Kill or Be Killed

by James Patterson

  Something had happened here, Hill was sure. But what?

  He walked slowly to the address of the second eyewitness, scanning the pavement as he went. Besides some burned rubber, there was nothing to draw his attention.

  Hill pushed open a door and entered a glass-fronted coffee shop. The lunchtime rush was in full effect, and several queuing customers protested loudly as Hill eased his way to the front.

  “Police,” he told the groaning line over his shoulder.

  “Can I help you?” the shop’s manager asked.

  “Looking for Emma Pell,” Hill told her.

  “She’s one of my baristas,” the manager replied, pointing a finger towards a young woman who was frantically handing out fanciful concoctions of caffeine. “You can’t talk to her now. Look how busy we are.”

  Hill smiled and pretended to care. “Yeah, but you see, this badge says that I can.”

  “Ass,” the manager muttered beneath her breath.

  Hill joined the patrons waiting at the end of the long counter for their coffees.

  “Emma,” he gently called to the barista.

  “I don’t have an order for Emma,” she replied without looking up.

  “No, Emma, I’m Detective Inspector Hill. I’ve come to speak with you about what you saw today.”

  “Oh!”

  The girl looked to her manager for permission. The woman gave her assent with an angry nod, her eyes staring daggers at Hill.

  “Take me to where you saw it happen,” Hill said, and Emma took him back out through the coffee shop’s front door.

  “It was down there,” she told him, pointing in the direction of Hill’s BMW and the congealed patch of blood.

  “And you were here when you saw it?”

  “Yeah, I was just coming in for my shift and I heard the bikes, so I stayed to watch.”

  “Bikes?”

  “Motorbikes. They were riding down the pavement, heading straight at this group of people, and then it just turned into a massive fight.”

  “How many people?” Hill pressed gently, taking notes.

  “Three or four, and the two bikers. I thought it was some kind of TV thing at first, but then I didn’t see any cameras so I guessed it was real. Was it?”

  Hill resisted the temptation to tap the young woman’s skull to see if it was hollow.

  “It was real. Did you call the police?”

  “I didn’t,” the girl admitted, shifting her weight on her heels.

  “That’s OK,” Hill told her. “Were you worried they might come after you if you did?”

  “Nah, it’s not that,” she said, laughing. “I was using my phone to film it. Then I put it on Insta and Snap. I was gonna call the police when I’d finished, but by then you guys were already here so I just popped across to tell them what I saw.”

  “And you gave them the video?” Hill asked, incredulous that this evidence hadn’t been included in the case file.

  “No,” the girl told him, her cheeks turning ruddy. “I forgot.”

  “But you remembered to put it on all of your social media?” Hill laughed, thinking about how much he was actually going to miss his job. “You have it saved on your phone?”

  The girl blushed a further red and shook her head. “Deleted it. I don’t have the space.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Emma,” Hill smiled. “What’s your Instagram account?”

  Chapter 6

  Scowcroft pushed open the door to the champagne bar’s bathroom. A sideways look in the mirrors confirmed that he had entered alone, his only company a rotund businessman wheezing at the urinal. Scowcroft dismissed him quickly as no threat and stepped into the stall.

  The stall door stretched from floor to ceiling and fitted snugly. Scowcroft had the privacy he needed.

  He opened the bag and pulled the crushed leather duffel bag from its depths. The bag’s zippers were padlocked, so Scowcroft used his brother’s commando dagger to cut through the leather. The blade had no struggle in cutting open the bag, spilling its bubble-wrapped contents onto the floor: a dozen golf-ball-sized packages.

  He reached for the closest. A flick of the dagger was enough to cut the tape and open the wrapping like a flower. Seeing what was in his hand, Scowcroft’s heart beat faster. He took hold of the next bundle and opened that, then the next, then the next, his heart beating faster all the time. Finally, he looked down at what was in his hands.

  A dozen diamonds, and none below six carats. In the bathroom stall, Scowcroft held three million pounds’ worth of precious stones.

