The Bride's Trail

by AA Abbott

  Amy’s previous boyfriends had been the same age as her; relatively inexperienced in the bedroom and keen to finish quickly. Ross, nearly a decade older, had a different technique: smooth and lingering. Amy gasped as he tantalised her again and again. After what seemed like hours, she screamed as a wave of pleasure coursed through her.

  Ross kissed her mouth tenderly. He rifled his trouser pockets again, this time for his smartphone. “Forty five minutes,” he said, in a self-satisfied tone. “I hoped I could do better for you than that, Amy. Would you let me try again?”

  She nodded, lying back as he began to nibble her shoulders and breasts. Heat rose within her. Smiling, Ross donned another condom and concentrated on taking her to the peak of arousal once more.

  He was so fit because he worked out every day, she supposed, drifting off to sleep after Ross had left.

  Amy slept soundly, only waking when Ross phoned her at eight. “Want to join me for breakfast?” he asked. “I’ve been to the gym already.”

  Amy’s heart was light and she hummed a tune as she showered. She’d misjudged Ross before, seeing only his spiky exterior rather than the warm heart within. It was incredible that her father’s assumptions about them as a couple had become reality. Even in her wildest daydreams, she would never have considered it.

  Although she raced through her make-up routine and dressed quickly, Ross had already eaten by the time she arrived at the restaurant.

  “I ordered coffee for you,” he said, folding his copy of the Financial Times.

  “Thanks. This beats toast at Steelhouse Lane any day.” Amy determined to make the most of the sumptuous hotel breakfast, choosing flaky croissants and strawberry jam. The coffee, dark and delicious, cut through the sweet jam and swept away any lurking remnants of sleepiness.

  “So,” Ross said, “we’ll see Marty Bridges today.”

  Amy was relieved. It was vital to her to find Kat, both to resolve the police investigation into her sham marriage and to help her flatmate escape the men who threatened her. She’d hoped Ross would still give his support. “I’m so glad you want to track her down, even now,” she said.

  Ross stared at her. “Why wouldn’t I? I want to take Kat to Thailand, after all.”

  Amy gawped back. “What about last night?”

  “What about it?” His eyes were glacial. “We’re not in a relationship, Amy. You said you were my friend, and that’s all we are: friends with benefits.”

  Chapter 26 Charles

  Charles nervously lit a cigarette. He puffed silently, standing alone as city workers strode purposefully to their offices around him. As the nicotine worked its charms, he mentally rehearsed the speech he would make to Alex. He wasn’t looking forward to their meeting. With the bank about to collect millions from Bishopstoke if the Veritable acquisition took place, his boss wouldn’t want to hear about any deal breakers.

  He stubbed out the cigarette and went inside, still feeling like a condemned man walking towards his execution. Alex was on the phone, and waved him to one side.

  “Got to wrap up now,” he heard Alex say, and then, looking at Charles, “Can you find a meeting room while I finish?”

  Typical, Charles thought. Planning anything in advance was an alien concept to Alex. He expected his minions to do his bidding at a moment’s notice. Meeting space was at a premium too, with a deal in progress. Fortunately, Charles had many friends among the support staff thanks to his tendency to treat them like human beings. It was a habit that Alex and others had unaccountably failed to master, but it stood Charles in good stead. One of the directors was out all morning, and his secretary made his office available to Charles. She even brought coffee.

  “I’ll see you outside for a smoke,” Charles said to her, as Alex looked askance at him.

  “Down to business,” Alex said, shutting the door. “What are their IT systems like?”

  “Mostly good, but there are weaknesses,” Charles said cautiously. “Their product pricing is flawed. They make the same charge to smokers and non-smokers alike for health insurance.” He took a personal interest in such matters, and had idly checked while he was running system tests.

  “What?” Alex’s shock registered on his face. “That’s ridiculous. Smokers are bound to make more claims on a policy, so their premiums should be more expensive.”

  “They’re not, though.” Charles had brought his laptop with him. “Look, if you ask for an online quote, you’ll see.”

  They went through the screens, with Alex first claiming to be a smoker and then saying he wasn’t. The same amount was quoted for both.

