by Nigel May
‘So it is you, sir,’ smirked the questioning cop. ‘I thought I recognised the name. The wife’s a big fan. In fact, she thinks you’re the best thing since sliced bread. She drives me insane with it. She’ll be livid when I say I’ve met you, especially if I told her you’ve been roaming the streets near where she works. She’s the manageress of a shoe shop about ten minutes from where you were stabbed.’
Grant seized the moment. ‘Listen, officer, I’m sure you can appreciate that it wouldn’t exactly be brilliant for my career for the whole world to find out that I was stabbed whilst attempting to have a piss in a Manchester back street. I don’t know who did it, I didn’t see the bloke, I was jumped from behind. Nothing was stolen, thank Christ, and I’m still alive and kicking. I know I’m lucky but what are the chances of just sweeping this under the carpet? It’s kind of embarrassing for me ... I’ve got some big deals on the table, especially Stateside, and I really could do without any aggro that might screw them up.’
The copper paused. ‘We should investigate this, a stabbing has taken place. An attempted murder. GBH. Section 20 and all that. You are seriously lucky to still be able to talk, let alone act ...’
‘Maybe an autograph for your wife would help?’ interrupted Grant.
A hint of a smile came immediately. ‘Well, that would certainly put me in her good books.’
Grant rolled with it. ‘I could pop into her shop as well. Buy some shoes. Have a photo taken for the wall. Would that help bury this for me? I know it’s a serious offence but I really don’t wish to pursue it.’
The officer’s grin told Grant that he'd won. ‘You’d do that for her? Bloody hell, I’d be the best husband in the world if you did that. You’d mention it was my idea?’ It seemed that the policeman was more than happy to put personal before professional.
‘I could say we met on the street ... that you asked me especially for your lovely wife. Now, pass me that pad and I’ll sign an autograph for her and you can tell me her name and where the shoe shop is.’
‘She’s never going to believe this. Thanks a lot.’ He grabbed the pen and pad from his colleague and handed it to Grant. ‘Her name’s Yvonne ...Y... V ... O ... N ... N … E.’ Grant signed his name and listened as the police officer told him where he could find the shoe shop, writing down the address. He kept his smile in place until the two officers left the room, relieved to be alone once more.
As they disappeared out of sight, Grant screwed up the piece of paper with the address on it and threw it to the floor. Even if he needed new shoes, which he didn’t, he had absolutely no intention of visiting the shop. All he wanted to do was get out the hospital and back to the hotel. He needed to see Amy.
* * *
Amy hadn’t a clue what to expect from her rendezvous with Dolly, but she certainly hadn’t expected the conversation to begin with Dolly’s brash admission that she was a prostitute. She’d seen many things at the Kitty Kat Club in her time there but strangely she had never knowingly met somebody who admitted that their job was selling sex. God knows Laura gave enough of it away when she was alive but even she never actually charged for it.
Amy’s first thoughts were to ask Dolly a hundred different questions – weirdest sex ever, was it always one-on-one, any famous clients – but all of that initial excitement flushed from her mind when Dolly threw in the name of her most regular client – Adam Rich. She sat back and listened as Dolly told her all about what she had overheard during the conversation between Adam and Tommy, taking in every word as she sipped at her drink.
Yet again, Amy was floored by what she was hearing. She wasn’t that surprised to learn that Adam had shot somebody for Riley. She was rapidly becoming used to the fact that her husband was far from pure. What really shocked her was Dolly’s tale that a body had been buried underneath the dance floor at the Kitty Kat Club. The idea that every time Amy had been dancing there with Laura or with one of the many happy, party-loving customers they were actually dancing on somebody’s grave horrified her. It further sullied her already scarred happy memories of The Kitty Kat and contaminated her recollections.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Amy. ‘I don’t own the club any more. There is no club. That body is buried under Dirty Cash now.’
