel his breath on the side of her face. She’d decided against wearing the perfume.
‘The women will assume we’re together, which is good for business, OK?’
Too stunned to object, she said, ‘OK.’ She realised then that she was feeling anxious, wondering what she was doing here. How it had happened. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say tonight.’
‘Any partner of mine is going to be smart and sophisticated. In other words, be yourself. I’ll cover the rest.’
‘OK.’
He walked ahead now and she followed. Her confidence took a hit when two intensely glamorous women showed up not long later. She hadn’t expected that. Early thirties probably, with perfect everything – nails, hair, skin, clothes.
Introductions were made. They smiled, admired her dress. Knew who had designed it. Told her she looked fabulous.
‘Doesn’t she just,’ Vincent said, turning to her, conducting his first lingering inspection. ‘We shopped in Venice earlier today.’
He stood beside her then and looked at the women. Was the shopping trip, the hair and makeup, the earrings, the new shoes for the benefit of these two women? Naomi felt the tips of his fingers glide slowly down one of her arms as he spoke. The thin silk was no barrier. She stood very still until he reached her hand and stroked her fingers to the tips. She stood, frozen, her thoughts in turmoil. Was this an act? She hadn’t seen the script.
A waitress approached with a tray of four tall glasses. The drinks were an identical pastel pink colour, three quarters full. She found herself holding one and couldn’t remember how. Vincent knew she didn’t drink, but it didn’t seem the time for objections. When the women sipped between chatting, she did the same. Then when they sat down on a nearby sofa, she sat opposite them, beside Vincent.
One was blonde, one had light brown hair and very long legs and a lot of rings.
The blonde one sat with her legs crossed. A silky thigh was visible through a split in her dress.
‘So how long have you two been together?’
Naomi swallowed her drink. It was unpleasant, but gave her something to do. Vincent rested an arm on the sofa behind her. Next thing, his fingers were touching her hair, stroking the back of her neck.
‘Oh, not long.’
‘That’s obvious.’
‘Is it?’ Vincent asked.
‘It’s how you look at each other.’
The way he was touching her neck was raising goose bumps on her arms. She could feel her cheeks colouring.
Naomi stood up, suddenly. ‘Excuse me a minute? I need to use the bathroom,’ she said. Vincent stood too, blocking her exit.
Without any warning, he took her face in his hands and his lips were on hers. Brief contact only. And then he pulled back as if this was perfectly normal. She wasn’t breathing. ‘Don’t be long.’
She shook her head.
He smiled and had the audacity while she was thunderstruck, to lean in and kiss her again. Then he sat down and continued to talk. Naomi, finding herself free, managed to stumble past Vincent’s legs and out of the room, clutching her bag.
She daren’t think about what just happened. Was she angry? Probably. She wasn’t sure. There was a letter box outside and she needed to reach it urgently, she was sure of that. She glanced over her shoulder and bolted for the door. The guy with the bowtie was there.
‘Crap,’ she said, between gritted teeth. He caught sight of her. Watched her approach.
‘Everything all right, madam? Can I get your coat?’
She smiled. ‘No need. I’ll be right back.’
He nodded. Held open the door. What if he mentioned this to Vincent that she’d left? A risk, but she had to take it. Outside, a cool wind met her and ruffled her hair. The box seemed further away than she remembered. She kept looking over her shoulder while she freed the letter from her bag and half walked, half ran to the post box. Her head seemed a little distant, as though clinging to clear thought took more effort than it should. She dropped the letter in the box and listened to the faint thud of the landing.
Breathless with relief now, she ran back to the restaurant and hurried to the ladies’ toilets, aware that her hands were cool and that her clothes carried the outside air. She stood in front of the hand drier to warm through, then touched up her lip colour and coaxed her hair into place. Time to move.
By the time she returned, Vincent was deep in conversation about vintage clothing and dress alterations and a waitress advanced with the announcement that it was 8:30. Drinks were collected onto a tray and the waitress led them to an unusual room littered with rustic wooden tables and a wide variety of mismatched comfy sofas and chairs. Naomi was seated beside Vincent again. She reached for her drink to steady her nerves and wondered how she’d endure the next few hours.
***
By drinking. That’s how. As Naomi passed the guy with the bowtie on the way out of the restaurant, she couldn’t remember why she had a vague impression that they shared a secret. Her brain was pleasantly misty. She felt weirdly contented. Carefree. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way. Should she be worried about this secret he knew? She might, if she could recall what it was.
The bit of moon that was visible that night, slithered out from behind vaporous cloud. The glamorous women climbed inside a nearby cab and it lumbered away without grace. Only when Naomi strolled past the post box with Solomon did a hazy memory return.
‘Is this the first time you’ve been drunk?’ he asked.
‘I’m not drunk. I know exactly what I’m doing.’
‘Oh good! So, your impressions of Carys and Denise?’
‘They’re not my type, either of them,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘You have a type in women, do you?’
‘Yeah. Down to earth. Not all long, flashy nails and waxed legs.’
‘And men?’
‘That’s different,’ she said. ‘But I don’t like waxed legs on men either.’
‘Or long nails?’
‘No.’ Her heels clopped against the pavement as she walked. She reached inside her hair and pulled out the clips until hair fell about her shoulders.
Vincent said nothing more until they’d reached the hotel, walked through reception and pressed for the lift. Her feet were hurting. She slipped out of her shoes and Vincent bent down and picked them up. The lift door opened. At his invitation, she went in first and pressed number four. When she turned round to face the door, he was standing right in front of her.
She focussed on his face. His eyes that didn’t blink. The intense stare. She stepped back and he stepped forward. One more backward step and she hit the lift wall and he stepped forward again. The lift doors sealed.
&nb
sp; ‘Why are you looking at me?’
He raised his arm and rested it on the wall above her head. His tone was barely audible. ‘Because I enjoy it and so do you.’
She shook her head. The lift began to move. ‘Not true,’ she said. ‘It makes me feel bad.’
‘Bad or guilty?’
‘Yes.’
His face moved nearer, stopped so close that she was struggling to focus. ‘Yes what? You’re not making sense.’
‘I know what I mean.’
‘But do you know what you want?’
She nodded carefully. Her thinking was cloudy, but one word shone through. ‘Truth. I want the truth.’
‘The truth about?’
‘You. You confuse me. Mess about with me.’
‘Not half as much as I’d like to.’
The lift stopped moving. The doors slowly opened. The corridor outside was empty. Vincent didn’t budge.
‘No. No. No.’
He touched her face. ‘Why are you saying no?’
‘Because the word’s in my head. I . . . I don’t know why.’
He went silent until the lift doors closed again. ‘I’ll tell you the truth about me, Naomi. Things are very screwed up and I’m smart enough to know it. I’m becoming tired of the game.’
‘Got to finish the chess –’
‘Not that game. I mean life. My life. The women I meet – they’re too like me and I don’t need someone like me. You’re different. I needed the right queen not to complete my game, but to end it.’
‘End your life?’
‘My life as it is now. End the games I play because I’ve never known anything else. The businesses I run, which were never mine, but his.’
‘Whose?’
‘Jimmy’s. My dad. It’s taken me this long to realise that he wasn’t interested in who I was. Just took me along to all his jobs, from being twelve years old. I’ve never told anyone about the things I saw. Then he got slammed behind bars and murdered, leaving me parentless, but not before he’d made me vow to carry on his work.’
Shadows to Ashes Page 36