by Freer, Echo;
‘What do you mean, I’m too young? I’m fifteen. You were my age when you took over from Granddad.’
‘It was different in those days.’
Modesty had given an irritated sigh as if to say, It’s always different if it suits you.
He had placed both hands flat on his desk and leaned towards his elder daughter. ‘Modesty, I am extremely busy. I have two viewings booked this afternoon which is why I need your help. I do not wish to continue this discussion other than to say that I do not want you involved with the Appleby funeral. We need to remain professional and that requires objectivity. I do not believe that you could be objective in this case.’
‘Oh, but it’s OK for Mum to arrange it when you and she didn’t even like Beattie, is it? So, when you use the word objectivity what you really mean is hypocrisy - is that it?’
Her father had lowered his voice. ‘You have no idea what you’re getting involved with. Just leave it and go and change out of your uniform into something more appropriate.’
An hour later and Modesty was still unable to shake off the anger that the row had generated. Annoyed as she was with her sister’s attitude, it was a relief to vent some of it on her.
‘Just show a bit of respect, Grace.’
The younger girl paused, her lip liner poised mid Cupid’s bow. ‘Get real, Moddy.’
Modesty stared at her sister in disbelief. She was a vegetarian and a pacifist, yet what she would have liked to have done to her sibling at that moment would have contravened the ethics of both groups.
With great restraint, Modesty said, ‘I have one word to say to you - karma.’
Grace shrugged. ‘Who’s she? Another of your weird friends?’
Modesty ran her hands through her hair and resisted the urge to place them round her sister’s neck. ‘Fate. Kismet. What goes around comes around. So just show a little respect.’ As she left the room she added, ‘In the remote hope that someone might respect you one of these days.’
The only response Grace made was in the form of a gesture and involved a single finger.
Modesty resumed her position on the stairs, convinced that she must have been accidentally swapped at birth and that, somewhere in east London, there was an environmentally friendly, ethically sound, issue-conscious family, missing a daughter. She let out a sigh of frustration and watched the last Jedi knight leave the building.
Her father closed the door and hurried back along the hall. Modesty went downstairs, reluctantly - the sooner she got this over with, the better.
‘Come along please, Modesty. We’ve no time to lose,’ her father bustled. ‘There’s a box in the corridor for the Star Wars memorabilia and Mr Knurl’s family are Catholic, so you’ll need the crucifix and candles from the cupboard under the altar. Now,’ he stopped and cocked his head on one side with a look of disapproval, ‘I thought I told you to wear something more appropriate.’
Modesty lifted down the framed picture of Yoda and placed it in the plastic storage box. ‘I think this is extremely appropriate,’ she said, referring to her khaki combats and black T-shirt with the slogan, ‘Save the Graves’.
‘You might think it’s amusing to waltz down here like some urban guerrilla, my girl, but when clients come here to pay their respects to their loved ones, they expect us to do the same,’ her father snapped.
Modesty folded her arms and turned to face her father. ‘I do respect the clients. I also respect the land where their loved ones are going to be for the next couple of hundred years. And this T-shirt lets them know that!’
The two of them glared at each other for several seconds before Modesty broke the silence. ‘So, do you want my help, or not?’
‘You know perfectly well I haven’t time to do this on my own.’ Her father plonked down one large candlestick at each side of the empty chapel. He could barely contain his irritation. ‘And where the hell is Emlyn?’
Emlyn the embalmer had worked for the de Mise family for thirty years and his daughter, Cerys, although a year above Modesty at school, was her best friend. In three decades of service, Emlyn had never yet failed to produce the most important guest for any viewing ceremony and Modesty suspected that her father’s outburst was more to do with his anger towards her than it was towards his assistant.
There were two sets of doors opening from the oak- panelled chapel of rest. The one that opened into the hall of the main building was, like the rest of the woodwork in the house, heavily carved. Adjacent to it was the more clinical, sliding metal door that led to a corridor and, beyond that, to the embalming room, mortuary and coffin store. Modesty saw her father’s eyes darting from one door to the other. She hung the ornate crucifix on the hook where Yoda had been, then took a match to the candles.
