Blazing Obsession (2 page)

“What did cause it then?”

“We believe someone started it deliberately.”

“What? That's ridiculous! Why would anybody want to do that?”

“That's what we're trying to find out. Sniffer dogs confirmed the presence of petrol, which had been poured through the front door letterbox and set on fire. The flames travelled quickly up the adjacent stairs. The occupants would have stood no chance.”

“That's impossible! Who'd want to destroy my family? And why?”

“These are the questions we want to ask you, Mr Hamilton. First, can you explain where you were on the evening of the fire?”

Expecting a more sympathetic approach, this question, thrust at me like a dagger, unnerved me. The detective sergeant poised his biro over his notebook expectantly.

“Well… at home.”

“Can anybody vouch for that fact?”

“No… no… not really. I worked late, picked up a Chinese takeaway on the way home. Called my wife to make sure they'd got to the cottage safely and then went to bed about 10.30.”

“And why didn't you go down to the cottage with them?”

“I had an important business meeting early the next morning. As I told your uniformed guys, I was about to leave for Lymington when they came to my office and broke the news.”

“I see. Do you normally go down separately?”

“Well, actually, no. This is the first time it's happened. Usually I drive down with my family on a Thursday evening and we drive back together on Sunday.”

“So this is the first time your family slept at the cottage without you being present?”

His accusative tone caused blood to rush to my head.

“What are you implying?”

He remained silent and stared at me.

I snapped, “Don't be bloody ridiculous!”

“Mr Hamilton, we're ruling nothing out at this stage. We're treating this as a possible murder case. Would you mind if we carried out a search of your home? You can agree voluntarily or I could get a warrant.”

I thought if I'd said I was anything less than being happy to have them search my home, they'd handcuff me and take me in for further questioning.

I stood up, threw my arms in the air and said, “Fine, go ahead.”

“We'd like to take away any computers belonging to you and your wife. Our technical team will look at them; see if they can find out any info to help us discover the perpetrator.”

“Take whatever you like. What else are you doing to find the person who did this?”

“We've got several scenes of crime officers down at Lymington looking for DNA evidence or any other clues.”

“And how long will it take?”

“It's a major priority. We also have DCs from the Major Crime Team interviewing possible witnesses. If there's any more news I can release to you, I'll let you know as soon as I can.”

As they both got up to commence their search, he turned to me and said, “There's just one more question I'd like to ask you. Is there anybody you know who'd be motivated enough to carry out this arson attack?”

I didn't need to think too deeply.

There could only be one candidate… but he was in jail.

I first met Lynne in September 1995. She worked as a sales manager in a Mercedes dealership I'd bought to add to my burgeoning group of prestige car dealerships, including BMW, Jaguar and Porsche. With turnover now approaching £200 million, I felt that at last I'd joined the big boys' table.

Bill Rogers, the general manager we'd inherited, introduced us.

As we shook hands, her smoky-blue eyes locked onto mine. I couldn't bring myself to look away first. A tremor passed through my body.

Meticulously applied make-up enhanced her exquisite chiselled features. A smile I'd defy anyone to resist returning and an immaculate blonde bob completed her allure.

She wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

“Since we found out about the takeover, I've looked forward to meeting you. I have loads of ideas. Can I go through them now?”

The intensity of the energy transmitting itself across the desk left me reeling. Some of the ideas were great, too. We spent over an hour discussing them.

I spent the rest of the day talking to the other managers. From previous acquisitions, I'd learned the importance of getting to know them well early on and discussing how we operated. Some managers wouldn't cope so we'd replace them. But I prided myself on always doing it compassionately and with a generous payoff.

However, my first impressions of the other managers were good. One in particular impressed me.

John Hartley, manager of the leasing department, didn't lack confidence or charm.

“Such a pleasure to meet you. Heard a lot of good things about your company,” he said, squeezing my hand tightly as his tanned faced broke into a smile, revealing a perfect set of teeth.

Aged forty-five, he stood over six-foot tall, powerfully built with a mop of silver-grey hair, which he occasionally swept back with a manicured hand. He oozed charisma.

“You know, I'm really excited about joining your group. There's so much more I could achieve with the right backing.”

The deep timbre of his voice exuded a belief in himself I'd not encountered before. He could have worked on TV voice-overs or read the BBC news.

I'd been looking for someone to expand our leasing division across the rest of the group of dealerships. Within the week, I'd appointed him to head up this operation reporting to Peter, my business partner, with a wide-ranging brief to develop this side of our business. We set him challenging targets.

“Can't wait to get started,” he'd said, smiling broadly. “I'm looking forward to smashing these targets. I usually do.” A combination of
that
voice and
that
smile led me to believe he would.

