by James Craig
‘You’ll need that to get to the lifts.’ Ella lifted a telephone to her ear. ‘Let me just tell them that you’re here.’
‘Thank you.’ While she called upstairs, the inspector lounged against the desk, checking out the lobby. Interspersed between the low sofas for waiting visitors had been placed a series of large, translucent plastic blocks, maybe ten feet long, three feet high and a foot thick, into which different corporate buzzwords had been carved in large letters.
Integrity.
Transparency.
Trust.
In the far corner, behind Honesty, the inspector thought he could make out the back of a familiar figure.
‘You don’t have an appointment?’
Carlyle turned his attention back to the desk.
‘No.’ He put an immense effort into trying to out-smile her, failing miserably. ‘That’s right.’
‘I’m afraid—’
Leaning forward, Carlyle let her watch his smile evaporate. ‘Look, Ella,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m not here to cause you, or anyone else, any trouble.’
‘You have to have an appointment,’ she insisted.
Aware that there was an issue, the other receptionists were beginning to tune into their conversation. ‘This is police business.’ Carlyle dropped his voice even lower, not wanting to have to bully her any more than was absolutely necessary. ‘Tell Mr Durkan’s office that I need to come up and see him. I don’t want to cause a fuss, but if they keep me waiting, I will speak to Security and get them to take me up.’
She thought about it for a moment. ‘Please take a seat. I will give you a call in a few minutes.’
‘Thank you.’ Turning away from the desk, the inspector walked purposefully past Trust and Honesty and headed over to Hunter.
The captain was rocking backwards and forwards on the edge of his seat, staring into the middle distance with a murderous look on his face.
‘I thought I might find you here.’ Carlyle took a seat next to him. Out of the corner of his eye he clocked a couple of security guards eyeing them suspiciously.
‘You took your bloody time.’
‘They had problems getting my best side for the ID card.’ Gesturing towards the X-ray machines by the door, Carlyle whispered, ‘What did you do with your gun?’
‘It’s somewhere safe,’ Hunter responded.
‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle relaxed a little; at least they wouldn’t be playing Gunfight at the OK Corral on the thirty-first floor. ‘Been waiting long?’
‘Half an hour,’ Hunter grunted. ‘I asked to see the Head of Security, but no one’s turned up.’
‘Hurry up and wait,’ Carlyle reflected. ‘The Job, in a nut-shell.
Hunter glared at one of the hovering security guards. The guard, a pimply kid in a standard-issue black suit, tried to return the look, with interest.
I would leave off if I were you, son, Carlyle thought. My friend here might not be armed, but he sure as shit is dangerous. From the expression on Hunter’s face, it looked as if the captain was getting ready to rip the little scrote limb from limb. Carlyle was relieved when the boy gave up on his futile game and went off to continue his rounds.
‘Arsehole,’ Hunter said.
‘Take it easy,’ Carlyle advised. ‘They’ll see us. Just sit tight.’
‘Ten more minutes.’
‘Fair enough.’ Picking up a copy of The Times from a selection of newspapers on the table in front of them, Carlyle turned to the sports pages and settled in for what he felt sure would be a short wait.
*
Thirty-one floors up, Bob Biswas uncurled a sly smile. Lifting his glass, he gestured towards the tall, well-built man standing by the door. ‘Manny here will be leading my investigation.’
Trying to look menacing, Emmanuel Bole said nothing.
‘He is under instruction to get it wrapped up in the shortest possible time, with the minimum amount of fuss . . . and by any means necessary.’
‘Fair enough.’ Durkan glanced at the thug in the leather jacket, unconcerned. He’d seen scarier lads on the Falls Road, boys who were barely in their teens and weighed less than eleven stone, dripping wet. Let this oaf investigate what he liked, he wouldn’t be able to scare a confession out of Gerry bloody Durkan. And without a confession, there was no way Biswas would be able to prove a thing. Nor, more to the point, would he be able to find the stones.
