The King of Diamonds (38 page)

‘I told you,’ said Vanessa, nodding. ‘It’s not Titus; it’s Claes and his weird sister who are the guilty ones. But Katya must have found something. Otherwise they wouldn’t have killed her. Can’t you find what it was? It must be in there somewhere.’

Trave turned several pages and suddenly looked excited. ‘Here it is,’ he said, and began reading again:

Trave paused, glancing up at Vanessa as he turned the page. She was wild-eyed, sitting forward on the edge of the sofa only inches away from him with her hands clasped tight together in front of her chest. There was nothing he could say to comfort her, and so with a heavy heart he turned back to the diary and resumed his reading.

For ten days Jacob had holed up in the cheap hotel behind Paddington Station where he’d stayed once before, back in the days when he was travelling round the records offices of Europe digging into Claes’s murky past. They took cash in advance at reception and asked no questions, so he didn’t need to tell them any lies. Every day he read the newspaper reports on the Swain trial and listened to the radio and took long walks through the London parks, enjoying the biting cold air that kept him alert as he waited for the jury to reach their verdict on David Swain. And when it came, announced as the first item on the six o’clock news on Wednesday evening, he wasn’t surprised. Instead he was ready. He got up the next morning, hoisted his pack onto his back after breakfast, and took the train to Banbury. He didn’t think the police would be watching the station in Oxford, but there was no need to take the risk. And from Banbury he rode the bicycle that he’d bought in London slowly through the gathering fog, taking the back roads until he came to the far side of Blackwater Lake and found the rowing boat exactly where he’d left it, hidden in a grove of evergreen trees growing a little way back from the bank. His plan had been to avoid the village and the road that passed by the boathouse and the Hall, but the thick fog meant that he did not need to worry about observation. Instead he found it a hard task to navigate his way across the lake and ended up reaching the other side a hundred yards up from his target. Still, eventually he had the boat and the bicycle stowed away under the boathouse and set off through the woods with his torch.

An hour later, standing hidden in the trees at the top of the drive, listening to the Bentley disappearing into the distance, Jacob allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Claes’s departure was a piece of luck that he hadn’t been anticipating. Now Osman would be on his own, apart from the servants and Claes’s sister, and he had nothing to fear from them. He waited a few minutes and then, with his hand cradled round the butt of the gun in his pocket, stepped out into the fog.

This time it wasn’t Jana but a maid in uniform who answered the door and asked him his business. Immediately Jacob forced his way past her, demanding to see the master of the house. The noise brought Osman into the hall. He quickly retreated back towards his study as soon as he recognized his visitor, but Jacob ran after him down the corridor and was through the door before Osman had the chance to lock himself in.

With nowhere left to go, Osman sat down behind his desk, as if hoping that a little display of dignity might bring Jacob to this senses, although it didn’t help that the top drawer was missing, gone to the furniture maker for repair after Jacob had blasted a hole through it on his last visit.

‘How dare you come in here like this?’ Osman demanded, trying and failing to give the impression that he was in control of the situation.

Jacob didn’t respond, just looked down with contempt at Osman like he was some kind of loathsome insect that he hadn’t yet decided how best to dispose of.

‘What do you want?’ asked Osman. He was unmistakably nervous now – beads of sweat had begun to form in his hairline, and a twitch at the corner of his bottom lip indicated his growing anxiety.

‘I want justice – the kind they’re not handing out up in London,’ said Jacob, pointing to the headline of the
Daily Telegraph
, which was lying folded on the desk between them: ‘David Swain to hang for Blackwater murder.’

‘I want justice for my father and mother and for my brother and Katya and for all the other men, women, and children that you and Claes have murdered in the last twenty years. That’s what I want,’ Jacob went on, banging his fist down on the desk to emphasize the name of each of the dead victims.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ said Osman in a shaky voice, shrinking into the back of his chair in the face of this verbal onslaught. ‘I swear it. David Swain killed your brother and Katya, and I tried to save your parents but I couldn’t. I saved you. Don’t you understand that? You wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for me.’

‘Yes, you’re right. But why? Why did you save me, Titus?’ asked Jacob, leaning forward so that his face was only a few inches from Osman’s. ‘Come on, tell me. Spit it out: you know the answer. So that my parents would trust you when their turn came to try and escape across the border. That’s why. So they’d bring you all their precious diamonds and make you the diamond king. That’s all they were to you: the chance for more loot.’

