Deadly Obsession

by Nigel May

  ‘That’s what I thought but apparently Spanish laws are different. It seems they are perfectly happy for you to sign it. It makes sense to do it now and then I can deliver it while you pack your things in the morning.’ There was a slight fluster in Riley’s voice. ‘Sooner it’s done, the quicker the money rolls in. More cash to spend on the latest Prada or Gaultier.’

  ‘Now you’re talking. Pass me a pen.’

  Riley did so and watched as Amy signed her name across the two sheets. There was a sadness in his eyes.

  Having signed, Amy rose to her feet. ‘Now, I just need to head to the little girl’s room. If the waiter comes over I’d like the ice cream and the largest glass of Spanish liqueur this restaurant has to offer.’ She bent down to kiss Riley on the lips and wandered off across the restaurant. ‘Te quiero, Señor!’

  ‘And I love you too, Amy Hart. I truly do.’

  So why had he just made her sign away all rights to any interest in his financial dealings? It was not an act that made him feel good about himself. But it was something he had to do. Just another lie to add to the mix. She didn’t need to know why they’d really come to Barcelona. What business really needed to be attended to that afternoon while she played happy tourist.

  By the time Amy returned the signed papers were back in the messenger bag and the ice cream ordered. It arrived a few minutes later.

  ‘Ow. Brain freeze. That is so cold,’ stated Amy as she took a large mouthful of the dessert.

  Riley couldn’t help but wonder if the body of the man whose throat he’d slit that afternoon and dumped in a large recycling bin in a secluded backstreet of Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter had gone cold yet. What would Amy say if she knew the truth about his reason for coming to the Spanish city? He silently prayed that she would never have to know.

  12

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  Amy had never felt more alone. Her parents were dead, her husband apparently so and her memories of him shattering into sharp, painful shards of heartache with every single fact of his deceit she was learning. It was at times like this that Amy had always turned to Laura. She could always be relied on in any crisis to speak sense, see reason and stomp her high-heeled way towards a solution. But, of course, she was dead too ... Amy had felt her best friend’s last drop of life taper to nothing as she held her in her arms that night at The Kitty Kat Club.

  Lying back on the stained sheets of her Manchester hotel room bed, Amy couldn’t help but think of her departed friend. She would have thrown some much-needed light onto the murky depths Amy found herself wallowing in. She’d also have told Amy to check out of the sub-standard hotel she was staying at and book into somewhere half-decent. But with no real income coming in and her money from selling jewellery and clothes dwindling away she knew that economising was the best idea. She didn’t intend to stay in Manchester any longer than she needed to, just enough to try and find some clues to lead her to Riley, and she would hardly be at the hotel if she kept herself busy, so splashing out on five star luxury seemed pointless. It wasn’t that long ago that Riley would have insisted on her settling for nothing less than the best. For now, being frugal was the sensible option.

  The stains on the bed sheets ranged from, as far as Amy could make out, faded blood through to indubitably ancient splashes of tea and coffee. Flea-pit was not even close. In Amy’s fuzzy-headed state of mind on her arrival in Manchester she had booked herself into the first hotel she could find. The façade and the Reception area had looked okay – window frames painted, Christmas decorations in place, no smashed bulbs on the illuminated sign – it was only once Amy had let herself into her room that she’d realised just how vile the place actually was. The carpet was a mass of cigarette burns, the edges of the curling wallpaper a distressed brown. It was a million light years away from any of the luxurious places she had ever stayed with Riley. But Riley wasn’t here now, was he? She was alone ... with no-one to talk to. God, she missed Laura ...

  13

  Then, 2004

  * * *

  Laura Cash and Amy Barrowman had first bumped into each other at a glam rock tribute concert in Manchester’s town centre. Literally bumped into each other. Amy had been walking back from the bar with two full glasses of Jägerbombs balanced between her fingers ready to lose herself in yet another slab of the thunderous beats of her favourite glam rock tribute act – Sweet Treat. In an era where dance music from the likes of Gwen Stefani, Beyoncé and Shakira ruled the airwaves, Amy was still proud to love music from days gone by. She was all about the tribute and had often thought that she must have been born in the wrong era. Seventies and eighties tunes were just so cool.

