The grass trail, p.11
The Grass Trail, page 11
part #3 of The Trail Series
“If you ask me,” Jon said, “Jonesy was grassed up to the Old Bill by his mates inside. The brief said as much.”
“Who?” Shaun asked.
“You tell me,” Jon said. “Who knew we were planning it?”
Shaun recalled the silent gambler, Kemble. Apparently absorbed in mathematical puzzles, he’d heard enough to be aware a theft was in prospect. Although the fine detail had been communicated by Jon to Geoff Jones later, it wouldn’t take a genius to join the dots. Then there was the Welshman, Tyler Williams, listening outside the cell. “Leave that one with me,” he said. “Anything else I should know?”
“Only Anton,” Jon said. “He’s refusing point blank to supply any more.”
“Take care of the old hippy like we agreed,” Shaun said. “Problems on the outside are your job. I’ll deal with the cons inside.”
He didn’t know which of the two inmates had grassed, or if indeed either of them had done so. Perhaps Kat was responsible for the fiasco after all. He couldn’t afford to take a chance, though. Both Williams and Kemble needed to be reminded that informing wouldn’t be tolerated.
Williams was the easier target. It was twenty four hours until payday, so the Welshman would be short of tobacco. Jenner was bound to be his first port of call.
“Jens,” Shaun asked, as they sat in their cell with the evening meal, a lurid yellow soup masquerading as chicken curry, “Do you have an assignation with Tyler Williams tonight?”
Jenner winced. “Not an assignation, as such,” he said. “I’m expecting him to visit for a chat later.”
“I’ll stick around for him,” Shaun said. He’d usually spend the evening association period outside the cell, seeing to business, but there was time enough for that afterwards.
Jenner looked uncomfortable. “I rather hoped he and I could speak in private.”
“Do whatever you like,” Shaun said. “I want words with him first.”
Jenner shrugged. He evidently knew better than to refuse. “Cup of tea?” he asked.
Shaun assented, watching as Jenner busied himself with their little kettle. “I’ll refill that,” he said, once the brew was made.
“I was saving the milk for later,” Jenner protested. Neither of them had any time for the creamer that was supplied in the tea pack; they retained a carefully measured amount of breakfast milk to use throughout the day.
“I’m not making another,” Shaun said, holding the kettle under the tap. He set it to one side without switching it on. Jens seemed puzzled. He’d learn.
It wasn’t long before Tyler Williams arrived, standing hesitantly on the threshold of the cell.
“Come in,” Shaun invited him.
Williams grimaced. “I thought we’d be alone,” he said to Jenner.
“Soon, my boy,” Jenner said, ushering him into the room. “My friend just wanted a word first.”
Shaun picked up the kettle, immediately clocking the fear in Williams’ eyes. He poured the ice-cold contents over the Welshman.
Jenner’s jaw fell. “What did you do that for?” he gasped.
Shaun ignored him. “That was a warning,” he said to Williams. “Don’t ever grass me up. The next time, it’ll be a proper jugging.” The kettle would be boiling, with sugar in it so the hot liquid stuck to the skin. Apart from naïve newcomers like Jenner, all prisoners knew this. Tyler Williams, by his reaction, was no exception.
“I’ve never…” Williams began.
“Shut it,” Shaun said. “I don’t know you. None of us do. You were shipped in from Cardiff all of a sudden. You could be a nonce for all I know. Your paperwork says you’re a blagger, but it could have been faked. Count yourself lucky. I’m giving you a second chance.” It wasn’t unknown for the authorities to provide sex offenders with false documents. No right-thinking criminal would tolerate their presence on the wing if they knew the truth. That was how such prisoners were blackmailed into becoming informants.
Shaun supposed he could have asked Ed Rothery if this was the case, but Rothery wouldn’t necessarily know, or be truthful.
Jenner was apoplectic. “This is extreme,” he protested. “My young friend simply wishes to be allowed to smoke, which is his basic human right.”
“I’ve told it like it is,” Shaun said. “All he has to do is behave himself. Anyway,” he was a lot calmer now, “I’ll leave you two to ‘chat’. Or whatever.”
