Deadly Obsession (22 page)

T
he first ever
photograph of people was Boulevard Du Temple, taken by Louis Daguerre back in the 1830s. It was an image of a busy street but because the exposure time was over ten minutes, the city traffic was moving too much to appear.

It was one of the strange facts that Jemima Hearn could remember from her school days. Along with the largest volcano in space being on the surface of Mars and US President George Washington not possessing a middle name. She found it odd the things you remembered in life. But at least these were things that would always be documented in history. They would eternally be talked about. Not like her love for Winston Curtis. That was something that had died the moment his life was extinguished that night at The Kitty Kat.

Jemima was sitting in the driving seat of one of the Hearns' collection of motors, a beautiful Aston Martin V8 Vantage. It was her favourite to take out on the road and she had spent the last two hours driving herself to a peaceful lakeside spot in the Peak District, south of Manchester from their home in Wilmslow. It was a place she often came when she needed to clear her head and escape the tedium her life had become.

The reason Jemima had been thinking about the first ever photograph was that she was staring down at the one photo she had of her and Winston together. Lily Rich had been taking Polaroids at the club one night, as part of some kind of retro promotion to drum up publicity for the Kitty Kat, taking pictures of the various models and actresses and dreadful people off the TV who seemed to migrate there and giving them out. As ever, Jemima had been there to play loyal ‘plus one' to Tommy, who was there to keep his eye on Riley, who was keeping his eye on everyone. The same old monotonous story. The only ray of light had come from Winston being there supporting his employer and unbeknown to anyone else, supporting Jemima. Allowing some love to finally shine brightly in her heart.

Lily had been running around with her camera, aiming it at everyone. Every time she even so much as pointed it in Jemima's direction, the sneer of disdain Jemima had given had been enough to send Lily scurrying off in search of some insipid glamour girl with a vacuous grin wider than her breasts. Jemima hated having her photo taken, she always had. It was a confidence thing. Even if she was looking pretty good after a makeover at the hands of Caitlyn Rich. But there was one moment when she'd been talking to Winston. He'd made time to find her, to melt her heart with that exquisitely cheeky, full-lipped smile of his, as he always did, and plan for their next rendezvous. Planning moments when she could get away from Tommy, from his constant absorption of the world he lived in. His world alongside Riley. His one before that, alongside Cazwell. Neither of them seemed to feature Jemima anymore. She was more like his employee than his wife.

There had been that moment when the madcap Lily had shoved the camera in her face yet again and she had been talking to Winston. Happy to seize the opportunity, Winston had wrapped his arm around her and pulled her towards him, his bear grip making it impossible for her to resist, not that she'd wanted to. Unable to stop herself, she smiled, a smile that lit up her entire face. Jemima had what people called ‘one of those faces that never looked happy', but the beam on both her and the face of her delicious ebony lover as they stared out of the photo was immeasurable.

It was one of the last times she remembered being truly joyous. She couldn't even begin to think of the last time Tommy had made her feel like that.

No, staring at the picture of Winston, the man who could no longer light up her world, she knew that her one chance of true happiness had passed her by and that she desperately needed to do something about it.

J
arrett Smith had carried
a photo of Weston in his wallet ever since his only son had first gone missing. Okay, so the lad could be a waste of space but he was still his lad, part of the Smith dynasty who had been ruling the grimy streets of London for the best part of forty years. His name, and his father's before him, had become one of the most feared within the confines of a London postcode. If you messed with Jarrett Smith, then there was only one possible outcome and that was game over. The three strike rule never applied. You fucked Jarrett over once, then it was always a case of taking the fast route to six feet under.

But Jarrett's notoriety was spreading. He'd been aware of that ever since he'd made his first ‘business trip' to Manchester following Weston's disappearance a few years earlier. The entire city had clammed up, people were afraid to talk to him, word reached him that even the so-called big players in Manchester were running scared. Every avenue of exploration had become a dead end, a cul-de-sac of nothingness. Nobody knew what had happened to his son, Weston. He'd been seen, he'd been doing his usual ducking and diving, trying to avoid the law, but nobody seemed to know who with and why. Lips had been sealed as if by superglue. Mouths tighter than oysters, petrified of spilling a pearl of knowledge that could land somebody in Jarrett's blood-splattered bad books.

But as the months and years went by, people would become careless. Jarrett knew that. This was a marathon, not a sprint. The truth about Weston's disappearance would come to light sooner or later and Jarrett would be there to deal with those to blame.

His first suspect had been Riley Hart, the newest upstart on the northern block, pussy-assed son of Cazwell. Manchester's number one? Tell that to his widow. He'd obviously been slack. Barrel-load of bullets straight into his skull. No, if he was to blame, then he'd already paid the price.

