At eleven o’clock Down Street was empty and dark under the rain, except for the glow of the Mini-Mart, where he bought a coffee and a bun. Emerging from the shop, he took out the cheap phone and called Anna Samarina. No answer. He looked up at the office window, and Clifford stood there, looking down at him. It was as though she hadn’t moved since he’d left for France.
By the time he’d climbed the stairs she was sitting at her desk, arms already folded. It was as if she knew he was going to challenge her. He gave her the bare outline of his adventures in France and Yorkshire, and his discovery about the two Samarins. He had not so far mentioned the magazine at the Hotel des Etrangers, which proved that Quinn had been there, or his belief that Quinn had also been in Carlton High Top.
He now did so.
‘Quinn was on the take,’ he said.
Clifford unfolded her arms, only to refold them. She looked down at her lap, as if mustering her forces. She looked up.
‘And what evidence do you have for that?’
‘He never declared the trip to France in the hospitality register. Perhaps he told you, but you never told me. I think they made him an offer, and I think he accepted it. I believe you know this.’
‘What do you think he accepted?’
‘I don’t know. Cash. Diamonds. He’d be perfectly capable of concealing whatever it was. He’d found out that Anna Samarina …’
‘Whom I assume you slept with in the chateau, making yourself an unreliable witness.’
‘I did not sleep with her. Quinn discovered that she’d stolen the yellow diamond, and that gave him leverage over some of the richest men in London. He wanted some of their money. Why wouldn’t he? Look at his lifestyle. Membership of Annabel’s, and God knows how many other clubs. He likes paintings, expensive food and drink, good clothes, vintage cars. He does everything in the most expensive possible way. He’s not going to inherit anything from his father. The money on the mother’s side has gone to a man with four children. You’re not telling me Quinn wasn’t thousands of pounds in debt?’
‘If he was “on the take” as you put it, then it didn’t do him much good, did it? Since he got shot.’
‘He wasn’t necessarily shot by the people who bribed him.’
‘Then who did shoot him?’
‘Perhaps it was Barney Barnes.’
She did not so much frown as scowl. ‘Barnes? Why? There’s a strong suspicion he was on the take himself, twenty-five years ago.’
‘And look at all the grief he got for it.’
‘So Barnes shot Quinn because he was jealous that Quinn had got away with being corrupt?’
‘It’s not impossible.’
‘It’s nearly impossible.’
After a while, Reynolds said, ‘I agree, it’s more likely that Quinn was shot by someone acting for the Russians he was investigating.’
‘By the girl, perhaps.’
Reynolds reminded her about the fashion show at Heathrow.
‘Then by Porter, who came after you on the motorway. Or Rostov, or Samarin himself.’ She stood and walked over to the window, looked down at the Mini-Mart. ‘Do you want another coffee?’
‘No,’ said Reynolds. It was important she didn’t have time to collect her thoughts. She’d do anything to protect Quinn, or to protect his reputation.
She said, ‘You still haven’t told me why they shot Quinn if he was on their side.’
‘Maybe they recruited Quinn. They knew this Caldwell in Yorkshire had something on them. They asked Quinn if he would get rid of him. He was seen talking to Caldwell on the weekend before he disappeared, and he was in Yorkshire on the weekend he was last seen. I also think Quinn had been driving his car through those woods. That’s how it got damaged. There might have been an element of blackmail. Perhaps Quinn had taken money off them already, or maybe he did it for an even bigger payday. Either way they’d want rid of him once he’d done what they wanted.’
Clifford walked back to her desk. ‘And how do you think he killed this poor man in Carlton Old Place or whatever it’s called?’
‘He could get the old man’s confidence, as a policeman. Maybe he was paid to find out what he knew; then he shot him when he was out on one of his walks.’
‘Shot him with what?’
‘The Glock that he’d booked out and never returned, and that you say can’t be found. I don’t know how much you know about all this, but you cut two pages out of his notebook, and you didn’t want me to go into his bedroom in his father’s house.’
