The Revenge Trail

by AA Abbott

  “No,” she lied, before changing the subject. “Guess what? I distilled my first commercial batch of Starshine today.”

  Tim’s handsome face lit up at the news. “Then let’s go to the pub to celebrate. We’ll get the decorating done in an hour.”

  Kat laughed. “Are you sure? You must be a quick worker.”

  “I’ve brought paint pads. They’re much faster to use than brushes. I know what I’m doing. Dad had us all decorating as soon as we could walk.”

  Kat wasn’t surprised that Marty had used his children as free labour. Even now, he didn’t pay Tim the market rate for his job as a sales director.

  Tim took a holdall from his car and followed her into the lobby and up the stairs to the first floor. The communal area was tatty but inoffensive. Kat had blu-tacked cheap botanical prints to the scuffed white walls. Occasionally, she sprayed air freshener to banish a lingering whiff of mould.

  Her own flat, at the back of the first floor, smelled of new paint. As soon as they entered it, she opened the single large sash window, infusing the air with perfume from roses in the garden below.

  “You’ve done the woodwork already. Nice job.”

  “It took me all weekend,” Kat said.

  “This won’t.” Tim unpacked his holdall and stretched to his full height, just under six foot. “Here are the pads. I’ll change into my sexy boiler suit, then I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Within ninety minutes, the damp-stained primrose yellow walls were covered in pale pink. Tim laid his paint pad on a wad of newspaper.

  “It’s looking good,” he said, “although this Angel’s Kiss isn’t my scene.” His apartment, in a classier district, was tricked out in a modern monochrome style.

  “We’ve got Parma Violet, Phantom Dream and Hazy Sky left,” Kat said, reading the labels of the smaller pots stacked neatly by the door. “We could do up the furniture next. What do you say?”

  The pieces in the room were old, and of chipped brown wood. She couldn’t wait to transform them, and replace the faded carpet with painted boards.

  Tim’s blue eyes twinkled. “I’d say it’s time we went to the pub.”

  “All right,” Kat said. “I’ll do the rest tomorrow. And pop over to the Rag Market at the weekend for a couple of cotton rugs.”

  “Nice,” Tim said, his tone suggesting a polite lack of interest.

  “We could take a picnic to the reservoir now, though. It’ll be more fun than the pubs around here.” Kat favoured the more upmarket watering holes of the Jewellery Quarter. “I’ve got everything we need – a baguette, cheese, white wine.”

  “Beer?” he asked.

  “A few bottles of Two Towers Hockley Gold. Am I the perfect woman, or what?” She knew it was the drink Tim favoured. Marty Bridges made his money from vodka, but he’d always loved real ale, and had brought up his sons to do the same.

  Kat packed a bag of food and drink in her tiny kitchen, then popped into the even smaller bathroom off it to make sure she looked presentable. She combed and fluffed her long blonde hair, accentuating her green eyes with jet-black mascara and liner and slicking red gloss on her lips. Her jeans and white T-shirt were smart enough for a picnic, having escaped the paint.

  By the time she returned, Tim was back in his business suit. He closed the window. “You want to watch your security, Kat. You can’t be too careful. After all, you’ve been threatened by a jailbird before.”

  “I wanted to air the place while we were out.” As she said it, a quiver of alarm needled her spine. The flat felt like a safe haven, but could she ever be sure Shaun Halloran wouldn’t find her? He’d managed it twice already.

  Tim was speaking again, oblivious to her fears. “Air will still get in, because your sash is so draughty. You’ll freeze to death in the winter. Large rooms like this are fine in my father’s house with his central heating, but you’ll have nothing to keep you warm.”

  “Except you,” Kat said, squeezing his hand. She forgot all her concerns, desire seizing her as she touched him and gazed into his eyes. The whole package was appealing: his athletic body, wavy hair and tanned skin.

  “Behave,” Tim said. “Time for that later, when the paint’s dry. I’m not staying here to watch it with beer on offer. I want to get down the rezzer before nightfall.” He laughed as she looked askance. “We’ll make a Brummie of you yet.”

