Deadly Obsession

by Nigel May

  There was no more to be said. Keeping hold of Dolly’s hand, the two women walked into the warehouse.

  * * *

  Jarrett had not expected to see two women. He knew Amy would come, but this other woman ... who the fuck was she? It was the first thing he’d asked as Amy and Dolly had walked into the room, his gun pointed firmly in Dolly’s direction.

  As a horrified Amy looked at the battered body of Jimmy tied to the chair, Dolly had remained as cool as a cucumber. ‘So you’re Jarrett Smith, I assume. You can put that down, soldier,’ she said indicating the gun. ‘I’m here to be of use to you. The name’s Dolly and I’m a friend of Amy’s. Where she goes, so do I. Especially as I know what happened to your son. Weston, wasn’t it?’

  Her attitude, coupled with the mention of his son, disarmed Jarrett momentarily, especially her use of the past tense. Happened. He lowered the gun.

  ‘You know what happened to Weston? Then you tell me, or I shoot Jimmy here straight through the head.’ He raised his weapon again and aimed it at the seated, bruised body. Unable to stop herself, Amy rushed over to wrap her arms around the young man, grateful that he was still breathing. A feeble groan tumbled from his lips, and one of his eyes, swollen and purple from where he’d been beaten, opened slightly. There was the merest trace of recognition registered there as he spied Amy.

  It broke Amy's heart. ‘You leave him alone – he has nothing to do with this. Nothing at all. I have all of the information you need, not him. Hasn’t he suffered enough? Look at him, for Christ’s sake. He can barely breathe.’

  Amy wiped a few long strands of his blond hair, matted with blood, out of his eyes and back across his forehead. An attempt of a smile formed on his lips.

  Jarrett indicated to Amy to move away from Jimmy with a flick of the gun. She did so and stood alongside Dolly. She was both angry and scared. She had no idea what Jarrett’s next move would be, but one thing was for sure, Amy was not giving up this battle without a fight.

  She was about to speak but Dolly beat her to it. ‘We have a trade-off. You pay us a substantial amount of money, enough to set up a new life, and we’ll tell you exactly where your son’s body is. We know where he’s buried and we know who put him there.’

  ‘So, Weston’s dead.’ Despite having known it in his heart for the longest time already, a desperate note of final realisation sounded in Jarrett’s voice. For a second he was no longer the hardened gangland criminal, but merely a father mourning for his son. His hand, brandishing the gun, dropped back down to his side, a collage of recollection washing over his face.

  ‘Yes, he is. And we know the man who shot him. So what’s the information worth?’ said Dolly. Amy couldn’t help thinking that either Dolly was an accomplished actress, had an amazing inner strength or she’d been watching too many episodes of Mad Men. She seemed to be almost relishing the danger of the situation.

  ‘It’s worth me not blowing your brains out,’ stated Jarrett. ‘Now speak ...’

  ‘And what would that gain you?’ asked Amy, bravery rising within her too. ‘I’ve lost nearly everything I’ve ever had and she just wants a better life than the one she has now.’ She cast an apologetic glance at Dolly as she spoke. ‘You kill us and we take your son’s resting place to the grave with us. Apart from his killer, we’re the only ones who know. Where does that get you? It’s hardly vindication, is it?’

  Jarrett started to pace from side to side, the mechanics of his mind revving into action. His two henchmen, paid to carry weapons and keep their opinions to themselves, merely watched as their boss circled Jimmy and the women.

  After what seemed like an age of silence, Jarrett spoke. ‘So, what’s it going to cost me?’

  Dolly was certain that everyone in the room would have simultaneously been able to hear the internal explosion of elation that thundered inside her. Determined not to be undersold, she seized the opportunity. Maybe Jarrett was coming round to their way of thinking. If he was, this was no time for indecision.