  “Have you looked at the premium algorithms?” Alex asked.

  “Yes, and they appear to be different,” Charles said. “However, the code relating to smokers has been switched off.”

  “This could be good news,” Alex said. “Bishopstoke may use it to secure a price reduction.”

  He didn’t mention the possibility that Bishopstoke would walk away from the deal, and Charles judged it tactless to raise it. Instead, he listened as Alex made phone calls, first to the director who was leading Project Termite for the bank, and then to Bishopstoke’s IT director.

  “They want to escalate it,” Alex said. “They’re arranging a meeting with Davey Saxton urgently, and you’ll have to come along. Can I suggest you remember who our client is? It’s not your de facto brother-in-law, it’s Bishopstoke, and I expect you to behave accordingly.”

  “You can rely on me,” Charles said, inwardly seething at the attack on his professionalism. As soon as he could, he hurried outside for a calming cigarette.

  A dozen men and one woman gathered in David Saxton’s office an hour later. Among them were the IT directors of both Bishopstoke and Veritable, and Saxton’s opposite number at Bishopstoke. This was Alana Green, a black American with a reputation for ruthlessness. Saxton could have remained seated at his desk, setting himself apart from the assembled company, but he had chosen to sit beside Alana at the meeting table. He was no longer the curly-haired scamp Charles remembered from their schooldays. Already balding in his early forties, he nevertheless radiated energy and confidence. This was a man who was used to having his own way.

  Charles was easily the most junior person among the movers and shakers around the table. “Great view, Davey,” he said, admiring the picture window over the Thames.

  “Of course, you haven’t been here before, have you? I rarely have time to look at it,” Saxton admitted.

  Alex, his expression distinctly unfriendly, caught Charles’ eye.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” Alana interjected. “I invited us all here because I understand there are major pricing issues with your products.”

  “Not major ones,” Charles began to say.

  Alex cut him off. “Yes, we discovered errors in health insurance pricing when we tested your systems. Obviously, we all need to touch base on that.”

  “You’ve done ten times as much business with smokers this year as last, but only because you underpriced their health insurance. There will be losses when the claims are paid. If we extrapolate across your product range, Veritable’s profit forecasts look pretty sick,” Alana said, a hint of her fabled aggression in her voice.

  “You used a crucial word there: if. Maybe we can’t, and don’t even need to, extrapolate,” David Saxton said. “I’d like to understand the problem better, and I suspect Charles can explain it to us. Do you want to go ahead, Charles?”

  Charles outlined the facts he’d presented to Alex earlier. When he’d finished, everyone wanted to speak at once.

  “Let’s take comments in turn,” David Saxton suggested. “I want my IT director’s reaction first. Freddy?”

  Freddy, a dapper young man of Asian extraction, sounded angry. “It’s not an IT problem,” he said. “We just heard that differential pricing for smokers was switched off, right? Only two administrators have the power to do so, and I’ve checked who they are while he’s been speaking.”

&n
bsp; “Who are they?” Saxton asked, his face grim. “I want to see them here, right away.”

  “The Actuarial Director and the Health Actuary,” Freddy said.

  “Cari Harrison and Ross Pritchard,” Saxton translated. He jabbed at his phone. “Layla?” he said. “Tell Cari Harrison and Ross Pritchard to come along to my office immediately. Haul them out of meetings if you have to, please. Oh, Ross is away? Of course he is. Just Cari, then.” He nodded to Alana. “Let’s take a break until she arrives, shall we?”

  Cari joined them seemingly within seconds. A short, slight woman with a bright red pixie cut, she marched briskly into Saxton’s office. “I don’t think I’ve been introduced to everyone, Davey,” she beamed, looking around.

  David Saxton reeled off a list of everyone’s name, company and job title. Charles was impressed. He was sure Saxton hadn’t met most of them until half an hour before.

  “So, Cari,” Saxton said, “we know you’re a busy woman, and we’ll keep this brief. Health insurance sales have rocketed this year.”

  “Yes, we’ve taken the market by storm,” Cari agreed. “I introduced a new pricing algorithm and that really helped.”

