TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy) (25 page)

Mrs. Osoba appears to
expand and folds herself into her high-backed office chair like a bread mix in
a baking tin, spreading out until every possible inch is filled with
her.
Her
smock dress plumes up around her stomach like dough rising; she flattens it
down with both hands and covers the desk top with her broad arms. “I see. How
did she die?” she asks unswervingly.

“She was involved in
a car crash.” Mack watches for her reaction.

Her eyes widen yet
she manages to refashion her response into something less expressive. She
lowers her chin to speak. “How dreadful.”

“Yes it was.” He
consults his notes. “May I ask how long you’ve worked here?”

As is her way, she
becomes animated and throws back her hands feigning embarrassment. “If I tell
you that then you’ll be able to guess my age,” she states laughing a little too
forcefully. “I’ve been here for over twenty years.”

“Ah yes. Almost 22
years, in fact,” Mack adds, flicking over to the next page. “So you’ll remember
Elise then?” he asks.

She’s shaking her
head. “Detective Inspector …”

“Mack …”

She starts over.
“Mack … there have been more children here in those 22 years than you can
possibly imagine. You can’t seriously expect me to remember every single
child?”

He offers a flat
smile. “Of course not. But I think you may have a recollection of her even
though she was only here for a matter of months; more so because she was
associated with another of your residents here, Ayden Stone. You must have a
recollection of him, surely, especially as he’s gone on to make quite a name
for himself?”

Her face flinches
defensively. “Yes, he has, but I can’t see how that has anything to do with
Elise.”

He prepares to test
her memory with a dramatic statement of fact. “Actually it has a lot to do with
this investigation. Mr. Stone was driving the car that careened off the
motorway, resulting in her death.”

It appears as if the
air has been sucked from the room. Mrs. Osoba’s façade crumbles at the mention
of his name; she is struck dumb by the possibility of him being injured or
worse.

Mack seizes the
advantage. “So, you do have a recollection of them?” he asks, sensing his
digging is about to pay off and he’s on the verge of striking gold.

She regains her
equilibrium and folds her chubby fingers into a tower on her desk. “Mack, I
don’t know why you’re here or what your intentions are but there is no
wrong-doing here. For as long as I’ve been here, the children under our care
have been well looked after. Their emotional, physical, educational and
spiritual needs have been addressed. Some of our charges have gone on to do
wonderful things, like Mr. Stone; others have not.” She casts a loving eye
across the collages dotted around the room and the smiling faces of children of
every size, colour and creed. Speaking softly she avows, “We have done our
best.”

Mack places his
notebook on her desk and leans forward until they are eye to eye. “I’m not here
to stir up trouble. I’m here to find out why a woman took a knife to someone
she loved in the front seat of a sports car and then tried to kill them both by
grabbing the wheel. That’s all.”

“And what makes you
think I can shed light on something as dreadful as that?”

He lifts out the
photographic evidence, places it on her desk and turns it around so she can see
the three children clearly. He taps it on the corner with his finger. “This,”
he states.

The severity of her
stare is diluted by her tears. Clearly moved by the picture of them she lifts
it between her finger and thumb so she can resurrect the memory of them with
her eyes. “They were inseparable. Saffir was heartbroken when Frannie left. I
started working here a month after this picture was taken but he told me
all
about her. Kept her memory alive until it became a kind of fairy-tale he
would tell himself at bedtime. He kept a picture of them under his pillow and
every night made the same promise.” She glances at Mack but looks right through
him, all the way to that very moment. “To find her, to rescue her.”

Mack senses his cue.
“Well, he kept his promise. He found her. In fact he flew her off to Las Vegas
and married her.”

Mrs. Osoba is shaking
her head. “Always was a determined little boy. Knew what he wanted and went all
out to get it. But Beth’s not merely an acquisition to him. He loves her,
always has and always will. And that’s the end of it.” She hands him back the
photograph.

“Thank you.” He slips
it into his jacket pocket, secretly thanking her for more than the simple
return of a photograph. “That makes sense. I got this photograph from Elise’s
apartment and there was a note addressed to ‘S’. I assume she was calling him
Saffir.” He receives an affirmative nod. “What I don’t understand is why he was
so taken with Beth - then Frances - when Elise was here all the time. Weren’t
they close?”

