by AA Abbott
Angela tutted. “I’ve known Kat since she was small. Don’t forget, I was your secretary in the days when you did business with her father. She was a nice little girl then, so why would you think she’d sleep around now?”
Marty shook his head, swigging his beer silently.
“It’ll be lovely to have grandchildren around the place,” Angela said wistfully.
“Really?“ Marty pointed to the dove-grey walls and cream carpet. It was the antithesis of a child-friendly environment. “You’ve never had little ones running riot with jammy fingers.”
He realised as he said it that he’d been tactless. At sixteen, Angela had given an illegitimate baby up for adoption. He reached over and patted her hand. “I know you’d have liked a family,” he said, kindly. “We just weren’t spring chickens anymore when we got together, bab.”
“No use crying over spilt milk,” Angela said, misty-eyed. She topped up her champagne flute with the rest of the tiny bottle.
“I’ll get you another of those,” Marty said, taking the opportunity to find more beer while he did so. He also checked the top shelves of the kitchen cupboards for chocolates, knowing this was where she hid sweets to deter herself from reaching for them too often. “Here you are, bab. A few brandy truffles won’t spoil your appetite.”
“Thanks.” Angela popped one in her mouth. “You finish them, Marty. You can ease up on the diet occasionally; you’ve been sticking to it so well.”
Marty did as he was told. He still couldn’t chill, despite another bottle of mild. “I wish I’d never funded Kat’s Starshine vodka,” he said.
“Why?” Angela asked. “She can get cover when she’s on maternity leave, can’t she? I mean, she’ll be back at work after a few months, I suppose. This is the twenty-first century, Marty.”
“It’s a story as old as time,” Marty said. “Kat’s taken advantage of Tim. She’s trapped him.”
Worse, she’d taken advantage of Marty too. He’d spent years building his business and defending it. Marina wasn’t the first to attempt to rob him of the Snow Mountain brand through the law courts. Kat had already tried, and it was only when she failed that she’d developed Starshine.
That had been her foot in the door. Now he was dependent on her for Snow Mountain. If it hadn’t been for Tim’s involvement, Marty wouldn’t have risked dealing with Kat, regardless of her distilling skills. Why hadn’t he warned his son away from her?
Instead, Marty had begun to trust Kat enough to talk of his business plans at the Christmas party. That must have been the signal for her to strike. She’d steal his business through his weakest link: his son. Marty shuddered.
“Oh dear. Out of beer?” Angela asked.
“Yes.” He didn’t care if it was true or not. It was a convenient excuse to take his dark thoughts away from the bright light that Angela persisted in shining on them. “I’m going to the club,” he told her. The urge to get blind drunk nagged him with a vengeance. Kat had made a fool of him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Chapter 25.
Kat
“It went well today, didn’t it, Kat?” Tim had hardly stopped smiling.
“Are you sure your dad’s pleased?”
“He said so, didn’t he? You’ve got nothing to worry about.” He put an arm around her, snuggling closer on her sofa.
“He hasn’t said anything more about moving to a bigger factory unit.”
“In due time,” Tim said. “You’ve got to think of the baby now. You should move out of this freezing flat, for a start.”
“It’s cheap,” Kat protested. It was also within two miles of both the Jewellery Quarter, where Erik and Amy lived, and the city centre.
“It’s cold, tatty and unsuitable. My place is too small, though. There’s only one bedroom. I’ll have to sell up and buy somewhere bigger.”
His phone beeped. “It’s a text from Angela. Look, Kat. She’s sent congratulations and a link to a baby clothes website. How cute.” He showed her the doll-like images on the screen.
It was as if her soul was drowning, swept beneath the waves of Tim’s expectations. Kat yawned. “I really need to rest, Tim. Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow to catch up on your sales calls?”
Tim took the hint. His blue eyes were sympathetic. “Good night, Kat. Sleep well. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He kissed her.
She waited, hearing Tim’s footsteps on the rickety staircase, and the front door below being opened and shut. Satisfied he was gone, she phoned her brother.
“Kat, it’s 10pm. What’s up?” Erik asked.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Ah. Are you pleased?”
“No. I feel sick all the time, and confused. Can you come round?”
“Give me ten.”
Kat brewed tea for him while she waited. She always walked to Erik’s flat, a good half hour for her, but he’d be much quicker on his bicycle. A steaming mug was sitting on the table when he arrived.
Erik embraced her. “I’m sure this will work out, Kat. Tim’s a decent sort. Does he know?”
“Yes, and he’s delighted.”
“And you’re not? Is it Marty you’re afraid of?”
“No. Marty’s cool with it.”
“I thought he’d be worried about the business,” Erik said. “We need cash for our darria research. If you have time off, it’ll have an impact.”
“That’s all covered,” Kat said. “Tim and I came up with a plan for the business before we saw Marty.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Kat burst into tears. “It’s me. I’m not maternal and I pity the child. Our mother’s hardly the best role model, is she?”
Erik held her tight. “Kat, your moral compass is much stronger than hers. And don’t they say it takes a village to raise a child? With me and the Bridges family behind you, you’ll be just fine.”
Doubt still nagged her. In keeping this baby, was she making the biggest mistake of her life?
Chapter 26.
Ben
Ben loathed his trips to Belmarsh. The drive from north to south London took over an hour. Public transport might have been quicker, but he hated the contrast between passengers going about their everyday lives, and those with the downcast eyes and watchful faces of prison visitors. Approaching the car park, he felt despair seep from the brick walls and forbidding metal gates ahead.
He was early. Needles of January rain chilled him before he was allowed to enter the visitor centre. His phone, watch and other valuables were swiftly stowed in a locker before he joined a queue to be frisked and admitted to the visit hall.
The group was not a merry band: fidgeting, yelling at children and otherwise subdued. Stone-faced officers patted down guests slowly, grunting at those who foolishly tried to engage. Apart from glaring at a screaming baby, Ben himself didn’t initiate any interaction. He showed staff his visiting order and passport, making no comment and receiving none in return.
Thankfully, the baby and its mother were taken to a family room. In the cheerless visit hall, Ben was directed to sit at a formica table. It was hardly Starbucks, but his chair was comfortable and there was a limited selection of refreshments on offer. He was considering buying a coffee, when a gate was unlocked, and he spied his father. Ben waved.
“It’s been a while.” Shaun stumbled forward, his blue eyes boring into his son’s.
Ben was about to give his excuses. He’d been travelling to tournaments abroad. The email booking system for visits was like pulling teeth. As he opened his mouth, he was overcome by shock at his father’s appearance. Gaunt didn’t even begin to describe it. “You look terrible,” he said.
“Thanks,” Shaun said, his tone laden with irony. He lowered his voice. “That’s my intention. I’ve been holding back on food for months. You know it’s the only way I’ll get out.”
“In a box, you mean?” Ben asked. “You were angling for a transfer to hospital, but it’s not happening, is it?”
Shaun’s l
aughter was hollow. “I’ve done all I can,” he whispered. “I’ve lost weight. I’ve given urine samples with blood in them. Don’t ask me how. I’m showing all the symptoms of prostate cancer; handing it to the quack on a plate.”
“What are they doing, then?” Viewing the state of his father, Ben found it impossible to believe his woes were entirely self-inflicted.
“Don’t shout, son.”
Ben realised he was attracting attention from the lags and visitors clustered around tables nearby.
Shaun continued. “They’re doing nothing. Tracy’s written to the Number One Governor, and Jens is pulling strings, but they’re doing nothing.”
The furrows in Shaun’s forehead deepened. He seemed older, his eyes sunken, as if the life force within them was dimming. Ben leaned forward to clasp his father’s hand.
A guard shouted at them. Both men retracted their hands, Shaun holding his palms upwards. Ben instinctively copied him.
“It’s down to me, then,” Ben said. “I’ll make a complaint.”
At least that wasn’t breaking the law. Helping Shaun abscond from hospital would be, though. Ben shivered. He couldn’t let his father down, not with the old man’s nerves and strength fraying so fast.
His father stared at him. His expression was the one Ben had seen when he’d announced he was going to university and, later, when he’d told Shaun he made a living playing computer games. It was a mixture of incomprehension and contempt.
Shaun’s lip twitched. “Good luck with that,” he said.
Chapter 27.
Shaun
“You must be joking,” Sidey Carr spat.
“Look, Mr Carr,” Ed Rothery said, injecting a sneer into the name, “I don’t have time to argue. There’s an incident elsewhere, my colleagues and I are required to attend, and evening association is over. End of. Period.”
“I want to ring my daughter,” Sidey said. Hostility spilled out of his voice and into his increasingly wobbly body. He made a fist.
The lags behind him in the phone queue looked interested at first – prison life was so tedious that any drama was a welcome diversion – then turned restive as they realised they wouldn’t be calling anyone either.
Shaun knew the real reason for his cellmate’s defiance: he was drunk on hooch, freshly brewed from oranges and Marmite. It was inconceivable that Ed hadn’t smelled it on Sidey’s breath yet.
“That’s enough,” Rothery said. “You want to go on basic? Up to you. I’m telling you to get back to your cell.”
As much as Shaun had lost weight, Sidey had gained it, and he was determined to throw it about. An angry drunk rather than a happy one, he eyeballed Rothery and swore at him. “I’ll take you down,” he yelled, nutting the officer.
Rothery put his considerable bulk behind a return punch. Three cons piled in before anyone could stop them.
With a ringing epithet, Shaun pulled them off the screw. He couldn’t stand by; Rothery was valuable property. “It’s not worth it,” he shouted, cuffing and kicking the lags.
The commotion attracted a gang of officers. Sidey disappeared in a scrum, still swinging his fists.
“My eyes,” Sidey complained. “There are lines in front of my eyes. I can’t see properly.”
Nor, it transpired, could Ed. “Take Carr to the segregation unit,” he ordered, his voice muffled. A colleague had given him a tissue, which he was using to grip his bleeding nose. “Halloran, who else was involved?”
“I didn’t notice, Mr Rothery,” Shaun lied. The other prisoners had melted away to their cells.
“Why did you help him?” Sidey’s unfocused eyes attempted to glare at Shaun. A crafty grin stole onto his bruised face. “He’s in your pocket, isn’t he? You own him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shaun snapped. “You think I want a month in seg? No TV or phone calls?”
Sidey shook his head, then evidently wished he hadn’t. “I’m seeing stars,” he screamed as he was led away. “I need a doctor.”
“Get back to your cell, Halloran,” Ed commanded.
Shaken, Shaun glowered at him before complying. He was dead meat if anybody, con or screw alike, believed Sidey.
Once the cell door was locked, he sought out the plastic bottle that Sidey had hidden behind his pillow. The contents resembled murky dishwater and smelled of rotten fruit, the stench of a dustcart or marketplace once its traders had left for the day.
“To absent friends,” he said. “The devil’s brew.” Pouring it into his mug and holding his nose, he drank a toast to freedom. When would it ever happen? At least, in Sidey’s hooch, he had a ticket to oblivion. Ignoring the foul aftertaste, Shaun swigged the remainder.
Chapter 28.
Vince
This time, Vince had finally done it. The stakes were so high, he had no other option. He’d shaved.
Ruefully, he fingered his chin. Pallid, receding and acne-scarred, it wouldn’t win a beauty contest. Schoolmates had once tried to bully him over it. As he recalled the occasion, his mind put the emphasis on ‘tried’.
He completed the look with a grey bobble hat and spectacles. They were geeky, with thick black frames, bought from a pound shop as reading glasses. The prescription was the minimum on offer, its effect on his vision almost imperceptible. He donned chinos and a black Crombie overcoat as usual, a normcore winter uniform that was common to half of London. Thus attired, he visited a library.
He chose Leytonstone. It wasn’t on his doorstep, but it was handy for public transport. Vince walked to South Tottenham for the Overground, his newly exposed skin freezing despite the weak February sunshine. There was a strong wind blowing, and he was grateful for the hat.
At the Overground station, he bought an unregistered Oyster card to use a couple of times before discarding it. He wouldn’t risk his motorbike for this sort of trip, where he wanted to slip through London like a ghost, unnoticed by the authorities.