  Apart from a few dialect words, he didn’t really sound like a Brummie himself. Tim had won a scholarship to an exclusive school, and the Birmingham accent sported by the rest of the Bridges family had been refined out of him. He’d inherited Marty’s natural ambition, though. Kat saw him as a kindred spirit: she, too, was driven to succeed. It was exciting to be working with Tim on their new project. If anyone could sell Starshine Vodka, it was him. He’d cut his teeth in business selling Snow Mountain for his father, a task that still took up most of his time.

  Fingers intertwined, they walked towards the reservoir, past once-grand villas carved into multiple dwellings, newer box-like houses and the car park that fringed one edge of the square stretch of water. Beyond this, they found a bench from which to view a small boat sailing lazily across the shimmering ripples.

  A light breeze cut through the July heat, whipping Kat’s hair in front of her eyes. Her lover flicked it back and kissed her.

  She handed Tim a bottle of beer and divided up the food, giving most of it to him. She didn’t need the calories. There were enough in the glass of dry white wine she poured herself, opening a bottle still misted from resting in the fridge.

  “This area’s too rundown for you,” Tim said. “I meant what I said about the winter, too. You should move out before the weather gets cold.”

  “It never climbs above zero in Bazakistan for three whole months of the year,” Kat said. “Anyway, after everything I’ve done to the flat, my landlord won’t release my deposit.”

  Tim snorted. “You’re joking, aren’t you? It was a dump before and now it’s almost habitable.”

  She shivered, chilled by her misgivings rather than the breeze. Was Tim criticising the neighbourhood because he wanted her to move in with him? She wouldn’t do it, despite the pang of loneliness that always seared through her when he had to leave.

  A year ago, she’d been left with little more than the clothes on her back when she split from Ross, her fiancé. Now, her personal and business relationships with Tim were already messily entangled. If they became any closer, she’d risk being hurt worse than ever before.

  Chapter 3.

  Marty

  “Mr Vlasenko’s here,” Tanya said, entering Marty’s office with a tray containing cafetière, cups, cream and sugar. She set them out on the meeting table.

  Marty nodded to his PA, clocking a new hairstyle, then looked at his watch. “He’s early. Good. Bring him in.”

  He dimly recalled meeting Grigor before at the distillery. The man had worked at the Snow Mountain distillery since leaving the local university. One of the ethnic Russians who had settled in Bazakistan, he must be pushing forty. He’d been promoted to chief engineer under Harry Aliyev. In effect, he was now the factory manager, although his pay wouldn’t reflect it. Marina hadn’t hired anyone to replace her late husband at the distillery’s helm, and she certainly hadn’t taken over his duties herself.

  The strong aroma of coffee, a dark Italian blend that Tanya tracked down specially for Marty, was too good to resist. Marty helped himself to a cup just as Grigor was being ushered into the room.

  The chief engineer, smartly dressed in a suit like Marty, his dark hair and beard neatly trimmed, swaggered over with his hand outstretched. “How are you?” he said in Russian. “Your secretary – is her hair the fashion here?”

  Marty laughed. “It’s just as well she doesn’t speak Russian,” he said, matching Grigor’s language. “No, a bright pink pixie cut is a trend all her own.” It was the single distinctive feature of Tanya’s otherwise unremarkable middle-aged appearance.

  �
��Nice office, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” New visitors rarely expected to see a room like this, panelled and furnished in bird’s eye maple, the cream carpet and picture windows pristine. The view of the adjacent car park was unspectacular, but at least it allowed Marty to admire his gleaming Jaguar.

  Marty filled the second cup with coffee, and placed it in front of an S-shaped meeting seat. He returned to his higher and more luxurious leather swivel chair, stretching his feet out onto the desk. He steepled his hands beneath his chin. Continuing in fluent Russian, he said, “Enough of the small talk. What has Marina told you?”

  Grigor, now seated and looking up at him, grimaced. “You think my product’s contaminated. It’s highly unlikely, to be honest.”