‘Manny was Indian Special Forces,’ Biswas went on. ‘The Ghatak Commandos. Saw a lot of action along the Pakistani border. His party piece was beheading terrorists.’
Good for him, Durkan thought. ‘Impressive.’
‘He will get to the bottom of this – and fast.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘This time next week, I want this to be nothing more than an unpleasant – and distant – memory.’
‘That seems very reasonable.’ This time next week, Durkan sincerely hoped that Biswas Trading Services would be out of business. Without the money from the sale of the diamonds, Biswas could not make its next payment to their joint venture business, the Hydra SPV. Hydra would fold and Durkan would consequently be freed of his own outstanding obligations. As a bonus, he would pocket the 15 pence on the pound that his chosen fence, a seriously dodgy Hatton Garden gems dealer called Ron Berblat, was prepared to offer at such short notice. That wouldn’t be enough to offset the outflows caused by MCS investors reclaiming their cash, but it was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
As for raising some serious money, he had spoken to Bianca at the beginning of the day. His top saleswoman was still in Jakarta and spoke confidently of snaring new investors. Durkan smiled to himself; the girl was a force of nature. He had absolutely no doubt that she would come up trumps.
Things were looking up, all round.
Uncle Bob, meanwhile, strapped for cash, would soon be heading back to his roots; running a back-street bookies in Chembur, organizing poker games in 5-star hotels and trying to fix Indian Premier League matches.
Biswas ran a hand across his beard. ‘I’m glad you find it all so entertaining.’
‘Me?’ Durkan quickly composed himself. ‘No, not at all.’ He gave a small cough. ‘I am completely aware of the gravity of the situation.’
‘Good. Because we need your help.’
‘Of course.’
Biswas adopted the air of a man who had given the matter a great deal of thought, without having managed to come up with a plan. ‘The first thing we need to look at is how it was known that Gopal was coming into town with the diamonds.’
‘You clearly had a leak.’ Gerry brought his hands together, carefully aligning his fingers, as if in prayer. ‘By the way, my sincere condolences to you and your family.’
‘Thank you.’ Biswas’ expression suggested a man swamped by irritation and frustration, rather than grief.
‘It was a terrible thing to happen to such a bright young man.’
‘He was a stupid boy,’ was Biswas’ unsentimental verdict. ‘When the shooting started, he didn’t even have enough sense to run away.’
‘That happens,’ Durkan observed. ‘People freeze.’
‘It’s more than that. Society is making us soft. Children today are so lacking in street smarts, it’s incredible.’
‘Yes.’
‘My sister is not happy about it. Not at all.’
‘I can imagine,’ Durkan said gently. ‘It must be very hard for her.’ He could sit here and shoot the breeze all day – just so long as Manny the Sphinx didn’t spring to life and try to beat the truth out of him.
‘Riyal is most definitely not happy,’ Biswas repeated. ‘Gopal was her only son and even that was a struggle – IVF.’
Durkan felt grateful that he’d never ended up with any kids. Life was gut-wrenching enough without jumping on the biggest rollercoaster ride of them all.
‘Three rounds of treatment. It seemed to take for ever – her husband’s fault, of course. Morgan had one of the lowest sperm counts
ever recorded, according to the specialist.’
‘How very unfortunate.’ Durkan’s opinion of Biswas took another lurch downwards. What kind of man knew about his brother-in-law’s jizz?
‘I told Riyal she should go to a donor, but she wouldn’t have it. She always was a very headstrong girl.’
‘Yes.’ It’s like I’ve wandered into a Bollywood movie, Durkan thought. Maybe he’s gonna break into a song and dance routine.
‘Never listened to advice; always thought that she knew best.’
‘It sounds like a very difficult situation, right enough.’ Durkan made a point of demonstrating his complete focus on every word, even though Biswas seemed to essentially be talking to himself.
