by A A Abbott
Tim looked sombre. “It must have been defused, or we’d have been blown sky-high. It doesn’t get more exciting in Florence Street.”
He reached for her hand. “Let’s get that breakfast.”
They walked to the Mailbox, an upmarket complex of shops and bars, and found an outside table overlooking a canal.
“Coffee for me,” Kat said, “and eggs royale, with smoked salmon. Did your dad really say Starshine vodka was better than Snow Mountain?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Then I’ll have a glass of champagne as well.”
A boat chugged past below, its bright red sides sending reflections rippling through the water.
“Maybe one day I’ll live on a houseboat,” Kat said, “travelling through the city as the fancy takes me.”
“Enough daydreaming,” Tim said. “Are you a hundred per cent happy about making Snow Mountain for Dad?”
“If he pays me enough,” Kat said. She raised her glass. “A toast to pay rises!”
“A toast to toast,” Tim said, tackling the full English breakfast set before him.
Fortified by fizz and caffeine, she strolled back with Tim for their nine thirty meeting.
Although they were a few minutes early, Amy and Marty were already waiting for them in his office. The coffee tray was on the table.
“Can you pour the drinks, please, bab?” Marty asked Amy.
She gave him a look that said, ‘I’m not your PA,’ but nonetheless obliged. At least she knew that Kat took her caffeine strong and dark.
Marty passed around a generous plate of shortbread fingers. He and Tim both helped themselves.
“So,” Marty said, oozing bonhomie, “you can make Snow Mountain vodka for us.”
“Yes,” Kat said. “No one will be able to tell the difference. I’ll need extra kit, and time to experiment, as we discussed.”
“How long?” Marty asked.
“Three weeks minimum after the equipment’s installed.”
“Then I’ll buy it ASAP,” Marty said. He frowned. “As soon as we’re done here, I’ll talk to the bank about upping the overdraft limit. Somehow, I’ll get the cash together.”
“Could you sell property?” Tim asked.
“Leave that one with me, Tim. It’s not your concern,” Marty said. “Your job is sweet-talking the customers into waiting.”
“I can do that.” Tim grinned. “I’ll offer them Starshine at a good price to bridge the gap.”
Kat’s eyes narrowed. “You’re bearing that discount, I take it?” she told Marty. “It shouldn’t come out of my profit share.”
“Yes, all right.”
He agreed so quickly that she was sure she had the upper hand.
“It’s a much better idea than relabelling Starshine bottles as Snow Mountain,” Amy said.
“That would be crazy. Who on earth would do that?” Kat said.
Did a glance pass between Marty and Tim? She couldn’t be certain.
“So, Amy,” Marty said, “how are we going to market Snow Mountain UK?”
“It’s the 21st century,” Amy said. “That demands a fresh new approach to life, and to vodka.”
“Great.” Tim’s eyes were shining. “Birmingham’s on the up, especially with millennials. We’ll capitalise on the city’s space age image, the shiny new buildings and the clubbing scene.”
“That might work for Starshine, but it isn’t right for Snow Mountain,” Amy said. “London’s the place for high end gin and craft beers, and that’s where Snow Mountain UK should be based. Kat, you’ll have to move production there.”
Tim’s lips tightened. His father, too, was simmering.
Marty came to the boil. “Do you want costs to double? I need to save money, not pour it down the drain,” he said. “Kat, you can fit the new kit in your existing space, can’t you?”
Kat nodded.
“Good. That’s sorted, then. Amy, you’ll be working with Tim’s idea. Got it?”
“Yes.” Amy didn’t look pleased.
“Right. Let’s get started.” Marty rose to his feet, evidently intent on marshalling them out of his office.
“Marty, can I have a private word, please?” Kat said.
“Of course.” He was all smiles.
She waited until Tim and Amy had gone.
“About that pay rise, Marty. I’m taking on significant responsibilities, and my salary needs to reflect that. I should be paid at least double my current rate. And East West Bridges should be picking up the cost, not the Starshine joint venture.”
