by A A Abbott
Vince was silent.
“That says it all,” Marshall said. “Well, thank goodness he’s having medical treatment. I hope it succeeds.” His eyes no longer twinkled with amusement. They oozed contempt, as he barked, “Get out.”
Vince admitted defeat. Annoyingly, the room’s soft-close door didn’t permit him to slam it as he left. He slunk out of the hotel into the March sunshine.
It was another upmarket establishment, close to the Thames in Westminster. Marshall’s wife was to join him later. They were attending a wedding there, and Marshall said they’d chosen to make a short break of it. Vince couldn’t imagine why they should do so. They could as easily take a cab from Hampstead. Vince considered finding out where Marshall lived and trashing his house while the couple were away. An uneasy sense of caution stopped him. Marshall’s threats were ringing in his ears. He didn’t know what security arrangements were in place, or if anyone else would be there. Better to wait, and serve up revenge to Marshall later.
Gloomily, Vince wandered along the Victoria Embankment, staring into the steel-grey Thames. The sun had slipped behind a cloud and a sharp wind was whipping up the water. How much longer could he continue as the Hallorans’ lackey? He should take whatever money he could from Ben, party hard with it and throw himself into the river’s deadly embrace. Shaun could return to Belmarsh to rot, as far as he was concerned.
Then Jon’s blue eyes flashed into his mind, remorse and clarity following. Despite the viruses drifting like aliens through his bloodstream, he’d never felt better. His beard was also recovering, albeit not as luxuriant as it had been before his visit to Dr Jakes. Jon would be out in a year, and still found him attractive. Until then, Vince could easily hook another sugar daddy. He didn’t need Marshall Jenner’s cash or company.
If Marshall wouldn’t deliver a gun to Shaun, Jerry and Scott would have to spring him. Within the small band on whom he could rely, they were the only ones whose association with Shaun was unknown to the police.
Vince phoned Jerry at once, afraid the hospital would return Shaun to Belmarsh if he delayed. “I’ve got an urgent job for you and Scott. We’ll have to plate up your van.”
Jon had a relative, a mechanic, who could arrange false number plates. It was a simple matter to clone a Transit; there were so many of the white vans around.
“We’re off to Bruges tomorrow morning,” Jerry complained.
“Cancel it,” Vince said. “This is more important.”
“What is it?”
Vince explained.
Jerry was unenthusiastic. “I don’t like violence. And Scott won’t want a house guest. His girlfriend will do her nut.”
“He’d better deal with her then,” Vince said, suspecting more readies from Ben would oil the wheels. When he’d secured a promise from Jerry to locate Scott and meet in two hours, he sent Ben a text.
Ben phoned back. “I’ve got a PVO for a hospital visit tomorrow morning, but it’s too late. They won’t keep him in once they’ve done their tests and know he’s faking it. You’ve got to get him out tonight.”
“That hospital’s massive,” Vince said. “Which ward is he in?”
Ben sounded strained. “I don’t know, exactly. I’m going round now for a recce.”
“Better make it a good one.”
Their success depended on Ben. It was lucky Shaun had no idea.
Chapter 32.
Marty
The hotel was upmarket and central, sandwiched between the north bank of the Thames and the ministries of Whitehall. Its spacious lobby was busy with guests checking in, porters pushing luggage trolleys, and smartly dressed individuals sitting alone. As others joined them, they disappeared towards the bar or restaurant. Marty was sure he recognised a politician or two.
He answered his mobile’s ring without looking. “Where are you?” he asked. He’d been waiting ten minutes for Amy to emerge from her room. She was only supposed to be picking up a case of vodka samples.
“Pardon? Marty, it’s Grigor.”
“Good to hear from you again. It must be nearly midnight where you are.”
“It’s later than that,” the engineer said. “Listen, I’ve had a long day.” He stumbled over the words, evidently well-refreshed.
“And a long night, by the sound of it.”
“I needed a drink,” Grigor admitted. “I told you I’d lose my job over this methanol problem, even though nobody could have prevented it. It was an act of sabotage.”
