The Yellow Diamond

by Andrew Martin

Morley flipped over some pages. He pointed to a paragraph beginning, ‘Four young people from the USSR have recently returned home after a summer exchange visit under the auspices of the Committee for International Peace and Reconciliation, the World Churches Peace Committee and the Soviet Embassy. This is the third such exchange in as many years. Joseph Caldwell, secretary to the Committee for International Peace and Reconciliation described the exchange as “a great success, which we hope to repeat next year”.’

  The sheet was marked in a handwritten note, ‘Sept. 1974’.

  Reynolds asked, ‘Is there any more on these exchanges?’

  Morley said, ‘You have everything that’s in the house,’ and he remained silent as Reynolds continued to flip through the papers. Reynolds believed that Morley was hiding some further revelation.

  After another twenty minutes of desultory discussion, the women left the house – Helen saying of their brother, ‘He’s in God’s hands.’ For the next five minutes, neither Reynolds nor Morley spoke. But Reynolds hoped an invisible third party was speaking.

  Morley rose to his feet. ‘Would you follow me?’

  Reynolds couldn’t help congratulating himself. In not speaking, he had made a silent leap. What was Clifford’s word? A dart.

  As before, Morley held his torch. They were heading towards the grey hulk of the church; then they were crunching over snow-covered grass beyond the church.

  Reynolds asked, ‘Mr Morley, what do you think happened to Caldwell?’

  ‘It’s more than likely that he fell while walking on the hills.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t his body been found?’

  ‘I believe it will be.’

  After a while, Morley said, ‘We are on the burial ground of the Meeting House.’ Reynolds could see no gravestones in the roving torch beam, only a couple of stunted trees with sheep beneath them. Morley said, ‘There were forty-two interments between 1867 and 1903.’ There was no moon; and now there were snowflakes in the soft grey mist. Some appeared to be descending, others floating gently upwards in a somehow dizzying way. Reynolds heard movement in the heather: the sound of sheep departing. Morley’s torch showed that the stone borders of the building were still visible. He moved one of the stones with his boot, and there was gravel beneath. He scooped out four handfuls of gravel and produced a package made of several twisted carrier bags. They were Sainsbury’s carrier bags, but the old sort: mainly white instead of mainly orange.

  They returned to Caldwell’s house. Inside the plastic bags was an A4 padded envelope. It contained bank notes: perhaps two hundred fifty-pound notes and a hundred twenties. They looked wrong somehow, like they’d run in the wash, or were forgeries. But they were not forgeries, just old. Not that old, however. ‘That’s Christopher Wren,’ said Morley, ‘on the back of the fifties. They were issued in 1981, withdrawn in 1996. On the twenties, it’s Michael Faraday. They were issued in 1991, withdrawn in 2001.’

  ‘What have we got here? About twelve thousand pounds?’

  ‘Thirteen thousand and sixty,’ said Morley.

  There were also further documents with the notes. They related to the British–Soviet student exchange of 1971. A black-and-white photograph showed three young Russians – two male, one female – standing shyly in what might have been a public park. They had longish hair and big collars. They might have been sixteen or seventeen. Morley said, ‘They were all top students at their schools in Russia, and they’d all done well in an essay competition. That’s why they qualified for the exchange.’ One of the three held a guitar; the other two might have been singing. The caption read: ‘Andrei Samarin attempts to spread a little love (and music). Also pictured are Dina Alkaev and Vitaly Utkin.’

  Morley was saying, ‘The essay was on the theme: “How to make war an anachronism.”’

  Reynolds asked, ‘And how would, say, Andrei Samarin have done that?’

  Morley said, ‘I’m afraid the essays have long since been lost.’

  Reynolds was studying the photograph of Samarin. He was in the act of strumming the guitar with his right hand. He did this with a plectrum, gripped between his thumb and forefinger. The other fingers were splayed.

  Reynolds said, ‘Most of his little finger is missing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morley.

  ‘But on the right hand.’

  ‘Why do you say “but”?’

