by A A Abbott
“Here,” Sidey said. “It’s Tara’s programme.”
Shaun turned his gaze to the television, barely concealing his lack of interest.
A blonde woman’s face and torso filled the tiny screen.
“Kat?” Shaun said, hardly able to utter the word.
Sidey leered, his eyes fixed on the blonde’s cleavage. “It’s some Russian bird who makes vodka. Mint, isn’t she? I’d give her one.”
Shaun saw that the woman was indeed speaking in Russian, with subtitles. “We’ve been producing Snow Mountain vodka in Bazakistan for over two decades,” he read aloud.
Of course, it wasn’t Kat, but that just proved he needed to get out. “You know,” he said to Sidey, “I tried to buy some of that once, and couldn’t get hold of it.”
The distributor, Marty Bridges, had refused to sell him Snow Mountain for his casino. Shaun wished that he’d set fire to Marty’s properties, as he’d considered doing, including the redbrick building in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter where Kat had once lived.
He would dearly love to have her address now. It was impossible to avenge himself without knowing where she was.
“Tara does promotions for Snow Mountain,” Sidey said.
“In that case,” Shaun said, “can she do a favour for me? I want to find a bitch called Kat White. She’s friends with the Snow Mountain distributor.”
It was unusual for those who knew Shaun to decline his requests, but Sidey pushed it. “What’s it worth?” the cat burglar asked.
“All the burn you can smoke,” Shaun replied.
Sidey grinned. “It’s a deal.”
The programme continued for twenty minutes, during which Tara appeared for a split-second, brandishing a cocktail shaker.
“How come an ugly mug like you has a daughter like that? She’s class,” Shaun commented, his humour almost restored.
Sidey laughed. “Got lucky with my missus,” he said.
Shaun was overcome by jealousy. Had his wife been alive, he’d have boasted about her too. The headache returned with such force that he was compelled to reach for his tobacco again. Then, he sat silently on his bunk, imagining he was alone with Kat, a knife in his hand.
Chapter 10.
Vince
While Vince drew the line at shaving his beard, he’d hidden his ginger hair under a flat cap and donned sunglasses. He didn’t want to be recognised by anyone except Ed Rothery. The risk was real, albeit small because Ed favoured pubs south of the river, away from Vince’s territory. This one had a large beer garden, where Vince had found a corner private enough to talk freely.
“What’s this?” Ed demanded, craggy face scowling beneath a sandy thatch. His dirty fingernails tapped the smallest of the three pocket-sized packages Vince had given him.
“That one’s your money,” Vince said. “Go to the gents and count it if you like. Where the others are concerned, it’s none of your business. You’re just the delivery boy. I know what’s in there and so does our mutual friend. He’ll tell me if there’s a problem.”
“I don’t know why he would trust you, or why I should,” Ed grumbled, a whiff of sweat wafting from his armpits, his mean blue eyes staring straight into Vince’s.
“You’ve no reason to say that, Ed.” Vince was losing patience. It irked him to spend time with someone like Ed Rothery. The prison officer had a contemptible job, questionable personal hygiene, and a bad attitude.
Ed thought he was hard, with his bouncer’s physique and power over Belmarsh’s pitiful inmates. It was time to teach him a lesson.
“That Halstow Primary is a good school, isn’t it?” Vince said, his tone conversational.
“So?” Ed wrinkled his face. If anything, it improved his looks.
“So, your Emily goes there, doesn’t she?” Vince said. “Such a pretty little thing. I’d hate to see anything happen to her, if you get my meaning.”
Finally, Ed did. He reddened, cursed and spat. “Back off. Touch her, and you’re dead.”
Vince yawned. “Really? Don’t forget who you’re talking to, and who my friends are. But there’s no reason for us to fall out, is there? Go on, count that cash and cheer yourself up.”
He could best Ed any time. His body rippled with muscles under his crisp white shirt, and he was three inches taller. Whistling to hide his irritation, he rolled a cigarette while the prison officer did as he was bid.
Vince needed the sweet taste of Golden Virginia to calm himself. Ed’s surliness was the least of his worries.