“It was the quality inspector, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, with a trainee engineer. Both women. Nobody knows why. Marina thinks one of her husband’s bastards was behind it. The police spoke to Anatoly Aliyev, but they didn’t arrest him.”
Either the truth was more complex, or Harry Aliyev’s son had bribed the Bazaki police. They weren’t noted for their tenderness. “What do you think?” Marty asked.
“I suspect revolutionary elements. We’ve had troublemakers at the distillery before. This time, they nearly poisoned the President. We made that vodka for the distillery’s anniversary party, remember.”
“I’m sorry to hear you’re the fall guy,” Marty said.
“At least Marina kept me on until today. I just wondered if there were opportunities in your organisation.”
“I wish I could help, but I’m not recruiting at the moment.” Quite apart from hassle with visas and work permits, Marty wanted a clean break with the distillery in Bazakistan. The contamination hadn’t been Grigor’s fault, but Marty couldn’t risk any link with it, however tenuous.
“Maybe a maternity cover?”
“You’ve heard?” Marty said, surprised.
“People talk in our industry. Marina Aliyeva was overjoyed at news of a grandchild.”
“I bet.” If he didn’t know Kat detested her mother, Marty could almost believe the two of them had planned it. “It’s a long time before the baby’s due, and Kat’s only going to be off work for two weeks. She’s training her team to cover for her during that time.”
“I understand.” Grigor sounded philosophical. “The passion for vodka is in her blood.”
“Good luck. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m in London on business.”
“Thanks. I’ll leave you in peace; I need some sleep.”
The call vanished from the phone’s screen. Marty looked at his watch. Where was Amy?
“Sorry I’m late, Marty.”
He turned around. His marketing manager was dressed for a night out, in a sky-blue bare-shouldered top with ruffled sleeves. She’d applied scarlet lipstick to contrast with her coppery hair. Her wide black trousers reminded him of the loon pants he’d seen on older lads in the 1970s.
“Hello up there,” he said, noting that, in stiletto heels, she was taller than him. “Forgive me if I’ve made a mistake. I thought we had business meetings to go to.”
“They’re in nightclubs. Kat told me to dress up,” Amy said. “She’s messaged to say she’s running late.”
“She’s with Tim, isn’t she?” The couple were staying in another hotel. Marty could guess what they might be doing. He preferred not to think about it. “Tell her we’ll see them there. Our Uber’s outside.”
Their first destination was an exclusive, members only nightclub in South Kensington. The mirrored silver door was locked.
“I’ll call the manager,” Amy said, fishing an iPhone from her shiny black handbag. “Hello, it’s the Starshine team. We’re waiting outside.”
Marty took an immediate dislike to the manager’s old Etonian accent. Finn Branwell, a slim youth with short dark hair and beard, was otherwise unremarkable. He wore a black suit which, while obviously cut from an expensive soft wool, was little different in style to Marty’s.
“We only open at nine. There should have been someone on the door for early guests. I do apologise,” he said. “I’ve reserved our VIP area for you. It’s a mezzanine overlooking the dancefloor.”
“It’ll be too loud to talk,” Mart
y complained.
“Not at all.” Finn’s patrician tones were soothing. “We’ll keep the music low until the club opens. That’s what we agreed, right, Amy?”
She nodded. “Yes. The presentation will have finished by then. It’s seven thirty now. The journalists arrive at eight. They’ll be given cocktails.”
“Made with?” Marty interrupted.
“Snow Mountain, of course,” Finn said. “It’s the best-selling brand behind our bar.”
“Glad to hear it,” Marty said. He began to warm to Finn.
“Kat will give a short talk about Snow Mountain and Starshine,” Amy continued. “We’ll have a tasting. We’ll be done by ten to nine.”
“You’ve got the VIP suite all night,” Finn said. “I’ve allocated two staff to mix and serve your drinks. I just need to take your credit card details.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Marty said. “We have to go on to another meeting at ten.”
Amy frowned. “The journos might stay.”