Who was really going to benefit from her hard work? It was time to negotiate, and she wasn’t underselling herself.
Chapter 14.
Vince
Vince was wearing his flat cap and sunglasses again, although summer was over. Just a month ago, it had been light at 6am. Vince had seen the sun rise, gold illuminating the quiet trees, as he jogged with Pino through the southern tip of Epping Forest. Pino had insisted they run here as dawn broke, a gesture that had seemed as romantic as the rosy sky.
In late September, the woods felt different: cloaked in darkness, and chilly. Vince shivered. In his hi-vis jacket, he could have been a workman about to start an early shift at the hospital nearby. Later, the paths across the forest would be busy with commuters and joggers. They were deserted at this hour, as Vince had foreseen.
He was certain Pino would be here soon. The barber had told him this was his routine before breakfasting near his workplace, a hairdresser’s in Leyton. Vince removed the fluorescent jerkin, folding it small and leaving it beneath undergrowth. It might make him unobtrusive to a casual observer, but he didn’t want it to catch Pino’s eye.
A sound, the fast, rhythmic tread of trainers, disturbed the silent air. Vince skulked in shadows. His palms began to sweat as the runner approached, his heart racing. Treacherous blood, carrying a foreign agent, pounded through his veins. Hands trembling, he shone a torch on the man running towards him.
Pino stopped at once. It was him, without a doubt. Vince had expected to feel anger, but not the desire that surged through him at the sight of Pino’s hooked nose and waxed black hair.
The brown eyes that had once carried the promise of love were wide with shock. Pino would be dazzled and unable to see him. “What do you want, bro?” the runner asked.
Vince fought to utter the words he wanted to say.
Something about him, his height perhaps, spooked the other man. Pino fiddled with a pocket in his joggers, and waggled a twenty pound note at Vince. “Take it.”
Vince ignored the offer, finally finding his voice. “Why, Pino?”
“Vince?” Pino stepped backwards. He didn’t sound pleased to be reacquainted. “We must stop meeting like this. It was fun while it lasted, but…”
“You didn’t return my calls. You blocked my messages. My letters were returned marked ‘gone away’. You’ve moved house, haven’t you?”
“Only down the road. What’s it to you? I told you, Vince, it’s over.”
“I’ll never forget you.”
Pino preened. “They all say that.”
“You know why I won’t. Why I can’t. You gave me HIV and Hep C. You knew you were positive, didn’t you?”
“Get over it.” Pino said. “It’s not a death sentence.”
“It’s a life sentence,” Vince said. His mouth quivered, his temples twitching. Anger began to smoulder as Pino stayed unapologetically silent. “Why can’t you say sorry?”
Pino yawned. “You’re such a drama queen.”
Vince’s rage bubbled over. There was a flick-knife in his pocket. He reached for it with his free hand. A faint glimmer of moonlight caught the blade as it opened. Vince had never killed a man before; watching Jon do it didn’t count. When he considered what Jon would do now, though, he knew the answer.
Pino screamed, a yell both incredulous and despairing, and turned to flee. Vince rushed him, aiming his knife for the gap between the shoulder blades. Panting
with the effort, he pulled it out, smelling blood as he did so.
Pino was still standing. He moved to face Vince once more, grappling with him.
Vince thrust the blade forward, twisting its point through his opponent’s ribcage. He wanted Pino’s heart. If that didn’t work, he’d puncture a lung, and Pino would perish anyway.
“Help,” Pino shouted. The sound echoed through the forest.
Frantically, Vince looked around. He hadn’t anticipated noise or a struggle. Although he hadn’t seen another soul, suppose someone heard Pino’s dying cries?
“Shut up,” he said, jerking the knife from his victim’s chest. Fear and fury lent him adrenaline: he sliced across Pino’s throat, quelling the man’s voice, before slashing deeper. There was a bubbling noise and the metallic smell of blood. The hot, sticky liquid gushed out.