Jacob could no longer contain his anger. He lunged at Osman, taking hold of his enemy by the lapels of his Savile Row suit, and the fine cloth tore in Jacob’s hands as he dragged Osman out from behind the desk and over towards the door. Osman was too shocked at first to struggle; and then, when he began to resist, Jacob threw him down on the carpet, took the gun out of his pocket, and pointed it at Osman’s head.

‘Get up,’ he ordered, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll kill you. I swear I will, if you don’t give me what I want.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Osman. It was the second time he’d asked Jacob the question, but now there was desperation in his voice: he’d lost control of his breathing and was panting as he spoke. And he seemed to have hurt himself as he fell: he held both his hands behind his back at the base of his spine as he got to his feet and stood swaying backwards and forwards in the doorway.

‘Proof,’ said Jacob. ‘That’s what I want. Proof of what you’ve done, so all the world can see you for what you are: a thief and a cold-blooded killer, not some big-hearted philanthropist.’

‘But there is no proof,’ said Osman, reaching out to touch Jacob’s arm in a gesture of supplication. ‘You’ve got to believe me: I’m an innocent man.’

‘Stop lying. I can’t stand to hear it,’ shouted Jacob, brandishing his gun. With his free hand he pushed Osman away, back through the half-open door, and then immediately came up behind him in the corridor outside, forcing the gun into the small of Osman’s back. It was the place where Osman had hurt himself when he fell, and he cried out in sudden pain.

‘You’re the least innocent man in the whole wide world,’ said Jacob, hissing the information into Osman’s ear. ‘Now get upstairs. Or I’ll do that again; only it’ll be worse this time.’

Osman was shaking from head to toe, but he obeyed the order, shuffling forward into the hall and up the stairs. At the top, Jacob directed him to the left, and they carried on their strange procession down the corridor to Osman’s bedroom. There was no sign of either Jana or the parlour maid or any of the other servants, and Osman wondered whether they had all fled the house, leaving him to deal with Jacob on his own. He’d been listening hard for the sound of the returning Bentley outside, but he’d heard nothing. ‘I won’t be long,’ Franz had said. So where was he now? And where were the police when he needed them?

Concentrating his mind, Trave resumed his reading of Katya’s diary:

Franz looked me in the eye and straight away I knew he knew. It was my fault. I realized what I’d done: like a fool I’d left the writing pad open on my desk when I ran out of the house, and he must have been watching me; he or his foul sister. She was there too, standing behind him on the steps with a smirk on her ugly white face like she was enjoying what was happening, like she wanted to see me suffer. I didn’t struggle. What was the point? I know Franz; I know what he’d like to do to me with his hands if he got the chance. I know what he did to Ethan with that knife. I wasn’t going to give him an excuse.

I told him that I wanted to see my uncle; that I wanted to tell Titus what I’d found. I was playing my last card but it was like Franz knew what I’d been going to say. He said: ‘Certainly.’ Just that, and gave a little bow of his head and a wave of his hand like he was being polite, treating me like I was some kind of lady who needed to go first out the door. I wanted to run but I could hardly walk, and Jana was in front of me anyway so there was no way I could have escaped. Franz was behind my back. He wasn’t touching me, but I could feel his cold breath on the back of my neck while we walked through the woods and across the lawn back to the house. Back to my uncle waiting in his study.

*  *  *

At the end of the corridor Jacob reached round Osman and pushed open the half-closed door with his free hand, and then shoved Osman forwards into the bedroom. But Osman was ready and didn’t fall this time; instead he caught hold of one of the carved mahogany posts of his four-poster bed and then turned to face his adversary, who was standing in the doorway, holding the gun trained on his forehead. Behind Osman, his cat, Cara, who had been sleeping on the bed, opened her green eyes wide in surprise. She’d never seen her master pushed across a room before.

‘Open it,’ commanded Jacob, pointing with a quick sideways motion of the gun towards the oil painting hanging on the wall between the two matching wardrobes.

‘Open what?’ asked Osman, playing for time even though he knew perfectly well what Jacob was telling him to do. Jana had given him a detailed description of her gunpoint encounter with Jacob and his inability to get in the safe ten days earlier. God, what an idiot he’d been, Osman thought, cursing himself for his stupidity. He should have known Jacob would come back, just as he should have known neither Franz nor Macrae could be relied on for protection – instead of finding Jacob they had left him here defenceless to face this maniac on his own. Too late, Osman realized he should have hired guards or left Blackwater altogether until Jacob was caught. