Diamond Dust (20 page)

Towards four, when the butcher up the street started clearing his window, Diamond left Stormy in the car and went over to see if there was a pork pie left. He was lucky.

'You know, I'm thinking of Plan B,' he told Stormy while they ate.

'What's that?'

'Ask the neighbours.'

'Risky. He could hear.'

'He could be somewhere else.'

It was decided Diamond would go alone. After ten flights of stairs breathing heavily and not enjoying what he breathed, he emerged on Beach's landing. He'd passed no one.

According to their information, Wayne Beach occupied the sixth flat along, number fifty-six. There was a reggae beat coming from fifty-five.

'Hain't seen him, man,' the tenant said when Diamond asked after his neighbour.

'It's okay, I'm a friend.'

'Still hain't seen him in ages. Nobody in there. If you asking me, him Scapa Flow.'

Diamond risked a look through the window of fifty-six. The place certainly looked unlived-in. A free paper had been crammed in the letter box. He pulled it out, held the flap open and peered through. A heap of junk mail was inside.

'Man, he won't be back,' was the opinion of Diamond's informant, and in the circumstances he was probably right.

'Was he ever here?'

'Place is empty since Christmas. One time I hear someone unlocking, walk in, walk out. Picking up his letters, I guess.'

Stormy insisted on driving Diamond across London to Paddington Station. 'We won't let it get to us, Peter,' he said. 'We're still ahead of the game.'

'Not for long,' Diamond said. 'McGarvie's no fool, and neither is Bowers. You can bet they spent today going through those old files, reaching the same conclusions we have. My worry is that they'll go in like the tank corps and the killer will see them coming a mile off.'

'Looks as if Wayne Beach already has.'

'He's using the place as a cover. As far as the social services are concerned, he's trapped in that slum, living from hand to mouth. No doubt he's got a nice pad somewhere else.'

'And a nice income as a hitman.'

'Could be.'

'So we wasted our bloody time.'

Briefly it seemed Stormy might be going cool on cooperation, but this proved false.

'There was something you said earlier, about us putting our heads together and finding the truth before anyone else. I was impressed.'

'You want to keep trying?'

'Definitely.'

If Diamond had believed in fate, he might have been awed by what happened to him that evening. Exhausted after so much waiting with no result, he fell asleep on the seven-thirty from Paddington and was out to the world when it stopped at Bath Spa. He ended up at Bristol Temple Meads Station some time after nine-thirty. Not for the first time. Only now there was no one at home to phone any more. Rather than cross the bridge and wait for a train, he made the best of his situation and took a taxi to the Rummer.

Bernie Hescott, his well-paid, worse than useless snout, was not in the public bar. 'Haven't seen him all week, squire,' the barman told Diamond.

'Doesn't surprise me. I'll have a pint, just the same.'

'Bitter?'

A fair expression of his state of mind. He settled down with the drink and let ten minutes go by. The place was warm and the music just about bearable.

Then fate gave an emphatic pull on the strings, for in walked the informer he should have used in preference to Bernie. John Seville caught Diamond's startled eye, turned and left the bar at once. He went after him.

'Can't help you,' Seville said while Diamond tried to keep pace with him, striding through one of the paved alleyways behind the Exchange.

'You don't even know what I want.'

'Jesus Christ, the whole world heard what happened, and I know sweet fuck all about it.'

Diamond grabbed his arm and shoved him against a shuttered shop front. 'John, if this is your way of raising the stakes, save your breath. I'll pay top dollar.'

'I'm not haggling, Mr Diamond. I got nothing for you. Nothing.'

'What are you scared of? The Carpenters? Forget them. They're in the clear for once. This wasn't local. This has a London connection. You do know what I'm talking about?'

'Your wife. What can I say? I wouldn't wish that on anyone. But I know nothing.'

'Someone, some hitman, gunned her down in a public park in broad daylight. He'd done his homework, John. Picked his spot. Got away fast. Did you hear of anyone - a Londoner, maybe, a professional, who was holed up here six, seven months ago?'

'In Bristol?'

'Bristol or Bath, but he's more likely to have used here as his base. Bristol is bigger, easier to get lost in. What have you got for me, John?'

'I keep telling you—'

Diamond jammed a thumb under Seville's chin, forcing his jaws together with a crunch. 'I'm not messing. I want a result. I can pay fifty, or I can beat it out of you, or I can tell my chums at Bristol Central to make your life impossible. Which is it to be?'

'You just cut my tongue.'

