Deadly Obsession (9 page)

‘
S
prechen sie
hi-fashion
, darling? It would appear that you don't. I suggest you take your foreign, tawdry little rags and peddle them elsewhere. You're not exactly Germany's equivalent of Victoria Beckham are you? Now, why don't you take your collection and give it to someone who gives a shit about your poorly stitched knick-knacks as they certainly have no place in one of England's finest clothing boutiques ... got it?'

Genevieve Peters hung up the phone. She had never been somebody to dress up her words with pleasantries. She had a tongue sharper than the outfits featured inside the four walls of Eruption, her goldmine of a clothing shop situated in one of the trendier parts of Manchester. In the seven years since she had opened the store she had clothed everyone from up-and-coming Hollywood through to young royalty. Not that any of the fashion was designed by her. No, Genevieve left that to the likes of Tom Ford or Roberto Cavalli. She had the shrewdest fashionista eye for spotting what the next big trend would be. With a hard work ethic of ‘nose to the grindstone' and a well-accessorised ear to the floor, Genevieve and her team of contacts polka-dotted around the globe to make sure that any forthcoming trend would feature in Manchester's Eruption before it had even hit UK catwalks. She had played a major part in Fashion Weeks all over the globe from the chaotic drama of New York through to the stylish flair of Milan and Paris. Images of her chatting freely with celebrities such as Cara Delevingne or Harry Styles in the front row of all the big name showcases frequently filled the red tops. At the age of thirty-five, the boutique owner, with her jet-black angularly cropped hair and tight black dress, was as feared as her severe fringe was razor-straight. Mostly by her staff, and rightly so, as it was usually they who bore the brunt of her venom, especially her assistant, Meifeng.

Facing the pint-size Oriental girl stood alongside her behind the counter of Eruption, Genevieve let rip. ‘Meifeng, if that abhorrent little German phones again then tell him he can shove his designs so far up his arse he'll be able to bite down on the cheap fucking fabric they're made from. And never pass him on to me again if you want to keep your job here, okay? You're supposed to be my assistant so please assist me by making the right decisions instead of being a total prick. Now, where's my cup of green tea?'

The young Asian girl scuttled out to the back of the shop as Genevieve dismissed her with a wave of her hand. It was only as she lowered her hand and started to flick through a rather thick fashion magazine lying on the shop counter that she spied someone on the other side of the shop. ‘Oh hello, I didn't see you there behind that mannequin. May I help?' Her voice trailed off as Amy walked out from behind the dummy. She'd been stood there for a good five minutes or so watching Genevieve in action. She was truly a piece of work.

It was clear that Genevieve was not overly thrilled to see her. ‘Oh, it's you. The last time I saw you I was nearly getting trampled to death in that blessed club of yours. I still bear a few war wounds now.' She raised her hand to her cheek, a faint hairline scar still visible ‘What do you want?'

‘Hello Genevieve, how nice to see you too. I've come to talk about Riley.' Amy's voice was calm, composed, clear and strong – determined to keep the upper hand.

Genevieve's face creased into worry. It was the first time Amy had seen any kind of weakness since she'd entered the shop. She had obviously hit a raw nerve.

‘What about him? You had better come through to the back if we're to talk about the dead, although I don't know what you expect me to say. I'll get my assistant to mind the shop.' Amy followed Genevieve through. The atmosphere between the two women had suddenly become much frostier and Amy didn't need to be a weather girl to know that it wasn't just the season that was to blame.

Having shooed her assistant back out to the shop floor, Genevieve made no attempt to sit down or offer Amy a seat. She crossed her arms and stood facing Amy. Her stance was one hundred per cent defensive and unfriendly. Amy guessed that this was to be a pretty curt conversation.

‘Your husband, Riley ... I'm sorry for your loss. Good-looking fellow. I saw him at the club many a time. Shame it's gone, I used to take my clients there. Good for business. You must miss it? Nice little earner I would have thought ...?'