  But it was more than that.

  Alex Scowcroft held his brother’s life in his hands, and knowing that made him feel more powerful and more terrified than he ever had in his entire life.

  For a fleeting second, an image pushed its way into the young man’s mind of what could be. A life in the sun. Beach houses. Yachts. A never-ending supply of women of every shape and color.

  Scowcroft rejected the image. Better the family’s terraced house with his brother than all of the superyachts and women in the world.

  He placed the diamonds in a small leather pouch that was suspended from a chain that held two metal discs: his brother’s dog tags. Then he wound duct tape about his chest to hold the small pouch securely in position. It created a visible lump under his T-shirt, but nothing that would be noticed beneath his winter jacket. Scowcroft took deep breaths to ensure that the tape would not restrict his breathing—he knew that they were not out of danger yet.

  Finally, the diamond thief performed a solemn task.

  His brother’s commando dagger could not follow him on the final leg. Carrying such a weapon would draw unwanted attention from customs. So, after wiping it down thoroughly, Scowcroft reluctantly placed it into the walled cavity of the toilet’s plumbing, vowing that he would return for the blade his brother had endured hell to earn.

  Remembering to flush the toilet so as to avoid suspicion, Scowcroft left the bathroom and rejoined the others.

  “I ditched his dagger,” he told them with sorrow.

  “Never mind a bloody knife,” Charlotte replied, earning herself a scowl. “What about the diamonds?”

  “On my chest.”

  “We’re supposed to split them up,” she stated, trying to master her temper.

  “They’re on my chest,” Scowcroft said again, challenging her to struggle for them in the busy bar and doom their mission. “I’ll split them when we’re closer to the target,” he pressed on. “Our train’s in forty minutes. We should go and clear passport control.”

  “We’ve been talking about that, Alex,” Barrett interjected with calm. “Something’s really been bothering me, mate. I think we should let this train go and wait for the next one.”

  “Why would we wait?” Scowcroft asked with a frown.

  “The absence of the normal,” Barrett told him, then explained. “Before me and Tony went to Iraq, they used to tell us to watch for the absence of the normal and the presence of the abnormal. In other words, you see something out of the ordinary, it probably means that bad stuff’s gonna happen. And if you don’t see something you should, that also means bad stuff’s gonna happen.”

  “What’s that got to do with us, Baz? We’re not in Iraq.”

  “What was missing this morning, Alex?” Barrett posed.

  “Police,” Scowcroft answered.

  “Robbery and a street fight on Hatton Garden, and no police? I don’t know why that is, mate, but it’s definitely not normal.”

  “And it’s more than that,” Charlotte added. “Those bikers were after the exact same thing we were.”

  “Coincidence,” Scowcroft shrugged.

  “Maybe,” she conceded. “But then you look at the police not showing up, and it doesn’t feel right.”

  “It doesn’t,” Barrett agreed. “My gut tells me something is wrong here, Alex. I’ve had my eye on the news since we got here. Nothing. No stories. No coppers. There’s another train in an hour and a ha
lf—let’s just get that. We’ve come too far to half-ass this now.”

  It wasn’t in a Scowcroft’s blood to sit and wait, and the youngest of the trio balked at the thought. He may be outvoted, but he was the one with the diamonds.

  Scowcroft wanted to leave now. He wanted to charge. He wanted to see this through and restore his brother’s life not one minute later than he could. But he also knew that Barrett, a best friend to Tony since they were boy soldiers of seventeen, was the reason that his brother had been able to come home at all. Barrett’s training and instincts had rescued Tony that day. Scowcroft hoped that those instincts would not fail them now.

  “We wait an hour and a half,” he told them. “And then we go to Amsterdam.”

  Chapter 7

  Hill considered social media to be an essential part of any business, particularly in the fitness industry in which he was determined to thrive, so he was an active user of all platforms and earned a look of admiration from Emma as she received a follow request from Hill’s Instagram account.

