Diamond Geezers

by Freer, Echo;

  Although Noush was trying to be supportive, she was beginning to get the impression that nothing she did was right.

  ‘I need to pop home and pick up some clean clothes. Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own? I could ring your auntie to come over while I’m gone, or Edie, next door, if you’re worried.’

  Gemma gave an exasperated groan. ‘I’ll be fine. I don’t need anyone fussing round me.’ The last thing she wanted was an army of ancient relatives clucking round - and on that score she had to admit that Noush had been fantastic, fielding off unwanted offers of chicken soup and sympathy. Gemma felt a pang of guilt; she knew her friend was only doing her best. ‘I’m sorry, Noush. Don’t mind me - I’m just a bit crabby today.’

  Anoushka patted her on the arm. ‘I’m sure they’ll catch whoever’s got the diamond soon. And then they’ll lock them up and throw away the key.’

  Gemma bit her bottom lip. ‘Maybe,’ she replied, absently. ‘Anyway, you get off and do whatever. I’ll see you later.’

  No sooner had she heard Anoushka’s car drive away than the telephone rang. Thinking that perhaps her friend had forgotten something Gemma answered it.

  It was a young woman’s voice. ‘ ‘Ello, can I speak to Miss King, please?’

  Gemma froze.

  ‘ ‘Ello? Anyone there?’

  She put down the receiver, then dialled 1471. A recorded voice told her that the caller had withheld their number. Quickly she ran to the front and back doors and slid the bolts across. The curtains were drawn as a mark of respect for her father but she ran upstairs, pulled open her bedroom curtain a crack and looked up and down the road to see if anyone was watching the house. It was clear and, relieved, she went back down to the sitting room and flopped down in front of the television again.

  But no sooner had her bottom hit the settee than the doorbell rang. Startled, Gemma turned down the volume on the television and began gnawing nervously at her bottom lip. It rang again, echoing along the hall and jangling her already frayed nerves.

  ‘ ‘Ello!’ a female voice shouted. ‘Anybody ‘ome?’

  It wasn’t a voice Gemma recognised. She was certain that it wasn’t one of her aunts or even Edie from next door. In fact, it sounded quite a young voice - a little bit like the one on the phone! She felt sick with panic. No, she must be imagining things. Grief did strange things to people - she’d been told that. It was probably just some penny-for-the-guy kids or early trick or treaters. She slid down into the cushions of the settee and hoped that whoever it was would go away.

  The bell rang again, for longer this time, then the caller started knocking on the letterbox.

  ‘ ‘Ere, I know you’re in there,’ the voice shouted.

  When the police officers had first brought Gemma home after the robbery, she’d been offered the opportunity to have a WPC to stay with her, but had declined. ‘I just want to be on my own,’ she’d explained. Now, though, she was beginning to regret her decision. She crept across the floor and pulled open the sitting-room door just wide enough to peer through into the hall. A silhouette was visible through the frosted glass of the front door and, just as Gemma stuck her head out to try and see whether or not it was the shape of someone she knew, the letterbox flapped open and a pair of piggy eyes stared at her.

  She let out a yelp of surprise.

  ‘Just let us in... er, please.’ The word please seemed to stick in the young woman’s throat.

  ‘Who are you? Go away,’ Gemma screamed.

  ‘My dad and your dad was mates,’ explained the voice in a very staccato way, almost as though the person was reading lines. ‘I’ve come to offer...’ there was the sound of muttering, ‘...my... controllancies?’

  Gemma caught more muttering and this time it sounded as though someone was being told off.

  ‘Condolences,’ the visitor corrected and then, in a lower tone she could just make out, ‘Don’t try telling me that’s a D, you plonker.’

  Gemma was hardly breathing and her hands were trembling with fear. ‘Go away,’ she called again. ‘Or... or I’ll call the police.’

  There was more muttering from the other side of the door before the voice replied, ‘No need for the Old Bill, we was just well-wishers comin’ to say ‘ow sorry we was.’ Gemma heard some scrabbling and then a final, ‘Cheers then,’ before she heard the sound of the gate shutting.