Inwardly wincing at the expense, Marty gave in gracefully. “How remiss of me. I’ll sort that out now, Finn.”
While he did so, Tim and Kat turned up, he in a suit and she in a tight black dress and spiky heels. Her figure betrayed no sign of pregnancy. If only it was a figment of his imagination.
Marty flicked the thought away as a tray of cocktails was delivered to the group. These had been cleverly mixed to reveal three layers of colour: red, blue and purple. Amy and Tim immediately helped themselves, while Kat declined.
Kat and Finn pecked each other’s cheeks. This was a nightspot she’d frequented when she lived in the capital. She was on top form, greeting each journalist and plying them with drink as soon as they arrived.
There were six of them. The two drinks writers, men in their forties, reminded Marty of his beer buddies back in Birmingham. He guessed the four lifestyle correspondents, a slim and trendy man and three even thinner girls, were half his age. Each wrote for a magazine or newspaper read by millions of Britons.
“Shall we get started, then?” Amy’s voice was as bright as her lipstick.
“Has everyone got a drink?” Kat beamed at the expectant faces around the circular, mirrored glass table.
There were nods and smiles. The rainbow cocktails were half-drunk, their layers blended to a vibrant magenta.
“Great. Well, I’ve introduced myself to each of you already. I’m Kat White, and this is my mentor, Marty Bridges.”
Marty swallowed his shock. Kat wasn’t sticking to the script.
“I first met Marty as a toddler. My father owned a vodka distillery in Kireniat, Bazakistan. I’m told that when this handsome English stranger visited, I hid behind my father’s legs.”
“Which handsome English stranger would that be?” Marty asked, coaxing a laugh from the drinks writers.
“My father and Marty developed Snow Mountain vodka, renowned for its purity. It’s excellent in cocktails. You’re drinking it now.”
“I’ve been a fan of Snow Mountain for decades, as you know,” one of the older men said. “You’ve started making it in the UK within the last year. Tell us more about that.”
“My father’s no longer around, and it was time for the next generation to get involved,” Kat said, neatly side-stepping Harry Aliyev and Marina’s recent ownership of the distillery. “I was educated in England and have made my home here, so it made sense to move distilling to Birmingham with me.”
“Kat will tell you about Starshine, our exciting new vodka,” Amy said.
“Yes, I want to continue my father’s legacy, but I also had a vision for a brand I could call my own,” Kat said.
The younger journalists murmured approvingly.
“It’s completely different from Snow Mountain. That’s a very clean grain spirit. Starshine is made with potatoes.”
Tim spoke for the first time. “It’s soft and creamy, and beautiful just on its own.”
“Which leads naturally to trying a shot or two,” Kat said. “Amy’s pouring both vodkas for you, so you can compare them.”
“There’s a full bottle of each in your goody bags too,” Tim said.
“Any questions so far?” Kat asked.
“Yes, what’s your number?” the young man asked.
Kat handed him a business card. He scanned it into his phone. Their exchange was greeted with laughter by all except Tim, Marty noted.
Shot glasses were drained and replenished.
“I prefer the old Bazaki Snow Mountain to either of these,” one of the girls said.
She wouldn’t like it with a methanol chaser, Marty thought bitterly.
“Starshine’s the best vodka I’ve ever had,” the young man said.
He seemed persuasive. Within minutes, the others agreed with him. All six asked Kat to check her diary for interviews and photoshoots.
“We must go, I’m afraid,” Marty said. “Feel free to stay at the club all evening. It’s on us.”
“Finn will look after you,” Kat said, air-kissing him goodbye.
It turned out that the lifestyle correspondents were committed to at least two more parties each that evening. They slipped away, goody bags in hand. The drinks writers also took the half-empty bottles.
“We’re meeting bloggers in Kings Cross next,” Amy said.
“Well done, Kat,” Tim said.
“Yes, good work.” Marty could hardly disagree. Starshine, and Kat, appeared to be taking London by storm. His fortunes were bound to hers, whether he liked it or not.
Chapter 33.
Shaun
A scream cut through Shaun’s slumber.