Shaun had called him earlier. Landline access was controlled and monitored in Belmarsh, and mobile phones forbidden altogether, but Shaun could always access them. He’d left Vince in no doubt that Jon was off limits.
Vince had laughed it off, saying he had a lover, so why would he be interested in Shaun’s son?
It wasn’t Shaun’s only message, though. The words echoed in Vince’s head: tell your mum to zip her lip, or else. That was harder to address. She was rarely sober enough for a serious conversation. Did she really know about Jon? Vince hadn’t told her. Half the time, she was too drunk to know what she was saying.
Vince decided he’d visit her after seeing Ed. Finally, he’d relax later with Pino. They’d planned an evening of sex and drugs. Jon couldn’t expect fidelity, when he’d rarely slept with Vince anyway and he’d still be in prison for years.
The arrangement with Jon barely counted as a relationship, with Jon having girlfriends too and calling himself straight. Vince wanted more, of course, but he’d have to be careful now. You crossed Shaun Halloran at your peril. He was serving life because he’d shot a traitor dead. Ignoring him amounted to a suicide note.
Young Jon was no less ruthless than his father. Vince thought of Jerry and Scott, Shaun’s old schoolfriends, who Jon called the bootleg boys. They’d been thinking of going freelance. Once Jon had involved them in killing a dope farmer who had tried to do just that, there had been no further talk of it. Instead, when the bootleggers branched out from booze to people smuggling, a percentage of their profits found their way to the Hallorans.
They hadn’t made it big by playing nice. Just like Ed Rothery, Vince must never forget who owned him.
Chapter 11.
Marty
Marty’s desk phone rang just as he’d seen the forbidding size of his overdraft. He answered once he saw it was Tanya.
“I have Marina Aliyeva on the line,” she said. “Do you want to speak to her?”
“I’ve got nothing to say, bab, but if it’ll keep her off your back…”
Tanya put the call through.
“Marty! How are you? I am so sorry about our little supply issue.” Marina’s tone was a great deal more conciliatory than their last conversation.
“It’s not a ‘little supply issue’, it’s a deal-breaker,” Marty said. “You’ve seen my email, I’m sure. I won’t buy from you again.”
Marina’s voice remained sickly-sweet. “The problem’s fixed. I’m not charging you for any consignments since you identified it.”
“Good, because I rejected them all. Anyway, what do you mean by ‘the problem’s fixed’?”
“It was our quality inspector. She admitted everything to the police.”
“What kind of pressure did they apply?” He didn’t suppose the Bazaki police had been kind. “Never mind, it’s nothing to do with me. If toxic vodka has slipped through your processes once, it could happen again. I can’t take that risk.”
“No one else can make Snow Mountain,” Marina said. She was beginning to sound strained.
“Want to bet?” Marty said. “I can have it made anywhere. I own the brand rights, remember?”
“You acquired them from my first husband by sleight of hand.” She was snapping now. “I’m going to court to get them back.”
“I’ll see you there,” Marty said, before the line went dead.
He might have won the argument, but it was a hollow victory. With the August bank holiday looming, he had orde
rs for Snow Mountain, but no stock. Without Kat’s co-operation, there was only one way he could satisfy his customers and improve cash flow. He asked Tanya to summon Tim, Dan and Amy to his office.
“We’ve got a problem, as you know,” he said. “We don’t have any Snow Mountain left, and our customers want more.”
Tim ran a hand through his waxed fair hair. “Let me talk to Kat,” he said. “She’ll make it for you if she’s approached right.”
Marty chortled, despite the gravity of the situation. “I’m sure you’ll be very persuasive, son, and I don’t doubt that Kat can copy the recipe. Unfortunately, there’s no time. We need to satisfy the orders this weekend. That’s why I want Dan to take our entire stock of Starshine vodka and relabel it as Snow Mountain UK.”
Tim almost jumped out of his seat. “No way will Kat agree to that. It’s a different brand, different mouth feel…”
“Different bottles,” Dan interrupted. “The Starshine design is etched, and we use glass stoppers.”