Victoria Clifford reached into her handbag. ‘I was lying about the Glock. Here it is.’
It was in her hand, with silencer attached.
Reynolds thought: This is it. There’s nothing to say that she was here, and she won’t be in the frame, since any number of other people want me dead.
She was fishing in her handbag with her left hand while holding the gun in her right. She produced a zippered pouch of good leather: her make-up bag. She turned towards Reynolds, walked towards him. She placed the pistol on his desk. She turned towards the little mirror on the mantelpiece and began applying her make-up.
‘It’s such a revolting day, I need cheering up. I’m off to lunch at Green’s. Do you want to come? Bring the pistol if you like.’
43
Green’s was only five minutes from Down Street. Clifford had walked under her umbrella, which – she prided herself – was a very good umbrella, the shift being made of a single piece of sycamore, and easily big enough to accommodate two. But Reynolds chose to walk outside it. So Reynolds got wet.
It was principally a fish restaurant, so Reynolds naturally ordered the sausages. It was all she could do to get that one word out of him. She herself had two starters: crab bisque and mackerel pâté. Reynolds refused a drink. She had a glass of Sauvignon – a big one.
Victoria Clifford had always liked the stately, calm, green-and-cream interior of Green’s. She and Quinn used to go regularly in the early evening: not for dinner, but for the pre-dinner ‘offer’ of a glass of wine and three oysters for ten pounds. She mentioned this to Reynolds. ‘Ten pounds,’ she said. ‘It’s not completely unreasonable, is it?’
He muttered something sullenly.
‘You see, Quinn’s policy,’ she continued, ‘and my policy to some extent, was to enjoy the good things in life in a modest way. Before we died, you see. Neither of us has children; neither runs a car, at least not in London. We don’t have mortgages. Mine’s paid off and Quinn rents – and he’s not paying much, as I told you. What’s an occasional purchase of a good coat, or even a nice painting, compared to the thousands people lay out on mortgages and school fees?’
‘Membership of Annabel’s doesn’t come cheap,’ Reynolds said, in a truculent, northern way.
‘You know nothing about it,’ said Clifford. ‘The sub stays at whatever rate you start out paying. Quinn joined in 1971 or so, when the sub was about fifty pounds. That’s what he’s been paying every year since. He thought in hundreds, not millions. It’s the difference between old Mayfair and new.’
‘Why did you cut the pages out of the notebook?’
‘I did do that, yes.’
‘I know you did.’
‘He’d been invited to that same hotel in France by Samarin. Like you, they flew him from Northolt. I wasn’t supposed to know, but I heard him take the call, and I saw him jot down the details on a page in the floppy. It was important you didn’t know about it.’
‘Why?’
‘It would have put you off your stride. You’d have started investigating Quinn. He went on the weekend of the eighth and ninth of November. As I’ve told you, Quinn stopped talking to me about this case at the start of October. I thought they’d try the same with you as whatever they’d tried with him, and I wanted to know what that was. But I don’t think they took him to the chateau. And of course, it would have been a long shot to offer him the girl. I think he stayed overnight at the hotel. It’s possible they offered him the same job they offered
you. He might have been rather better at it, with all due respect. He’s not nearly as stupid as you … seem to think.’
But she was thinking of the painting: the bloody painting in the cupboard.
‘Why did he go?’ asked Reynolds.
‘So as not to cause offence or damage working relationships. Unlike you he had the confidence to do it without asking permission.’
‘Tell me what he knew.’
‘Well …’
‘With nothing missed out.’
‘When I brought you into the unit, all I knew was that he’d figured out Samarin’s daughter had stolen the diamond. He began investigating the Samarins and he came to believe, or perhaps confirmed what he’d suspected for years: that Samarin was sitting on a big secret. I now see – from what you discovered in the London Library – that he knew a Russian journalist called Max Aktin had been on to it; and that he suspected the old man in Carlton knew about it as well.’
‘He was seen talking to that old man on the weekend after he was in France. What do you think he was saying to him?’
