Deadly Obsession

by Nigel May

  ‘You what?’ questioned Amy.

  ‘You two are not overly easy to track down, but I guessed you’d still be at a hospital somewhere with him.’ He pointed at Jimmy. ‘It was going to take more than a couple of plasters to put him back together.’

  ‘And Jarrett Smith is here?’ asked Dolly.

  ‘Two floors up and one bullet lighter. And he said to tell you that he’s ready to be more than five hundred grand lighter if you’re still prepared to name Weston’s killer.’

  ‘Oh, we’re prepared,’ said Amy, a now ever-present defiance in her voice. ‘Just lead the way.’

  69

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  In theory, the last twenty-four hours should not have ranked as anything even remotely near a success for Jarrett Smith. His kneecap had been virtually shattered beyond use and he was on the verge of handing over a major chunk of money to people he didn't give a rat's arse about, but as he lay in his hospital bed, his eyes shut, all he felt as he stared at his self-made blackness was happiness. Finally he would be able to take revenge on the person or persons responsible for taking his only child away from him. The thought that he would never see Weston again formed a bolus of misery in the pit of his gut which he knew would never leave him but the idea that finally he, the gangland god Jarrett Smith, would be able to do what every criminal in the land had expected him to do for years, gain his revenge against his son’s killer, turned him on immensely.

  His eyes automatically opened as the knock on his hospital room door punctured his thoughts. Dolly and Amy were standing there.

  ‘Ladies, please come on in. I can see from your empty hands that you haven’t brought me flowers. How heartless.’ His welcome to them seemed overly jovial and slightly creepy and immediately put the two women on edge. Gingerly they walked to his bedside. Unsurprisingly it was Dolly who plucked up the courage to speak first.

  ‘Let’s just got on with this, shall we? You know we’re not here to sign your plaster,’ she said, nodding towards the cast encasing virtually the entirety of his leg.

  ‘What a pity. I was just going to ask someone to fetch me some crayons. You could write down the name of my son’s killer.’

  ‘The money comes first. We’ve told you where Weston’s buried, so now you need to cough up.’ Amy could feel her voice beginning to crack as she spoke, a fusion of tiredness and deep-seated fear.

  ‘All in good time,’ sneered Jarrett. ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth? Weston’s underneath the floor at Dirty Cash, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’ The two women spoke as one.

  ‘Owned by Tommy Hearn?’

  ‘Yes, until you killed him last night. Unless he’s part undead I suspect his days of checking the winnings from the blackjack table are well and truly over. I assume his body was part of the little barbecue you arranged at the warehouse too.’

  ‘What can I say, Amy? If you start playing with the big boys you’re bound to get more than just your fingers burnt. It was his doing, not mine. My men were merely defending themselves.’

  ‘Can we have the money now? £250,000 each for us and £50,000 for the poor bugger fighting for his life under this very roof,’ interrupted Dolly, her patience running thin. ‘He’ll live, but no thanks to you. His pay-out will make life a little easier every time he looks in the mirror at his disfigured features though. So we’ll just take our money and leave, okay?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Jarrett clicked his fingers and the henchman hovering behind Amy and Dolly pulled out two briefcases from a cupboard placed at the side of the bed. He handed one to Dolly.

  ‘There’s two hundred and fifty grand in there. You tell me who killed Weston, you take the money and then you fuck off out of my sight – I never want to see either of you again.’

  Dolly opened the case and looked inside. It was packed edge-to-edge with bank notes. For a moment she could feel her nipples harden at the thought of finally having her own substantial mass of money.

  ‘It’s all there,’ said Jarrett. ‘So who killed Weston?’ He gazed towards Amy. ‘You receive this case when I hear the name. There’s £300,000 in here for you and your little boyfriend down the corridor. And just like I said to your mate here, I never want to see you again. If I do, I’ll kill you, get it?’