‘Do you want me to go and ask him to hurry?’ Her tone was civil rather than willing.
But before Mortimer could answer, a diminutive man in a surgical boot limped in, pushing a metal trolley that held an American-style casket.
‘ ‘Ere we go, Mortimer,’ chuckled the Welshman. ‘A bit of a tight turnaround on these two, this afternoon, eh?’ He positioned the trolley between the candles, flipped on the brakes, then pulled a valance of dark red velvet over the metal frame.
‘You took your time, didn’t you?’ Mortimer chided. ‘Come on, they’ll be here in a minute.’
Emlyn raised his eyebrows, then, without responding, turned to Modesty and beckoned her to the open casket. ‘Look at this.’ He pointed to his reconstruction work. ‘Proud of this, I am. Look here - where the chainsaw hit - you can hardly see the join.’ Mr Knurl, the deceased, had been a gardener whose love of pruning had been his ultimate downfall. ‘That’s what you call craftsmanship, that is.’
‘No one’s disputing your skill, Emlyn, it’s your sense of urgency that’s the issue here.’
With that, the grandfather clock that stood in the hall struck the half hour and, at precisely the same moment, the doorbell sounded.
‘Now, what could be more punctual than that, eh, Mortimer?’ Emlyn gave a chuckle, then limped out of the sliding door and pulled it shut behind him, giving a cheeky wink in Modesty’s direction.
Mortimer de Mise straightened his pin-striped jacket and took a deep breath. He addressed Modesty in a stern voice. ‘Now, make yourself scarce, please. And make no mistake, Modesty - this is not over. We will discuss the matter at dinner.’
Modesty shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ She got the distinct impression that when her father said discuss, the rest of the free world would interpret it as dictate.
As she opened the door to leave the chapel, the door of the room next door also opened.
Her father stepped forward. ‘I forbid you...’
But his words faded into the ether when Modesty saw the person who emerged from the arrangement room.
Beattie had told her that her grandson, Oscar, had ‘grown into a handsome young man’, but Modesty had dismissed it as grandmotherly pride. After all, isn’t that what grannies are supposed to do, brag about their grandchildren? But here, standing before her, was a seriously hot guy. Surely that couldn’t be little Oz Appleby, the grubby-nosed eleven-year-old whom she’d protected from Mickey Bigg and his gang of bully-boys?
The boy raised heavy eyes then mustered a sad smile. ‘Hi, Modesty. Long time, eh?’
Oz was back! She didn’t know for how long, but just wait until she phoned Cerys!
Three
As the grandfather clock in the hall of Modesty’s family’s home had struck the half hour, so had the ormolu carriage clock that stood on the counter of Arnold King’s jewellery store in Hatton Garden. In the back room, Arnold’s daughter, Gemma, tucked the telephone under her chin, slid a tray of sapphire and diamond rings into the safe and let out a heavy sigh.
‘Talk about bor-ring,’ she moaned to her friend, Anoushka. She clos
ed the safe door and picked up an emery board. ‘Still, that Saudi bloke I told you about last night is supposed to be coming in a minute. Should brighten things up a bit.’
‘You never know,’ Anoushka replied, trying to cheer up her friend. ‘Maybe he’ll take a fancy to you as well as the diamond and whisk you away to something a bit more exciting.’
‘Hmph!’ Gemma grunted, unconvinced. ‘It wouldn’t take much to be more exciting than this, I can tell you. The most exciting thing that’s happened around here for months was when old Herman Gottlieb across the road got done over by a geriatric with a brick in her handbag.’
‘No way!’
‘Yes way! Asked to see a tray of rings, then whacked him on the head and tried to do a runner.’
‘Did she get away with much?’
‘Neh - security were down on her like a ton of bricks.’ Gemma ran the emery board across her nails.
‘Or a ton of handbags, even!’ Anoushka giggled.
