He nodded. ‘The opposite of which is death. You survived Nathan and Lorie, both of them dead now. But you’re still here.’ He shuffled closer. ‘Why do you keep surviving?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You misunderstand me. What I mean is, why would you toil to survive when you could live instead? I mean really live. Didn’t you come alive in Venice? Survival is primitive, basic.’ He lifted her cross again. ‘This doesn’t represent faith. It’s a symbol of survival for you, a meaningless crutch. Take it off. Change your story. Stand on your own.’
‘Actually, it’s a symbol of my engagement to Dan,’ she said, right in his face. ‘I quit the whole crutch thing after Dan saved my life. I took it off and gave it to him, and when he asked me to marry him, he gave it back to me. I wanted to start living – really living – then, but we had to get engaged in secret because I needed to survive a more dangerous threat even than Lorie or Nathan. And here I am, in the middle of a game that I’m losing. That a good enough story for you?’
He was silent, still. Unreadable. ‘I loved the heroine,’ he said quietly, ‘But if we can just dim the lights and music for a moment and clear the fog – you’re losing because you lost focus. You lost focus because you’re jealous. And you’re jealous because I’ve just spent the last hour with a very attractive girl who wants me to take her to bed. And you didn’t like it. And whether you’ve admitted it to yourself or not, you came down here and toyed with Dan’s future because you were preoccupied with thoughts of me.’
She felt a flash of temper. ‘You’re talking bull –’
‘Am I? You keep on rewriting your own account of the story if you want to, but we both know the truth. You want me as much as I want you. You just don’t have the integrity to follow through.’ Everything held still, including Naomi’s tongue. It was idle in her mouth. Her cheeks were burning. ‘She came to cut my hair. She comes every month. I have no interest in her at all.’
‘So?’ Naomi yelled. ‘I’ve told you I don’t care.’
‘Nice story. Almost very convincing. You forget that you’ve already admitted that you want me.’
Her pulse was stoking the fire in her cheeks. ‘I was drunk.’
‘You were ripe. A little persuasion and you’d have relented. But I’m waiting for it to come from you.’
‘You’ll be waiting a long time.’
‘I’m patient. That’s how I always get what I want.’ His voice lightened a few shades. ‘Dinner at seven? Play me to sleep, would you? I need to find oblivion now.’
44
That one unavoidable time of the week that Dan dreaded. Having a shower. It was the worst thing about being in prison, in his opinion – the gross lack of privacy, most keenly felt in the dim confines of the grimy communal showers. It’s here where he felt most vulnerable and ill at ease. Dan had learnt – because it paid to learn as quickly as possible in a place like this – that the showers were quietest in the mornings when most blokes were thinking about food as a matter of priority. Fewer bodies around than at tea time when there was a general rush to eat and get showered before lock down.
Dan preferred to shower, then dress and eat, that order. Today, his scalp was itchy and uncomfortable. He was desperate to wash his hair.
The first opportunity to leave his cell and Dan grabbed his towel and hurried towards the little room at the end of the wing, all the while trying to appear as though he wasn’t in a tearing rush. He passed a stocky prison guard called Brenda, known un-affectionately as The Beard, who nodded at him without smiling. Her nickname was self-explanatory. Another screw was standing outside the showers, scribbling in a notebook.
Since Solomon’s visit, it had been impossible not to be aware that Jimmy Solomon had walked this same corridor and been murdered in the shower and carried out, never to walk the corridor again. That Reggie Janes, his cell mate, had been here too and was now on the outside resuming daring and atrocious crimes involving Naomi.
Dan hadn’t heard from Annabel, who was sure to have read his letter by now. Thoughts of Naomi at Solomon’s disturbed his sleep, his peace, his ability to reason. Solomon would now know that Reggie Janes was involved in Jimmy’s murder, unless Holloway was lying of course. Always a possibility. Dan hadn’t spoken to him since the enlightening poetry class.
