The Yellow Diamond

by Andrew Martin

  It was a Gmail account – a new one for what had apparently been a new laptop – and hardly used. There were several emails from a man called Napper who lived on a farm in Devon, and wrote in response to Quinn’s enquiry about a classic car: an Austin Healey 3000 MK which, according to Napper, had a ‘Fast road spec, restored to concours standards’ – whatever they were – and a giveaway at £65,000.

  When Reynolds read this out, Clifford folded her arms again. ‘He couldn’t afford it. A pipe dream.’

  ‘Did he have a car?’

  ‘He said why have a car in London when you can just get taxis everywhere and claim them on expenses? He has a car at his dad’s place in Yorkshire.’

  ‘A classic car?’

  ‘Define classic. It’s practically a vintage car. A Sunbeam Alpha. I mean, Alpine. Cost practically nothing.’

  Quinn had received more emails than he’d sent. The in-box was like a more upmarket version of Reynolds’, which featured many messages such as ‘Your Tesco Clubcard points are about to expire’. Quinn’s contained promotions from tailors, who had names like firms of solicitors: ‘Dawson, Howe and Fletcher’ was one. Quinn had been invited to browse the e-store of John Lobb, bootmaker. He had been invited by ‘Events at Berry Brothers’ to ‘An exceptional evening of fine Burgundy.’ The only Met-related matter was an email from a Trevor Kennedy of the Yard that appeared to be about expenses. It was dated 2 November:

  In the absence of any reply to my phone messages, I am obliged to email your personal account. I do not see how the dinner at Le Caprice for yourself and a mysterious ‘contact’ is claimable, let alone the purchase of a new shirt at a cost of fifty pounds for attending said dinner. Let us assume you were in desperate need of a certain shirt in order to ‘look the part’.

  My wife, who buys my own shirts, informs me it is possible to buy something perfectly respectable from Marks & Spencer for half the price you paid.

  Reynolds read this out to Clifford, who said: ‘Trevor Kennedy is Quinn’s finance officer. Unfortunately he’s one of the old-fashioned Trevors. He’s also going to be your finance officer, I’m afraid. You’ll notice he marks all his emails with a star. Any problems go to Cresswell. He’s our SPC in the Business Group. He’s obsessed with flow charts but he’s on our side.’

  Reynolds eyed her.

  ‘Oh, I should have said. The terms of your transfer have just come through.’ She indicated her computer screen. ‘You’re going to be acting up as DCI, but you remain on the same pay grade. Also, the local paper wants to speak to you. The Mayfair Gazette.’

  ‘I don’t know that I want to speak to them.’

  ‘The Mayfair Gazette was founded in 1779 so I think you should.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s not some website; it’s a very august publication. I’ve cleared it with Croft and the Press Bureau. They think it’s a good message to send out. You know, business as usual. Press Bureau thinks the Standard will probably pick it up.’

  ‘I think I’d better speak to the Press Bureau myself.’

  ‘Be my guest, but don’t call them Press Bureau. They’re Media Desk now. Speak to the American woman: Jodi. Say we’re informing public debate about policing issues. Tell her we’re being proactive.’

  ‘What’s this paper going to be writing about me? Here’s the next mark to take a pot shot at?’

  She eyed him. He knew she was wondering whether he was scared.

  ‘They’ve sent me a draft and I said fine. They just want you to fill in a quote.’ She began reading from her screen. ‘“The work of the Mayfair-based police unit dedicated to investigating the ‘super-rich’ – that’s in inverted commas – “is to continue in spite of the shooting of the officer heading it up.” Well, I didn’t say it was elegant … And they want a photograph, but they can come here for that after we’ve got you a new suit. Now look at the other stick.’

  He removed the first one and put in the second one, eyeing Clifford as he did so. ‘Will you kindly forward that email about my promotion?’

  ‘You’ll be getting it on paper to your home address in the usual manner.’ The memory stick was taking a long time to load. ‘… In triplicate!’ added Clifford. As the loading continued (the screen was at least now admitting that it was loading), Reynolds took out his own detective’s notebook. Victoria Clifford came over from her own desk and crouched down very nimbly by his chair. It seemed that she too would be watching the screen, and watching Reynolds as he watched.