‘In light of what you’ve said, I think he was trying to find out what he knew; or was trying to warn him. And the man was refusing to say what he knew, and refusing to be warned. I don’t think there was anything more Quinn could do.’
‘He could have taken the whole thing to Croft; got a witness protection order for Caldwell.’
‘I don’t think Caldwell wanted to be a witness. As for Croft, Quinn had to be careful what he told him. Anyone else brought into this would have started by charging Anna Samarina with murder over the killing of Holden.’
‘Except me.’
Clifford said, ‘It was necessary to bring in someone who would proceed with sensitivity. That way there’d be a chance of getting at the big thing … Are you sure you won’t have a glass of wine?’
A rather corny move, but he accepted.
Reynolds’ new phone then gave its unfamiliar beep. He had a text message. After he’d read it, he said. ‘Forensics. They found a tracking app in my other phone.’
‘Did you leave it lying around in the presence of the Russians?’
‘There were a few times they could have taken it out of my coat pocket. It only takes a second to put it in. You connect the phone to a laptop and press “send”.’
‘Pudding?’ she said. He shook his head, and she called for the bill. ‘The big secret,’ she said. ‘It all comes down to the missing little finger?’
Reynolds explained his theory, based on what he’d seen at Carlton. It took quite a while. When he’d finished, she said, ‘I think that’s probably about right. We’ll know for sure very soon.’
He frowned at her. ‘How will we know for sure?’
But then his cheap phone spoke up again, and this time it was a call. At first, he obviously wasn’t going to take it, but when he saw the number he murmured an apology and stepped outside.
44
Peter Almond had been smoking a cigarette in his workshop while reading the Evening Standard. He had been smoking and reading the Standard for some time, never progressing beyond a single small news item. ‘A murder enquiry was launched after a man was found dead in an east London street on Sunday … The victim has been named as Ronald Cooper, 65. It is believed that Mr Cooper was the victim of a violent robbery … A police spokesman said, “We would like to speak to anyone who has knowledge of this incident … Anyone with information is urged to call Crimestoppers …”’
Cooper could cause no further trouble for Almond. But Almond was now more concerned about the people who’d caused trouble for Cooper. It looked as though the plan was to take out anyone who might know about the killing of the boy Holden. It seemed highly possible to Almond that he would be next, and maybe his family (whereas Cooper had had no family). He also had the police on his back. He couldn’t keep dodging this Detective Inspector Blake Reynolds. He was in danger of looking like a party to these killings, whereas in fact his role in all this was utterly peripheral. What had he done when you came down to it? He’d made a copy of a stone. Almond lit another Silk Cut and dialled the number left by Reynolds. As soon as Reynolds picked up, he regretted calling, but by then it was too late.
‘Hold on please,’ Reynolds said. ‘I’m in a restaurant. I’ll step outside.’ There was then some whispering to a woman. Almond couldn’t help wondering whether this was all being subsidised by public money.
‘You’ve been trying to get in touch with me,’ said Almond, when he had Reynolds’ full attention. ‘Sorry about the delay in getting back to you but I’ve been away.’
‘Thanks for calling,’ said Reynolds.
Almond noticed that Reynolds then didn’t say anything.
Almond said, ‘What was it regarding?’
‘The theft of a diamond, Mr Almond, in which a real stone was substituted for a fake. Your name was mentioned as someone who could produce good copies of stones.’ Had Almond detected a professional compliment? ‘This theft might be related to some more serious matters,’ Reynolds continued, and Almond saw the first glimmerings of a deal. He could open up a little.
‘A man was killed last Sunday in east London,’ Almond said. ‘Have you heard about this? His name was Ronald Cooper.’
No reply from Reynolds, so Almond continued:
‘I thought I’d better call you because Cooper came to me with an unusual request back in September. He wanted me to make a duplicate of a diamond.’
‘And you’ve called me now because this man is dead?’
‘I’m calling because you called me, but this has come up in the mean time.’
