The grass trail, p.3
The Grass Trail, page 3
part #3 of The Trail Series
Amy was right. Leopold Passage and the redbrick streets around it were in the centre of a rapidly gentrifying area of Birmingham. The converted jewellery workshop was tastefully modernised, immaculate and trendy. Marty would undoubtedly love to show off to Aliyev, to say this was just a small part of his domain, yet look how perfect it was.
Erik frowned. “You’d better warn Marty to keep the man away from me, or it’ll get messy.” He wasn’t inclined towards violence, but he could make an exception for Aliyev.
“Imagine if Kat met Arystan,” Amy said. “She’d scratch his eyes out. And probably Marty’s as well.” She pulled a face. “Then you’ll be in trouble, once Marty knows Kat’s living here.”
“I pay him rent, and it’s up to me what I do with my flat,” Erik said. Naturally, life would be easier if his sister and business partner could be friends. He comprehended why they disliked each other, however. They both had strong personalities. Each had an entrepreneurial attitude; each was absolutely convinced that he or she alone was right.
“Kat needs to get a place of her own,” Amy said. “My studio seemed huge when I moved in. Now you’re virtually living here too, it’s crowded.” She squeezed his hand, before continuing, “I love having you around, but we need more room. And we had it until Kat commandeered your flat.”
“I thought you enjoyed her company?” Erik was taken aback. Amy and Kat had always been best of friends, had indeed been flatmates in London.
“I do like Kat, but she’s a freeloader,” she said. “You wanted to help her when she split up with her boyfriend, but that was nearly a year ago. She’s taking advantage of you now. She works in a casino most nights, so she could afford to pay rent.”
“She’s trying to start a business,” Erik said. “That takes every penny she’s got.” He was relieved that his younger sister had found a purpose in life. After their parents had died, she’d drifted, seeming destined for an existence as a party girl and a plaything for rich men. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t noticed there was a problem.”
He kicked himself for that. His work had taken precedence over his relationships. Even so, Erik was sure Amy had never showed hostility towards his sister before, especially when Kat brought samples of her latest batch of vodka for Amy to try.
If anything, he’d sensed friction from Kat. She didn’t seem impressed that Amy had a new job marketing Snow Mountain for Marty, thus enriching both him and the odious Arystan Aliyev.
Amy hadn’t finished. “Even worse, I bet Marty will go ballistic once he sees what Kat’s up to,” she said. “The cellar’s supposed to be your lab. Marty thinks you’re synthesising herbal extracts down there…”
“Of course it’s my lab. I occasionally do research there,” Erik protested.
“But that’s not all that’s going on, and you know it.” Amy’s eyes showed her unease. “What will happen when Marty finds out?”
“He never visits the lab or my flat,” Erik said. She had a point, though. He was risking the trust of the one man who believed in him.
Chapter 4.
MARTY
As Marty’s taxi parked alongside the restaurant in Ludgate Hill, he could see Arystan Aliyev seated outside with a female companion. The pavement was wide enough to provide a heated smoking area. Other groups were already lunching at some of the tables. Aliyev had a drink in one hand, a huge cigar in the other, and a grin on his face.
“I see Harry Aliyev hasn’t wasted any time finding a lady friend,” Marty observed drily. “That takes the heat off you, Amy.” He glanced at his marketing manager.
“How bad can he be?” Amy said, frowning. “It’s broad daylight and a business meeting.”
“I’ve told you all about Harry,” Marty said. “It’s up to you whether you sit near him or not. If he hits on you, you can’t say you weren’t warned. Of course, he’s always telling me the ladies love him.” He suppressed a smile. “In that case, don’t let me stop you.”
Amy, uncharacteristically dressed in a tailored black trouser suit, fastened the top buttons of her blue shirt. “Prim enough?” she asked, as Marty leaped out of the cab and opened a door for her.
Marty suspected she could look after herself. At five foot ten, Amy towered over him. He didn’t suppose for a moment that she’d be attracted to Aliyev. Thinking of his own bald head and spreading waistline, Marty wasn’t sure whether the years had been kinder to him or Harry.