“I wasn’t here to
witness how close they were but Saffir did speak to me about Frannie.” She
laughs and heaves herself out of the chair to stand by the window. “He loved to
talk about her, how sweet she was, how she made him laugh; but mostly, how he
saw himself as her protector.” She folds her arms, preparing to elaborate. “You
see, all he knew was to fight for the ones he loved. There was his mother. She
was forced to give him up. He had two names but he chose to keep the one that
reminded him of her, even though that meant defending it every day. He fought
Elise’s battles for her too, not that she needed him to, but he did it anyway.
Then Frannie came along.” She sighs and the hot air from her lungs creates a
fleeting cloud across the glass. “I would love to have seen them together;
living out their childish fantasies, acting out fairy-tales as children do when
they have no concept of reality or of the
real
monsters out there.” She
returns to her seat and perches on the edge of it so she might lean forward to
make her point quietly but forcefully. “The monsters came for Elise one night
in the guise of two male members of staff who worked the night shift. They had
been abusing her sexually for some time and, once it was discovered, I’m
ashamed to say, it was hushed up and Elise was transferred to a different
establishment. I was new here and no one mentioned a thing, except Saffir.”

Having listened
patiently, Mack is eager to wrap up all the loose ends. “Do you think anything
happened that might make it possible for Elise to blackmail him?”

She is horrified.
“Blackmail him? Of course not! Why do you ask?”

“It was just a
thought. She had a substantial payment going into her account each month. I
wondered if the money was coming from him.”

She’s quick to come
to his rescue. “It might be coming
from
him but it won’t have anything
to do with blackmail. He’ll see it as a way of taking care of her as you might
a sister or those you love.“ She glances around her office until her eyes come
to rest on her top-of-the-line laptop.

“Is that why this
place is so well furnished, the grounds so well-tended and your staff are so
suspicious of my intentions?”

She laughs out loud.
“No. It’s because we all love him dearly. He’s the Patron Saint of Bright
Hill.”

“Is he now?” Mack
isn’t convinced.

“So don’t bother
digging, looking for dirt, Mack, because there is none. Ayden and Beth are
beautiful people, inside and out. They’ve come through hell and high water to
make it this far and I send them my blessing every single day. After that
terrible incident in her school, no one could doubt they’re meant for each
other. He deserves nothing but respect. Even you must concede that?” She
reaches for Mack’s hand.

He raises himself
from his chair and leans across to her to shake it. “I’ll take your word for
that Mrs. Osoba …”

“ …Winnie, everyone
calls me Winnie.”

He smiles briefly,
leaving only a smirk in its place. “I imagine they would,” he says amicably.
“Thank you for helping me piece together some of my puzzle, Winnie. I’ll leave
you to get back to your children.”

She flounces over to
the door like a crimson tide of scented perfume: the fragrance from a hundred
freesias fills his nostrils.

“Thank you, Mack.
I’ll come down with you. Margaret may need a hand.”

The stairs creak as
they descend. The sound of children’s voices and laughter fills the hallway as
they march single file into the art room. A blond haired girl of around eight
years of age comes skipping past him, humming a tune; he can’t help but smile
and think of Elise and how different her life might have been.

The drive back takes
another two hours. Mack passes the time by listening to Radio 4 extra,
distracted by the retelling of a novel right up until the point where someone
dies. Twenty minutes in, he swaps the drama for something more cheerful: Sports
Round-up.

 By the time he
reaches the Bromley turn off he knows all there is to know about transfer fees
and goal differences. More importantly, he returns knowing a lot more about
Elise Richards and, of course, the mercurial Mr. Stone.

We
leave the limousine protected by the canopy and enter the hotel looking rather
dishevelled but unscathed.

“Do you want to have
a glass of brandy to warm you up?” Jake asks, taking hold of my bags.

I shake my head. “No
thanks. I think I need to get out of these wet clothes before I catch
pneumonia.”

“OK,” he says with
smile.

We move together in
the direction of the lifts. First lift number one then the second to the 118th
floor. I turn to Jake. “Are you on this floor?”

“No. One below. Don’t
want to see you struggle with all these fancy bags.” He smiles softly and his
eyes fix on mine for a split second longer than I’m comfortable with.

“Thanks. I don’t know
what time Ayden will be back. What are you doing for dinner? Would you like to
join us?” I fiddle in my purse for my key card.

“I don’t think so …
If he’s got any sense, he’ll keep you all to himself tonight.” He tips his head
and his mouth falls naturally into a kind of suggestive smirk.

I lower my eyes
modestly. “Maybe …”

The door to the
Presidential Suite opens with a single push and I tumble inside. Laughing, we
exchange shopping bags. He kisses me on my cheek and walks away.

From down the
corridor he calls out. “Be good!”

Still chuckling, I
close the door with my foot. When I turn around Ayden is standing there,
looking like he’s been carved out of some kind of ancient stone; gaunt and
sour-faced.

Saying nothing, he
turns and walks toward the enormous window. He stands tall, looking out into
the curtain of swirling mist; thunder roars and zigzags of lightening shiver
from the heavens above. Even the building appears to be swaying. I feel as if
we’re on the brink of something monumental, like the prelude to the great
flood. 

