‘In the arts?’
‘Yes, but also research into clean technologies. Carbon capture. He’d probably say he was putting something back, if he ever talked to the press.’
‘What are they worth?’
Eaves shrugged. ‘A billion apiece?’
‘Can you tell me how they earned it?’
Eaves picked up his phone, checking the time. ‘Quick overview,’ he said, ‘but keep in mind most of this is speculation because they’re not people of interest as far as we’re concerned. Back in the early nineties, when things were taking off in Russia, Samarin got into frozen foods. You’d think that was a big thing in a country with terrible cuisine that’s half frozen anyway, but apparently not. Distribution systems were poor, and a lot of – I don’t know – cabbages and potatoes were just rotting away in Moscow warehouses. So Samarin got that going, big factories in Moscow and St Petersburg, but with his personal base and the holding company always out east. Not quite Siberia but nearly. He’s from an island in the Kara Sea, which is an obscure sea up there that’s frozen most of the year. Then I think he lived in Tomsk, which is in Western Siberia. He moved around a lot because of his father’s job.’
‘What was that?’
‘On the railways, I think. Then the father died and he was brought up by some female relative. But nobody really knows about this stuff. Rostov’s from Moscow. KGB, as I said, but I think he saw he was onto a loser there, and he was out of it by the end of the eighties. I don’t know how he met Samarin, but he probably thought, this guy’s my meal ticket for life. When the frozen-food thing took off, Samarin got into coal, and he started buying up state coal mines. He got them for next to nothing, but the price of coal was falling at the time, so it looked like a mad strategy. But he must have banked on China and the developing world going for growth and not being too particular about burning coal.’
‘Why should they be particular?’
‘Global warming.’
Reynolds had forgotten about that. Brush Cut was still looking at Reynolds from the terrace of Scott’s. The staring match was on again, and this time war was being declared between the two of them. A waiter was approaching Brush Cut.
Eaves was saying, ‘Samarin starts up a bank, the Moscow stock exchange being so crap at the time, and he grows the business. He hooks up with Rostov, and Rostov becomes the sort of public face. But they run the business at arm’s length.’
‘How’s that done?’
‘They avoid sitting on the boards of their own companies for one thing.’
‘Why?’
‘Probably because in the early years the whole thing’s volatile and likely to go phut. Then they’ll end up in jail or dead. It’s safer to be out of Russia, so the two of them move to France for a couple of years, then they come over here. Meanwhile coal’s sparking upwards and they start cashing in their chips like I say. Some of the companies begin to be registered here; others are kept in Russia. I mean they don’t want to look unpatriotic. They bring some of the subsidiaries to market in London, testing the water, then the holding company. The first IPO’s about 1998, can’t remember the exact date offhand. And of course they’re shuttling the equity offshore, probably to the Caymans.’
‘How do you know?
‘Educated guess. The nominee companies that owned the listed companies were registered in the Caymans.’
‘That had to be disclosed?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So it’s likely that’s where the proceeds of sale went?’
‘Yeah. But I mean so what? We’re talking about vast untouchable personal wealth. It’s going to be held offshore, does it matter where? Most of their time now is probably spent managing their personal wealth, and building luxury flats, mainly in London.’
‘And they’ve invested shrewdly in London property?’
‘How shrewd do you have to be to invest in London property?’
‘What about Samarin’s daughter?’
‘She’s terrifically good-looking.’
‘How rich would she be?’
‘She’s going to be minted one day. I mean she’s the sole heir. Meanwhile she’s probably getting ten grand a week from a trust, or maybe not so much. It’s said that she’s not spoilt. But these terms are all relative.’
‘Why did Quinn want to talk to you about Samarin and Rostov?’
‘No idea, fella. No idea whatsoever. I half thought it might be a sort of test. Because he was looking for a financial investigator, wasn’t he? All academic now anyway.’
Eaves clearly did not consider that Reynolds himself might be looking for a financial investigator, no doubt because Eaves saw very little future for Quinn, Reynolds or the new unit. Reynolds paid the bill and the pair of them moved towards the door. Reynolds saw that Brush Cut had been ejected from under the canopy of Scott’s. He still stared at Reynolds, and he was now making a mobile-phone call.
