The Vodka Trail

by AA Abbott

  Davey suspected if anyone banged on the door to complain, he wouldn’t hear them. Alana had a top of the range Sonos soundbar, and knew how to use it. “Nice place,” he said, looking around as he sipped his drink. From the floor to ceiling window, he spotted the plush office building that housed the Association of British Insurers. It reminded him that the heart of his industry lay in the tall glass buildings rising from this web of medieval streets. “I’m afraid I can’t always meet you here,” he said anxiously. “I might bump into someone I know.”

  Alana didn’t attempt to disagree. “Rent a pied-à-terre,” she said.

  Her sitting room was dark red, like a womb. Her sofa was velvet, yielding as she pulled him onto it.

  Davey kissed her, pressing his tongue against hers, enjoying the sweet whiskey on her breath. He began to unzip her dress.

  “Not yet,” Alana said.

  “Oh?” he queried. “Don’t you want me?”

  “More than ever,” she murmured. “Longer and longer.” She reached for a gold pillbox on the coffee table in front of them and emptied its contents on a red lacquered tray. “Magic dust,” she said, sweeping the snow-white powder into two lines, holding her nose to one of them and drawing in the particles.

  She offered him the tray. “Why not?” he said, a naughty schoolboy grin on his face. As the rush hit him, he knew he was man enough for anyone – especially his demanding, inexhaustible lover, who was drawing him towards her at last.

  Chapter 8

  Kat

  Of all her fiancé’s friends, Kat had warmed the most towards Ted Edwards. If she’d stopped to consider it, she would probably have labelled the feeling as gratitude. Strapped for cash in the days before she met Ross, Kat had been persuaded to marry four illegal immigrants for money. Ted had worked hard to convince the authorities to drop all charges against her.

  His solicitor’s practice was based in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the elegant Georgian garden square behind Holborn station. Although a prestigious address, his premises were poky, sloping-ceilinged rooms at the top of a five storey building with no lift. Kat almost regretted donning her new Louboutins by the time she’d climbed several flights of stairs.

  Ted, tall, stocky, and untidy, seemed to occupy most of the small library in which he conducted meetings. He sprawled in his moulded plastic chair, a sandy thatch of hair flopping into his brown eyes. “Feel free to smoke,” he told her, with what might have been a conspiratorial wink, “as long as you don’t set fire to my law books. Strictly, it’s illegal to light up, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Kat was smug. “I’ve given up.” It was mostly true. She occasionally smoked a Silk Cut Ultra to enjoy a subtle hint of her old habit, but Ross and his friends didn’t need to know.

  “Ross must be a good influence,” Ted said. “Fancy that.”

  He offered coffee from a Nespresso machine, following her eyes as they rested on the room’s cobwebbed crannies. “You were expecting luxury,” he said.

  Kat laughed lightly. “You’re right,” she admitted.

  “I don’t aim to impress with swish offices,” Ted said. “My reputation is all I need. Friends and clients know I deliver. I’m more likely to travel to meetings – in police stations, for example. Talking of which, you relinquished your passport to the police last year. I’ve got it back.” He handed it over.

  Kat took it reverentially, as if it were made of gold. The burgundy document was her most prized possession. With it, she was free to travel anywhere: across the world, even in and out of Bazakistan. For this, and only this, she was grateful to Marty Bridges. He had helped her acquire a British passport when she was a schoolchild in the UK, suddenly homeless and friendless following her father’s arrest. “Thank you,” she said to Ted. “Is that the end of the matter?”

  “Almost,” Ted said. “The police have confirmed they’ll take no further action. I must confess, when Ross first asked me to act as your solicitor, I didn’t rate your chances. But your version of events has been accepted. The Crown acknowledges that when you married illegal immigrants, you were acting under duress. They haven’t found any witnesses who’d say otherwise.”

  Kat was hardly surprised by his last comment. She suspected potential witnesses were either dead or had made themselves scarce. “I’m glad it’s over,” she said. “I’m not proud of what happened. I want to make a new life with Ross and move forward.”

