The Yellow Diamond

by Andrew Martin

  ‘Hiatus,’ said Samarin, and smiled. He seemed to play with the English language like a new toy. He would glance occasionally at the Apple screen. Reynolds didn’t believe he really wanted to watch the cricket; he just didn’t know what else to do. ‘Somebody’s trying to whip something away on the on-side,’ Samarin said, then the young woman reentered, carrying a wide silver tray. It held a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket, three wine glasses. Again, thought Reynolds: elegant but sparse. No peanuts, for example. The wine was poured; the label was very French. The woman departed.

  Anna Samarina entered: she wore jeans and what appeared to be a man’s blue shirt. Her feet were bare and brown. She looked American. She kissed Reynolds on the cheek, and poured herself a glass of wine. The wine was delicious. They all seemed to agree on that.

  ‘At least Papochka gave you something nice to drink,’ said Anna. She looked across the room, studying her father with great objectivity, but also affection. A mobile phone rang, becoming visible in the process. It lay on a bureau by the window.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ said Samarin, and he picked it up and made towards the door by which the maid had left. There appeared to be few formalities to the conversation, because Reynolds heard Samarin saying, ‘But you understand thirty per cent?’

  Anna Samarina said, ‘That is Rostov. His partner. Everything must be explained to Rostov.’

  ‘Is he the man with the Aston Martin?’ Another test.

  ‘I don’t think Rostov has an Aston,’ she said. She was examining her bare feet. Reynolds thought: she’s trying to decide whether to say who owns the Aston. ‘That was Major Porter. The car is called a DB5. He has a thing about them.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Security. I’m so sorry, by the way, about last week. Eva wanted me all to herself in order to moan, moan, moan.’

  ‘Moan about what?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘Nothing of course. But she might have to.’

  ‘Who is she, exactly?’

  ‘My friend – she thinks. She is from Petersburg. We were at the same school for about two days in Switzerland. She was a runner-up in Miss USSR UK in about 2006. She has a white Ferrari and a flat overlooking Harrods. It has strange windows: triple, or maybe quadruple glazing; bulletproof, because her papochka thinks she is a target, and quite soundproof too. The ambulances go screaming along Knightsbridge in total silence, and when it rains … Harrods goes blurred. Now she has a boyfriend who thinks she should be working.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He plays tennis. I mean he is a professional tennis player. Right now, he’s in Abu Dhabi for an exhibition match; he is always somewhere for an exhibition match, and … are you interested?’

  It seemed superfluous to mention that this was a lovely room, but Reynolds heard himself doing so. He also mentioned the paintings.

  ‘That is a Gainsborough,’ Anna Samarina said. ‘And some others you wouldn’t have heard of.’ She stood up and poured more wine. ‘I’m sorry. I mean, I have not heard of them either. They are mostly Papochka’s Russian avant-gardists. Or sometimes French.’

  Her father re-entered.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Anna. ‘How is his new place?’

  She turned to Reynolds. ‘Rostov has bought a house in – which one is near the sea? Suffolk or Sussex?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘But I think Sussex. No, Surrey, and it is not near the sea. He was considering many places. He has another house in Hampstead. You have probably looked him up, seen a photograph. He is a very badly dressed man. He has many T-shirts with—’, and for once she was lost for the English word, but she soon found it. ‘Slogans. They say things like “Size matters”. Can you believe it? I am not joking!’

  ‘Now darling …’ said Samarin, who had been looking rather sadly at his daughter.

  ‘“All this and brains too”. Now he is going to have terrible fights over the house.’

  ‘Fights?’ asked Reynolds, ‘With whom?’

  Samarin turned his pale-blue eyes towards Reynolds, but it was his daughter who answered. ‘The English Heritage … He has a sunken garden, which he has filled in. He has a maze, but he got lost in it, so he is going to have his revenge by tearing it down if he has not already. He calls the place his dacha. But a real dacha would have a pump and no running water.’ She poured more wine for herself and Reynolds. ‘Not fifteen bathrooms. I think Papochka will have to mediate. The English Heritage love him,’ she indicated her father. ‘Whenever he wants to make a change here, he calls around a lady called Grace, and she says, “No, it’s impossible,” and he says, “Thank you very much,” and doesn’t do it. But Rostov will do it. You know, he bought the house off-plan. He viewed it from his helicopter on his way to somewhere else. He wants it for his new art collection.’ She looked for quite a long time at her father. ‘I luff art,’ she said, evidently quoting the man Rostov. ‘I seem to be speaking continuously, shall I stop?’