“Shut up. Not a word, or you’re dead.” It was Jerry’s voice.
“What the…” Shaun rubbed his eyes as light flooded into them.
“Shaun!” Jerry, his face obscured by a fake moustache and dark glasses, wore the crested black shirt of a hospital security worker. He was pointing a pistol at the prison officer sitting next to Shaun’s hospital bed.
Shaun had been shackled to a guard since he’d seen Nurse Megan. This screw’s plan to earn easy overtime pay had gone horribly wrong for him. He looked terrified, and so he should. As far as Shaun knew, Jerry had never handled a gun before.
It started to make sense to Shaun. Elation bubbled within him, but not enough to stop him grumbling to Jerry. “It’s about time. Have you got bolt-cutters?”
“For the cuffs? I’ve done better, innit? I’ve got keys.” A shorter figure, similarly disguised, appeared in the doorway. It took him several tries before Shaun was unshackled.
Swinging himself off the bed, Shaun grabbed the handcuffs and applied them to his jailer. “What about the other one outside?” he asked.
“Tied up,” Scott said. He jerked a thumb at the cowering screw. “His turn next.”
“Can you keep the noise down?” Jerry hissed. “It’s bad enough having this scum yelling his head off.”
“I’ll gag him,” Scott said, stripping a pillowcase from the bed and stuffing it in the screw’s mouth. He reached under his shirt and unwound a length of rope coiled against his belly.
“You’re still a fat bastard,” Shaun said.
“I’ll do that,” Jerry said to Scott. “You take the gun.” He handed over the weapon.
Scott pocketed it. “I’ll bring the other screw in here. We don’t want Security finding him.”
They had arrived just in time. The hospital had worked on Shaun faster than he’d expected. He’d had another rectal examination, MRI scans, blood tests and heart monitoring. “I have to hand it to you guys,” he said. “You were there when I needed you. I reckon the quacks would have sent me back to the nick tomorrow.”
He guessed the Number One Governor in Belmarsh had picked up the phone to the hospital administration. It must have cost a fortune in overtime to have two shifts of screws twiddling thumbs in or near this little room. How happy they must have been to earn extra money. Now it was payback time.
The prone f
igures on the floor were strangers, officers who worked on other wards. He didn’t know and had hardly spoken to them. Nevertheless, all his frustration with Belmarsh spilled over as he kicked the bound and gagged guards, aiming for their faces and groins.
“Shouldn’t we get going before Security come round?” Jerry said, as Shaun began to stamp on a screw’s head.
“Okay. Lock them in,” Shaun ordered.
Scott fumbled with a set of keys. “Can’t find the right one, boss.”
The medics probably had custody of it. “Don’t bother looking for it. We’ll close the door on them.” Shaun was exhilarated, almost dizzy with relief. He punched the air with a newly-liberated arm before racing out into the corridor.
Jerry led the trio down the stairs and through a fire door into the car park. An alarm sounded as the chilly air assailed Shaun.
“Hurry up!” Panic mingled with the adrenaline coursing through him. He was wearing a thin hospital gown and his feet were bare, feeling each tiny stone as he scrambled over the tarmac. It hadn’t occurred to him to look for his clothes and shoes when they fled; his sole focus had been running fast, and far away. “Got any threads?” he asked.
“In the van,” Scott said.
In the middle of the night, the parking area boasted plenty of empty spaces. Jerry’s white Transit shone like a beacon of freedom among them.
“Jump in the back,” Jerry said, unlocking the vehicle. “There’s cushions.”
Shaun clambered inside, noting the jeans, jumper and shoes that had been left for him. There were also three garishly patterned bean bags on the cold metal floor. Apart from that, there was no evidence that the van, usually stacked with crates of booze, had been adapted to carry people.
He struggled to pull on the clothes, realising they belonged to a shorter and fatter man. “They’re yours, Scottie, aren’t they?” he said.
Scott cackled. “We were in a hurry.” He seemed to realise it was hardly a tactful answer, if truthful, and said, “We’ll buy you new ones.”