  ’Two hundred and fifty thousand each. We tell you the location of the body now and when the money is deposited in our accounts we tell you who buried it there. Simple. And before you ask us why you should trust us, ask yourself what we’ve got to gain from duping you. A man of your considerable criminal connections and obvious lack of pity would have us both tracked down and chopped into mincemeat before getting out of bed in the morning. You find out who killed Weston, and we get to start over again. It’s a win-win.’ Dolly had dealt with men like Jarrett Smith all of her life, even if it was normally with her legs in the air. In her experience it paid to flatter them as much as possible.

  Both women waited with baited breath for his response. Amy was glad she hadn’t spoken first as she’d never have had the balls to ask for such a hefty sum.

  Sam was still pacing. ‘So, your information costs me five hundred thousand and I just let you two walk off down the yellow brick road with my money to your new lives ...’ He laughed, emphasizing his apparent disbelief at the suggestion. ‘And you let me deal with whoever killed my son ... is that it?’

  ‘More or less,’ said Amy. ‘And you pay Jimmy fifty thousand, too. It’s the least you can do after everything you’ve done to him.’

  ‘You ladies never know when to fucking stop, do you?’

  ‘Those are the conditions, take them or leave them,’ voiced Dolly. ‘Otherwise your son lies buried for forever and you don’t have a clue where.’

  ‘Five hundred thousand ... with a fifty grand tip for laddo here.’ Jarrett spoke the words slowly and staccato as if weighing up whether the bill he was expected to pay would be worthy of the service he’d receive in return.

  Thoughts of Weston on his knee as a boy, riding his first bicycle, unwrapping his first Christmas present, invaded his thoughts. He made his decision.

  ‘Okay, you’re on. I admire your reasoning, ladies. I have nothing to gain from killing you, and only some cash to lose for keeping you alive. But if you double cross me, be sure that I’ll track you down. Wherever you may be in the world, there’s no far flung beach resort or remote log cabin where I won’t find you. As you so rightly said, I have connections everywhere.’ He stared directly into Dolly’s eyes as he spoke. ‘You appear to know me so well.’

  ‘I know your type. Blood runs thicker than water. It’s all about family. What you want is peace about Weston. That’s the one thing we can give you.’

  A raising of the eyebrows. ‘So where is he? You tell me that now. I’ll make some phone calls, and I’ll have your money here, in cash, first thing tomorrow. Then you give me names.’

  ‘He’s buried underneath the old dance floor at the club I used to run, The Kitty Kat. He was there when the club was built,’ said Amy.

  ‘But it’s not a club any more, it’s the casino, Dirty Cash?’ questioned Jarrett.

  ‘You know where it is,’ said Amy. ‘You’ve obviously been there.’ She glanced at Jimmy.

  Jarrett was still digesting the information when the loud crack of a bullet sounded from the door on the far side of the room. The crack was followed by one of Jarrett’s henchmen dropping dead to the floor, a sunburst of deep red blood spreading wide across his chest signalling his demise.

  All eyes turned to face the origin of the bullet. Tommy Hearn, a crazed, demonic look on his sweat-drenched face stood by the door. ‘Why the fuck are you telling him that?’ he screamed.

  As Tommy ran towards the group, two bullets rang out. It was a sound that still haunted Amy every time she heard it, reminding her just how fragile life seemed to be and how easily it could be snuffed out. The two shots had no sooner sounded than a pair of bodies fell to the floor. Death had come once more.

  67

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  Careful not to be seen, a lone figure walked into the Reception of the Manchester hotel where Amy had spent the last few days. A huge overcoat wrapped around their frame, and a woollen hat, some would say a little oversized, was p
ulled down over the person’s face. Combined with a scarf pulled dramatically up over the face covering the neck and chin, the resulting strip of flesh left on show would, from a distance, be indistinguishable as either male or female.

  Despite the heavy nature of the garments, the figure did not seem out of place. Most people entering through the revolving doors and into the warmth of the lobby were cocooned in a sheath of dense, heavy, woollen fabrics, protecting against the ever-decreasing temperature of the biting December UK weather. To any passing onlooker it would have seemed that the person underneath these layers had just felt the need to be incubated a little bit more.

