by AA Abbott
Davey shoved her away. An empty paint pot caught her off balance. She tripped, flying out of the French door, plunging two floors to the flagstones outside the basement flat below.
There was a crunching sound. For a split second, Davey stared in disbelief at Alana’s prone figure. She wasn’t moving. He reached for the bourbon, swiftly filling and draining his glass a third time, before dialing 999. Without stopping to think, he finished the bottle.
He was kneeling by Alana’s side when the first paramedic, a young woman called Sarah, arrived on a bicycle.
“An ambulance is on its way,” Sarah assured him. She shone a torch in Alana’s eyes. “Alana, can you hear me?”
Above them, pedestrians strolled past, seemingly oblivious to the quiet drama below. Noting the blood seeping onto the creamy flagstones, Sarah informed Davey that Alana’s skull was probably fractured. The good news, perhaps, was that she was still breathing and very much alive.
Within minutes, both an ambulance and an uninvited police car had arrived.
“I’m the CEO of Saxton Brown and Alana Green is my opposite number at Bishopstoke. They’re both insurance companies,” Davey explained to the two police constables. “We were having a drink and a chat about a deal we’re doing. Alana unfortunately overbalanced.”
It was almost true, but omitted a great deal too. As Davey anticipated, however, his position in the City ensured he was believed. He was given a lift to West End Central, the local police station situated among the tailors of Savile Row, to make a witness statement.
He had a pounding headache by the time he was seated in the interview room with the police constable who was to take his statement on video.
“Ready?” the man asked, his expression eager. He was young, in his early twenties at most.
“I feel rather unwell, actually,” Davey admitted. To his alarm, the words sounded slurred.
“How much did you drink?” the constable asked.
“Three glasses of bourbon,” Davey replied. It was as much as he could recall. “I’m not drunk.” Downing whiskey on an empty stomach had evidently done him no favours, though.
“Perhaps not, but I suggest you make your statement at another time,” the officer said. “I can book an appointment for you tomorrow?”
He was about to agree when there was a knock on the door. The second constable reappeared. “We have a witness who heard an argument,” he said. “You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if…”
As the caution was given, a wave of nausea overcame Davey, pinning him to his seat.
Chapter 35
Marty
As a child, Marty had helped his mother clean a house on Wellington Road. The properties were huge, square and white; they reminded him of iced cakes. He’d been fascinated by the endless series of rooms within, connected to different floors by dumbwaiters and accessed through doors that appeared to lead to cupboards. There were toilets inside as well as out. How could a family need more than one bathroom? When his mother found no more polishing for him to do, he’d been sent to play in the garden, a wide expanse of lawn bounded by rhododendrons. To a five-year-old, the space had seemed as large as a park. “These houses at the top of the hill are the best in Birmingham,” his mother had said. “Imagine the parties they have here!”
He’d dreamed of jam sandwiches, jelly and trifle, hide and seek among the shrubs, but the invitation never came. Snow Mountain had enabled him to buy on Wellington Road for his growing family, however. Now, he and Angela rattled around in their six bedroom, four bathroom property. They could easily accommodate a hundred guests at a party. Looking around his garden, Marty guessed there were even more.
By the summerhouse, a covers band was playing Duran Duran numbers. The music boomed out over a happy throng, laughing and chatting in the sunshine.
“Like it?” Angela asked.
He nodded, a wave of affection sweeping over him. He had a soft spot for eighties pop, the New Romantics in particular. She’d not only remembered that, she’d ensured there were bottles of craft ale at the travelling bar she’d booked. While a couple of mixologists prepared cocktails for his younger guests, Marty and his drinking buddies indulged in Two Towers Mild.
Angela looked radiant. As ever, she was immaculately turned out, her short hair curled and golden, her make-up carefully applied to give the illusion of sparkling-eyed youth. She was wearing an outfit Marty especially liked, a black leather jacket and shimmering dress the colour of rain clouds. He appreciated the trouble she’d taken.