These thoughts filled Dan’s head as he stepped out of his bottoms and top and laid them beside his towel. Three men were already showering, another followed Dan into the room. Three minutes and Dan wanted to be out of here. Choice of two showers only and Dan picked the closest one, which also turned out to be the wrong one. He stood beneath the showerhead, pressed the button behind him and a dribble of tepid water leaked out. A look from the guy next to him confirmed that he’d selected the dud shower. Dan was still learning the ropes. Lesson clocked for next time. Right now, he looked and felt really stupid.
Dan pressed again impatiently and another trickle rained down, which stopped a few seconds later. All the showers were occupied now. It was a case of making do. He turned full body towards the button, held his head beneath the shower and jammed the button with both hands. Seemed to take an age to thoroughly soak his hair, but he managed it eventually. Already Dan’s arms were patterned with goose-bumps. The water was pathetically cool. When he bent down for shampoo, he realised that Skinhead Seth was lumbering through the door, black chest hair poking out of a vest.
This set Dan’s pulse racing. Not ideal at all. He couldn’t run. The only choice was to continue then get out fast. Not acknowledging Seth, Dan squeezed shampoo into his hand and massaged it rapidly through his hair and simultaneously washed his body, horribly conscious of the tattoo on his arm and all it meant. Too exposed for his liking, he turned to hold the button with both hands again, to rinse himself.
The second the water ran clear of lather, he stepped out, aware that two other men were leaving too, wrapping towels around their waists, collecting items. Dripping and cold, Dan noticed his towel and clothes weren’t where he’d left them. He scanned the room. They’d vanished. Dan had frozen, no clue what to do next. The other guys were busy doing whatever they were doing, unaware of Dan. Except Seth, who was standing, naked now, close to the door. Dan knew that Seth was perfectly aware of him.
‘Problem, Stone?’ Seth said.
A couple of guys trooped out, leaving only Dan, Seth and one other. Dan knew that this was not good.
‘Who’s taken my stuff?’ Dan said assertively. But he was fighting not to shiver.
Seth didn’t answer. He waited until the other guy had shuffled out before saying, ‘Tell me about the post-mortem, and I’ll let you have it back.’
‘Good of you. Where’s my stuff?’ Dan asked.
‘Right here, under mine.’
It was a direct challenge. Seth was standing in front of his own towel. Dan’s choice was to barter for his belongings or to try to retrieve them by force. Which he was not prepared to do. Logic told him that Seth wouldn’t want that either. If he was due for parole this year, he’d need a clean sheet.
‘Dangerous games, Seth.’
‘Stakes are high and you’re not the first. There was a guy transferred here for a few weeks just like you. Asked too many questions. I was ready to nail him, but he was moved, luckily for him.’ Dan didn’t respond. ‘Tell me about the post-mortem.’
Dan hesitated a moment then began to spew some pre-prepared junk. ‘Two guys working on Jimmy on the table. They disagreed with the outcome. The senior pathologist wanted to record accidental death, while my mate was certain it was murder, foul play involved. But he was overruled. That’s all I know.’
Would he swallow it? He was thinking hard.
‘What’s your mate’s name?’
Even if Dan had been prepared to invent a name, it would have been a step too far. Too much to give away for free. And he didn’t want this guy sniffing around Manchester Royal Infirmary when he got out. No choice but to stand his ground now.
‘No way I’m telling you that.’
Dan clenched teeth together. ‘Give me my towel.’
Marcus Payne walked in. A coincidence? Dan thought not. This was too cosy, and these two sworn enemies?
Payne said to Holloway, ‘He’s an enemy of the Solomon’s. He doesn’t care what happened to Jimmy.’
Seth said, ‘Why’s he digging then?’
‘Because he wants to get even with the Solomons. That right, Stone?’
Dan didn’t know what to do or say, but he sensed his vulnerability acutely, so he nodded. Payne hurried to the door to look out. Then he returned and produced a small knife. Dan stiffened. Course, Payne worked in the kitchens. This was horribly dangerous. Payne turned the knife on himself, lightly scoring his palm until it bled. Seth held up a palm and Payne sliced the top layers of skin. They pressed palms together. ‘This is how it’s done. Give me your palm, Stone. We’re going to join hands, making us blood brothers. An oath of silence. No more questions about Jimmy. We won’t ask you no more about your involvement with the Solomons. Fair deal.’
