“Alex?” Barrett asked, but was ignored. “Alex?” he asked again.
But Scowcroft’s attention had left the group, and the argument. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the escalators that carried patrons to the champagne bar.
And there, wearing a fresh suit and with his arm in a sling, was the big man that Scowcroft had stabbed only hours before.
Barrett and Charlotte followed the young man’s gaze.
“Staircase,” Scowcroft told them. “We all get the train, and we get it now.”
This time there were no arguments.
Chapter 10
It took Hill only two minutes to drive to Snow Hill police station, the location from where Police Constable Amy Roberts had responded to the call of the Hatton Garden incident.
“Why only her?” Hill pressed the stoat-faced desk sergeant.
“Wasn’t a crime in progress, and we’re on a tight budget. Big area to cover and not enough coppers. She was just there to take reports.”
“And where did she respond from?”
“Here, on foot. Budget,” the desk sergeant explained again.
“She arrived seventeen minutes after the witness called,” Hill said, his voice hard. “It’s a five-minute walk.”
The sergeant merely shrugged.
“Where can I find her now?” Hill asked, tiring of the silence.
“I can call her in.”
Hill shook his head.
“She’s on her patrol route around the Stock Exchange area. You’ll recognize her easy enough. Tall and blonde. Wasted in this uniform, to be honest. Sooner she gets a plainclothes gig the better.”
Hill didn’t bother to reply and left the station on foot.
The London Stock Exchange was close, and as Hill walked down Newgate Street he caught glimpses of the magnificent dome of St Paul’s Cathedral between the buildings. Hill had been born and raised in the city, and the image of that cathedral standing tall amongst the fires of the Blitz had always provoked an intense pride within him. Now that his own grandparents were gone, it was almost as if the iconic architecture of the old city had taken their place as the guardians of Hill’s heritage.
“Bugger it,” Hill thought aloud and took a side street towards the cathedral. He knew that starting a business would consume his time for months, perhaps years to come. When would he get the chance to sit and stare in awe at the striking lines and the subtle beauty of a place like St Paul’s?
The case could wait twenty minutes.
Hill entered through Paternoster Square, taking his time to admire the space that so brilliantly trapped the autumn sun. Passing through a narrow archway, and squeezing by a group of eager Chinese tourists, Hill came out at the rear of the cathedral.
There was a cafe to his left and Hill took a seat, ordering coffee and a chicken sandwich. Then he pulled his earbuds from his pocket, connected them to his phone, and opened an app that had become part of his daily ritual.
After years of training his body for optimal performance, Hill had finally been convinced by Deb of the need to train his mind. The app centered on a form of meditation known as mindfulness, the calm voice guiding Hill through his breathing exercises and helping him to put order into the scattered thoughts that bounced around inside his mind. In central London, a man with his eyes closed was not enough to draw attention or comment, and when Hill finished the seven-minute session, feeling revitalized and energized, a coffee and a sandwich sat in front of him.
But before he had reached for either he saw her.
PC Amy Roberts was on the opposite side of the square, giving directions to a pair of grinning backpackers. Thanking his luck that he wouldn’t have to pace the area endlessly to find her, Hill picked up his lunch and walked towards the police constable.
As he drew near, and the backpackers went on their way, Hill saw that the desk sergeant had been right: Hill was six-two, and Roberts was easily his match. She was also strikingly beautiful.
“No wonder they all come to you for directions,” Hill smiled, then took a deep bite of his sandwich.
“Excuse me?” PC Roberts asked, her beautiful face drawing into the haughty mask that she used to drive away unwanted male attention.
“Don’t worry about it,” Hill replied through a mouthful of bread and chicken.
“Can I help you, sir?” Roberts asked, forcing herself to add the title.
“Actually, you can,” Hill said, swallowing the mouthful. “You can tell me how much they paid you to cover up the Hatton Garden robbery.”
Roberts froze, but her eyes widened in alarm.
“Are you a reporter?” she finally managed.
“Afraid not, Amy. I’m from Scotland Yard.” Hill dropped the words as casually as he tossed a corner of his sandwich to the pigeons. “But I’m not with internal,” he added.
“Who the hell are you, then?” the constable asked, regaining some of her composure and fire.
“Well, that depends on what you tell me. I can be the guy who ends your career, and sees you do a nice stretch inside, or I can be the guy who conveniently forgets to include certain things in his report, and nobody cares because the case will be solved, and someone else will be going to prison. How’s the second option sound to you?”
“Like I have a bloody choice. The same as I didn’t have a choice this morning.”
“Go on.”
“Look at me. I can’t blend in. I can’t hide. They know where I am, and they know we patrol alone now since the cuts. Why do you think I’m standing in the middle of this sodding square giving directions?”
“Because you’re scared,” Hill answered with empathy.
“Because I’m fucking terrified,” she hissed, her eyes backing up her words. “They stopped me on my way there. Told me what I had to do.”
“And that was?”
“Turn a blind eye while they cleared the scene. There was no one there, just two bikes on the pavement and a van with slashed tires. I had to wait for the tow trucks to come, and then they sent me to gather the CCTV.”
