The African Diamond Trilogy Box Set

by Christopher Lowery

  He smiled at them. “Adam’s a very lucky man, considering the circumstances. He has a slight concussion which should be gone by tomorrow morning. He also had a broken nose which I’ve fixed better than the original. I’m afraid that he has multiple fractures to his legs, but they are not complex. The door panel simply impacted the shins and caused several clean breaks in both legs. I expect a full recovery in not more than three months. He’s in plaster casts and he’s sedated, so you won’t be able to see him until the morning. It’s better to let him sleep it off for now.”

  The family gave him their heartfelt thanks then asked about Greg. He had no knowledge of Greg’s condition, he was still undergoing surgery. They resigned themselves to wait for further news.

  It seemed a lifetime before the second surgeon came through to meet them. His face was grey from fatigue and he was not smiling. Hanny took Rachel’s hand and they braced themselves for his words. She was trembling with fear and worry over the fate of their eldest son, Hanny’s son. The doctor asked them to sit down again and he sat alongside them.

  “I’m desperately sorry,” he started.

  Rachel and the other women hardly heard the rest of what he said. Those three words confirmed their worst fears. They held each other and sobbed helplessly at the death of their son, brother and fiancé. Hanny tried desperately to concentrate on the doctor’s voice, as if it might somehow explain to him why his son’s life had been so swiftly and mercilessly taken from him.

  The surgeon stoically continued with his explanation. “Even though the vehicle that hit Greg was moving quite slowly, he sustained a number of severe injuries from the impact. It’s not uncommon to suffer more damage from a slow collision than from a fast one. We see this a lot in sports accidents. In a fast collision, or a high speed fall, the body is often thrown away from the impact zone, suffering bruises, contusions and broken bones, but nothing worse. No complicated breaks or damage to internal organs.” He took off his spectacles, wiping them absent mindedly with the hem of his white gown as if he was giving a lecture to a group of students.

  “When the collision is slower, but with great impetus, the damage can be much worse. The body is put under enormous pressure and cannot escape, causing undue stress on the skeleton, the muscles, the joints, the organs, etc. Unfortunately, this is what happened in Greg’s case. The momentum of the car was too great for his body to resist, and he couldn’t get away from it. It literally pushed him to the limit, and the damage he suffered was very difficult to repair. I have seldom seen such terrible injuries and I hate to say it, but,” here he looked at Rachel and Hanny, “your son is better off not surviving than living with the physical disabilities that would have devastated the quality of life in his remaining years.

  “Strangely enough,” he went on, “we were able to repair most of the life-threatening injuries to his internal organs. In reality, Greg died because the blow to his head caused pressure on his brain and we had to try to relieve it before it caused permanent damage. But because we had to cope with that at the same time that we were working on those vital organs to avoid a complete failure of the system, it was more than his body could withstand. Although he was a very fit and strong man, I’m afraid that it was just too great a shock for his heart, and combined with the loss of so much blood from all the haemorrhaging in his body, his system couldn’t cope with all of these stresses. In other words, I’m afraid that there was simply too much damage for us to repair before he succumbed to his injuries.”

  Adam never told his parents about the ring, or the fight in the Range Rover. He convinced himself that to lose one son was as much as they could bear. If he told them the truth, they would feel that they had lost both sons and that would be truly unbearable for them. He spent the rest of his life trying to convince himself that he was not responsible for his brother’s death.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  March, 1998

  Favela Morro do Cantagalo, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  Ray d’Almeida walked wearily home to the shack in the favela. It was after midnight and he’d just finished his shift as a waiter at the Hotel Dominico. He currently had four jobs. At six in the morning he started his day gutting fish at the open market in the harbour then at nine thirty he drove a delivery truck, swapping empty gas cylinders for full ones at shacks and trailers around the beach area. This was his best paid job, made possible by the few dollars he’d saved the previous year to get a driver’s license, after learning in a beat up old Dodge truck belonging to one of his few friends who could afford to run a car. Between four and seven he washed cars in a garage near the favela, before starting at the hotel.