  ‘It is very entertaining, darling,’ said her father, ‘if a little fantastical.’

  ‘Papochka would probably like to go out for a walk,’ she said. ‘This is his hobby. Walking in Mayfair, alone. No motorcade! He looks at the architecture. It makes him very angry.’

  ‘No dear, Mayfair is beautiful. But some of it has been spoiled irretrievably.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Reynolds.

  ‘Most of the squares. Park Lane.’

  ‘He walks along Park Lane, seething.’

  ‘I sometimes stroll about, looking with the eyes of the past. Park Lane was once beautiful art nouveau. All white, and no motorway along the front of course.’

  He took a sip of wine. He nursed the glass, which involved use of his left hand. Reynolds thought: when he is happy he forgets about the missing finger.

  Samarin said, ‘Do you know The Only Running Footman, Blake? It is a public house near here, very curiously named.’

  Reynolds nodded. It was quite a famous pub.

  ‘In my mind,’ said Samarin, smiling sadly, ‘it still has a mansard roof.’

  His daughter said, ‘Papochka wants to recreate an old Mayfair mansion: Devonshire House.’

  ‘And not forgetting the Devonshire House ball,’ Samarin added, still smiling. This was some in-joke between father and daughter.

  Anna said, ‘He thinks if he arranges a ball grand enough, I will find a husband there.’ Reynolds eyed her, thinking of her late fiancé, John-Paul Holden. ‘Meanwhile Papochka is putting up flats along the river. He stops Rostov from making them too ghastly.’

  ‘We are quite proud of our developments,’ Samarin said to no one in particular.

  ‘I thought there was a property bubble in London,’ said Reynolds. Again the cool eyes of Samarin fell on him. ‘Or that’s the way it’s going – from what I read.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Samarin, ‘we will all climb into the bubble bath. Please tell me, because I am very curious to know: what are your current investigations?’

  Reynolds tried to decide whether this could be considered a normal social question. But the tone was not light enough for that to be the case.

  ‘The main thing we have on right now is the shooting of George Quinn.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Samarin, ‘and now two further questions. Is he making any progress: and are you?’

  ‘It’s no to both really, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Do you enjoy the work?’

  Anna Samarina pressed something that looked like a TV remote. But it was not a TV remote. Reynolds nodded at Samarin’s previous question, but that had already been forgotten. The maid reappeared. Anna Samarina indicated the wine bottle and she departed. Anna Samarina said, ‘Papochka has a proposal to make.’

  ‘I was hoping to interest you in a change of tack – change of career, in fact.’

  Reynolds said, ‘In terms of …?’

  ‘A consultancy role,’ said Samarin, ‘with ourselves.’

  Anna Sa
marina poured wine for Reynolds. She smelt very nice; therefore she must have come closer than the previous time she had poured wine.

  Andrei Samarin said, ‘Today is Monday. Are you available on Wednesday? I would like you to come to the south of France to discuss this further.’

  Reynolds smiled; he very nearly laughed. But Samarin was doing neither.

  ‘Why the south of France?’ said Reynolds.

  ‘The relevant people will be there.’

  ‘A fellow called Russell Page,’ said Anna Samarina. ‘Papochka’s PR man. You’ll like him very much. He loves cricket,’ she said, indicating the Apple Mac, ‘he is extremely English, and he has a medal for charity work.’ She laughed. ‘Papochka, what did Rostov say when you told him about Page?’ She imitated a gruff Russian voice: “‘This charity medal – is guarantee he is criminal!’”

  ‘I don’t see what use I can be to you,’ said Reynolds. ‘Unless you were thinking about security.’

  ‘No, no, we have Porter,’ said Anna, ‘and he does a very good job, doesn’t he, Papochka?’

  ‘Well,’ said Samarin, embarrassed, as Reynolds believed his daughter had intended, ‘we are all still alive.’

  ‘Or maybe we have all died,’ said Anna, smiling at Reynolds, ‘and gone to heaven.’

  ‘Take some leave,’ Samarin suggested, ‘two days only.’

  It seemed to cause him great stress to force the matter like this. What did he believe his daughter guilty of? Jewellery theft? Murder? Did he know of the engagement to Holden? Or was he trying to divert Reynolds from his own crimes, and specifically the shooting of Quinn?