  Her fringe, straight, long and teased as far down her face as possible, fell across one of her eyes and momentarily caused her to stumble on her platform heels. Glam nights meant dressing up top to toe. Amy adored a theme and the chance to create an outfit for the night. She would happily sit down with her mother’s old Singer sewing machine and work her magic with a stack of fat quarters and cotton jelly rolls until a couture era-befitting creation had been born.

  As she tried to regain her footing both drinks went sailing from her clutches, one cascading down her own homemade outfit, while the other landed across the ample cleavage of Laura Cash, poured into the tightest bright purple cat suit Amy had ever seen. A triangular expanse of flesh ran from Laura’s neckline, narrowing its way between her large, round breasts and ending at her belly button. The entire area of skin was decorated with glitter, which started to run in rivulets as it mixed with the Jägermeister/Red Bull cocktail hurtling down Laura’s curves.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. I spent all evening getting that glitter just right in the hope that the lead singer might cop an eyeful,’ screamed Laura. ‘And now it’s sodding ruined. I was hoping that working these beauties might get me backstage after the gig. It worked for one of the boarders in my school last year. She had a whale of a time. Now I just look like I’ve wet myself. Thanks a lot, I’ll have to dry myself off in the toilets now.’

  Amy was mesmerised by the vision of glorious femininity standing in front of her. She had never met anyone like this girl before. There was no chance of any red-blooded rocker not noticing the body Laura possessed. She was perfection. Amy was determined not to let her new discovery disappear just yet.

  ‘I am so sorry, it’s these bloody heels. I lost my footing. Please let me buy you a drink to apologise,’ she said, calculating just how much money she had on her. ‘And for what it’s worth, you still look amazing. Seriously, I would kill to look like you.’ Amy couldn’t divert her gaze from the symphony of colour in front of her.

  Laura obviously appreciated the compliment and visibly softened as she answered back. ‘I suppose it’ll dry out, especially in this place. It’s so bloody hot and rammed in here. I’ve never seen so much eye-shadow and lip-gloss in one place ... and I thought I had most of it on my dressing table.’ She paused before adding, ‘I’ll have a pint of lager, but I’ll get it. I have wads of cash with me. The name’s Laura, and as it happens, you’re rocking that outfit too. I adore your lilac bellbottoms. And it’s no wonder you fell over on those heels, they’re at least a couple of inches higher than mine. I am beyond deeply jealous.’

  ‘I made the outfit myself,’ said Amy, pleased by the compliment from the goddess in front of her. Why weren’t there girls like this at Stephen Hague Comp?

  ‘Shut the front door,’ squealed Laura. ‘It’s amazing. And the boots?’

  ‘Charity shop.’

  Laura held her hand up to high-five her new fashion icon. ‘Respect. You and I need to shop together. I never go in charity shops normally.’

  Amy bought the drinks using a twenty pound note Laura had given her and the two girls continued to chat, mainly about their love of music and all things fabulous. ‘My friend actually managed to kiss Jake Shears from the Scissor Sisters last year when she saw him at some swanky Manchester hotel. She said his skin felt like the
softest leather handbag you’ve ever touched. She wouldn’t wash her face for weeks, silly cow, because she reckoned she could still smell him on her. She’s with me tonight but I don’t think I’ll see her again as she wants to shag the bassist from the group and is probably backstage. Lucky bitch. I hope to join her later. What about you, you here alone? I assume not, unless you were binge drinking when I met you. You had two Jägers, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ smiled Amy. ‘One was for my mate’s boyfriend. Well, I say mate, she’s not really. She’s just the only person I know who likes this kind of music and to be honest I don’t really know her that well. It was just an excuse not to come on my own. Why don’t more people like glam? I was glad to get away from them to be honest as they’ve spent most of the night with their tongues down each other’s throats. It can become a bit off putting when you’re trying to sing along. I suppose I should go back, they’ll be wondering where I am.’

