Deadly Obsession (25 page)

D
olly was already draining
the last few drops from her glass of vodka and tonic and was contemplating a second when Amy walked through the door of the wine bar. Dolly had made sure she arrived in good time and even though it was still early in the day, she figured a little Dutch courage was wise considering what she planned to say.

She could see Amy's gaze oscillate around the bar, which was already full of suited business types entertaining their clients, their secretaries or both. Dolly stood up and beckoned her over. Unsure of how you greet someone you're just about to try and fleece for a large amount of cash, Dolly simply held out her hand and said, ‘Hi, I'm Dolly Townsend, thanks for coming to see me.'

Dolly liked the look of Amy. Her thick blonde hair, evidently not natural – she could see that from the half inch or so of dark roots that grew at the base – was swept back behind her pretty face, and secured at the back with a grip. Her skin was clean and fresh, although Dolly was sure that she could make out a hint of a bruise on one of her cheeks, unsuccessfully covered with a layer of make-up. Her clothes, an oversized woollen jumper teamed with a thick belt and a pair of tight stonewashed jeans, looked good on her. She estimated that Amy was in her early twenties, not knowing that she was actually guessing a good five years too young.

‘Your note intrigued me. You know something about Riley? There was no way that I couldn't come. So what do I need to know?'

‘Why don't we both order some drinks and I'll tell you what I know ...'

G
rant winced
as he attempted to pull his jumper on over his head at the foot of his hospital bed. One night housed within the white, sterile walls of his private room was more than he could bear. What was it about hospitals? They always seemed to have that inbuilt smell of sickness – a fusion of maxi-strength cleaning agents, body odour and piss. Grant couldn't wait to leave.

After having stitches administered to his stab wound, Grant had spent most of the night out for the count. He had woken up that morning to find two policemen waiting outside his room. They had eventually been let in to see him, and he had told them what he could about the attack. Or at least his version of it ...

‘I was in the street, it was no more than an alleyway, to be honest, and somebody jumped me from behind. I guess it was just some chancer hoping to steal a bit of extra cash for some Christmas shopping. I didn't see their face. I just saw the flash of the blade and the next thing I knew I was coming in here.'

One of the policemen scribbled notes onto his pad while the other carried on questioning Grant. His face appeared quizzical and Grant wasn't altogether sure that he believed his story. ‘What were you doing on that street, sir? There's not exactly a lot of shops down there and the friend who brought you in here, a Miss Amy Hart, said she wasn't sure why you'd run off away from her. She did seem fairly hysterical and confused though, to be honest.'

Good girl
, mused Grant.
So, Amy hadn't said anything about him chasing after Riley.
The last thing a celebrity like Grant needed was to be involved in some kind of seedy back-street stabbing. The producers of
Ward 44
and any would-be Hollywood employers would probably not exactly jump for joy at his wholesome image being soiled with scandal.

‘The God's honest truth,' smiled Grant, hoping his famous pearly whites would work their magic as far as his credibility was concerned. ‘I nipped in there as I needed a pee. You'd be surprised how many times a star like me gets asked for autographs when I'm stood at a urinal with my old chap in my hand. I hate using public loos. I should have gone to the toilet back at my hotel. I didn't. The cold air kicked my bladder into action, so I thought I'd just nip off and ... er, have a slash. I didn't tell Miss Hart exactly what I was up to, because it's not ... well, it's not exactly the nicest thing to discuss is it? Anyway, I thought I'd only be a couple of minutes. I guess the bloke who stabbed me must have followed me in there thinking it was a nice quiet place to pounce. After my wallet, no doubt.'

Grant continued to smile as the policeman with the notepad continued to write. There was a smirk across his face. Grant was praying that they believed his story. It was all he could think of.

‘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.

A
my 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 demonstrate 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.'