The Grass Trail

  THE GRASS TRAIL

  by A.A. Abbott

  Copyright © 2017 A.A. Abbott

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are a product of the author’s imagination. So, alas, is the wonder drug, darria. Any other resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events, is entirely coincidental.

  A.A.Abbott asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Perfect City Press.

  Shaun Halloran wouldn't be in prison if Kat White hadn't taken his gun. Pictures of the stunning blonde are plastered all over his cell. As soon as he can escape, she's dead. But with his criminal empire crumbling, who can he trust?

  Kat, panicked by poison pen letters, has nowhere to turn. Her parents are dead and her brother's ill. Even her sexy new business partner may not be what he seems. When she receives life-changing news, vodka is the only answer...

  A tense crime thriller with plenty of twists, "The Grass Trail" races through Birmingham, London and the former Soviet Union - tempting you to turn each page.

  Chapter 1.

  SHAUN

  Shaun focused on the pictures fixed to his scuffed white wall: ten photographs, almost identical. Blonde hair, voluptuous bosoms and green eyes beckoned. He would see her again, he told himself, and this time she wouldn’t be pointing a gun at him. Licking his lips, he switched off the light and climbed, alone, into his bunk. Early though it was, he needed to sleep, to shake off the flu that was rocketing around the prison. A man in his position had to stay on top of his game. At least Bazza had been shipped out earlier; the bottom bunk was empty, and Bazza’s snores would no longer disturb him.

  Dreams came quickly, returning him to a familiar world: roulette wheels, sharp suits, flashes of fifty pound notes and flimsy dresses, the blonde blowing a perfect curl of cigarette smoke at him.

  The grinding of a key in the lock and the clang of an opening door were simply part of his night-time fantasy at first. The heavies were throwing an irate punter out of the building. Shaun turned back to the blonde. Then, as his cell flooded with light and a screw’s voice said, “Meet your new padmate,” he snapped awake.

  Despite the fever, it took seconds to recognise the man who strode into the tiny cell. He’d featured on TV news a lot recently, albeit clad in Savile Row’s finest rather than the faded maroon tracksuit he was wearing now. The bald head and reddened, fleshy face were unmistakable.

  With an expletive and a groan, Shaun swung himself out of bed. “A Tory MP?” he said contemptuously. “Do me a favour.”

  The screw, one of the older sort who thought he was a hard man, laughed in Shaun’s face. “This isn’t the Ritz, Halloran. You want a nice ensuite room to yourself, you shouldn’t go around killing people.” Evidently spotting the horrified expression on the MP’s face, he added, “And you’d better not expect a hotel either, Jenner. You’re in prison now. Get used to it.”

  The door slammed shut. Shaun’s fellow prisoner composed his features into a rictus grin and held out his hand. “Marshall Jenner,” he said.

  Shaun took it reluctantly, delivering a bone-crushing grip. To his surprise, Jenner didn’t flinch. Gradually, Shaun relaxed his hold. “A Tory MP,” he repeated.

  Jenner grimaced. “No longer. I resigned without compensation.” His well-modulated voice was higher than Shaun remembered from the TV, and tinged with resentment. Another difference was Jenner’s build: taller and bulkier than the cameras had suggested. Unlike Shaun, he’d made it over the six foot mark. He might even hold his own in a fight. Chances were, he’d have to; he’d be considered an easy mark by the other cons. A grim institution in an unlovely corner of south-east London, Belmarsh accommodated some of London’s toughest villains, as well as Category A prisoners from the rest of England.

  “Shaun Halloran’s my name,” Shaun said. “On the outside. Here, you can call me Al. Like the song.”

  Jenner’s eyes twinkled at the mention of the eighties hit, causing Shaun to add aggressively, “No need to sing it.”

  It was clear that Jenner had no idea who Shaun was, which wasn’t remarkable. Ordinary criminal activity was far less newsworthy than an MP fiddling his expenses for sessions with rent boys.

  “Are you really in here for murder, er, Al?” Jenner ventured.

  Shaun sucked his teeth. “You don’t ask a man that kind of question when you hardly know him,” he snarled. The MP had better learn about prison etiquette. “Actually, they put me away for driving offences.”