'Too bad.' He relaxed his hold.

Seville wiped blood from the edge of his mouth and stared at his fingers. He darted looks to either side. No one was about. 'You said fifty?'

'This had better be kosher.'

'Take it or leave it, this is all I have. There's an ex-con living in clover in a smart house on Sion Hill, near the Suspension Bridge. Been around most of this year. Makes trips to London sometimes. The word is that if you want to buy a shooter, that's where you go. But don't bring me into it, for Christ's sake.'

'A local?'

'No, not from round here.'

'I'll need his name.'

'Beach. The name is Beach.'

John Seville got his fifty pounds.

27

E
ver since the diamond heist went wrong, Harry Tattersall had dreaded hearing from his old friend Rhadi. He expected a witch-hunt. The deviser of the plot, that sinister little man Zahir, wasn't going to let the whole thing rest. Much as Harry hoped that the Arab philosophy might be to offer a thousand blessings to Allah for a lucky escape, he knew in his gut that it was not to be. Zahir would want to know who had shafted them.

Never mind that Harry was blameless, having acted like a hero and saved everyone from arrest. His Houdini stunt at the Dorchester wasn't going to work in his favour. With their devious minds the Arabs would think he'd been
allowed
to walk away. It wasn't true, of course. He'd been as horrified as anyone when things came to grief. He hadn't grassed, and he didn't know who had.

The first days after, he'd stayed out of sight, fearing Special Branch or one of the security services would come in pursuit. He hadn't gone to Ireland, as planned, in case that part of the operation had been blabbed. He'd stayed with a friend in Tunbridge Wells. As the weeks passed, he'd returned to London, deciding he was safe from the authorities. The real threat was from his fellow-conspirators. He'd heard disturbing stories of Arab retribution: thieves having their hands severed and adulterers being stoned. He didn't care to discover what happened to informers.

The call eventually came one Monday evening.

'I'm so glad you're in,' his friend Rhadi said, as if he was selling insurance. 'We need to talk.'

'Only you and me?' Harry said, more in hope than expectation.

'No. All of us. The team.' And it was obvious from Rhadi's voice that he wasn't alone. 'We wish to compare notes on our, em, disappointment. A de-brief, as they say.'

'A de-brief,' Harry repeated, thinking it sounded like the prelude to castration.

'We'll come to you. Be with you inside an hour. Don't go to any trouble.'

It was under the half-hour when the knock came. Little Zahir strode in first without even a nod of recognition, followed by Ibrahim and Rhadi. They were in black suits, like a funeral party.

Rhadi said, 'Sorry about this, but we need to frisk you.'

So much for team spirit. He submitted to Ibrahim's large hands.

'Isn't the other fellow coming?' Harry asked while this was going on. He'd given thought to the way he would handle the workover.

Zahir didn't answer for some time, and the others seemed to feel any response should come from him. He was sitting in Harry's favourite armchair, well forward so that the tips of his shoes kept contact with the carpet. 'Which other fellow?'

'The man from the Dorchester.'

'No, he can't make it.'

'We could be wasting our time, then, trying to work out what went wrong.'

'Why? Do you have a theory?' Zahir said, baring the big teeth.

Harry backtracked. 'Not as such. I simply thought we should all be in on the discussion.'

Zahir gave a shrug. 'Our colleague at the Dorchester can't be here tonight. Now, Mr Tattersall, sit down and let's discuss the fiasco. The first we heard from you, on your mobile from the hotel, was a positive message. You called me with the name of the suite.'

'Exactly as arranged,' Harry stressed, taking a seat as far from his interrogator as possible.

'You didn't say anything was amiss.'

'Nothing was at that stage.'

'A few minutes after, you called again and told me to pull the plug, or some such phrase.'

'Correct'

'So something must have happened between the two calls.'

In an effort to react positively, Harry slapped a hand down on the arm of the chair. 'Indeed it had. First, a woman who said she was the housekeeper knocked on the door wanting to change the flowers. That made me suspicious.'

'So how did you react?'

'I let her in.'

'Why?'

'I was trying to act like a normal guest. You don't send the housekeeper away without good reason. It would have drawn attention to us.'

'So she came into the room. What then?'

'She put fresh lilies in a vase. As I mentioned, my suspicion was aroused. After she'd left the room, I went to the window and looked out at the roof garden and spotted a movement. I was horrified. There was this fellow hiding behind a bush and holding a sub-machine-gun. And there was another marksman as well. It was obvious we'd been rumbled.'

