The Vodka Trail Page 2

  “My flat isn’t either,” Amy said. “I don’t need a lift, Marty; it’s a short walk home.”

  “I’m going there too,” Erik said. “I’ll walk back with you, Amy.”

  Charles looked askance at both of them, and Marty felt obliged to put him right. “They each have a studio flat above the office in Leopold Passage. The only way I could get planning permission for that old workshop was to create live-work units in it.”

  “No expense spared,” Erik joked. “We painted the walls ourselves.”

  “Your flats are exactly as you like them, then,” Marty said. “Ready, Charles? Let’s head for the White Horse.” He was grateful for an excuse. It was near his social club and he might wander down there later.

  They left the Rose Villa Tavern, Charles gratefully drawing on a cigarette. “My Jag’s over here,” Marty told Charles. “It’ll only be a ten minute drive. Just for once, the Council aren’t digging up the roads.”

  He’d hoped Charles would have a compliment or two for the car, but the Londoner strapped himself into its passenger seat without a word.

  “What do you drive?” Marty asked.

  “A Porsche 911 Turbo,” Charles replied.

  That took the shine off Marty’s Jag. “Very nice,” he said. It wasn’t what he expected of an IT professional; insurance must pay well. Once he’d turned the key in the Jag’s ignition, he made sure to accelerate as quickly as possible.

  The White Horse was another red brick building, rather smaller and set squarely in suburbia near a medical centre and neat rows of houses. Marty parked on the street and led Charles inside. A computer monitor on the bar announced the beers available, their prices, style and strength. Marty paid it no heed.

  “Is the Bathams on?” Marty asked the young barmaid. “All right, two pints please, bab.”

  “Hang on, I haven’t chosen yet,” Charles said, sounding discomfited.

  “Trust me, you don’t have to,” Marty said. “If they’ve got Bathams, there’s no need to drink anything else.” He nodded to the barmaid. “Carry on, bab.”

  Charles sipped the amber drink thoughtfully. “It’s superb,” he acknowledged.

  “It’s called Bathams Best Bitter for a reason,” Marty said. “It’s brewed a few miles away.” He couldn’t help feeling smug. Evidently, the ale didn’t travel as far as London.

  “Not one of your products, then,” Charles said. “You sell Snow Mountain vodka, don’t you? There isn’t any here and I didn’t see it at the Rose Villa Tavern either.”

  “I would like to get it into the tavern, I must confess,” Marty said. “They have a reputation for selling high-end vodkas similar to Snow Mountain. Currently, they’re stocking my competitors, but I’m working on it.” He grinned. “Vodka’s not the only way to turn a profit. I have high hopes for your Amy’s ideas for our cancer-busting tea.”

  “Marty Bridges, saviour of the NHS,” Charles said.

  “Hardly,” Marty said modestly. “Even when your cancer’s beaten, you smokers will die of something else. We’ve all got to go one day. Anyway, there’s plenty to do before I put that tea on sale. I need a supply of darria for starters. I’m off to Bazakistan soon to buy up land for a plantation.”

  “Bazakistan,” Charles mused. “What a coincidence. It must be a land of opportunity. One of my colleagues at Saxton Brown wants to do business there. You remember Ross Pritchard?”

  “Really?” Marty pricked up his ears. He’d met Ross a couple of times. The young man had failed to impress. He’d been to public school, and thought a lot of himself. His interest in Erik’s sister, Kat, bordered on an obsession. Of course, she took full advantage of it.

  While Marty was unconvinced of Ross’ merits, he had even less time for Kat. He was certain her fiancé’s appeal lay in his wealth. Unlike Erik, she still hankered for the opulent lifestyle she’d enjoyed when her parents owned the vodka distillery in Bazakistan.

  Marty sighed. What had happened to Kat and Erik’s parents was unconscionable, but he’d been unable to stop it at the time and he couldn’t turn back the clock now. She should accept that the vodka factory was part of her past, not her future. If she thought she could use Ross’ cash to wrest the distillery from its current owner, she was sadly mistaken. That wasn’t how Bazakistan worked. While money talked, political influence shouted louder.

  He tried to find out more from Charles. “Most people don’t even know where Bazakistan is. What are Ross’ plans?”

  Charles didn’t answer the question. “It’s pretty corrupt there, isn’t it?” he said. “I doubt I’d go there myself.”

  “I’ve often visited to arrange vodka shipments,” Marty said. “It’s the kind of place you can do business. Low on red tape. Politically stable. The President’s held down his job for a long time.”

  “So I hear,” Charles said. “He must be an old man. Who knows who will succeed him? He probably shot them all. At any rate, other countries in the region are volatile. Violence could spill over into Bazakistan at any time. I told Ross not to go there. You’ve got travel insurance, I assume?”

  “Of course,” Marty replied, allowing a self-satisfied expression to settle on his face.

  “And kidnap, key man and business interruption insurance?”

  “No.” Marty could tell the hard sell was on its way. He lifted his pint and took a draught.

  “We can give you a good rate at Saxton Brown.”

  “Aren’t you an IT bod?” Marty asked, amused at Charles’ cheek. “How is it you’re giving me a sales pitch?”

  Charles smiled. “Our products would be useful to you. I’d be letting you down if I didn’t tell you about them.”

  “I’ve never had key man insurance, but I need it,” Marty said thoughtfully. “If anything happened to Erik, the darria joint venture would go pear-shaped. His research is all written down, of course, but that guy carries so much knowledge in his head. I’m always telling him evidence is everything.” He tutted. “Erik knows I’m right.”

  “You should look at kidnap insurance as well,” Charles said. “You travel to places that others wouldn’t. Listen, the more products you take as a bundle, the better the rate we can give you.”

  “Like cable TV?” Marty said. “Okay, but I’ll be shopping around. Let me know your best price, and I’ll be expecting mates’ rates. And it’s your round.” He held out his empty glass.

  Charles took the hint. “Want another Bathams?” he asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Marty said.

  Charles bought the beers. “The least I can do for a valued customer, and Amy’s boss,” he said. “She seems to have settled in quickly. I’ve heard all about her job. She knows her way around Birmingham, too.”

  “Especially the bars,” Marty said. “My youngest daughter has been helping her there.” The two girls were a similar age and had become friends.

  “How many children do you have?” Charles asked.

  “Four. All except my youngest work for me,” Marty said, taking a swig. “It keeps them on the straight and narrow, but it’s a constant reminder that being a father doesn’t stop once the kids are grown up. You’d know that too, of course. How many do you have?”

  Charles said nothing.

  Marty’s curiosity was piqued. He’d asked only out of politeness. Amy’s family wasn’t a matter of concern to him, and he’d certainly never quizzed her about it. Still, this wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. “Out with it,” he said. “What ails you?”

  “Amy’s an only child,” Charles said. “I think.”

  “You mean you’re not sure?” Marty asked, wondering why Charles was so coy about it.

  Charles looked embarrassed. “Amy suspects my ex is pregnant. Look.” He tapped at his smartphone.

  The screen sprang to life. A gorgeous blonde smiled at them. “Hi, I’m Dee,” she said, flicking her long, honey-coloured locks from her lightly tanned face. “Are you pregnant? Lacking in energy or worried about the birth? Suppose you
could wave a magic wand and solve everything? Well, I’ve got the next best thing for you, and it’s yoga.”

  “An online yoga course for mums-to-be,” Charles said.

  “Hold on,” Marty said. “That’s Dee Saxton, isn’t it? My wife used her online meditation lessons. Is she Amy’s mother?”

  “Er, no,” Charles said sheepishly. “I’ve been divorced for a while. Dee’s my ex-girlfriend. I rushed into a relationship with her. Amy didn’t approve at all. She called Dee my mid-life crisis girlfriend.”

  “My kids were the same with Angela, my second wife,” Marty said sympathetically. “She’s not their mum, you see. I told them I couldn’t bring her back from the dead.”

  “Sorry to hear…” Charles began.

  “It was a car crash,” Marty said. “One of those things.” He didn’t wish to dwell on it. “You were saying?”

  “I thought I’d been too hasty, so I moved out.” Charles sighed. “That was a big mistake. Even Amy says that now. I just wanted more space and I’d planned to carry on seeing her. Dee wasn’t having any of it. I had no idea she was expecting a baby.”

  “You still don’t know if she is, or if it’s yours,” Marty said, thinking Charles a fool to walk out on a cracker like Dee.

  Charles fiddled in his pocket, his expression gloomy. “I could use another cigarette, Marty.”

  “I’ll come outside with you,” Marty said. He didn’t want more beer. Charles had almost certainly had too much already. The man surely wouldn’t have confided in him otherwise. They hardly knew each other.

  They sat on the smokers’ benches in front of the pub. Charles lit a Marlboro. He was obviously highly strung; no wonder he smoked so much.

  Marty filled the silence. “It’s up to you whether you ask your ex. Secrets and lies will out eventually. That’s all I’ll say.” He finished his bitter. “I should be getting back. I’ll give you a lift.”

  “But you’ve had at least three pints,” Charles protested. “You’ll be over the limit.”

  Marty considered his words. The chances of encountering the police were slim. “No worries,” he said. “I can handle my drink. Anyway, the last time I was breathalysed, they lost the paperwork.”

  “That was lucky,” Charles said.

  Marty chortled. He was sure being a mason had helped. “I make my own luck,” he told Charles.

  Chapter 3

  Davey

  Davey Saxton’s routine didn’t change just because he was at a conference. Always an early riser, he’d made a coffee and was watching dawn break outside his hotel window.

  When the phone rang, he registered the caller’s name with surprise. Alana Green was the CEO of Bishopstoke, the company that had bought Veritable Insurance the year before. That had led to Davey’s departure from the top job at Veritable. As expected, given her aggressive reputation, Alana had fired him as soon as the takeover deal was signed. When she’d tried to buy part of the business of his new company, Saxton Brown, he’d told her where to go.

  “Good morning, Davey.” Alana’s American accent was unmistakable. “I was planning to clear my head with a jog around the canals. Would you care to join me?”

  “I thought you’d still be tucked up in bed at five thirty,” Davey said.

  Alana snorted. “Sleep is for wimps.” She added, “I’d feel safer with a man. I’m looking out of my window at those towpaths. They’re deserted.”

  Davey laughed, flattered. “This is Birmingham, you know, not Harlem. Still, if it makes you feel better, I’ll meet you in the lobby in five.” He’d rather imagined Alana could take care of herself; indeed, that any low-life pulling a knife on her would find themselves pitched straight into the canal below.

  He didn’t ask where she was staying. Everybody who was anybody in the insurance world was booked into the Hyatt for the conference. Bishopstoke alone probably had twenty executives in the shiny black tower. Davey, Ross and Charles had struggled to secure rooms, remaining on the waiting list until the week before.

  Davey whistled, enjoying the view of central Birmingham as the glass-sided lift descended twenty-one floors. A breath of fresh air would be a pleasant start to the day. He’d been about to go to the gym, anyway, and now he might hear some industry gossip. He suspected that was really why the Bishopstoke CEO wanted to see him.

  At just under six foot, Alana cut a striking figure, a slim African-American with perfect posture. She was wearing a black jogging suit and trainers he recognised as Scotts, a runners’ brand.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked, looking pointedly at Davey’s singlet and shorts. There was still a spring chill in the morning air.

  “Perhaps I should have brought a hat.” Davey fingered his bald head. “I’ll warm up soon enough, I guess. Shall we go?”

  They left the hotel. Traffic was already clattering along the road outside. By contrast, once they’d found the red brick steps to the canal below, they were in a world of tranquillity. A ribbon of dark water reflected the bridges, brick walls and brightly coloured houseboats above its surface. The brick path next to it stretched past the International Convention Centre, under bridges and away into the distance.

  “I warn you, I’m quick,” Alana said. “I do this most mornings.”

  “I’ll give you a run for your money,” Davey promised. “I’m training for an Iron Man.”

  “That’s a triathlon on steroids, isn’t it?” Alana said. “Impressive.”