As anticipated, the library’s PCs were fully occupied. Free internet access lured students and pensioners alike. Vince waited for a scruffy teenager to claim a pre-booked slot, then offered the boy ten pounds to yield it. Within minutes, he had the information he needed. Vince waved the boy back into his seat, leaving with a smile on his lips. Ed Rothery had come good.
So had Ben. Thanks to him, Vince had ten thousand pounds in untraceable notes around his body in a running belt. Shaun and Jon were more inclined to use stick than carrot, but Vince differed in his approach. He’d wield the stick, naturally, if he had to. It just wasn’t his first choice. Ben not only agreed, he’d provided the carrot.
Vince bought another Oyster card at Leytonstone tube station. He was lucky that his quarry lived in Greenwich, a mile or so from Ed Rothery, in the environs of the old market. This was an easy journey from Leytonstone. Even the fuggy, overcrowded tube and DLR didn’t dent Vince’s enthusiasm. He was optimistic. What idiot would refuse such a large sum of money? Maybe five thousand pounds would be enough. He discounted the notion quickly, recalling what happened to those who double-crossed the Hallorans.
Night had fallen by the time he arrived at the cobbled street where Nicholas Jakes lived. Vince found the address, a plain, flat-fronted brick terrace. It was in darkness. Just to make sure, Vince rang the doorbell. Receiving no reply, he waited for Jakes.
A black Peugeot RCZ-R coupé clattered down the road, stopping in the shadows opposite. From it, a fair-haired man emerged, his black North Face windcheater zipped up to his chin. He carried a briefcase. While it was hard to be sure in the dim light, he appeared to fit the description Ed Rothery had given: thirtyish, lean, over-long hair and nose. Rothery had mentioned a black sports car too.
Jakes had his house keys in his free hand. They could be used as a weapon. He was alert, glancing around as a policeman might. His eyes alighted on Vince.
It was crucial to avoid alarming the man until they were able to speak privately. Vince shuffled away from the brick terrace, turning in time to see the key had b
een placed in the lock. Springing at Jakes, Vince shoved him towards the door. It opened, Vince’s momentum carrying both men inside the house and onto the floor.
The door gave straight into a sitting-room, faintly illuminated by the streetlamp outside. Jakes began to grapple, lashing out with his feet. “Get out,” he panted, clearly winded by Vince’s weight on top of him.
Vince smelled sweat, cheap soap and expensive aftershave. Scrabbling to his feet, he pushed the door closed, pressing the light switch next to it. He let his arms hang by his side, ignoring the blows Jakes landed on his jaw and chest. “Dr Nick Jakes, I presume?” he asked.
“What if I am?” Jakes said, throwing another punch. His face, thin, suspicious and furious, was clearly visible now.
Vince dodged, aware that his own anger was threatening to overwhelm him. Tempting though it was to pound Jakes into a bloody pulp, he knew it would be a big mistake. All that careful planning would be worthless. Jakes wouldn’t co-operate; he’d go to the police. Desperately, Vince willed himself to stay calm and persuade Jakes to listen. “I’ve got good news for you,” he gasped. “Ten thousand pounds of it, to be precise.”
The doctor’s attack halted immediately. “What do you mean?” he asked. His voice wasn’t as upper class as Vince had expected. It bore strong overtones of south London.
Vince rubbed his jaw. To his relief, nothing was broken. “You heard,” he said, delving below his shirt and unzipping the belt. He flourished a handful of notes.
Jakes’s brown eyes darkened. “I don’t have drugs to sell. Sorry.”
Vince hadn’t considered the possibility. “Not drugs,” he said. “A favour.”
“I don’t do favours for strangers,” Jakes said.
“You can’t use ten thousand pounds, then?” Vince said. “Fine. I’ll walk out of that door with it.”
The medic stared at him, his silence allowing Vince to hear the gentle hum of appliances elsewhere in the house. He took in the huge widescreen TV on one wall, an original painting on another, and the gleaming chrome and leather furniture. It was a small house, but Vince wasn’t fooled by that. The posh shops and bars he’d passed on the walk from the DLR station told him this area was wealthier than Tottenham, West Ham, or even Ed Rothery’s patch nearby. The car screamed of riches too. Everyone knew doctors were overpaid; perhaps ten grand really meant nothing to a man like Nick Jakes.