The Bride's Trail, with bonus stories for Instafreebie

by AA Abbott

  He removed the rusty detritus from the bottom shelf, crouched down and wriggled through to the gap beyond, appearing to expand like a rubber band as he stood up.

  Only another man as slim as Erik could hope to follow. “Okay,” Marty said, drawing out the word slowly. “I’ll be stuck in the racking if I try that. Want to explain to the fire brigade?”

  “Why don’t you give me your phone?” Erik suggested. “I could use that torch, and I’ll take a few snaps for you.”

  Marty listened, intensely curious, as the door creaked open. He heard the dull clang of Erik’s feet on the metal tread, as the last rays from the torch dimmed and disappeared.

  “It’s about twenty metres deep,” Erik reported back, “with a locked steel door at the bottom.” They returned to the living room and he poured more tea as Marty inspected the photographs.

  “Odd,” Marty said. “It could be a way into Anchor.” He noted Erik’s perplexed expression. “You don’t know what I’m talking about do you? It’s way before your time, and mine too, come to that. Anchor is an old complex of telecommunications tunnels under the Jewellery Quarter and city centre. It was built as an underground train network sixty years ago, then shelved before it was finished. I remember my father talking about it.”

  “You said telecoms,” Erik pointed out.

  “That’s what they used it for in the end,” Marty said. “At least, as far as I know. There are a lot of secrets in those tunnels. Government secrets. You and I wouldn’t be allowed in there. If it’s a gateway to Anchor that explains why the planners don’t want it disturbed.”

  “Can’t you tell them you’ll pour concrete down the shaft?” Erik asked.

  “Who knows?” Marty said. “Perhaps not. It may be required for ventilation. All I know is, as it’s classified information, the planners won’t tell me whether this is Anchor or not. I can try my council contacts, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Auntie Lizzie could tell you, I bet,” Erik said. “Her husband was a telecoms engineer.”

  “There’s a thought,” Marty said. “Perhaps the old bag does know.” He sighed. “I doubt she’d tell me.”

  “I could ask her,” Erik said. “We’re still in touch.”

  “Don’t mention my name,” Marty said. He scowled. “Do you fancy a drink at the Rose Villa Tavern?”

  “Sure, why not?” Erik said. “I work behind the bar for one of their rivals, but I can sneak in wearing dark glasses.”

  “Bar work? Is that all you’re doing these days, after studying all those years?” Marty was genuinely horrified. Despite the recession, his business had thrived, as had his children’s careers.

  “Yes, that’s what I do to pay your extortionate rent,” Erik replied, tongue in cheek. “And it also funds my passion, which is to cure cancer.”

  Marty stared at him, open-mouthed. There had been enough surprises today already. Surely this was a joke? Yet the tunnel hadn’t been a prank. Erik had never looked more serious.

  “You’ve heard stories about remote valleys where people live for many, many years? An unusual number of centenarians. There is one such in my homeland. More of a mountain pass than a valley. My father used to take me skiing there.”

  Marty couldn’t avoid displaying his scepticism. “Forgive me, Erik. Surely the paperwork in these remote places is so poor they don’t know how old anyone really is? As a scientist, I’m surprised you give these rumours any credit.”

  Erik rolled his eyes. “You think I was brought up in a mud hut? I spent months there as a child, seeing with my own eyes that some families had five or six generations still living. I’ve checked up on them. The birth, marriage and death certificates are all consistent. They either don’t suffer from the Big C, or they get it and recover from it. The single difference between their lifestyles and ours is the tea they drink every morning. They make it from the leaves of a local shrub, darria. I’ve been able to isolate the active ingredient.”

  “I believe you,” Marty said, gathering his thoughts, “but only because I know you, Erik. If it was anyone else spinning me a line about a miracle tea, I’d show them the door.” His mind was rapidly running through the ramifications of Erik’s discovery. “This is wonderful news, both for society and for you. You realise it has commercial possibilities? With the right marketing behind you, this darria tea could make you a millionaire.”

  “That’s not what I want,” Erik said, unexpectedly.

