by Nigel May
He was deep in conversation with a group of men who regularly spent time at The Kitty Kat. All of them were suited and looked darkly serious about their discussions.
One was Tommy Hearn. In his late forties, Amy had met him on many occasions. He and his wife, Jemima, had even dined at their house several times. Tommy had worked with Riley’s dad, Cazwell Hart, when he was alive and Riley had worked with him ever since he took over the business.
Their dinner get-togethers were always dreaded by Amy. Riley and Tommy would disappear to talk ‘the joy of plastics’ while Amy would be left to entertain the exceedingly dull Jemima, whose idea of a good time was extolling the virtues of Tchaikovsky. If Amy had heard her say ‘such a troubled man, tried to kill himself, died of cholera’ once, she had heard it an overture-lasting million times. After a few hours with Jemima, Amy had often been tempted to join the composer and reach for the nearest weapon of destruction. There was just something about the woman that Amy couldn’t gel with. She may have been from a different generation but to Amy she may as well have just landed from a different planet.
Amy had been surprised when she’d spotted Jemima in the club earlier that evening. To say that The Kitty Kat was out of Jemima’s comfort zone was a huge understatement. She was definitely more pouty than party.
Alongside Riley and Tommy she could see Adam Rich, father of Lily aka ‘Filthy’ and husband of famed society glamourpuss, Caitlyn Rich, not that either of them knew of their daughter’s narcotic sideline. As far as they knew, Lily was employed by Amy and Riley to garner PR for the club and to make sure everything ran beyond smoothly. Adam himself was anything but smooth. Bald and constantly unshaven he was rougher than a bricklayer’s handshake. Amy had never seen him look happy. To Amy he looked like a man who would happily drown puppies with one hand while bottling a happy clapping do-gooder with the other. Amy had once asked Lily what her father did for a living. Her reply was straight to the point. ‘Fuck knows, he’s a businessman, whatever that means, but he earns enough to keep my mother up to her reconstructed chins in diamonds and designer frocks and a bloody good roof over my head so we’re all happy. I could move out given the dosh I earn but I like my home comforts too much, even if my mother’s taste in decor is more OTT than the whole of Dubai. She’s started collecting mirrored statues for Christ’s sake and putting them everywhere. She’s always down in London buying them or having them commissioned. She’s just moved a full-size David, covered in head to toe mirror mosaic into the entrance hall. It has a bloody mirrored cock! But I keep schtum and don’t rock the boat. Nothing beats free rent and a team of maids cleaning up after you plus the best chef this side of Tom Aikens and Jamie Oliver at your beck and call. Mother settles for nothing less and Daddy pays for it all. So who cares what the fuck he does for a living?’
The other man at the table was Winston Curtis, a huge slab of a man with skin the colour of liquorice. An e-cigarette constantly hung from his lips, a plume of swirling vape smoke drifting into the air. Despite the smoking ban that had come into place even before the club opened, Amy had always had to turn a blind eye to Riley’s colleagues. Ciggies and cigars were banned but she bent the rules for vaping. Alongside ‘Filthy’ Lily’s illegal stash it hardly seemed so bad.
Amy had always found Winston as charming as he was massive, adoring his bear hugs when he greeted her at the club. He’d worked alongside Riley for the last few years as his advisor. Anything Riley needed, from financial know-how through to the laws of hiring and firing, he was the man. He was rarely away from Riley's side.
Amy glanced at her watch. It was approaching 3am. The club normally started turning out about that time but tonight it showed no signs of slowing down. In fact it seemed fuller than it had done in ages. Maybe it was the mass of people that made recalling exactly what happened a few minutes later extremely difficult.
* * *
The first thing Amy heard was a scream. It seemed to be close to her. She spun round trying to locate its source but couldn’t.
Suddenly the club erupted, screams pouring from every corner. People started to run across her path, heading nowhere yet everywhere at the same time. Panic reigned. Time seemed to stand still as people circled around Amy. Some fell, their bodies and faces trampled underneath a herd of designer footwear.