‘I miss my husband more ...' Amy replied, thinking it was no wonder Genevieve had made such a killing in the fashion world. She appeared to be as cold-faced and as cold-hearted as they come. Ice maidens would seem volcanic in comparison. She could see why she was a potential suspect. ‘But yes, The Kitty Kat Club was popular. You came quite a few times didn't you?'

‘As I said ... now, what can I do for you? I'm sure as a fellow ...' she hesitated before adding, ‘... businesswoman, you realise how busy I am. My assistant and I have to get these unpacked by end of play today.' She indicated a bank of boxes stacked against the wall. ‘The A-listers of this country are hardly going to look their best if I can't supply them with cutting edge fashions from Seoul through to San Paulo, are they? We can't all wander around looking like we've just come from the soup kitchen, can we?' Genevieve let her gaze take in Amy's outfit, a simple jeans and tattoo-style emblazoned sweatshirt combo, underneath a deep green parka with a faux-fur trimmed hood. Amy had hoped she was oozing Moschino-esque style with a funky edge. The look on Genevieve's face made it clear that the boutique owner obviously felt her look was sporting something much more end-of-line TK Maxx.

Trying to ignore her burning anger towards Genevieve, Amy knew that she had to cut to the chase. The sooner she had spoken to everyone on Riley's letter then the sooner she could hopefully be back in his arms again, even if Tommy Hearn's revelations about her husband's secret life had knocked her for six. Could she love a man who did what Riley did for a living? Her heart and her head were pulling her in two opposite directions.

Pushing aside all ideas of what the future might hold, Amy continued. ‘Then I'll be brief. Did you have any reason to want my husband dead? Somebody killed him and two other people that night and I'm trying to find out who.'

Genevieve was floored for a second before slamming her answer back at Amy with more than a hefty layer of derision. ‘I hardly knew your husband, and if you think about it sensibly, I was almost left for dead myself the night he died so unless you're implying that I was both responsible for those deaths and for virtually putting myself in an early grave then I really don't have a clue what on earth you could be getting at. I was merely caught up in the messy crossfire. Now, I'm sorry for your loss, I really am, but I must get on.' She held out her arm, indicating the way back through to the shop. It was obviously Amy's time to leave.

But Amy was resolute. She wasn't quite ready yet. ‘All I know is that the police didn't come up with any answers for three people dying that night. I know my husband wasn't whiter than white, Miss Peters. I'm not the naive woman you may think I am. Far from it. I just want some answers. My friend, Laura, was killed that night too. I owe it to her to try and find out.'

‘That's all very honourable, but I'm afraid I can't help you. Somebody shot three people but I'm just glad I wasn't number four. Now, if you'll excuse me ...' She ushered Amy towards the door. Amy knew it was now time to depart. The conversation had not so much stopped as crashed head first into the end of the nearest catwalk and fallen into the front row on its towering set of heels. It was going nowhere.

‘If you think of anything then please ring me, here's my number. I'm just trying to do the right thing,' said Amy. She wrote her mobile number down on a piece of paper on Genevieve's desk and handed it to her. ‘I'm glad you survived that night, Genevieve, but I need to try and unearth some answers for those who didn't. I could do with all of the help I can find.' As she turned to leave the shop Genevieve was still scanning the number.

A short burst of chilly winter air ran through the shop as Amy opened the door and walked out. Genevieve could feel her skin begin to prickle into goose bumps. Her lips, normally moistened to within an inch of their pillar-box-red lives under blankets of lipstick felt dry and her throat tightened as she watched Amy walk out of sight. She needed a drink.

She turned to Meifeng, her meek and mild female assistant who had watched the end of the two women's conversation in total silence. She knew her place. After two years working alongside Genevieve it was clear. She wasn't paid to pass comment. ‘I can finish off here, why don't you go home for the day. I'll see you again tomorrow,' snapped Genevieve.

Meifeng, whose name translated from Chinese as ‘beautiful wind' was out of there at typhoon speed. If she were to keep her much-prized job then out of sight was definitely out of the firing line. Meifeng had dreams of having her own set of boutiques one day and she was learning from the best, despite her boss's poison.

