The Revenge Trail

by A A Abbott

  Jakes took a deep breath. “Who are you?” he said. “What do you want?”

  “Call me Bob,” Vince said, plucking an uncle’s name out of his brain. “As to what I want? It’s five minutes’ work for you. Send Shaun Halloran to hospital.”

  “Who’s he?” Jakes said, to Vince’s surprise.

  “He’s one of your patients in Belmarsh.”

  “Oh, yes.” Awareness dawned on Jakes’s pointy features. “One of the lifers. I really can’t help you, I’m afraid, much as I’d love the money. The simple fact is, I can’t refer him to a hospital, because he isn’t ill.”

  “He’s got prostate cancer,” Vince protested.

  “Really?” Jakes said. “Mr Halloran lost weight. Officers on his wing reported his appetite was much reduced. There seems an obvious connection. True, he presented a urine sample with blood in it. At the same time, there was a fresh, bleeding wound on his wrist, which he claimed was caused by bedbugs. I don’t even see the need to waste my nurses’ time by admitting him to the prison’s inpatient facility, let alone a hospital.”

  “We’ve all heard about things like this being missed. There’s no harm in checking it out properly. Anyhow,” Vince said, trying not to show his exasperation, “whatever you really think of his medical condition, it’s someone else’s problem once he’s in hospital, isn’t it? You can’t treat cancer in the nick; he’d have to go to a specialist at the QEH.”

  The Queen Elizabeth Hospital was local for Belmarsh; Ed had advised that prisoners were sent there, albeit with an escort and a mountain of red tape.

  Jakes was beginning to look interested.

  Vince continued. “With those symptoms, who’d blame you for referring him? There’s no risk to you, just ten grand cash in hand, tax-free.” He sighed. “No risk to you,” he repeated. “But if you don’t want it, I’m leaving.” He opened the front door.

  “Wait,” Jakes said. “Perhaps I’ve been hasty. Visible blood in his urine could be flagging bladder or kidney cancer. That’s more likely than a prostate problem. In any event, professionally, it wouldn’t hurt to make absolutely certain. After all, he is quite a high-profile inmate.”

  Vince closed the door again. Just as he’d thought, the carrot had been enough. Marshall would be different, though, he reflected sorrowfully. No carrot could be big enough for the task he had in mind for the former MP.

  Chapter 29.

  Marty

  “It’s all about Kat,” Amy announced.

  “Pardon?” Marty said.

  “The Starshine marketing plan.” Standing next to Marty’s meeting table, Amy pointed a remote control unit at one of the wood-panelled walls. It slid away to reveal a huge screen. A presentation slide appeared with a tap of her laptop.

  “There’s been a gin boom in the UK since 2009,” she said. “Craft gins are leading the way. Sales have almost doubled year on year.”

  “What’s that got to do with Kat?” Marty asked.

  “Listen up, Dad,” Tim said. “Amy’s market research is really interesting.”

  Marty poured himself another cup of coffee with cream, and stretched back, feet on his desk.

  “The most successful producers are those who tell a compelling story to the media,” Amy said. “We think we can do it for vodka too. I ran tests with separate focus groups of gin and vodka drinkers, mainly young people living in urban areas.”

  “How much did it cost to ply them with booze?” Marty said, wondering when the bill would arrive.

  “Nothing,” Amy said. “It was an online survey. Everyone who took part went into a draw for shopping vouchers with aspirational brands. They earned an extra place in the draw if one of their friends took part. That’s how I extended its reach cheaply.”

  “Clever,” Marty said. He gave credit where it was due.

  “A very small number would buy Starshine if they knew nothing about it. That rises to ten per cent of the vodka drinkers when they’re given an amusing quiz. But once they see a video of Kat explaining it’s her brand and her dream, over half of both groups want to try it.”

  “Craft vodka hasn’t taken off,” Tim said. “But we know it can, especially if Kat is the face of Starshine. She’s up for it, too. Kat will do...”

  “Whatever it takes?” Marty said. “You don’t need to tell me, son. I know she’s ambitious.”

