The Yellow Diamond

by Andrew Martin

  Rostov had finished his call. He was pointing an accusing finger at Page. ‘What is your “storyboard”? Like waterboard, no? I hope not!’

  Page said, ‘It simply means an itinerary, Viktor.’

  ‘Yes. Then you say what you mean, my friend.’

  Rostov drank a glass of wine very quickly, and seemed to become immediately drunk. ‘We like England and we want quiet life, no trouble,’ he said, addressing Reynolds. ‘In Russia – is impossible. You are police detective. You investigate the rich in London? There is rich and not so rich. Mr Abramovich. He is rich guy, different level. But nothing to investigate. If we make mistake, you find anything, you tell us. Is accident; we will compensate.’

  ‘But Viktor,’ Samarin gently protested, ‘that’s not—’

  ‘One minute my friend,’ said Rostov, and he turned back to Reynolds. ‘We had very difficult time in Russia,’ he continued. ‘Before we start business, and before that. You cannot imagine how cheaper was the life I lived, and this gentleman, my friend – out in cold when he was little boy. He lose finger. Frostbite, and …’

  A beautiful woman was crossing the room. Rostov followed her with his eyes and Reynolds’ eyes had wandered that way too.

  ‘You very impressed!’ Rostov said to Reynolds. ‘And I too!’

  That seemed to be the end of Rostov’s speech.

  Now Samarin spoke up: ‘Of course, we have not asked you here in your role as a police officer. It is a separate matter we wish to discuss.’ He indicated Russell Page.

  Page said, ‘What I think Viktor has reminded us of in his remarks, is simply this. These two gentlemen really are on the most epic journey, and we as an organisation are very proud to be on that ride with them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rostov. ‘Get on.’

  The food came, and Page continued his speech in between mouthfuls of scallops and sips of wine. He seemed keener on the food and drink than on the speech he had to make, especially since Rostov, in spite of his relatively poor knowledge of the language, obviously had a keen ear for English bullshit.

  Page told how Andrei Samarin’s daughter, Anna, had developed a very exciting plan for a series of nightclubs in the West End of London. Her father was committed to making this vision a reality. The clubs would be high-end of course, impeccably conceived and managed. A range of property acquisitions and licensing applications would be necessary. Reynolds was a former Metropolitan Police ‘club scout’ (these were Page’s words; he knew they were wrong, but he was not deflected by Reynolds’ frown). It was obvious he had the relevant experience to assist with such applications and this would lead to a wider role in the running of the establishments.

  Rostov came in again: ‘You have been into the English education, my friend. First class. You have good leadership skills. Now. You talk and we listen.’

  This clubs scheme struck Reynolds as owing something to Samarin’s desire to see his daughter engaged in some constructive activity. Running clubs rather than going to them. But it was chiefly a transparent and desperate attempt to buy him off. As such, it was proof that they suspected him of knowing as much as, or more than, he did.

  But how to answer?

  Drops of rain had begun to hit the dark-blue window. How dangerous would it be to give a straight refusal? Reynolds couldn’t believe violence would be used in the vicinity of the hotel, or in the vicinity of Page. He took comfort from Page’s Britishness. In a few years’ time he’d be Mr Toad. He was like the Union Jack in the corner of that red flag. As to the other diners in the room – they were French or Americans: étrangers but strategic allies, surely. The danger lay in the night in the chateau.

  ‘Before we discuss further,’ Reynolds said, ‘I have to go to the gents.’

  Rostov nodded, disappointed.