  Still shaking, she returned to the sitting room and stood before the photograph of her father that was on the mantelpiece. She let out a long sigh. ‘Oh, Dad! I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she said aloud, then sat down and resumed watching the news with a sense of unease.

  That evening, while her parents were watching the six o’clock news, Modesty tore off one of the black plastic bags from the roll that she’d taken from the kitchen drawer as quietly as she could. She felt herself stiffen when she saw the word ‘economy’ staring at her from the wrapper. How many times had she asked her mother to buy the recycled ones - but would she? Oh, no! It didn’t matter how many times she tried to explain to her parents that the word ‘false’ ought to have been inserted before the word ‘economy’, they still didn’t get it. They thought they had twenty-twenty hindsight where her behaviour was concerned but were as blind as a pair of bats with cataracts when it came to the future of the planet. But now was not the time to take issue with them, so, taking care not to rustle the plastic, she stuffed four home-made placards into the bin bag.

  Tiptoeing downstairs, she waited until the very last minute before she called out, ‘Bye,’ and pulled the door shut behind her.

  There was a fine drizzle as she ran across the forecourt to meet Cerys who was waiting next to Midge’s car. The engine was running and when Modesty looked in, she saw Oz in the back seat. She felt her face broaden into an involuntary smile.

  ‘Hi!’ she grinned.

  ‘Quick, get in!’ Cerys held open the rear door for Modesty.

  ‘Can’t I put these in the boot?’ she asked, holding up the bag of placards.

  ‘More than my job’s worth,’ called Midge from the driver’s seat. ‘If your old man gets so much as a whiff of my being involved in this malarkey he’ll be off the scale on the rantometer! Just stick them on your lap and let’s get out of here.’ And he set off before Modesty had had time to fasten her seat belt.

  Midge was full of the Jedi funeral that morning and talked almost incessantly, regaling the others with every detail from the costumes of the mourners to the final blessing as Princess Leia was lowered into the ground; ‘She who comes from the Force shall return to the Force.’

  ‘It was amazing, and your dad really came up trumps, you know, Moddy.’

  Modesty had never doubted her father’s ability as a funeral director - it was his skills in parenting that she called into question.

  When they reached the town hall, she was disappointed that Cerys and Midge had no intention of joining her and Oz on the protest.

  ‘You’re not going, are you?’

  Cerys shrugged. ‘Come on, Moddy - you know this isn’t my scene.’

  Modesty nodded. She knew it was true. Cerys had only agreed to go so that she could see Midge again and Midge had only agreed to drive so that he could see Cerys again. Neither of them had actually offered their support on the whole lobbying-the-planning- committee front.

  ‘So where are you going to go?’ she asked.

  Cerys giggled. ‘Who knows? Maybe we’ll go bowling, or maybe we’ll just go for a burger or something. Anyway, give me a text when you want picking up again.’

  Modesty took two placards out of the bag and left the other two on the back seat. ‘OK, see you later.’

  Sensing her disappointment, Oz put his arm round her shoulder and gave her a comforting squeeze. A frisson of excitement shot through her body and she felt as though her insides had bee
n liquidised.

  ‘It’s quality that counts, not quantity. So what if there’s only two of us?’ he consoled her.

  The drizzle had intensified to become steady rainfall as they stood in front of the heavy Victorian façade of the Town Hall. It was still only six thirty and the planning meeting was not due to begin until seven. Apart from an elderly concierge, who seemed more interested in keeping himself dry than who was entering the building, there were few people around.

  ‘Come on, there’ll be a list of meetings inside. Let’s go and see where the planning committee’s going to be,’ Oz suggested.

  Inside the vast foyer Modesty felt overwhelmed. A huge mahogany staircase dominated the entrance lobby. Modesty followed it with her eyes to where it divided into two halfway and then continued to sweep up to a galleried first floor.

  ‘Wow!’ she breathed. ‘This place is amazing.’