As soon as Meifeng had gone, Genevieve locked the door and flipped the ‘Open' sign to ‘Closed'. She was done for the day. Orders could wait. What was the point of being boss if you couldn't bend the rules now and again? Besides, her mind wasn't on the job, Amy had seen to that.

She flicked the light switch and looked around her as the shop descended into darkness, the only light coming from the back room. Even if it had been pitch black she could have still simply wound her way back to the counter and out to the storeroom with ease. She knew the layout of the rails and the mannequins like the back of her own hand.

Back in the storeroom she sat herself down at her desk, unlocked the top drawer and pulled it open. A bottle of whisky lay inside, resting on a sea of receipts and invoices. The paperwork could wait, she needed a drink, and she needed it now. Unscrewing its cap, she raised the bottle to her lips and took a good, long slug. The liquid scorched her throat slightly as she swallowed. It felt good. She took another. It felt less harsh but just as pleasing.

Placing the bottle back inside the drawer she closed it and unlocked the one underneath it. A photo frame lay face down, obviously hidden from view. She faltered slightly before lifting it out of the drawer and placing it on the desk to face her. It was another moment before she allowed her eyes to rest upon it. The photo was of two people, a man and a woman, their arms wrapped around each other. They were very intimate, obviously together. The man was kissing the woman firmly on her cheek. Both were smiling. There was something so natural about the photograph. They were united.

Genevieve could feel her blood beginning to boil, but allowed herself to stare at it for a few seconds before anger got the better of her. She snapped and lashed out at the photo, sideswiping it from the desk. It sailed across the room and crashed into one of the cardboard boxes before falling to the floor. As it did a solitary crack slashed its way, top to bottom, through the photo. Even from her desk Genevieve could see that the crack was perfectly placed, separating the two people. On one side she saw her own smiling face, on the other was that of Riley Hart.

‘How fucking apt!' she said and began to laugh. Her maniacal laughter soon turned to tears.

S
ecrets are rarely beneficial
. Most secrets are hidden for a reason. If they were tasty nuggets of information to be feasted on by all for a better life then they wouldn't be secrets in the first place. Secrets are nearly always dangerous.

As Amy walked away from Eruption she couldn't help but feel that Genevieve was definitely hiding something. Wasn't it true that the best way of keeping a secret is to bury it and pretend that it doesn't exist in the first place? There were definitely secrets lurking beneath that woman's stern facade. And Amy was determined to try and get to the bottom of them. But how? Genevieve was being tighter than an oyster housing the most delicious of pearls. She was not letting down her guard for anything or anyone; that was clear.

What was her connection to Riley? There obviously was one or else Riley wouldn't have mentioned her in the letter.
What was Riley hiding?
If he was alive, wouldn't it have been better for him to carry on pretending that he was dead? His letter was causing nothing but constant bubbling angst. In just a few short days Amy had learnt that her husband was really a gangland criminal responsible for countless deaths, a man who lied to her in life and never allowed her to share his deep, dark secrets. Why should she try to unearth the truth now? This was a truth that could only lead to more despair. Why continue? Maybe because in Riley's eyes, the letter from beyond the grave was the first honest thing he'd been able to do in years. Was there a sense of wanting to put things right?

Despite any revelations that the last few days had brought though, Amy knew why she had to carry on. She loved Riley and needed to find him. She always had, and probably always would. If there was a chance that maybe he was alive and wanted to be with her then perhaps she should take it. Did that make her weak? Foolish? A sucker for love? She wasn't sure. Amy knew that now she'd started this journey she couldn't stop until it came to its natural end. Whatever that final destination might hold.

Amy was deep in thought as she reached the corner of the street. She knew that her journey to try and discover the truth had only just begun. She still needed to see the actor Grant Wilson, Riley's school nemesis, to question Riley's associate Adam Rich and to talk to his daughter, Lily, the Kitty Kat Club DJ and drug-pusher. Riley had mentioned all of their names. But what if none of them were involved? Tommy Hearn had said that Riley had loads of enemies – he could have been ‘killed' by any of them. For all she knew, every gangland crackpot across the length of Europe could have had a hit out on Riley. Didn't Tommy say that the police had given up the case because they didn't want to ‘ruffle any feathers'? There was no way that any of those ‘feathers' would now want to be ruffled by Amy. The tornado of thoughts billowing around her head scared her.