  “Why not? The more people buy it, the more you’re helping them,” Marty said, puzzled and somewhat disappointed. If Erik wasn’t interested in making sales, there wouldn’t be much chance of a profit for anyone else.

  “Maybe a few thousand enlightened people would drink darria tea. Perhaps a few hundred thousand, with the right press coverage. Not all of them will drink enough. Some will dislike the taste, others get bored with it after a week. But if I apply scientific rigour, I can turn the active ingredient into a drug that will save millions of lives.”

  Marty stroked his chin. He could see this approach would make more money, but the upfront costs would be higher. “I thought drugs needed clinical trials – tests so expensive, only deep-pocketed pharmaceuticals companies can afford them.”

  “They do,” Erik admitted. “I had to call in favours to run an initial set of clinical trials. My university contacts did a lot of the work for free, and I nevertheless spent every penny I had. But it was worth it, because the darria was proved to work.”

  “What next?” Marty asked. “When are you going into production?”

  Erik shook his head. “It’s not so simple. I need to extend the clinical trials to get regulatory approval. That’s where it gets costly. I could sell my patent to Big Pharma, but then they’ll charge a fortune for the drug. The people who need it will be denied treatment. I must find another way.”

  Purely by chance, Erik could have stumbled on a goldmine. He needed a sensible business partner. “I can help you there,” Marty said. “I’d invest in a joint venture with you, like the way I built the Snow Mountain vodka brand with your father. Interested?”

  Erik’s serious face broke into a rare smile of excitement. “Definitely.”

  “Well then,” Marty said, “can you show me the results so far? Then we’ll go out for that pint, and seal the deal.”

  “Of course; it’s all on my laptop,” Erik said. “Wait here.” He motioned to Marty to sit on the sofa, a battered but comfortable red leather piece which had served Marty’s children well in their playroom.

  Erik disappeared into his bedroom. Marty began to consider how to fund the darria research. His trading business, initially just Snow Mountain vodka and now encompassing many other exclusive imported brands, consistently generated surplus cash. He had invested most of it in assets like this one, however: unloved buildings ripe for redevelopment. While he could use them as security for loans, he’d be able to borrow more and on better terms once planning permission was obtained. That made it even more vital to solve the mystery of the cellar.

  “I left my laptop on the bus!” Erik emerged from his bedroom, ashen-faced. “It isn’t here, and I know what must have happened. I helped an old woman alight from the bus at my stop, and I left my bags on the seat next to me.”

  That was so typical of Erik that Marty had to struggle to suppress a grin. “You’ve got back-ups, though?” he asked. “In the cloud, right?”

  “Not in the cloud,” Erik said. “I don’t trust it. I used a USB stick, which was in the same bag as my laptop.”

  “You mean all the data’s gone, and anyone could have it?” Marty, so hopeful of profiting from the darria venture, was shocked. He was glad his heart was in a healthy state.

  “No and no,” Erik said, to Marty’s relief. “My sister keeps a spare USB stick at her flat in Fitzrovia. I mail one to her every fortnight. And I encrypt everything, so there’s no danger of anyone else seeing it.” He looked at his watch. “I’d still like to show it to you as soon as possible, Marty.
I’m going to forego that pint and go to London now.”

  “Can you afford the train fare?” Marty asked, preparing to dip into his pocket.

  “No, I’ll travel by coach,” Erik replied.

  “Don’t be silly,” Marty said. He took a hundred pounds from his wallet and handed the cash to his new business partner. “Call it a down-payment. I’m sure I can find an old laptop for you too, back at my office.”

  Erik looked at him quizzically.

  “I trust you,” Marty said. “You can trust me too; you should know that by now. Please give my regards to your sister. Swanky Fitzrovia, eh?” He whistled. “I’m not surprised she lives there; a cat always lands on its feet. By the way, if you can find out more from Lizzie when you come back, it will help both of us.”

  Erik hesitated for a second, then held out his right hand. His handshake was firm. “You can count on me,” he said.

  Marty nodded. He was sure Erik would be more careful with his data in future. Still, the Rose Villa Tavern had seldom seemed more inviting.

