by AA Abbott
To Ross’ relief, Bridges seemed much less guarded. “How do you think I can help?” the businessman asked, escorting them into his inner sanctum once more.
“Just tell us everything you can about Kat, her family and friends,” Ross suggested.
Marty shrugged. “All right, Inspector Clouseau. There aren’t many of them left, unfortunately. You know I was in partnership with her father?”
“Yes. A Russian, wasn’t he?” Ross said, judging it inadvisable to say he’d learned this from Lizzie less than forty eight hours ago.
“Not from Russia itself, but one of the stans to the south. It doesn’t make a lot of difference, I suppose. I met Sasha shortly after the Soviet Union broke up. I’d left school at sixteen, when there were no jobs here. Do you remember the slogan ‘Labour isn’t working?’ It was an election poster, showing a dole queue stretching as far as the eye could see.”
Despite his best efforts to be charming, Ross couldn’t avoid a blank stare.
“No you don’t, do you? You two are the same age as my kids. They’ve no idea either. At that time, there was a hellish recession in the Midlands. Rather than move to London, I set up my own business, buying and selling. It was slow at first, but with the fall of communism, I knew the east was a land of opportunity. I taught myself Russian and took a plane out there. Sasha managed a vodka factory. He wanted to turn it into a premium brand, so we worked on it together. The result was Snow Mountain.”
Ross nodded. “That’s good stuff.”
“Well marketed,” Amy said.
“You’re both right,” Marty grinned. “It was excellent quality, and we were ahead of the curve in selling it only to upmarket outlets. We both made good money. I built the rest of my business on the back of it. Look at this place. I started with nothing. And this isn’t all. I’ve got fingers in more pies than I’ve had hot dinners. Maybe I could even consider an insurance start-up.” He looked extremely smug. “Sasha did well enough to send his kids to boarding school here in England, which probably saved their lives. It all went pear-shaped when Sasha fell out with the government.”
“What happened?” Again, Ross didn’t care to admit that he’d heard part of the story before.
“They threw him in gaol. All his assets were confiscated and his wife, Maria, left penniless. She phoned me, and I sent her money – enough for her to live on, and to engage lawyers to fight Sasha’s corner. They made it clear the officials wanted bribes.” Marty shuddered. “This is between these four walls, but I paid them an absolute fortune. My business nearly went under.”
“Why did you pay? You didn’t have to. And it’s against the law, isn’t it?” Ross was surprised to hear such a story from a man who’d been described as hard-nosed.
“He was like a brother to me.” Marty’s blue eyes were troubled. “It was all for nothing,” he said bitterly. “The secret police came for Maria. She and Sasha were never seen again. They died in prison.” He laughed, a hollow sound. “Ironically, the bribes did me some good. They gave the factory to one of the President’s strongest supporters, and he couldn’t wait to do business with me. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but together we’ve taken Snow Mountain global. It’s a premium international brand.”
“Great, everything ends happily ever after for you and Snow Mountain,” Amy said. “What about Kat?”
“She was sixteen when her father died,” Marty said. “I’d been funding her school fees for two years. She stayed with my family during the school holidays, even at Christmas. I helped her and her older brother with asylum claims. They’re British citizens now. I did everything I could for them. She got a cob on. Told me it wasn’t enough. I should have insisted that only Sasha could run the factory, apparently. As if anyone would have listened! Still, according to her, it was all my fault her parents died. She wanted nothing more to do with me. Half an hour later, she walked out of my house and I never saw her again.”
Ross could tell Amy didn’t believe Marty. He kicked her ankle again. She looked daggers at him.
“There you are,” Marty said, catching Ross’ eye. “I’ll never understand feminine logic as long as I live. Anyway, Kat was capable of earning a living at sixteen. I had to, and my children didn’t go to college either. The university of life: that’s where we had our education.”
“You fell out with Lizzie too,” Amy pointed out.
“She’s a cantankerous old bat,” Marty replied.
