The Things You Didn't See(80)
To hear it said so baldly made Holly catch her breath – was that what she thought? She had been with Cass many times, and her senses hadn’t sung out.
‘No, I don’t think that. I think she’s very vulnerable, and I’m worried about her. I think she needs protecting.’
Alfie took a broken biro from his desk and pointed to one of the articles pinned to his cubicle wall. It was about The Samphire Man. ‘Do you mean from that jerk?’
‘Yes,’ said Holly. She hesitated, then realised Alfie might be the one person she could really confide in. ‘I’m beginning to think Daniel could be guilty.’
Alfie leaned back suddenly, a muscle near his eye twitching as he spoke. ‘God, I’d love to see him arrested. But he’s watertight.’
She felt nervous then, as nervous as she had been in the barn, that terrible Halloween. ‘You promise anything I tell you is confidential?’
There was a moment, a silence in the cubicle, unpenetrated by the hubbub around them.
‘Holly, you and I, we’re on the same side here. If there’s any way we can expose The Samphire Man, we have to do it. What is it you have for me?’
She knew it was time. For twenty years she’d kept her condition secret, but now she’d told Clive, it seemed the floodgates were opening. ‘Alfie, I have this special trait. I can pick up on what other people feel, their deep emotions. It’s a form of synaesthesia.’
Alfie’s biro had made its way to his mouth, and he now had black ink on his chin. The skin around his eyes crinkled as his smile widened. ‘I did an article on that a few months ago, interviewed this guy who tastes words. His wife’s name tasted like Cornish pasties – he said it’s why he married her.’
‘Yes, well, it takes different forms. Me, I feel touch when I see it, and I feel emotions as if they’re mine if I’m close enough to someone. It works best if I touch them.’
He was chuckling now. ‘That’s fucking brilliant, I love it. So if you got close enough, you could tell if Daniel’s the crooked charlatan we think he is?’
‘Or if he shot Maya. Yes, I think so.’
‘Then what are you waiting for? Go see Daniel. Just you and him, close enough so you can sense the guilt. He’ll be stinking of it.’
Holly shook her head. ‘How would I do that, Alfie? I have no reason to see him alone.’
‘That’s easy,’ he said, an ironic smile on his lips. ‘Do the same as my ex-wife – go to him for help. You’re young and pretty: that bastard would never turn away the chance to cure you.’
Samphire Studio was located in a small industrial park, in a blocky building set between a kitchen designer’s showroom and a pet store, the pathway was flanked with storm lanterns inside which red candles had burned flat. The gym had darkened glass windows so the interior was hidden, and Holly pushed open the door with a certain trepidation.
The vibe was boutique-hotel-cum-brothel, with massive black leather sofas and displays of red roses on glass tables. The underpinning aroma was rubberised flooring and sweat. To the left was a huge window, on the other side of which an exercise class was taking place with two ladies suspended from loops of coloured cloth. They looked to be engaged in some sort of yoga. Holly tried not to stare, her own sinews straining in sympathy. Daniel was leading the class, his toned physique arching in the straps.
Opposite the door was a long reception desk, with chrome bar stools at one end. At the other, with a laptop open in front of her, was a young woman with spiky pink hair.
‘Can I help you?’ The receptionist squirrelled away the graphic comic mag she’d been reading and smiled at Holly in a slightly crazed way. Her blue eyes seemed covered with a layer of fluid as if she were very bored, and had been for some time.
‘I’d like to speak with Daniel Salmon, please.’
‘Oh.’ Now the blue eyes looked more alert. ‘Are you a new client?’
Holly bit her lower lip. ‘I hope to be. I haven’t made an appointment . . .’
‘Oh, that’s fine, he has plenty of spaces. He’s teaching right now.’ The girl pointed a pink talon at the large glass window. ‘Aerial Fitness finishes in seven minutes.’
‘Thanks, I’ll wait.’
The sofa sagged beneath her, taking Holly lower than the square table, which had a tastefully displayed fan of magazines: Your Health, Positive Energy, Vogue. No tacky chat mags for this crowd, only the best for Woodbridge’s finest. The wall in front of her was flanked by a huge glass-fronted fridge with rows of juices, green and purple and orange. A price list was taped to the glass under the heading The Samphire Master suggests. Each juice was listed, not only with its price, but with all the ailments it treated. She leaned forward and read the notes, fascinated: these magic potions were said to treat everything from psoriasis to melanoma. The juice that caught her eye was crimson, called Dragon’s Blood, and according to the description restores your mental equilibrium and cures emotional overwork. Something she was experiencing, especially given the task in hand. Well, Holly, she chided herself, you suggested this, so woman up and stop whingeing.
Beyond the glass, Daniel remained oblivious to what was coming. He was focused on two women, whom he was tying up like origami with red bands that hung from the ceiling. Holly was unable to hear a word but still followed everything that was happening. A smooth operator, Daniel didn’t have a dark hair out of place. His taut frame was clad in tight black running clothes, and both women contorted at his command like fluorescent parrots. One woman in a bulging electric-blue unitard found this harder than the other, but he was there to push her generous bottom along the narrow band until she had achieved the position, grinning at him as she did so. Holly felt the mirrored touch on her own backside, and shifted in her seat to make it go away.