  “Ah, yes. Congratulations on your engagement,” Ted said. “That brings me to the small problem that’s still outstanding. Although you used false identities to marry the four foreign gentlemen, I’m afraid you remain legally married to the first of them.”

  “But I was put under pressure,” Kat said, allowing her lip to tremble. She admitted to herself, if not Ted, that the only pressure she’d been under was financial.

  “Not to worry,” Ted said, stretching his legs even more. “I’ll get it annulled for you. Can I assume I’ll be invited to your next wedding?”

  “The minute we’ve set a date,” Kat assured him. Ross would insist Ted was there. As old schoolfriends, they’d probably go on a stag weekend together, too.

  “I’ll get cracking on that annulment, then,” Ted said. “As soon as it’s done, you can plan your nuptials with Ross.” He beamed brightly, revealing unexpectedly even, dazzling white teeth.

  Kat recalled a childhood trip to an aquarium famous for its tunnel of sharks. It was the pièce de résistance, a corridor with a giant fish tank wrapped around it and a gift shop at the other end. She’d looked a shark in the eye, shivering at its alien intelligence and hunger, glad a glass wall stood between them. Ted’s eyes, brown and beady, fixed onto hers now. She was relieved they were on the same side.

  “Glad it’s in progress,” she said, steering their discussion towards business. “We arranged the meeting to discuss Snow Mountain vodka. How can I recover my father’s assets?”

  “A lot depends on the Bazaki legal system,” Ted said. “It’s not my speciality, so I’ve arranged for a Bazaki lawyer to join us. He’ll be here in ten minutes. Meanwhile, why don’t you tell me more about Snow Mountain? Until Ross approached me about this project, I just knew it as an exclusive vodka brand. Men order it to impress the girls in some of London’s nicer clubs. I’d like to know more of its history.”

  “Bazakistan was part of the USSR,” Kat began. “My father, Sasha Belov, was an engineer. He managed a vodka factory in Kireniat. That’s the second largest city in Bazakistan.”

  Ted nodded. “So he bought the factory when Bazakistan became independent of the Soviet Union?”

  “That’s right,” Kat said. “In 1991.”

  “I know Russian oligarchs acquired assets at a knockdown price around that time,” Ted began.

  Kat interrupted him. “My father was hardly an oligarch,” she said. “The factory was all he had. We’re not Russian either, we’re Bazaki. I mean, my parents were originally from Russia, but they lived in Bazakistan for most of their lives.” She stopped abruptly. Those lives had been brutally cut short. She would have to tell him all about that, refreshing her memories, reopening her wounds.

  “Do you know how he paid for the factory?” Ted asked. “It might have been a bank loan, or perhaps there was another shareholder, a sleeping partner who contributed the cash.”

  “I don’t know,” Kat said. “I’m not even sure how much it cost. I was a toddler at the time.” A blurry recollection surfaced: of a younger, thinner Marty Bridges arriving on a motorbike, handing over a briefcase stuffed with banknotes. She shook her head. “What I do know,” she said, “is that he made a big success of developing Snow Mountain as a new premium brand. His commitment to quality was second to none. He also took an early decision to concentrate on exporting to the West, and that’s where Marty Bridges came on the scene.”

  “Who’s he?” Ted asked.

  “Our distributor,” Kat said. “He’s based here in England, but he sells Snow Mountain worldwide. For some reason, m
y father wouldn’t work with anyone else. Bridges has made a small fortune out of it.” Her lips tightened.

  “That’s very helpful,” Ted said. “I know it will be painful for you, Kat – Ross has told me a little of the background – but would you mind filling me in on the circumstances that led to your father losing control of Snow Mountain, please?”

  Kat took a deep breath. “Eleven years ago, my father was thrown into prison,” she said. “He’d done nothing wrong. My mother wrote to me – I was only fourteen, and at boarding school in England – to say she was sure his name would be cleared and he’d be free soon. But he wasn’t.”

  Ted’s eyes widened sympathetically. “I assume Bazakistan is the sort of place where you can be arrested for dropping litter.”

  “Yes, it’s a police state,” Kat said. “Usually, you just bribe them and they let you out.”

  “But that didn’t happen,” Ted mused. “Any idea why not?”