He left to mete out the same treatment to Kemble, having first issued a judicious threat to the gambler’s new cellmate to make himself scarce until bang-up.
Kemble took the dunking, administered using his own kettle, with dead eyes. “I won’t let you down,” he said to Shaun. “I need my skag, don’t I?”
That made sense, and Shaun almost regretted his haste. Still, a chill ran down his spine when he pondered on Kemble’s distant eyes. His unease vanished on returning to his cell. Jenner was in a foul mood, and not shy to share the reason.
“Williams is invoking Rule 45,” Jenner said gloomily, “whatever that is, but it means he’s going to be segregated. I’ve just helped him with his application.”
“Oh dear, Jens, are you going to miss your toy boy?” Shaun said. He regarded Williams’ action as vindicating his threat, and therefore had no sympathy for the MP.
Jenner gave him a filthy look, switching on the television and pointedly making a single cup of tea.
Chapter 18.
MARTY
Marty faced a dilemma. A hospital visit was neither the time nor place to shout at Erik about the illegal still in Leopold Passage. Anyway, although he was seething at the discovery, he was nevertheless worried about Erik’s welfare. As ever, he tried to defuse the tension with a joke. “This is all about avoiding your in-laws, isn’t it?” he said to Erik.
Erik didn’t reply. He was paler than ever. A row of stitches ran across his forehead and into the hairline, part of which had been shaved. Below it, his green eyes were glazed, staring out of the window. His hospital cubicle had a view over treetops and roofs to hills in the distance. A jug of water and a glass rested on the table next to him, together with a lunchtime sandwich, untouched. There was also a paperback, its title emblazoned in bold Cyrillic letters. Marty recognised it a dystopian novel by Erik’s favourite Russian writer, Vladimir Sorokin. It looked shiny, unopened, unread.
Marty abandoned attempts at conversation. “I’ve been down to the cellar,” he said. “It really is a mess. Lumps of brick and dust all over the place. And a load of pipes and vessels.” Despite the fine red powder covering them, it was obvious what they were. “Oh yes,” Marty continued. “They look just like the contraptions I’ve seen at the Snow Mountain factory. There’s an overpowering smell of booze, too. Rough, undrinkable slops, in my opinion.” Despite his good intentions, fury smouldered. He glared at Erik. “The kit isn’t yours, is it? It belongs to your sister, I bet. Am I right?”
Mutely, Erik nodded.
Marty’s lip curled. “What were you thinking of?” he said, anger adding menace to his voice even though he didn’t raise it. “She’s making poteen, moonshine; call it what you will. It’s dangerous. The stuff’s flammable. You, of all people, should know that.” He was aware of blood rushing to his head. No doubt his face was scarlet. “You put my property at risk, Erik. I deserved better from you.”
“Sorry,” Erik whispered.
“I was nearly on the wrong end of a police investigation,” Marty raged. “Keeping an unlicensed still is a serious matter.”
“She’s applied for a licence,” Erik said.
“Even so, I want her out of there right away,” Marty commanded, “and that heap of junk with her. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Erik said, his voice so subdued it could scarcely be heard.
“See to it,” Marty said. The fire was beginning to leave him. “I need you back soon,” he added, uneasily aware of his dependence on his business partner and starting to regret ranting so much. “When will you be out?”
“I don’t know,” Erik said, his words devoid of inflection.
“Your nurses seem to think you’ll be home in a couple of days,” Marty said. He’d given them a box of Quality Street on his arrival in the ward; they’d repaid him with a chat about Erik’s prognosis.
“Maybe,” Erik replied, unenthusiastically.
“Erik, can I help?” Marty asked, increasingly concerned.
“It’s nothing to do with you. You can’t do anything.” At last, Erik spoke with passion. “I couldn’t save her.” His voice sounded thick, almost drunk.
“Who do you mean?” Marty asked. “Kat?” It was his best guess, especially now he’d seen the still. Kat and trouble always seemed to find each other, and like everyone else, her older brother was left to pick up the pieces.
“Amy,” Erik replied. “I couldn’t protect her in the cellar. She was only there because of me. Her life was in danger, but I was helpless.”