Vince found the yellow waistcoat, using it to dab at his face, hands and chest. Despite his anxiety, he had the presence of mind to pick up his knife and torch. Stealthily, he crept towards the ponds a few minutes’ walk to the north. It felt like an eternity.
Still, he saw nobody. Throwing the knife and torch as far as he could into the depths, he plunged in after them.
The shock of the icy water was like a thrill ride, consuming all his attention and thankfully calming his panic. Vince knew it wasn’t the end of a nightmare, though, but the beginning. Ever since he’d had the clinic’s letter, he’d wished he could wash himself clean of each deadly virus, like the bloodstains that were vanishing in the pool.
He could never sleep with Jon again. It had only happened a few times, before Jon went inside and Vince met Pino. The younger Halloran was bi-curious at best. Why would he bother with condoms and a tainted lover when he left Belmarsh?
Whatever happened, Vince was devoted to Jon; he couldn’t hurt him. He certainly couldn’t put him through this: the half-life of constant medication that stretched ahead.
The memory of sex with Jon, the best that Vince had ever known, nearly made him weep. Technically, Pino was a better lay, but there was no love involved in that equation. It had been exciting enough for Vince to contemplate a relationship, though, little realising Pino would wreak his damage and move on.
Shaun must not find out: ideally about Vince’s HIV-positive status, but definitely, and especially now, about the sex with Jon. Once the truth was known, Shaun would be overwhelmed by wrath. He’d have no further use for Vince.
A lifetime of medical treatment or a slow death without it was nothing to the swift and painful retribution that Shaun would exact. It would be a mistake to imagine that Shaun, in prison, was neutralised: others making that error had paid with their lives.
Dread and loss flooded Vince’s spirit. He considered staying in the chilly pool until the waters overcame him. Instead, he emerged, dripping and spluttering, the sun’s rays failing to warm his freezing bones as dawn began to break.
Chapter 15.
Marty
“You’ve had a letter that says what?” Marty asked.
“East West Bridges is using the Snow Mountain trademark illegally, and I’ll be sued if I continue to sell the vodka you’ve supplied,” Dominic Davis said, his Black Country vowels more pronounced on the phone. “It’s from a lawyer acting for the Snow Mountain Company of Kireniat, Bazakistan.”
“Can you email a copy, please?” Marty said. “It’s a load of rubbish, Dom; you know that. We go back a long way. You’ve been buying from me for twenty-five years.”
“You imported vodka until a couple of months ago, though, didn’t you?” Dominic said. “Now you’re making it down the road in Birmingham.”
“We have to move with the times,” Marty said, on message.
He was more worried than he wished to admit. Four months after Dan had found methanol, Marty’s bank account was still in the red. He’d borrowed even more heavily to ramp up production before Christmas. Just as he’d started supplying Snow Mountain again, Marina Aliyeva seemed determined to stop him.
How many more key customers had received letters like this? He hadn’t given her a list, so she must be guessing who they were.
Dominic agreed to scan the letter and email it to him. By the time their conversation finished, three new messages had arrived in his inbox, and he’d missed calls from Tim and Tanya. He could imagine what they were about.
Shrugging, Marty picked up the phone again, dialling his lawyer’s number. Katherine Evans was already defending him against the lawsuit Marina had filed in her claim for the Snow Mountain brand.
“She’s taking risks, isn’t she?” Katherine said, once he’d explained. “We can get an injunction right now to stop her sending letters to your customers. When her claim is thrown out, which I fully expect it to be, you could sue her for losses sustained as a result of those she’s sent already.”
“That’s if my business survives long enough to go after her,” Marty said, “and if Marina has any assets left by the time I do. She hasn’t found another distributor outside Bazakistan, despite her tub-thumping.”
“Why’s that?”
“How long have you got? First of all, the likely suspects know I own the Snow Mountain brand, although they’re probably aware of her claim. If they weren’t before, they will be now. Secondly, it’s common knowledge that I’ve refused to buy from her.”
“Does anyone know why?” Katherine asked.