  “He can’t have bribed the right people,” Kat said, “or paid them enough. Marty could have helped him out. He’d made enough money out of my father, after all. Instead, he couldn’t wait to do business with Arystan Aliyev.” She virtually spat out his name. “That’s the crook who ended up with the factory. The state confiscated it and gave it to him. Then my father died at the hands of a firing squad.”

  Ted immediately passed her a tissue. Kat took it gratefully and dabbed at her eyes.

  “What about the rest of your family?” Ted asked.

  “Letters from my mother stopped when my father died,” Kat said. “I couldn’t get in touch with her, however hard I tried.” Although desperately short of money, she’d spent her limited resources on phone calls, and even a private investigator. She’d drawn a blank. Maria Belova had disappeared without trace. “They must have killed her too.”

  “That’s terrible,” Ted said. He patted her hand. “I can’t bring your parents back – if only I could – but rest assured, I’ll do whatever I can to recover that vodka factory. The key questions to address are whether your father owned it and whether it was illegally seized. That’s why Arman Khan’s visiting my office in a moment. He’s a bright young lad.”

  He had a soothing manner, and Kat regretted comparing him with a shark. She composed herself sufficiently to smile brightly when Arman Khan arrived.

  He was perhaps in his late twenties, a few years younger than Ted, with the olive skin and heavy features of an ethnic Bazaki. His sleek black hair and trim beard framed an intense expression. Nearly as tall as Ted, he suddenly made the library seem even more claustrophobic.

  Ted noticed. “Why don’t I brief Arman on your situation, then we can grab a latte round the corner?” He summarised Kat’s story, finishing by asking Arman how Kat could regain control of the factory and brand rights.

  Arman fixed his intense gaze on Kat. The image of the fish tank returned, and it was with some effort that she stopped herself flinching.

  “I don’t think the English courts can help you,” Arman said, his voice soft with barely a hint of an accent. “Bazaki law applies to Bazaki assets. We need to be clear what the assets are, of course. With the limited information Ted gave me before, I took the liberty of having the Kireniat commercial registers checked. The Snow Mountain Company, first incorporated in Kireniat in 1992, owns land on the edge of the city and the local trademark registration for Snow Mountain.”

  “Who owns the Snow Mountain Company?” Ted asked.

  “I’m waiting to find out,” Arman replied.

  “Let’s assume it’s Mr Aliyev,” Ted said. “In that case, what can Kat do to regain ownership of the company for her family?”

  Arman addressed Kat. “The shares should have passed to you on the death of your parents,” he said. “You’re an only child, I guess?”

  Kat pursed her lips. “I have a brother,” she said, “but he’s not interested in vodka.”

  “Unusual for a young man,” Ted observed.

  That was typical of the rather dry sense of humour displayed by Ross and his friends. Kat waited a second or so before saying more. “I meant in the professional sense,” she told Ted, adding, “Erik’s always been more of a gardener.” Give her brother a square inch of soil, and he’d find a way to grow a beautiful flower on it. On the other hand, Kat, taken daily into the distillery as a small child, had grown to love the hustle and bustle of the factory, the tanks and pipes twisting like a Heath Robinson drawing, the rows of bottles full of crystalline spirit. It was understood within the family that she’d be schooled in England to learn the international language of commerce, then work for Marty with the aim of taking over the distribution of the product in due course.

  “The good news is that Bazakistan has equal rights for women,” Arman said. “A Communist legacy. So you have equal inheritance rights with your brother, Kat. The bad news is that he’s in line for fifty per cent of your parents’ estate, so you’ll need his co-operation.”

  “I presume we don’t just write to the commercial registry in Bazakistan and say Kat wants to claim her inheritance?” Ted asked.

  “Not quite,” Arman said. “There are forms to be completed, court proceedings to be taken, commissions to be paid.”

  “Bribes?” Ted asked.

  “Commissions,” Arman repeated.

  “I take it you can organise all this from London?” Ted said.

  Arman tutted. “Not really. You’ll have to go to Bazakistan, Kat, and lodge the claim in person.”

  Kat felt dizzy. She hadn’t expected that. Glancing at Ted for support, she noted he seemed concerned too.

