Deadly Obsession

by Nigel May

  But could she condemn a man to death? That’s what Amy would be doing if she agreed to the plan and it worked. From what she’d heard about Jarrett, he’d hardly let Adam off with a slap across the back of the legs. Would Amy be able to be at peace with herself if she had Adam’s blood on her hands? He’d looked so crestfallen when she’d seen him earlier at Lily’s funeral. As did Caitlyn. If Adam died, that would be the diva’s entire family gone within a few days. And Amy had nothing against Caitlyn.

  Amy couldn’t do it. Her mind was made up. Taking a life would lower her to the level of those around her. To Adam and Tommy and Riley. No, that couldn’t happen. She’d not been raised by Enid and Ivor Barrowman to believe that murder was ever a good thing.

  ‘I can’t, Dolly. You do it if you want, but I can’t. Leave Riley out of this. He didn’t pull the trigger, after all, but I can’t be a part of this ... I can’t send a man to his grave.’

  Dolly was not going to take no for an answer. ‘But what if he was the man who tried to have Riley bumped off in the first place? You told me Adam was one of Riley’s suspects. I wouldn’t put it past him. He had so much to gain by having Riley dead, didn’t he? The secret of Jarrett’s son died forever with Riley.’

  A fog of confusion spread across Amy’s mind. If Adam was behind the plot to kill Riley, then he’d had no qualms about seeing her husband dead, seeing her a widow. Or about seeing her without a best friend. Even if Riley hadn’t died that night, Laura had. If Adam was behind the shootings then maybe making him pay for his sins was the right thing to do. And even if he wasn’t, he had admitted within earshot of Dolly that he was indeed the man who had taken Weston’s life. How many others had he taken?

  Amy’s thoughts swung like a pendulum. Maybe Dolly was right?

  ‘We need to find Jarrett Smith, Amy.’ Dolly was resolute. ‘He’s our chance for survival in all of this. We can do this ... you and I ... together. Sisters united and all that ...’ Dolly raised her fist in solidarity. ‘We just need to find out where he is.’

  Before she had a chance to decide what she wanted to do, Amy’s thoughts were interrupted by one of the staff from the hotel Reception. It was a middle-aged man carrying a small brown cardboard package in his hand. ‘Excuse me, Miss Hart. This package has been left for you. The man over at Reception who left it said it was quite urgent ...’

  He handed her the square shaped box.

  ‘Which man?’ Amy quizzed as both she and Dolly stared over towards the Reception desk.

  ‘The one wearing the—’ The man turned and pointed as he spoke, but his words cut short. ‘Oh, he was just there. He’s gone. Quite thickset, your kind of age, I would imagine ...’

  It was a fruitless description. It could have been anybody. The messenger returned to his post.

  ‘An early Christmas present, maybe?’ smirked Dolly.

  ‘Doubtful,’ smirked Amy back. The smirk lasted no longer than the time it took her to open the package. It was replaced by a scream, which Amy tried to suffocate as it escaped from her mouth, aware of fellow guests sitting around her.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Dolly.

  Silently Amy handed the box to Dolly. Placed inside it, on a sea of red tissue paper, was a human ear. The note alongside it read ‘Miss Hart, please find enclosed a piece of your friend Jimmy, who might not be hearing “Jingle Bells” with much clarity this Christmas. If you want to make sure the rest of him doesn’t end up the same way then I suggest you come and pay me a visit. And no police. Jarrett Smith.’

  Listed underneath was the address of a warehouse in one of the industrial parts of Manchester, and a time. Amy was being summoned.

  It was a horrified Dolly who spoke first. ‘Well, at least we know where to find Jarrett now.’

  Amy had made up her mind.

  65

  Then, 2015

  * * *

  Seven days before the shootings at The Kitty Kat Club ...

  * * *

  ‘She isn’t really blind, you know. You can tell from the way that she looks at Lionel. And that sculpture looks no more like him than I do. Hashtag loser.’

  Amy was enjoying another somewhat highbrow evening in at home with Laura, slumped in front of the television flicking through the music channels on rotation. Having managed to give herself a well-earned night-off from The Kitty Kat – was there really any point in being the boss if you couldn’t? – Amy had left Lily in charge and with Riley meeting a client for work, it was left to the two young women to amuse themselves in their favourite way. And that meant slobbing out in PJs, two delivery pizzas and endless bottles of fizz to keep them giggly as they wallowed in musical heaven.