But what if it wasn't him? Jarrett still needed revenge. If his son was as dead as Jarrett reckoned he was deep inside – he'd have been back sponging for money if he still had breath in his body no doubt – then someone would have to pay. And it was an eye for an eye, a death for a death. Revenge would come, it always did in the end.

It was being served right now for someone else. Another person who had dared to cross Jarrett. Three months after being swindled out of £300K by his apparent friend and co-owner of his prize racehorse, Jarrett was finally getting payback. With a gun lodged tightly against his back, Jarrett roughly pushed the son of his former mate out of the back of his own Mercedes. The car smelt of piss where the terrified teenager had wet himself with fear as one of Jarrett's men had driven the Mercedes to their current destination, a construction site in south east London.

It was just before midnight and the place was clear of workmen. He'd have to get the car valeted tomorrow now. Fucking little prick. Still, what was a bit of piss on your leather upholstery when revenge was about to be dished up?

The construction site was being used during the day to build an extension onto one of London's exit roads. The site was a mass of cranes, machinery and deep, half-dug holes ready for the insertion of huge concrete pillars to act as foundations for the new road. Well, Jarrett was about to add a unique insertion of his own.

‘So, where's your fucking dad gone with my money, then? Why would he fuck off with Jarrett Smith's hard earned dosh, sunshine?' He rammed the weapon into the lad's spine, forcing him to let out a pathetic whimper between pitiful sobs.

‘I've told you, I don't know. Please Mr Smith. I've not seen him since he ran off. Please just let me go ... please ...'

Mr Smith ... a nice touch, Jarrett liked that. A bit of respect. He had an idea his former mate had fled to the other side of the world. Australia or New Zealand. No matter. Wherever he was word would reach him. Word that you don't fuck with Jarrett Smith. Not even friendship bought you that liberty. No-one was worthy of absolution. No-one.

‘I think Daddy's down under. Headed south. You can fucking join him,' snarled Jarrett.

‘Please ... I swear I don't know where ...'

The young man could say no more. With one swift push, Jarrett forced him brutally over the edge of one of the deeply dug shaft holes. It was deep – deep enough for what a demonically smiling Jarrett wanted. He knew that from having one of his men stake the site out during daylight.

The lad's screams filled the air for a split second as he plummeted downwards before coming to a final, dramatic silent crunch as his body hit the bottom. Jarrett's work was done. The arousal of revenge ran through his veins.

As Jarrett sat back in the car, this time up front to try and avoid the young man's piss, he reached into his wallet and pulled out the photo of Weston. ‘I'll find the culprit, son. I'll unearth the truth, don't you worry. Revenge will come, sooner or later ...'

As Jarrett was driven back to London, he knew that his next move might have to be a return trip to Manchester.

J
emima wound
down the windows of the Aston Martin, the cold winter air hitting her as she did so, and stared out at the scenery around her. The trees, devoid of leaves at this time of year, seemed to have a sinister life all of their own, each branch and twig twisting and turning its way like the gnarled fingers of a storybook witch. The surface of the lake in front of her appeared dark and brooding, almost ashen in its stillness. She looked around. There was no-one else to be seen. It was pure serenity.

Winston would have liked it here. He liked the open air. They could have come here for picnics, for endless bottles of champagne, laughing together and talking about how life could have been had they met at a different time. They could have stayed, staring out onto the lake on a balmy summer's night, waiting for the sun to fade to a dusky light before making love in one of the many hidden lanes not far from the water's edge. Winston would have adored that too. He could have told her that he loved her, protectively placed his arms around her and told her that the world could be a perfect place. Winston might not have been perfect, but he could have been perfect for her.

Jemima smiled to herself. It wasn't too late. They could still be together. Winston was waiting for her. She'd be better off with him. She knew that now. What had Tommy called him? ‘That useless sidekick'? How fucking dare he? She'd show him exactly who ‘that useless sidekick' was. Taking a pen from the glove compartment she turned over the photo of her and Winston and wrote on the back. ‘To Winston, the only man who truly made me happy. Forever yours, Jemima x.' Her body shivered in the cold air as she wrote. She underlined the word 'only' and placed the photo in her winter coat pocket, zipping it in so that it would rest in place. She smiled, a feeling of total readiness passing through her. Her work was done.

Memories of her last weekend with Winston flooded through her mind. Visions of him turning to her as they picnicked, wiping a smudge of cream from her lips where they had been eating strawberries, the taste of champagne on his lips as he kissed her and held her in his arms. The sound of his voice as he told her ‘I love you, Jemima Hearn, both inside and out'. When had Tommy last said he loved her? Thoughts of Winston brought a smile to her face again. A smile of happiness, of knowing what was right, of knowing what she wanted.