  For a moment Amy hesitated. She thought of Riley and the destruction his shooting had caused, his betrayal of her with other women, his lies about his career and his secret love child with Genevieve. She thought about Tommy and Jemima, now both dead, about the duplicitous Lily barely cold in her grave, and about Grant nearly losing his life in some Manchester backstreet. She thought about Laura’s last breath in her arms. Should she be accepting money to try and improve her own existence as a consequence of all of this misery? Not that long ago she wouldn't have even dreamt of doing so, but now ... The thought disappeared as soon as it had arrived. She was a different woman. She held out her hands for the briefcase.

  ‘You’ll never see me again. I’ve seen more than my fair share of low-lives over the past few weeks.’

  ‘So ... who was it?’ asked Jarrett.

  Amy suddenly found Caitlyn Rich’s face papered across her thoughts. She liked Lily’s mum. A final word of bargaining needed to be actioned. She looked straight into Jarrett’s eyes. ‘You promise me that you’ll just do what you need to with the person we mention and nobody connected with them? An eye for an eye, not a matching pair? Just one name and you go after that person only.’

  ‘I promise.’ Jarrett’s answer was both swift and, Amy thought, believable. She could ask no more.

  ‘Adam Rich,’ stated Amy. There wasn’t even a heartbeat of regret as she spoke Adam’s name. Dolly was right. He’d killed enough people in his time and it was he who'd pulled the trigger on Weston. If Amy had just signed his death warrant then so what? It was no more than he deserved.

  Jarrett gave a sharp intake of breath as she spoke the name.

  ‘Thank you Miss Hart. Here’s your money.’ He nodded for the henchman to hand Amy the other case. She looked inside. Again it was full of bank notes. It was the first time she’d felt financially secure in months. Surely she deserved this money after everything she’d been through.

  ‘What will you do to him?’ She spoke out loud before even asking herself if she really wanted to know.

  ‘Have vengeance, Amy, what else is there? Not that you’ll ever know. Neither will he. Mr Rich will rue the day he crossed paths with my son. Vengeance should always be unexpected and it should rarely be public. Vengeance is patient. It can wait a lifetime if necessary, but vengeance never dies. But Adam Rich will, of that you can be sure.’

  ‘Let’s go, Amy ... we’re done.’ Dolly was moving towards the door, the case tightly gripped in her fingers.

  Amy wasn’t quite ready. ‘One more thing ... why did you kill Lily Rich? Did you think Adam might be behind Weston’s death? She didn’t need to die. She was young. She had nothing to do with Weston’s death.’

  ‘I don’t have to answer that, but seeing as I’m not exactly able to run off given my condition, then I’ll tell you.’ Jarrett was smiling, but not in an amicable way. ‘Everybody has been talking about who killed Lily. How it must have been me. London gangland leader turns up in Manchester and one of the north’s biggest criminals finds his daughter dead in his home. Put two and two together and what do you know, Jarrett Smith strikes again ...’

  He paused before adding, ‘... but there’s just one problem in all of that. Despite what everyone is saying, I didn’t kill her. Hands up, honest guv’nor, it wasn’t me.’

  Something inside Amy told her that he was once more telling the truth. Which left her with another burning question, one which Jarrett couldn’t answer ...

  ‘Then who the hell did?’

  70

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  Amy opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her hotel room. She knew every inch of it off by heart. It was all becoming far too fam
iliar to her. She longed for her own bedroom again, the warm comfort of her own sheets and pillows and the chance to pick something to wear from a hanger in a wardrobe as opposed to out of a suitcase. It surprised her to realise just how much she was missing her London home. But that would have to wait until she’d found Riley and discovered just who she had cremated.

  When she’d moved to London after Riley’s death it had been out of necessity. Tommy and Jemima, may they rest in miserable peace, had fleeced her out of nearly all of her assets and left her with no more than the house to sell. With the minimal money she’d gained from the sale, she had quit Manchester and headed to London. It may not have been the perfect bolthole financially, but it was the perfect sized bolthole. Amy saw London as somewhere for her to get lost, to disappear from view and try and piece together the fragments of her tattered life.

  But if being back in Manchester had taught Amy one thing about herself it was that she had no real desire to return to the city full-time. There were too many ghosts at every turn.