A forceful push slammed into Amy and she saw Laura’s face in front of hers, her deep ruby lips curled into a scream. She was certain she heard the words ‘get out of here’ and then a loud crack, followed by another, or was it an echo? The two friends fell to the floor. As they fell, Amy was fairly certain she saw Grant, his animated face embossed with panic, diving behind an upturned table, then a flash of deep red blur passed ... was it Lily’s hair or something more ominous? Amy couldn’t be sure.
Amy stared across at the booth where her husband and his friends had been sitting. Smashed glass lay across the table. A splash of blood streaked its way up the wall behind the booth. The lifeless face of Winston Curtis stared back at her. Amy felt her throat run dry, all moisture sucked from within.
As the sound of screams still rang in her ears, Amy attempted to move the body that still lay on top of her. Why wasn’t it moving? Deep down Amy already knew. As she rolled it away from her she saw a pool of blood stretching across Laura’s back. She knew that her best friend was dead. Amy screamed as she’d never screamed before, every fibre of her body tortured.
Staggering to her feet she stumbled across the club to where her husband had been. Genevieve Peters, owner of famed Manchester fashion boutique, Eruption, lay on the floor, her manicured hands covering her face.
Amy needed to locate Riley. She found him face down on the booth table. Cold terror gripped her, its touch arctic. Knowing what she had to do, she lifted his head towards her. His face, what was left of it, was a mass of red, a trough of flesh and bone where her husband’s beautiful features had once been. Shot away. Whatever had happened had been close range. It was clear that there had been no intention of missing. She blacked out and fell to the floor again.
4
Then, after the carnage …
* * *
‘Can you identify the body as that of your husband, Mrs Hart?’
It was a line Amy had heard a million times before on TV crime dramas but nothing in life had prepared her for the earth-shattering moment when you're the person stood in front of the body under the ominous white cloth. Especially as it’s pulled back to reveal the mangled face of the man who had just hours before shared all of your hopes and dreams. Despite the lack of distinguishing features on the face of the corpse in front of her and the regulation black suit he was wearing, something in Amy’s heart had told her that the lifeless form was Riley. There was no alternative. She could give the body no more than a cursory glance, the pain of staring at his corpse stabbing her to her soul. She was looking into the broken shards of the reflection of her own shattered dreams. For a moment she considered looking further around the body, in search of a kidney-shaped birthmark on his toned stomach, the dimple just above his left knee. Signs of the body she loved, landmarks on an adoring journey that she had explored many times. But any desire to look more closely around Riley’s corpse disintegrated as the sea of red and disfigurement she witnessed on the mortuary slab drowned her in a surging wave of sadness. Riley was gone, she needed to face the truth.
‘It’s him,’ she stammered, her throat raspy and harsh, keen for the ordeal of what she was witnessing to be over.
That night had been the longest night of Amy’s life. What had started as another happening evening at The Kitty Kat Club had ended in three deaths and countless injuries. Her husband, his right hand man and Amy's best friend all lay dead, lifeless mounds of mutilated flesh inside a Manchester mortuary.
The abject shock of it all kept slamming into Amy’s brain, the total reality of it impossible to grasp, but for someone the night had obviously gone just as predicted.
Someone had planned this. Such barbarity had to be cal
culated in advance. Which was something Detective Inspector Daniel Chapman was keen to share with Amy as he stared across his desk at her a few hours after the massacre.
‘We believe somebody wanted your husband dead and that unfortunately both Winston Curtis and Laura Cash were tragically caught up in the crossfire. If it’s any consolation it would appear that all three of the victims would have died instantly. Do you know of any reason why your husband might have been targeted?’
His words felt hollow, somehow horribly routine. ‘Detective Chapman, my husband has his own factory and co-owns one of Manchester’s most popular nightclubs. He had money and was well known. Could it be some kind of attempted robbery?’ Why was she telling him the answers?
‘How much did you know about his businesses? Did he ever discuss his affairs with you?’ Amy was sure she spotted a furrowing of Detective Chapman’s brow and a quizzical narrowing of the eyes as he enquired.
‘The club I know everything about, it's my baby. As for the factory, well, he sold sheet plastic, rods and tubing across the globe.'