  Chapter 10 Amy

  Dusk was falling as Amy left work. Even if she took the Central Line, it would be ten before she was home. She mentally rehearsed the speech she would make at work when she won the lottery. She was nearly word perfect now. ‘Gather round everyone, and join me for a glass of champagne. I’ve brought in a caseful to glug. What’s that you say, we’re not allowed to take drink into work? It’s a sackable offence? That’s a shame, because I so wanted to tell Parveen she could stick her job. Where can she stick it, you ask? Up her saggy bottom. And then she can move that fat arse and do some work for a change. You can swallow a live frog, can’t you, Parveen?’

  It was in danger of becoming a rant. Perhaps she would omit the champagne for her colleagues. Corporate clones to a man, they hardly deserved any. She would just explain all of Parveen’s faults to her. The short Tube journey passed pleasantly enough as she planned what to say.

  Parveen had ordered pizzas to be brought to the office, which fortunately saved the cost of a microwaved ready meal and meant Amy could go straight to bed on arriving home. Changing into a thin T-shirt nightie, she brushed her hair and applied soap and water to the day’s smudged make-up. She cleaned her teeth and drank a glass of water. Only when she lay under her duvet, enjoying the blissful coolness it offered for the first few minutes, did she hear Kat.

  At least, she assumed it was Kat. Occasional footsteps and thuds could be heard through the thin partition wall. Kat would usually be at work all evening. If she weren’t, it would be fun to gossip for a few minutes. Amy was curious, too, to know what was absorbing Kat so much that she hadn’t heard her flatmate return. She rose from the narrow bed, tiptoed into the corridor and knocked on the door of Kat’s bedroom. “Kat?” she called.

  There was no reply. Suppose the noise was being made by an intruder? Amy hastily returned to her room and threw on some clothes, picking up her phone and keys in case she needed to run for help. Gingerly, she opened Kat’s door a crack.

  The stranger in the bedroom spun round immediately. “Who are you?” he said.

  He made no move towards her, perhaps because he was holding two potted plants in his hands. She opened the door fully to take a look at him. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, tall, thin and pale with short spiky black hair. His clothes were unremarkable: a black bomber jacket and jeans. She might have passed him at a Tube station without a second glance. That nondescript appearance, of course, would serve a burglar well, but his words and voice were not those of a burglar. He spoke like many of Amy’s colleagues, particularly Ross; a tone redolent with privilege, penthouse flats and a public school education.

  “I’m Amy,” she said, suddenly self-conscious. Her comprehensive schooling had produced a different sound, of a sort that he and his friends might consider second-rate. That was how Ross perceived it, she was sure. “I’m Kat’s flatmate. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  He ignored her questions. “Where’s Kat?” he asked impatiently, his green eyes staring intently into hers.

  “I don’t know.” Kat was almost certainly at work, but Amy resolved to tell him nothing.

  “I’ll wait until she returns, then.”

  “You will not.” Amy was outraged. “You have no right to be here in my flat, whoever you are.”

  “I have every right. Look.” He put the plants down and fished in his pocket for a set of keys.

  She recognised them as the front door keys for the flat. “Where did you get those?”

  “From Kat, of course. I have every right to them. I’ve been storing my property here.”

  “Like those plants?” They had been sitting on Kat’s windowsill, two rather unexceptional small shrubs.

  He nodded, bringing the pots closer to his chest. “Yes, my magic trees. She has looked after them well, but they need more sunshine.”

  If she needed proof he was a little odd, here it was. Amy scrutinised the plants. They were hardly trees, really no more than a mass of twigs covered in small glossy leaves. She’d never paid much attention to them before. They weren’t cannabis; she was sure of that. She’d simply assumed they’d burst into flower one day, like the showy white orchid on Kat’s bookshelf.

  He might have sensed her scepticism. “I’m looking for more besides. I can’t find everything. She must have it.”

  “You’ll have to come back when she’s here,” Amy said.

  “Yes, yes.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I will leave. Don’t panic.”

  One of the young man’s jeans pockets suddenly resounded with Prokofiev’s Dance of the Knights, a piece Amy recognised as one of her mother’s favourites. He grabbed the phone from his pocket. “Da?”