  But comfort was not the reason for the outfit, it was camouflage. This was function, not fashion. Moving to the Reception desk, the figure handed an envelope to the bespectacled lady working behind the counter.

  ‘Could you deliver this to Amy Hart, please?’ The voice was almost inaudible, muffled by the scarf.

  ‘I’m sorry, who did you say ...’ The woman scanned the name on the envelope and stopped. ‘Oh, it’s for Miss Hart. I shall make sure she receives it. Who shall I say it’s from, er ...?’ She was unsure whether to add ‘sir’ or ‘madam’. The figure had already turned and was walking away from the counter towards the exit so a clear look at their face was nigh on impossible.

  A one word answer sounded from beneath the woollens. Again it was hard to distinguish. She thought it sounded like Tyler, or Miley ... or maybe it was Riley. She couldn’t be sure.

  Slipping the envelope into the pigeon hole for Amy’s room, the hotel worker moved back to the counter. Turning to her work colleague alongside her, she said ‘Blimey, some people need to form their words properly. I’ve no idea what they said. And as for Miss Hart, I’ve never known somebody receive so many messages. She’s a popular lady.’

  Focussing on the Japanese couple standing in front of her, she carried on with her work. Not more bloody tourists flying in for Christmas, she thought to herself. Painting on her best saccharine smile, as fairy-tale-fake as it could be, she asked through gritted teeth, ‘Welcome to Manchester, do you have a reservation?’

  * * *

  The first shot had been fired by Jarrett’s henchman. The thick-necked thug may not have been much older than most school leavers, but his education alongside Jarrett Smith had meant that he had an A+ when it came to firing guns. His aim was steady, his reflexes quick, his loyalty, as ever, to his boss.

  As soon as Tommy had started to run towards the group, the henchman had known that he had to react. He’d just seen his colleague, an equally young and just as delinquent man, have his short life wiped out by Tommy’s bullet and he was determined that he would not be dealt the same fate. Neither would Jarrett.

  His shot hit Tommy squarely between the eyes, his death instant and painless. His eyes were still open as he landed on the floor. As he did so, the jolt of his body against the hard, dust-strewn concrete caused his fingers to squeeze, as if in spasm, against the trigger of the gun. It was that which caused the second shot.

  The bullet flew through the air, its target unknown. But everything has to land somewhere. If Tommy Hearn had somehow managed to cheat death and keep his body alive for another half a second he would have seen the bullet slice through the fabric of Jarrett Smith’s trouser leg and land with a satisfying bone-crunching crack within Jarrett’s kneecap and watch on as Jarrett fell to the floor in agony. But he didn’t. The last thing that went through Tommy’s mind was the thought that maybe he would be seeing his wife, Jemima, again very, very soon and that maybe Winston Curtis would be by her side.

  68

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  Amy stared at the broad back of the doctor disappearing out of sight from Jimmy's hospital room. It reminded her of Grant and of the countless scenes she’d watched on Ward 44, as his character, Dr Eamonn Samms, saved yet another life before strutting heroically from the room and doubtless into the open arms of another more-than-willing-to-please female character. But that was fiction, and this was most definitely real life. Horrifically so.

  The doctor in question here – she checked Jimmy’s records at the end of his hospital bed for the name – a Dr Aston, had diligently tended to Jimmy’s wounds, patching his bruises and cuts, stitching any open wounds and generally, in true Humpty Dumpty style, trying to put the young casino-worker’s body back together again. He’d told Amy that Jimmy was indeed lucky to be alive.

  In the aftermath of the shooting, it had been Jarrett, writhing in agony from his bullet wound, who had somehow taken control of the situation.