Before leaving the dealership, I spoke to Bill Rogers again.

“Tell me more about Lynne. She appears too good to be true.”

Leaning back in his red leather chair, he said, “Ah, Lynne. I thought you'd be impressed. Most people are. Unusual to have a woman heading up a sales team in the car trade, isn't it?”

“It's a first for me. Tell me more about her background?”

“Well, I have to say she's doing a great job here, despite her personal problems. She went through a messy divorce a couple of years ago.”

“Really?”

“The guy she married turned out to be a complete shit; used to knock her about a bit. Been shagging anything in sight, too. Once she found out, she finally divorced him. The problem is he's never accepted the marriage is over.”

“Why? What's he been doing?”

“Oh, you know, keeps harassing her, roughing her up, making her life hell. I think it's still an issue.”

I couldn't understand why a stunningly beautiful woman would put up with such a prick.

She'd told me she was thirty-two, had an eight-year-old son and lived a few minutes away from me in Limehouse. I could possibly see her apartment block from my penthouse close to West India Quay at Canary Wharf.

Her interests and hobbies included jogging and going to the gym, something we had in common, although I hadn't done much of either for months due to working on the acquisition. My trousers now fitted far too snugly around my waist. I promised myself I'd do something about it.

Next day, suitably motivated, I decided to join the gym close by at Westferry Circus. I spent at least an hour there most evenings for a fortnight working hard to get back in shape.

I don't believe in fate; my father always taught me to take responsibility for my own destiny, something I practised throughout my life.

But one evening at the gym, I spotted Lynne on a running machine. My heart lurched – I felt like a teenager again.

Her sleek, effortless running style glided over the treadmill. It wouldn't have surprised me to see her on the front page of the marketing leaflets the gym used.

A couple of guys glancing in her direction whispered something to each other, obviously discussing what they'd like to do to her. I felt like punching their heads in.

Fortunately, a treadmill became vacant next to hers. I pretended not to notice her as I set it up, hoping she'd see me first. She didn't. She watched the TV screen showing the latest news.

She almost lost her stride when I said, “It's Lynne, isn't it?”

She did a double take before realising who I was.

Slowing down the treadmill, she said, “Hi. What a surprise. How long have you been a member?”

“Just joined. Haven't done much lately. Been too busy building my ‘empire'.” I used the two fingers on both hands to indicate quote marks and smiled.

I added, “Can we have a chat later?”

“Sure. See you in the cafe in about an hour.”

She pressed the speed button on the treadmill. I nodded, delighted I'd reached base camp.

She entered the cafe wearing her trademark, stunning smile.

As I moved the chair back for her to sit, I breathed in the fresh, clean, soapy smell of someone who's just showered, which I always found slightly erotic.

I asked how she got on with Bill, her boss.

“Oh, Bill's great. Without him, I don't think I could have managed to run the sales department. He's been like a father to me. Not that I'd know
exactly
what a father should be like.”

“What do you mean?”

She took a long sip from her glass.

“Oh, it's too long a story. Maybe I'll tell you one day.”

I wanted to learn more, but it didn't seem the right time to pursue it. I changed the subject.

“How's your little boy?”

“Georgie? He's great! We've recently moved to a flat in Limehouse. He's quite excited.”

“It's just you and Georgie living there then, is it?”

“Yes. My mum lives close by. Looks after Georgie after school when I'm at work. Actually, I can't stay long. Mum's minding him now. I always like to be home before Georgie goes to bed.”

Looking at her watch, she said, “I'm late already.”

She stood and slung her gym bag over her shoulder.

“Well… can we have a chat next week… after working-out?”

As she reached the door, she turned, smiled, shrugged her shoulders and said, “Sure.” Little flirt, I thought.

*

We met every Tuesday night after our workouts for the next three weeks. In between laughing at my mildly funny jokes, we shared our life stories.

She wanted to know how I spent most of my time.

“Me? I spend every waking hour building up my business. It's become an obsession, I suppose.”

“And what about your home life?”

“Doesn't exist at the moment. Since my divorce three years ago, I've kept my head down. Concentrated on the business.”

“How long were you married?”

“Five years.”

“So, are you enjoying single life?”

“It's OK.”

“You must have plenty of girlfriends, good-looking guy like you?” She gave me
that
smile again.

“Oh, yes… hundreds! I've had my moments, but to tell the truth, I've never understood women. Doing business deals are much easier… and less complicated in my experience.” She pulled a face in disbelief.

I wanted to hear more about her background. “OK, it's your turn now.”

She placed her coffee cup on the table and took a breath.

“Well… my mum and dad divorced when I was three. He's never been in touch.”

She sighed. “My mum remarried, but my stepfather wasn't much better. He treated us both badly and disappeared off the scene when I turned eight.”