“I don’t have to listen to this misogyny,” Amy said hotly. She stormed out of Marty’s office.
“Who rattled the bab’s cage?” Marty asked, with a ribald chuckle. “She needs a good seeing to, that one.”
“I tried, and it didn’t work,” Ross said ruefully.
Marty winked.
“Cut her some slack, Marty. She’s been through a lot. One of the criminals held a knife to her throat. Another ransacked her flat and stole a couple of plants.” As he spoke, he was aware of how odd it sounded.
Marty’s reaction was unexpected. “What did he look like?” the businessman asked, eyes serious.
Ross struggled to remember what Amy had said. “You’ll have to ask her,” he said finally.
“She won’t have gone far.” Marty left his office, returning a few minutes later with a sheepish-looking Amy. “She ended up getting lost in my warehouse,” he explained.
“Amy,” Ross said, “Marty’s told us what he knows, and it’s only fair we do the same for him. Can you give him a description of your visitors?”
She knew immediately which visitors he meant. “There were two,” she said. “The first was the man who searched Kat’s room and took two pot plants. He was tall and skinny. Green eyes, long nose, spiky black hair, scruffy.”
Marty laughed. “That would be Erik, Kat’s brother. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. You don’t need to worry about him.”
That could be a promising avenue to explore. “Can you give me his contact details?” Ross asked.
“Sorry, I can’t,” Marty said. “I told you, I haven’t seen Kat for years. Anyway, that was one visitor. What about the other?”
Amy described the knifeman.
“That’s interesting,” Marty mused. “Londoner, was he?”
“Yes,” she said.
“He was here yesterday. A couple of cockneys dropped by, after a crate of Snow Mountain. That guy and a black thug.”
“Was he light-skinned, with a nose ring and single earring?” Amy asked.
Marty nodded.
Amy looked at Ross. “That was Jeb,” she said. “Kat thinks he’s her friend.”
“He’s a killer,” Ross said. “They’re dangerous men, Marty.”
“I can look after myself. Let me show you something.” Marty reached into a drawer in the bird’s eye maple desk, and pulled out a can of pepper spray and a sheaf of boxing certificates. “Those guys thought they could threaten me yesterday, and I didn’t appreciate that. They won’t be back.”
Chapter 28 Marty
Marty shook his head, watching the ill-matched pair from his window. They were walking back to the Malmaison, they’d said. Were they really who they seemed? The lawyer seemed to think so.
He phoned Erik. “I’ve just had a visit from Kat’s boyfriend and her flatmate,” he said. “Allegedly.”
“I’ve met a flatmate,” Erik said. “Amy. Tall, ginger hair, nervous.”
“Hot temper?” Marty asked.
“Oh, yes,” Erik said. “Snapped at me like a crocodile when I visited their flat.”
Marty laughed. “I got a taste of that when she dropped in today. There was a boyfriend, too: Ross. What do you know about him?”
“Kat hasn’t mentioned him.”
Marty shrugged. He wondered how serious Ross and Kat’s relationship was anyway. The man didn’t think twice about sleeping with her flatmate. “Did she talk about a couple of Cockneys – a lad called Jeb, and an older guy?”
“Never. We don’t discuss her private life.”
“I think she’s in trouble,” Marty said. “You know Lizzie was attacked and left for dead?”
“I didn’t.” Erik sounded shocked.
“The flatmate and the boyfriend say it was the other two who did it, and they’ll be doing the same to Kat when they find her.” He paused. “Wherever your sister is, and whatever she’s done, she should go to the police. You’ll have to tell her.”
“I will,” Erik said, and this time, Marty wholeheartedly believed him.
Chapter 29 Amy
“What do you think he did to Jeb?” Amy asked Ross as they walked away from East West Bridges. She remained furious, both with herself and with him. They still needed to work as a team, though. She’d seen Ross’ face when Marty refused to say where Erik was. It mirrored her own disappointment.