It was early evening and fairly dark on the streets. The only light came from the rather pathetic Christmas lights strung up outside the shops. A few shoppers still milled around but Amy guessed that most would be feeling festive at the larger malls such as the Arndale. In this part of town it was mostly trendy boutiques, Eruption being the most heralded.

Amy was tired, her mind constantly ablaze with horrific ‘what ifs' and questions that appeared to have no answers. She could feel her stomach twist into a knot of hunger. She needed to eat. Between the appetite-crushing state of the hotel and the constant quest to try and investigate Riley's death she had neglected the necessary things in life like fuelling her own body with food.

She could see a bagel shop on the other side of the road. Smoked salmon, cream cheese ... yes, that would fit the bill. She stepped out into the road, her mind still overcrowded with speculation. She was barely two steps in when she heard the car's engine.

It appeared out of nowhere. Its headlights weren't illuminated, so the first she was aware of it was when she heard the sudden powerful revving of its motor and the squealing of tyres as the rubber burnt along the road. She turned towards it, transfixed, unable to move as it advanced towards her. Amy's brain wasn't quick enough to compute the fact that she needed to get out of its way.

The car couldn't have been more than a couple of metres away when a pair of arms roughly grabbed Amy from behind and pulled her to the side of the road. She stumbled as she hit the curve and fell onto the pavement taking the person who had grabbed her down with her. She watched as the car sped past and then screeched to a halt. Amy was sure she saw the silhouette of the driver turn around to look at her before the car turned on its headlights and shot off around the corner out of sight.

‘Jesus, you were fucking lucky. Another second and I'd have been scraping you up as road kill,' said a female voice underneath Amy. Literally underneath, as she'd fallen on top of her. ‘Are you okay?'

It was only as the two women turned to face each other that a badly winded Amy recognised the person who had saved her life. It was Lily Rich.

‘Christ alive, if I was still working for you I'd ask for a raise right now. What are you doing in Manchester, I thought you'd quit town?' Lily looked totally shocked to see Amy.

‘I had ... I have. I'm just back to try and sort some things out. Thanks for saving me. My mind was kind of away with the fairies. Guess I should pay more attention. Must have scared the life out of the driver. Out for a Christmas shop and I step out in front of their car. Didn't stick around though did they? They must realise they had a lucky escape.'

‘Amy, how fucking deluded are you?' said Lily, standing herself up and wiping down the floor length faux fur coat she was wearing. As ever, she looked the epitome of street cool. ‘That car was aiming straight for you. It pulled out, sped up, tried to knock seven shades of shit out of you and didn't stick around because it failed. Did you get to see the driver or the registration? I didn't, because it was all too quick.'

‘No, I didn't ...' Amy began to shudder, a sense of grim apprehension enveloping her. ‘You really think that car was trying to run me down. Why?' Amy didn't have to think too hard if she were honest. She'd probably racked up her own considerable list of enemies over the short period she'd been back in Manchester.

‘Have you got some secret assassin after you or something?' challenged Lily. ‘Some bastard wants you dead, that's for sure.'

‘Secret assassin? Maybe ... listen, have you got time for a drink and a bite to eat, Lily? I'd really like to catch up with you and seeing as you've just saved my bacon, now would be the perfect opportunity.'

A
s Lily
and Amy headed off to eat, Lily's father Adam Rich was sitting, head in hands, at his desk in his office at his mock Tudor mansion on the outskirts of Manchester. The house was opulent on a grand scale. For many it would have been grossly grand, a shrine to bad taste, proving that money could definitely make something more brassy than classy.