  Alicia still suffered from the same asthmatic condition and couldn’t hold down a job. His father was still working as an odd job man, fixing TVs and washing machines for those families who could afford such luxuries. Between the two of them they just about scraped up enough to eat three times a day and buy a change of clothing once in a while.

  Ray was still wearing the waiter’s outfit supplied by the hotel, a white shirt and black waistcoat and trousers. His head down, he trudged along, entering the first crowded lane of the favela, the noisome smell already permeating the air. A few shanty dwellers were sitting on their stoops and a man’s body was lying drunk, drugged or dead at the side of the lane.

  He turned a sharp corner to start climbing the path towards his home on the high side of the shanty town. There were fewer people around. He could hear music and shouts and screams from further down the hill. It sounded like a party was in progress. Then his sharp hearing caught a shuffling sound and murmuring voices from behind him. He looked around and saw a couple of figures slip into the shadows of the tumbledown constructions. His waiter’s outfit had made him a target before, he might have a pocketful of tips. Some chance, he thought. He had less than four dollars in his pocket.

  Tensing himself, he continued walking and groped for the only weapon he had available. It was a folding penknife, with a corkscrew bottle opener that he used in the restaurant on the rare occasions that a customer ordered wine. He took the knife from the pocket of his waistcoat and opened the corkscrew, gripping it tightly in his fist with the screw protruding between his first and second knuckles. A moment later he heard the footsteps right behind him and swung round to confront two muscular black men in T-shirts and jeans, hefting short sticks in their hands.

  The first of them ran at him, smashing the cudgel towards his head. Ray sidestepped and as the mugger plunged past him he lashed out at the man’s face, the corkscrew slicing through his cheek like a melon.

  He yelped with pain. “Fucking dago. I’ll kill you for that.”

  The second man was on him immediately, swinging his stick into Ray’s kidneys. He staggered and the first man turned and kicked him in the shoulder, knocking him to his knees.

  The man aimed his foot again at Ray’s face and he dodged the kick, grabbed his leg and savagely twisted it around. There was a crack and the man cried out and fell backwards on the ground, holding his broken knee. The second assailant caught Ray around the neck and headbutted him in the face. He felt his nose break and tears sprang to his eyes. The man positioned himself to hit him again with his head, his drug tainted breath panting into Ray’s face. He blinked away the tears, and desperately focusing on the face in front of him, he positioned the corkscrew on his fist and punched straight into the man’s eye. The mugger screamed as the metal screw penetrated his eye, going straight through into the socket, blood and mucous from the wound mingling with the blood from Ray’s nose, dripping onto his waistcoat.

  “Now I’m really pissed off,” he shouted. “You’ve ruined my fucking outfit, you bastards. You’re gonna pay for that!”

  Ray limped slowly away from the two dead or unconscious bodies in the lane, he didn’t know which and he didn’t care. He was holding his side where the stabbing pain from the kidney blow was hurting him. He was richer by three dollars, which was all the two men had on them, but it would cost him a d
ollar to have his waistcoat cleaned. He took it off and rolled it up so that the bloodstains couldn’t be seen, washed the blood off his face in the outside sink and tried painfully to push his nose back into place. He didn’t want his father and sister to notice anything that might worry them. They already had enough on their minds.

  BOOK TWO

  PART FOUR: 2008

  FIFTY-NINE

  Tuesday, April 21st, 2008

  Malaga, Spain

  Leticia came to the house early to discuss matters before they drove together to the lawyers’ office. First, Jenny called back Monsieur Schneider at Klein, Fellay. She confirmed that they would come to see him on Thursday morning at eleven with the documents he had requested. He seemed surprised to hear back from her so quickly, complementing her in a patronising fashion, and said he looked forward to seeing them.

  “I think it’s quite normal. M. Schneider must be German Swiss, very efficient.” Leticia grimaced at the prospect of dealing with the Swiss banking system. “Why didn’t Charlie put his money in Marbella? Everything is more easy in Spain, no?”

  Jenny laughed. “Not if you want it still to be there after thirty years.”

  “Good point, the Swiss Guard is protecting our money. Merci beaucoup.”

