Deadly Obsession (33 page)

A
my opened
her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her hotel room. She knew every inch of it off by heart. It was all becoming far too familiar to her. She longed for her own bedroom again, the warm comfort of her own sheets and pillows and the chance to pick something to wear from a hanger in a wardrobe as opposed to out of a suitcase. It surprised her to realise just how much she was missing her London home. But that would have to wait until she'd found Riley and discovered just who she had cremated.

When she'd moved to London after Riley's death it had been out of necessity. Tommy and Jemima, may they rest in miserable peace, had fleeced her out of nearly all of her assets and left her with no more than the house to sell. With the minimal money she'd gained from the sale, she had quit Manchester and headed to London. It may not have been the perfect bolthole financially, but it was the perfect sized bolthole. Amy saw London as somewhere for her to get lost, to disappear from view and try and piece together the fragments of her tattered life.

But if being back in Manchester had taught Amy one thing about herself it was that she had no real desire to return to the city full-time. There were too many ghosts at every turn.

Running her hands through her hair and yawning, Amy checked the time on her watch. She'd been asleep for the best part of thirteen hours. It didn't surprise her. After she and Dolly had collected their money, she'd spent most of the afternoon with Jimmy at the hospital, watching him regain consciousness and finally able to show him the cash he'd been promised.

She prayed as she looked at the scars and vivid collection of bruises across his face and body, hoping that they would disappear in the not too distant future. The bruise on her own cheek was now almost gone. Jimmy's would surely follow suit. She hadn't left his side until early evening when he'd finally drifted back into a recuperative slumber.

She'd caught a cab back to the hotel and raced across Reception attempting to beat the closing doors of the lift. As far as she was concerned, the sooner she was in bed the better. She just slipped through them before they shut behind her. Within five minutes she was washed, undressed and enveloping herself in a deep, deep sleep.

Her throat felt dry and coarse, as if coated in sandpaper. She needed a drink. Grabbing a glass from the bedside table she stood up and walked towards the bathroom. As she filled the glass at the sink she stared at her own reflection. Her features looked crumpled and squashed, her eyes veined with fatigue.

She glugged back the water and filled the glass back up, this time dipping her fingers into the cold water and running them across her face, attempting to wake herself up. ‘God, Amy, you look wrecked, some of that money is definitely being spent on pampering, girl. I think I need to get myself back to one of those spas,' she said to her own face, pinching her cheeks in an attempt to resuscitate some sort of colour back into them.

Her mind cast back to her last pampering session in Germany with Laura. Even though it wasn't that long into the past, it felt like a lost other lifetime looking back now.

All thoughts of massage and seaweed wraps disappeared as a knock on her bedroom door reached her ears. She wasn't expecting anyone and immediately felt on guard. Since Grant had disappeared back to London there was nobody to knock on her door. The thought of it made Amy feel alone and vulnerable. She hesitated a few moments, uncertain what to do.

Composing herself, Amy left the bathroom, moved to the door and put her eye to the peephole hoping to see who was on the other side. Nobody was visible. Her heart skipped a beat, afraid of the sudden mystery. Panic gripped her.

What if it was Adam?
Maybe he'd found out that she'd grassed him up to Jarrett. Maybe Jarrett was back with another threat of violence, or maybe Riley was finally ready to meet her face to face. She was still none the wiser about who had tried to kill him. Maybe she'd never know. Amy's mind raced at the possibilities.

‘Who is it?' she asked. No reply.

Amy gripped the door knob, ready to twist it open, and took a sharp intake of breath. She couldn't live in constant fear every time she heard an unexpected knock. She wouldn't allow herself to. She'd faced criminals and seen people die, a mysterious knocking was not going to tip her over the edge. Her life had changed beyond all recognition.

As Amy went to open the door she spied an envelope on the floor. Whoever had knocked at the door had obviously slipped it underneath. She was sure it hadn't been there before she'd gone into the bathroom.

A frisson of dread marched across her skin. The stationery was the same and the handwriting was beyond doubt. It was from Riley. He had delivered another letter. Without a moment's thought, Amy yanked at the door handle and twisted it open. Nothing. She took a step forward into the corridor and looked in all directions. There was no-one to be seen. Whoever had delivered the note had gone.

Stooping to pick up the note, Amy rushed back into her room and ran to the telephone on the bedside table. She pressed zero for the Reception desk. If a mystery stranger had just been upstairs with a note for her then maybe they could be spotted trying to leave the hotel.