  11

  The memory stick was a CCTV grab.

  The screen showed a small, cluttered shop with two counters facing each other and a fancy chandelier hanging down in the middle. The bulbs of the chandelier appeared blurred. It became apparent to Reynolds that this was a jewellery shop. The counters were glass-topped with jewellery beneath. Underneath the chandelier stood a good-looking, bored-looking woman with arms folded. Some numbers appeared in the bottom right-hand corner: a steady 1417, and other, incessantly changing figures alongside to show the passing seconds. Unmoving figures showed the date: 22 September – about ten weeks ago. Like all CCTV, this was a silent film. Data protection. Suddenly Reynolds saw the woman from a different angle, and now she was fiddling with a necklace she wore. She still looked bored. She was probably in her late thirties. This new angle gave sight of the shop door, and the window display of jewels, viewed from the shop interior. It was now 1418 and counting.

  ‘Where is this?’ Reynolds asked Clifford, who seemed to be maintaining great poise in her crouching position.

  ‘Shop in that arcade going north of the Ritz.’

  Reynolds made a note in his book. The screen seemed to give a jump, and it was now 1420 and counting. The shop door opened and a man came in. He wore a sort of fur coat. He had thick glasses, and a lot of dark hair.

  ‘I think the coat’s alpaca,’ said Reynolds, ‘and I think the hair’s a wig. It’s a good one, though.’

  The man went up to the shop assistant, and the two of them went over to the window display. The man began indicating some items, and the pair were seen from a new angle: the side.

  ‘Who put this together?’ Reynolds asked.

  ‘Ward,’ she said. ‘Do you know him?’

  Reynolds had vaguely heard the name.

  ‘Flying squad DS,’ said Clifford. ‘Always wears a mustard jacket which, with his colouring, he shouldn’t.’

  Ward, in other words, had edited the CCTV footage given him by the shop.

  The perspective jumped back to the angle that had shown the man entering. Now a woman also entered. She was younger than the shop assistant. She looked like a beautiful woman trying to look un-beautiful, and not quite succeeding. Or maybe it was some high-fashion statement. She wore a shapeless woollen hat (‘beanie hat’ was the term, Reynolds believed), and a pair of those thick fifties glasses that were in fashion. She wore a coat that was obviously a good coat, precisely calculated to be neither short nor long. She wore narrow trousers and low shoes like ballet shoes, only with something fancy about them. The shop assistant turned towards her and said something that was probably, ‘I’ll be with you in a second, after I’ve helped this gentleman,’ and the new woman said something like, ‘Don’t worry, I’m only browsing.’

  The assistant had taken some things out of the window, at the request of the man in the coat. The two walked over to the counter on the left, and the new woman appeared to head off in the direction of the counter on the right. Now the view was side-on again, allowing Reynolds to see the man in the coat and the assistant at the left-hand counter, but not the new woman.

  The assistant had put three little boxes down on the counter. They were like little oyster shells with their lids up. All held rings, diamond rings presumably. They would have to be valuable, otherwise Flying Squad would never have been involved. The woman took the rings out of the boxes, and laid them on the counter. They all had little tags on them.

  ‘Watch carefully,’ said Clifford.

  T
he man picked up the first ring with his left hand; moved it to his right hand, lifted it towards his face and examined it. He moved it back to his left hand, put it down on the counter. He did the same with the second ring, and with the third, shaking his head this time. He was not attempting to try on the rings. They were obviously women’s rings, and he hadn’t liked any of them, as he was presumably now explaining to the sales assistant, who had been in view, watching the man, all this time. There was a jump to the higher angle, and the man was seen leaving the shop. This angle also showed the new woman walking over to the sales assistant, who was putting the rings back in the boxes. The two spoke briefly. The new woman then left the shop as well and the screen went black at 1426. Reynolds was developing a slightly sick feeling.

  ‘What was lifted?’

  ‘A two-and-a-half-carat yellow diamond ring. Worth about thirty thousand. Watch it again.’