‘She was blind to the reality. The way she talked about Gopal, you would have thought he was the offspring of Albert Einstein, rather than some Belgian café owner who shot blanks. The lad was competent enough, within clearly defined limits, but soft in both mind and body. I often told Riyal that she should have toughened him up a bit. But did she listen? No. She doted on that child from the very beginning. He left school with hardly any qualifications and, of course, I had to give him a job. Then, whenever something went wrong, it was always my fault.’ Biswas stared into what was left of his drink, as if searching for an answer to the tribulations of family life. ‘The boy had a place in my organization for life, which was just as well for him. It’s not as if other people were queuing up to offer him any kind of position. His own father wouldn’t take him on. Not even for a summer job.’
‘Oh?’
‘Gopal survived less than a week working in Morgan’s café. There was a problem with the poison put down for the vermin – he didn’t use enough and it took a while for them to die. The patrons were confronted by dazed rats staggering between the tables in their death throes. The place was almost closed down by the Health Inspectors. Morgan nearly throttled him.’
‘You did a good thing taking him on.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did. Yet when I sent him out on errands, Riyal always complained that I was treating him like a servant. What else was I going to do with him? It was all he was good for.’
If the kid couldn’t kill a rat, Durkan wondered, why entrust him with a fortune in diamonds? As he was wrestling with that apparent contradiction, a brilliant thought arrowed into his brain. ‘Maybe Gopal did it,’ he ventured.
‘Maybe Gopal did what?’ Biswas slowly pulled himself out of his morass of family issues.
‘Maybe,’ Durkan offered, trying not to sound too keen on the idea, ‘your nephew ripped you off.’
‘And got himself shot in the process?’ Biswas finished the last of his drink and waved away Durkan’s offer of a refill.
‘You know what it’s like, Bob, money trumps family nine times out of ten.’ Durkan eased himself down the road of Gopal’s imagined treachery, comfortable in the knowledge that he could spout this shit by the yard. ‘Maybe the lad saw this as his chance to make a score and he went for it. Yes, he ended up shot – but that could have been an accident, or a double-cross by one of his team.’
Biswas let the idea percolate through his brain for a few moments. Then: ‘Gopal didn’t have the balls to try and do something like this,’ he said finally. ‘Or the brains, for that matter. Apart from anything else, he only had a couple of hours’ notice that he was making the run.’
‘But he’d done it before.’ Durkan lifted his arms, weighing the evidence in each hand, all of it circumstantial.
‘Gopal had never delivered anything on this scale. Nothing remotely like it.’ Biswas’ eyes narrowed. ‘Only a small group of people knew what was in that case. A group of two, in fact: you and me.’
Studiously ignoring Manny, Durkan kept his eyes firmly locked on his guest. ‘Well, if it wasn’t Gopal, it looks like you must have a leak somewhere else in your organization then, doesn’t it? Someone else must have found out about the run.’
Biswas let out a long sigh. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘No.’
‘So,’ Durkan affected a nonchalant air, ‘who do you think was behind it?’
‘Stop playing games, Gerry. I know it was you.’ Biswas signalled to Manny. Taking his cue, the man mountain lumbered towards Durkan.
Oh shit, here we go. An image of his head being detached from his shoulders flashed through Durkan’s mind. After everything he had been through over the decades, being decapitated in his own office at the behest of an irate business partner felt less than dignified. He held up a hand. ‘Look, there’s no point in trying to beat it out of me because, I don’t know. You’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick here.’
Jumping to his feet, Biswas sent the empty tumbler flying past Durkan’s head. ‘You fucking Irish bastard!’ he snarled. ‘I think I might kill you myself.’
‘Hey, hey, now,’ Durkan giggled nervously, ‘there’s no need to bring ethnic references into it. That kind of prejudice isn’t allowed these days. You might hurt my feelings.’
‘I’m going to hurt a lot more than your bloody feelings!’
Confused by his boss’s sudden desire to join in the fun, Manny hesitated in front of Durkan’s desk. Savouring the massive jolt of adrenalin surging through his system, the Irishman reached for the middle drawer, chuckling in anticipation of his visitors’ reaction when he turned the tables. His fingers were just closing around the grip of the gun when the door opened and Balthazar Quant’s head appeared.