Dan resisted. ‘No it’s not. Was Jimmy murdered or not? My mate’s no liar.’
‘You’re too bold, man. Too many questions. If you don’t make an oath, we can’t guarantee your safety in here.’
Someone walked in. Payne hid the knife quickly, Seth tried to look busy. Dan took his chance. He pulled his clothes and towel free of Seth’s and shot through the door.
Dan skipped breakfast and returned to his cell, limp with fear if he was honest. He lay on his bed, trying to recover. End of this particular road for Dan. He’d gone as far as he was prepared to go for Solomon. Sworn enemies? Payne and Holloway were in it together. Blood brothers. They wanted people to think that they were enemies. Maybe it better protected them from people discovering the truth.
Dan would never mention Jimmy or Vincent in here again. Never tell anyone what just happened in the shower. Only he wasn’t sure how he’d ever convince Payne and Holloway that he wouldn’t talk. He had that sinking nauseous feeling it was too late.
Sweat was pouring down Dan’s head, but his skin felt cold. Payne had knives. Dan was certain that one of those two guys was responsible for Jimmy Solomon’s death. Unless it had been a joint effort. Blood brothers. Dan reached for his inhaler and sucked hard.
***
9 a.m. Charlie was in her bedroom, dressing for the gym. She was sitting on her bed, sliding her feet into her sports socks when she heard her front door open and close downstairs. She stood up, stayed statue-still. Footsteps in the hall.
What was that?
Awash with energy, she extended her arm and grabbed the nearest weapon, which happened to be a semi-blunt penknife. Gripping it in her right hand, she tiptoed through the door and glanced down into the hall. No one there. When the creaking of slow footsteps continued across the wooden floor of her lounge, she slunk like a cat down the stairs, her back to the wall, eyes fixed on the lounge door, which was ajar.
At the bottom of the stairs, she froze again and didn’t move until the creaking started up. She shifted to the doorway and slowly, carefully, stole a glance round the door and pulled back. She’d seen a big guy in a black suit, his back to the door, arms in front of him.
Two and a half seconds later, his neck was locked in her arm and the knife was jabbing his jugular.
He swore and his pad and pen clattered to the floor.
‘Who sent you?’
He wasn’t struggling. He was stunned. ‘Mr Solomon. I’m only here to value the house. He told me it was empty.’
A pathetic estate agent. She let him go before he wet himself. ‘Does it look empty to you? Car on the drive? Heating on?’
He straightened his tie, jacket and glasses. ‘I was instructed to prepare it for immediate sale, furniture included.’
‘New instructions. Get out. Now. Or I’ll put you in hospital and tell the police you muscled your way into my house.’
He looked at the door and picked up his pen and pad and hesitated.
‘Which part of get out now don’t you understand?’ Charlie asked.
He began to choke on his words. ‘It’s j-j-just that Mr S-Solomon was very insistent.’
‘Oh w-w-was he?’ she mocked. ‘Do you need me to help you to l-l-leave?’
He glanced at the knife in her hand. ‘No. I can manage.’
‘Oh excellent. Don’t come back.’
***
‘Boss, I’ve found Janes.’
Solomon was in the car. Leon Chambers’ voice boomed through the sound system while Vincent sat at a zebra crossing hoping the old dear would make it across the road some time before sunset.
Solomon stretched his spine. Some progress at last! ‘Wonders never cease.’
‘Straight up, Vincent, I’ve been looking hard, but he was a snake to find.’
Solomon glanced at the time and hoped Charlie was at home. The estate agent should have made it to Bramhall by now. Oh to be a fly on the wall!
‘I’m listening. What have you got?’
‘An address.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘No. I hung back, like you said.’
‘How did you find him?’
‘Thanks to you, I spent a few months inside last year. Got to know a guy called Jack Westcott, bent prison guard. He used to turn a blind when drones were dropping drugs in the yard. So I tracked him down and asked him a few questions. He didn’t know where Janes was, but he knew a friend of Janes’s who used to visit him when he was inside. A woman called Deanne Foster. She was easier to find.’