  Running her hands through her hair and yawning, Amy checked the time on her watch. She’d been asleep for the best part of thirteen hours. It didn’t surprise her. After she and Dolly had collected their money, she’d spent most of the afternoon with Jimmy at the hospital, watching him regain consciousness and finally able to show him the cash he’d been promised.

  She prayed as she looked at the scars and vivid collection of bruises across his face and body, hoping that they would disappear in the not too distant future. The bruise on her own cheek was now almost gone. Jimmy’s would surely follow suit. She hadn’t left his side until early evening when he’d finally drifted back into a recuperative slumber.

  She’d caught a cab back to the hotel and raced across Reception attempting to beat the closing doors of the lift. As far as she was concerned, the sooner she was in bed the better. She just slipped through them before they shut behind her. Within five minutes she was washed, undressed and enveloping herself in a deep, deep sleep.

  Her throat felt dry and coarse, as if coated in sandpaper. She needed a drink. Grabbing a glass from the bedside table she stood up and walked towards the bathroom. As she filled the glass at the sink she stared at her own reflection. Her features looked crumpled and squashed, her eyes veined with fatigue.

  She glugged back the water and filled the glass back up, this time dipping her fingers into the cold water and running them across her face, attempting to wake herself up. ‘God, Amy, you look wrecked, some of that money is definitely being spent on pampering, girl. I think I need to get myself back to one of those spas,’ she said to her own face, pinching her cheeks in an attempt to resuscitate some sort of colour back into them.

  Her mind cast back to her last pampering session in Germany with Laura. Even though it wasn’t that long into the past, it felt like a lost other lifetime looking back now.

  All thoughts of massage and seaweed wraps disappeared as a knock on her bedroom door reached her ears. She wasn’t expecting anyone and immediately felt on guard. Since Grant had disappeared back to London there was nobody to knock on her door. The thought of it made Amy feel alone and vulnerable. She hesitated a few moments, uncertain what to do.

  Composing herself, Amy left the bathroom, moved to the door and put her eye to the peephole hoping to see who was on the other side. Nobody was visible. Her heart skipped a beat, afraid of the sudden mystery. Panic gripped her.

  What if it was Adam? Maybe he’d found out that she’d grassed him up to Jarrett. Maybe Jarrett was back with another threat of violence, or maybe Riley was finally ready to meet her face to face. She was still none the wiser about who had tried to kill him. Maybe she’d never know. Amy’s mind raced at the possibilities.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked. No reply.

  Amy gripped the door knob, ready to twist it open, and took a sharp intake of breath. She couldn’t live in constant fear every time she heard an unexpected knock. She wouldn’t allow herself to. She’d faced criminals and seen people die, a mysterious knocking was not going to tip her over the edge. Her life had changed beyond all recognition.

  As Amy went to open the door she spied an envelope on the floor. Whoever had knocked at the door had obviously slipped it underneath. She was sure it hadn’t been there before she’d gone into the bathroom.

  A frisson of dread marched across her skin. The stationery was the same and the handwriting was beyond doubt. It was from Riley. He had delivered another letter. Without a moment’s thought, Amy yanked at the door handle and twisted it open. Nothing. She took a step forward into the corridor and looked in all directions. There was no-one to be seen. Whoever had delivered the note had gone.

  Stooping to pick up the note, Amy rushed back into her room and ran to the telephone on the bedside table. She pressed zero for the Reception desk. If a mystery stranger had just been upstairs with a note for her then maybe they could be spotted trying to leave the hotel.

  It picked up after two rings.

  ‘Hello, this is Amy Hart, Room 414. Has somebody just been up to my room to deliver a note? I was wondering if you could tell me who it was.’

  The voice at the other end was female. ‘That’s easy, Miss Hart. It was me.’ Her tone was clipped and a touch exasperated. ‘When you didn’t answer I just slipped it under the door. I meant to give it to you yesterday when it was delivered but we haven’t seen much of you so I thought I’d bring it up.’