  “Look at the test results.” Marty swivelled his laptop around, so Grigor could see the email in which Dan had set them out. “There’s methanol in your latest batch. Here’s the result of our test on the consignment before, so you can compare them. That one’s clean.”

  “Your son did these himself?”

  “Yes, he spot-checks using refractive index measurement to start with, then moves on to more sophisticated and costly methods if he has to. We’ve never found anything before, but we’re not complacent, and just as well.”

  “A refractometer’s not good enough,” Grigor protested. “Our quality assurance is based on chromatography.”

  “We went one better, actually. This time, to be certain, Dan took a bottle to a third party lab with a mass spectrometer. It confirmed our suspicions. Anyway, whatever system you’re using, it didn’t work, did it?”

  Grigor shook his head. “Marina wants more proof than this.” He gestured to Marty’s laptop.

  “She can have whatever she needs. I’ll call Dan here and, together, you can test another bottle.”

  “You’re coming too,” Grigor said. “I want you to see that my vodka is as pure as an angel’s heart.”

  “Very well.” Marty finished his coffee. “Ready?”

  They walked past the cubicles and shared office spaces where Marty’s staff worked in surroundings less grand than his. Beyond these was the cavernous warehouse, with its sawtooth corrugated roof.

  “Here’s Dan,” Marty said, spotting his second son giving instructions to a forklift truck driver. “We’ll have to swap to English now, as it’s the only language he knows.”

  “I speak pure Brummie, actually,” Dan said, a remark that went over Grigor’s head.

  “Grigor, Dan,” Marty said. “Grigor wants to test a bottle of the latest Snow Mountain. Can you help him find one?”

  “These crates here,” Dan said. He pointed to some paperwork clipped to one of the boxes. “That’s what we had this week.”

  Grigor inspected the documents and took a bottle. “This one,” he said, ignoring Marty’s instruction to speak English.

  “Right, we’ll put it through the refractometer,” Dan said.

  Grigor nodded. He seemed to understand.

  Dan led them to the lab, a pocket-sized, windowless room next to a toilet. He showed Grigor the refractometer. To Marty’s eyes, it looked like a piece of office equipment: a white plastic box with a screen on the front and a few switches.

  Grigor opened the bottle, squinting at the label. He winced.

  “What’s wrong?” Marty asked.

  “Nothing,” Grigor mumbled. “This was a special batch, that’s all. I didn’t realise there was any of it in your consignment. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because there’s nothing wrong with it.”

  Dan measured a small sample, and poured it through a funnel into the machine. “The moment of truth,” he said.

  Grigor paled as the screen displayed its result.

  “Do you need to sit down?” Marty asked, waving at a chair.

  “No,” Grigor stammered. “Just a stomach upset. I need to visit the restroom.”

  “Next door,” Marty said.

  The chief engineer rushed out. Marty held a finger across his lips. The partition wall didn’t quite meet the lab’s ceiling. If someone listened carefully, they could hear a conversation in the adjacent room: a telephone call, for instance.

  “…cancel the party…throw it away…” he heard Grigor say before the toilet was flushed.

  “Do you want to do further tests?” Marty asked, when Grigor reappeared.

  “No, I’ve seen enough,” Grigor said.

  “Dan, that’s all for now,” Marty said. “Grigor and I will have a private chat in my office.” As they walked back, he asked the engineer, “Do you want more coffee? Or something stronger?”

  “Neat vodka, but not from that bottle,” Grigor said. He seemed almost broken. The swagger was gone.

  Marty stopped at Tanya’s workstation to request more coffee anyway.

  “Well,” he said, when he was back at his desk, with hot drinks in front of them, “are you going to tell her?”

  “It’s been done. I’m sure I’ll lose my job over this.”

  Marty wondered if that was the only reason Grigor’s skin was ashen below that dark beard. “What’s the significance of this batch?” he asked. “You said it wasn’t for export.”

  Grigor shifted in his seat. “There’s a party at the distillery tonight, to mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of Snow Mountain. Marina Aliyeva reserved vodka for it, to serve at the function and hand out as gifts. We took special care in making it.”

  Somebody had, Marty thought. “Who’s going?” he asked.