‘I know who the body is. If word got out it could cause trouble. Trouble for Adam, and for Tommy, and for your husband if he’s still alive ... and I guess for you too.’ Dolly took a swig of her vodka, the grouping of tiny lines circling her mouth becoming more pronounced as she did so. There was harshness in her face, but Amy could see that it was definitely underlined with desperation. Whatever Dolly was hinting at, this kind of conversation was definitely out of her comfort zone.
‘And why is that?’ asked Amy.
‘Because he’s some fucking mental bigwig criminal’s son and that bigwig has been looking to find out what happened to his pride and joy for years.’
‘And why exactly could that hurt me, Dolly?’ Despite her first impressions, Amy was rapidly going off the woman across the table from her.
‘Because if you don’t pay me for my silence then I’m going to tell his dad everything I know. And when he finds out then he’s going to want revenge. Revenge for the death of his son. He’ll want to get even with the people responsible and that’s Adam Rich and your husband. And seeing as your husband doesn’t seem to be around anymore then surely it stands to reason that he might go after Tommy or his wife or you, the people connected with him. My silence could stop all of that from happening.’
‘You might screw other people for a living, Miss Townsend, but there’s no fucking way you’re screwing me over. You’re messing with things that are darker than any murky dealings you might have experienced flat on your back.’
Dolly looked crestfallen. This was not the response she’d wanted. She had automatically assumed, wrongly it would seem, that Amy would immediately crumble and offer to pay up for her silence, scared that she would meet a similar fate to the man under the dance floor.
As Dolly put down her drink, she looked straight across the table at Amy.
‘So, what I am supposed to do then? I have all this information and I thought it would help me better myself somehow. Do you think I enjoy getting fucked for a living, Amy? Because even though I'm bloody good at it, I've done it long enough. I’m at an age where I need more. I need cash, more than the likes of Adam Rich pay me. You managed to bag the rich husband. You’re one of the lucky ones. You’ve got money to burn, enough to keep you up to your neckline in designer gear. What have I got? Nothing tangible.’
Amy's fuse was lit. ‘Join the club, Dolly,' she snapped. 'You know nothing about me. The reason I don’t own the club any more, the reason I don’t live in Manchester any more in my great show-off marital home is because nothing’s mine. I lost it all when Riley died. The club was signed over to Tommy and his wife, who’s been found dead by the way.’ As she said it, Amy couldn’t help but wonder if Dolly’s story and Jemima’s sudden death were connected. ‘I couldn’t keep the house because the payments were too much and Riley’s business dealings were a complete mystery to me. I didn’t have a clue about anything. So even if I did want to pay for your silence, which I don’t, I can’t. I barely have any money to my name. Any I do have goes towards the flat in London and my weekly shops. I manage to keep my head above water but I have to be pretty creative. You’d be surprised how much a girl can cobble together from eBay sales if she needs to, not that it has anything to do with you.’
‘But I thought ...’
‘Well, you thought wrong,’ snapped Amy.
‘I’m sorry.’ Dolly’s words were soft and as she began to speak, Amy could see a film of tears glazing across her eyes. ‘I didn’t know. All I wanted was to better myself, to have enough cash for the future. To move away from here into a nice house with a bit of greenery out the back. A few holidays every year, far flung places. I’d like to find a man who loves me for who I am as opposed to the talents I can de
monstrate between the bed sheets. I want to stand on my own two feet as opposed to just lying on my back. I can’t blackmail Adam as he’d probably send me to the bottom of the nearest river. I’m fully aware that I’m no more than just a good shag to him, but other girls could take my place quite easily. You were my only hope. I thought telling you about Jarrett Smith would be my ticket to all of that happiness I’ve been looking for. I guess I was wrong. Look, I’m sorry, I’ve wasted your time.’ Dolly stood to leave, having no more to say.
‘Hang on, Jarrett Smith ... I know that name. Riley used to mention him. Some contact from London, something to do with his plastics business down south I thought.’
