Marty Bridges put down the phone. He had little time for Cockneys, especially shady nightclub owners. While he had no evidence that his caller was anything other than a hard-working businessman, he had a sixth sense that usually served him well. Erik, for instance, was straight as an arrow.
He saw Erik every month, allegedly to collect the modest rent he charged the young man, but also because he wanted to be sure Erik was keeping body and soul together. He owed it to Sasha. Although Erik’s sister would always land on her feet, Erik was a dreamer and idealist like his father.
Marty had been toying with the thought of walking to the old workshop where Erik lived. It was less than two miles away and he still retained a basic level of fitness from his decades as an amateur boxer. Instead, with the sun grilling his bald head as soon as he stepped outside the office, he decided to drive. It would be cooler – he could have a quiet pint afterwards and head home when the rush hour was easing.
He counted himself lucky to find a pay and display space. Parking was heavily restricted in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter nowadays. He remembered when it was called Hockley. It was rough as a hedgehog’s bottom then; he had picked up the workshop for a song at auction.
Now his tenants, artisan jewellers, had moved out, he wanted to redevelop the site. Many of the area’s handsome red-brick buildings had already been converted into homes, bars and media offices. The quirky Victorian Gothic properties appealed to yuppies. Marty was hoping for a substantial profit once he’d cleared the red tape. “I’ve been turned down for planning permission again,” he complained to Erik.
Erik nodded, in that attentive way of his. He sipped a mug of tea. They were sitting in the lounge, a large but shabby space that had once been used to display stock. Marty sank into his armchair, noting it was still well-sprung. Erik’s lodgings might be draughty and basic – there was no bath or shower, and only a tiny kitchen – but there was plenty of space, and the furniture was of good quality. Most of it had been discarded from Marty’s house, and he didn’t buy cheap rubbish.
He studied the younger man, noting Erik’s thin face and nose, his whippet skinniness and the dark, spiky hair that was starting to recede from his high forehead. He was the image of Sasha at the same age. When he spoke, his words were exactly those Sasha would have used.
“Don’t give up,” Erik said. “Look for a different way. What do the planners want?” He had a very upper crust voice, the legacy of a childhood at English boarding schools. Sasha, who always spoke English with a strong accent, would have been proud of him.
“I don’t know.” Marty grimaced, letting his frustration show. “I just want to convert the building into flats. It’s already been done for several other factories in this very street, so I can’t see a problem. But both designs I’ve submitted have been rejected.”
“What reasons did they give?” Erik’s interest probably went beyond idle curiosity. After all, Marty wouldn’t need a caretaker living in the property once it had been redeveloped.
“They didn’t like the proposed cellar conversion. I dropped that, and applied again. The second time, they said they wanted to retain industrial use. Crazy. This road isn’t an industrial zone.”
“I wonder,” Erik said, his face tight with concentration, “perhaps they were worried about the tunnel in the cellar.”
Marty sat bolt upright, intrigued. He’d toured every nook and cranny of the old building, or so he believed. “What tunnel?” he asked.
“Didn’t you know?” Erik looked surprised. “There’s a door at one end of the cellar, behind some metal racking the jewellers left. It leads to another room, with a vertical shaft and ladder descending into the earth.”
Marty whistled. “And? Did you climb down the ladder?”
Erik shook his head.
“I don’t understand why my architects never spotted that door,” Marty said.
“There was a lot of junk in the way,” Erik pointed out. “Do you want to take a look now?”
“Yes, and find out what’s at the bottom of the shaft,” Marty agreed. He switched on his smartphone flashlight.
The cellar itself was accessed from a door in the hallway, from which stone steps led to a bare-earthed room, roughly oblong but narrowing considerably at one end. This was obscured by white-painted metal racking, grey with dust and piled with rusted tools and machinery.
Marty’s eyes widened. “It’s behind that?” he said. “How on earth did you get past all that rubbish, or, for that matter, find a door in the first place?”
“I wanted to build a coffee table and I was looking for parts,” Erik said. “That was when I noticed the door. As for access – well, I’ll show you.”