Her next action was to unlock the hand brake of the Aston and let the car roll down the slight incline that ran into the lake. She was still smiling as the freezing cold water poured into the car through the open windows. A huge shock to her system. But this was what she wanted. To be with Winston again. Jemima was already dead by the time the car disappeared below the surface of the water.

A
my decided not
to tell anyone about the shooting incident at the church. Not even Grant. Somebody was trying to warn her off, she was convinced of it. If they had wanted to kill her, then surely one of the three bullets would have done so. To miss once was unlucky, but to miss three times was almost definitely deliberate.

Amy had made another decision when she was on the way back in the taxi. She needed to start fighting fire with fire. So far she had constantly felt back footed, always playing catch-up in a rather sinister voyage of discovery. If she was to find Riley then she needed to try and take what little control she could, and that meant doing whatever it required to try and garner the right information to lead her to her husband.

Telling the taxi driver that she'd had a change of plan, she asked him to drop her at Dirty Cash. Once there she ventured cautiously back inside – the last thing she wanted was another run-in with Tommy and/or Jemima – she only had one cheek left unbruised. No, she wasn't there to see them, she wanted to speak to Jimmy, the handsome and eager-to-please employee who had last seen her being marched off the premises the day before. Luckily for Amy he was working.

‘Back for a second interview? I wasn't sure the first one had gone particularly well given the rate of knots at which you left here yesterday,' he winked, more than a hint of suggestion in his eyes.

He was flirting. Perfect. Amy wouldn't need to work this too hard. ‘Hi Jimmy, yeah it didn't go too well, and I didn't get a chance to see you afterwards either which was another downer.' His face lit up. ‘Look I can't really talk here. I think the bosses didn't take to me. Can you take a lunch break? I'd love to speak to you about something. There are a few things that you could help me with.' Amy angled her head coquettishly to one side and chewed slightly at her bottom lip. It was a pure prick-tease manoeuvre.

There was no way Jimmy was going to say no. ‘Er ... sure. I'm off for an hour in about twenty minutes. There's a great sandwich place on the corner of the next street. We could meet there. My treat.'

Amy could feel herself blushing slightly. The poor boy was definitely thinking he was onto a winner. ‘No, I need to ask a favour so lunch is on me. Just don't have anything too exotic and expensive in your sandwich, okay?'

‘Cheese and pickle it is! Can I ask you one thing though? The bruise on your cheek. You didn't have it yesterday. What happened? Were you hit?'

Amy had to think quickly. ‘Oh that ... no, I whacked it on a taxi door. I wasn't looking what I was doing,' she fibbed. What was another lie to add to the mix? It wasn't like she'd been honest with him about anything so far.

A
my breathed
a sigh of relief as she walked back into the cold afternoon air outside Dirty Cash. She'd been dreading bumping into Jemima or Tommy again. Luckily neither had been there.

Amy stared across the road searching for the sandwich shop. A warm drink would do her good. If they'd been meeting in a bar she would have definitely ordered something a little stronger. After the episode at the church her nerves were in tatters.

Amy located the shop and started to walk across the road. Some inner sense of paranoia made her feel like she was being watched.
Was it Riley again?
She scanned around, letting her eyes dart in all directions. She was right. A lone figure, deep in thought, his gaze penetrative, stood on the other side of the road from her. She could feel his eyes burning into her.
She didn't know him, did she?
She stared directly back at him, searching for recognition. Suddenly aware that he was being watched too, the man ducked his head and walked off down the street. Maybe she was paranoid? Manchester was full of all sorts of weirdoes and loonies. Or maybe he was staring at her bruise. Or maybe he fancied her? Or recognised her from the club? There could be a hundred different reasons. He was gone now, but even his absence made her feel a tad uneasy.

A shiver seared through her veins. Deciding she was just being paranoid, Amy hurried to the sandwich shop to wait for Jimmy.

A
my and Jimmy
were finishing off the food they had ordered. Jimmy seemed fidgety and awkward as he pushed the last few crumbs of bread around his plate. They had volleyed flirtatious pleasantries back and forth between them whilst eating but he knew that he'd been asked there for a reason. Jimmy may have been a fairly naive young man from Llandudno but he knew that he'd been treated to lunch for more than just his company. He guessed he would have to take the bull by the horns.

‘You're a nice woman. I'm not normally chatted up by ladies like you, and certainly not treated to the dizzy heights of cappuccino and wholemeal butties by them, either.' He laughed, a mixture of nerves and irony as he spoke. ‘I'm more of a bag of chips down by the pier kind of guy. Why did you ask me here?'

‘You're a really nice guy, Jimmy ...' Amy could hear how lame she sounded already.

‘But ...?' he asked.

