Blazing Obsession (16 page)

“That's it,” said RP, leaning over and turning off his mobile. “Now Hartley knows you're involved, Alisha. He's probably already worked out that you are too, James. Obviously, this puts you both at risk.”

Alisha, for the first time since I'd met her, appeared concerned. She looked at me first, then RP and said, “Now what do we do?”

“Well, it's pretty obvious now, that Hartley and Johnson were responsible, isn't it? Clearly, Greenland had a role in it too.”

“I should have sorted him out when I had the chance!” I spat out.

“No, you did well. We may need him,” RP said.

He continued, “We could consider going to the police with this evidence. Trouble is, the court possibly won't admit much of it. We know all about that don't we? And even if the police did get a result against Hartley, Johnson remains free. And he can't be tried again.”

RP had struck a raw nerve. I couldn't bear the thought of Johnson still being at large.

“That can't be allowed,” I said, shaking my head.

RP, stroking his chin yet again, said, “Listen, I've got a plan to deal with Hartley
and
Johnson.”

I said, “Aren't things a bit more complicated now? Hartley knows Alisha's directly involved.” I turned to her and said, “Will he remember you as Lynne's friend?”

“Oh, he will. You know me. As I told you, I wasn't backward in coming forward. He knows I didn't approve of him.”

I said, “Look, you've done your bit, Alisha. Leave this to Roger and me now.”

She glared at me. “Absolutely not! I've come this far. Lynne meant a lot to me too, you know. I don't care about myself. You're not getting rid of me that easily. Tell us your ideas, Roger.”

*

We left RP's office at midnight. I didn't feel like going straight home. I persuaded Alisha to stop off at a bustling late night bar in Piccadilly.

Alisha stressed what I'd meant to Lynne.

“You know, I don't think I'd ever seen her happier than when you two got married. She loved you so much. Proud of you too; you'd been through loads of stuff together.”

“I know, I know. And I loved her too. But I just can't get out of my mind Hartley's claim to being Emily's father.” She leant forward and held my hand.

“Yes, but you were there at her birth. And you brought Emily up from the start. You saw her every day of her short life. You were a
real
father to her. Hartley played no part in that whatsoever, even if his claim is true, which I don't believe, incidentally.”

“Yeah, you're right, I suppose.” My eyes welled up. I fought to contain my tears. I presumed I'd always feel like this whenever I thought of Emily.

“I'm missing them terribly…”

We both fell silent for a few moments, the vacuum filled by the sounds of bubbly conversations competing with ubiquitous background music.

Alisha placed her face closer to mine, ensuring I could hear her.

“Lynne always told me how kind you were, not just to her but other people. Something she didn't expect from a high-powered businessman.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, didn't you once pay for an airplane ticket for a stranger? A waitress you'd only just met who needed to visit the dying grandfather who'd brought her up. Where was it… Spain?”

“Yes, but…”

“And she told me you once bought a specially adapted van for a badly disabled guy so that his carer could drive him around. He hadn't left home for three years.”

“Stop it. You're embarrassing me. That's all Lynne's influence.”

“Well, she loved you for it.”

I changed the subject.

“What do you think of Roger's ideas?”

“Very good. Total professional, isn't he? We're doing the decent thing, James. Bloody legal system's kaput. This is the only way to get things sorted.”

She took a sip of her wine and said, “I'll text Johnson and arrange to meet up. I'll let you know how I get on.”

“Please be careful, Alisha. If Greenland's told Johnson about you ‘borrowing' his mobile, you're in big trouble.”

In the darkness of the early hours of the next morning, sitting at home clutching a can of beer, I analysed Greenland's information.

The thought of Hartley being Lynne's lover before I came on the scene and the repellent claim that he was Emily's father made me physically sick. I didn't know which was worse – the thought of Lynne fucking him, or Emily being the result. Either notion made me want to retch.

Other thoughts troubled me. Did Nick Burrows know about Lynne's affair with Hartley? It's possible that Georgie may have let something slip. Nick would have been incandescent with rage, adding impetus to Georgie's abduction.

And I couldn't understand why Lynne, my beautiful Lynne, who could have had anybody she wanted, put up with such arseholes as Burrows and Hartley. They destroyed her.

She'd told me she always felt the need for a man in her life – any man. Having a father and stepfather fail her when she was so young led to her insecurity and lack of self-worth.

We discussed it many times. It was a big issue for her, but I always told her my role in her life was to compensate for them.

I fantasised about how our lives would have turned out if I'd met her first. We'd have brought out the best in each other. We'd have been a perfect match.

However, the trouble with fantasies is that they don't last. Inevitably, reality kicks in, and when it did, I became inconsolable.

Sometimes I went into our guest room, took the mattress off the bed and placed it against the wall. I'd spend an hour punching away in manic fury at my impromptu punch bag, shouting out obscenities at the top of my voice. Good job I lived in a detached house.

My biceps ached afterwards. I could hardly lift a glass of wine.

*

We spent most of the next afternoon and evening in RP's office tossing ideas about. He loved scribbling notes, drawing diagrams and sometimes doodling whilst considering the merits of each idea. His style replicated the deliberations I made in acquiring new businesses.