  This time she pointed things out. When the coated man approached the window display with the shop assistant, Clifford said, ‘See how he puts his left hand in his coat pocket, and takes it out again. I think that’s important.’ When the man was inspecting the rings at the counter, Clifford asked, ‘Why do you think he moves them from one hand to the other?’

  ‘At some point he palms the ring, I suppose. Substitutes a fake.’

  ‘The third time,’ said Clifford. ‘And watch the assistant. Wait … as he holds the third ring, she glances over to the right, and I think the other woman does or says something at that point, as a distraction. Stop it there.’

  Reynolds clicked pause.

  Clifford said, ‘Ward told us there was footage of her at the other counter, but just a couple of seconds because that camera kept going on the blink. We can see it in a minute. It comes after the black. Press play again.’

  Reynolds clicked the arrow for ‘play’. He watched the man make his excuses and leave. The younger woman came over to the assistant. Reynolds watched her leave, and Victoria Clifford was watching him watch.

  ‘Now skip forward,’ she said.

  After a short period of blackness they were back in the shop. A different camera showed the woman in the beanie hat over at the right-hand counter. They had gone backwards in time to 1424. The camera observed her from side-on as she looked down at the counter. As she leant over, she was kicking the back of her right shoe with the toe of her left shoe. She looked extremely relaxed, but with a kind of formality, like a ballet dancer at rest. A couple of times, she may have half turned towards the opposite counter; the second of those times, she might have spoken, saying something like, ‘Excuse me,’ and then, ‘Oh, sorry,’ when she saw that the assistant was still attending to the man in the coat.

  Reynolds was thinking himself back to his Club Squad days, and to one long-gone nightclub off Hanover Square. It must have been seven years ago. What was it called? A provocative name: Noise Pollution or something. There were too many under-aged women in it, so the owners were suspected of pimping. A young woman was being followed about by a big guy three times her age. Reynolds had asked, ‘Is that man bothering you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she had said, ‘but there is nothing to be done about it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s my bodyguard.’

  She had had a Russian accent, but not strong (and he would later discover there was a bit of French in it). Reynolds had asked for her ID, and she had shown him an obvious forgery. On Reynolds’ recommendation, she had left the club, taking the bodyguard with her.

  Reynolds had met her again, in other clubs; and she had found out he was a policeman. She would come over to him, and take the mickey out of her friends. Pointing to a bottle of champagne being brought to a table, she would say, ‘That will be eleven hundred pounds please.’ She had pointed to one girl, who was in tears, and being consoled by another. ‘That one has issues. Affluent issues.’ Then, moving closer to Reynolds on the banquette seat, ‘You see, no one ever said to her “no”. Well tonight … someone said no.’ She would offer tips, which he didn’t know whether to believe, and never followed up. ‘He’s mafia … That one’s just tried to sell me a pill.’ He had taken these remarks to be a form of flirtation, which was perhaps arrogant of him. He’d also assumed that saying such things gave her a thrill. The final time, he had danced with her. Afterwards his colleague – because Club Squad officers always operated in twos – had said he’d gone too far, as Reynolds admitted was the case. The colleague was Lilley, so therefore the entire Club Squad, including management, got to know; and certainly Victoria Clifford knew. There had been no reprimand for Reynolds, but Lilley had moved ahead in their mutual race.

  The young woman was called Anna, and she was the daughter of a Russian billionaire called Andrei Samarin. Being a Russian woman her name was spelt ‘Samarina’. The purpose of this variation was unclear to Reynolds, but it seemed to beautify the name.

  Reynolds was almost certain that she was the young woman in the CCTV grab. Whereas she had been seventeen when he met her, she would now be twenty-four or -five. It was the leaning on the counter and the kicking of the heels – the restless but graceful way of doing it – that had given her away.

  Reynolds turned to Clifford. She was eyeing him.

  12

  ‘What’s the shop called?’ Reynolds asked Clifford.

  ‘Wilmington’s,’ she said, half smiling.

  ‘Did Quinn go there?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’ll go there now.’