Marching ahead to greet Aliyev, Marty recalled that Harry had once been very handsome indeed. That had no doubt given the distiller a head start in developing his reputation as a womaniser. Now sixty years old, Aliyev’s jowls were heavy, his skin blotchy and his hair thinning, but the habit remained.
He was also a tobacco addict, and he laid the cigar in an ashtray as he rose to embrace Marty. “You’re late,” he grumbled in Russian.
The hug was overpowering; Harry was taller and broader, and reeked of Romeo y Julieta. Marty extricated himself, recognising the young Bazaki woman next to his associate. Luminous with youth, blue-black hair cascading over her shoulders, she could have been Harry’s granddaughter. A year before, on Marty’s last visit to Bazakistan, she’d been introduced as a secretary.
“A pleasure to see you again, Inna,” Marty said, sticking to Russian. He extended a hand.
She flashed a sultry glance from her sloe eyes, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. Noticing Harry grimace, Marty allowed her a quick peck, then stepped back without reciprocating. He couldn’t deny that his business partner had good taste, but he wasn’t interested in spoiling Harry’s fun.
“How do you like our fair city?” he asked her, taking care not to gawp at the ample cleavage revealed when she unbuttoned her snow-white fur coat.
“I love London.” Inna’s smile was dazzling.
Marty stifled his laughter. Clearly, geography wasn’t top of the list when Harry interviewed staff.
Amy, evidently catching a word here and there, said in English, “There’s a Ludgate Hill in London, too. I used to walk past it every day.”
Harry turned to her. In slow, strongly accented tones, he switched languages to match hers. “I am forgetting my manners. I see Marty brought a charming lady with him.” He clasped Amy’s right hand, bringing it to his lips instead of shaking it.
The old dog didn’t miss a trick, Marty thought. “Amy’s the new marketing manager for Snow Mountain.” he said. “She’s been working on ideas to extend your product range, and you need to meet her.”
“For sure, I do,” Harry said. “We will speak English now. There is much to talk about.” He winked at Amy, seemingly reluctant to release her hand. She reddened.
“Let’s go inside,” Marty suggested, suspecting Amy’s blushes arose from anger and she was about to slap Harry’s face.
It transpired, however, that Harry was not the only smoker. Inna produced a packet of Davidoff. Apparently, Harry had bought them on the plane for her, almost certainly because they were the priciest brand on offer.
“We’ll stay here to take the fresh air,” Harry declared in his heavy accent. He looked around with approval. “I like the old buildings here. The Birmingham red brick is charming. It is far quieter than Ludgate Hill in London.” He tutted. “That is full of cars, dirty and noisy.”
“Too right,” Marty said, although further down the hill there would be traffic jams in the rush hour. The council was digging up the city centre and sending buses on a mystery tour through the backstreets.
“We have St Paul’s too,” Amy said, gesturing at the handsome Georgian church nearby.
Marty was proud of his city, but even he wouldn’t compare the jewellers’ church with Wren’s cathedral in London. “Moving swiftly on, how about a drink?” he asked.
Harry was helping Inna remove her coat, rendered unnecessary by the ferocious blast of air from the outdoor heaters. He murmured a few words to her in Russian before suggesting they ordered champagne.
“Not Snow Mountain vodka?” Amy asked, tongue in cheek.
“That’s for the evening,” Harry replied. “Although if you want it as an aperitif, I can help you out.” He pulled a hip flask from his pocket.
Marty rapidly collared a waiter, an Italian lad dressed in the black shirt and trousers ubiquitous in fine dining establishments. A bottle of Laurent Perrier champagne was produced to short order. The boy opened it, and poured four full flutes without spilling a drop as the liquid bubbled to the top of each glass.
“Cheers,” Marty said, slipping into the unoccupied seat on Harry’s left so that Amy wouldn’t have to. He sipped the crisp, appley fizz. It was little different from cider, he thought. A glass of that, or preferably real ale, would have slipped down just as well. Harry’s choice was popular with the girls, however. Inna was all smiles, although it was clear she hardly understood a word of the conversation and couldn’t read the menu. “I’ll ask the waiter to bring the specialities of the house,” Marty offered.