  As Reynolds left the room, he heard a mobile phone ring. Samarin’s, and he was answering. Then Reynolds was descending marble stairs indicated to him by a functionary of the hotel in an oriental-looking blue suit. He was passing black-and-white pictures of the famous who had stayed at the hotel: Groucho Marx (possibly) in swimming trunks; Mick Jagger in a bathrobe, reading a book on a sun lounger. Glass cases were set into the wall. They held Swiss watches, or Cartier handbags. They reminded him of relics displayed in a church. But if he accepted the Russian offer, he could reach in and take. He stopped on the staircase. He would – whatever happened – be rich; and he might have Anna Samarina into the bargain. He saw himself walking next to her through the streets of Mayfair, not arm in arm, but companionably close and relaxed, in much the same way he had walked with Caroline. A wave of love for Caroline came over him. He saw her playing her cello in the streets of Hampstead: an outdoor Christmas concert. She had been playing beautifully, as far as he could tell, and looking at the music only occasionally. How could she harbour all that secret knowledge? She was too artistic for him, and a couple of notches higher socially. In a way, he would have liked her to be able to express her superiority, but the two of them were buried in London suburbia. They had found themselves camping, so to speak, on the margins of London as the time ticked by, working long hours with no house, no child, increasingly little in common. It was very simple really: there had been a chronic lack of glamour in their lives. He felt he owed it to Caroline to accept the Russian offer: to show her what could be done, even if they were no longer together.

  Reynolds continued down the stairs, imagining himself a rich man.

  He thought he had the wide, marble gentlemen’s to himself, but halfway through peeing, he saw another functionary waiting by the sinks, with towels, creams and soaps ready. He was French in some way. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said, turning on a tap. ‘Rain is coming, I think.’

  Well, it wouldn’t be coming down here. Unlike Reynolds, this man was in no immediate danger of anything untoward. On stepping out of the gents, Reynolds saw an antique cabinet that had been placed before a gilded mirror. He had noticed this on the way in, thinking the table was nothing more than a decorative companion to the mirror, but he now saw a display of magazines on the table. In fact, there was only one magazine twenty times over. The mainly black cover showed diamonds floating like planets in a starlit sky. The magazine was called Charisma. Reynolds picked it up and flicked through articles about either luxury in the south of France, or luxury in what appeared to be the West Indies. The attendant now stood in the doorway of the gents.

  ‘That is a new magazine for us,’ he said. ‘It is very good.’

  Reynolds said, ‘What was the old one called?’

  ‘Easy to see,’ said the attendant, and he walked over and opened the doors of the cabinet. He pulled out a magazine whose cover was mainly white instead of mainly black; it showed a Fabergé egg instead of diamonds, and it was called Allure rather than Charisma. It was the magazine that Reynolds had seen in Quinn’s flat.

  ‘This was the one before,’ said the attendant. ‘It is also very good, but we have a new publisher now.’

  Reynolds asked, ‘Are these magazines available anywhere else but this hotel?’

  ‘Two places only,’ the attendant said proudly. ‘Here, and in our sister hotel in the Bahamas.’

  ‘How often does the magazine change?’

  The attendant did not understand this, and Reynolds couldn’t blame him. Eventually he made himself understood, and he was told the magazine was bi-monthly. This Fabergé egg edition had been around from mid-November to last week.

  On the face of it, then, George Quinn had been to one of the two hotels since mid-November, and Reynolds’ money was on Quinn having been at this hotel. He had not declared any such visit on the hospitality register, and if Clifford knew of the visit, she had failed to inform Reynolds.

  When Reynolds entered the dining room again, Rostov was speaking fast Russian to Samarin, who looked miserable. The main courses had arrived, and Page had taken refuge in his food. Before Reynolds could sit down, Rostov said, ‘Shake hands now, is done. Hundred per cent.’

  Surely,
thought Reynolds, they can’t expect me to decide just like that.

  ‘What would be the salary?’ he said, sitting down.

  Page looked up from his food. ‘It’s too early to define the specifics.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘But Mr Samarin is an excellent employer.’

  Rostov eyed Reynolds. ‘What you like,’ he said. It was not a question.

  Reynolds thought of Caroline and of Bob Ballantyne, and how he would eclipse their joint salary. He would sail past them on the voyage to all their dream homes. He imagined himself – what was the word? – gazumping them. No, because he wouldn’t want whatever property they wanted.

  ‘This is best alternative for you,’ said Rostov.

  It was the nearest thing to a threat so far.

  ‘It’s a generous offer,’ said Reynolds. ‘I’ll think it over and let you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rostov. ‘When?’