  The little finger on the left hand was present and correct. Reynolds could tell from the way the boy held down a chord on the fretboard. He was a good-looking, thin boy with regular features. He could have been the young Andrei Samarin. But only if the older one had grown another left little finger.

  Reynolds asked Morley, ‘Do you know anything about this boy?’

  ‘I never met him myself. Joseph told me he was very shy, although he doesn’t look it here because of the guitar. He was from Siberia. Both his parents had died, and he’d been brought up by an aunt. He’d got frostbite at one point and the finger had to be amputated.’

  ‘Is that all you know about him?’

  ‘I know he’s now one of those oligarchs,’ said Morley.

  ‘And did Joe Caldwell know that?’

  Morley nodded. ‘Samarin keeps a low profile, but Joseph heard he was living in London, and he wrote him a letter. It was in about 1995.’

  ‘Why did he write?’

  ‘To say hello; congratulate him on his great success.’

  ‘Perhaps to ask for a donation.’

  Morley frowned. ‘A donation for what?’

  ‘Help rebuild the meeting house.’

  ‘From what we knew, Samarin has made his money from fossil fuels. Joseph wouldn’t have accepted a donation from such a source.’

  ‘Do we have the letter?’

  ‘No, but we have the reply.’

  Morley fished into the bundle. Reynolds read a typed note on unheaded paper. It began with a spelling mistake:

  Dear Mr Calderwell,

  Thank you for your recent letter. I’m afraid it comes at a time of many difficulties in my life, all in connection to my departing Russia and the difficult political situation. At the present time there may in actuality be physical danger for anyone connected to me or even with knowledge about me, or speaking about me. And so it is I prefer to live as quietly as possible, leaving myself to myself.

  I am hoping very much that you will understand.

  Yours,

  A

  Morley said, ‘The money came with the letter. Tax is not payable on a cash gift, so Joseph was not obliged to declare it.’

  Given the choice between ignoring Caldwell’s own letter and trying to buy his silence, the writer had opted for the latter, which was possibly unnecessary, since a man like Caldwell would surely not have harassed anyone. But it was clearly essential that Caldwell should not pursue the connection between the guitar-playing young Samarin, and the billionaire of that name. In particular, Caldwell must not meet the oligarch called Samarin, because then he might realise about the missing fingers. In other words, he might realise they were not the same man. Surely the writer ought to have said, ‘You have the wrong man. Yours must be a different Samarin. I never came to the UK on any exchange.’ But that could be dangerous because the two Samarins were presumably supposed to be the same for the wider deception … and Caldwell had accidentally obtained proof that they were not. The fashionable words ‘identity theft’ came to Reynolds, and then the words of Chamberlain, spoken outside Argrove: ‘The biggest money crime you could imagine … and murders as well … murders, plural.’ He said none of this to Morley.

  Instead, Reynolds asked, ‘How did he react to this – well, it’s a snub, isn’t it?’

  ‘Joseph wouldn’t have seen it like that. He had no right to the man’s time and attention. I believe he understood that Samarin was in some distress when he wrote that letter. He didn’t want to cause further trouble for him.’

  A car headlight swerved over the peace posters. At the uncurtained window, Reynolds could s
ee faster and denser snowfall, luminous in the darkness.

  Reynolds continued to leaf through the papers. The young man called Samarin had apparently been playing guitar as part of something called a ‘Peace Caravan’ that had visited London and a number of northern cities, and into which the exchange students had been recruited. It had been organised by Caldwell. There was no further detail about Samarin or the other exchange students. Reynolds mentioned this to Morley, who said, ‘Joseph thought that one of them was dead. In a road accident in Moscow. I don’t know the details.’

  It appeared that after Caldwell had taken his friend Morley into his confidence about the arrival of the cash, they had sought God’s ‘clearness’ on what to do about it.

  Reynolds asked, ‘Why didn’t you just throw it away?’

  Morley almost laughed at this. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suppose it would have seemed wasteful.’

  Over the years, Caldwell had become silent about the Samarin question, and the pair had ceased to talk about it.

  ‘What would Caldwell have told me if I’d asked him about Samarin?’