  ‘Did you see who delivered it? A man, a woman, what did they look like? What time? Somebody must have seen them ... I need to know.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you can’t.’ The receptionist could sense Amy’s desperation and to her it was more than peppered with rudeness. ‘It was me who took it from them. Funny thing is they were so wrapped up in their clothes I couldn’t really tell you who it was, man, woman or Yeti. Will you be needing anything else, Miss Hart?’ The receptionist pushed her glasses up her nose, impatient to end the call.

  ‘No ... er, that’s all,’ Amy hung up.

  The receptionist muttered ‘rude cow’ under her breath and replaced the phone back in its cradle. If customers couldn’t be bothered to answer their doors then it was hardly her fault, was it? She turned back to the line of customers forming in front of her and painted on another smile.

  In her room, Amy began to open the envelope ...

  71

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  ‘Feed the world, let them know it’s Christmas time ...’

  If Genevieve had heard the song once, she’d heard it a thousand times already. How many versions had there been now? Four, five, she’d lost count. But sure enough, you could listen to any radio station over the Christmas period from now until the end of time and it would be a festive, bauble-decked mass of Band Aid, Mariah Carey, Slade, Wizzard and The Pogues.

  But as she cradled little Emily in her arms, she turned up the volume on the radio and bounced her arms to the rhythm of the song. It was as ridiculously festive and as incredibly catchy as ever and was definitely putting her in the mood for Christmas. Only a few days and it would be upon them.

  This year she would try and spend it differently. Previous ones had been passed in a blur of industry parties – schmoozing buyers, press and fashion houses with a bottomless supply of Moët & Chandon.

  Christmas was all about giving in the fashion world and it had always been a time when Genevieve had been sure to try and impress those around her, sowing the seeds for the working deals of the future with gifts. But gold, frankincense and myrrh were replaced by the fashion world’s equivalent of designer accessories, brand names and booze.

  But this year there had been none of that. Genevieve’s personal life had taken over. Work, for once, had been pushed to the back of her very fashionable wardrobe.

  Emily’s features were becoming more and more strikingly beautiful with every month. She was stunning. But every time Genevieve looked at her daughter she was reminded of Riley.

  The yea
r had started with Genevieve trying desperately to winkle-pick some semblance of child support from him, her attempts sometimes hostile, sometimes met with threats, and always fruitless. Then Riley had been 'killed', leaving Genevieve to contemplate the fact that her daughter would never see her real father. For over six months she had had to live with that. But then Amy had come back to Manchester and things had changed. Her life and Emily’s had suddenly experienced a state of inversion. Riley wasn’t dead. And that meant money for his daughter. There was nothing to hide and everything to gain. Amy knew the truth.

  This Christmas would be different. Riley would be made to pay. Genevieve would make sure of that. And after everything that Amy had been put through, she was certain that Riley’s wife wouldn’t want to know him anymore. A woman, even one as weak as Amy, would never forgive all that. And maybe, just maybe, there was a slim chance that that would leave the door open for Riley’s love affair with Genevieve to re-blossom.

  All Genevieve needed was for Amy to be out of the way. Preferably for good. If Riley was back, then didn’t little Emily deserve a chance of really getting to know her father and to be part of a proper family?

  As the final rousing choruses of ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ faded from the radio, Genevieve looked into her daughter’s eyes. They were a carbon copy of Riley’s. ‘Would you like your daddy back and that nasty Amy lady out of the way?’ cooed Genevieve. ‘Well, maybe Santa Claus has listened to mummy’s wishes, little Emily. Wouldn’t that be the perfect Christmas?’

  * * *

  Caitlyn Rich’s Christmas would be far from perfect.

  She was more distant from Adam than ever before and that was saying something. They had not been singing from the same carol sheet for years if she was honest, and if Lily’s death had taught her one thing it was that life was too short to settle for second best. Despite being supposedly united in grief by the death of their only daughter, Caitlyn knew what she had to do, and the thought of her Jona – because that was how she was thinking of the cosmetic surgeon these days, as hers – made the decision so much easier.