He removed the rusty detritus from the bottom shelf, crouched down and wriggled through to the gap beyond, appearing to expand like a rubber band as he stood up.
Only another man as slim as Erik could hope to follow. “Okay,” Marty said, drawing out the word slowly. “I’ll be stuck in the racking if I try that. Want to explain to the fire brigade?”
“Why don’t you give me your phone?” Erik suggested. “I could use that torch, and I’ll take a few snaps for you.”
Marty listened, intensely curious, as the door creaked open. He heard the dull clang of Erik’s feet on the metal tread, as the last rays from the torch dimmed and disappeared.
“It’s about twenty metres deep,” Erik reported back, “with a locked steel door at the bottom.” They returned to the living room and he poured more tea as Marty inspected the photographs.
“Odd,” Marty said. “It could be a way into Anchor.” He noted Erik’s perplexed expression. “You don’t know what I’m talking about do you? It’s way before your time, and mine too, come to that. Anchor is an old complex of telecommunications tunnels under the Jewellery Quarter and city centre. It was built as an underground train network sixty years ago, then shelved before it was finished. I remember my father talking about it.”
“You said telecoms,” Erik pointed out.
“That’s what they used it for in the end,” Marty said. “At least, as far as I know. There are a lot of secrets in those tunnels. Government secrets. You and I wouldn’t be allowed in there. If it’s a gateway to Anchor that explains why the planners don’t want it disturbed.”
“Can’t you tell them you’ll pour concrete down the shaft?” Erik asked.
“Who knows?” Marty said. “Perhaps not. It may be required for ventilation. All I know is, as it’s classified information, the planners won’t tell me whether this is Anchor or not. I can try my council contacts, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“Auntie Lizzie could tell you, I bet,” Erik said. “Her husband was a telecoms engineer.”
“There’s a thought,” Marty said. “Perhaps the old bag does know.” He sighed. “I doubt she’d tell me.”
“I could ask her,” Erik said. “We’re still in touch.”
“Don’t mention my name,” Marty said. He scowled. “Do you fancy a drink at the Rose Villa Tavern?”
“Sure, why not?” Erik said. “I work behind the bar for one of their rivals, but I can sneak in wearing dark glasses.”
“Bar work? Is that all you’re doing these days, after studying all those years?” Marty was genuinely horrified. Despite the recession, his business had thrived, as had his children’s careers.
“Yes, that’s what I do to pay your extortionate rent,” Erik replied, tongue in cheek. “And it also funds my passion, which is to cure cancer.”
Marty stared at him, open-mouthed. There had been enough surprises today already. Surely this was a joke? Yet the tunnel hadn’t been a prank. Erik had never looked more serious.
“You’ve heard stories about remote valleys where people live for many, many years? An unusual number of centenarians. There is one such in my homeland. More of a mountain pass than a valley. My father used to take me skiing there.”
Marty couldn’t avoid displaying his scepticism. “Forgive me, Erik. Surely the paperwork in these remote places is so poor they don’t know how old anyone really is? As a scientist, I’m surprised you give these rumours any credit.”
Erik rolled his eyes. “You think I was brought up in a mud hut? I spent months there as a child, seeing with my own eyes that some families had five or six generations still living. I’ve checked up on them. The birth, marriage and death certificates are all consistent. They either don’t suffer from the Big C, or they get it and recover from it. The single difference between their lifestyles and ours is the tea they drink every morning. They make it from the leaves of a local shrub, darria. I’ve been able to isolate the active ingredient.”
“I believe you,” Marty said, gathering his thoughts, “but only because I know you, Erik. If it was anyone else spinning me a line about a miracle tea, I’d show them the door.” His mind was rapidly running through the ramifications of Erik’s discovery. “This is wonderful news, both for society and for you. You realise it has commercial possibilities? With the right marketing behind you, this darria tea could make you a millionaire.”
“That’s not what I want,” Erik said, unexpectedly.