  “Anyway, we don’t know what there is at that bank, if there’s anything at all. Let’s wait and see,” Jenny said cautiously. “Although I suppose there must be something to do with the Angolan Clan.” Jenny was thinking about Francisco’s offer to come to Geneva. “You realise we can’t let José Luis and Francisco learn about the Angolan Clan? Charlie kept it a secret for thirty years and he must have had good reason to do so. In any case, the partnership should be terminated this year so we should just let it fade away without any publicity.”

  Leticia nodded. “We’ll have to tell Francisco that we don’t need him.”

  “Right, that’s settled. Time to go to see José Luis.”

  At Klein, Fellay, Mlle Rousseau made a call on her mobile phone. She just said, “Bonjour mon amour. They’re coming here on Thursday morning.”

  José Luis was tied up and Francisco ushered the women into the conference room. He assured them that everything was in order. They signed several documents concerning the estate, then Jenny said diplomatically, “We hope you don’t mind, but Leticia and I think it’s better for us to go to Geneva alone. We need to start sorting our new lives out without a chaperone. If we have any problems we’ll call you but we don’t anticipate any difficulties that we can’t cope with.”

  The lawyer seemed disappointed, but said he understood, then added, “The documents for Geneva will be notarised in the morning, so I can bring them to the house if it would help.”

  “There’s no need to bother. We can collect them on our way to the airport.” Jenny didn’t want them to be stuck with visitors while they were preparing for their departure.

  They drove into Marbella and picked up their air tickets from Louisa, then walked along to the Banco de Iberia. Jenny had persuaded Leticia to call Patrice to arrange to change some money into Swiss Francs for them. “We’re sure to get a better rate than anywhere else,” she reasoned.

  The Frenchman came down as soon as they arrived at the bank and they went to the currency desk to purchase a couple of thousand Swiss Francs. Jenny had brought sufficient money with her in Sterling and the rate against the Swiss currency was quite good. It cost her less than a thousand pounds. With that amount and their credit cards they expected to be solvent for three days, even if Geneva was as expensive as Louisa had warned.

  While they waited for the currency to arrive, Leticia said, “We’ve never been to Geneva before. What’s it like?”

  “Well, it’s nothing like living in Marbella,” Patrice replied. “Quite the reverse in fact. A lot of work and not very much fun. But it’s a great city to visit. You’ll like it. You should try to go up to the mountains, it’s really spectacular. Francisco and I were skiing there earlier this year and it was marvellous.”

  Jenny forestalled the conversation, “That’s a nice idea, but we won’t have time this trip. Maybe next time.” She was careful to reveal nothing to the banker. The less said the better.

  Patrice nodded. “Well, I know a lot of people in Geneva, so if there’s anything I can do please just ask. What about your hotel? You need to watch out, they can be very costly.”

  Leticia was determined to take credit for her arrangements. “I booked us into La Grange Hotel. I’ve heard it’s very comfortable and not expensive.”

  “I know it well. It’s a good choice, I’m sure you’ll be well looked after.”

  Jenny left them talking and went to a screen showing the latest Swiss franc exchange rates against the Euro and the US Dollar, scribbling them in her notebook, just in case.

  Turning to go back to the counter, she collided with a man standing behind her. Unshaven and wearing a scruffy anorak and jeans, he looked out of place in the crowded banking hall. He gave her a blank stare when she apologised then walked over to the exit, looked back at her and went out into the street.

  Jenny put the Swiss Francs carefully into her purse, separate from the Sterling and Euros. The purse went into her bag, which she held by the strap, over her shoulder. Patrice escorted them out, wishing them au revoir and an enjoyable trip to Switzerland.

  He watched them until they were out of sight then pulled out his mobile phone and set off in the opposite direction, speaking quickly in Spanish as he strode away from the bank.

  The women walked back through the Alameda gardens to the underground car park. As they turned to go down the staircase, Jenny felt her bag being torn from her shoulder. She held onto the strap and was swung around to come face to face with the scruffy man from the bank.