  “This is a country where the authorities killed Kat’s parents,” Ted said gently.

  Arman smiled. “You really needn’t worry, Kat. Bazakistan’s changed a lot in eleven years. It’s had to modernise rapidly since independence. I’m sure commissions to the right people can fix any legal problems.”

  “How civilised, and how unlike the UK,” Ted murmured. “What sort of money are we talking about?”

  “Up to a hundred thousand,” Arman said casually. “That’s dollars, not sterling, of course. I’ll need twenty thou upfront to put a couple of people on retainer.”

  “I’ll have to discuss it with my client, naturally,” Ted said. “What we really need to know is the likelihood of success. Mr Aliyev must be a rich man and would surely put up a fight.”

  “I would argue that Mr Aliyev didn’t acquire the factory lawfully,” Arman said. “I believe the chances are good. Whatever Mr Belov did, the seizure of his property was disproportionate.”

  “He was innocent,” Kat said.

  Ted nodded. “I know, Kat, and that should further improve your chances. It sounds like you can get what you want. I suggest Ross goes to Bazakistan with you, and if I know Ross, he’ll want to anyway. Let’s repair to the coffee shop on the corner and discuss timings and travel plans.”

  Kat glanced uneasily at their eager faces. She should be excited at advancing towards her goal, but she couldn’t dispel a deep sense of foreboding.

  Chapter 9

  Davey

  When Davey Saxton was CEO of Veritable, his nearest and dearest received thoughtfully chosen gifts and cards on special occasions. They were selected with great care by his efficient personal assistant. Life at Saxton Brown was different. Davey shared a PA with the rest of his team. The flowers he bought to celebrate his nephew’s birth were purchased in a hurry at Liverpool Street station. He jumped on the tube, leaving it at Great Portland Street and jogging for ten minutes through Regents Park before arriving at Dee’s Georgian semi in Primrose Hill.

  Dee earned so much from her online wellness activities that she could comfortably afford a full-time housekeeper and two nannies. A day after George’s birth, she looked relaxed and refreshed. Her spacious house was tidy, newly decorated in light, airy shades of blue, grey and off-white. A Mercedes sat on the drive. The front room resembled a hothouse. At least a dozen bouquets had preceded Davey’s bunch of lilies. Dee wa
s still able to find a vase for them.

  They hugged. “How are you?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said. “Would you like to see him? He’s asleep.”

  George lay swaddled in a Moses basket: a cute, red-faced scrap with a shock of dark hair. A tiny cotton hat made him look even more pixie-ish.

  “He’s got your nose,” Davey said, without much conviction.

  The baby’s eyes rolled beneath their lids. “He’s dreaming,” Dee said. “So far, he’s been very calm.”

  “Meditating already,” Davey said. “How did the birth go?” He rather dreaded the answer, but he knew Laura would want a blow by blow account.

  “Four hours, without painkillers. Thank goodness for yoga,” Dee said.

  Davey quizzed her at length about the journey to hospital, her short stay there, the medics in attendance, the baby’s weight, height and his full name. Charles, contacted at work, had arrived two hours before the birth.

  Davey recalled Charles’ abrupt, almost panicked, departure from the office. “I thought you weren’t going to tell him about the birth,” he said. “You swore me to secrecy. That was awkward.” Although Davey tried to keep his relations with colleagues on a professional footing and wouldn’t have volunteered information about Dee in any event, Charles had tried to press him for it. “Only last week, he asked me outright if you were expecting a baby. I told him he should ask you.” Davey had known that would be a waste of time; Dee wasn’t responding to Charles’ emails and phone calls, and she’d moved out of her Mayfair flat without giving him her new address.

  “Sorry,” Dee said. “I changed my mind. I thought he should know after all. Whatever he’s done, it would be wrong to deny him the experience of being present at the birth.”

  “Was he excited?” Davey asked, secretly relieved not to have received an invitation himself.

  “He was nervous. As soon as he’d given George a quick cuddle, he hared outside for a smoke.” She winced. “I wish he hadn’t. It was a cigar. You could tell from the stink on his clothes when he reappeared.”