Marty had expected objections. “Starshine is superior to Snow Mountain, so our customers will be getting a better product. And if we call it Snow Mountain UK, they won’t expect the bottles to look the same.”
“But it’s better if they do,” Amy said. “Marty, I can’t produce and implement a marketing campaign for a Snow Mountain variant in a matter of hours. It takes months.”
“Well said,” Tim agreed.
Amy shot him a grateful glance.
“Do we have to do this?” Tim said. “I know sales are down because of the stock-out, but they’ll pick up once Kat’s making Snow Mountain for us.”
“We’re nearly on the overdraft limit,” Marty said. It was an uncomfortable situation. He was used to the business generating more cash than he needed. Now, he was forced to sell investments and borrow to pay his wage bill.
“I’ll talk Kat round, as long as you don’t do anything silly,” Tim said. “Meanwhile, I’ll ring our biggest customers to convince them to try Starshine. How much have we got, Dan?”
“I’ll get back to you,” Dan said. “I don’t know how we’ll deliver it, though. I haven’t booked drivers yet and you can’t get them at short notice on a bank holiday.”
“We’ll have to do it ourselves,” Marty said. “Hang on, what about Hero Couriers, opposite? They’re pretty nippy, and they owe me a favour. I’ll ask Hajji.”
Outside, a few spots of rain were falling. The sound of a police siren cut through the still air. Blue lights blazing, a patrol car rounded the corner into Florence Street and screeched to a halt next to Marty. An officer wound down the window.
“You have to leave this area, Sir,” the man said. “We’re evacuating Florence Street.”
“Sorry?” Marty asked.
“It’s a terrorist incident.” The policeman pointed to the Hero Couriers garage.
“A bomb?” Marty asked, incredulous.
The officer’s eyes wavered. “I can’t tell you anything more, but you have to leave,” he said.
“This is my company.” Marty gestured to his premises. “We’ve got flammable vodka in that warehouse. I’ll get the workforce out as soon as possible.” He couldn’t afford to waste time. Hero was so close, an explosion would be devastating.
Another patrol car blocked the entrance to the main road. “He’ll move for you,” the officer yelled, as Marty sprinted back inside. “He’s just stopping traffic coming in.”
Marty unlocked the inner door to the lobby. If the worst happened and Florence Street went up in flames, how would his business ever recover? His insurance policy might cover his depleted stock, but he’d be sued if he didn’t supply customers and pay his staff.
Despite his financial woes, it was the risk to his employees that sent him rushing into the building. “Tanya,” he bellowed, “tell everyone to get out, fast. There’s a bomb. I’m taking you all to the pub, and it’s on my credit card.”
Chapter 12.
Shaun
It was eight o’clock: the end of the inmates’ evening association period. Shaun and Sidey had returned to their cell. Shaun knew, as soon as he heard the tuneless whistling, that Ed Rothery was the officer locking them in for the night.
“I’ve got a delivery for you, Halloran,” Rothery said, poking his unlovely sandy head around the door.
No doubt the screw intended the frisson of alarm that assailed Shaun for a few seconds. Ed Rothery often brought small parcels for him, but they were never given to him direct.
Rothery handed over a letter, smirking as Shaun inhaled with a gasp.
“Thanks,” Shaun said. The sandy-haired man should remember who was paying him. They’d have words tomorrow.
“Don’t mention it,” the officer said, his bouncer-like physique looming over the two cons and making the cell feel even more crowded than usual. “It’s from your girlfriend. Sweet dreams.” He marched out, the door banging shut after him.
“Girlfriend, Al?” Carr asked.
“Penfriend, Sidey,” Shaun corrected him. “A sex-starved nurse.”
Sidey Carr licked his lips. “You should ask for a conjugal visit.”
“Where do you think we are? Sweden?” Shaun asked. “No, don’t tell me. Watch telly, or something. I want to read Tracy’s news in peace.”
He looked forward to her letters more than he cared to admit. Tracy, who apparently wrote to several prisoners, always saw her glass as half-full. That was stupid of her, but it entertained him. Although they’d never met, he heard her voice chirruping from the page.