  It was something to say; something to do. He wanted to get away from Clifford, who obviously suspected he was acquainted with the woman in the film, and generally knew far too much about him. He stood up and reached for his mac, but Clifford was at the door, holding out a different coat. It was long, and white.

  ‘Quinn’s old Aquascutum,’ she was saying, while holding it out for him like a valet. ‘You’re a thirty-eight so it should be fine.’

  Going red, Reynolds stepped into the coat.

  ‘Quinn never liked the Burberry lining,’ said Clifford.

  Reynolds glanced at the lining.

  ‘The Burberry lining of a Burberry coat, you twit. When it comes to raincoats in town you can only have an Aquascutum or a Burberry. Or a Barbour in certain circumstances. It looks fine,’ Clifford continued, ‘but don’t do it up. They look wrong done up.’

  Three minutes later, Reynolds was walking fast along Piccadilly. He had not done up the coat. He was carrying his notebook, but he didn’t know why. Grey clouds swirled over Green Park, making up their mind about what to do next. The sleet might be renewed as snow; or the default option of rain might be preferred. The golden gleam had gone, but that had just been the folly of the morning. There was a cold grey slime on the pavements, and Reynolds was thinking of Russia, a place he’d never been. The Society of Plyushkin’s Garden. He brought it up on his phone. It was a charity founded in 2012 to promote a wider understanding of Russian literature, and foster East–West cultural links. He clicked on ‘our friends and partners’, and saw many worthy names of British culture. If corporate, there was a logo; in the case of individuals, a headshot. Eventually Reynolds read: ‘Founding Partner: the Samarin Foundation. President, Andrei Samarin.’ No picture and no logo.

  Reynolds clicked back to ‘About’. The society was named after a wild Russian garden described – and evidently very well described – in Gogol’s novel, Dead Souls. Reynolds might once have read Dead Souls, but it had the sort of baleful title generic to Russian novels. Happening to glance left into the dark window of the Mercedes showroom, Reynolds saw the reflection of a man in a good, white coat; a man who looked as though he half belonged in Mayfair. It was an advance on what he’d seen in the window of Cartier.

  Whether the Arcade counted as indoors or outdoors – that was ambiguous. It was open at the ends, had a glass roof, and a silent red carpet, like a corridor in an old-fashioned hotel. Overdressed Christmas trees had been placed at intervals along the carpet; and there was a shoe
shine boy, cleaning the already-clean shoes of a man talking Italian into a mobile phone.

  Wilmington’s was one of several jewellers in the Arcade. Reynolds was buzzed in to find himself on the film set, so to speak, of the CCTV grab, and there was the bored-looking woman, looking just as bored as before. Reynolds produced his warrant card, and she said something like, ‘I get my boss for you.’ Reynolds could not guess at her nationality, but the man who escorted him up a narrow, thickly carpeted staircase, past a tiny office and into a lounge above the shop, could easily have been Mr Wilmington. He was not, however. His name was Savoury. He was small, neat and tanned, and very good-humoured for a man who had recently had a valuable ring stolen from his premises.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ Savoury asked. Reynolds declined with thanks. ‘This is the third time I have entertained the police here – in my VIP room.’

  The first would have been from the borough; then Ward of the Flying Squad. Reynolds explained that he’d seen the film, and wanted to ask a few questions about it. He took out his notebook and his pen, and laid them on the table. But as Savoury began speaking, Reynolds knew that by taking a note he might be tying his own hands. He was already in Quinn territory.

  ‘I was watching the man come in myself,’ said Savoury, who gave no more than the briefest quizzical glance at the unemployed pen and book. ‘On the screen in my office. Aisha – the lady downstairs – saw no reason not to let him in and he certainly did not raise my hackles.’

  ‘What would you have done if he had?’

  ‘I would have gone downstairs and asked him if he’d had an appointment. If he’d said no – which he would have to have done, since we never give appointments – I would have said, “I’m sorry sir, but we are appointment only,” and I doubt he would have tried to make one. In retrospect, he was clearly a professional. I’m told he left no prints. The substitute was tagged in just the same way as the original.’