  “On that note, I’m afraid to say we may have underpriced our offering to smokers,” Saxton said. “The code that differentiated them from non-smokers has been disabled by a system administrator.”

  Cari’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible,” she breathed. “The only person who could do that is Ross Pritchard.”

  “And you,” Freddy said drily.

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.” Cari simpered. “IT isn’t my forte at all.”

  “Could Ross have done this to any other products too?” Saxton asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Cari said.

  “I want to be sure,” Saxton responded. “Freddy, please can you check pricing of every product for which Ross Pritchard has administrator status. Cari, I don’t think we need you any longer today – please see HR at once and ask them to investigate Ross for gross misconduct.” He waited until she’d left, then added, “I think that concludes the matter. It’s a problem limited to the current year, and one product line only. There’s no need to extrapolate.”

  Alana Green rolled her eyes. “An accomplished performance,” she said. “She twisted you round her little finger. Smiling sweetly, batting her eyelashes, and making her subordinate carry the can.”

  Charles saw doubt in David Saxton’s expression. He waited with bated breath for Saxton’s reaction.

  “Fine,” Saxton replied. “Freddy will check if any other products, across our entire range, have been subject to administrator override. We will, of course, present you with full details of our findings, and you’re welcome to audit them. Happy?”

  “Delighted,” Alana said.

  Charles had always believed Americans incapable of irony. Alana Green had evidently worked in the UK for too long. She had gone native.

  Chapter 27 Ross

  Ross wished Amy would stop sulking. After the drama of the preceding day, they’d both needed R&R last night. She’d been as eager for it as he was. He’d been totally honest, making no false promises or declarations of love. What did she expect from a one night stand? He sighed. “Nearly there now. We just need to cross the main road.”

  “Easier said than done,” Amy muttered.

  It was a busy highway called Holloway Head. They had approached it from a quiet side street, although they heard the flow of traffic well before they had sight of it. Florence Street lay opposite them.

  “How’s your jaywalking?” Ross asked.

  She glared at him. “The single time a taxi would be useful, you decide to walk,” she complained. Eventually, the traffic eased just enough for them to dash across.

  East West Bridges occupied an unlovely corrugated iron warehouse with a single storey brick office tacked onto the front, seemingly as an afterthought. To the side was a lumpy stretch of tarmac, on which were parked a few old, battered superminis and a shiny silver Jaguar with the number plate MJB 100. The office door was right next to the Jaguar. There was an illuminated buzzer, which Ross pressed.

  A female voice, fuzzy with static, questioned them about their visit. The buzzer sounded to indicate the interrogator’s satisfaction.

  They were admitted to a small anteroom, shabby with chipped white paint and scuffed grey carpet tiles. It was empty apart from a couple of orange plastic chairs and a CCTV camera mounted near the ceiling. There was a white chipboard door leading to the offices beyond. Ross pushed it, to find it locked. “Welcome to Fort Knox,” he said to a scowling Amy.

  A middle-aged man, somewhat shorter than Ross, opened the door. “Marty Bridges,” he said, advancing with a wide smile and his arm outstretched.

  Ross shook his hand, noting Marty’s strong grip. The man was obviously in his fifties, his white hair thinning rapidly, but his physique was still athletic. “I’m Ross Pritchard,” he said. “This is my assistant, Amy Satterthwaite.”

  “Satterthwaite,” Marty said, with a pronounced local accent. “Sit and wait. That’s an unusual name, bab. I’ve not come across one of those before.”

  Amy glowered as Ross suppressed a chuckle.

  Marty ushered them into a large office, as opulent as the anteroom was spartan. Apart from the lack of a Thames view, it would have served any of the Veritable directors. It was panelled in bird’s eye maple, with a large polished desk and table made from the same wood. Marty pointed to black leather chairs clustered around the table. “Take a seat.” He lifted his desk phone and speed-dialled a number. “Tanya, bring us some coffees will you, please? Thanks, angel.” He sat at his desk, swivelling in a somewhat larger and more luxurious chair.