The words scratched at her soul, cutting a feeling of deep annoyance. Why were they discussing the damn factory? Her husband's killer was still out there somewhere. 'Forgive me if I didn’t ask about it on a daily basis, Detective. There’s not exactly much to know, is there?’ Her words were clipped, annoyance weaving through her reply.
* * *
Now, 2015
* * *
What was there to know? It was a question which suddenly seemed to ricochet around Amy’s mind as she sat in her London apartment the day after receiving the letter from Riley all those months later. What didn’t she know? Riley's job may have been a fruitful one but on an excitement level it hardly ranked up there with Bear Grylls, did it? Their life had been one of great excitement and glamour. Holidays in the most vibrant of European cities, safaris in South Africa, lazing on the sands of Ipanema, the powdery silkiness caressing her skin as she contemplated her next cocktail … work was rarely mentioned. Theirs was a life of pleasure, of togetherness, of love. There had been business trips, but Amy had never been involved. Why would she be? Who would really want to contemplate the joys of insulated lagging and PVC plastics when there were cobbled streets to explore and designer shopping to be done? Amy’s mind took itself back to their first trip away together …
* * *
Then, 2006
* * *
'Bienvenue à Paris!' cried Riley, his voice enveloped in a mock Inspector Clouseau accent, as he and Amy walked into the lobby of their Parisian hotel. The large chandelier overhead seemed to twinkle, the golden crystal-covered cherubs hanging off every curving stem appearing to smile down at Amy as she took in the scene around her. It was truly magical.
The hotel – one of Paris's finest, Riley had informed her – was a mass of hot, shining gold and deep, dark, solid woods. Amy fell under its spell straight away. It was pure soap opera glamour. The splendour and sexiness of it all, the tiers of history embedded in each and every corner, the faces of scandalous Counts and coquettish Countesses looking down their regal noses from portraits hung on the walls. It was Amy’s first trip to Paris, a place she had always dreamt of visiting when she was growing up and she loved it from the moment their plane had landed. She had always found French such a bewitching language, even with her own basic schoolgirl grasp of it, and to hear it spoken at every corner filled her with a Disney-like glee. It was truly magnifique. Didn’t everything sound so much sexier in French?
The opulence of the hotel was just the beginning of the joy that she and Riley found together in the French capital over the next three days. Walks to the Louvre, hand in hand as they strolled through the leafy glades of the Jardin Des Tuileries, a Bateau Mouche trip and five star dinner sailing along the Seine, the breathtaking views from the top of the Eiffel Tower, the romance of the city laid out below them like toy bricks. Every moment was one to remember, another jewel in the crown that was their union.
Not that the trip had been all play. Riley was there for business, his empire spreading ever wider. And Amy was happy to show her support. To be by his side. Even when she actually wasn’t.
On the second evening of their stay, Amy had spent hours alone while Riley headed to a meeting with some French company bigwig. Amy hadn't caught his name, and determined to make the most of her time in Paris, she hailed a cab and made straight for the Champs Élysées. There was shopping to be done and not un moment to be wasted.
As she strolled along the Champs Élysées, taking in the best of Paris’s cutting edge prêt-à-porter with a wide-eyed excitement, Amy couldn’t help thinking about Laura. For a moment she contemplated reaching for her mobile phone and contacting her, wanting to share the joy of the bold, floral catwalk delights she saw in the Tara Jarmon store. Laura would adore their wild, figure-hugging sexuality. Then there were the eclectic delights of Louis Vuitton and the exuberant bling of Cartier. Amy’s animation grew with every turn of her head. Shopping in Manchester had always been something that she and Laura adored, Laura always happy to spend her parents’ cash, but the high-end luxuries of the French capital were something beyond any of her teenage dreams. A chill of excitement passed through her as she thought about how far she had come. The journey from Manchester to Paris may have only been a couple of hours, but to a girl like Amy it was a million miles away from her humble beginnings growing up. Riley had made this possible. Being his wife was perfection – a role that she adored and she knew that he adored her too. Just thinking about him caused a ripple of carnal desire to pulsate within her. The timing was perfect. Amy was walking past the sensual, sexy shop front of one of the most inviting lingerie stores she had ever seen. She let out a slight gasp of anticipatory excitement as she stared through the window at the beautiful creations on display – sheer tulle and scallop-edged materials in soft pink hues, a provocative display of ribbons, satins and lace forming to create a sexual fairy tale enchantment that Amy couldn’t resist. Unable to stop herself, she entered the boutique. She was immediately approached by a tall, bald-headed man, quite beautiful in appearance, dressed immaculately in a tight-fitting crisp white shirt and sporting a cravat around his neck. His look was pure Paris chic and his approach was accompanied by a waft of one of the most intoxicating aftershaves Amy had ever smelt. As fresh as a bouquet of summer blooms yet with a top note of deep masculine sexuality about it. If it smelt that good on the shop assistant then Amy could only imagine how delicious it would be on Riley.
