Ross wished Amy would stop sulking. After the drama of the preceding day, they’d both needed R&R last night. She’d been as eager for it as he was. He’d been totally honest, making no false promises or declarations of love. What did she expect from a one night stand? He sighed. “Nearly there now. We just need to cross the main road.”
“Easier said than done,” Amy muttered.
It was a busy highway called Holloway Head. They had approached it from a quiet side street, although they heard the flow of traffic well before they had sight of it. Florence Street lay opposite them.
“How’s your jaywalking?” Ross asked.
She glared at him. “The single time a taxi would be useful, you decide to walk,” she complained. Eventually, the traffic eased just enough for them to dash across.
East West Bridges occupied an unlovely corrugated iron warehouse with a single storey brick office tacked onto the front, seemingly as an afterthought. To the side was a lumpy stretch of tarmac, on which were parked a few old, battered superminis and a shiny silver Jaguar with the number plate MJB 100. The office door was right next to the Jaguar. There was an illuminated buzzer, which Ross pressed.
A female voice, fuzzy with static, questioned them about their visit. The buzzer sounded to indicate the interrogator’s satisfaction.
They were admitted to a small anteroom, shabby with chipped white paint and scuffed grey carpet tiles. It was empty apart from a couple of orange plastic chairs and a CCTV camera mounted near the ceiling. There was a white chipboard door leading to the offices beyond. Ross pushed it, to find it locked. “Welcome to Fort Knox,” he said to a scowling Amy.
A middle-aged man, somewhat shorter than Ross, opened the door. “Marty Bridges,” he said, advancing with a wide smile and his arm outstretched.
Ross shook his hand, noting Marty’s strong grip. The man was obviously in his fifties, his white hair thinning rapidly, but his physique was still athletic. “I’m Ross Pritchard,” he said. “This is my assistant, Amy Satterthwaite.”
“Satterthwaite,” Marty said, with a pronounced local accent. “Sit and wait. That’s an unusual name, bab. I’ve not come across one of those before.”
Amy glowered as Ross suppressed a chuckle.
Marty ushered them into a large office, as opulent as the anteroom was spartan. Apart from the lack of a Thames view, it would have served any of the Veritable directors. It was panelled in bird’s eye maple, with a large polished desk and table made from the same wood. Marty pointed to black leather chairs clustered around the table. “Take a seat.” He lifted his desk phone and speed-dialled a number. “Tanya, bring us some coffees will you, please? Thanks, angel.” He sat at his desk, swivelling in a somewhat larger and more luxurious chair.
A dumpy, purple-haired woman of middle years brought a tray with a cafetière, three white china cups, cream and sugar. She nodded in response to Marty’s thanks, leaving without a word.
Marty spooned three sugars into one of the cups. “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing expansively. Once all the coffees were poured, he formed his hands into a steeple below his chin. “Tell me why you’re here,” he said.
“I have a business proposition as I said,” Ross said. With a little thought, he had managed to fabricate a plausible excuse for the meeting. “I’m an actuary.”
“Oh, bad luck,” Marty said. “A job for someone who found accountancy too exciting. Tell me more.”
“I want to set up a new niche insurance company, and I’m looking for funding.”
“What’s your track record?” Marty asked.
“A first from Oxbridge, a rowing blue and ten years at Veritable, during which I was rapidly promoted,” Ross replied, handing Marty his business card.
“Veritable, indeed,” Marty said. “My neighbour’s daughter works there. Parveen. She’s doing very well. Do you know her?”
Ross realised Amy wanted to speak. He kicked her under the table, just a gentle tap on her ankle. The last thing he needed was a rant from her about Parveen’s shortcomings. “Yes, of course I know Parveen. She’s quite a livewire,” he said, as Amy simmered.
Marty chortled. “A good description,” he said. “Parveen’s a bright spark, right enough. Is she in on your project?”
“No, it’s at an early stage,” Ross said. “Before I bring anyone else on board, I need initial equity investment.”
“I haven’t got any for you,” Marty said. “Not a sausage. Now, tell me why you’re really here.”
“I can share some projections with you,” Ross said smoothly. Thanks to Cari, he was skilled at presenting an unruffled surface whilst panicking within.