  Samarin was writing on a slip of paper. He handed the slip to Reynolds, who couldn’t read it. Anna Samarina took it. ‘Northolt – is lovely private airport,’ she said, lapsing for some reason into her parody Russian voice. ‘Reception B. Midday on Wednesday. You fly to Nice. Then drive to Hotel des Etrangers. Is very nice. For dinner. You will stay at the hotel – or Vallauris?’ This last word – Reynolds thought he had caught it correctly – was added as a question directed at her father. He nodded. Anna handed the paper to Reynolds: ‘Think about it and let me know by text,’ she said, standing up. Samarin also stood. Reynolds was escorted towards the front door by the calm servant. The door swung open to reveal a badly dressed, burly man on the other side of the road.

  Barney Barnes, late of the Yard.

  Reynolds crossed the road, as the door of the Samarin house closed quietly behind him.

  ‘Hello Barney.’

  Barnes nodded.

  ‘Andrei Samarin lives there,’ said Reynolds, gesturing over his shoulder. ‘He’s a Russian oligarch.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Barnes. ‘Aren’t they all?’

  ‘He’s a person of interest. I think I mentioned that.’

  ‘I don’t recall,’ said Barnes, and Reynolds wasn’t at all sure that he had mentioned Samarin.

  ‘What are you doing here, Barney?’

  ‘This and that. Walking about.’ He half turned as a black Ferrari went past. ‘None of your business really, is it? To be fair?’ The Ferrari had been good enough to pause at the junction with Berkeley Square. It looked like the Batmobile. Then it roared into the square.

  ‘You’ve got me interested in these super-rich, you have,’ Barnes said.

  ‘Thanks for giving me the tip about that jeweller. I haven’t got hold of him yet. You want a drink, Barney?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I’ll be off then.’

  Reynolds began walking towards Berkeley Square. After a few seconds, he turned and saw Barnes moving off the other way.

  Reynolds made a circuit of Berkeley Square, thinking hard about Barnes and the Samarins. Regarding Barnes … he regretted having gone to see him. Why had he done it? Because Barnes had been contacted by Quinn. About what? The elusive jeweller.

  Once again, Reynolds had that lonely feeling, accentuated by the fact that Berkeley Square was full of beautiful women. Most were talking on their phones. In fact, Reynolds seemed to be the only person in Berkeley Square not engaged in a telephone conversation. He felt adrift. He’d abandoned his notebook, but he wasn’t going to head off to the Côte d’Azur with some Russian billionaires on a strictly unofficial basis. He needed a line manager to talk to. In the absence of a current line manager, he decided to call his previous one. Flanagan picked up straight away, but he was obviously embroiled in many other matters, so it took Reynolds a while to get across who he was; and then Flanagan was in some doubt about whether he had a minute to speak.

  ‘Right, so what’s the trouble?’ he said, emerging eventually from whatever chaos surrounded him.

  Reynolds decided he’d better start on Flanagan’s home turf. He said, ‘Has Lilley got anywhere with the Quinn shooting?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, he hasn’t.’

  Reynolds had drifted over to the Rolls-Royce showroom window. He looked at the spec, displayed in the window, of the Phantom Saloon. He said, ‘I’ve just been invited to the south of France by a Russian oligarch.’

  The Phantom saloon cost £359,760 and no pence. That was including VAT.

  Flanagan said, ‘You’ve landed on your feet in this new unit, haven’t you?’

  Without VAT the Phantom Saloon was only £299,800.

  Reynolds asked, ‘Do you think I should go?’

  ‘Why come to me about it?’ said Flanagan. ‘Is there a policing reason to go?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then you make the case to your man Croft. Ask him to minute the conversation and you’ve covered your back.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Croft about anything so far.’

  ‘Well, you know what he’s like. The Undercroft.’

  ‘He’s a very low-key operator.’

  ‘He is and all.’

  Amongst the extras you got with the Phantom Saloon were a lambswool travelling rug and ‘courtesy umbrellas in rear door’.

  Reynolds said, ‘Do you remember Barney Barnes, sir? Ex of the Sweeney.’

  ‘Christ, man, you’re jumping about all over the place. I remember Barnes.’

  ‘Do you know if he did the basic shot course at Bisley?’