'Rumbled?

Rhadi gave an interpretation in Arabic.

'I immediately checked the flowers, and found they contained a bugging device,' Harry continued, underlining his efficiency. 'I put them - flowers, vase, the lot -in a wardrobe to mask the sound and then called you on the mobile.'

'Yes.' It was a 'yes' pregnant with reservations.

'That's it.' Harry waited.

Zahir brought his hands together and cracked the knuckles. 'The operation was called off at your suggestion, yet you remained in the room. Why didn't you get out while you had the chance?'

His worst scenario. They suspected he was in collusion with the police. 'If you remember,' he said, feeling the blood drain from his face, 'I asked you to let Rhadi know the problem, and you said you couldn't because he didn't have a phone. It was clear to me he was going to get arrested if I didn't help. He'd walk straight into the trap. He's an old friend.' He glanced towards Rhadi, who was clearly uncomfortable and avoiding eye contact. 'There's such a thing as loyalty. So I waited until he came to let him know the whole thing had gone pear-shaped.'

'Pear-shaped?'

Rhadi interpreted, and there followed an earnest dialogue in Arabic between Zahir and Rhadi.

Finally Zahir said, 'Your old friend confirms that you sent him away. He believes you.'

Harry gave his old friend a look of gratitude. 'He would have done the same for me.'

Then the sting. 'Yet you remained in the room with the men we now know to have been detectives.'

'For a time, yes.'

Zahir's tiny feet curled upwards. 'Why, Mr Tattersall? Why?'

He tried to make it sound the most obvious thing in the world. 'That was my best chance - to bluff my way out, and that's what I did by letting them think there was a bomb in the suitcase. I told them I was CIA.'

'Are you?'

'Good God, no.'

'But they believed you?'

Rhadi said in support, 'He does a very good American accent.'

'It got me out and away. The alarm system went off, there was a hotel evacuation and I stepped out to the street along with everyone else.'

'That's all?' The dissatisfaction was all too evident in Zahir's voice.

'What else can I say except I'd like to know who stitched us up, and why? It certainly wasn't me. I was going to get a hundred K.'

'We were all looking forward to a share,' Zahir pointed out. 'None of us had any obvious reason to play traitor, yet someone did.'

The right moment, Harry decided, to point the finger elsewhere. 'We were sold down the river before the scam got under way. Those gunmen were in place when I was shown into the room. The police knew where to lie in wait. They must have been tipped off well ahead.'

'Wrong,' Zahir said.

'Why?'

'If they'd known in advance they'd have bugged the room already. They wouldn't have needed to send a woman in with flowers.'

Clever. This was a point Harry hadn't considered. He frowned in the silence, grasping desperately for an explanation. Finally one came to him. 'Well, maybe the police suspected some of the hotel staff were in on the scam. They couldn't risk taking them into their confidence. They played along with the plot and waited to see which suite we were sent to. They knew it must be on the same floor as the Prince's suite, so they posted their firearms team on the roof garden.'

Zahir's large, shrewd eyes studied Harry. After an interval he conceded, 'You could be speaking sense now. So if you are not the informer, who is?'

'How would I know?' Harry said. 'I didn't even meet everyone.'

'You met us all except one.'

'Yes, the inside man, the ex-RAF type on the staff of the hotel.' The injustice fired Harry to say more than he'd intended. 'I can't think why he gets special treatment. If he's on the team he should be here, ready to face the music like the rest of us.'

'Music?'

The phrase had to be explained. Then, as if such details were beneath him, Zahir gestured to Rhadi to enlighten his friend.

'The man at the Dorchester went missing the day after we were there. No one knows where he is. He's lost his job, moved out of his old address and gone.'

"Who is he?'

'His name is Dixon-Bligh.'

Harry had never heard of him. 'The police must be onto him if he quit the next day.'

'They're trying to find him, yes, but it's complicated. He's also wanted for questioning in connection with the killing of his former wife.'

'He's a killer?' Harry piped up. 'How did we get into bed with this monster?'

'I only said they want to interview him.'

'We all know what that means.'

'It isn't certain.'

Harry digested the information. He still felt he hadn't been given all the facts. 'He's done a runner, you said? Isn't it obvious he's the one who grassed us up? I don't know why you give me the third degree as if I'm the snitch when you could be looking for this bastard.'

No one answered.

'Wait a minute,' Harry said, as an ugly thought surfaced. 'You haven't already topped him, have you?'