  ‘He’d have politely changed the subject.’

  ‘Even if I said I was a policeman?’

  ‘Probably. Joseph was answerable only to his own conscience. He was very determined and very strong.’

  Reynolds was now flicking through the original bundle, the one Morley had brought from his house. There was a letter he had missed before. It had been published in The Quaker in March 1972, and outlined in biro.

  Dear Sir,

  It has come to my attention that Quaker groups in Britain have been involved in organising student exchanges with the Soviet Union. As a recent emigrant from that country, and the sometime inhabitant of one of its notorious labour camps, I find these exchanges a matter of concern. British Quakers ought to be aware that such exchanges are a considerable propaganda asset to Moscow, helping to legitimise a repressive and criminal regime. I do not doubt the honourable motives of Mr Caldwell and his Peace Committee, but I suggest that the thinking behind these exchanges is naïve to say the least.

  Yours sincerely.

  Max Aktin

  There was the connection. Quinn had known something about Aktin; he had known something about Caldwell. He had probably suspected that the present-day Samarin was an imposter. How had Quinn used that information?

  Reynolds asked, ‘How did Caldwell react to this letter?’

  ‘I think he tried to get into contact with this … Max Aktin. I think there was some correspondence between them. I think Aktin is long dead.’

  Aktin’s concern in 1972 was the relationship between British Quakers and the Soviets. It must be that later on, when Samarin emerged in London as an oligarch, Aktin connected him with the exchange.

  Reynolds asked, ‘Did Caldwell think the original Samarin had been replaced by another?’

  ‘Another what?’

  ‘Another man.’

  ‘What an extraordinary idea. No, I don’t believe for a minute that he thought that. But he knew something was amiss.’

  A perfect silence – of a kind entirely unavailable in London – had descended on the room. Reynolds again realised the importance of not speaking. Eventually, Morley said, ‘Joseph was last seen on the morning of Saturday 15 November. On the previous Saturday, I saw him speaking to a man where the road goes through the woods here. The man was standing next to a parked car, and I assumed he was asking directions. I saw this from the window of the bus that goes to Helmsley. I only thought of it after Joseph disappeared.’

  ‘What sort of car did the man have?’

  ‘I know nothing about cars. A fast car, I would say. A sports car.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Green, possibly.’

  ‘Did Caldwell seem scared afterwards?’

  Morley looked rather hostilely at Reynolds. ‘He was never scared. What would be the worst that could happen to him?’

  ‘He could be killed for what he knew.’

  ‘What he knew was that whatever followed after death would be good.’

  ‘And what would follow?’

  ‘Love.’

  ‘What did the man look like?’

  ‘Handsome, I suppose. Well-dressed. He looked a bit like you, only twenty years older. He wore a coat exactly like yours.’

  41

  While approaching the M1 after taking his leave of Morley, Reynolds had turned on his phone. It had been off ever since the flight. There was one message: from Detective Sergeant Ibbotson. How had it gone in Carlton? A regular Yorkshire terrier, this bloke. There was nothing from Clifford. Reynolds called Ibbotson, told him as little as possible; verified that Quinn had never been in touch. (‘Hold on, wasn’t he the guy who got shot?’ Ibbotson had said, and it had then been very difficult to get him off the phone.)

  Reynolds put his phone on the passenger seat of the Saab, together with the bundle in the Sainsbury’s bags. He’d had to practically prise them out of Morley’s hands. Reynolds had suggested to Morley that he and the sisters of Caldwell might like to leave Carlton for a few days, but Morley was having none of that.