The lad chose platters of cured ham, cheese and olives, then steaks all round. Fortunately, there was bread to mop up the alcohol, which Harry and Inna were guzzling at an alarming rate. A second bottle of champagne was brought and opened almost silently, the boy applying a white cloth over the cork with a great deal of panache.
The meal would cost a pretty penny, more besides if the afternoon lengthened into evening and they made a night of it. Marty’s wife would be unimpressed too. He’d have to recover lost Brownie points by buying a bunch of flowers and a bottle of fizz for Angela on the way home. Eating his perfectly cooked steak, sipping Laurent Perrier, he didn’t care. Whatever his views on Harry’s morals, the man was a priceless business contact. His happiness was paramount. Marty relaxed, loosening his blue silk tie.
He had come a long way, he reflected. When he was a child, living in the mean flats of Highgate, who would have predicted that he would be a self-made millionaire swigging champagne in the Jewellery Quarter? Of course, nobody but local foundry workers and artisans would have gone drinking in the area in those days; it had been a solidly industrial zone resonant with the sound and smell of sizzling metals. The decorative old redbrick buildings of the Jewellery Quarter had escaped the demolition crews who had reshaped the city during his lifetime. They’d survived to be refurbished as chic apartments, offices and bars. His childhood home hadn’t been so lucky. The low-rise flats had been pretty, painted in pale ice-cream colours, but they weren’t practical dwelling-places. Shoddily constructed from concrete, plagued by damp, they were prime candidates for the wrecking ball. He remembered seeing them, shuttered and blinded, immediately before they were obliterated. His parents, decanted to a modern terrace half a mile away, weren’t sorry to see them go.
For a moment, the old streets, hardships and friendships of his early years shimmered in Marty’s mind before vanishing again. The poverty he’d experienced had spurred him to succeed. He wished his children had the same drive, the hunger he saw in Amy, Erik, and even Kat.
Amy was doing her best to engage Harry in conversation. “I’m told darria grows like a weed in Bazakistan,” she said.
Harry laughed. “Yes, of course. Bazakistan is definitely the best place for darria. And all the old wives make tea out of it, hoping to recreate their youth.” He put an arm around Inna’s shoulder, drawing her closer to him.
“So it truly does have anti-ageing properties?” Amy asked.
“I guess so,” Harry said. “My wife likes her darria tea.” He sounded bored.
“I bet Inna drinks it,” Marty joked. “She’s really seventy-six.”
Amy and Harry chuckled. Marty felt a prickle of conscience at gaining laughs at Inna’s expense. He poured her another glass as she simpered, her eyes uncomprehending.
“We must order more,” Harry said, waving the empty bottle. “Marty, talking of darria, when are you going to buy a farm in Bazakistan?”
“Never,” Marty said. “And you know it as well as I do. When I expressed an interest last year, it attracted the attention of Ken Khan and his terrorist mob. I don’t want to be kidnapped again.” Ironically, he owed his survival to Kat, his fellow hostage, but their shared experience hadn’t made them any better disposed towards each other.
“Pah,” Harry said dismissively. “Ken Khan is dead. The President has the situation firmly under control.”
“How long for?” Marty said. “Anyway, I hear rumours that Khan is still alive.” He forbore from pointing out that this was more than idle gossip. Erik had told him the Bazaki expatriate community in London were raising funds to arm Khan once more. Why would they part with hard cash for a dead man?
Harry shrugged. “Well, you’re missing an opportunity. Land is so cheap in Bazakistan, I should buy a farm and start selling darria tea myself.”
“I have a local supply in the UK,” Marty said. He decided not to admit how limited it was. Harry’s last comment was most likely a joke, but it highlighted how vulnerable Marty was to competition. Currently, Erik was growing the herb anywhere he could: on a friend’s allotment, in his office and in his flat. Marty desperately needed to establish the darria tea business quickly and diversify his supply chain. He made a mental note to investigate farmland on sale in the rolling countryside around Birmingham.
“Our tea is getting media interest,” Amy said.
“Very good,” Harry said, reaching across the table to pat Amy’s hand. He must have caught a glimpse of her outraged expression, or Marty’s, for he then topped up her glass from the third bottle of champagne.