  “Déme el bolso o tu es la carne muerta! Give me the bag or you’re dead meat!” He held a vicious looking knife in his hand. It was twenty centimetres long, with a wide, serrated blade. Looking at Leticia, he said, “Yours as well. Hand it over or your friend is history.”

  Leticia gasped and stepped away. “Give him the bag, Jenny. Don’t argue, he’ll kill you!” She held out her own bag for the man to take.

  Jenny took her bag from her shoulder, gripping the strap in her left hand. “Muy bien,” she said, offering it to the thief and showing her other hand, palm upwards, in surrender.

  “Ciuidado, hembra! Careful, bitch!” Brandishing the knife in one hand, he took hold of the bag with the other. Jenny grabbed the hand and crouched on the ground, pulling him forward in an improvised judo throw. Astonished, he fell straight over her, still clutching the bag. He slashed out wildly with the knife and the blade cut across her arm.

  The mugger fell heavily to the ground and the knife spun out of his grasp. He scrambled to retrieve the weapon. Quick as a flash, Jenny jumped to her feet and kicked him in the face. She was wearing leather walking shoes, and the toe caught the man on the temple. He fell back and dropped the bag, holding his hand to a gash on his forehead, blood running down his face.

  She picked up her bag. “Get the knife, Leticia!”

  Leticia was looking on in a daze, sure that her friend would be stabbed to death. She kicked the knife away from the man’s reach then grabbed it and handed it to her.

  Blood was running down Jenny’s arm and dripping from her hand. “You tried to kill me, you son of a bitch. I’ll slit your filthy throat.” She raised the knife over the cowering, would-be mugger, ready to slash him.

  Leticia grabbed her arm and screamed, “Stop it, Jenny. You’ll do something crazy.”

  She took a deep breath and shook her head. “Right! Tell him I won’t hurt him if he goes away now. Tell him, Leticia!” Jenny stood over the terrified man, pointing the knife at his face.

  The man had understood her. “OK,” he said. “Let me up and I’ll go. Don’t hurt me.”

  She stepped back and the man jumped to his feet and sprinted away across the park.

  The women watched him run from their sight th
en Jenny walked across to a bench on the edge of the park and sat down. The knife was still in her hand. She looked around. Nobody had witnessed the scene. It was lunch time and some couples were sitting eating sandwiches near the fountain, but they were on the other side of the trees, out of hearing range.

  “Are you all right, Jenny?”

  The English woman’s heart was pounding. She breathed deeply to calm her nerves. “It’s a long time since I had to do that. More than ten years. Last time it was a thirteen year old emotionally disturbed kid, not a fully grown mugger. Thank God for the judo lessons.”

  “You might have been killed. Dios mío, I was so frightened for you.”

  “Don’t be silly, Leticia. The papers and money and keys are in our bags and we’re going to Geneva tomorrow. I couldn’t let a dirty Spanish thief steal them, could I?”

  “Let me see your arm.” Leticia rolled up her sleeve. The wound was no more than a long scratch. It had almost stopped bleeding and wouldn’t need stitching. “Here.” She tore up a handkerchief and tended the wound then tied a piece of the cotton around the arm.

  Jenny got up and went over to a rubbish bin to throw the knife away then had second thoughts. “I’d better keep it. If somebody else finds it they might get similar ideas.”

  They sat quietly in the park for a few more minutes then went to recuperate the car.

  In the underground car park, the man standing behind the concrete pillar watched the women walk from the ticket machine towards the Mercedes. He saw that they were still carrying their bags and Jenny held what looked like a long knife in her hand.

  “Shit!” He knew now that the mugger would not be coming to collect his fee, because he had somehow failed to steal the bags. He tried to imagine what had gone wrong. It was such an easy job. A professional thief with a vicious knife against two defenceless women was a piece of cake. He should have the bags and their contents in his hands, but he didn’t. Someone must have intervened. Some bloody interfering passer-by must have gone to help them. There was no other explanation. He hadn’t witnessed the fight or he would have reassessed his opinion of the two ‘defenceless’ women. It was a mistake he would live to regret.