  “You’ve got eleven thousand followers!” the barista said in awe. “And amazing abs,” she cooed, scrolling through his pictures.

  “Thanks, but let’s concentrate on your video.”

  They did, and what the detective saw astounded him—two motorbikes charging down a group of three pedestrians, who somehow turned the tables on their assailants and overpowered them. For reasons unclear in the video, the trio then bolted by foot, rather than using the van that Hill assumed was theirs.

  “The tires,” Hill said aloud, thinking of the scraps of rubber beside the blood. “Someone slashed the tires.”

  Thanking Emma for her time, Hill took a moment to stand alone outside the coffee shop, his eyes working the length of Hatton Garden.

  Two bikes, two riders, and a van, all vanished. How? How was it possible to clear that carnage before the uniforms had arrived on the scene? Neither Emma nor her video had been able to shed light on how or when the area had been cleared. She had been inside the coffee shop, busily uploading the video online.

  Hoping the witness who’d called it in could help solve the puzzle, Hill walked along the pavement and found her in a jeweler’s named Heavenly Diamonds.

  “Mrs. Underwood?” Hill asked a tall, nervous-looking woman in her sixties as the reinforced door closed heavily behind him.

  “I am,” she replied, and seemed to brace herself as Hill held out his police identification.

  “I believe you reported a crime, Mrs. Underwood.”

  “So what if she did?” a man’s voice challenged from the back of the jeweler’s.

  Hill turned his head and caught sight of a gray-haired man he presumed to be her husband.

  “Mr. Underwood?” Hill asked.

  “So what if she reported a crime?” the man asked again, ignoring Hill’s question and taking a stand behind the thick glass counter. “A fat lot of good it does.”

  “What do you mean?” Hill posed, earning a contemptuous tut in reply.

  “I mean, someone tries to do the right thing, and where does it get them? Don’t bother to answer, and don’t bother to ask any more questions either. My wife did her bit. How about you do yours?”

  “I’m trying, Mr. Underwood, but it would make my job a lot easier if I could talk with your wife.”

  “No,” Mrs. Underwood answered for herself.

  “Well, OK then,” Hill conceded, knowing a brick wall when he saw one. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

  He made for the door, but Mr. Underwood wasn’t done.

  “You want to talk to someone about what happened, talk to that bastard across the street.”

  Hill paused at the open door. “And which bastard would that be, Mr. Underwood?”

  “Him,” the man spat, pointing a finger towards the opposite side of Hatton Garden. “The owner of that sham.”

  Hill followed the angry stare and read the jeweler’s name above the tinted windows: Swiss Excellence.

  An alarm bell rang in Hill’s mind. A trip wire to a case five years ago, where a jeweler had loudly reported extortion and harassment, before finding himself facedown in the Thames.

  Hill turned back to the shop’s owner, his tone lowered. “You don’t need to tell me anything, Mr. Underwood. I believe I understand the predicament you’re in. It would help me, however, if you could nod in the right places.”

  After a few moments of thought, the man agreed with a look. He then unlocked the counter, placing several rings atop the glass. Hill played along with the ruse, pretending to inspect the jewelry.

  “Swiss Excellence. That’s now owned by Marcus Slate, isn’t it?”

  The older man nodded, though a tremor of fear made it seem more like a twitch.

  “He bought it after the previous owner died?”

  “Was bloody killed,” Underwood mumbled beneath his breath as he nodded, confirming the story that Hill had recalled.

  “The fight today. It seemed to be over a bag. Did it come from that jeweler’s?”

  Another nod.

  “I assume you have CCTV here. I don’t have to take anything away with me, but could I watch it?”

  This time the jeweler shook his head. “You’re not the first visitor we’ve had today, Inspector. All our hard drives have been taken.” His wife seemed to shrink at the memory.

  “Someone came here before the police?” Hill asked, provoking a bitter laugh from the man.

  “Before them?” Underwood spat.

  Hill could see that the man knew he shouldn’t talk, and was struggling to contain his words, but resentment drove them from his mouth.