  An hour later, Reynolds was doing ninety southbound on the fast lane of the M1 when a little grey Porsche appeared to drop from the sky into the space immediately behind him. Reynolds braked hard, veered into the middle lane, putting himself two feet behind a white van marked ‘The Complete Building Service’. But the Porsche was now alongside him, and the window was coming down. It was Porter at the wheel. His head flicked towards Reynolds, as Reynolds veered left again, into the slow lane, where an exit was immediately available, the first of two that were coming up. Reynolds took the exit, noticing the word ‘Worksop’ on the sign and ‘South …’ somewhere. He was coming up to a roundabout. He took an exit at random to ‘Market …’ somewhere, and he accelerated again. He was apparently on the A614. No sign of the Porsche. Here was another roundabout. He took the first left. He was on a smaller road, with occasional houses, a 50 mph sign. He slowed to sixty, and an alarm sounded. He was low on petrol. He glanced from the gauge to the rear-view: the Porsche was fifty yards behind, the low-slung lights hoovering up the road. He accelerated to a hundred. Another roundabout was approaching. How had he been followed? He glanced down at his phone, reached out and turned it off while accelerating to a hundred and twenty. The road was about to fork, but he had to give way whichever fork he took. He took the left fork without giving way and was quite surprised to find himself still alive. He was doing a hundred alongside a football pitch. No sign of the Porsche. Two turns later and he was very near Mansfield. He rejoined the M1 somewhere near Nottingham. No sign of the Porsche. He had failed to get the registration.

  42

  After escaping the Porsche, and Porter, Reynolds pulled into what might have been Beeston services and bought a pay-as-you-go mobile. He saved his contacts to the SIM on his smartphone and put the SIM into the new phone. That required turning on the smartphone but only for a second. He then called Ibbotson, who’d been on the point of going to bed. But he was immediately galvanised by what Reynolds had to say. Reynolds had asked Ibbotson to send a patrol car up to Carlton High Top. A bad man might be heading up there.

  If Porter had been tracking Reynolds by his phone he wouldn’t know for sure that Reynolds had been at Carlton; Porter would only have picked him up southbound on the M1, when he’d switched the phone on, but Porter might guess where he’d been. Reynolds assumed Porter was operating from his house in Northumberland, which was after all the county immediately north of North Yorkshire. It was important to find out whether he’d gone back there, or continued south to London. Reynolds ought to go to the Missing and Wanted at the Yard, who’d then put Porter on the National Police Database. There might be reasonable suspicion enough for an arrest – but then again for what? Certainly there wasn’t the evidence for a charge, and Porter would probably flee the country after being released. Reynolds mentioned something of this to Ibbotson, and it seemed Ibbo
tson could help. North Yorkshire was always doing joint ops with Northumberland. He’d get onto one of his mates up there, and he’d find out whether the bad man was at home, but for that he’d need a name. So Reynolds gave the name.

  Reynolds continued south in the Saab. He replayed the moment that Porter had turned his long, red, horse-like head towards him as they’d raced side by side. Porter’s face had betrayed intense concentration amounting to enjoyment. He must be the man who’d shot Quinn. He had the nerve, the weapons training … and why else would he be so well paid? The estate in Northumberland, and every new car that he produced, was further evidence of his guilt. Reynolds was now very far out on a limb indeed. He didn’t know what Porter had meant to do had he caught up with him, but he was undoubtedly now in danger. If he went to Croft about it, he’d be taken off the case, such as it was. Any substantive conversation with Croft would surely have to result in the arrest of Anna Samarina, for the theft of the diamond at least. It would also have to include his discoveries about the suspicious movements of Quinn, and the likely complicity of Clifford.

  Reynolds was at his flat by 3 a.m.

  There was no Porsche outside the door, but Caroline had visited in his absence and removed further items of furniture and all the wine. So Reynolds drank two glasses of Marsala, which they’d bought to make an ambitious stew about three months before, and went to sleep. At 10 a.m., it was Eddie Ibbotson’s turn to wake Reynolds. Graham Porter was at home or, as Ibbotson put it, ‘on his farm’. (‘Can I speak to the owner of the property?’ some Northumbrian constable had been sent to ask. He’d then handed Porter a leaflet warning of door-to-door conmen.) Reynolds imagined that Porter would have looked tired.

  He himself was tired, and it turned out that Caroline had also taken all the coffee. When he stepped out of the front door, he saw the Saab. It was like a woman he’d spent the night with … but now the two had nothing to say to each other. He’d wait until Manchester came asking for it back.