Reynolds asked, ‘Why did he commission the duplicate stone?’
‘I don’t know. People want stones duplicated all the time. So they can wear them quite casually in public, or so their wives can. Or maybe he wanted to use it in his act. He was a magician.’
‘A magician.’
Clearly, this was all news to Reynolds, who was having to think on his feet. He said, ‘I assume this Cooper owned the stone he wanted duplicated.’
‘Well,’ said Almond, ‘I’m not sure.’
‘But he must have brought it to you if he wanted it copied.’
‘He brought me a photograph of it.’
Copying was often done from blown-up photographs, Almond reasoned, even when the original was right there on the workbench.
Reynolds said, ‘So that was the first time you’d seen the stone? I want you to be sure about this.’
‘Are you going to read me my rights?’
‘This is an informal chat, not an interview under caution. You can tell me whatever you want, and you can deny it all later if you want.’
‘You’re not recording me?’
‘I’d have told you if I was. Mr Almond, can you tell me anything about a young man called John-Paul Holden?’
Almond put out his cigarette. Lit another one. He said, ‘Holden was a client of mine. I read about what happened. Appalling business.’
‘A client. You sold him more than one stone?’
As a matter of fact, Almond had done: the two principals cut from the yellow rough. Why not admit it? That would muddy the waters. The rough was illegally traded, but it sounded as though Reynolds wouldn’t be too concerned about that.
Almond said, ‘I sold him various stones, yes. Thinking about it, there may have been a similarity between the duplicate that Cooper wanted, and one of those I sold to Holden.’
‘How many stones did you sell to Holden?’
‘I think – two.’
‘What sort of stones?’
‘Fancy yellows. Between two and two-and-a-half carat.’
‘In other words two diamonds that could be used in engagement rings?’
‘Yes. I set them myself.’
‘Do you know what became of these stones?’
‘No idea. But I began to wonder about Cooper. It’s possible he was up to no good. In retrospect, I see that I shouldn’t have got involved with
him. I thought he was rather strange, something of a fantasist, and I wasn’t sure about the company he kept … as far as I knew it.’
‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind?’
‘I would have to think very carefully. It wouldn’t be right for me to start casting aspersions all over the place. It could be very dangerous for the people concerned, and for me.’
Reynolds said, ‘Are you worried for your own safety, Mr Almond?’
‘Well, I’ve done nothing to anyone.’
‘Even so. I can send an officer round to talk to you about witness protection.’
Looking down at the Standard cutting, another thought occurred to Almond. Had Cooper simply been flashing the stone, and then been robbed of it by any common or garden thug? If anyone was destined to be mugged it was Cooper. Almond suddenly decided on a Christmas holiday. The kids were off school. His wife had been complaining about how they never went anywhere. Two weeks abroad. That would give him time to think, and a place of safety.
‘I have a holiday booked,’ said Almond, ‘I’m going away tomorrow. Can we speak later?’
45
Reynolds walked back into Green’s restaurant, where Victoria Clifford was looking thoughtful, and possibly worried. She’d made some sort of a case for the defence, but he still wasn’t sure about her integrity or Quinn’s. However, she did have a smartphone. Sitting back down at the table, Reynolds said, ‘That was Almond, the jeweller Barnes told me about.’ He then asked her to look up Ronald Cooper. As she did so, he said, ‘Almond sold John-Paul Holden the engagement ring with the yellow diamond in it. He said a magician then came and asked him to duplicate that stone.’
It was beginning to sound like a fairy tale, he knew.
‘A magician?’ she said. ‘Was he the one who did the switch?’
Half a minute later, Clifford looked up from her phone. ‘A violent mugging, apparently. He doesn’t appear to have a website, but there’s an article about him.’ She handed over the phone. The article was from some other magician’s website. It was headed: ‘Self-declared old dog learns new trick!’ A photograph of a smiling bald man was captioned, ‘Sleight of hand master, Ronald Cooper.’
The Yellow Diamond Page 24