  So far the friends had segued their way from discussing Meghan Trainor’s ripe booty in her latest video – ‘one hundred per cent pure love’ stated Laura – to playing Snog Marry Avoid about the collective members of One Direction, Coldplay and Maroon 5. They had critiqued Annie Lennox’s eighties Eurythmics hair, Laura deciding that it would look too severe on her own head as she’d look like she was ‘wearing a red swimming cap’, discussed how good Bruce Springsteen would have been in bed back in the day – ‘sweaty and frenzied’ were their chosen adjectives – and how at least four out of the five Spandau Ballet members would be worth climbing under the sheets with.

  A rather drunk Laura had also been quick to point out that if she ever turned up at The Kitty Kat with hairy armpits ‘like that German Red Balloon woman’, namely Nena, then Amy would be ‘perfectly justified’ in blowing her brains out.

  ‘What is that all about?’ sniggered Laura, cramming another slice of pizza into her mouth. ‘She looks like she’s housing a couple of poodles under each arm. It’s rank. Top tune though.’

  ‘And very European, Laura,’ slurred Amy, the bubbles from her champagne having risen straight to her brain as well. ‘It was all the rage on the continent. It was trés chic!’

  ‘WWW dot gross! Well, thank Christ it’s changed now. If I’d have seen any Fraus at that German spa we went to sporting a bushy pit I’d have had to have words. In this day and age there’s no excuse,’ sneered Laura. ‘I shall continue to take a razor to mine at every opportunity and I suggest you always do too. Despite our love of all things nostalgic, that is a retro chic we can do without. Even Julia Roberts looked far from her normally beautiful self in my opinion when she turned up at that film premiere years back with enough underarm hair on view to crochet a clutch bag. And she is gorgeous!’

  Their latest topic of conversation was dissecting the finest details from Lionel Richie’s video for ‘Hello’. He was a particular favourite of Amy’s, always had been, even if his most famous lovefest had been released three years before she was even born. She and Laura were considering seeing him headline at the famed Glastonbury festival in just a few months’ time. Amy adored the song, the sentiment behind it pulled at her heartstrings every time she heard it. It was pure enchantment.

  ‘I don’t think for one minute she is blind,' said Amy, referencing the leading lady in the video. 'She’s an actress, for God’s sake. But he loves her and she loves him and she’s made that glorious statue of him because she loves how he makes her feel.’ Amy was an eternal romantic, especially after bubbles.

  ‘Well, it makes me feel deeply sick. Schmaltzy bag of nonsense. Like anyone would ever make a clay head for a fella, even if he did sing like that. She’d be better off giving him head, not making him one. That wins a bloke over every time.’ As ever, Laura was straight to the point, even more so when fuelled by alcohol.

  ‘So, you’re telling me you’d never do anything that romantic for the man in your life ... if there was one?’ smirked Amy.

  ‘I would if it was, say, someone like Blair Lonergan,’ said Laura, referencing the trendy US DJ who had played at the opening night of The Kitty Kat. ‘He must be hugely connected after all the shit he’s done. His name would open doors at all kinds of bars and clubs. We’d be flying all over the place being internationally glamorous. He co
uld have a statue dipped in diamonds if it meant I’d be living in the lap of luxury between time zones.’

  Amy wasn’t biting. ‘Seriously though, when it comes to men don’t you wish there was a certain someone in your life to keep you warm at night? Wouldn’t you like ...’ Amy searched for the right words. ‘Well, something like me and Riley?’

  That old chestnut. Laura had her responses lined up and ready to go. ‘A one man woman? Are you mental? I am out there to have fun while I can. You and Riley may be like peas in a pod but it’s all very vanilla. All very hearts and flowers and picking out leather sofas. I need a bit more spice with my romance, and by romance I mean sex life.’

  ‘But even you were moved to tears on our wedding day. Well at least you were until you went off to shag that guitarist. That band might be coming to the club by the way. They were on TV last week with their latest track. I told you they were going places.’

