“I could have done this by myself,” Jeb grumbled.
Shaun winced at the thought, although his frustration was mounting. He’d wasted a full day thanks to Marty Bridges, and now they’d been sitting for twenty minutes on uncomfortable plastic chairs in Bridges’ reception lobby.
It was even blander and more boring than AKD’s. Unlike AKD, it was unmanned, with no decorative receptionist to catch Shaun’s eye. Jeb appeared restless, probably coming down from yesterday’s amphetamines. Despite the lobby sign urging them not to smoke, the younger man was puffing on a cigarette. He continued when the shabby white office door opened and a short, balding fellow emerged.
Shaun knew the type well. Bridges would be stupid and opinionated. He would have inherited his business from his father, not quite managed to run it into the ground, and be full of his own importance.
Bridges first words to them didn’t disappoint. “There’s no smoking on my premises, thank you.”
“Jeb, go outside,” Shaun said. Jeb complied, glaring at both of them.
“You phoned before,” Bridges said. “I haven’t changed my mind, I’m afraid. I can’t spare any Snow Mountain for you. I’ve got a range of flavoured vodkas that’s popular in the clubs, though. Why not taste a few of those while you’re here?”
“Do you know who I am?” Shaun asked, allowing an edge of menace to creep into his voice.
Bridges actually laughed. “Yes,” he said, “you own a seedy dive in the backstreets of London. That’s exactly the sort of place where I don’t want Snow Mountain on display. It’s a premium product for a reason.”
“You need to show more respect.” Jeb, returning to the lobby, towered over Bridges.
Shaun looked meaningfully at the CCTV camera, a silent watchdog in a corner of the room. They had to be careful. If Bridges allowed them into his office, Jeb could be more persuasive.
“It’s not a problem,” he said. “Yes, I would like a tasting, please.”
“Come on through.” Bridges gestured to the door. A corridor stretched behind it. Bridges took them to a heavy oak door with the name ‘Mr Bridges’ etched onto a brass nameplate. Inside, his office was wood-panelled and crammed with imposing furniture, as Shaun had expected it would be. “Sit down.” Bridges pointed to black leather chairs clustered around a polished table.
Shaun’s bones were aching from nearly half an hour in a moulded plastic seat. He sank gratefully into a padded chair. He noticed Jeb still appeared on edge.
“You see?” Bridges waved a hand at his desk, adorned with six brightly coloured bottles. “I’ve got a plain one, lemon, chocolate, chilli – that’s popular with the lads – vanilla and peach. You’re not driving are you, gentlemen?”
“I am,” Shaun said. He had no intention of sampling the disgusting, sticky drinks. Jeb was welcome to do so; it might calm him down.
“I’ll have a cup of tea made for you.” Bridges turned his back to them. “Let me get some glasses from the cupboard first.”
“Now,” Shaun ordered. Jeb retrieved his knife from his sock.
Bridges nearly dropped his shot glasses when he saw it. “Why are you waving that around?” he demanded.
“For fun,” Jeb grinned, advancing on his prey.
“Not so fast, Jeb,” Shaun said sharply, stepping between them to form a barrier. “Remember, we’re here to get information, that’s all.”
“And I thought you just wanted a drink,” Bridges said, flashing a smile that didn’t meet his eyes.
“I’ll have vodka too,” Shaun said. “Twenty four bottles of Snow Mountain.”
“Then I’d better get the keys to the warehouse,” Bridges said, sidling around to his rather grand office desk and opening a drawer.