“Ayden?” I call
quietly. “When did you get back?” He doesn’t answer. I drop my bags and
approach him, touching his left arm at the elbow.

He spins around and I
gasp. The dazzling beauty of the man I love has been replaced by an anxious
visage that is both engaging and terrifying in its transformation. He has the
pallor of an aging man; his skin has lost its natural glow and his eyes reflect
the leaden, grey sky.

“What’s happened? Is
it ASMI?”

He looks through the
glass into the wrathful sky.

“Talk to me. Better
still, just listen.” I grasp the lapels on his jacket and turn him to face me.
“I can guess why you’re so upset. I saw you watching me at the boutique. That
was you, wasn’t it?”

He says nothing but
stands rigid and unrecognisable, air leaving his lungs in a kind of seething
snort.

“You set the whole
thing up to amuse yourself, to feel the pangs of jealousy you felt back home
and you knew Jake would play his part beautifully. If this is the case then why
are you so upset? The streets are flooded, people are frightened, injured,
maybe dying because of your tantrum.” I turn to my right and begin to walk away
but, as before I cannot; some kind of invisible force has me pinned to the
spot.

“So this is what you
do when things go awry - lash out, show your true colours?” I lower my head and
consider my words very carefully. “You said you wanted to feel, to know love in
its many forms. So what do you think this is? Name the emotion that has you
wound up so tightly.”

He closes his eyes
and when he opens them I see an open sea swimming in tears. “I don’t know.
Jealously?”

“No, it’s more than
that. You know how that feels; it’s a nagging ache, a disappointment that comes
and goes. This is actual pain.” I glance over at the clouds, rolling and
tumbling in the wind. “Call off the thunder and lightning, Ayden. People are
getting hurt.”

I wrap my hands
around his face, reaching up to place a soft kiss on his lips. “Stop this now.”
I lower my hands, slide them inside his jacket, around his back and hold on
tight. His heart is racing against my ear and his chest still heaving.

Outside the storm begins
to ease. The storm clouds are thinning and there are streaks of light; it isn’t
blue but a kind of off-white that promises better days.

He takes hold of my
shoulders and pushes me away from him. “These feelings I’m having are alien to
me. I’m struggling to give them a name.”

“I know.” I take hold
of his right hand and position it on his heart, resting mine on top of it to
keep it in place. “You know what this is?”

“Of course I do. It’s
the heart: a cone shaped, muscular organ made up of four chambers that pumps
blood received from the veins into the arteries, thereby maintaining the flow
of blood through the entire circulatory system.”

His answer makes me
laugh. “And there I was thinking you didn’t have a sense of humour.” My eyes
are glistening with adoration.

He’s smiling. “That’s
not the answer you were after, is it?”

“No. I was
highlighting the fact that you’re alive; a living, breathing, feeling entity. A
human being.”

He pulls me in close
and presses his lips against my hair.

“Fear.”

I look up into his
eyes; opaque windows to a tortured soul. “What?”

“Fear. That’s what I
was feeling. I had a panic attack of some sort; a surge of adrenalin that I
simply had to dissipate. It resulted in the storm.”

“So you didn’t create
it to get me back here?”

He tips his head and
nods in the direction of the pane of glass now clearing after the deluge.
“There was that.”

“What were you afraid
of?”

He’s lost in thought.
“I’m not sure. It was a visceral response over which I had little control.”

I’m trying to make sense
of it. “You mean like arousal?”

“Yes, although I seem
to have that under control now.”

I press my body
against his. “I think you might not be at that point just yet.”

“That’s because of
your proximity,” he explains.

“Is it? And what if I
do this and get even closer? Are you still in control?” I lower my right hand
and place it between his legs; slowly I raise it until his zip is against my
thumb.

“Is this a test of
some sort?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“No, not a test;  a
reminder that you have nothing to fear.” Standing on my tiptoes I‘m able to
nibble his chin, to drag my tongue across his bottom lip, tasting but holding
off on an actual kiss.

“But it was apparent
you like Jake. You were laughing; no, you were giggling and enjoying his
company.” Instinctively, his hands take hold of my waist, pulling apart my
jacket, pinning me to him, climbing my body with eager hands.

I whisper into his
ear. “I do like Jake. He’s like chocolate. He can be very sweet; but that
doesn’t mean I want chocolate all the time. It’s just something you fancy now
and again as an accompaniment to something more substantial. But you … you’re
so much more … an element and not a piece of confectionery. You’re like oxygen
to me. I need you to breathe.”

Unable to hold back,
he raises me off the ground, taking my legs and wrapping me around his body
like a human vice.

“Is this your way of
telling me I’m forgiven?” he asks, covering my mouth with his.

Breathless, I answer,
“Yes, forgiven - and that I love you.” I pull his mouth onto mine, taking hold
of his hair in both hands and holding him in place. “I’ve missed you, Ayden.”