Marty shook his head. “Why worry?” he said. “Amy’s okay. She was able to get to a phone and call the police.”
“No thanks to me,” Erik said. “I wasn’t there for her.”
“Snap out of it,” Marty said. “She’s fine. Trust me. She’s even said she’ll clean up your lab equipment.” Amy wasn’t the whiny millennial he’d imagined when they first met, and he was glad now that he’d offered her a job. Maybe he should give her time off work to see Erik. He should persuade Angela to visit, too. She was better at dispensing tea and sympathy than her husband.
Rising from his visitor’s chair, Marty clapped a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “You’ll soon be right as rain. I’ve arranged a meeting with a cannabis farmer next week, and I’d like you to be there.”
“What?” Shock was written on Erik’s face.
“Yes, that feature in the HuffPost really made waves,” Marty said. “I’ve been approached by three national newspapers, so darria tea is going to get a mountain of free publicity. And a cannabis farmer phoned me this morning. He’s about an hour’s drive away, with a large plot which he can grub up for darria cultivation. You know, maybe I’ll buy the land.” He’d make sure it was cleared, and zoned for agricultural use, of course.
“No way,” Erik said. “I left a message for you. We shouldn’t get involved with people like that. I thought you were keen to stay on the right side of the law.”
“Whatever the guy’s done in the past, cultivating darria is legal,” Marty said. “Unlike operating a still without a licence. Anyway, what else can I do? There’s so much interest in darria tea now, we have to grow more of it, and fast. Unfortunately, every time I’ve put in an offer on a farm, I’ve been outbid.”
“You could try paying more,” Erik said.
“I never overpay,” Marty pointed out.
“Don’t I know it?” Erik said. “Shouldn’t I have a say? It’s my business too.”
Marty’s anger simmered once more. He’d expected some debate, but not a total lack of compromise. Erik shouldn’t be telling him what to do. Who was paying for Darria Enterprises? Confronted by his business partner’s obstinacy, Marty would have to meet the prospective darria farmer alone. “I’ve got to go now,” he told Erik coldly.
As he returned to the Jag, Marty brooded on Erik’s reaction. The young man had been unusually argumentative. Perhaps the blow to his head had left more than physical scars.
Chapter 19.
SHAUN
Baptised a Roman Catholic, Shaun had spent most of his life avoiding church services unless his presence was required for a wedding or funeral. On admission to Belmarsh, however, he’d given his faith as Church of England. Every Sunday, he attended Anglican mass in the prison chapel, a rare chance to mix with cons from other wings of the prison.
The chapel was a circular hall with exposed brown brick walls, which to Shaun’s mind gave it an unfinished look. It boasted little in the way of decoration: an ecumenical space, it was designed to allow different religious banners to be unfurled as men of various faiths filed in and out. The prisoners were assembled on rows of cheap meeting-room chairs. Shaun, strategically seated in the middle, watched Marshall Jenner at the front nodding in agreement at the priest’s sermon.
The congregation stood to say the creed. “We believe in one God,” Shaun began. “What happened, Jonesy?” His voice was soft; swamped by the prayers of the faithful, it was inaudible except to those nearby.
Geoff Jones, standing to the left of Shaun, squirmed. “It wasn’t derelict,” he mumbled. “In fact, there were people in and out of the place like Clapham Junction. I’ve told your boy all that.”
There was a tap on Shaun’s shoulder. “All right,” he said, putting out a hand behind him. Someone handed him a scrap of paper. He read the message on it, a scrawled list of suggested prices for heroin, ecstasy and mamba. “That’s fine,” he said, giving a thumbs up. “I’ll pass it on.” He nudged the man on his right.
A screw was glancing in his direction. “For our sake, he was crucified,” Shaun intoned. His business was mostly done. He waited for the prison officer to look away, then turned to Jonesy again. “I handed that job to you on a plate,” he said, injecting a note of pure ice into his words. “You should have planned it better. I’d watch your step if I were you.” When revenge was delivered, he wanted Jonesy to know why.
“Wait,” Geoff Jones said. “That blonde girl was there. Kat. Don’t you want to know more?”