‘Interesting. And is Deanne Foster still friendly with our mate Reggie?’
‘Defo. I followed her to his place. Nice butt. Led me straight to Reggie.’
The old bat had just made it to the other side, so Vincent sped off.
‘She’ll wish she hadn’t been born when Charlie finds out.’
‘Yeah,’ Chambers sniggered. ‘Unless the three of them –’
‘The address, Leon,’ Vincent cut in, ‘before I tell Charlie you’re a pervert.’
‘Don’t.’ His tone was injected with panic, which made Vincent smile.
‘The address!’
He delivered it swiftly. Vincent pulled up at the side of the road. He tapped the post code into his sat-nav and swung the car around. Twenty-five minutes later, he parked the car and thoroughly examined the street from where he was. Street cameras. They’d pick him up the minute he planted his feet on the pavement. The house wasn’t up to much. The guy had thieved two million and this was his first choice? Living the dream. Not.
Kids were in school. All was quiet. Vincent pulled a small handgun from a locked briefcase and slotted it inside his jacket pocket – a Glock 26 9mm handgun. Designed to be concealed, it had a small frame and a short barrel but packed all the power of a regular-sized Glock. A functional weapon, but he wished he’d brought his old police baton instead. He preferred blunt instruments to guns.
Solomon opened the door and got out of the car, the weapon bashing reassuringly against his chest. Aware of the street cameras, because it was always prudent to be, he walked directly to Janes’s front door and rattled the letter box. The shuffling of feet got closer, until there was nothing between them now but a wooden door.
Solomon waited patiently. Janes was holding still.
Then, ‘Yes?’
Much as Solomon loathed raising his voice, what choice was there? ‘Open up, Reggie. Vincent Solomon.’
Solomon stuck his hand inside his jacket and took hold of the handle of his gun while two bolts and a chain were being released.
And then the door opened and Solomon stepped inside and pulled the gun from his jacket and pointed it at Reggie Janes. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling above him. Reggie held up his hands and backed off a few paces and Solomon flicked the door shut with his foot.
‘Hello, Reggie.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘That would be telling
.’
‘Put the gun away. Your old man –’
‘Is dead.’ A few moments of quiet. ‘Which makes me heir and king, right? What I say, goes. And you’re urinating on my patch.’
‘How?’
In response, Vincent glared at him. ‘Don’t.’
‘Whatever, Vincent, just lower the gun.’
Solomon didn’t. ‘What do you know about a dead dog?’
‘What dead dog?’
‘You’re trying my patience. Henry Hamilton’s dog.’
‘Look, it was your old man’s wish to –’
‘Key word. Was. Past tense. Gone. Any wishes to do with the Solomons and I’m in charge now. We clear? Not my sister. Me. You don’t do anything in Jimmy’s name again. You stay away from all of us. Stick with Deanne Foster. Do we have an understanding? I never dish out second warnings.’
Janes glared at him beneath the light bulb. ‘Jimmy would knock your teeth out for pointing that thing at me.’
‘Friends were you?’
‘You know we were.’
‘You know, Reggie, I reckon someone tipped off whoever murdered my father – told them he’d be in that shower when he was. Who could that be, do you think?’
Janes tensed. ‘Dunno.’
‘Someone who likes money and drugs, I reckon, and will take bribes to get them. Do you know anyone who fits that description?’
Janes swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Look, Vincent –’
‘I’m smarter than Jimmy, Reggie. That’s why I’m more successful than he ever was. I’ve built on everything he started, but my dad wasn’t as . . . clean or clear as me. He left a mess for me. But I don’t leave trails because I plan things meticulously well. Now, I’m only going to give you one chance to answer one question, so make sure it’s the right answer. I’m very good at detecting wrong answers. First. On your knees. Now.’ After staring at Solomon a beat, Janes dropped unwillingly to his knees. ‘Hands behind your head.’ Janes complied. ‘Good. Here’s my question: do you know who murdered my father?’
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