Tim, his eldest, wandered over. “Glad you’re drinking the good stuff,” Marty said, noting the bottle in his hand.
“First and last for me,” Tim said. “I’m driving.” He turned to Angela. “Why aren’t you two dancing?”
Marty sniggered as Angela said, “Chance would be a fine thing.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Guess you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Let’s do the honours then, Angela, you and me. First on the dance floor.”
“Well, the lawn, anyway,” she said, linking her arm in his. They swayed to the music, Tim’s tousled curls bobbing alongside Angela’s. He’d sported locks like that at Tim’s age, Marty recalled; a mullet, in fact. Dolefully, he touched his bald pate.
Lost hair and jet lag couldn’t stop him grinning, though. At last, Angela seemed to be accepted as one of the family.
It was a warm evening, the scent of roses signalling that spring would turn to summer soon. Erik and Amy were lounging on a swinging seat by the rose bushes, apparently deep in conversation. Marty noticed his business partner pick a single red flower for the marketing manager. Amy’s reaction went unseen as friends and neighbours accosted Marty, shaking his hand and hugging him, bringing him more drinks. When he next spied them, the pair were joining the dancers, evidently cajoled by Angela.
“Are those two an item?” Angela asked, appearing by his side.
Marty shrugged. “God knows. Why don’t you ask them?”
He’d greeted Erik when the young man arrived but it was hours before they had a chance to exchange another word. By then, most of the guests had gone. Marty’s youngest daughter, Milly, was helping Amy and Angela tidy the inevitable debris from the celebrations. Marty had opened another beer and settled on the swing seat.
“I’m sorry my sister wasn’t here,” Erik said.
“No need to apologise,” Marty drawled. Somehow, he’d suspected Kat wouldn’t show up.
“I’m glad you were there for her,” Erik said. He sighed. “I did tell you there was turmoil in Bazakistan, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“You were right,” Marty admitted. “Still, the army took out Ken Khan.”
“So they say,” Erik replied. “I wouldn’t be too sure.”
Marty grimaced. “It really is the place for darria. The stuff still grows like a weed.”
Erik looked worried.
“No need to panic,” Marty said. “I won’t be farming it there. I’m not convinced the old man can maintain his grip much longer.” Even if he did, the President couldn’t outsmart the Grim Reaper forever. What would happen when he died? “I want to look for alternative supplies. It can’t be too difficult.”
“You’re thinking a little research will help us find a place with similar geology and climate?” Erik asked.
“Exactly. Or the aspects that are crucial to successful darria cultivation, anyway. Maybe it will take a little longer to source enough for a product launch, or we’ll launch it in phases. Let’s meet for a beer tomorrow and we can discuss our options.” Dusk was falling and Marty’s eyelids were beginning to droop.
“Actually, I think we’ll have to change those launch plans,” Erik said. “Amy agrees. We were going to run PR trips to Bazakistan, remember? She won’t do it now.”
It was a blow. Marty frowned. He’d forgotten the press junkets they’d planned. There was no way he was leading lifestyle journalists into the den of Bazakistan’s revolutionaries, even if they
could be persuaded to risk it. “I’m not going back any time soon,” he said. “Let’s see what other ideas Amy has. What do you think?” As part of his succession planning, he needed Erik to take more responsibility. He didn’t want to work forever. Perhaps he should ask his children to be involved in the darria joint venture, too. It would give him a chance to move Amy to another part of his empire, if that was still what she wanted.
Angela appeared with a couple of carrier bags. “Will you take some food home, Erik? I’ve packed a few things for Amy as well.”
“She could use a little more flesh on her bones, couldn’t she?” Marty said.
“Unlike you,” Angela said. “It’s a six hundred calorie day tomorrow.”
“But I’ve lost weight,” Marty protested.
“Not enough,” she rebuked him.
“And I thought I would take you out to lunch,” he teased. “I’ll have to find a place that serves bread and water. Actually, I’ve just come back from one of those.”
Angela laughed, but was unmoved. “Take me out the day after,” she said.