It picked up after two rings.

‘Hello, this is Amy Hart, Room 414. Has somebody just been up to my room to deliver a note? I was wondering if you could tell me who it was.'

The voice at the other end was female. ‘That's easy, Miss Hart. It was me.' Her tone was clipped and a touch exasperated. ‘When you didn't answer I just slipped it under the door. I meant to give it to you yesterday when it was delivered but we haven't seen much of you so I thought I'd bring it up.'

‘Did you see who delivered it? A man, a woman, what did they look like? What time? Somebody must have seen them ... I need to know.'

‘Well, I'm afraid you can't.' The receptionist could sense Amy's desperation and to her it was more than peppered with rudeness. ‘It was me who took it from them. Funny thing is they were so wrapped up in their clothes I couldn't really tell you who it was, man, woman or Yeti. Will you be needing anything else, Miss Hart?' The receptionist pushed her glasses up her nose, impatient to end the call.

‘No ... er, that's all,' Amy hung up.

The receptionist muttered ‘rude cow' under her breath and replaced the phone back in its cradle. If customers couldn't be bothered to answer their doors then it was hardly her fault, was it? She turned back to the line of customers forming in front of her and painted on another smile.

In her room, Amy began to open the envelope ...

‘
F
eed the world
, let them know it's Christmas time ...'

If Genevieve had heard the song once, she'd heard it a thousand times already. How many versions had there been now? Four, five, she'd lost count. But sure enough, you could listen to any radio station over the Christmas period from now until the end of time and it would be a festive, bauble-decked mass of Band Aid, Mariah Carey, Slade, Wizzard and The Pogues.

But as she cradled little Emily in her arms, she turned up the volume on the radio and bounced her arms to the rhythm of the song. It was as ridiculously festive and as incredibly catchy as ever and was definitely putting her in the mood for Christmas. Only a few days and it would be upon them.

This year she would try and spend it differently. Previous ones had been passed in a blur of industry parties – schmoozing buyers, press and fashion houses with a bottomless supply of Moët & Chandon.

Christmas was all about giving in the fashion world and it had always been a time when Genevieve had been sure to try and impress those around her, sowing the seeds for the working deals of the future with gifts. But gold, frankincense and myrrh were replaced by the fashion world's equivalent of designer accessories, brand names and booze.

But this year there had been none of that. Genevieve's personal life had taken over. Work, for once, had been pushed to the back of her very fashionable wardrobe.

Emily's features were becoming more and more strikingly beautiful with every month. She was stunning. But every time Genevieve looked at her daughter she was reminded of Riley.

The year had started with Genevieve trying desperately to winkle-pick some semblance of child support from him, her attempts sometimes hostile, sometimes met with threats, and always fruitless. Then Riley had been 'killed', leaving Genevieve to contemplate the fact that her daughter would never see her real father. For over six months she had had to live with that. But then Amy had come back to Manchester and things had changed. Her life and Emily's had suddenly experienced a state of inversion. Riley wasn't dead. And that meant money for his daughter. There was nothing to hide and everything to gain. Amy knew the truth.

This Christmas would be different. Riley would be made to pay. Genevieve would make sure of that. And after everything that Amy had been put through, she was certain that Riley's wife wouldn't want to know him anymore. A woman, even one as weak as Amy, would never forgive all that. And maybe, just maybe, there was a slim chance that that would leave the door open for Riley's love affair with Genevieve to re-blossom.

All Genevieve needed was for Amy to be out of the way. Preferably for good. If Riley was back, then didn't little Emily deserve a chance of really getting to know her father and to be part of a proper family?

As the final rousing choruses of ‘Do They Know It's Christmas?' faded from the radio, Genevieve looked into her daughter's eyes. They were a carbon copy of Riley's. ‘Would you like your daddy back and that nasty Amy lady out of the way?' cooed Genevieve. ‘Well, maybe Santa Claus has listened to mummy's wishes, little Emily. Wouldn't that be the perfect Christmas?'

C
aitlyn Rich's Christmas
would be far from perfect.

She was more distant from Adam than ever before and that was saying something. They had not been singing from the same carol sheet for years if she was honest, and if Lily's death had taught her one thing it was that life was too short to settle for second best. Despite being supposedly united in grief by the death of their only daughter, Caitlyn knew what she had to do, and the thought of her Jona – because that was how she was thinking of the cosmetic surgeon these days, as hers – made the decision so much easier.