“Where’s that now?”
“In the Thames, I’d imagine. One of them came with me, pretended to be a plainclothes officer, but I could see that the owners of the stores knew better. There’s a racket going on there, and they all know about it.”
“Marcus Slate?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. There’s been a big guy parading up Hatton Garden every morning. Catches a taxi from the end of the street. I saw him on my rounds a couple of times. I thought he looked out of place, a right thug in a nice suit, but then when I saw him come out of the shop that Slate owns, it made more sense.”
“What are they running out of there?”
“Diamonds, and I’m not going to die because two gangs were fighting over them.”
“How do you know it was diamonds?”
“It’s Hatton Garden—what else can it be?”
“OK. Look, I understand why you did what you did. I know it’s not black and white on the streets.”
Hill watched as Roberts balled her hands into angry fists, no doubt wishing she could take revenge on the men who’d threatened her and forced her to turn her back on the job and service that she no doubt loved.
“I feel like a piece of shit for it,” she said with anger. “But these guys are serious, and I did what I had to do.”
Hill had nothing to say and simply handed her his card.
“I really hope you figure it all out,” Roberts told him, and Hill could feel her sincerity. “But figure it out quickly, because someone’s going to die for those diamonds.”
Chapter 11
Scowcroft pulled a wedge of twenty-pound notes from his pocket and waved them at the waiter to catch his attention, before dumping them on the table—the last thing the thieves needed was to be chased by the bar’s security for running out without paying their bill.
“Follow me,” he told the others, and took them to the stairwell at the opposite end of the bar from the escalators, whe
re the gorilla of a courier was now scanning the tables.
“How did he know where to find us?” Charlotte asked as they pushed through a fire escape. There was no alarm on the door, and the stairs led down into the main station.
“Not a question for now,” Barrett told her, his nose throbbing in agony as they bounced down the steps.
“There’s the train,” Scowcroft told them as they reached the ground floor. “Platform two. Don’t split up too far, but don’t walk in a bunch.”
The trio moved across the bustling concourse, Scowcroft resisting the urge to shoot a glance up at the champagne bar terrace. To keep his eyes rooted downwards, he pulled his phone from his pocket and pretended to type a text message.
“I don’t see anyone else,” Barrett whispered as the men were pushed closer together through a turnstile and headed towards the passport checks of the French police. “And they only saw my face. If it comes to it, I’ll bolt and draw them away.”
“Bollocks to that,” Scowcroft hissed. “They weren’t the cops, Baz. If they get any of us we’re done. No suicide missions.”
“If they see me, I’m running,” Barrett insisted.
“Fine, but me and Charlotte will run with you. That what you want?”
The thieves showed their passports to the French police officers and moved swiftly through to the platform, where they waited to board. Scowcroft was frustrated at being forced to stand in the open, but the press of other travelers about him gave him some measure of comfort. Reversing the camera on his phone, Scowcroft used it as a mirror to look over his shoulders. The action drew no attention from the other tourists, many of whom were taking selfies as they documented their travels, and Scowcroft saw no sign of the courier.
But he did see something else.
Twenty yards behind Scowcroft was a muscular, thickly bearded man in his thirties. He carried no baggage and appeared to be alone.
Perhaps these indicators alone Scowcroft could ignore. But why was the man looking up at the champagne bar?
“Baz. The stacked bearded guy behind us. I reckon he’s with them. Where’s Charlotte?” Scowcroft hissed, seeing no sign of her.
“She boarded,” Barrett explained. “Next carriage.”
“Bollocks. We need to stick close.”
“Get into this one. We’ll join her through the carriages.”
Scowcroft nodded, and the pair climbed aboard the Eurostar, Barrett pausing to help an elderly lady lift her baggage onto the rack.
“Thank you, dear,” she smiled. “Oh! But what happened to your nose, you poor thing?”
“Bike accident, love,” Barrett grinned through missing teeth. He turned to Scowcroft. “I didn’t see the beard get on.”
“Must be waiting for his mate in the champagne bar. Where the hell’s Charlotte?”
“Over here, boys,” the two men heard, finally spotting their female accomplice amongst a horde of lager-swigging men.
“This is Graham,” Charlotte explained, pointing to a slightly overweight man in his late thirties.
“Pleasure to meet you, lads,” Graham slurred, before remembering that he was dressed solely in a leopard-skin bikini. “It’s my stag party,” he added by way of explanation.
“Graham’s been kind enough to invite us to join them for drinks,” Charlotte explained, having found an excellent way to disguise her and the other two for their journey.
“Yeah! Come get pissed with us, boys!”
Warm cans of lager were shoved into Scowcroft’s and Barrett’s hands, the men recognizing quickly that there was safety and camouflage in numbers.
They pushed themselves into the throng of revelers.
“You got your dagger?” Scowcroft whispered.
“Dumped it with yours,” Barrett told him. “There’s glass bottles on that table if it comes to it.”
Scowcroft nodded. As a nineteen-year-old he had suffered a wound from a bottle himself and had the scars to remember it by.
“All right, then.” Scowcroft forced a smile, knowing their backs were against the wall. “Cheers!”