  “There have to be safeguards,” Amy said. “Although Kat wants to help, she’s afraid Shaun Halloran will find out where she lives and send an associate to kill her. In fact, we encountered one of them in a London pub six months ago, but that seems to have been a false alarm.”

  Tim jumped to his feet. “You’re joking, aren’t you, Amy? Kat didn’t mention it to me.”

  “She didn’t want to worry you,” Amy said. “We knew it was just a coincidence, because the man saw her and ran away.”

  “Calm down, Tim,” Marty said. “I take your point, Amy. Kat can front the brand, but we won’t take unnecessary risks.”

  “I’ve been talking to a couple of exclusive clubs in London,” Tim said. “High-end places, who take Snow Mountain. They’d allow us to introduce Starshine to select groups of journalists in specially curated events.”

  “We’d all be there, but Kat would take the lead,” Amy said.

  “She wants to do it soon, before her condition shows,” Tim said.

  Marty chuckled. “I can understand that. She likes tight dresses. And swilling vodka with a baby on the way isn’t a good look.”

  Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Kat hasn’t touched a drop since Christmas.”

  “It’ll take a month to arrange, at least,” Amy said.

  Marty tried, and failed, to remember when his wife’s pregnancies had been visible more than two decades before. Angela favoured lycra underwear when she judged her weight to be fractionally too high; perhaps she could give Kat some tips. “We’re looking at March, then,” he said. “Let’s do it around Charles and Dee’s wedding. We’ll all be in London anyway.”

  That would limit the cost. If Amy was right, his vodka business would finally turn the corner.

  Marty hoped it would be in time. Erik was deeply unimpressed at the darria research freeze. Would he wait a few months longer, or would he lose patience and begin seeking funds elsewhere?

  Chapter 30.

  Shaun

  Shaun’s day had been a blur: the early awakening as he was dragged from his cell, the journey to hospital with double cuffs, the introduction to a cancer specialist in this secure, window-less room. Then there had been the ‘fainting episode’.

  He’d claimed to be dizzy. After staggering a couple of steps, he’d flung himself to the ground, taking a cursing screw with him. Having ensured he landed badly, crunching his head on the floor, Shaun had lain completely still with his eyes closed.

  It hadn’t worked. Although no one doubted he was out cold, they hadn’t removed his cuffs. After he’d played dead for an hour, though, the screw to whom he’d been shackled had got bored. They’d left him chained to a bed, naked save for underpants and a hospital gown.

  Both officers who had brought him to the hospital must be standing guard nearby. They weren’t in the room, but they were probably just outside it, earning overtime while they drank tea and looked at dirty magazines together.

  The bed was more comfortable than the bunk he’d left, although his surroundings were overheated and reeked of disinfectant. He was hungry, which was his normal condition these days, but he was desperately thirsty too.

  It had been quiet for a while. Shaun cautiously raised his eyelids a fraction, allowing himself the merest sliver of vision. The small, square room was empty.

  As his eyes adjusted to the blazing fluorescent light, he noted white walls, a white ceramic sink and a light wood door with an L-shaped handle. A plasticky blue curtain sectioned off a corner of the room. In size and institutional feel, the space resembled a very clean and modern prison cell.

  There was the sound of a key in a lock. The L-
shaped handle began to rotate. Shaun lay motionless.

  Kat entered the room.

  Was he dreaming? Because he’d pretended to faint, Shaun had received nothing to eat or drink all day. While he was used to short rations, he was hungry and lightheaded by now. Perhaps he was genuinely ill.

  Uncertain if the striking blonde was a delusion, Shaun held his breath. Kat approached him, her long hair tied in a ponytail, an enquiring glint in her green eyes. She looked real enough. What was she doing here, in a nurse’s blue tunic? Was that a syringe in her hand? Did she intend to kill him?

  Feverishly, Shaun’s glazed eyes stared at her, willing the apparition to disappear.

  The news from Sidey’s daughter was that Kat was making vodka in Birmingham. If she came to London, it would be for a drinks industry event, not to help the hard-pressed NHS.