  Laura began to scream at the top of her voice. Virtually all of the bar turned to look at her. ‘Oh my God! You hear those sirens? It’s fucking “Blockbuster”. Only one of the best glam songs ever. Come on, down that drink ... you and I are going to dance. If one of the band doesn’t spot me looking like this then there’s sweet chance for anyone else!’ She giggled at her own wordplay. ‘Now, move it sister, let’s hit the floor.’

  The two girls had spent the rest of the gig together, dancing wildly to the band on stage. Amy had never met anyone with such a cocktail of personalities before. Laura was happy, adventurous, fun, wild, and reckless and she made Amy want to feel just like that too. Laura did catch the attention of one of the musicians and before heading off into the night with him, the two young women swapped numbers and arranged to meet again. They did, the following week, on a quest to try and track down Brandon Flowers.

  They’d never found The Killers’ frontman, but the two girls had found a deep friendship, which saw them share so much – from their taste in music as it twisted its way from glam rock via disco to the edgier sounds of the eighties they’d been listening to on the night Laura died – to their varied experiences with men, even though Laura’s experience with the opposite sex eclipsed anything that Amy had ever tried. Most nights out ended up with Laura leaving Amy to her own devices as she headed off after yet another man. But Laura had always been there, the naughty to Amy’s nice. And Amy found her thrilling.

  But now she was gone. The thrill was over. Someone had made sure of that when they’d fired a bullet into Laura’s back at the Kitty Kat Club. And even if Amy wasn’t sure about anything to do with her life with Riley anymore, she knew that somebody needed to pay for taking away her perfect existence with her best friend.

  14

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  ‘Sprechen sie hi-fashion, darling? It would appear that you don’t. I suggest you take your foreign, tawdry little rags and peddle them elsewhere. You’re not exactly Germany’s equivalent of Victoria Beckham are you? Now, why don’t you take your collection and give it to someone who gives a shit about your poorly stitched knick-knacks as they certainly have no place in one of England’s finest clothing boutiques ... got it?’

  Genevieve Peters hung up the phone. She had never been somebody to dress up her words with pleasantries. She had a tongue sharper than the outfits featured inside the four walls of Eruption, her goldmine of a clothing shop situated in one of the trendier parts of Manchester. In the seven years since she had opened the store she had clothed everyone from up-and-coming Hollywood through to young royalty. Not that any of the fashion was designed by her. No, Genevieve left that to the likes of Tom Ford or Roberto Cavalli. She had the shrewdest fashionista eye for spotting what the next big trend would be. With a hard work ethic of ‘nose to the grindstone’ and a well-accessorised ear to the floor, Genevieve and her team of contacts polka-dotted around the globe to make sure that any forthcoming trend would feature in Manchester’s Eruption before it had even hit UK catwalks. She had played a major part in Fashion Weeks all over the globe from the chaotic drama of New York through to the stylish flair of Milan and Paris. Images of her chatting freely with celebrities such as Cara Delevingne or Harry Styles in the front row of all the big name showcases frequently filled the red tops. At the age of thirty-five, the boutique owner, with her jet-black angularly cropped hair and tight black dress, was as feared as her severe fringe was razor-straight. Mostly by her staff, and rightly so, as it was usually they who bore the brunt of her venom, especially her assistant, Meifeng.

  Facing the pint-size Oriental girl stood alongside her behind the counter of Eruption, Genevieve let rip. ‘Meifeng, if that abhorrent little German phones again then tell him he can shove his designs so far up his arse he’ll be able to bite down on the cheap fucking fabric they’re made from. And never pass him on to me again if you want to keep your job here, okay? You’re supposed to be my assistant so please assist me by making the right decisions instead of being a total prick. Now, where’s my cup of green tea?’

  The young Asian girl scuttled out to the back of the shop as Genevieve dismissed her with a wave of her hand. It was only as she lowered her hand and started to flick through a rather thick fashion magazine lying on the shop counter that she spied someone on the other side of the shop. ‘Oh hello, I didn’t see you there behind that mannequin. May I help?’ Her voice trailed off as Amy walked out from behind the dummy. She’d been stood there for a good five minutes or so watching Genevieve in action. She was truly a piece of work.