Caitlyn knew that she would never be able to hold her own baby girl in her arms again. Somebody had made sure of that when they'd wrapped an earphone cord around her neck and pulled it tight. In the same way that somebody had squeezed the last drops of life from Lily's body, life had seemingly squeezed the last drops of joy from Caitlyn's marriage to Adam. Not that there were really any to squeeze. It was all so clear now. She'd only stayed with Adam for the longest time because of Lily. The money was beneficial, but Jona's income was probably greater than Adam's, and certainly much more honest, and again the harsh reality of Lily's death had taught the frivolous Caitlyn that money could not buy happiness. She doubted if she'd ever be fully happy again. Not without her Lily. No amount of mirrored statues, New York fashions and age-defying cosmetic procedures could ever bring her back.

It was par for the course for marriage to a mobster. A felon would always be more married to his job and his underhand lifestyle than he would to his wife. She'd seen it happen with so many of her friends. Isn't that what had happened with poor Jemima Hearn? Once the novelty of the blinding dazzle of riches beyond your wildest dreams and endless security boxes full of jewellery wore off, then life suddenly became as dull and as lifeless as a bag of uncut diamonds. And just as rough. Life with a con bored her. You were never their equal, you were just their other half. Now she needed a relationship that was fifty-fifty and had satisfaction that reached further than the clasp on her Michael Kors purse, and that meant being with Jona, being with somebody who made her feel as happy as she could possibly be given what life had dealt her of late.

Pulling up outside the Rich family home in her car, Caitlyn switched off the engine and lifted the urn containing Lily's remains from the passenger seat. ‘My broken Lily, welcome home, my poor fallen angel.' Caitlyn was aware that her daughter had been far from a saint when she was alive.

Caitlyn clutched the urn to her chest and walked to her front door. She looked around at the house as she did so, taking in every inch of the brickwork. It stirred no emotion inside her.

Opening the door, she called to her husband inside. She was greeted by silence. The only movement came from the gentle swaying of a few Christmas baubles, blown by the winter's wind, on a small festive tree near the front door. Doubtless the maid had erected it. Caitlyn hadn't been back to the house since shortly after Lily's funeral, preferring to do her grieving with Jona in London. Pretty as the tree was, Caitlyn had nothing to celebrate.

‘Your father's not home.' Caitlyn was speaking to the urn. ‘And neither I am, Lily, frankly neither am I.' She looked around at the statues she'd placed in the entrance, the huge mirrored David and the swan she had commissioned. It still didn't look right if she was honest. She didn't care. Now that Lily was dead, she didn't care about anything in the house anymore. And she didn't care if Adam never walked through the front door again.

D
olly Townsend was looking forward
to Christmas. More so than ever before. She couldn't open the doors on her advent calendar quick enough. The sooner she could open the presents she'd treated herself to the better. She had money to burn and it was burning brighter than a cathedral full of candles on Christmas Eve.

Dolly had shopped constantly since she'd taken Jarrett's money. Any images that had threatened to linger in her thoughts of dead carcasses, Jimmy's battered body or the potential of what might happen to Adam Rich had been instantly gift-wrapped and disposed of courtesy of her own festive excitement. Dolly may have stared into the faces of hardened outlaws and lifeless corpses over the last few days but it was certainly worth it now that she could stare into the countless faces of the Queen on each and every banknote she possessed.

This would be her last Christmas in this apartment, maybe in Manchester. By Christmas next year she'd have a much bigger place, a huge garden out the back with nodding, illuminated mechanical reindeer across the lawn. Hell, what was she saying, she'd buy a real reindeer and pay a handsome young man to look after it for her. From now on Dolly's life would be all about Santa emptying his sack and making her life complete with all of the lovely gifts she could afford to buy herself, and not having to rely on scum like Adam Rich emptying the sack between his legs into her in order to earn enough money to buy a decent turkey.

Dolly flicked on the TV and sat down on her sofa with a huge tin of chocolates she'd just bought. As she started to unwrap the first one, a clip of Kylie Minogue singing ‘Santa Baby' came on the screen. As she hummed along, a melting chunk of chocolate inside her mouth, Dolly couldn't help but think that Santa had finally hurried down her chimney with just the sort of gifts she's always longed for. That would show her stuck-up sisters. She'd have the happiest Christmas of them all.