  ‘Now how the hell would I know a thing like that?’

  Reynolds thanked his old boss, and hung up. He then called Victoria Clifford, explaining what had happened and saying he needed to speak to Croft as soon as possible. She asked why he didn’t simply call Croft himself, and he replied that he didn’t have his number, as he believed Clifford knew perfectly well, having gone to some trouble to keep it from him. She said she’d text him the number, but that it was the Commissioner’s Christmas dinner, so there was no point ringing him until about ten. She hung up.

  Reynolds wondered where Clifford was. He thought he heard foreign voices in the background; she’d obviously wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible, and he believed she’d only accepted his call by mistake. But he’d thought it beneath his dignity to ask.

  It was 7.15 but the Rolls-Royce showroom was still open for Christmas shopping. A Japanese family were being shown around the Phantom Saloon. It was very bright in the showroom, and increasingly dark in Berkeley Square. But Reynolds didn’t want to go back to the empty flat in Palmers Green.

  Then he remembered what he’d been meaning to do all day. He walked back to Down Street, climbed the dark stairs and admitted himself to the office. He took the two floppy books out of his desk drawer – the blank and the almost blank. He began counting the pages.

  35

  Clifford’s taxi was proceeding fast through the Christmas town. She thought of the young Russians in London: all on a crash course in westernisation. There were many fine students among them and she envied them all. At home, one third of a bottle of Cava awaited her, and a probable electronic onslaught from Dorothy Carter, plus a slightly more seemly one from Rachel Reade. But none of that was important; she had brought matters to the tipping point in a very big game, and it was really quite sexy in
the sense not only of excitement but also mutuality – because this would be the moment of truth for her every bit as much as for Reynolds. He had been in a bit of a state when he’d called. He apparently had to speak to Croft because he was in danger of ‘knackering the case’. It wasn’t like him to swear, if that counted as swearing.

  He would be going to France, of course. She had made sure of that with Croft, who really had been at the Commissioner’s dinner, and whose phone really had been turned off. But Reynolds had got on to his personal assistant, Celia Walsh, and Celia had gone to the restaurant – Langan’s Brasserie, quaintly enough – in person and dug him out. So she would be sending Celia Walsh a bottle of Berry Brothers claret. The ‘ordinary’ would do.

  Reynolds had been keen to find out where she was, but his pride stopped him from asking. Reynolds was proud, also rather vain. She kept noticing that the little mirror on the mantelpiece at Down Street had been moved. The trouble was that he didn’t accept these as facets of his character, whereas Quinn had regarded fancying himself as not being any sort of problem at all. It was vital that Reynolds should not know where she’d been. Nothing must deflect him from following the path he was on. In any case her endeavours might not come to anything …

  She had in fact spent the past two hours on the borders of Paddington and the West End; on the borders of London and the rest of the world, in other words. International London. There’d been little evidence of Christmas in those streets, but they were always Christmassy in their own way: brightly lit all-night pharmacies; Turkish delight in snowy piles in shop windows; teapots shaped like Aladdin’s lamps; tea drunk in glasses in decorative silver holders; muffled-up men sitting outside cafés smoking those … she wanted to call them hubble-bubbles … sending clouds of white smoke flowing through the cold, dark-blue air. Arabs predominated on those streets; but the big synagogue was there too, and all sorts lived in the mysterious, half-smart mansion flats of the district.

  Her contact had been Russian, and confined to a wheelchair. A silent helper had waited outside the café, which had been Mitteleuropean, with gloomy wood panelling, and many cakes laid out on a long, white-cloth-covered table, like the food at a funeral. The other customers had been vampiric, elderly Mitteleuropeans, with a couple of fat Mitteleuropean grandchildren. The former used knives and forks to eat their cakes, the latter their fingers. It had been tremendously hot; the till, and the girl who worked the till, were genteelly concealed behind a red velvet curtain. Sombre classical music was emanating from the background – a sort of massed, buried choir. Her contact had selected a strawberry square. That had been at 7.30 p.m., an odd time to be eating a strawberry square, Clifford had thought. Then again, she herself had been tempted by the coffee éclairs, but she had come directly from Claridge’s, where she had eaten a bowl full of crisps, so she just had a coffee. Then the envelopes had been exchanged. Hers had been Smythson, of course. Watermarked cream wove. The other envelope had just been any old scruffy brown thing.