  “Oh dear,” Jenner said, relief spreading across his face.

  Shaun face-palmed. “What do you think?” he retorted. “Yes, I’m in for murder. The scum deserved it. I’d do it again if I had the chance, more painfully this time.” Let Jenner stew on that. Perhaps the man would leave him alone now and let him sleep.

  The former MP blinked. “I guessed it would be an activity of that nature,” he replied. Although his high voice was strained, he still had a plum in his mouth. “You wouldn’t end up in a Category A prison unless you’d done something serious. Then again, I didn’t presume for a minute that I’d be coming to Belmarsh myself. I suppose I’ve been sent here ‘pour encourager les autres'.”

  “Indeed,” Shaun said, unwilling to acknowledge he hadn’t the vaguest notion what his cellmate meant. Languages had held no interest for him at school. Even now, on the occasions he did business with foreigners, it was conducted in English. He coughed, a deep, throaty hack, which had the satisfying effect of causing Jenner to edge away from him. “You talk too much.” His temper was rising with his temperature, his head pounding in response to the televisions blaring through adjacent walls. The cell was a discordant battleground for different channels. Usually, he would have drowned the cacophony by switching on the old TV in the corner, but not today. Jenner wasn’t going to either, if he had his way. “Make your bed and get that light off,” he ordered the politician.

  Jenner didn’t argue. He spread his prison issue greying sheets and rough orange blanket across the thin mattress of the lower bunk.

  Shaun heard thuds and creaks. “Keep the noise down,” he said.

  “I’m getting changed into pyjamas,” his padmate protested.

  “Do it quietly. And no flushing the bog in the night.”

  He expected complaints. Their toilet was inches from the foot of Jenner’s bunk, although behind a plywood modesty screen.

  Jenner didn’t react. “Good night,” he said, switching off the light.

  There wasn’t another peep from him. Shaun slipped back into oblivion, lost to the world until his cell door was opened at nine the next morning.

  He’d been dreaming again, about his wife this time. Woken by the noise, he felt an immediate sense of loss, followed by disgust at seeing Jenner. Already dressed in his prison jogging suit, Jenner’s chin bore the bloody signs of a recent shave with a dodgy prison razor. The disgraced politician, seated on a plastic chair, raised a plastic mug to him.

  Jenner’s hands were trembling, and he was bleary-eyed, but he tried to sound jaunty. “Good morning, Al. Can I make you a cuppa? Or anyway, what passes for tea in Belmarsh.”

  Shaun allowed himself to enjoy the moment before replying. A man who had been in line for a Cabinet post, socialised with the Queen at garden parties, was offering him a hot beverage in bed in a Belmarsh cell. Shaun almost warmed to his uninvited companion. “Later,” he said. “There’s just thirty minutes for exercise before you’re banged up again.” He stretched, pain flooding his head and body. It wasn’t like him to sleep so late. Even so, he would have liked to have stayed in bed for longer. He added, “Haven’t you got any better clothes? Only losers wear prison gear.”


  Jenner gawped. “Yes, but it’s not exactly private in here, is it? I’d have to get changed in front of you.”

  “Suit yourself,” Shaun said. With people to see in the exercise yard, he forced himself to move. He dragged a navy fleece and chinos over his pyjamas, shoved his feet into shoes, and retrieved the makings of a roll-up from his cupboard. “Coming?”

  “I could do with a shower,” Jenner said, yawning.

  “Later,” Shaun repeated. “By the way, the showers aren’t private either. Here’s a tip: don’t bend down for the soap.” He noted Jenner’s jaw drop, and relented. “Just joking,” he said. “I’m not a gay-basher and nor is anyone else. It’s the twenty-first century. But cross me, and you’re dead.”

  Jenner nodded, his mouth twitching. He seemed shell-shocked as he followed Shaun onto the landing outside the cell.

  “Don’t go jumping,” Shaun said. “The screws would make me clean it up.” They were on the second floor, right at the top of the house block. Their narrow landing overlooked a void, with a dizzying drop to the ground. A four foot high wire fence was no discouragement to a determined diver, and the wire safety net at first floor level offered scant protection. Still, the mesh was painted red, so bloodstains wouldn’t show.