Marty grinned. “You see what married life is like?” he said to Erik. “It hasn’t taken long to settle back into it.”
“Oh, it doesn’t seem so bad,” Erik said. “Thanks for the party, Angela. I’d better be walking Amy home.” Their colleague had appeared, almost groaning under the weight of the provisions Angela had pressed on her.
“I’ll give you a lift,” Marty said.
Angela stared at the bottle in his hand. “You will not. I’ll call a taxi. And congratulations on the baby, Amy.”
“What have I missed?” Marty asked.
Chapter 36
Davey
Davey had weekly lunches at a City club with two of his largest investors. Anwen represented a major private equity group, and Sajid handled the portfolio of a sovereign wealth fund. While they made an unlikely pair – she a short, buxom Welsh woman and he a tall, lithe greybeard of Pakistani origin – they had an informal business partnership. They often collaborated on their investments, and tended to hold sway over Saxton Brown’s other shareholders. Davey would have preferred a meal at the Duck & Waffle, but acceded to their strong preference for the more secure environment offered by Anwen’s club.
She had emailed ahead to say she’d arranged a private dining room this week. Davey arrived to find it was a glass-walled meeting room laid out for a meal. He guessed an important announcement was on the cards.
Anwen and Sajid were already seated at the table, conferring. They rose to their feet to shake his hand, then promptly sat down again. He was mildly surprised that Anwen’s usual air-kiss wasn’t forthcoming.
“Sparkling water?” she asked, knowing his preference and pouring it before he replied. Her straight dark hair swished in front of her face. Davey was reminded of Alana’s bob. He shivered.
According to gossip, directors’ lunches had been long and alcoholic affairs when he began working at Veritable Insurance two decades before. As a keen young graduate, Davey had never had the opportunity to find out. Now he’d risen to the dizzy heights of the boardroom, lunches were speedier affairs typified by their sobriety. Davey’s investors wouldn’t waste time on idle chit-chat when they could be doing deals to deliver profits to their masters.
A teenage waitress took their order: a starter and main course each. It was unlikely that anyone would hang around for pudding after the meal, although espressos might be drunk.
Once the trio were alone again, Anwen cut to the chase. “I imagine there’s been talk in the insurance world about Alana’s Green’s recent accident,” she said. “It’s certainly the subject of gossip within the investment community.”
“I understand you were there,” Sajid said. “Would you care to tell us more?”
Davey nodded. It was crucial to keep his investors on side. They could hear the whole story, except for the affair and the argument that had sent Alana plunging over the edge. “I’m selling part of the business to Alana, as you know,” he began. “We decided to have a drink together.”
“At your sister’s flat?” Anwen asked, eyes wide.
“Yes, I’ve been supervising the decorators,” Davey lied. “We drank bourbon, rather too much, as it happened. Alana wanted fresh air. She stepped onto the balcony. I’d forgotten the builders were removing the rotten base. When she fell, I tried to stop her.” He shook his head. “It was no good.”
Davey recalled the interview in the police station taking a darker turn. He’d denied an argument, of course. He must have raised his voice to stop her, he’d said. As for the affair, he hadn’t mentioned it. He hoped Alana wouldn’t either, although he feared the day when she was well enough to be interviewed. There was no guessing what she’d say. It would be her word against his, but it might sway the police investigation. The impact on his marriage would be even worse. He hid his anxiety behind a smile.
A plate of oysters was brought, the shellfish tidily presented on a bed of crushed ice decorated with seaweed and lemon quarters. The investors were to share it. Davey had smoked salmon. Again, the conversation ground to a halt until the waitress left.
“Would it be true to say,” Anwen asked, “that the police are still making enquiries at this stage?”
“Yes,” Davey admitted. He took care to keep his tone and expression neutral. “There’s no suggestion I’ve done anything wrong.”
“Other than, possibly, getting a little too close to Alana Green? Rumours are rife in the City,” Anwen said. She eased an oyster from its shell with a tiny fork.
