Lost Cause (A Daisy Dunlop Mystery ~ Book 1)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Daisy's hair was still damp from her shower, and she'd swapped her glass of wine for a cup of Solomon's exclusive blend of coffee. Enveloped in his huge bath robe, she sat on the sofa and inhaled the fragrant steam as she considered what to do to pass the time until Solomon came home. It was a little after midnight, and Paul was right, the git could well have got lucky. Hell, back when she was single if she'd been hard up and legless she'd probably have accepted an offer of the horizontal variety from him. Thankfully, none of the above applied. She was a well-satisfied, sober, and happily married mature woman with too much self-respect to ever fall for his Irish charm.

She turned her attention to the laptop lying forgotten on the coffee table. Paul's idea about looking for Toby under his mother's maiden name had merit. She put her coffee on the table and lifted the laptop. Toby's birth certificate lay next to her on the sofa. His mother's maiden name was Brayden. Thank God it wasn't Smith, or this would be a waste of time. She typed Tobias Brayden into Google and waited. The results list was hardly inspiring. Apparently he'd died in an old folk's home in Florida, and been arrested for indecent exposure in Sydney. The man got around. How about Toby Brayden? She typed the name into the search engine and hit enter.

The list of hits was far more extensive. She scrolled through a few and came to a stop. "Homeless man sings for his supper." What were the chances? She clicked on the link and moved closer to the screen. Her heart raced as she stared at the photo of a man with an acoustic guitar hanging around his neck. No way. No fucking way. She'd had the bastard. How had she not realized she had the bastard? Tobias Wareham, aka Toby Brayden, was Zut. She'd missed it because the grainy photos his family provided could have been anyone, and what kind of lord pranced around town dressed like a washed-up seventies rock star? Added to that, Zut didn't have the upper-class twit accent. She had so fucked up. If she'd spotted him sooner she would have got the cash. Now there was no cash she'd finally worked it out.

Hmmph, she slumped back on the sofa. He'd been hiding in plain sight, and now he really was missing, according to Maureen. Well, one thing was for sure, the man in the newspaper with Elliott wasn't his brother. She read the article attached to the photo of the real Toby. Apparently it was taken eight months ago and was an exposé about how men were the forgotten homeless. Had he really been homeless or was the story a way to build up his credibility before he got involved in whatever the charity was up to? Her head was aching thinking about it all.

She decided to put it aside for now and concentrate on her other problem, finding Solomon's real identity. If he'd changed his name was there a record somewhere? She tried the London Gazette but came up empty. A search of the Belfast edition came up blank. Unfortunately it said what names people had abandoned, but not what names they adopted instead.

Birth notices? She knew his date of birth. A scan of the local paper in Carrickfergus showed a half a dozen baby boys born that week and none of them were called Ronan. She'd bet her life he'd kept the Christian name his mother had chosen for him. She noted down the names of the other babies. She picked the most unusual name, Otis McMahon and entered it into Google along with Carrickfergus and hit enter. The list of hits looked promising. She scrolled through. They read like an episode of This is Your Life. Young Otis was married and had fathered three kids according to various newspaper notices. He also played lacrosse and by all accounts was quite good.

She kept looking. Ah-ha. Rugby. Solomon played rugby. She clicked on the link and scanned the first page of writing all about the local club's illustrious history and its influx of new players. A click on the Continue icon brought up the last of the article, along with a photo of the club's members with their names underneath. Fuck. She'd found him. Fuckity fuck.

Her heart pounded. Ronan Dunlop. That name was too much of a coincidence. Dunlop had to be his father's surname, and Solomon had known it all along. He could be related to Paul and had never said a word. What were the chances he'd not only ended up in the same regiment as Paul but became best mates with him?

Daisy went back to the government website and ordered his birth certificate. Maybe Solomon had looked into this father's background and the surname was a coincidence. If he really had no desire to be associated with his father, and knew he wasn't related to Paul, then keeping the information to himself was reasonable enough.

She checked the time. It was after two and still no sign of the man returning. Should she call Paul and tell him what she'd found out? No, she'd wait to get the birth certificate. Once she knew the truth she'd know what to do with it. For now the only thing she could do was to go to bed so she'd be fresh when he finally dragged his sorry arse home.

* * * *

Solomon sat with his back against the door and listened. Silence. He counted off seconds in his head. Toby had been liberated over an hour ago. Maybe they planned to leave him alone in the room to starve to death. No one came down into the bowels of the school. He didn't even have anything of any use to aid his escape or signal his whereabouts.

His watch was missing, along with his wallet and phone. He was left in the clothes he stood in and nothing else. Even the keys to the Aston Martin were gone. If he was on the outside and Daisy had gone missing with the Aston he would know he had an edge. He prayed the thugs had decided to take his car as well as his liberty. The alarm on the tracking device would have been activated after it was driven 100 meters if the thief didn't have his credit card-sized driver deactivation device. Even though the young Maroni had his current mobile phone, it wouldn't have given them any clue that the car was designed to track its whereabouts when it was stolen. The text message requesting he confirm the car wasn't stolen would have gone to the old phone, which he hoped to God was in the hands of a person who'd alert the authorities that his car was missing.

A sound in the corridor had him turning his head to listen closer. Footsteps. Definitely footsteps. He took up a position next to the door. Tensed, ready for anything, his weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet. Given an opportunity he was prepared to take it.

The grating of metal on metal heralded the arrival of company. He took a deep breath and focused his attention on the leading edge of the timber as the heavy door swung open with a low creak. Light speared a shaft across the stone floor of the small room. Fists balled tight, he bided his time. Toby was pushed inside. The man stumbled and grabbed at Solomon for support. He shoved him aside. A loud curse filled the air as the lord no doubt made contact with a hard surface. The door started to close, and Solomon pounced and dragged it open, drawing the man who held the handle into the room with it.

Solomon slammed his fist down on the man's arm sending the gun he was holding clattering across the room. A knee to the groin had the man doubled over, and Solomon smirked with satisfaction as he recognized Jason. Solomon wrapped an arm around the smaller man's throat. He had this. The cool feel of metal against his temple brought him up short.

"Let him go."

Solomon turned his head and glared at Toby. What the feck. "You've not got the balls to pull the trigger."

"Try me." The gun pressed harder, and Solomon let Jason go. He sagged over like a sack of potatoes gasping for air. Toby waved the gun at Solomon. "Back off."

Solomon sauntered across the room, never once taking his eyes off the precious lord who had just fucked up their best chance of escape. Jason grabbed the gun and glared from one man to the other. "Good choice, Zut. Just remember what's at stake, and no one has to die." He grinned. "Yet."

The door closed with a sickening thud. Solomon waited a beat before grabbing Zut by the throat and slamming him into the wall. "What the feck are you doing?"