  They began to sprint alongside the Birmingham to Fazeley Canal. Davey sensed Alana was pushing herself to her limit, yet he easily matched her, with more in reserve. He allowed himself to feel a quiet sense of pride. She must be at least six years younger, an age difference that had counted against him when Bishopstoke’s shareholders were deciding who should lead the merged company. Of course, he was male, even taller and longer-limbed than Alana, and exceptionally fit. He took the Iron Man challenge seriously and was training hard.

  He expected to meet commuters walking into work, but the silence of the water was mirrored by the world around it. Lichen-encrusted walls and red brick buildings, three storeys high or more, towered above them. As the canal passed under long road and railway bridges, they encountered a few rough sleepers, huddled together under blankets and oblivious to the world.

  Alana’s lip curled. She looked away.

  Davey said gently, “You needn’t worry, Alana. They’re out for the count. Still, I’m glad I came with you.”

  “Thank you.” She shivered.

  They left the vagrants behind, emerging into the light. After a further ten minutes, running through an area of newer and less attractive industrial buildings, Alana slowed to a halt. “I think we should go back, Davey. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Me too,” he agreed. He was seeing Ross and Charles for breakfast. It was inadvisable to mention that to her. Ross had been Veritable Insurance’s smartest actuary; Davey had heard on the grapevine of Alana’s irritation when Ross chose to go to Saxton Brown after the Bishopstoke takeover.

  They retraced their steps. Under the bridges, Davey stopped briefly to tuck a banknote next to each sleeping head.

  “It won’t solve their problems,” Alana said. “They’ll wake up and go straight to the liquor store. I’ve seen losers like that back home in New York. I wasn’t raised in the swankiest part of town.”

  “I’ll take that risk,” Davey said. “No one should sleep outside in a rich country like this.” He asked himself if she’d really been afraid of them earlier, or if her reaction was simply distaste.

  As they arrived at their hotel, Alana said, “Thank you, Davey. That was great. Could we meet again for dinner tonight?”

  Davey wondered at the reason for the charm offensive. Although he caught her eye, her gaze revealed nothing. “I’d like that, Alana,” he said. “None of us can possibly network enough. There’s just one thing I should mention first.”

  She continued to display no emotion. “Yes?” she prompted.

  “N
o part of my business is up for sale, Alana. As long as you remember that, we’ll get on fine.”

  Chapter 4

  Marty

  Marty could have travelled to work on foot. His office was scarcely a mile from the white stucco mansion he shared with Angela. It wasn’t a pleasant walk, however. The route passed through traffic-choked highways before arriving at the industrial zone where he’d bought a warehouse twenty years before. Like all his properties, he’d won it at auction for a keen price. Never overpay, never undersell; that was his motto.

  He waited for the rush hour to abate before setting off in his Jag. Smooth as silk, the car hummed quietly with understated power. No policemen had stopped him the previous night and there were none in view this morning. Marty doubted he’d been over the limit when he left the White Horse, anyway. He had an extraordinary capacity for alcohol, born of years of practice. Beer barely touched the sides.

  He parked the Jag in the space reserved next to his office, a single storey brick building dwarfed by the warehouse behind it. His visitors were already waiting on plastic chairs in the reception lobby, Erik in jeans as usual and Amy wearing a blue kimono and dark trousers. Marty assumed it was the fashion of the moment.

  He noticed Amy look disdainfully at her surroundings. The small room could use a lick of paint, he decided. Now he’d redeveloped the workshop where the duo were based, he could see this property was looking tired. He might pop round at the weekend with a pot of paint and some new carpet tiles. The sign outside, proclaiming that East West Bridges was based here, looked shabby too. He’d titivate it if he had any paint left.

  “Come on through,” Marty said, punching the code that released the door to the rest of the premises. “Has Tanya offered you coffee?”

  “Yes, drinks are on the way,” Erik said.

  Marty ushered them to his own den, a large room panelled and furnished in bird’s eye maple. This, at least, needed no decorating. The cream carpet was plush and pristine. Every surface that could be polished was gleaming under the spotlights shining from the pure white ceiling. On the meeting table, there was a tray with refreshments: white china cups and teapot, cafetière, cream, milk, sugar and a plate of shortbread fingers.