“Don’t give me that,” Marty said, his expression suddenly wary. “I’ve been in business long enough to tell when someone’s lying. I know who you really are. Lizzie Clements was attacked, and you’re the couple they’re looking for. Anyone can see you meet their descriptions. I could call the police and they’d nick you in an instant.”
“We’ve seen the police already,” Ross said, “and been cleared. Ring my lawyer and ask him if you like. The culprits are London villains.”
“Londoners?” Marty said. “Why would they come here to thump an old lady?”
“They’re looking for Kat,” Amy blurted, “and so are we.”
Marty raised an eyebrow. Ross prayed it would be the last interruption from Amy. It was proving hard enough to gain Marty’s confidence. “You know Kat, don’t you?” he said to Marty. “She’s in grave danger. The men who attacked Lizzie meant to kill her. They didn’t succeed. They won’t want to fail again.”
Marty sipped his coffee in silence. “I don’t understand,” he said eventually. “What has Kat done to make anyone want to kill her?”
“She owes money,” Amy chipped in.
Ross was surprised she didn’t say more. As it happened, Marty nodded, apparently accepting her reply.
“I haven’t seen Kat for years,” Marty said. “Or Lizzie either. I sent flowers to the hospital as soon as I heard, of course. She was my housekeeper for many years. Prone to giving her opinion where it wasn’t wanted, mind. That’s why she’s not working for me now. She couldn’t half give it some lip, but she didn’t deserve a battering.”
“Nor does Kat,” Ross said.
“It might help me make my mind up if you tell me who you are,” Marty said curtly.
“I’m Kat’s boyfriend and Amy’s her flatmate,” Ross said.
“Okay,” Marty said slowly. “I think I will ring your lawyer if you don’t mind. Who is he?”
“It’s Ted Edwards of Edwards Margettson.”
“I’ll look him up online,” Marty said. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside until I’ve phoned him.”
Purple-haired Tanya was summoned to take Ross and Amy back to the lobby. “Would you like more coffee?” she offered.
Ross looked around the unprepossessing room, seeing nowhere for Tanya to leave a tray. He struggled to hide his exasperation. “I think not,” he murmured.
It was a matter of minutes before Bridges returned, his face wreathed in smiles. “You’re a jolly good chap, I hear,” he said, in a passable imitation of the lawyer’s refined vowels. “Come back to my office. Tanya’s making another drink for you.”
To Ross’ relief, Bridges seemed much less guarded. “How do you think I can help?” the businessman asked, escorting them into his inner sanctum once more.
“Just tell us everything you can about Kat, her family and friends,” Ross suggested.
Marty shrugged. “All right, Inspector Clouseau. There aren’t many of them left, unfortunately. You know I was in partnership with her father?”
“Yes. A Russian, wasn’t he?” Ross said, judging it inadvisable to say he’d learned this from Lizzie less than forty eight hours ago.
“Not from Russia itself, but one of the stans to the south. It doesn’t make a lot of difference, I suppose. I met Sasha shortly after the Soviet Union broke up. I’d left school at sixteen, when there were no jobs here. Do you remember the slogan ‘Labour isn’t working?’ It was an election poster, showing a dole queue stretching as far as the eye could see.”
Despite his best efforts to be charming, Ross couldn’t avoid a blank stare.
“No you don’t, do you? You two are the same age as my kids. They’ve no idea either. At that time, there was a hellish recession in the Midlands. Rather than move to London, I set up my own business, buying and selling. It was slow at first, but with the fall of communism, I knew the east was a land of opportunity. I taught myself Russian and took a plane out there. Sasha managed a vodka factory. He wanted to turn it into a premium brand, so we worked on it together. The result was Snow Mountain.”
Ross nodded. “That’s good stuff.”
“Well marketed,” Amy said.
“You’re both right,” Marty grinned. “It was excellent quality, and we were ahead of the curve in selling it only to upmarket outlets. We both made good money. I built the rest of my business on the back of it. Look at this place. I started with nothing. And this isn’t all. I’ve got fingers in more pies than I’ve had hot dinners. Maybe I could even consider an insurance start-up.” He looked extremely smug. “Sasha did well enough to send his kids to boarding school here in England, which probably saved their lives. It all went pear-shaped when Sasha fell out with the government.”
