Heist: BookShots
Page 4
‘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 travellers 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 do,’ 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 recognising quickly that there was safety and camouflage in numbers.
They pushed themselves into the throng of revellers.
‘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 arse. 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 rumours, 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, revolutionising 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 appearance, for grievous bodily harm, had earned Slate six months in prison. Ironically, it had been there that he learnt of the emerging possibilities of the Internet, taking all the IT courses available through the prison reform programmes.
‘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 span 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 defence.
‘Sorry about the room,’ Slate said. ‘I’m a private person, Detective, and I can be a pretty messy one, so I don’t like having people from outside of the business in my office where I have all kinds of documents lying about. I’ve just had this room redecorated, but we’re still waiting on the furniture. Still, I’m glad to be on my feet and away from the desk for a change, if I’m honest with you. Here you go.’ Slate handed Hill a mug.
‘Thanks.’
‘Soya milk and no sugar, right?’ Slate smiled, and Hill’s mouth dropped.
‘Watching my figure,’ Hill replied, hoping he didn’t appear rattled.
‘Yeah, I saw your Instagram. You’re something of a fitness fanatic.’ Slate’s white teeth flashed like a wolf’s. ‘And you follow some interesting people, Detective.’
Hill tried to feign calm by sipping at the tea, but it did little to melt the ball of ice that was formed in his stomach.
‘Some young lady on there. @emslondon, I think her username was. She had some really fascinating videos.’
‘She did? Tea’s great, by the way.’
‘Isn’t it? Sri Lankan. And yeah, she did. I’d show you, but looks like she deleted the account, which is a shame.’
Hill cursed himself for leaving a trail to Emma, his coffee-shop witness, then remembered that she had already been compromised by the actions of PC Roberts.
If Slate wanted to play the game, then Hill would oblige.
‘People spend too much time on social media,’ he told Slate. ‘People don’t talk any more, and that can be a problem. Lucky for me, I think of myself as a problem-solver.’
‘Do you now?’ Slate asked, feigning a smile.
‘I used to love doing jigsaws as a kid, Mr Slate. My older brother liked to upset me by hiding the pieces around the house, but I’d hunt them down, one by one. When I got bigger, I stopped having to look for them.’
‘Grew out of playing puzzles, did you?’
‘No, Mr Slate, but instead of looking for the pieces my brother was hiding, I’d just beat them out of him.’
For a moment Slate had no retort. Behind the facade of calm, Hill knew the man’s anger would be bubbling over. Police officer or not, he was walking a fine line.
‘Diamonds, Mr Slate. Your diamonds, stolen this morning.’
‘It’s a crime to be a victim of crime, Detective?’
‘No. But it’s a piece of a puzzle. A large one. And when the pieces of this puzzle are put together, it’s not going to be a steam train in the Scottish Highlands, Mr Slate. It’s going to be a long stretch inside.’
Hill looked into Slate’s eyes. There was danger in them, a lot of danger, but Hill had faced intimidation before and knew how to deal with it. Both men had made their threats with insinuation and subtlety, but now Hill sensed the moment to be direct.
‘I’m going to expose your diamond heist,’ Hill told the man who could have him killed. ‘I’m going to expose you, Mr Slate, and then you’re going to prison for a long, long time.’
CHAPTER 14
HILL SLUMPED INTO the driver’s seat of his BMW.
‘Fuck.’ He exhaled heavily, his fingers tingling with adrenaline.
He sat there for a moment with the engine off, hands in his lap. He told himself the delay was to show Slate, who he was certain would be watching, the demeanour of an ice-cold detective. In truth, Hill didn’t trust his shaking hands on the wheel. He had walked a very fine line, and he was lucky to still be in one piece.
In one piece for now, at least.
After a moment to catch his breath and steady his nerve, Hill pulled out of the automatic gate and into the Chelsea traffic.
Taking a few more deep breaths, and noting that the trembling was almost gone, he called his boss.