  ‘Well, the guitarist certainly did on your wedding night,’ sniggered Laura. ‘And yes, your wedding day was lovely, but it was joyous because you loved it and that meant I was loving you loving it. But that degree of commitment and emotion is not for me, not yet anyway. I’m like a bee, flitting from flower bed to flower bed collecting nectar wherever I can, and that works for me. You’re kind of Anna from Frozen and let’s just say that I’m much more Ursula from The Little Mermaid, shall we? Except without the timber. Now, pass that bottle ...’

  Amy relaxed back into the cool comfort of the leather sofa as she refilled Laura’s glass. She giggled silently. Laura was right. They were polar opposites in so many ways yet somehow they had always been there for each other. It was a unique bond. Shared loves, shared thoughts, shared joys.

  Laura pointed at the remote control which was lying by Amy’s side. ‘Now, turn this tune up. Everybody is raving about this group. The drummer is just beautiful. He’d get it if I had my way ...’

  Sipping on her own bubbles, Laura contemplated just how good her life was – her marriage to Riley, her beautiful home, the successful club and her best friend, Laura. It made her happy. ‘What about the lead singer, does he receive the Laura Cash seal of approval?’ she asked, gazing at the rather unkempt guy grabbing the microphone and forcing his somewhat unhealthy looking, crooked-toothed grin into the lens.

  ‘Go with that minger? Over my dead body.’

  One week later she was just that.

  66

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  One of the many things that Tommy had learnt from his years working alongside Cazwell Hart was that if you asked enough questions, eventually you would unearth the answer you were looking for.

  There wasn’t a pounding headache that couldn’t be cured or a gnat of a problem too frustrating to crush. It was just a case of asking the right people. And after decades of underhand dealings in every dingy, graffiti-covered, piss-soaked back street in Manchester, Tommy knew that there was a network of shady low-lives he could hound in order to discover the whereabouts of Jarrett Smith.

  The seedy rumble of gossip on the Manchester grapevine had grown ever louder since Jarrett had first been spotted. His notoriety meant instant recognition and a tidal wave of fearful expectation had flushed into every part of the city. It was amazing what you could learn if you pointed a loaded weapon at the right person, and according to more than one snivelling two-bit gangster determined to try and please the big guns, rumour had it that Jarrett and his henchmen were holed up in a warehouse on the far side of Manchester.

  The air was dark and heavy with the dank, cold gloom of winter as Tommy approached the warehouse. He’d parked his car as far away from the building as possible to avoid any fears of his arrival being pre-empted and as he moved towards the building the only light capable of highlighting the beads of nervous sweat that had begun to form around his hairline came from a solitary bulb hanging above the main entrance.

  The area, once a hive of activity with its smoke-billowing factories and bustling industry had been derelict for years. Tommy knew it well. He’d been there many times with Cazwell back in the nineties and early noughties.

  But the familiarity of his surroundings did nothing to quell Tommy’s nerves. When he’d been there with Cazwell, he’d always had a role to play, as directed by his boss. Whether it be money to extort, men to recruit or bodies to lose, Cazwell had guided his team with the expertise of a sergeant major leading his troops into battle. Every move had been calculated so that there was no margin for error. Victory was the only option.

  But now Tommy was alone – he was leader, front line and lowly private all rolled into one. This was something he needed to do, needed to see for himself. He couldn’t trust anyone else to do his dirty work for him. He owed it to Cazwell to put this to rest. If Riley was back then he’d deal with him face to face come the time. He couldn’t think about that now. One thing at a time was all his ever-clouding mind could deal with.

  Jarrett Smith had made this personal the moment he had stepped back into Manchester, into Dirty Cash and marched one of his staff away at gunpoint. Tommy didn’t give a shit about Jimmy, he was nothing more than some daft lad from a nondescript town who worked for him, but he did give a shit about his own reputation and that of the late, great Cazwell. Nobody could stray onto Tommy Hearn's patrolled turf and get away with it.

  The handle of the door was rusty and a low, grinding creak sounded as Tommy pulled the large metal door towards him. It was louder than he’d expected and the sudden noise made his already terrified bones jump.