The young waiter cleared the plates away. “Desserts? Coffee?”
Marty nodded. The boy returned with a tray of tiramisu, cappuccinos and small glasses of limoncello. He gestured to the bright yellow liqueur. “On the house.”
Inna beamed at him, to Harry’s annoyance. “I hope you won’t be tipping him,” he huffed to Marty, as the lad’s snake hips sashayed back inside.
Marty took no notice. He would ensure the bill was handed to him alone. “Time for another cigar?” he asked.
Both Harry and Inna lit their favoured brands of poison. “An excellent meal,” Harry said, yawning.
Marty stared at St Paul’s Church, gleaming white in the winter sunshine. A blonde girl in a leopard-print coat, pulled tight at the waist to reveal a perfect hourglass figure, was crossing the graveyard. Briskly, she walked down Ludgate Hill, towards him.
It was Kat. He was about to look away when their eyes met. Worse, he knew from the curl of her lip, the expression of complete contempt on her face, that she had seen Harry.
Harry noticed her too. “Katya!” he called.
She walked past without reacting.
“What’s she doing here?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know,” Marty admitted. He was as surprised as Harry. “Visiting Erik, I suppose.” He smiled expectantly at Amy.
“Yes,” Amy confirmed, without elaborating further.
Harry leered. He was practically salivating. “She reminds me of someone I know well,” he said, “although a long time ago, when she was sexy.”
Marty couldn’t resist. “Would that be your wife, you dirty old man?” he asked.
Harry smirked. “You know how it is, Marty. You have one Russian blonde, you’ve had them all.”
Kat, her pale hair streaming behind her as she marched down the hill, was out of earshot. Inna drew on a cigarette, oblivious to the banter around her. It was just Amy who posed any concern to Marty. She glanced sharply at him.
That glare was simply irritation with Harry, Marty told himself. Amy couldn’t know the truth. Of the quartet around the table, only the men knew that Kat’s mother was very much alive, and married to Harry. About to be plunged into poverty when her first husband died in prison, she’d chosen Harry Aliyev over her children. Harry had been crazy about her then, perhaps besotted enough to bribe the police to do their worst.
Erik and Kat, in England for their education, had been left to fend for themselves. Meanwhile, Maria Belova had become Marina Aliyeva.
That wasn’t all. Thanks to his time in captivity, Marty knew that Marina Aliyeva had bankrolled the unsuccessful rebellion in Bazakistan and even had an affair with Ken Khan. That piece of information gave Marty leverage over Marina. He’d told her it was in a sealed envelope to be opened in the event of his death. She’d tried to incite Ken Khan to kill him, but that wouldn’t happen again; she enjoyed her luxury lifestyle too much to risk Harry’s wrath should he discover her treachery.
And what of Erik and Kat? The longer Marty kept the secret of their mother’s survival, the more they’d hate him for withholding it. Marty pursed his lips. He couldn’t bear to imagine Erik’s devastation when he found out what she’d done.
Chapter 5.
SHAUN
Shaun slopped a mop around the linoleum floor, stopping to roll a cigarette. Occasionally, he sprayed polish in the air. The scent made him seem industrious. It also served to disguise lingering smells from hooch his mates were brewing in a cupboard nearby. He had, in fact, liberated buckets and empty detergent containers for use in the process.
Ed Rothery walked by, key-chain jingling. He nodded to Shaun. “I’ll be inspecting the showers later, Halloran. They’d better be sparkling.”
Shaun grunted at the screw, but took the hint. Thirty minutes later, Rothery appeared in the shower room.
It was a concrete-lined room with several tiled cubicles for the weedy press-button showers. The half-doors weren’t lockable. Had there been any homophobic bullying, Jenner really would have been advised not to drop the soap. Shaun had let it be known he wanted the politician left alone, though. It wouldn’t do any harm to have a friend in high places one day.
Rothery let rip. “Call that clean? I’ve seen whore’s knickers whiter than those tiles,” he shouted at Shaun. “Do it again.” His huge bulk loomed over Shaun like a badly dressed bouncer, his sandy curls adding yet another inch to his height.