Given our previous experience of the justice system, we wanted to make certain Johnson and Hartley would pay for what they did.

We eventually settled on a plan to ensure that Hartley couldn't possibly escape the full force of the law. It had three key goals: disposing of Johnson, setting up Hartley as the killer and providing overwhelming proof that he'd arranged the arson attack.

I didn't care about the money he'd embezzled from me. But I cared deeply about taking revenge for the loss of my family.

RP questioned me directly. “Are you sure you're up for this?”

“Yes, I am. I
need
to be more involved, you know that. I'll go bloody insane if I don't
do
something.”

“OK, I understand. But I'd be happier with the plan if you worked closely with one of my contractors. He's worked for me before. He knows his way around and he's excellent at what he does. If you're happy with that, I'll brief him separately. It's not a good idea for you to know all the details, in case something goes wrong. Is that OK?”

“That's fine.”

We finally called it a day at around 10.30pm. We'd checked and rechecked the details of the plan and decided to sleep on it.We agreed to confer the next day to see if we'd had second thoughts or come up with any modifications.

Next day, I called him to confirm that, after speaking with Alisha, we were both up for the plan as it stood.

“Good,” he said. “I'll set the ball rolling. We don't have a lot of time. I'm worried something might happen to Alisha. We're dealing with dangerous men. I'll call you back later with the details.”

*

We'd covered every angle to the
n
th degree and with military precision. I had complete confidence in the plan. I'd built my business empire on similar principles.

We needed to convince Johnson that Hartley wanted to meet to hand over the cash Johnson had demanded. I called in on Greenland again and asked for one more small ‘favour', reminding him of the serious shit he was in.

I told him to text Johnson saying Hartley wanted to meet up. The venue, chosen by RP, was a disused railway arch, formerly used for car repairs in St James's Road, close to Southwark Park.

He sent it whilst I watched. He couldn't have been more helpful. The threat of being charged as an accessory to murder spooked him.

Alisha told me later that Johnson fired up with excitement when he received the text.

“He truly believes he's enticed Hartley into meeting his demands. He's unbelievably smug about it.”

“Great,” I said. “That's it, Alisha. You don't have to see Johnson again. It's my call now. I can't thank you enough for what you've done.” I hugged her tightly.

*

It hadn't rained for two months and the last few days had been humid, almost tropical. As I left home to meet RP's ‘contractor' at a busy pub,
The Chalk and Cheese,
less than half a mile away from the meeting place, the heavens opened after an extended period of thunder and lightning.

The ‘contractor', a British Afro-Caribbean, aged around thirty-five, well built, over six feet tall and with a day or two's stubble on his face emphasising his blackness, made himself known. His expressionless eyes matched the clothes he wore; a black beanie hat, dark trousers and a black bomber jacket. I wouldn't have enjoyed meeting him in a dark alleyway.

He spoke few words. He asked me to call him ‘Bruno'. After a drink, we walked the short distance to the converted railway arches, holding up our collars against the driving rain. The archway building, covered in graffiti and with a dilapidated ‘To Let' sign hanging loosely from the wall, had clearly been on the market for a while. In the otherwise empty car park, a single car was parked out of sight of the main road and close to the building.

Arriving a good half-hour before the appointed time of 11.30pm, Bruno made for the car, a 1997 maroon Toyota Avensis, before going to the archway door. He fumbled inside his coat pocket for the keys and opened the driver's door, reached in and produced a large black holdall.

Heading for the archway entrance, he produced another key and unlocked one of the doors. From his familiarity of the layout, I guessed he'd used this venue before. I asked Bruno about the possibility of CCTV cameras covering the arches.

He spoke with only a hint of a Caribbean accent – more Essex than Barbados. “Don't worry 'bout that. They've been dealt with.”

The building smelled of engine oil and was windowless except for two skylights above the double doors. Bruno reached inside his holdall and retrieved two heavy-duty torches, which he switched on and placed on a workbench. The beams shone upwards, rebounding around the arch, producing a halo effect. Several workbenches, a desk and four chairs sat on the painted concrete floor.

Occasionally, the building rumbled with the sound of trains passing over the arches.

Bruno opened his holdall again and handed me a plastic bag containing a pair of white paper overalls, complete with a hood, like the ones I'd seen forensic teams wearing at crime scenes on TV.

“Take off your jacket and trousers. Put these on,” he said. When I'd done so, he handed me a dark blue jacket, a pair of grey trousers and a blue baseball cap, which he also took from his holdall. He motioned for me put my clothes in the plastic bag and to put the replacement clothes on over the overalls. They were a tight fit. I struggled, but managed it with difficulty.

He handed me a pair of Nike trainers and socks. I swapped them with my shoes. Fortunately, they were at least two sizes larger. He put my shoes into the bag containing my jacket and trousers.

Finally, he produced two pairs of latex gloves from his coat pocket. Throwing one pair at me he said, “Put these on and sit behind the table.” He tugged the other pair onto his hands.

After ten minutes, which felt like an eternity, we heard loud rapping at the door.