  He’d demanded that the henchman still alive take Amy, Dolly and Jimmy away from the premises and drop them, to quote him ‘in the middle of nowhere’. He explained, in between his gurning throes of agony, that Dolly and Amy would be furnished with their money the next day, as would Jimmy, but the trade-off was their information about Weston’s killer, plus complete secrecy about the death of Tommy Hearn and about how Jimmy had come to end up in such a state.

  The henchman grabbed the two women, both in shock at the loss of lives around them, and untied Jimmy. The three of them were driven away from the warehouse and dumped, as instructed. Amy had phoned for an ambulance to take Jimmy to hospital, telling officials that she and Dolly had found him beaten up by the side of the road. It was an easy story to believe as the area of Manchester they’d been dumped in was one of the roughest.

  The henchman had then returned to Jarrett at the warehouse, who was still jerking in agony with a handkerchief pressed to his knee, trying to stem the blood flow.

  ‘You take me to the hospital, leave me outside the main entrance and then come back here, making sure no-one follows you. You then dispose of these bodies,’ said Jarrett, surveying the two corpses in front of him. An idea came to him. ‘In fact, torch this place, with them in it. I want them, especially him ...’ He signalled Tommy, ‘... unrecognisable. Then arrange for the money to be brought to me at the hospital. You do it, or you’ll be joining these two in a fiery hell. I’ll make the arrangements for the cash, just get back to London and get it to me at the hospital for first thing tomorrow.’

  Jarrett was being admitted to the hospital, citing a drive-by shooting – always a convenient story – and the henchman was halfway back to London to fulfil his boss’s wishes by the time the fire service turned up at the warehouse to try and fight back the inferno of flames razing the building to the ground. By morning all that remained was a pile of ashes, housing the secret of two lost lives.

  * * *

  Dolly walked back into Jimmy’s room carrying two cups of machine tea. She handed one to Amy. ‘How’s the patient? Poor bastard.’ She shivered as she stared at the swollen, distorted face staring back towards her from the bed.

  ‘Dr Aston says he looks worse than he is. A few days and all of the swellings should go down and the marks should start to fade. Apart from his ear, which it’s too late for, he should be as good as new. They should be able to do some kind of surgery to make it look as normal as possible though.’

  ‘Has he regained consciousness yet?’ asked Dolly.

  ‘He’ll be out for a while now as the doctor’s sedated him, but he did come round earlier. We had quite a conversation. How do you apologise to someone for nearly getting them killed and ruining their life?’

  ‘And giving him £50,000. That’s not exactly a bad pay off. How did he take it? Is he okay with it all?’

  ‘What do you think? He’s a normal lad from North Wales who’s hardly ever seen a £50 note, let alone £50,000 cash. He’s owed every penny after what he’s been through.’

  ‘If that shark stumps up the money,’ said Dolly. ‘I don’t believe any man until he delivers exactly what he’s promised, especially one who’s just been shot in the leg. He could have bled to death for all we know.’

  ‘I have a horrible feeling Jarrett Smith is virtually indestructible, don’t you? He’s like a cockroach, and just as nasty.’

  ‘But
even cockroaches would have a job to survive a raging fire, wouldn’t they?’ said Dolly, her face suddenly distracted by a TV wall-mounted in the corner of the room. The image on the screen was silent where Amy had muted it earlier but the story was clear to see. A disused warehouse on the outskirts of Manchester had been burnt to the ground. The picture being aired was the location where Tommy had been shot the night before.

  ‘He’s torched the place, with Tommy and that other bloke still inside,’ stated Amy, contemplating the fact that she was becoming more astute in guessing the moves of hardened criminals with each and every day. ‘Jarrett Smith will have been long gone and on his way to safety by the time the match that started it was even ignited.’

  A voice sounded from the doorway. ‘Yes, all the way to this hospital. And I don’t think he’d be overly keen on being called a cockroach, especially when he’s gone to all the trouble of calling his banker for you both.’ It was Jarrett’s henchman, red-eyed and unshaven. The two women could see that he’d been up all night and just like them, was wearing the same clothes as the night before.