19
Reynolds thanked Eaves, and watched him cycle off. A sort of shift-change was going on beneath umbrellas near one of the black four-by-fours. Some men in suits were leaving the car, others were going into it. It was about as big a Range Rover as it was possible to buy, which was saying something. There seemed no prospect of anyone driving it anywhere. Reynolds couldn’t tell if there was any connection between Brush Cut and the four-by-four lot.
Barney Barnes was approaching the pub from South Audley Street, fag in mouth. He hadn’t seen Reynolds, probably wouldn’t have recognised him if he had done. They’d spoken only a couple of times at the Yard. Reynolds looked at Barnes through Quinn’s eyes. He wore trainers, which no man over thirty ever should; his trousers were probably called slacks, and they were too short. His socks were fawn; his upper half was bursting out of a shortie mac. He’d miscalculated on the cigarette front, arriving at the door of the pub with most of it left to smoke, so he had the choice of finishing it off in the rain or going into the warm. He threw down the fag in apparent fury before entering the pub. Reynolds followed him, and Brush Cut’s head turned, like a slow machine, as he observed.
Barnes was at the bar. Reynolds touched his arm. Barnes turned and recognised Reynolds without enthusiasm.
‘This weather,’ he said. ‘Gets you down, doesn’t it?’
They carried their drinks over to a little table that looked particularly little when Barnes sat down at it. ‘Been busy?’ said Barnes. ‘What’s Flanagan doing with the murder teams? Tell you what, forget I asked, I don’t want to know.’
So Reynolds didn’t tell him.
‘So you’re with this new OCU?’ Barnes said. Reynolds didn’t like to say he was running the show. ‘Quinn’s outfit. Poor bastard. What’s the point of it again?’
‘Keeping tabs on the super-rich.’
‘The super-rich?’ Barnes drank a lot of his beer. ‘What a lot of cunts they are.’
Barnes was now coughing.
‘Are you all right, Barney?’ asked Reynolds, although he wasn’t sure whether first-name terms were appropriate.
‘Not really,’ said Barnes. ‘Heart. It’s not imminent, but I’ve had one attack, and another’s on the cards, according to the doc. I’ve been on antibiotics. Does you up. Makes you very weak.’
He didn’t look weak; just ill.
‘You follow football?’ asked Barnes. ‘My team’s QPR. We’ve got this centre-half. Didn’t fucking exist the other night. Didn’t touch the ball more than twice the entire game.’ He eyed Reynolds for a while. ‘Fucking super-rich. Arabs, Nigerians, Russians, Yanks, bloody French. My brother gets them in the cab, putting their feet up, lighting cigarettes. Treat him like dirt. The most obnoxious, greedy, arrogant … And do you think they tip? You’ve got to be fucking joking. They always want to go places like Bournemouth – you can get on a private jet at Bournemouth. They’ll stop him at midnight in the King’s Road. Put the bags in the back, and take me to Bournemouth fucking airport, and if he says he’s sorry but he’s off to bed, they start fucking screaming at him. But there
’s nothing you can do about it.’
Reynolds realised he wasn’t going to be bonding with Barnes, so he said, ‘Quinn wanted to talk to you.’
‘Quinn, yeah. How is he? Still got the bullet in, from what I’ve heard. That ain’t good. We were in a squad once, me and him. Manhunt. Lee Chubb. Now he was a bad man. What kind of cunt takes a sawn-off shotgun to steal fifty quid from a corner shop? Eventually, the thing goes off. Twice. We’re in the incident room with some forensics boys, and Quinn’s looking at my legs. I said, “Excuse me, but what’s your fucking problem?” He told me I ought to get longer socks. Said he could see my leg.’ Barnes drank most of the rest of his beer, ‘… and he didn’t want to see it. Well, fair enough. You’d take that from Quinn because who do you think it was nicked Lee Chubb in the end? Two thousand exhibits in that case when it came to court. I don’t believe Quinn saw one. Everything we considered evidence, he didn’t. The other day he called me. Wanted to talk about jewels. Wanted to know who could get a fake ring made for a switch done by, you know, manipulation.’