Bruno opened the door but didn't reveal himself, staying behind it. Johnson, wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt splattered with rain, came inside and peered through the gloom. As he spotted me through the torchlight, sitting facing him, his thin reedy voice, which I recognised from his court appearance, rang out.

“'Artley… is that you? You sure you're 'Artley? Who the fuck
are
you?”

Bruno appeared quickly behind him and, taking Johnson by surprise, expertly kneed him in the back of his legs, forcibly driving his face down into the concrete floor.

Within seconds, he had Johnson's hands cuffed behind him and had frog-marched him to one of the chairs facing me, yelling at him to sit down.

Johnson's facial expression revealed terror. He'd not expected this.

“What the fuck's going on? Where's 'Artley? 'E's supposed to do a deal wiv' me. Who are you?”

I'd rehearsed being face-to-face with the killer of my family more times than I cared to remember.

Now that time had come.

Bruno stood back in the shadows as I let my rage take over. I visualised Johnson pouring petrol through the letterbox of our cottage in Lymington and setting light to it whilst Lynne, Georgie and Emily lay sleeping upstairs.

Flashbacks of the funeral and the coffins, especially the tiny one bearing Emily being carried down the aisle of the crematorium, exploded into my mind.

I yelled at Johnson, “What kind of sick bastard are you? How could you have possibly set fire to a house with a young family sleeping in it?”

He'd gathered his composure and his cocky expression wound me up.

“Fuck off!” he shouted.

I stood up, pushed the table to one side and punched him hard in the stomach and, as he yelped and bent forward, I followed up with a hard bony fist on the side of his jaw. He spat out bloody phlegm onto the floor. I hit him again, this time with my other fist on the other side of his face. Fragments of an equally bloody tooth ricocheted off the rock-solid floor.

“Not so cocky now, are you, you sack of shit!”

I hit him a few more times around his head, which rolled from side to side with each blow like a ventriloquist's dummy.

Then I stopped.

I slumped down in my chair, exhausted by my efforts. Johnson sat opposite, hunched over, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. He started whining.

“It wasn't just me! 'Artley's the bloke you really want. Lemme go!” I nodded to Bruno to take over. He'd watched the proceedings, the merest hint of a smile creasing his face. Unseen by Johnson, he produced a brown bottle of clear liquid and a white cloth from his pocket. He undid the bottle and shook out its contents.

He came at Johnson from behind, put an arm around his neck, wrenching his head backwards, and with his other hand holding the cloth, he placed it over Johnson's nose and mouth. He held it in position whilst Johnson's mangled face registered first surprise, then fear as he slumped unconscious, almost falling off his chair.

Another train rumbled overhead and the walls of the archway quivered.

Bruno unlocked the handcuffs holding Johnson, turned off the torches, and threw them into his holdall. In the darkness, we hauled Johnson to the door.

Once outside, Bruno locked up and threw me the keys to the railway arch door as we dragged Johnson to the Toyota Avensis on the far side of the car park. He opened the boot, we fed Johnson in and slammed it shut.

We threw our bags on the back seat and Bruno pressed the ignition keys into my hand. He sat low down into the rear passenger seat as I got into the driver's seat.

I'd memorised the route we'd previously decided to take at our meeting with RP. He designed it so that road traffic CCTV cameras could pick us up.

I drove the one and three-quarter miles to Mill Street, close to Butlers Wharf, and turned right into Bermondsey Wall West, parallel with the River Thames. I parked and turned off the lights. We sat there for a short while to ensure no one had ventured out for a late night walk along the Embankment.

The rain had subsided slightly but the wind had picked up, whistling around the warehouses facing directly onto the river.

We both got out of the car. Bruno opened the boot and taped Johnson's hands together behind his back, whilst he remained unconscious. Between us, we hauled him onto his feet.

Bruno took a black, rusty anchor from the boot. It must have weighed around five kilos. He quickly tied it around Johnson's waist as I held him. Despite this weight attached, we were easily able to lift him over the four-foot wall and drop him into the murky Thames.

Due to the high tide, he splashed into the water quickly. It was over in less than two minutes.

I glanced over to my left and saw Tower Bridge lit up like a Christmas tree, its reflection shimmering in the water. Adrenaline rushed through my body. Johnson had forfeited his right to life for what he did. I'd dealt with one worthless lowlife.

I couldn't wait to tackle the next.

*

I took the driver's seat and Bruno tucked down out of sight in the rear passenger seats again. This time, I stuck to back streets favoured by cab drivers, where there were fewer CCTV cameras. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at a two-storey block of flats in Percival Street in Clerkenwell, north of the Thames.

We parked in a residents' parking place with poor street lighting. Almost before the wheels had stopped turning, Bruno grabbed his holdall, silently nodded to me, got out of the nearside rear passenger door, and swiftly made off.

I never saw him again.

Killing the engine, I picked up the bag with my clothes and shoes in it and locked the car. I crossed the road and made my way to flat number 14 on the first floor. I opened the door with a key on the same ring as the car keys.

Still wearing the latex gloves, I stumbled into the entrance in the darkness and made my way to the bedroom. Hartley lay on top of the bed out for the count, gently snoring, his eyes closed and his jaw slack.