“And I you, Beth.”

With silent music we
waltz over to the doorway. The bedroom is only ten yards away but I grab hold
of the doorframe before we can pass through it. “Here. I want you here.”

He looks around,
gaining his bearings, sizing up the wall. He lowers me until my feet touch the
floor and begins to remove his jacket.

“No. Leave it on. I
can picture what you look like underneath.” I begin unfastening his belt, then
the buttons on his trousers, eager to feel him in my hands.

He’s fiddling with my
jeans, pulling out my blouse in handfuls and letting it drift over my derriere
like foam on ocean waves. An involuntary moan leaves my throat when he pushes
down my jeans and my panties in a single, forceful movement.

I wrestle with a
stubborn zip and wriggle his impressive cock out of his trousers; his boxers
catch over it, making it necessary for me to gently free it from the folds.

He sanctifies our
union with passionate kisses so deep and urgent I can barely catch my breath.
My face is encased in his hands. I feel desired and loved. When I open my eyes
he is staring ahead, a boyish smile manifests, and I am once again reunited
with the man I adore.

I want to say so much
but only one word leaves my lips in breathy exhalation. “Ayden.”

Without a word of
warning I’m being lifted. The interior wall hits my back with a thud. A hard,
unyielding cock seeks me out as I balance on taut forearms. I’m clawing at his
hair and sucking on his tongue as our breaths dissolve into rapturous moans of
delight.

Words hiss from his
mouth in a garbled cry. “I have always wanted you like this. To take you is the
sweetest thing, Beth. I may be elemental but you give me life.”

In a single thrust he
enters me, swallowing up my moans as the sweet agony of his penetration has me
convulsing. Slowly he rocks, back and forth, widening the gap, making the
outward movement infinitesimally longer each time until he is ready, once
again, to slide into me in one stomach-clenching thrust.

He growls with
contentment. “Look at me, Beth.”

I open my eyes and
see my husband’s features. All my senses combined serve only to seduce me into
total submission. Through heated breath he whispers, “I love you. You belong to
me.”

I grip him
internally. His mouth twitches and his hips jerk forward in response. I smile
and reply, ”I love you more, and you belong to me.” I crush him once again and
seal my mouth against his, swallowing up the garbled sounds of pleasure
emanating from his throat as he thrusts deeply, grinding his hips against mine,
grappling with my buttocks. He’s unbridled and I’m his for the taking.

I close my eyes and
allow my head to fall backward. Our orgasms converge and build until they
become a searing bonfire of ecstatic flames so intense I fear we will melt like
altar candles.

The flames subside.
He has me in his powerful embrace and I can do no more than revel in his
magnificence. It hits me like a bolt of lightning: he will always catch me, I
will never fall; he will always love me and keep me safe forever. What more can
I ask for?

I wished for a prince
and have been blessed with an angel.

***

The highlight of
Mack’s day was when he made the discovery that Elise Richards was the last
person to speak to Dan Rizler. His understudy, D.C. Sheridan emailed him the
list of calls just after lunchtime, at that moment when he was beginning to
feel his four-part premise was a figment of his imagination. He just can’t
fathom why a man plotting to rape and kidnap an innocent young woman would
bother ringing an estate agent.

After he kicks his
shoes off; relieves the after-dinner glass of its golden liquid and sits
himself down in his favourite chair, he is ready to face what amounts to
another square peg to slot into a round hole. In the time it takes him to read
through the list of calls, he’s convinced he’s made a discovery: Elise Richards
and Dan Rizler became friends after the rental agreement was signed for the Elm
Gardens apartment. But
why
?

It’s as if a light
bulb goes on behind his eyes! He grins and shakes his head. “You both had a
vested interest. Well I never!”

Of course, he knows
it’s purely hypothetical, but that doesn’t stop him from digging out a roll of
wallpaper from under the stairs and stretching it out ready for pasting over
his dining table. Instead of paste he uses felt pens, and, instead of broad
strokes, he scratches away, decorating the sheet with circles, arrows and lines
that lead onto other lines and circles. After an hour spent scribbling, he has
what looks like a complex network of connections. On the page there are four
names and they are all linked to one another directly or by association.

All he needs now is
proof.

***

In a room starved of
light, I’m being roused from my sleep. “What time is it?”

“It’s time to get up,
darling. Get dressed. Wrap up warm and wear comfortable shoes.”

I’m rubbing my eyes,
still half asleep. “Where’s the fire?”

Ayden laughs,
switches on the bedside lamp and hands me a cup of tea. “There’s no fire.
There’s something I want to show you.”

“It’s 6.15 a.m. Can’t
it wait until the sun comes up?” I ask mid-yawn.

“No.” He folds his
arms and taps his foot impatiently.