“Gave him a black eye, I hope. Jeb certainly deserved it,” Ross replied. “Why would Jeb pretend to be interested in vodka, though? It doesn’t stack up.”
“Marty didn’t help him,” Amy said.
“He wouldn’t help us either,” Ross said. “We’re running out of options.”
He seemed so dejected that she was tempted to hug him, but good sense prevailed. She wanted no further physical contact with Ross, in the bedroom or anywhere else.
They crossed Holloway Head, this time without difficulty. With no more ideas to share, they walked together without speaking until the silence was broken by a call on Ross’ phone.
She could tell it was serious because he turned white as a sheet. “It’s a joke, isn’t it?” she heard him say.
When he finished, his face was strained. “That was HR,” he said.
“How did they know I was with you?” Amy asked. She hated her job, but even so, it was better than nothing. After being sacked for faking sickness, she would struggle to find any work at all.
Ross gazed at her with blank incomprehension. “They didn’t mention you,” he said. “I’ve been summoned back to London on suspicion of gross misconduct. If I don’t see HR this afternoon to help with their investigation, I’ll be fired.”
“That’s unbelievable,” Amy murmured, her jaw dropping.
“Even worse,” Ross said, “it was a junior HR manager, not the director.”
“What do you mean?” She was bemused.
“If they’re giving me the monkey rather than the organ-grinder, it means they’ve made up their minds,” Ross said bitterly. “At least if the police suspect you of a crime, you’re entitled to a lawyer and a fair investigation, as we know. Once HR have you in their sights, they’re police, judge, jury and executioner combined.”
“But what have you done? You didn’t throw a sickie.”
“I did nothing wrong, I assure you,” Ross said. “But I’ve been accused of a computer fraud. It’s been alleged that I deliberately mispriced health insurance to increase sales and receive a huge bonus.” He sighed. “I’m going straight to the station and back to London now. Stay here, Amy. I’ll be back tonight. Whatever happens, whether I lose my job or not, I’m going to find Kat.”
She threw caution to the winds and flung her arms around him as they reached the Malmaison. He stroked her hair, and she felt her treacherous senses come alive. Tearing herself away, she watched him walk through the underpass that led to the station, until he disappeared from view. He had to be innocent. With a lump in her throat, she realised she couldn’t help, but at least she knew someone who could.
Chapter 30 Charles
Charles was surprised to receive a phone call from Amy at work, and rather taken aback when she asked if he was busy.
“Fairly,” he said cautiously. “I could meet you after work for an hour if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Amy said, “nor is it practical. I’m in Birmingham.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Ross brought me here for a few days,” Amy said. “We’re having a break at the Malmaison hotel. It’s great for shopping.”
“He does seem a pleasant young man,” Charles said.
“Oh, he is,” his daughter said; tenderly, Charles thought. “He has a bit of an IT problem, though, and I wanted your advice. You’re a computer expert, aren’t you?”
“I like to think so,” Charles said with pride.
“Great. Well, Ross has been accused of misusing his computer access at work to change the price of health insurance. He didn’t do it, Dad, but how can he prove it?”
She had run to him with skinned knees as a child, and now she still turned to Charles when she found a problem insoluble. If only he could kiss it better as he used to. He fell silent as he recalled the meeting in Davey’s office. Of course, Cari had blamed the fraud on Ross Pritchard, who was absent. Why hadn’t Charles realised it was his daughter’s boyfriend who was being accused? Although the investigation was an internal matter for Veritable, he could have offered help to find the culprit. It wasn’t too late for that. He resolved to suggest it to Alex immediately.
“Dad?” Amy asked. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” Charles said. “I’ll think about it and let you know.” He couldn’t breathe a word to her about Project Termite.
“When?” she asked. The disappointment in her voice was palpable.
“By tomorrow,” he promised.
“Please be as quick as you can,” she pleaded.