Gemma gave a half-hearted smile and cast a cursory glance at the security camera video screen in front of her. She could see a black and white image of her father in the showroom admiring the newly installed fish tank that a client had suggested might improve business by giving the Feng Shui a boost.
Gemma had to admit that the job had sounded interesting enough when her father had first suggested that she go to work for him. She’d had visions of buying trips to Johannesburg and Australia; glamorous meetings with rich and famous clients; a nice little soft-topped sports car to run around in and maybe even a flat of her own. But, in the eighteen months since she’d left school, the only business trips she’d made were to the deli by the station to pick up her dad’s bagel every lunchtime. And, instead of cruising the West End in a flashy cabriolet, she’d been insured on her dad’s Volvo estate - hardly the cool and sophisticated pick-up- mobile of her dreams.
‘Hey - there’s an idea,’ Anoushka suggested. ‘You could nick a couple of your dad’s rings and we could-’
‘Noush!’ Gemma was shocked. ‘That’s not funny, you know.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘It was just a joke. Jeez, Gemma.’
Gemma bit her bottom lip. ‘I know - sorry. I’m just a bit fed up at the moment. And I’m worried about Dad.’ Ever since her mum had died, Arnold had been like a ship without a rudder. ‘I don’t think he’s very well, you know. He’s been complaining of indigestion a lot recently and, this morning, he had a dizzy turn...’
Her friend interrupted. ‘Listen to yourself! You’re only eighteen and already you’re acting like his nursemaid!’
Gemma stopped filing her nails. ‘I know - you’re right.’ She sighed again. ‘Honestly, Noush - how sad is my life? I need to get out of here. I want something exciting to happen before I fall off my perch completely.’ As she spoke, her eyes drifted to the video screen again. ‘Got to go. That client’s arrived. Speak to you later.’
She went through and joined her father and the distinguished-looking man in the showroom. The client was sitting on one of the leather armchairs in the corner of the shop and making polite conversation about the fish tank. No sooner had Gemma joined them than an elderly man in a long coat came through the door. She recognised him as Sol Winkler, one of the brokers from the Bourse.
The two jewellers greeted each other, then, stepping back, Sol Winkler held out his hands in amazement at Gemma. ‘And look at you! Are you married yet?’
Gemma raised her eyebrows. What was it with the dreaded M word? It was bad enough that her aunts and uncles were on her case to find a boyfriend, but the fact that her father’s work acquaintances were also trying to marry her off was the final straw. She tutted mutinously and picked up the tub of fish food. Determined to show her disaffection with the whole business, she opened the tub of coloured fish flakes and took a pinch between her thumb and forefinger.
Sol Winkler took a paper packet from his waistcoat. With a pair of tweezers, he removed a dazzling rose- coloured crystal from the brifka.
‘Lock the door, will you, princess?’ her father asked, unrolling a grey cloth across the table and switching on a lamp. He put an eyeglass to his eye, picked up the pink diamond in his own tweezers and raised it to the eyeglass.
As the three men studied the diamond intently, Gemma turned towards the door. But before she could do as her father had asked, two other men in overcoats, this time with wide-rimmed hats, had entered the shop.
‘I’m sorry...’ she began and then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a Range Rover through the window, moving slowly forwards along the road in front of the shop. And the young guy in the driving seat looked horribly familiar. Suddenly she had a very bad feeling. Unless she had completely lost all sense of recognition, he was one of the boys she and Noush had been chatting up in the wine bar last night; the total dipstick who’d taken a shine to her. Gemma felt her fingers tighten around the drum of fish food as she was gripped by the overwhelming sensation that all was not well.
She brought her attention back into the shop and saw that the older of the two men had moved towards the window display while the other man was heading for the table where her father and his client were examining the pink diamond.
‘Dad,’ she called, urgently.
Amold King stood up. ‘Er... Gentlemen...’