Two stone bulldogs, both at least a metre high, adorned the pillars either side of the electric gates at the front of the property. The pebbled driveway leading to the equally pillared front door housed a collection of cars. A Range Rover sat alongside an Audi R8, sharing space with a Bentley Continental GT. It would have given the flashiest of trashy footballers a motor-loving hard-on the size of Old Trafford.

Next to the front door another large stone statue, this time of a lion raised on its back legs, took pride of place. The lion, its mouth opened wide, baring a set of long stone teeth, was far from alluring. In fact it would have scared the most macho of visitors. But then the home that Adam Rich shared with his wife Caitlyn and their daughter, Lily, was far from inviting. And it was far from a happy one. Behind the large oak front door was hidden many a secret.

Adam Rich thumped his fist down onto his desk. He was not happy, and it was a niggling secret that was causing his consternation.

He was recollecting a phone call he'd taken in his games room earlier that day. It had been Tommy Hearn on the other end.

Snooker cue in one hand as he held the telephone receiver in the other, he had listened to what Tommy had to say.

‘What is it, Tommy?'

‘I've had a visit from Riley's missus. She's been sticking her oar in and knows the situation about Riley's lifestyle. Just thought you'd better know,' warned Tommy.

‘Amy Hart's back in town. Well, fuck me. You think she'll be trouble?' snarled Adam. ‘I thought she was out of the picture. What's she know? Not everything I hope.'

‘No, not everything, but she thinks Riley's still alive. Crazy cow. And she came here to see if I knew anything about it. The ramblings of a fuckwit widow if you ask me, but she may try digging up some dirt, so I thought you'd better be kept in the loop.'

‘You know where she's staying?' asked Adam.

‘I do. I had someone follow her from the casino. A right hole, she's down on her luck all right. If she's after cash, she could be a problem. And if Riley
is
alive, he could squeal about all sorts ... including you know what.'

‘Yeah, and you know never to speak about that on the fucking telephone. Walls have ears, Tommy,' shouted Adam, banging the snooker cue on the floor in fury as he did so. ‘Give me her address. I'll deal with it. Make sure secrets stay buried. I can't afford any fuck ups, not again ...'

Adam hung up the telephone and turned his attention to the woman stood smoking a cigarette beside the snooker table. She was naked apart from a pair of high heels and the sheerest of panties.

‘You got trouble?' she asked.

‘I don't pay you or any of the whores from the agency I order you from to ask questions. I pay you for a service so why don't we put this snooker table to good use and you show me why you're worth the money I'm wasting on you.' Adam unbuckled his trousers as he spoke.

It was true. Adam Rich didn't pay Dolly Townsend to talk. Despite having a sizable brain in her head and a tongue in her mouth, Dolly was paid to suck, fuck and shut right up. Her client's business was his own and hers was to just lie back and enjoy the ride. And if he chose to keep it a secret from his daft wife then so be it.

‘Fine with me, you're the boss.' Dolly knew what to do and say. She slipped the panties down her legs and lay back on the table, legs splayed. She was still stubbing out her cigarette butt when Adam ploughed his cock into her.

L
ily and Amy
were just sitting down to eat as back in Eruption, Genevieve Peters returned the photo of herself and Riley into the drawer, streaks of black mascara still caked onto her face from where she'd been crying. She'd finished off the rest of the whisky. Her mind felt drenched with confusion. She hated herself for letting him still get to her. She knew he always would. She had no choice. Reminders would always be there. He wasn't worth her tears. She was too strong for that. Or at least she thought she was. She'd never wanted to share him, but she'd had to. He'd made sure of that. It had to be their secret. And now Amy was back again. The other woman .... That stupid cow had no idea. She would never know. Maybe she should tell her. Let her in on the secret, or maybe make sure that she never found out ...

Secrets. What was that famous phrase she'd once heard? ‘Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.' Benjamin Franklin or someone. She'd picked it up somewhere. Yes, the dead can't share secrets ... only the living can do that.

As she replaced the photo she reached to the back of the drawer and wrapped her hands around the handle of a gun. She pulled it out and stared at it. Even in her whisky-sodden state, a flash of clarity hit her brain as she wondered when she'd ever use it. Again.