  To one side of the foyer was a heavily carved reception desk. It appeared to be closed, so she looked round for some indication of where to go. Several doors opened off the foyer and, in the centre, midway between the staircase and the reception desk, were carved mahogany double doors. Each had heavy brass handles and stained glass inserts.

  ‘Do you think it’s in there?’ she asked Oz.

  ‘Not sure. Let’s have a look on here.’

  He walked across to one of several notice boards that were dotted around the walls, looking distinctly shabby against the gilded roll of honour that proudly displayed the names of every Mayor in the past one hundred and five years. A couple of potted palms and a top-heavy yucca plant stood at one side of the staircase with a free-standing notice board slightly in front of them.

  ‘Look!’ Modesty pointed to it. Little plastic letters had been pressed into the board, spelling out the time and venue of several meetings. ‘Here it is - room sixteen. Ground floor.’

  But as she was looking around for some indication as to where room sixteen was, voices drifted down from above them.

  Oz tapped her on the arm. ‘Listen,’ he whispered and pointed to the galleried landing.

  Modesty looked up and could just make out two figures standing in a doorway, obscured from view. Oz pulled her behind the plants and put his finger to his lips, signalling her to be quiet.

  Modesty strained her ears.

  ‘This isn’t the time or the place,’ she heard one of the men say in an agitated undertone.

  ‘No time like the present, Barty, my old china - you know that.’

  Barty? Modesty only knew of one person called Barty and that was her father’s business rival, Bartholomew Peggitt, the funeral director whose offices were in the High Street. And she was sure she remembered her father bemoaning the fact that ‘that old rogue, Peggitt’ had been elected a councillor the previous year, so it was more than likely that it was the same person.

  ‘We must not be seen together. This could ruin everything,’ Councillor Peggitt replied.

  ‘So ‘ow else am I supposed to get this to you? Bleedin’ pigeon post? Use your loaf.’

  Modesty leant backwards so that she had a clearer view of the men and caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a brown paper package being passed from the stockier of the two to the undertaker.

  Suddenly the stocky man seemed alarmed. ‘ ‘Ere, what about cameras? We ain’t been burnt, ‘ave we?’ As he asked the question he glanced round the landing and Modesty caught sight of his face. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped as she recognised him as Mickey Bigg’s father from the previous day’s funeral arrangement.

  ‘No, no. They’re angled on the stairs. This is a blind spot.’ Modesty could see Councillor Peggitt quite clearly. He was opening the parcel and appeared to be flicking through something inside. ‘It’s not all here. Where’s the rest of it?’

  The other man gave his shoulders a shrug, and cleared his throat. ‘There’s been a bit of an ‘old-up on the old cash flow front, Barty. But nothing what can’t be sorted within the next few days. I got my lad and ‘Arry’s gel workin’ on it. It’ll come good, don’t worry.’

  Bartholomew Peggitt pushed the package into his inside pocket and straightened his jacket. ‘It had better, Archie. We’re putting our necks on the line with this one, you know.’

  ‘I know, I know, but tell ‘em this is just an interim payment, orright? They’ll get the rest when it all goes through. I’m depending on you for this, Barty - and you know this’ll be to your advantage in the long run, mate. Just think of when you open your second branch.’

  The undertaker turned away from the staircase and chuckled. ‘That’ll certainly put the wind up a few people round here.’ His tone suddenly became more serious. ‘Which brings me to another matter. My information suggests that you chose to give your recent custom to that old fuddy-duddy, de Mise.’

  ‘Weren’t nothing to do with me, Barty. Believe me, when Flash’s old lady sets ‘er mind to something, there ain’t no changin’ it.’

  ‘Ah well. Never mind. Come on, I’ll show you to the fire escape. You’d better not leave through the front door, people will be arriving shortly.’ He stopped momentarily. ‘I trust you saw to it that nothing untoward would occur this evening. We are trying to keep this as low-key as possible.’

  ‘You know me, Barty - good as my word. Got some of ‘Arry’s lads to put the frighteners on a few people and names was comin’ off that petition like lemmin’s off a cliff. And now the old biddy’s gone, doubt if there’s anyone left to protest tonight.’