Chapter 12
From behind the wheel of his unmarked BMW, Hill hit speed dial, making his second call in as many minutes. This one was to his superior, Chief Inspector Vaughn. The first had been to the offices of Marcus Slate.
“You can’t just go turning up at Marcus Slate’s place, you idiot,” his boss told him on the phone, Hill picturing how Vaughn’s freckled face would be pressed into his hairy hands.
“That’s why I called ahead, boss.”
“You know what I mean, you ass. You’ve already got your redundancy. Why the hell are you pushing for disability on top of it?”
“So there are people above the law now, Chief Inspector? Is that what you’re telling me?” Hill poked with levity.
“You know damn well that’s not what I mean, but Slate has political clout as well as business. You rub him up the wrong way, Hill, and you can forget about ever opening a business in this city.”
“That thought had occurred to me,” Hill told him with honesty. “But here’s the thing, boss. I’m actually a big fan of Slate’s. As far as British entrepreneurs go, he’s up there with Branson.”
“You know damn well that Slate’s not clean.”
“Ouch. I hope that wasn’t deliberate, boss. And I’m not stupid, but I do want to meet the guy.”
“You’re lucky it’s your last week,” Vaughn told him, though there was no malice behind the threat. Like every superior officer Hill had served under since joining the force, Vaughn had nothing but good words to say about him.
“I know, boss, I know,” Hill placated. “Now something’s occurred to me about this robbery. Three of them bolted from the scene on foot. Can we pull footage from the local Tube and train stations? Say a half-hour window?”
“Yeah, I’ll get the tech guys on it.”
“Cheers.”
“And you’re sure this visit is just to blow smoke up Slate’s backside?” Vaughn asked finally.
“Nothing but smoke,” Hill assured him.
“Well, I’ll see you back at the office, then.”
“See you at the office, babe,” Hill replied, and cut off the call before Vaughn could berate him.
Ten minutes later, Hill pulled up outside the Chelsea property that served as the offices for Slate’s business empire. The building was high-end but subtle. Like the man who owned it, the property hinted at money and power, but the secrets of its wealth were kept within. Slate was not an entrepreneur who was about to launch a podcast, hold seminars, or write a memoir.
Hill had heard the rumors, but his admiration for good business had led him to study Slate’s path to riches closely enough to separate the facts from the fiction. As he stepped out of the car, he prepared for the meeting by running through what he knew of Slate.
Growing up in London, Slate was the son of an East End mechanic. The story went that at fourteen Slate junior had dropped out of school and helped transform his father’s failing business from a repair shop to a spare parts supplier. Within a year the business had been profitable. Within five, Slate had opened a further three sites across London. Within ten, he’d owned twelve nationally.
And then the internet had become a part of everyday life, revolutionizing the way people shopped. Twenty-four-year-old Slate had seen the future, and had been one of the first to offer spare car parts online. He’d bought out the competition, and three years later he’d made the Forbes list as one of Britain’s wealthiest young men.
The story was inspirational: a young boy who rescued the family business and, with the vision few people possess, saw the way his industry would evolve in the future.
But that was only half the truth.
Slate had not dropped out of school—he had been expelled for repeatedly assaulting his fellow pupils and teachers. In the ten years before he’d opened his internet stores and marketplaces, Slate had seen the inside of a courtroom on several charges. His final appe
arance, for grievous bodily harm, had earned Slate six months in prison. Ironically, it had been there that he learned of the emerging possibilities of the internet, taking all the IT courses available through the prison reform programs.
As Hill stepped into the plush lobby of the mogul’s office, he smiled at the thought that the taxpayer had given Slate the education and time to exploit such a gap in the market.
“Detective Hill,” he told the three beauties behind the desk. “How many of you does it take to answer the phone?” he couldn’t help but add, earning a smile from two and a look of contempt from the third.
“Mr. Slate is expecting you. Please follow me,” the sour-faced secretary told him, her tone as sharp as her eyes.
They came to a pair of thick mahogany doors. Along the corridor, Hill saw two men sitting behind a desk that was home to only mugs of tea and a television. The muscular men gave him a dismissive look and turned back to their talk show.
“That the concierge, is it?” Hill asked the secretary.
She ignored the jest and knocked at the door.
“He’s a very busy man, Detective, so please keep it short.”
“But of course.” Hill smiled, thick-skinned from years on the force. Compared to being spat at and beaten as a uniformed bobby, a few narrowed eyes and dismissive glances were no sweat.
Hill stepped into Slate’s office, and the door clicked shut behind him. In the next instant, adrenaline and panic coursed through his body.
Because the room was empty.
Chapter 13
Not a desk. Not a chair. Not a single family photo. Save for the plastic sheeting on the floor, the room was completely empty.
Hill spun on his heel, grabbing for the door handle.
It turned. It opened.
And Hill found himself staring into the face of Marcus Slate, who had something in his hand.
Tea.
“Hold the door then, mate. Sorry, Detective Inspector,” Slate corrected himself with a smile. Hill obliged after a pause to reset the chemical actions of his fight-or-flight defense.
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