‘Do you know the case he had in mind?’
Barnes shook his head. ‘Retired, ain’t I? And he wasn’t saying. But I gave him a name.’
‘What name?’
‘Almond. As in the nut. Slightly dodgy jeweller, and clever with it. He’ll get hold of a biggish rock. Twelve, fifteen carats of rough. Not too particular about where it comes from. Anything bigger than that’s out of his league. And he’ll cut the fucking thing. There’s very little cutting goes on here now. It’s all done in Amsterdam.’
Barnes completely finished his pint. ‘Not Amsterdam,’ he said. ‘Antwerp. But he can do anything with a diamond, and he can produce the fakes. You got a pen?’
Reynolds gave Barnes a pen and the back of a receipt to write on. Barnes wrote down an address, saying, ‘It’s off Bond Street.’ The piece of paper happened to be the receipt for the new suit: £550, and Barnes happened to turn it over; he eyed Reynolds. ‘Excuse me for asking because it’s none of my business, but where are you getting this sort of money?’
‘I bought a suit,’ said Barnes. ‘I’m claiming it back on expenses.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’
‘It’s necessary to look the part.’
Barnes eyed him. ‘Quinn,’ he said, ‘… we all knew the score.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Secret squirrel. Law unto him-fucking-self. Gay – you’d have to say. But I mean where did the secretary fit in? She’s a funny girl.’
Barnes leant forward. He was speaking to someone standing behind Reynolds. ‘Excuse me mate, would you like to come and join us?’
Reynolds craned, and saw Brush Cut. He did not appear to have a drink. He carried his head very high, which made him look haughty, trying to rise above the pub fray.
Barnes spoke again. ‘I said, excuse me mate, would you like to come and join us? It would be easier for you to listen to our private conversation if you sat down here.’
He patted the stool next to him.
‘I stand here,’ said Brush Cut. Yes, he was probably Russian.
‘Come and sit next to us,’ said Barnes, ‘or fuck off out of it.’
Brush Cut said, ‘I go outside right now.’
‘Excellent,’ said Barnes.
‘You also,’ said Brush Cut.
Barnes got to his feet. ‘You’re fucking on, pal. What are you doing? Calling for back-up?’ Because Brush Cut was dialling a number while walking to the door.
So there had been a short-circuit. Instead of squaring up to Reynolds, Brush Cut was going after Barnes. But who did Brush Cut represent? Perhaps just himself. Reynolds rose to his feet, holding up his warrant card: ‘Now hold on, I’m a police officer.’
‘For Christ’s sake give it a rest,’ said Barnes, and he was following Brush Cut out of the pub. Through the stained-glass windows, Reynolds saw the blurred, multicoloured shapes of the two men … and the gap between them was widening. One of them was walking off. Reynolds knew it wasn’t going to be Barnes, and when he himself stepped out into the dark afternoon, he saw that he was right. Barnes stood alone, lighting a cigarette.
‘Where’d he go?’ asked Reynolds, and Barnes pointed towards South Audley Street. ‘Legged it. Twenty years ago, I would have given chase. I tell you what, six months ago I would have. Shame really,’ he said, blowing smoke through the rain, ‘but there’s nothing you can do about it. Best of luck pal,’ said Barnes, and he too began drifting off towards South Audley Street.
At length, Reynolds followed, thinking how Brush Cut must have been called off by the telephone conversation. Or was it all just coincidence, owing nothing at all to the new unit or Reynolds’ appearance in those newspapers?
In South Audley Street, Reynolds walked past what looked like a modern art exhibition but was in fact a shoe shop. There were about four shoes in the window; then came a jeweller with about four watches. They’re so expensive, four is all you need, Reynolds thought, confusedly. Next was a shop selling vast sprays of lilies and pale flowers, such as could not be picked up by a single person. It was like a supplier for extravagant funerals, and the black four-by-fours trailing ceaselessly past were starting to appear hearse-like to Reynolds. He turned left, and one of the four-by-fours broke away from the main parade, and was moving slowly alongside him. It went without saying that he couldn’t see the occupants in detail. There were two of them – that’s all he knew. The street was wide and silent – sleeping mansions, bigger than any house in London ought to be. Each one ought to have stood in a hundred acres of countryside, but here they were all pressed up against each other. Well, there was safety in numbers. Antiquated street lanterns illuminated small areas of diagonal rain. They did not presume to throw any light on the mansions.