  He was clearly delighted to hear from the caller. His face broke into a smile. Suddenly, instead of looking average, he was handsome. He nodded enthusiastically and spoke a few words in a foreign language.

  The call over, he turned his attention back to Amy. “Okay, I’m leaving now. With these.” He gestured to the pots.

  She bit her lip, unsure whether to stop him, then shrugged her shoulders. What could she do? He was taller and stronger. Kat’s little shrubs were really dull, anyway. The florist nearby, a cool green haven on a hot street corner, had much prettier ones. “All right,” she said, praying Kat would understand.

  Chapter 11 Shaun

  “I want you here at once, Jeb,” Shaun fumed.

  “I can’t drive. I’ve been drinking.” Jeb’s voice sounded muffled. He was probably still in the White Horse.

  “Get a taxi.” Shaun jabbed at his phone to end the call. He wanted some explanations from Jeb. Takings were suddenly down dramatically, going by the amount of cash stashed away in the office at AKD. If Vince was to be believed, however, there should be at least thirty grand there. He was twenty grand light. Vince also alleged Jeb had borrowed the office keys earlier.

  Shaun puffed away furiously on a cigar, a big fat Cuban number. It might come down to Vince’s word against Jeb’s. Then who should he trust? In his heart, he knew the answer. There was no honour among thieves; merely loose and shifting alliances. He couldn’t afford to do nothing, to be perceived as weak. They would both have to go. Vince was easy to replace; Jeb, his trusted wingman of many years, less so, but it would be possible. There were always younger, hungrier men snapping at their heels.

  Jeb, when he arrived, clearly the worse for drink, put a different spin on it. “Oh Kat, what have you done?” he asked rhetorically.

  Shaun looked at him warily. “What do you mean?”

  “I left her in that office, didn’t I?” Jeb said. He held up his hands. “I’m sorry, boss. I made a big mistake.”

  “She was alone in the office, with the keys?”

  “No, not with the keys.” Jeb looked affronted. “I’m not that stupid.”

  “How could I possibly imagine you were?” Shaun said, his irony lost on Jeb. “Are you telling me Vince left the desk unlocked?”


  “No,” Jeb said. “You can pick that lock with a credit card, I bet.”

  Shaun acknowledged it was true. He could have done it himself in a few seconds. “I should have had a safe installed. A detail I won’t overlook again. But I’m holding you responsible for your carelessness, Jeb. I want you to find your friend and bring both her and my twenty grand back to me.”

  Jeb shifted from foot to foot. “She could be a thousand miles away by now,” he protested.

  “I don’t care.” Shaun’s patience was almost exhausted. “Find her. You need me more than I need you. Don’t forget it.” He let menace creep into his voice, looked balefully into Jeb’s eyes. The younger man didn’t blink, but Shaun wasn’t hoodwinked. While Jeb might be enough of a fool or psychopath to show no fear, he should have no doubt: one way or another, he’d be bringing Shaun twenty thousand pounds. If he didn’t, he’d face the consequences.

  Chapter 12 Charles

  Two decades of commuting into the City had turned Charles into an early riser. At six, he took a tray into the bedroom with an espresso for himself and a pot of green tea for Deirdre.

  “Thank you, darling.” She yawned and stretched, throwing off the white silk covers to reveal her splendidly toned body. It had been another warm night and she was completely naked.

  “I’m tempted to come back to bed,” Charles observed, desire gripping him.

  “Give into temptation, then,” Deirdre said. “I always do.” She sat up and leaned forward, pulling the loosely tied belt of his bathrobe. The garment immediately fell away from his body, revealing his erection. Deirdre licked it. “You like that, don’t you, Chas?”

  “Yes.” Every nerve in his body suddenly felt alive. He stroked her hair, shoulders and breasts, squeezing her nipples, then slowly pushed her away, down onto the bed. Straddling her, he parted her legs and slipped inside.

  Deirdre gasped with pleasure, moving her legs back and then stretching them to twist her feet around his neck. He was pulled further within. Deirdre practised yoga daily and the effect on her suppleness was evident. Eager to reciprocate, Charles kissed her lips tenderly and concentrated on her gratification.