  A set of dimly-lit stairs reached out in front of him. It was too dark to see where they ended but as he stood at the bottom of them, carefully moving the door back into place behind him, Tommy strained his ears to hear a mash of voices sounding from the top of the stairs. He couldn’t make out any of the sentences, the words muffled by the walls and the heaviness of the night air, but it was clear from their tone that there was more than a hint of anger and emergency about them. There was definitely more than one person, and he couldn’t be sure, but one of them at least seemed to be ... no, surely not ... was it? He needed to know.

  Certain that he was in the right place, Tommy moved as quietly as he could up the stairs, being careful not to make a sound. He pulled his gun from his pocket and gripped it tightly in his hand. A film of sweat had formed on his palms. Why was he so nervous? He could handle this. He knew he could. He would succeed like Cazwell, not fail like Riley. He had the element of surprise. If it was Jarrett, and he was sure it would be, then supremacy would be Tommy’s. But who did the other voices belong to? As he moved up the stairs he could begin to hear them more clearly and yes, he was right. He hadn’t been imagining things, one of the voices was female. And he was certain he recognised it as the voice of Amy Hart. What the fuck was she doing here?

  Wiping the beads of nervous perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand, Tommy reached the top of the stairs. He wiped his hand on his trousers as he stared through one of the four small, dirty panes of glass encased in the top half of the door separating him from the cavernous, illuminated room beyond. The door was slightly ajar and allowed him to both hear the voices as well as see the figures beyond.

  There were six people in the room, all bunched fairly close together but a good thirty yards or so from where he was standing. It would make being able to do the job Tommy had come for more difficult than he’d hoped. He needed a clear shot.

  One of the figures was Jarrett. Two of them, both brandishing guns, were obviously his henchmen, one figure, bloodied and slumped to one side, barely alive it would seem, he recognised as his staff member from Dirty Cash. The other two people present were female. One he vaguely recognised, but he couldn’t work out where from. As for the other, it was definitely Amy Hart.

  * * *

  Any doubts Amy had allowed into her brain about how to handle the situation with Jarrett Smith had evaporated the moment she had opened the package containing Jimmy’s ear. It had suddenly become h
er mess to sort out and in some strange way had given her a sense of strength. Everyone else who had become embroiled in the whole sorry saga of life since the shootings was Riley’s doing – everyone from Genevieve and Grant through to Adam and even Dolly had been involved because of being named in Riley’s letter or of their own choosing.

  But not Jimmy. That had been Amy’s choice. She’d seen that maybe the young lad, obviously sweet on her, could be advantageous to her needs and had chosen to drag him, albeit not exactly kicking and screaming, into the epicentre of her jeopardous world.

  He had nothing to do with Riley, no inkling of the world he’d frequented and certainly knew nothing that would warrant him being a danger to Jarrett. But the London criminal was using Jimmy to get to Amy, and it was down to her to try and salvage what she could, for Jimmy’s sake. His life, if he still had one, depended upon it.

  Dolly had been insistent that she accompany Amy to see Jarrett, a fact that Amy was secretly grateful for. But as the two women vacated the cab that had dropped them off outside the warehouse, Amy was still unsure whether she was being sensible in allowing Dolly to become involved. If it was just a case of money, she could try and coerce a hefty dose of cash from Jarrett on her own and then split the amount with Dolly afterwards. That way Dolly could safely keep her distance. Enough people had already paid a price for their involvement, some with their lives.

  ‘You don’t need to do this, Dolly. I can do this on my own and make sure you’re looked after,’ said Amy. ‘I can handle this.’ Her voice was full of a bravado that she didn’t feel she possessed. Inside, she had never been more scared ... well, not since the night at the club.

  ‘But the whole point is that you don’t have to, Amy. Not alone, anyway.’ Dolly reached out and took hold of Amy’s hand as she spoke. Her skin was cold but the meaning behind her words was clearly warm. ‘This is the first thing I’ve been able to do in a long time that might actually be doing some kind of good. I’ve spent years taking money from the likes of Adam Rich, knowing full well what kind of man he is. He takes lives, earns money, which I’m very happy to then pocket for sleeping with him. Doesn’t that make me as bad as him deep down? At least if I grass him up to Jarrett Smith I might be doing something to restore the balance. Lily wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for him, and maybe not your friend Laura either. Let’s do this ... for them.’