‘How’d it go with your idol?’ Vaughn asked.
‘You know what they say about meeting your idols, boss.’
‘I wouldn’t know. Mine are Brian O’Driscoll and Rory McIlroy. Can’t say we move in the same circles.’
‘Slate set up his diamonds to be stolen,’ Hill stated, getting to the point. ‘They’ve been parading them outside the jeweller’s he owns for weeks. One guy, one bag, no other security. The guy walks to the end of the street, gets a taxi, and comes back at the end of the day the same way.’
‘And where’s he going between those times?’
‘Slate tells me it’s to show the diamonds to prospective buyers. I’ve got a list.’
‘And I’ll bet a cross-check of them shows they’re friends or associates of Mr Slate.’
‘Exactly, boss.’
‘So what’s in this sham for him?’ Vaughn mused.
‘I’m guessing at the moment, but I think it’s insurance.’
‘Insurance? But what’s the point in that if he loses the diamonds? He’d just be getting back the value of the stones he’d lost.’
‘Not if he stole them,’ Hill explained. ‘Slate stages the robbery, keeps the diamonds, sells them on the black market, and gets the three million they’re insured for. As far as the insurers are concerned, Slate’s courier and jeweller were following the same pattern that had been safe every other day, and then got unlucky. What Slate didn’t see happening was another gang spotting an easy meal, and swooping in before his own guys could.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Vaughn sighed. ‘So who are this other lot, and where are they now?’
‘I don’t know, boss, but wherever they are, they’re dead men walking.’
After exchanging goodbyes Hill hung up and began to type Scotland Yard into a traffic-beating app on his phone. He was about to hit enter when an incoming call flashed onto the screen – Vaughn.
‘Boss?’ Hill asked, puzzled.
‘St Pancras station,’ Vaughn told him, excitement in his voice. ‘The techies pulled three faces from Chancery Lane Tube station and the three flashed again on the facial recognition software. They’re at St Pancras.’
‘Where are they going?’ Hill asked, hitting a hard right turn.
‘If they haven’t left already, then there’s one at the platform with a final destination of Amsterdam.’
Vaughn couldn’t. As with many of the city’s vices, Amsterdam’s thriving diamond trade had a reputation for turning a blind eye.
‘Departure time?’ Hill pushed.
‘Forty minutes ago. Trouble in the Tunnel again. I’ve got uniforms on their way there now.’
‘Tell them to wait for me.’
‘You’re on borrowed time, Hill.’
‘I want to close this case, boss. Email me the shots of their faces.’
Hill hung up, then hit the blue lights and sirens that were concealed behind the BMW’s grill.
He raced through central London’s streets, his mind full of visions of how he could end his career in glory.
‘Just stay where you are,’ he prayed, and hoped the thieves would listen. ‘Just stay where you are and make me a hero.’
CHAPTER 15
SCOWCROFT FIDGETED IN his train seat and looked out the window. By now the train should have been inside the darkness of the Channel Tunnel, well on their way to Europe.
Instead, Scowcroft looked up at the magnificent wrought-iron ribs of St Pancras station’s roof.
‘Why the hell are we still here?’ he hissed at Barrett beside him.
Barrett shrugged. ‘Conductor says it’s a problem on the line.’
‘Here,’ Charlotte spoke up, handing them her phone – it was showing the BBC News app. ‘They’ve had refugees trying to get on the trains coming this way. Says that one of them’s dead.’
‘Well, how long will that hold us up?’ Scowcroft pushed, but no one had an answer for him.
Surrounding the thieves, Graham’s stag do were raucous, outlining in detail their hedonistic plans for Amsterdam and its red-light district.
‘I’m gonna go take a piss,’ Scowcroft told them, standing. ‘See if there’s any sight of the big lad or the beard.’
‘Don’t wander off,’ Charlotte said, earning a contemptuous tut in reply.
Scowcroft left the carriage and tried the toilet door. It was locked, and sounds of retching came from within – the first casualty of the stag do.