‘Jarrett Smith is the hardest fucking criminal in London,’ said Dolly. ‘It’s his son, Weston, who’s buried under the club. He’s a nasty piece of work. If he knew what exactly happened with Adam and Riley then he’d be in Manchester, like yesterday, getting his own back. Weston was his only son. I went on the Internet to see if I could find any information about him. There wasn’t much but one thing was definitely clear. Jarrett Smith’s notorious but somehow the police can’t touch him. He seems immune to the ways of justice.’ Dolly reached down and delved into the pocket of her coat, hung over the back of her chair. She took out a folded print-out of something she’d found online and handed it to Amy. ‘That’s him. I hope neither of us ever run into him.’
Amy looked at the cutting. Her body froze. ‘I already have. He was watching me outside Dirty Cash yesterday. I can’t believe I thought he was something to do with Riley’s business ... or at least the business I thought Riley was involved in. Before I found out about all the lies. Before I found out about everything and ended up with nothing.’ Amy’s voice started to wobble as she amassed all of Riley’s lies in her mind. Everything he had told her, the lines she’d believed.
‘I’m sorry, Amy, I really am. I’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle. You and I are more similar than I ever imagined,’ stated Dolly. ‘We’ve both been screwed by men all of our lives. We just need to work out how we both end up on top.’
55
Now, 2013
* * *
Lily liked her music loud. That was how she played it at The Kitty Kat when she guest DJ’d. The louder the better. Especially when she had things on her mind. It seemed to help her grasp some form of lucidity about the many fucked-up things that seemed to be writhing across her thoughts. Her father was out, Caitlyn was indulging in retail therapy in Manchester, doing some serious damage to another of the Rich joint accounts, and Lily was alone at home, holed up in her bedroom, her only company a bag full of weed.
She’d spent the last few hours as stoned as she could, the weed acting as a comedown after the plentiful lines of coke she’d been snorting with alarming regularity over the last few days.
She needed to drown out the outside world in order to concentrate on what was formulating inside her mind. Laying back on her bed she knew that she was playing the waiting game. She checked her watch. Give it another twenty minutes.
How long had it been since she’d placed that phone call? Half an hour? Yes, give it another thirty minutes at the most. She’d look out of the window in fifteen to see what was happening. To make sure she was ready. This could be her moment.
Silence. Yet somehow the sound of the cogs whirring in her mind seemed to be deafening. Five minutes passed. Then ten ... she moved to the window and looked outside as five more minutes disappeared, seemingly in an instant. A lone figure approached the door of the house. Lily had given the visitor the code to the iron gates protecting the Rich family home when she’d phoned. She wanted to meet on home turf.
A smile crept across her face as she headed downstairs and opened the front door. ‘You came ... I knew you would,’ she said. She opened the door wide and motioned for the visitor to come in.
* * *
It was early evening when Grant received a knock on his hotel room door. He popped a codeine into his mouth as he climbed off the bed where he’d been relaxing and walked to the door. His shoulder was still throbbing, but the doctors who had discharged him from hospital earlier that day had said that regular painkillers would be necessary for a while.
He opened it to find Amy standing on the other side.
‘Evening,’ she said. ‘I see you’ve been discharged, then.’ She seemed somewhat flat. She was. Her meeting with Dolly had left her fearful of what could be around every corner. If Jarrett Smith was in town then there was not one iota of her that felt at all safe. He knew who she was, that was clear.
‘Hey, how are you? Feeling a bit better than me I hope. My shoulder is bloody killing me.’ He laughed, somewhat inappropriately. ‘Come on in ...’
‘I need to talk to you, Grant.’ Amy was in full flow before she even stepped one foot into the room. ‘That was Riley we saw, wasn’t it? He’s alive isn’t he? You, me and Lily didn’t imagine what happened yesterday did we? Why hasn’t he come back to see me?’ The questions came thick and fast.
In silence, Grant shut the door behind her. It felt somehow strange to them both that it should just be the two of them together within one hotel room. More improper than awkward.
There was an overly long pause before Grant spoke. ‘It was him, yes. I’m sure of it.’ He sat himself back on the bed and patted for Amy to sit alongside him. She did so.
‘What happened, Grant? You and Lily ran off after him and the next thing I know you’re bleeding all over the pavement. What have you told the police?’