Amy opened the floodgates and told Jimmy as much as she needed him to hear. About Riley's letter and Laura's death, her hatred of Tommy Hearn and Adam Rich, about the Kitty Kat and how it was now Dirty Cash, Riley's lies to her, moving away from Manchester and her current visit there with Grant. Although it felt somewhat cathartic to share her story, Amy felt exhausted by the time she had finished, as well as more than a little wary. She didn't know Jimmy at all and nice though he seemed, she had no idea where his loyalties lay, especially now that she'd more or less confessed that he wasn't going to achieve anything romantically should he decide to help her.

Jimmy sat agog listening to her story, his mouth open, his eyebrows raised.

‘So, asking you out on a date right now would be completely the wrong thing to do?' asked Jimmy when she'd finished.

‘I come with more baggage than Manchester Airport, so yeah. But I need your help, Jimmy ...'

‘I guessed you were telling me all of this for a reason. What can I do?' Jimmy chewed lightly on his fingernail as he wondered what was coming next.

‘I need somebody on the inside of Dirty Cash. To be my eyes and ears. You can guess from yesterday's performance that I'm not exactly greeted at the door like a returning Olympic gold medal winner. But I'm sure that Tommy knows something about Riley and Laura's deaths. Or Adam does, or Jemima. There has to be some little nugget that they may let slip when I'm not there which could help me. I need to sort this once and for all. To lay my husband's memory to rest or track him down. You may hear all sorts about him in there but I need you to listen in and let me know what's being said. My husband spent a lot of our life together lying to me, I know that now, but I need to find out the truth.'

A moment's pause. ‘Losing your husband and your best friend ... that sucks, man. Do you really think he's dead? That's pretty freaky to think he might have been able to fake his own death.'

‘So much chaos went on in the club that night, I'm not sure of anything anymore. Is Riley alive? That's the million dollar question, Jimmy.' The mention of money jogged Amy's mind.

‘Of course I'll pay you for your trouble, Jimmy. I'll make it worth your while.' Amy wasn't really sure how. Her funds were dwindling, but if need be she still had possessions like her wedding ring back at her house in London. She hadn't worn it for months, the sight of it too much of a gigantic, agonizing reminder of what she once had. She wasn't sure if she'd ever want to wear it again. She'd sell something to pay Jimmy if she had to.

‘I'll listen out for you, of course I will. If anyone says anything about that night I'll contact you straight away. Shit, you've been to hell and back ...' Jimmy reached across the table to take Amy's hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze of understanding. ‘You don't have to pay me, but there is one condition ...'

Amy could feel her heart sinking. There was no such thing as a free lunch.
What did he want?
She needn't have worried.

‘When this is all over,' he smiled, ‘can you introduce me to Grant Wilson? My mother loves him in that doctor show of his and if anyone can get me connected to some seriously fit women then he can. Although for the record, they'd have to go some to be as beautiful as you.'

Amy caught herself laughing at his cheek. ‘It's a promise, you'll have your introduction.'

Jimmy stood from the table and wrapped his coat back around his body. ‘Listen I had better go, my break is nearly over and if I'm to start acting like a cop from
Broadchurch
for you then I need to make sure I stay on the right side of the bosses. I can't afford to be late. How do I contact you?'

Amy scribbled her hotel details down on a piece of paper and her telephone number. ‘I'll be staying here in Manchester for a while. There's so much I don't know. This is one screwed-up jigsaw and there are still a lot of pieces missing.'

‘Well, you can count on me to do what I can.' He took the paper and pushed it into his coat pocket. He was almost at the door when he turned round to face her. ‘And for what it's worth, I think Riley Hart was a fool to ever cheat on you. If I was your fella then you'd be treated like a princess.'

Amy admired his charm. ‘If you were my fella, then I'm sure I wouldn't be in this bloody mess in the first place. Now go spy ...' She waved her hands towards the door.

As Jimmy left the sandwich bar, Amy headed to the counter to pay. She wasn't sure if having Jimmy on her side would prove beneficial, but it certainly couldn't do her any harm. At least it felt like she was doing something, talking control again. Even just sharing her story with him seemed to take a pressure off her shoulders.

What Amy didn't realise as she walked back out into the fresh, wintery Manchester air, was that she'd also been sharing the story with the man sitting on the far side of the sandwich bar. Just far enough away to be able to hide himself behind carefully placed menus and lose himself in a dimly lit corner, he was still close enough to be able to hear the young woman talking about Riley Hart, to hear the words Dirty Cash, Tommy Hearn and Adam Rich form on her lips and to know that maybe one of them, or both, might know something about the disappearance of his only son.

Yes, Jarrett Smith was highly pleased that he'd headed back to Manchester, that he'd gone to Dirty Cash, recognised the woman he'd seen coming out of the casino as the ex-wife of Riley Hart and secretly followed her with the stealth of a lion hunting a gazelle into the sandwich shop. Any potential leads that could help him find out what had happened to Weston definitely had to be investigated.

And they would be.