But before he could complete the sentence, the older of the two men bumped into the modern art sculpture by the window, knocking it over. As the tall metal monolith crashed to the floor, Gemma screamed and dodged out of the way. The opened tub of fish flakes flew into the air and scattered its contents on the scene like confetti.
Seeing that his partner had successfully created the diversion they had planned, Flash Finlayter moved forward quickly, hoping to skim his hand across the counter and pick up the diamond on the double- sided sticky tape that he’d attached to his middle finger. But Sol Winkler had the dubious accolade of being the oldest black belt fifth dan at the Beth Shalom Ju Jitsu and Martial Arts Centre and, the second he realised what was afoot, he brought his elbow swiftly into Flash’s solar plexus, causing him to fold up like a greetings card.
Winded, Flash collapsed to his knees, his mouth opening and closing like the brightly coloured fish in the tank above him. He tried to call out to Archie to abort the snatch, but the only sound that emerged was a wordless rasp.
Amid the chaos, Arnold King was suddenly gripped by a crushing pain and fell forward across the counter, clutching his chest.
‘Dad!’ Gemma screamed, rushing to his aid.
‘Out!’ shouted Archie to Flash.
Flash looked up, wide-eyed and breathless, then relaxed with relief as he drew in a welcome gulp of air. Unfortunately, he also inhaled enough fish food to keep a shoal of shubunkins going for a year. Once again he collapsed forward, gasping and spluttering.
‘Press the alarm,’ Sol Winkler ordered Gemma.
She ran round to where her father was and pressed the button beneath the counter. Metal security screens began to descend over the door and window as Archie Bigg bolted from the shop and into the waiting Range Rover.
The sheik, who until then had been mesmerised into inaction, put an arm out towards Arnold and spoke quietly. ‘I think we should call an ambulance.’
The following morning, before it was fully daylight, Harley Spinks stepped out of a cab and strode murderously up to Mickey Bigg’s front door in the leafy east London suburb of Wanstead. She held down the Westminster chime doorbell with one finger whilst simultaneously banging the letterbox with her other hand and kicking the bottom of the door with her DMs - just in case there was anyone within a three-street radius who remained unaware of her arrival.
Mickey opened the door and greeted her with bleary eyes. ‘Harl, darl!’
‘Don’t Harl darl me,’ she snapped, pushing her way into the house. ‘I wann
a talk to your old man - now!’
‘Hi, Harley.’ Her best friend and school accomplice, Cynthia Bigg, fluttered downstairs in a satin negligée and footwear that looked as though she’d slipped her feet into a pair of pink poodles.
‘Wotcha, Cynth. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you - it’s your dad and Mickey I want to talk to. So go back to bed.’
‘Aw, but Harley!’ Cynthia pouted.
‘I said, later, Cynth!’
Her friend skulked back up the wrought-iron staircase like a wounded puppy.
Archie passed his daughter as he stumbled downstairs tying the sash of his scarlet kimono over his gold lamé pyjamas. ‘What the bleedin’ ‘ell?’ he yawned.
‘You and me need to talk.’ Harley strode into the kitchen, pulled out a chair and indicated for Archie to sit down. She tossed a newspaper on to the table and began to quote. ‘Rare Pink Diamond Stolen!’ She tapped a finger on the headline. ‘Did you hear that, Archie? Stolen!’
Archie picked up the paper and read the article:
Rare Pink Diamond Stolen
Police are today hunting a callous diamond thief who got away with a rare pink diamond worth £2.5 million.
Two men died in the raid on a high-class jewellers in London’s Hatton Garden, when thieves walked into the King of Diamonds store. Arnold King, the owner of the shop, suffered a heart attack and was taken to University College Hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival. The other man, believed to be the thief’s accomplice, is thought to have choked on some fish food and died at the scene.
Archie rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘Flash is dead? I can’t believe it.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Harley said, dismissively. ‘But you’re missin’ the point. It says ‘ere that the diamond was stolen and, correct me if I misunderstood what you said yesterday, but I thought you told me you ‘adn’t got it.’