  “VIPs,” Grigor said. “Dina. She’s top of the hit parade,” he added, in response to a blank look from Marty. “The Mayor of Kireniat, as well. Rumour has it that the President himself will be there.”

  “I see. Could Marina Aliyeva herself be responsible for the impurities?” Marty asked.

  Grigor gawped. “I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “She’s never had anything to do with our manufacturing process: not while Belov or Aliyev were around, and not now either. Why should she?”

  “Why indeed?” Marty said. “At the very least, I’d expect her to take an interest in quality control.”

  “She doesn’t have that background,” Grigor said.

  It was a reasonable statement. Marina Aliyeva’s skills were mostly horizontal, or, if Marty were being charitable, those of a secret policeman at best.

  “What does she spend her time doing?” Marty asked.

  Grigor shrugged. “Seeing her Government friends,” he said.

  “Including the President’s son?” Marty saw from the flicker in Grigor’s eyes that he’d hit the bullseye. “I suppose the old man’s got to name a successor soon,” he added. “May as well keep it in the family.” He could hardly criticise the Bazaki ruler’s nepotism: he planned to pass his own business to his children one day.

  “I know nothing of such things,” Grigor said. “What does concern me is our production problem. This shouldn’t happen. We have safeguards.”

  Marty stared at him.

  Grigor squirmed. “I’ll go back today and start investigating our processes. But I’ve got other shipments making their way on trains through Europe at the moment.” His eyes were troubled. “We won’t know if they’re contaminated until they arrive.”

  “I’m not accepting them,” Marty said.

  He couldn’t take the risk. It didn’t matter whether it was sabotage or carelessness that had caused the contamination. He wouldn’t buy vodka from Marina Aliyeva again.

  Whatever the damage to his finances, he couldn’t afford to. If Dan hadn’t spotted it, that special vodka would have killed somebody.

  Chapter 4.

  Kat

  “Yes, I’ll be there at four.” Kat didn’t waste words on Marty. She expected him to give more than an hour’s notice if he wanted a meeting. It was a question of respect. He’d put capital into their Starshine vodka joint venture, but she owned half of the company. She was doing all the work too, and for little reward.

  Still, it was a pleasant walk to his office through Bir
mingham city centre, its streets glistening in sunshine after a sharp rain shower. Kat enjoyed window-shopping in the kind of boutiques where she would have spent hundreds of pounds on Ross’s credit card without thinking twice. Those designer dresses were way above her budget now. Anyway, she dressed casually for her work as a distiller.

  Kat scanned the East West Bridges car park for Tim’s Subaru before remembering he’d driven to Manchester that morning. He was visiting a string of customers in the north-west. Marty’s silver Jag dominated the tarmac, a diamond in the rough among the Corsas and Skodas surrounding it.

  Marty, as usual, was playing mind games. He stayed in his executive chair when Tanya shepherded Kat into his office. “Pull up a pew,” he said.

  Kat sat opposite him, noting that she was positioned nearer to the ground. He must have adjusted his seat to tower over her.

  “Coffee?” Tanya asked.

  “Always. Yes, please; black,” Kat said before Marty could utter a word. She’d beat him at his own game.

  “Bring biccies too, please, Tanya,” Marty requested.

  Kat waited until Tanya had left. “What’s going on, Marty?”

  “I thought you deserved a pay rise.”

  She tried not to show her astonishment. “At least double,” Kat said.

  “Let’s say twenty per cent to start with.” Marty leaned forward. “Now you’ve proved you can get Starshine production up and running without a glitch, I’d like to invest in more capacity. Your factory unit is virtually empty. We can fit four times as much kit in there.”

  So that was why he’d suggested paying more; he wanted to quadruple her workload. “I’ll need to recruit, then,” Kat said. “Two qualified distillers, minimum.”

  Tanya arrived with the coffee tray, placing it on Marty’s desk before leaving the room.

  “Mmm, Illy from Italy,” Marty said. “Shall I be mother?” He hit the cafetière plunger and poured the dark liquid into two white china cups, handing Kat a plate of shortbread fingers.