  As the girl neared, Shaun smelled antiseptic and alcohol rub rather than Chanel. Her chest hovered above him. ‘Megan Plummer, nurse’, Shaun read. It wasn’t Kat.

  Once he knew, he noticed differences: a shorter nose, an upturned mouth, a brisker manner. He chanced speaking, taking care to slur his words. “I’m in heaven,” he murmured. “You’re an angel in blue.”

  The nurse looked surprised, but not displeased. “Heard that before,” she said, her vocal chords lower and less aristocratic than Kat’s cut-glass tones. “I’m glad to see you’re awake, Mr Halloran. I’d better let your escorts know.”

  “Escorts? Their private lives aren’t my business,” Shaun said. “Don’t tell them anything, Megan.” He deliberately used her name to establish rapport. “Look at me, all chained up in a locked room. I’m not going anywhere. My name isn’t Houdini.”

  He paused. “It’s not Mr Halloran either. I’m Shaun, darling.”

  Megan appeared to be stifling a giggle, but it emerged regardless. “Very well, Shaun Darling.” She peered at him. “How are you feeling?”

  “Could be better,” Shaun said. “I’ve got the worst headache of my life, and I feel sick. I can’t even move.” He kept his limbs still, his iron will curbing the twitchiness imposed by lack of nicotine. Adding symptoms of concussion and stroke to his list of woes might stop the medics returning him to Belmarsh.

  Megan regarded him with concern. “How’s your vision, Shaun?”

  “Blurry,” Shaun said. “I can see lines and stars.” That, after all, was what Sidey had yelled as he was carted away to the segregation unit.

  Nobody had noticed that Sidey Carr was having a stroke. He might not even have been drunk. After he’d fallen over a few times, the screws had realised he wasn’t kidding. Ironically, Sidey had been taken to hospital. Some guys had all the luck. Shaun had suffered months of dieting, when all you had to do was pick a fight with a screw.

  Megan tutted sympathetically. “Has this happened before?” she asked.

  “Just now, when I went unconscious,” Shaun said.

  “You’ve been through the wars,” Megan said, scanning the notes clipped to his bed in a plastic wallet. “Suspected renal tract and prostate cancer. And fainting, of course. Let me take your pulse, please, Shaun.” She placed a clip on the tip of his index finger.

  Shaun felt a thrill as a beautiful woman touched him for the first time in three years, albeit to carry out a routine medical procedure.

  “Now your blood pressure,” Megan said, strapping a cloth cuff around his left arm.

  “I can’t feel anything in that arm, Megan. Or my left leg. I think it’s a stroke.” It was a challenge making his words sound garbled, yet sufficiently coherent and tinged with worry to raise unease in her mind.

  “I’ll put it on your right arm, then.”

  She switched it around. He felt the armband tighten and release.

  “That seems normal,” Megan said. “Are you ready for my party piece?”

  “What’s that, Megan?”

  “A rectal examination. You can be sure I’ll enjoy it as much as you will.”

  Shaun spluttered. “Is it really necessary?”

  “It’s absolutely standard. You had one at Belmarsh, didn’t you? Your notes say they found an enlarged prostate in March – that’s earlier this month.”

  “Of course.” He’d had no such procedure. Jakes must have pretended to have done it. “I don’t see why I need it again.”

  Megan shrugged. “Doctor’s orders, Shaun Darling. Bend over.”

  Huffing, he complied, clanking his shackles and doing his best to make his left arm and leg appear useless.

  “Going in now,” Megan said, rolling a thin plastic glove onto her right hand and squirting lubricant over it.

  She stuck at least two fingers into his rectum. They were cold.

  “Ouch,” Shaun complained, as she poked and prodded him.

  “That’s odd. I couldn’t find anything,” Megan said, withdrawing her fingers. She removed the glove and threw it in a bin. “I expect the consultant will try it himself. A second opinion won’t hurt.”

  Shaun didn’t agree. Still, the more work the medics had to do, the longer he’d stay. “I’m sorry you had such a horrible task, Megan,” he said.