  ‘Could I have three days?’

  This did not go down well, and the meal was concluded in near silence. There was no question of coffee. Samarin paid the bill. Reynolds collected his coat. Then they were out onto an illuminated gravel forecourt that Reynolds didn’t recall seeing when he’d arrived at the hotel. The wind blew the palm trees and the sea, and it was difficult to tell the one sound from the other. Salutations were perfunctory. Rostov said, ‘Yes, good night,’ and Reynolds believed he then turned towards Samarin and said in English something like, ‘I’m tired of this shit.’ This was as the first car drove up – the one for Reynolds. Nicky was at the wheel, and it was the same black Merc as before, making Reynolds think that the partners were running low on funds, or energy.

  ‘Dinner was good, boss?’ Nicky asked, because Nicky now called Reynolds boss. As they approached the gates of the hotel grounds, they passed a gravelled bay in which some cars were parked under gentle illumination. One of the cars was a vintage Aston Martin. It was hard to make out the colour, and this hotel was presumably a magnet for Astons, but Reynolds had never had any doubt that Porter would be somewhere in attendance.

  Nicky drove fast along winding roads made white by moonlight, past high gates signifying ranch-like houses. For all their twisting and turning, they were heading relentlessly towards a district of blueish, dangerous-looking wooded hills.

  39

  They had reached the wooded hills, and penetrated to a dark valley in the heart of them. Reynolds thought of Plyushkin’s Garden. It was not a big chateau, but evidently very old – and as perfectly symmetrical as a carriage clock. A woman of about sixty opened the door as Nicky turned and drove away. The first thing Reynolds saw in the hallway behind her were paintings propped against a wall, with white sheets draped over. So Reynolds thought of her as a sort of Russian Miss Havisham, living a forgotten life alone in this mansion. But of course she was only the housekeeper, and when she showed Reynolds into a room off the hall, Anna Samarina stood there.

  On the face of it, she was the second part of the bribe. But their greeting was so confused, so inept on his part and hers, with a sort of missed kiss, that he wondered whether she might genuinely like him. It was not impossible. She had seemed to like him in the clubs; and she had seemed to like him, in a sad sort of way, on the Thursday of parties, and on the following Monday at her London house.

  The room they were in might have been classed as a study, with tall bookshelves half full of books, but some stacked on the floor; and there was a new-looking couch entirely given over to books. There was a high stone fireplace, in which a futuristic wood burner had been lit. The walls were papered with white and yellow stripes. The floor was some sort of beautiful wood, and there were rugs, one with the label still attached. For all the expense involved, there was something improvised about the room. It was as if the stylist – or some such functionary – had not turned up. Anna Samarina was leaning against the mantel, and kicking her left heel with her right heel much as she had done in the CCTV footage of the diamond theft, and this expressed her trademark frustration and restlessness, which no amount of money could correct.

  In the flurry of greeting, Reynolds could not find the appropriate remark, so he said what was on his mind: ‘Will I be sleeping here?’

  She laughed, and said, ‘I see. Small talk.’

  ‘It’s not that small,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a long day.’

  ‘How did you like the dinner?’ she said. ‘Did Rostov have two puddings? His record is four; his personal best. They were going to take you on a Mediterranean cruise.’

  ‘That sounds like a euphemism.’

  ‘No. A cruise. The boat on the sea, and you on the boat.’

  But probably not for long, Reynolds thought. The cruise might have been the option if he’d refused them point-blank. Instead they had decided on a more literal seduction than a good dinner. Perhaps Anna Samarina had intervened to spare him from the cruise. Had she been the one calling her father when he’d left to visit the gentlemen’s?

  She said she would show him his room, and this became a tour of the house, carried on with glasses of the very good red wine she had been drinking. They walked side by side up the baronial staircase. She wore thin jeans, a rather tatty pair of what looked like white ballet shoes with pink ribbons by way of afterthoughts; on top, a white T-shirt and a short jacket of some yellow feathery man-made fibre. It was the kind of thing you might wear if you were dressing up as a chicken. It was impossible to say how much thought had gone into this outfit, but of course it looked great.