  It was clear that Genevieve was not overly thrilled to see her. ‘Oh, it’s you. The last time I saw you I was nearly getting trampled to death in that blessed club of yours. I still bear a few war wounds now.’ She raised her hand to her cheek, a faint hairline scar still visible ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Hello Genevieve, how nice to see you too. I’ve come to talk about Riley.’ Amy's voice was calm, composed, clear and strong – determined to keep the upper hand.

  Genevieve’s face creased into worry. It was the first time Amy had seen any kind of weakness since she’d entered the shop. She had obviously hit a raw nerve.

  ‘What about him? You had better come through to the back if we’re to talk about the dead, although I don’t know what you expect me to say. I’ll get my assistant to mind the shop.’ Amy followed Genevieve through. The atmosphere between the two women had suddenly become much frostier and Amy didn’t need to be a weather girl to know that it wasn’t just the season that was to blame.

  Having shooed her assistant back out to the shop floor, Genevieve made no attempt to sit down or offer Amy a seat. She crossed her arms and stood facing Amy. Her stance was one hundred per cent defensive and unfriendly. Amy guessed that this was to be a pretty curt conversation.

  ‘Your husband, Riley ... I’m sorry for your loss. Good-looking fellow. I saw him at the club many a time. Shame it’s gone, I used to take my clients there. Good for business. You must miss it? Nice little earner I would have thought ...?’

  ‘I miss my husband more ...’ Amy replied, thinking it was no wonder Genevieve had made such a killing in the fashion world. She appeared to be as cold-faced and as cold-hearted as they come. Ice maidens would seem volcanic in comparison. She could see why she was a potential suspect. ‘But yes, The Kitty Kat Club was popular. You came quite a few times didn’t you?’

  ‘As I said ... now, what can I do for you? I’m sure as a fellow ...’ she hesitated before adding, ‘... businesswoman, you realise how busy I am. My assistant and I have to get these unpacked by end of play today.’ She indicated a bank of boxes stacked against the wall. ‘The A-listers of this country are hardly going to look their best if I can’t supply them with cutting edge fashions from Seoul through to San Paulo, are they? We can’t all wander around looking like we’ve just come from the soup kitchen, can we?’ Genevieve let her gaze take in Amy’s outfit, a simple jeans and tattoo-style emblazoned sweatshirt combo, underneath a deep green parka with a faux-fur trimmed hood. Amy had h
oped she was oozing Moschino-esque style with a funky edge. The look on Genevieve’s face made it clear that the boutique owner obviously felt her look was sporting something much more end-of-line TK Maxx.

  Trying to ignore her burning anger towards Genevieve, Amy knew that she had to cut to the chase. The sooner she had spoken to everyone on Riley’s letter then the sooner she could hopefully be back in his arms again, even if Tommy Hearn’s revelations about her husband’s secret life had knocked her for six. Could she love a man who did what Riley did for a living? Her heart and her head were pulling her in two opposite directions.

  Pushing aside all ideas of what the future might hold, Amy continued. ‘Then I’ll be brief. Did you have any reason to want my husband dead? Somebody killed him and two other people that night and I’m trying to find out who.’

  Genevieve was floored for a second before slamming her answer back at Amy with more than a hefty layer of derision. ‘I hardly knew your husband, and if you think about it sensibly, I was almost left for dead myself the night he died so unless you’re implying that I was both responsible for those deaths and for virtually putting myself in an early grave then I really don’t have a clue what on earth you could be getting at. I was merely caught up in the messy crossfire. Now, I’m sorry for your loss, I really am, but I must get on.’ She held out her arm, indicating the way back through to the shop. It was obviously Amy’s time to leave.

  But Amy was resolute. She wasn't quite ready yet. ‘All I know is that the police didn’t come up with any answers for three people dying that night. I know my husband wasn’t whiter than white, Miss Peters. I’m not the naive woman you may think I am. Far from it. I just want some answers. My friend, Laura, was killed that night too. I owe it to her to try and find out.’