Was the Pope Catholic? “Yes,” Shaun said, careful not to appear too eager. Animosity forgotten, he said, “Tell me everything, Jonesy.”
Chapter 20.
KAT
The buzzer sounded, jolting Kat out of a deep sleep. It felt stupidly early, although she’d returned home straight after her shift yesterday. Tim was in London, visiting Mayfair clubs and five star hotels. Ruefully, he’d told her that he’d be staying in a Travelodge on the North Circular for a week. It was a far cry from the swanky hotels and business class flights his father enjoyed.
Already, Kat longed for Tim’s return, even though he’d promised to see potential investors while in London. The destruction of the still needn’t hold them back, he’d said; as soon as they’d raised enough cash, Kat could build a new one just as they’d planned. It was refreshing to meet a member of the Bridges family who really believed in her, and was so cute too. Tim was almost too good to be true.
Daylight was creeping around the curtains and her phone revealed it was after nine. Pressing the button to speak, she asked who it was.
“Post for you.”
Kat dragged a filmy negligée of the palest green around her shoulders, tying it hastily as she dashed barefoot down two flights of stairs to the ground floor.
“Sign here, Miss.”
“That’s not for me.”
The young postman persuaded her to sign anyway. Most of the items were for Erik and the freelance workers who rented desks on the ground floor. Usually, her brother would be up and about, but he’d been in hospital for more than a week now. She decided to take his post there later, leaving the rest on a shelf in the lobby.
There was just one letter for her, with a London postmark, the address written in a semi-legible scrawl and using the minimum words necessary to have it delivered: Kat, 3 Leopold Passage, Birmingham.
Back in the flat, she opened it. The contents sent a chill down her spine.
Who could have sent such a letter? Only Erik, Amy and Tim knew where she lived. Marty might suspect, of course, but he didn’t know for sure. Erik had owned up to the distilling equipment, but not to giving his sister lodgings. Anyway, why would Marty call her a slut and threaten to kill her? If he really hated her so much, he’d had plenty of opportunity to do something about it in the past. Whatever their differences, he’d never been anything other than courteous towards her.
Erik, ten years older, had been a rock to her all her life, his support constant and unfailing. His head injury hadn’t changed his kindness and devotion to her; he was still risking Marty’s wrath by offering her a home. He couldn’t have been anywhere near London to post a letter, either. Despite Amy’s recent frostiness, she, too, had been a loyal friend for years and was beyond suspicion.
That left Tim, Kat’s perfect lover. The notion seemed fantastical. Nervously, Kat chewed her lip until she tasted the sharp tang of blood.
Chapter 21.
MARTY
As a teenager, Marty had lovingly restored a decrepit BSA Bantam motorbike and taken it to the Glastonbury music festival. That was the last time he’d encountered someone like Anton Dimmock.
They’d made an appointment to meet at 10am at Marty’s warehouse, not far from the centre of Birmingham. Marty would have been the first to admit that the premises were functional rather than smart, but at least they could have a discussion in private.
Absorbed in paperwork that morning, Marty didn’t look at the clock until ten fifteen. He phoned his secretary. “Any sign of Anton, Tanya?”
“Nothing,” she reported. “Do you think he’s lost?” They were barely half a mile from New Street station, but Anton was driving. It wasn’t unknown for visitors to become disorientated in the city’s busy highways.
“He’ll have a satnav,” Marty said. “It must be the traffic.”
By eleven, he’d begun to wonder if he’d been mistaken about the date. He tried phoning Anton’s mobile, the sole means of communication with the farmer, but couldn’t reach him. Finally, at twenty past eleven, Tanya phoned to say she had ZZ Top waiting in the reception lobby.
Marty felt this was harsh, as Tanya herself favoured interesting hairstyles in improbable colours. Today, she’d shaped her locks into a sea-green bob. He knew exactly what she meant, however, as soon as he clapped eyes on Anton. The farmer’s hair and beard, a mousy shade streaked with grey, reached down to his chest. He was wearing a tatty grey parka, faded blue jeans and jumper, and brown Dr Martens boots. A smell of sandalwood and tobacco clung to him, alongside another aroma with which Marty had recently reacquainted himself.