“Why not? The more people buy it, the more you’re helping them,” Marty said, puzzled and somewhat disappointed. If Erik wasn’t interested in making sales, there wouldn’t be much chance of a profit for anyone else.
“Maybe a few thousand enlightened people would drink darria tea. Perhaps a few hundred thousand, with the right press coverage. Not all of them will drink enough. Some will dislike the taste, others get bored with it after a week. But if I apply scientific rigour, I can turn the active ingredient into a drug that will save millions of lives.”
Marty stroked his chin. He could see this approach would make more money, but the upfront costs would be higher. “I thought drugs needed clinical trials – tests so expensive, only deep-pocketed pharmaceuticals companies can afford them.”
“They do,” Erik admitted. “I had to call in favours to run an initial set of clinical trials. My university contacts did a lot of the work for free, and I nevertheless spent every penny I had. But it was worth it, because the darria was proved to work.”
“What next?” Marty asked. “When are you going into production?”
Erik shook his head. “It’s not so simple. I need to extend the clinical trials to get regulatory approval. That’s where it gets costly. I could sell my patent to Big Pharma, but then they’ll charge a fortune for the drug. The people who need it will be denied treatment. I must find another way.”
Purely by chance, Erik could have stumbled on a goldmine. He needed a sensible business partner. “I can help you there,” Marty said. “I’d invest in a joint venture with you, like the way I built the Snow Mountain vodka brand with your father. Interested?”
Erik’s serious face broke into a rare smile of excitement. “Definitely.”
“Well then,” Marty said, “can you show me the results so far? Then we’ll go out for that pint, and seal the deal.”
“Of course; it’s all on my laptop,” Erik said. “Wait here.” He motioned to Marty to sit on the sofa, a battered but comfortable red leather piece which had served Marty’s children well in their playroom.
Erik disappeared into his bedroom. Marty began to consider how to fund the darria research. His trading business, initially just Snow Mountain vodka and now encompassing many other exclusive imported brands, consistently generated surplus cash. He had invested most of it in assets like this one, however: unloved buildings ripe for redevelopment. While he could use them as security for loans, he’d be able to borrow more and on better terms once planning permission was obtained. That made it even more vital to solve the mystery of the cellar.
“I left my laptop on the bus!” Erik emerged from his bedroom, ashen-faced. “It isn’t here, and I know what must have happened. I helped an old woman alight from the bus at my stop, and I left my bags on the seat next to me.”
That was so typical of Erik that Marty had to struggle to suppress a grin. “You’ve got back-ups, though?” he asked. “In the cloud, right?”
“Not in the cloud,” Erik said. “I don’t trust it. I used a USB stick, which was in the same bag as my laptop.”
“You mean all the data’s gone, and anyone could have it?” Marty, so hopeful of profiting from the darria venture, was shocked. He was glad his heart was in a healthy state.
“No and no,” Erik said, to Marty’s relief. “My sister keeps a spare USB stick at her flat in Fitzrovia. I mail one to her every fortnight. And I encrypt everything, so there’s no danger of anyone else seeing it.” He looked at his watch. “I’d still like to show it to you as soon as possible, Marty. I’m going to forego that pint and go to London now.”
“Can you afford the train fare?” Marty asked, preparing to dip into his pocket.
“No, I’ll travel by coach,” Erik replied.
“Don’t be silly,” Marty said. He took a hundred pounds from his wallet and handed the cash to his new business partner. “Call it a down-payment. I’m sure I can find an old laptop for you too, back at my office.”
Erik looked at him quizzically.
“I trust you,” Marty said. “You can trust me too; you should know that by now. Please give my regards to your sister. Swanky Fitzrovia, eh?” He whistled. “I’m not surprised she lives there; a cat always lands on its feet. By the way, if you can find out more from Lizzie when you come back, it will help both of us.”
Erik hesitated for a second, then held out his right hand. His handshake was firm. “You can count on me,” he said.
Marty nodded. He was sure Erik would be more careful with his data in future. Still, the Rose Villa Tavern had seldom seemed more inviting.