‘Are you okay, boss?’
Leaving the weapon where it was, Durkan shoved the drawer nine-tenths of the way closed and slumped back in his chair. ‘I thought I said that there were to be no interruptions,’ he complained, irritated at being deprived of his chance to shine.
‘Sorry, it’s just there are a couple of policemen downstairs. They want to speak to you as a matter of urgency. They’ve already been waiting a while.’
‘Have they indeed?’
‘Yes. Security aren’t happy but they don’t think they can throw them out without causing an incident.’
‘An incident?’ Durkan arched his eyebrows. ‘Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we? Do you know why they are here?’
‘No,’ Quant admitted, before adding, somewhat redundantly, ‘it’s a police matter.’
‘Well, I think you’d better go and get them. Bring them straight in. We can’t keep the forces of law and order waiting, now can we?’
‘Sure thing.’ Quant slipped away, closing the door behind him.
‘This isn’t going to save you,’ Biswas hissed.
Durkan’s expression hardened. ‘Who says I need saving?’ He glanced at Manny. Blissfully unaware of his near-death experience, the henchman had reverted to his statue impersonation, awaiting new orders.
‘Where are my diamonds, you fucker?’
Durkan consulted the Rolex on his wrist. ‘It takes about twenty-two seconds for the lifts to travel the thirty-one floors, allowing for a couple of stops on the way. The cops should be here in literally one or two minutes. Why don’t you stay? I can make the introductions. Maybe they can give you some inside gossip into how the official investigation into the diamond robbery is going.’
‘Fucker!’ Biswas’ face looked like it was melting with anger.
‘I’m sure that they won’t take too long and then we can continue our . . . conversation.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Biswas stalked to the door, taking Manny with him. ‘But don’t worry, we will be back.’
‘Any time.’ Feeling as giddy as a Bogside twelve-year-old lobbing rocks at the British Army, Gerry waved at his retreating guests. ‘My door is always open.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Five minutes was more than enough time to skip through the various sections of the newspaper. Nothing in its pages lingered in the memory. The whole thing seemed to be no more than a succession of adverts, interspersed by ‘thought pieces’, written by friends of the government who sought to present the b
ottomless incompetence and self-serving cant that spewed out of the Westminster village as leadership worthy of Churchill or Attlee. ‘Comment’ was the new word for propaganda, far more subtle than anything ever seen in Pravda but just as relentless. The inspector tossed the paper back on to the table in front of him, glad that it wasn’t his £1.50 that had paid for it. The thoughts of Camilla or Tim or Gaby were of no interest to anyone with half a brain. Helen called it ‘living in a post-factual democracy’; Carlyle preferred to think of it as ‘lying tossers talking shit’.
Profoundly irritated at the crap that was served up as news, the inspector checked his watch. They had almost reached Hunter’s unilateral deadline. Carlyle knew that he had to take control of the situation or be dragged along in the captain’s violent wake.
God alone knew what might happen once they reached the thirty-first floor. Aware that he would need to be on top of his game, the inspector made a conscious effort to try and clear his mind of all random thoughts and concerns. It was time to focus on the matter in hand.
What was he doing here?
What was the plan of action?
And why wasn’t he trying to get some help for the deeply traumatized man sitting beside him?
Unable to answer any of these questions, he retreated into a moment of mindless people-watching. A steady stream of corporate cannon fodder came through the lobby, heading in all different directions. Only a few of them actually went through the turnstiles that guarded access to the lifts and the building proper; the rest, presumably, were heading to offices nearby, almost all of them occupied by different financial service companies. Everybody moved quickly, heads down, as if they were already ten minutes late for their next meeting. It was like watching one of those sequences in a movie where the film had been speeded up. All that was missing was the Philip Glass score.
He was trying to pull up some more information on MCS on his Blackberry, when Hunter suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘Fuck this,’ he growled. ‘Time’s up.’
‘Whoa, tiger!’ Carlyle pulled him back down before the security guards could intercept him. ‘Give it two more minutes.’