Grant filled her in on his conversation with the police officers. She was grateful that he’d kept Riley’s name out of it. Lily had been right. The situation was enough of a mess as it was without the police becoming involved.
‘But who stabbed you? Was it ...’ Amy couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
But she knew confirmation was coming. ‘Riley? What do you think?’ Grant held her hand, just as he had done in her London flat when she’d received the second letter. So much had happened since then. Amy found it a comfort.
‘I don’t know ... why would he?’
‘It all happened so quickly, Amy, but one minute I was chasing him, then he’d vanished, and then the next minute somebody tried to skewer me with a knife. I didn’t get the clearest of views but if I was a gambling man I would stake my last dollar on it being Riley. I only lied to the police because I didn’t want to cause you more pain. Now he’s alive, the last thing you want is him disappearing off to jail. He could have killed me. He didn’t. I was lucky. But it was definitely him, I know it.’
So did Amy. Riley was alive and she didn’t know whether to feel elated or distraught. Or just plain terrified.
56
Now, 2015
* * *
It was a very rare occurrence indeed but for once Caitlyn Rich was not enjoying her shopping trip. And she was woman who could shop with WAG-capabilities; a woman who could run up a bill in dollars, euros, pounds and pence no matter where she was in the world if there was lingerie, perfume, décor and objets to be purchased. And Caitlyn was very much of the belief that if you couldn’t find what you wanted in the shops then you had what you wanted commissioned, hand-made and hand-delivered.
No, Caitlyn’s mind was very much pre-occupied and it wasn’t with designer frocks or the latest celebrity perfume – and she was normally a huge sucker for a fancy bottle and a Hollywood name. No, Caitlyn had more pressing issues on her mind as she sat alone in Selfridge’s San Carlo Bottega pushing a portion of seafood pasta around her plate. Despite it smelling delicious and indeed tasting so, she had tried it on many occasions, she had no appetite. Her inability to shop and eat were both connected.
She had heard about Jemima Hearn’s death. The Manchester grapevine had been working overtime. Why hadn’t Adam mentioned it to her? Maybe he didn’t know yet. Her first thought, like many who were in the know about the disappearance of Weston Smith, was that perhaps her death was a revenge killing. The grapevine told another st
ory though. That Jemima had killed herself and left a note stating her love for Winston Curtis. Caitlyn found the former option much more credible even if gangland gossip had proven that the last option was in fact true.
Jemima was having an affair? Good for her, thought Caitlyn. I never would have guessed she had it in her. The last time Caitlyn had sat in Bottega was actually with Jemima herself. She had brought Tommy’s wife out for a makeover, as she often did. Jemima wasn’t exactly the easiest person to get on with, but Caitlyn saw it her duty as a fellow woman to help her make the most of herself. It had obviously worked if she’d bagged Winston.
Caitlyn couldn’t help but wish Jemima had confided in her about the affair. Lord knows she had enough experience in dangerous liaisons behind your other half’s back through her affair with Jona. They could have compared notes. Caitlyn’s mind drifted to what Winston may have been housing between his legs. She’d never been with a black man and she would have loved to have pumped Jemima for information. Was it true what they said about black guys? How would he have stood up, she wondered, no pun intended, against Jona’s nine inches? She was sure she and Jemima might have laughed about it all. Now the poor cow would never laugh again. It made Caitlyn sad.
The other reason that Caitlyn couldn’t concentrate on her normal retail revelry was that she had spoken to Adam on the phone earlier too. They had discussed Amy’s return and Lily’s confession about her affair with Riley. They were two subjects that neither of them liked.
‘Amy is convinced Riley is alive, which is why Lily is all over the shop,’ said Adam.
‘She can’t be with him, Adam. It’ll be over my dead body.’ The irony of what Caitlyn was saying was not lost on Adam.
‘If the truth about Weston Smith comes out then it could well be. Jarrett Smith will stop at nothing to gain his revenge, and that could mean you, me, Lily, Amy, anyone connected to his disappearance being in the firing line. We all need to try and lay low for a while and hope to God that the truth doesn’t come out.’