  ‘There’d better not be, Archie. We don’t want the press alerted, do we?’

  ‘You want me to send a couple of ‘eavies down, just in case?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Modesty’s mind was in overdrive: Mickey Bigg’s father had been arranging the funeral of someone thought to be a diamond thief and now he was passing a very suspicious parcel to a councillor on the evening of the planning meeting to redevelop the cemetery and threatening to send in the heavies! There was something very dodgy going on here and she was finding it difficult to get her head round it without putting two and two together and coming out with a figure in the gazillions.

  She turned to Oz but, as she turned, the wooden sticks that held the protest placards caught the stem of the top-heavy yucca plant. It rocked in its ridiculously small pot, teetering on the brink of overbalancing. Modesty gasped and reached out to steady it but she was too late; the huge spiky plant toppled over and hit the marble floor of the foyer with a resounding crash.

  The concierge ran in from the front of the building.

  ‘What the-?’ Councillor Peggitt shouted, running to the top of the stairs.

  Oz grabbed the hood of Modesty’s parka and dragged her into the shadows beneath the staircase. The stairs had a gap under them that went right through to the other side and was used for storage. Modesty could feel her heart pounding and she struggled to control her breathing that seemed, to her, to be as loud as a steam train.

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Peggitt, sir,’ they heard the concierge say, ‘it’s just a plant what’s fallen over. I’ll get it cleared up.’

  Oz pointed to a dark corridor that led away from the foyer and, as soon as they heard the security man leave the entrance hall to find someone to clean up the mess, they picked their way through the boxes and notice boards that were stacked under the stairs and headed along the corridor towards the rear exit into the car park.

  As they emerged from the Town Hall, a red Bentley with the number plate ARC41E was just pulling away.

  ‘I knew it! I knew I recognised him!’ Oz exclaimed. ‘That was the man who came to Gran’s house to see Mum at the weekend! There can’t be two cars with that registration number.’

  Modesty recognised it too. It was the car that had brought Opal Finlayter to arrange her husband’s funeral. She looked at Oz in alarm. ‘You know who
that is, don’t you?’

  Oz shook his head.

  ‘It’s Mickey Bigg’s dad.’

  Oz looked confused. ‘What - the father of the kid who threatened to get me in Year 6?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Modesty confirmed. ‘And I’m pretty sure he’s got something to do with that diamond robbery last week too. Apparently Midge was in the same tutor group as Mickey when they were at school and, according to him, the Biggs are well-known criminals round here.’

  Oz looked at her with incredulity. ‘But I don’t understand. If he is a criminal, what would he want with Mum?’

  Modesty looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t know - unless it wasn’t your mum he came to see, but your gran? If what we heard in there is anything to go by, he’s in the thick of some sort of corruption over the whole cemetery development, so maybe he didn’t know she’d died and was trying to put the frighteners on her too? Either way,’ Modesty tossed the placards she was still carrying into one of the industrial bins at the back of the building, ‘I think we’re out of our depth. There’s something very sinister going on here and it’s going to take more than a couple of placards to get to the bottom of it.’ She looked at Oz with the same determination he remembered from that day in the park four years ago. ‘But I’m not going to let this rest.’

  Eight

  ‘Oi, Mickey! Get your backside off the sofa and go get the motor!’ Harley Spinks called out from where she was standing in the hall of the Biggs’ house.

  She was putting the finishing touches to the Girl Guide uniform that she had shoplifted from the local school outfitter’s the previous day. Cynthia was now standing in front of the full-length mirror wearing it, much against her will.

  ‘Harl, do I really have to wear this?’ Cynthia pulled at the toggle of the blue hoody and screwed up her nose at her reflection. ‘It’s so butch.’

  ‘Cynth, a bleedin’ ballerina’s tutu would look butch compared to the clothes you wear normally. Now stop whingin’. It ain’t like I’m askin’ you to wear it clubbin’ or nuffin’.’