“Oh, that's not good,” I said. I'd already told her my parents loved each other deeply and I was their golden boy. I remember my childhood with great affection.

“In any case, I got married, but divorced two-and-a-half years ago. And, as you know I've got Georgie.” Her face lit up again at the mention of his name.

“I expect your mum's proud of him?”

“Are you kidding? He's Grandma's only topic of conversation and the centre of her universe. She's worse than I am. She thinks he'll be running the country when he's old enough.”

Stirring her coffee absent-mindedly, she continued.

“There's only one problem. There's no man in his life. Mum says he needs a role model. His father's a complete waste of space.”

“Why? What's the problem?”

At last, I thought.

But her face distorted to a deep frown again. “To be honest, he's causing us a few problems. I'd rather not talk about it.”

“That's OK.”

Having parked the ex-husband issue, we chatted away again like old friends – it felt intoxicating and flirtatious. We discovered we had a great deal in common: cars, movies, good food, golf and travelling. She even knew something about my football team, Arsenal.

A couple of times, we completed each other's sentences, resulting in Lynne having a fit of the giggles.

How I loved that sound.

*

Pat had cajoled me into holding a party for my fortieth birthday. I'd have been happy to let it drift by; I didn't want to be reminded of middle age just yet. She'd invited all the general managers of the dealerships and my golfing buddies from my address book.

“Is there anyone
special
you'd like to invite?” I knew Pat implied I might have a secret lover. She'd always been trying to set me up with a long-term partner after my marriage broke up. I'd loved to have told her about Lynne, but let it pass. It was far too early.

Pat arranged a dinner at
Bertorelli's
in the West End, my favourite restaurant, for over a hundred guests.

Two days before my party bash, she said, “Bad news, I'm afraid. Bill Rogers can't make it. His mother's had a stroke. He's spending time with her in a care home in Brighton.”

“Shame, I like Bill.”

“This means there's no one going to be there from your latest acquisition. Can you think of anyone else who could take their place?”

“Actually, there is someone, the sales manager.” I couldn't stop the words tumbling from my mouth.

“Good. What's his name?”

“
His
name is Lynne Burrows.” I waited for her reaction.

“Oh, Lynne. OK, I'll invite her and her husband. Give me the details.”

“It'll be just Lynne. She's divorced.”

“Oh. Interesting,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, I can easily adjust the table plan. I'll send her an invite.”

My nerve-ends tingled with the thought of Lynne sharing my fortieth birthday with my friends.

It proved to be a life-changing event.

On the big day, Pat pointedly said, “Now don't forget, I don't want you there before 7.30pm. There's nothing for you to do but turn up.”

“God, you sound like my mother. I'm now approaching forty, you know, in case you hadn't noticed. I promise I'll be there at 7.35pm precisely.”

Pat had arranged a taxi to take me to the restaurant and as I entered the private function room on the first floor, she thrust a glass of bubbly in my hand and showed me the table plan. She'd placed Lynne next to me. “Is that OK with you?” she said. “I can quickly change it if you're unhappy.”

“Are you mischief-making again, Pat?” I feigned an annoyed expression. “Actually, it's perfect.”

I caught sight of Lynne talking animatedly to one of the dealership managers, a glass of bubbly in one hand. She looked stunning in a scarlet strapless dress. I found it difficult to stare anywhere else.

We savoured exceptional Italian cuisine washed down with a full-bodied Tuscan
Brunello di Montalcino
. The chattering sound level ramped up several notches. Lynne and I were no exception. There wasn't a moment's hesitation in our conversation and a lot of laughter as we flirted outrageously. Several guests glanced in our direction and smiled.

After dinner, Tom Riley, my long-time golfing partner, made a witty speech and presented me with a limited edition print of a 1953 Jaguar XF120 at Le Mans. I knew just the place for it in my apartment.

Despite good-natured heckling, I responded, thanking the guests for sharing my birthday. Then the lights dimmed and a huge cake with forty candles arrived on the table, accompanied by a chorus of
Happy Birthday.
Everybody clapped and cheered as I pretended to run out of breath blowing them out.

As I sat down, Lynne said, “Well, that went down well. I didn't know I was sitting next to
Mr Popular!”

“I didn't know myself until now.”

The music started and I introduced her to Pat before I mingled with the other guests.

The DJ played great disco hits of the '80s and within a matter of minutes the dance floor heaved with a mass of bodies frantically gyrating under a dramatic light show.

Towards the end of the evening, the DJ played slower schmaltzy records. I sought out Lynne and said, “Fancy a dance?”

“Well, as it's your birthday and you're the boss, I don't suppose I can refuse, can I?”