  Another con nudged Shaun on his way past. “Going up in the world, Al?”

  “Shut it, Jonesy,” Shaun said, turning to Jenner to remind him, “We haven’t got all day.”

  Jenner said nothing, staring at the stream of prisoners filing across the landing and clattering down the metal staircase to the yard.

  “Keep your head down and follow me,” Shaun said, rolling a cigarette and joining the end of the line. It moved at the speed of a lazy snail, as each inmate was frisked before going outside. “If anyone asks you for protection money, say you’re paying it to me.” He had no intention of shaking down the MP, but he enjoyed the flicker of alarm in Jenner’s eyes.

  “I’m broke, Al,” Jenner protested.

  “As if.” Shaun shook his head. MPs’ salaries were legalised robbery; everyone knew that. Anyway, Jenner had access to riches. “Your wife’s minted. And she loves you dearly, doesn’t she? She said so on the telly.”

  The MP’s circumstances had been discussed in court and widely reported. Jenner, cash-strapped after a business failure, had made a good marriage. Jeannie was an heiress who kept him in style in a Hampstead mansion. She was clearly besotted, announcing tearfully that she forgave Marshall’s misdemeanours. Her love was unconditional, she had said; she had a wonderful husband who just happened to be gay, and she accepted that.

  “Did you take a good look at my wife on TV?” Jenner complained. “She resembles a Rottweiler with lipstick. A fellow can only take so much.”

  “You’re getting six months away, with good behaviour,” Shaun observed. True, Jenner’s wife was no oil painting, but the MP could lie back and think of his bank balance, surely? Shaun couldn’t understand what might drive a man into the arms of a male prostitute. His own masculinity had never been in question, and for this reason, his reputation wouldn’t suffer by associating with Jenner. He glared ferociously at anyone who looked in their direction, however. Waiting until they were in the yard and he could guide the MP to a corner, he said, “If you want to take care of your wife, I can put you in touch with people.”

  Jenner sprang back, stumbling a little. His face revealed disbelief. “A contract killing?” he asked, in a whisper so loud that Shaun briefly wanted to thump him. “No, that won’t be necessary, thanks.”

  They were shuffling along the edge of the yard now, a stretch of concrete bounded by tall wire fences and their block’s forbidding brick walls. Luckily, the comment failed to attract attention from the gaggle of prison officers gossiping together at the door. One or two cons looked interested until Shaun frowned and waved them away. He’d postpone business until later, or take care of it on Sunday in the prison chapel. Sweat prickled his face despite the chilly February air. He smoked wordlessly, the silence only punctuated by his coughs. A fine drizzle began to fall, and they were shepherded inside, to be locked in the cell once more.

  Shaun was shivering and light-headed. He rolled another cigarette before remembering he’d had no food yet. Helping himself to Rice Krispies and long life milk from his breakfast pack, he switched on the kettle. A cuppa and a smoke would clear his mind. As usual, he’d be working as a wing cleaner today. Although his allotted tasks required minimal effort, the job made his commercial transactions easier. Where that was concerned, as was often the case, there were awkward conversations ahead. He’d be using an illicit mobile phone to find out why the last drugs parcel into Belmarsh was light, and there were debtors who needed reminding to pay.

  “It was good to be out in the fresh air,” Jenner said. “The smell in this cell was the first thing that hit me.”

  “Oh?” Shaun growled, on the defensive again. “What’s that? I haven’t noticed anything.”

  “Drains,” Jenner replied. “And, er, tobacco.”

  “Suppose you’re going to tell me smoking’s bad for me?” Shaun jeered.

  “You’re obviously a clever man. I’m sure you’ve worked it out,” Jenner said. He was calmer now, in the mood for small talk. “Have you been here long?”

  “Just over a year,” Shaun said. “I served a short sentence about twenty five years ago. Managed to stay out of trouble in between.” At any rate, he hadn’t been caught while he built his empire, graduating swiftly from the burglaries that had landed him in gaol in the first place. Drugs, drinking dens and bootlegging had propelled him into the big time, with a huge house in Wanstead and a monied lifestyle. For a split second, he recalled happier days: lounging in the large garden, drinking champagne and doing cocaine while his wife hosted parties for his friends.