‘Bonjour Mademoiselle, je m’appelle Didier, je peux vous aider?’ His voice was as rich as his scent.
‘Oui …je veux …’ Amy attempted to remember her comprehensive schoolgirl French. It wasn’t forthcoming, her mind suddenly blank. Didier smiled, flashing a set of poker-straight white teeth, sensing her confusion.
‘Would it be easier if I spoke English, Mademoiselle?’
‘Er ... please,’ smiled Amy, thinking that her school French teacher, Mr Hawker, would be horrified that she had managed no more than three words before crashing and burning. But there was shopping to be done and language could not stand in the way. English it was.
‘Thank you Didier,’ said Amy. She immediately liked him. His manner was as pleasing as his attire. ‘I am looking for something …’ She hesitated before adding ‘… un peu sexuelle to wear for my boyfriend. Perhaps a negligee. Something simple yet feminine and frilly. Something memorable …’ She left the sentence hanging, happy that she had attempted at least some kind of Franglais even if her French was rustier than a forgotten girder on the Eiffel Tower.
‘Oh Mademoiselle, I have many delights to show you. If you would like to follow me,’ grinned Didier, leading Amy to an army of mannequins located at the centre of the store. All of them sported the most fantastic array of intricate stitch work and iridescent fabrics. ‘Now where shall we begin …?’
Amy inhaled again as the blanketing scent of Didier’s cologne hit her nostrils. It was like an aphrodisiac, imme
diately lighting the touch paper of carnality within her. She felt a sense of awkwardness run through her as she felt herself becoming slightly turned on. Were her cheeks flushing in front of Didier? She hoped not, she’d hate to give him the wrong impression.
‘Well you can start by telling me where I can buy that aftershave you’re wearing too. It’s just divine.’
Didier’s face lit up at her question. ‘I am so pleased you like it. It’s “Babylon Pour Homme” by Montana Phoenix, the Hollywood star. It’s in stock at the perfumerie my boyfriend runs just around the corner from here. I can direct you there afterwards if you wish. It has been selling like … what is the phrase the British use? We say se vendre comme des petits pains … I think you say warm cakes, non …?’
Amy giggled, any boudoir-talk awkwardness disappearing at the mention of Didier’s boyfriend. ‘It’s hot cakes, Didier, hot … which is exactly what I want to be for my boyfriend tonight in one of your creations. Now, where do we start?’
Didier reached towards a rack of negligees alongside him and took the first one in his hands. The sheer fabric, dotted with ditzy embellished flowers was a work of art and Amy’s eyes lit up immediately. Didier could already tell that both he and his boyfriend would be discussing how they had sold items to the pretty British tourist with the lucky boyfriend over dinner à deux that night. He was right.
* * *
Riley hadn't returned to their Paris hotel suite until the early hours of the morning. When he had, he found Amy asleep, her body seeming somehow tiny in the enormity of the hotel bed, wearing the most beautiful negligee. The flowery piece of femininity, something she had obviously bought in his absence that evening, had caused a lusting between his legs as he stared down at his beautiful wife. He felt his cock stiffen within his jockey shorts. It took all of his willpower not to wake her, lift up the material and work his way across the curves of her body. He felt pumped – business had gone well and making love to Amy would have been the perfect end to a profitable evening. But the serenity of Amy's repose stopped him. Wrapping his body around her, he lay down alongside her and allowed himself to sleep.