  A dumpy, purple-haired woman of middle years brought a tray with a cafetière, three white china cups, cream and sugar. She nodded in response to Marty’s thanks, leaving without a word.

  Marty spooned three sugars into one of the cups. “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing expansively. Once all the coffees were poured, he formed his hands into a steeple below his chin. “Tell me why you’re here,” he said.

  “I have a business proposition as I said,” Ross said. With a little thought, he had managed to fabricate a plausible excuse for the meeting. “I’m an actuary.”

  “Oh, bad luck,” Marty said. “A job for someone who found accountancy too exciting. Tell me more.”

  “I want to set up a new niche insurance company, and I’m looking for funding.”

  “What’s your track record?” Marty asked.

  “A first from Oxbridge, a rowing blue and ten years at Veritable, during which I was rapidly promoted,” Ross replied, handing Marty his business card.

  “Veritable, indeed,” Marty said. “My neighbour’s daughter works there. Parveen. She’s doing very well. Do you know her?”

  Ross realised Amy wanted to speak. He kicked her under the table, just a gentle tap on her ankle. The last thing he needed was a rant from her about Parveen’s shortcomings. “Yes, of course I know Parveen. She’s quite a livewire,” he said, as Amy simmered.

  Marty chortled. “A good description,” he said. “Parveen’s a bright spark, right enough. Is she in on your project?”

  “No, it’s at an early stage,” Ross said. “Before I bring anyone else on board, I need initial equity investment.”

  “I haven’t got any for you,” Marty said. “Not a sausage. Now, tell me why you’re really here.”

  “I can share some projections with you,” Ross said smoothly. Thanks to Cari, he was skilled at presenting an unruffled surface whilst panicking within.

  “Don’t give me that,” Marty said, his expression suddenly wary. “I’ve been in business long enough to tell when someone’s lying. I know who you really are. Lizzie Clements was attacked, and you’re the couple they’re looking for. Anyone can see you meet their descriptions. I could call the police and they’d nick you in an instant.”

  “We’ve seen the police alread
y,” Ross said, “and been cleared. Ring my lawyer and ask him if you like. The culprits are London villains.”

  “Londoners?” Marty said. “Why would they come here to thump an old lady?”

  “They’re looking for Kat,” Amy blurted, “and so are we.”

  Marty raised an eyebrow. Ross prayed it would be the last interruption from Amy. It was proving hard enough to gain Marty’s confidence. “You know Kat, don’t you?” he said to Marty. “She’s in grave danger. The men who attacked Lizzie meant to kill her. They didn’t succeed. They won’t want to fail again.”

  Marty sipped his coffee in silence. “I don’t understand,” he said eventually. “What has Kat done to make anyone want to kill her?”

  “She owes money,” Amy chipped in.

  Ross was surprised she didn’t say more. As it happened, Marty nodded, apparently accepting her reply.

  “I haven’t seen Kat for years,” Marty said. “Or Lizzie either. I sent flowers to the hospital as soon as I heard, of course. She was my housekeeper for many years. Prone to giving her opinion where it wasn’t wanted, mind. That’s why she’s not working for me now. She couldn’t half give it some lip, but she didn’t deserve a battering.”

  “Nor does Kat,” Ross said.

  “It might help me make my mind up if you tell me who you are,” Marty said curtly.

  “I’m Kat’s boyfriend and Amy’s her flatmate,” Ross said.

  “Okay,” Marty said slowly. “I think I will ring your lawyer if you don’t mind. Who is he?”

  “It’s Ted Edwards of Edwards Margettson.”

  “I’ll look him up online,” Marty said. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside until I’ve phoned him.”

  Purple-haired Tanya was summoned to take Ross and Amy back to the lobby. “Would you like more coffee?” she offered.

  Ross looked around the unprepossessing room, seeing nowhere for Tanya to leave a tray. He struggled to hide his exasperation. “I think not,” he murmured.

  It was a matter of minutes before Bridges returned, his face wreathed in smiles. “You’re a jolly good chap, I hear,” he said, in a passable imitation of the lawyer’s refined vowels. “Come back to my office. Tanya’s making another drink for you.”