  That era had vanished forever with Meg’s death, and later, the unfortunate events that had led to his current detention and the seizure of his property by a rapacious government. Whatever they’d done with the money, it hadn’t been spent on Belmarsh. “Prisons have gone downhill,” Shaun grumbled. “We’re banged up for longer. The food was terrible in the old days, and now it’s worse, as you’ll discover if you haven’t already. The old lags tell me I should blame your Tory cuts for that.” He scowled.

  “Then I’m suffering poetic justice,” Jenner replied. “Can I ask if we had your vote?”

  “I never vote. It only encourages you lot,” Shaun said. As an entrepreneur, he had a certain affinity for Jenner’s party, but he would have been more inclined to write his cross against UKIP had he bothered to stagger from pub to polling station. There were too many foreign gangs trying to muscle in on his territory. He believed the British should be running crime rackets in Britain; Eastern Europeans should sell their drugs back home and leave London to the locals. “I will say, we should get out of the EU as quickly as possible. Stop all that immigration,” he opined.

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more, Al,” Jenner said. “If only I’m out for the Brexit vote. I’m appealing my sentence, so fingers crossed.”

  The kettle hissed, rocked, and jolted to a halt. “Want a brew?” Shaun offered.

  “Please. Milk, one sugar.” Jenner held out his plastic mug. “Thanks. Hot and wet; that’s how I like it. Are you married, by the way?”

  “No,” Shaun replied. “My wife died a few years back.” It was all he intended to say on the subject. He still missed Meg, and not a day went by that he didn’t curse the cancer that had carried her away. Such thoughts, and his dry tears, he kept to himself. His survival and success depended on forbearing to show weakness. He added brusquely, “Of natural causes. And don’t get any ideas. I’m strictly hetero.” He didn’t suppose Jenner had the nerve to make a pass at him, but it wasn’t impossible for the MP to feel some attraction. Shaun’s Irish heritage had blessed him with good looks; even pushing fifty, his now-grey hair was thick, his blue eyes large, his body trim and well-muscled. The paunch he’d developed on the outside w
as gone; he was back in shape at last, his muscles honed by the gym and judicious use of smuggled steroids.

  “Of course,” Jenner said soothingly. He pointed to the gallery of photographs on the wall. Torn from magazines and haphazardly fixed with blobs of toothpaste, their ragged edges were curling. “Who’s that? Your girlfriend?”

  Shaun sipped his tea. The sweetened breakfast cereal was beginning to boost his blood sugar. He felt less groggy. “No,” he said, unwilling to be drawn any further. He would never admit to Jenner how he’d been charmed by Kat’s looks and posh accent, had offered her a job in his unlicensed casino in the hope of knowing her better. It had all gone horribly wrong. She’d disappeared, and so had twenty thousand pounds from the gambling den. It had taken a wild goose chase to weird Cold War tunnels in Birmingham to establish the truth: Kat wasn’t a thief. She’d seen Shaun kill the culprit, though, and had held a gun to his head in the tussle that followed. No one, least of all a woman, should have had that power over him. As if that wasn’t enough, it had been her evidence that had sent him down. His lips tightened.

  Jenner wouldn’t stop. “Who is she?” he persisted. “A model? I’m sure I’ve seen her in the news. You know, you must have one, two, three – my goodness, ten pictures, all of the same woman.”

  “Forget it, okay?” Shaun snapped. Jenner really did talk too much. “She used to work for me. I’m looking forward to seeing her again.” His eyes lingered on the picture showing the most cleavage. There was no doubt he’d enjoy a reunion with Kat. Finally, she’d see who was boss. The pleasure would be his alone, and all the sweeter for it.

  Chapter 2.

  KAT

  “Is that another wrinkle?” Debs asked, staring at her compact mirror under the harsh fluorescent light.

  Kat scrutinised her colleague’s face. “No,” she lied, wondering if she’d also be paranoid about ageing when she was over thirty. Thank goodness she had more than four years to go. “Coming for a drink?”