“What happened?” Again, Ross didn’t care to admit that he’d heard part of the story before.
“They threw him in gaol. All his assets were confiscated and his wife, Maria, left penniless. She phoned me, and I sent her money – enough for her to live on, and to engage lawyers to fight Sasha’s corner. They made it clear the officials wanted bribes.” Marty shuddered. “This is between these four walls, but I paid them an absolute fortune. My business nearly went under.”
“Why did you pay? You didn’t have to. And it’s against the law, isn’t it?” Ross was surprised to hear such a story from a man who’d been described as hard-nosed.
“He was like a brother to me.” Marty’s blue eyes were troubled. “It was all for nothing,” he said bitterly. “The secret police came for Maria. She and Sasha were never seen again. They died in prison.” He laughed, a hollow sound. “Ironically, the bribes did me some good. They gave the factory to one of the President’s strongest supporters, and he couldn’t wait to do business with me. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but together we’ve taken Snow Mountain global. It’s a premium international brand.”
“Great, everything ends happily ever after for you and Snow Mountain,” Amy said. “What about Kat?”
“She was sixteen when her father died,” Marty said. “I’d been funding her school fees for two years. She stayed with my family during the school holidays, even at Christmas. I helped her and her older brother with asylum claims. They’re British citizens now. I did everything I could for them. She got a cob on. Told me it wasn’t enough. I should have insisted that only Sasha could run the factory, apparently. As if anyone would have listened! Still, according to her, it was all my fault her parents died. She wanted nothing more to do with me. Half an hour later, she walked out of my house and I never saw her again.”
Ross could tell Amy didn’t believe Marty. He kicked her ankle again. She looked daggers at him.
“There you are,” Marty said, catching Ross’ eye. “I’ll never understand feminine logic as long as I live. Anyway, Kat was capable of earning a living at sixteen. I had to, and my children didn’t go to college either. The university of life: that’s where we had our education.”
“You fell out with Lizzie too,” Amy pointed out.
“She’s a cantankerous old bat,” Marty replied.
“I don’t have to listen to this misogyny,” Amy said hotly. She stormed out of Marty’s office.
“Who rattled the bab’s cage?” Marty asked, with a ribald chuckle. “She needs a good seeing to, that one.”
“I tried, and it didn’t work,” Ross said ruefully.
Marty winked.
“Cut her some slack, Marty. She’s been through a lot. One of the criminals held a knife to her throat. Another ransacked her flat and stole a couple of plants.” As he spoke, he was aware of how odd it sounded.
Marty’s reaction was unexpected. “What did he look like?” the businessman asked, eyes serious.
Ross struggled to remember what Amy had said. “You’ll have to ask her,” he said finally.
“She won’t have gone far.” Marty left his office, returning a few minutes later with a sheepish-looking Amy. “She ended up getting lost in my warehouse,” he explained.
“Amy,” Ross said, “Marty’s told us what he knows, and it’s only fair we do the same for him. Can you give him a description of your visitors?”
She knew immediately which visitors he meant. “There were two,” she said. “The first was the man who searched Kat’s room and took two pot plants. He was tall and skinny. Green eyes, long nose, spiky black hair, scruffy.”
Marty laughed. “That would be Erik, Kat’s brother. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. You don’t need to worry about him.”
That could be a promising avenue to explore. “Can you give me his contact details?” Ross asked.
“Sorry, I can’t,” Marty said. “I told you, I haven’t seen Kat for years. Anyway, that was one visitor. What about the other?”
Amy described the knifeman.
“That’s interesting,” Marty mused. “Londoner, was he?”
“Yes,” she said.
“He was here yesterday. A couple of cockneys dropped by, after a crate of Snow Mountain. That guy and a black thug.”
“Was he light-skinned, with a nose ring and single earring?” Amy asked.
Marty nodded.
Amy looked at Ross. “That was Jeb,” she said. “Kat thinks he’s her friend.”
“He’s a killer,” Ross said. “They’re dangerous men, Marty.”
“I can look after myself. Let me show you something.” Marty reached into a drawer in the bird’s eye maple desk, and pulled out a can of pepper spray and a sheaf of boxing certificates. “Those guys thought they could threaten me yesterday, and I didn’t appreciate that. They won’t be back.”