  She gestured along the long gloomy landing. Reynolds said, ‘Is there a light?’

  ‘Actually yes.’

  She turned on the lights – you actually had to switch them on in this house – and some chandeliers came to life, but most of the gloom remained. There were boxes and crates, and sometimes the contents had spilled out: vases, books, paintings, lamps. You imagined there must be dust, but of course that was not compatible with super-wealth. So it was a clean sort of neglect; a mansion kept ticking over, biding its time. ‘The old servants’ rooms are … still the servants’ rooms,’ Anna Samarina said, laughing. But the house seemed empty of staff except for the housekeeper. Reynolds suggested as much. ‘Yes, they have all gone away,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Christmas,’ she said, and then, as if that wasn’t a good enough answer – which it wasn’t really – she added, ‘I sent them.’

  Reynolds presumed that many of the paintings, whether leaning or hung on the walls, were Samarin’s Russian avant-gardistes. One showed a sort of bus queue of people going up into the sky. There were multi-colours, and the persistent effect of the shattered prism; but as before, there were also older, and more relaxing landscapes. The window shutters were sometimes shut and sometimes open, in which case Reynolds saw the silhouettes of French trees.

  ‘This is my father’s house,’ she said. ‘He hates it.’

  ‘Is that why he’s gone back to his boat?’

  ‘Yes. Partly.’

  ‘How did he come by it?’

  ‘He bought it. Anyway, what do you mean? When we left Russia we came to France first. To here.’

  ‘Then you’d think he’d like the house. It would be associated with escape from a place he didn’t like.’

  ‘Who says he didn’t like Russia? He had to leave; his life was in danger. My mother had just died. I was eighteen months old, not very well, in and out of hospital.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Intestines. It was probably quite disgusting, but not very serious. But he was very worried about me. It was all in the balance with his business. He was taking some very big risks. And he was not well himself. He has never been well. As a boy, as a young man. You know, he was drafted out of the army after only four weeks because of it. It’s easy to be excused military service if you pay, but not so easy for illness.’

  ‘Had he teamed up with Rostov by then?’

  ‘Yes. They came here together.’

  ‘What do you think of Rostov?’

  ‘
I think he should get his hair dyed professionally. It’s not as if he doesn’t have the money.’

  They wandered into a certain room that contained little more than a fireplace and some big vases. ‘He should wear a blue Italian suit. Not a tracksuit. Last year he was turned away from some club for wearing jeans, but he was pleased about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because a big star – Bruce Willis – was also turned away from the same club for wearing jeans.’

  ‘He was wearing a black suit this evening.’

  ‘Really?’ But she didn’t want to talk about this evening. ‘His wife is very nice – a sort of jolie laide. And you know he has personally contributed a hundred million pounds’ tax to the British Treasury in the past five years.’

  ‘Here is your room,’ she said. ‘It is the best one.’

  It was a big room, illuminated by a single bedside light with a green shade. Wooden beams were very much in evidence. There was a double bed, covered with a gauze curtain, and Reynolds thought of Miss Havisham again, but it was a mosquito net, left over from summer. There were some novels by the bed: Nabokov, Elizabeth Jane Howard, Hilary Mantel, Colette. Back in the study, with another bottle of wine between them, and Anna Samarina smoking a cigarette (which Reynolds had never seen her do before), he asked, ‘Do you know who shot Quinn?’

  ‘So we have finished with small talk. The answer is no.’

  ‘What about John-Paul Holden. Do you know who stabbed him?’

  ‘I have an idea,’ she said, after a pause.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I am not telling you.’

  ‘That could make you an accessory.’

  ‘Only if I was involved in it, and I was not.’

  ‘But you knew him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Holden.’

  ‘A bit. I knew him and his lifestyle. You should think about that.’

  ‘Tatler magazine said you were engaged to him.’

  ‘Tatler!’

  ‘So to sum up: you haven’t killed anyone.’