“I’ve said nothing about the methanol. I don’t want to be tainted by association.”
“I think you should let people know,” Katherine said. “Stick to the facts. They have a habit of leaking anyway. It’s not my call, though. That’s down to your communications people.”
“That’ll be Amy in marketing,” Marty said. “I’ll discuss it with her.”
“You’ve no doubt got plenty of proof that her vodka was contaminated, and that you stopped it getting into the hands of drinkers because of your rigorous testing regime.”
“Right.”
“So, you can build a defence file and a communications strategy,” Katherine said. “Any questions?”
“How do I stop Marina destroying my business?”
“We’ll take out an injunction against her. I’ll also give you a statement you can send your customers. It will say that, if they receive a letter from Marina’s company professing rights to the Snow Mountain trademark, they should ignore it. We’d tell them her claim is entirely without merit and is being robustly defended by my firm. I can work with Amy on the words, if you like.”
“Yes, please.” Amy could replace the legalese with marketing spin.
“There’s more you can do to reassure customers. For instance, you could offer to indemnify them in full if Marina sues them – as long as they give you sole conduct of the defence, naturally. I think it’s unlikely she would sue individual customers, because any moderately competent lawyer would advise her not to. But you’d give your customers a warm and comfortable feeling, which is always a good thing in these situations.”
“Fine,” Marty said. “I’ll do it. It’s November already, and I can’t afford to lose sales in the run-up to Christmas.”
“Of course, before you incur legal fees, you could ring Marina and see if she’ll back down.”
That was so unlikely that Marty considered asking if Katherine believed in Santa Claus.
“It’s worth a try, Marty. It doesn’t cost anything. You might mention that if she continues down this road, it will almost certainly lead to complete financial ruin for her.”
Another dozen emails were flashing on his screen. As soon as he’d said goodbye to Katherine, he found the one from Dominic. The pompous letter from Marina’s lawyers put fire in his belly to call her.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” Marina said. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson. You can’t make Snow Mountain in England and get away with it.”
Marty held the phone at arm’s length and counted to ten. “I’ve told you before: I own that brand. If you carry on fighting me,
the only winners are lawyers.”
“Sorry,” Marina said. “Vodka from England just isn’t Snow Mountain. It should be distilled from pure Bazaki water and grain.”
“Kat manages perfectly with Birmingham water and Warwickshire wheat.”
Marina laughed. “You clearly trust my daughter to make vodka, even if you don’t trust me. Send her back home. She can do the job in Bazakistan.”
“As if that’ll happen,” Marty said. His dislike for Marina was amplified in Kat to an overwhelming hatred of her mother.
“Then start buying from me again, or your customers will vanish like frightened deer.”
“No,” Marty said, his patience snapping. “You’re not dragging my business down with yours. Back off, Marina, or I’ll tell the world you sold me vodka tainted with methanol.”
It was the nuclear option. After the phone call, when he’d finally calmed down, he knew he couldn’t do it. Once the brand was tainted in the public eye, who’d remember the problem arose in Bazakistan rather than Birmingham?
He could only hope Katherine’s letters did the trick. Otherwise, he’d lose everything.
Chapter 16.
Vince
Vince’s lock-up garage boasted a series of horizontal metal beams above his head, forming the bottom of a triangle with its apex at the roof. He’d seen films of gangland rivals suspended from meat-hooks, and in idle moments, suspected Jon would enjoy trying it. Vince had simply slung a couple of rolls of old carpet in the roof space. On top of one of these, he kept a Glock 17 pistol.
Detection meant an automatic five-year prison sentence, as poor Jon knew to his cost. The gun only received an outing on special occasions, like today. At Jon’s insistence. Vince was riding shotgun with Jerry and Scott.
They had their own vehicle: a white Ford Transit van, as anonymous as his hi-vis waistcoat. Vince travelled ahead on a Honda Grom motorbike. This was black, and it didn’t turn heads, except discerning ones. They were in short supply in the pub car parks he frequented with the bootleg boys.