  “All in a day’s work,” Megan said. “It’s over to the doctors now. The next tests are above my pay grade.”

  “What sort of tests?”

  “I expect they’ll hit your leg with a hammer,” Megan said, to his alarm. It reduced only slightly when she added, “A small one. Then you’ll be sent for scans – ultrasound, and possibly MRI.”

  She lowered her voice. “Now I want to know about you. You must be a VIP to merit that level of security.” She jerked her head towards the door. “They tell me you’re a Mr Big.”

  Shaun decided to have a laugh. “Right. I rule the East End. On first name terms with the Kray brothers.” He displayed a jauntiness he didn’t feel. He’d never met the Krays, who were thirty years older than him and long dead.

  Megan didn’t seem fazed, just rushed. “I have to go,” she said. “If your condition worsens, press this button, okay?”

  “Listen,” Shaun said, “I don’t want to die here alone.” He concentrated on memories of his wife until, finally, he manufactured a tear. “The screws – guards – won’t tell my sons until it’s too late. Do you have a phone on you, just so I can ring my eldest?”

  “Sorry, it’s in my locker,” Megan said.

  She was probably telling the truth. There were no bulging pockets in her uniform. Shaun tried again. “Then when you come off shift, please could you call or text him, just to let him know I’m here?”

  There was a risk that his subterfuge would be discovered and he’d be hauled back to Belmarsh before Ben took the message, but Shaun thought the wheels within the hospital would turn slower than that.

  “My son’s called Ben,” he said. “He’s a good lad, not like me. He works in IT.” There was no point expanding further: what girl would be impressed by an uber-geek? “You’ve got a pen, haven’t you, Megan? I can give you his number.” Thankfully, he could remember it.

  Had he persuaded her? Nurses were trained to be caring, weren’t they? Although similar in looks, Megan’s personality couldn’t be anything like implacable, hard-bitten Kat’s.

  “Tell him he needs a PVO. He’ll know what that is – a prison visiting order,” Shaun added.

  “Okay, Shaun,” Megan said. “I’ve got all that. Give me your son’s number. I’m on my break in ten minutes.”

  A triumphant smile played on his lips as he watched her go. Even if she changed her mind, he’d find someone here who would help him. What cleaner or security guard couldn’t use extra cash? Somehow, he’d get word of his location to Ben; then his son would do the rest. Shaun would taste freedom at last.

  Chapter 31.

  Vince

  Marshall Jenner flatly refused to help.

  “I’ll go to the papers,” Vince threatened.

  Marshall yawned, almost certainly for theatrical effect. “Do it,” he said. “Who cares whether I had an affair wit
h you? The whole world knows I’m gay. It’s old news.”

  “What about your wife?” Vince said. “You said she wouldn’t be impressed.”

  “So?” Marshall said. “She’s heard worse things from better people, to steal a phrase.”

  “I’m a convicted criminal,” Vince said, a fact he’d omitted to mention before. “GBH.”

  “I spent nearly a year living with cons,” Marshall pointed out. “I can be expected to know a few.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Vince said. He aimed a punch, only to find himself sailing through the air and colliding with the floor. Fortunately, the hotel room had a plush carpet. His ego alone was bruised.

  “I took the precaution of learning judo inside,” Marshall said. “I persuaded one of my young friends to teach me after one or two incidents. Better late than never. Didn’t I mention it to our mutual acquaintance, Al Halloran? Fancy that. I can’t think why not.” His face, always florid, was redder than usual.

  Vince scrambled to his feet.

  “Don’t try anything else,” Marshall warned. “I should go to the police, but I’m going to give you one more chance. I’m speaking in confidence to my lawyer, though. If anything happens to me, or anyone disturbs so much as a hair on my wife’s head, you’ll face all the retribution the law can throw at you. Understand?”

  Vince nodded.

  “It’s a crazy scheme anyway,” Marshall said. “Nobody can simply turn up out of the blue to see a prisoner in hospital, not even an MP. Which I’m not, thanks to what our legal system laughably calls justice. I can’t believe Al had anything to do with your dubious plans.”