In the heart of Mayfair there were hardly any people but only money. Reynolds turned a corner. The car alongside him did the same. He turned again, and the car went a different way, greatly to his relief. He was now in the street behind the mansions: the mews, an empty street of back doors and strange, small – but still multi-million-pound – houses. It seemed the done thing to have bay trees in pots outside. The roadway was cobbled. As Reynolds looked along it, the black four-by-four turned in from the other end, and it accelerated towards Reynolds, who turned and ran. As he ran, he thought of the diplomatic protection guys. They were outside the Saudi Embassy only about two streets over, and they had automatic rifles. But two streets was too far. The words of Barnes came: ‘Shame really, but there’s nothing you can do about it.’ The street along which he was running was all set up for a death. All the doors were black; wreaths hung on them. The car was three feet behind him as he tripped on the cobbled road; and then the car was beside him, accelerating, cornering, gone.
20
‘Perhaps they followed you from here,’ said Clifford. ‘Of course, they were only trying to scare you, although I don’t know if it’s related to Samarin at all. You must be in shock, you’re not speaking. I don’t suppose you’re going to mention this to Croft.’
‘Say something that requires an answer and you might get one,’ said Reynolds.
She knew he wouldn’t be speaking to Croft about any danger he might be in, because then he would be taken off the case. Clifford said, ‘You realise I’m going to have to take your trousers off?’ Reynolds unzipped his fly, rather resignedly, Clifford thought. She did not so much remove what remained of the right trouser leg as unpick it from the skin of his knee. He couldn’t have been in shock, because he was dialling a number as she did it. ‘Thank God it was the M&S suit,’ she said.
Clearly the phone at the other end had not been answered.
‘Who were you calling?’ asked Clifford.
‘A jeweller called Almond. Barnes gave me his name. He’d also given it to Quinn.’
‘Why?’
‘He can make fake diamonds.’
Clifford didn’t believe she’d ever heard of Almond. She said, ‘An Indian chap cal
led. He wants to talk to you.’
‘Why?’
‘He has information.’
‘What kind of Indian?’
‘A rich one. He suggested a meeting in Claridge’s.’
‘When?’
‘Now. Well, in half an hour.’
‘Give me his number, I’ll get back to him.’
‘No need. I agreed to the meeting. You’ll have time before the Plyushkin drinks. Six forty-five. He said any of the staff will point him out.’
Reynolds was trying to look indignant, but finding it difficult without his trousers on. He said, ‘I suppose it would help if I knew his name.’
‘Rakesh Dutta. He works for a hedge fund.’
Reynolds’ knee was basically a good knee on a good leg, but still bleeding. Clifford said, ‘This is a job for the Down Street Mini-Mart.’
She went down the stairs, the lift being still broken, and over the road. She wore the Aquascutum but the rain had stopped. The moon was hanging low over Green Park, which gave urgency to her stride, but the good old Mini-Mart was still open. She bought bandage Elastoplast, Sudocrem – then plucked a bottle of Dettol, the sole known quantity from among the incomprehensible detergents. She had a lot of faith in Dettol. That was because of the smell, which reminded you of the aftermath of illness. You’d been sick; it had all been cleared up by your mother, or in her own case her nanny; you were calming back down, getting into your stride with the sickbed melodrama, and yes, you rather thought you might be able to manage a cup of hot sweet tea; and yes, you thought you could just about bear it if nanny came back with the coal scuttle in two minutes and lit the bedroom fire. If there were two words that meant happiness in the cold houses of her girlhood they were ‘bedroom fire’. Why had she not followed up with the fireplaces in her own flat? But she always lit the fire when she went to Quinn’s place.
The Yellow Diamond Page 11