  “Let me rephrase that for you, Detective Inspector Hill. You’re not the first police visitor we’ve had today.”

  Chapter 8

  Hill was shocked by the accusation. In truth, he refused to believe it.

  But then he visited the other jewelers whose CCTV may have covered the incident on the doorstep of Swiss Excellence. No one would talk. No one had footage that they’d hand over. In more than one instance, Hill saw a tremor of fear in the face of the shop owner as he announced himself as a police officer.

  Finally, it was time for Hill to visit Swiss Excellence itself.

  “How can I help you, sir?” a gentleman in a pinstriped suit welcomed him, putting forward a manicured hand in greeting.

  Hill took it, enjoying the man’s discomfort as he held his tongue.

  “Sir?” the man finally managed, and Hill let go of the hand with a smile.

  “Detective Inspector,” Hill stated. “There was an incident outside here today, Mr.…?”

  “Winston, Detective. There was? What kind of incident?” the man stammered, badly feigning shock.

  “The kind that people like to cover up, it seems.” Hill smiled, catching Winston off guard with his directness. “Why didn’t you report the stolen diamonds?”

  “What diamonds?” Winston protested, taking an involuntary step backwards.

  “You were here this morning,” Hill asserted, closing on the man but still flashing brilliantly white teeth. “We have your voice on the call,” he bluffed. “Your call to Marcus Slate. You were telling him what had happened instead of the police.”

  Hill had interviewed enough liars to read their eyes, and Winston’s screamed that Hill had hit a hole-in-one.

  “Listen, Winston, I’m not interested in who you tip off, or who you’re laundering for. What I want to know is, who cleaned up that mess outside your window?”

  Winston held his tongue. Then, as Hill inched his face closer, Winston saw something in the detective’s eyes—it was the same single-minded drive that shone in the face of Marcus Slate, and Winston knew there was no option but to confess to this man.

  And so he told Hill what he wanted to know.

  Chapter 9

  With twenty minutes until the Eurostar’s departure, it was time for the trio of diamond thieves to make their move.

  “There’s been nothing on th
e news,” Scowcroft confronted his accomplices. “We got away with it, all right? Let’s just get the train and meet Baz’s buyer. I don’t get what’s wrong with you,” he pressed. “Tony’s relying on us. He’s waiting on us.”

  “Which is exactly why I don’t want to mess this up, Alex,” Charlotte retorted. “We went over every single possible scenario we could think of for this, but did we ever plan that there’d be a no-show from the police? We didn’t. That’s how strange it is. Something’s going on here.”

  “You’re just nervous.”

  “I’m cautious.”

  “Well, what do you think, Baz?” Scowcroft pressed the gaunt-faced veteran.

  It was a long time before he replied.

  “Something that we don’t know about is going on behind the scenes, but the fact is, we can’t stay here forever. I say we get the train and make for Amsterdam.”

  “You see?” Scowcroft laughed, his bitter eyes on Charlotte.

  “Hang on, Alex. I wasn’t quite finished, mate,” Barrett told him gently. “I think we should get the train, but divide the stones and split up. We can meet up again in Amsterdam, but at least this way, if something does happen, one of us should get through.”

  “One of us is enough for Tony,” Charlotte agreed. “We should go different ways. One on the train, one on the ferry, and one flying.”

  “Are you off your head?” Scowcroft yelled.

  “Keep your voice down, mate,” Barrett warned the young man, seeing heads turn in their direction.

  Scowcroft did lower the volume, but his tone was as harsh as ever as he laid into his brother’s fiancée. “You ran out on Tony with nothing,” he hissed. “You think I trust you to stay when you’ve got a million quids’ worth of diamonds in your pocket?”

  Charlotte stood quickly and raised her right fist to bring it crashing into the side of the petulant boy’s skull, but Barrett caught her wrist.

  “Everyone calm down,” he urged. “People are looking. Do you want to bollocks this up now?”

  “Of course I don’t,” Charlotte replied with heat.