‘We had a triple bypass operation to perform today,’ he read. ‘As soon as he was up and about, the patient was asking for a burger and fries, according to my friend Teresa. A burger and fries!!! What was he thinking?’
Tracy hadn’t answered the rhetorical question. Instead, she told him that this had been a good week for her; she had breakfasted on Slimfast shakes for three days running without reaching for a mid-morning Mars Bar. With luck, she would lose a pound. That would make Teresa jealous: the pair had trained as nurses together many decades ago, and both had steadily added weight since then. Now in their early fifties, their own employer, the NHS, had chided them for their obesity. Tracy was on a mission to drop to a size 16 by Christmas.
She signed off by saying that was enough about her, but how was Shaun?
He chuckled, without mirth. What did she think? He was stuck in a whitewashed box with Sidey Carr, who had just used their shared toilet. The unpleasant aroma elicited a curse from Shaun.
Sidey grinned. “Sorry, Al. Had the curry earlier.”
“And don’t I know it,” Shaun grumbled. “Instant weight loss. You need it, though.”
The threads of a plan that had been forming in his mind began to knit together. There was no point waiting for Ben to liberate him. The lad’s head was in the clouds.
Tracy had unwittingly given Shaun inspiration. His penfriend’s troubles resulted from one simple fact: her calorie intake generally exceeded the calories she used. There was no magic diet, no superfood or brand that could fix that. Unlike Sidey, who was already suffering the consequences of prison stodge only a month into his sentence, Shaun had been careful to keep himself trim as soon as he’d been sent inside. He’d watched what he ate and worked out in the prison gym.
Jon did the same. In the brief week when they’d shared a cell, Shaun had explained his survival philosophy to Jon. The boy didn’t really need telling. He was already lord of his wing, as Shaun was of his: controlling the distribution and sale of drugs and mobile phones with the help of tools like Ed Rothery.
Tracy could be his instrument too. If Shaun lost weight, perhaps while faking other symptoms, he could play her like a violin. All he need do was persuade her to lobby for his transfer to a hospital outside the prison. Nobody had ever escaped from Belmarsh. Jon had tried to spring Shaun, and now he was inside with him. In a hospital, by contrast, security would be weaker. Shaun’s guile, Ben’s money and Vince’s muscle could overcome
it.
He needed first to ensure that Tracy trusted him. It was rare for Shaun to open his heart, but this time, he had to do it. He sat at the small table in the cell with a pencil and notebook, ready to craft a reply to his new friend.
‘Dear Tracy,’ he wrote. ‘It is a tonic to hear from a lovely girl like yourself. I have never had female friends except my dear, late wife. I miss her and dream about her every night.’
It was true, after a fashion. Meg’s death from cancer five years before had left him floundering. He wouldn’t have become obsessed by Kat, or taken the risks that had sent him behind bars, if his wife were still alive. Now, she appeared to him as he drifted to sleep each evening, sometimes flitting through the fantasies of night as well. He took comfort from her shadowy presence.
Meg could still shine brightly in his memories, but Tracy must be the object of his worship – or, at least, believe she was. Shaun smiled, and signed the letter with love.
Chapter 13.
Kat
“Breakfast at the Mailbox?” Tim suggested, opening the passenger door of his sporty Subaru for Kat.
“Sure. Let’s treat ourselves, because today’s the day I’m getting a pay rise.”
While the small amount Marty had offered before hadn’t materialised, Kat was confident she’d secure a large increase during their meeting later that morning. After all, he really needed her help to keep his business afloat.
Traffic on the short journey from Edgbaston was lighter than usual for eight o’clock. The schools’ autumn term hadn’t started yet. Many workers used the bank holiday earlier in the week as an excuse for an extended break. Tim took only ten minutes to drive to East West Bridges.
“Look, I’m the first one in.” He parked on the tarmac.
“Was there really a bomb there?” Kat asked, pointing at Hero Couriers’ shuttered premises across the road. It seemed incredible in such a sleepy backwater.