“We have to safeguard our assets. We can’t afford to let you do sweetheart deals with your friends,” Sajid said. “The sale to Bishopstoke Insurance is on hold as of now. We are suspending you on full pay while we investigate.”
“We’re also considering our options for Saxton Brown,” Anwen said.
“Yes,” Sajid added. “I’m minded to put it up for sale. We may combine it with our other insurance investments to do so – we have interests in Bermuda too. We’ll achieve a good price by selling the whole business as a going concern and throwing it open to bidders.”
“A very good price,” Anwen echoed. “Better than we might expect from Bishopstoke, unless they up the ante, naturally. Oh, look.” A tiny pearl lurked behind her oyster in its shell. “Isn’t that lucky?”
“I don’t believe in luck,” Sajid said, his eyes cold.
“Meanwhile,” Anwen said, ignoring the comment, “we’re not parachuting in a new CEO to cover for you. We hope the suspension will be brief. Therefore, we are trusting Ross Pritchard and Charles Satterthwaite to run the business. I will call them personally each day at 7.30am for an update.”
Davey suspected Ross and Charles would be as impressed as he was. He wondered how he’d break the news to Laura.
Chapter 37
Kat
“Bermuda?” Kat asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, darling,” Ross said. “Anwen told me this morning. I’m booked on the 3pm flight. There’s just time to pack a suitcase.”
Disbelieving, she clutched his arm as he opened the wardrobe. “Who’s Anwen?”
“She represents our biggest investors,” Ross said. “Basically, she tells the others what to do. Right now, she’s asked Charles and me to run the company, because Davey Saxton’s on the way out. He had an affair with Alana Green, they had a fight, and she fell off his balcony.”
“No way,” Kat said. She looked askance at Ross. If stuffy bald Davey Saxton could cheat on his wife, how did she know her handsome fiancé hadn’t succumbed to temptation?
“The boys in blue are involved, needless to say,” Ross said. “They think Davey pushed her.”
“Did he?” Kat asked.
“Probably,” Ross said. “Alana had it coming. She’s so aggressive, all my friends left Veritable Insurance after her company bought it. Charles’ only comment was to ask why anyone would wait so long to throw her off a balcony. That was after he’d g
ot over the shock of a seven thirty wake-up call from Anwen every morning.” He shrugged. “It makes no difference to me. I’m up early for the gym anyway. And I’m in with a shout for Davey Saxton’s job.” He smirked. “Charles is just a geek. They can’t give it to him. So if Anwen says jump, I’m doing it.”
“But you’re away in Dublin this weekend on your friend’s stag do, and I’ve only just got home from Bazakistan,” Kat said.
“Exactly,” Ross said. “I would have taken you to Bermuda, but I thought you’d prefer to be in London after all that travelling. I’ll just fly straight to Dublin after the business trip. You can have a few days’ peace and quiet.”
She’d have a few days enjoying herself with his credit card, Kat thought mulishly, followed by evenings sampling vodka cocktails in the interest of research. Snow Mountain might be out of reach, but she was surer than ever that her future lay in the distilling trade. Perhaps she should visit Erik in Birmingham. She owed him an apology. Although he was too kind to remind her, he’d been right about Bazakistan all along. Was he right about other matters too? When she’d phoned him from the consulate in Kireniat, he’d told her in no uncertain terms that she was marrying the wrong man.
Her dilemma was resolved with a call from Amy.
“It’s really sweet of you to ring,” Kat said. They’d drifted apart since their flat-sharing days. Kat knew she hadn’t always been a good friend to Amy. She also felt Amy was overly familiar with Ross, but that no longer seemed important.
“Erik suggested it,” Amy said. “I’m coming into London this weekend, and I need somewhere to stay.”
“I have a spare room,” Kat offered. “Two spare rooms, actually.” Ross’ apartment was substantial. “Take your pick.”
They met at Euston station that Friday evening. “I thought we could have cocktails on Charlotte Street,” Kat said, “then walk back to the flat. We can do some damage to Ross’ wine collection.” She added, “He knows a lot about wine.”