“I will.” He said goodbye with a heavy heart. A cigarette had never held greater appeal, despite the blinding summer heat outside.
Equilibrium restored, Charles found Alex about to leave for lunch.
“You want to run further diagnostics on their health products?” Alex said. “No way. That’s boiling the ocean.”
“I don’t think it’s a waste of time at all,” Charles said, deliberately substituting plain English for Alex’s management jargon. “The sooner Veritable know who was responsible for the fraud, the sooner they can fix it.”
“Who cares?” Alex said icily. “Bishopstoke will fire Veritable’s A to C suites anyway. That’s how they’ll deliver synergies to the market. The control weaknesses you found just give Bishopstoke more leverage. I don’t want you to do any more analysis. Bishopstoke already have all the ammunition they need.” He looked at the clock. “I’m late for my lunch appointment. Must go.”
Charles grappled with his dilemma. He generally used his discretion to complete tasks in the least time possible. It was unusual for him to volunteer for extra work, and certainly not to carry out duties he’d been expressly forbidden to perform. Nevertheless, his daughter’s happiness was paramount. Sighing, he decided to go for a stroll at lunchtime. He often resorted to smoking when he needed to reflect. It wasn’t the nicotine that helped him solve problems, he suspected, but the effect of being alone with his thoughts.
He walked down to the river. The suffocating heat of morning was easing, a light breeze ruffling the water’s shimmering surface. Pleasure boat trippers waved to him. Charles ignored them, brushing away the droplets of spray blown in his direction.
He no longer had access to Veritable’s IT system, but Davey Saxton did, or at any rate could arrange it for Charles. Davey, his old schoolmate and Deirdre’s brother, was probably the only FTSE100 chief executive who would readily take a phone call from him. Why shouldn’t Charles pop round after work and run the diagnostics? It was a private matter; almost within the family. Charles retrieved his smartphone from his pocket and began to dial.
Chapter 31 Ross
Ross had always made a point of being civil to Veritable’s HR director, Carolina Tait. Carolina’s minions were a different matter. They were part of the vast majority of individuals at the company whose existence he barely acknowledged. Unless they were well-established in Veritable’s hierarchy, he would blank them at the coffee machine, in meetings, at the Christmas party and at the glass gates where he swiped his
smartcard to gain access to the office. It was here that his plight really hit home. His card simply refused to work.
The uniformed security man’s badge gave his name as Conrad. Ross wasn’t sure if Conrad was new to the company or had been there for ten years. Like many of his colleagues, the man was little more than wallpaper to the high-flying actuary. “You, Conrad – can you help?” Ross asked impatiently.
Conrad tried swiping the card. “It’s out of date,” he told Ross.
“They’re supposed to last forever,” Ross complained.
“Not if you’ve left the company’s employment, Sir,” Conrad said.
“Of course I haven’t,” Ross spluttered. “Ask Joanne Tonks. I’m supposed to be having a meeting with her.”
“What’s the name, Sir?”
“Ross Pritchard. Can’t you tell from the card?”
“Very good, Sir.”
Conrad ambled slowly to the reception desk. Ross saw him pick up the phone and speak for a while.
“I’ve left a message for her, Sir,” Conrad said.
“Aren’t you going to let me in?” Ross asked.
Conrad stood still by the gate, sturdy and immovable. “Please sign in at reception and we’ll give you a visitor’s pass, Sir.”
Ross did as he was bid, and was directed to sit on one of the uncomfortable black leather sofas reserved for visitors. A pristine copy of the Financial Times, obviously unread, lay on a coffee table in front of him. Ross flicked through its pages.
A trio of chatty blondes, about Amy’s age, clattered through the revolving door in noisy stilettos. They made their way past Ross to Conrad’s gate.
“Late lunch was it, girls?” Conrad said, leering at the most buxom of the three.
“Poets Day, Conrad,” she replied, and they all laughed.
“You’ve got a visitor, Jo,” Conrad said, jerking his thumb at Ross.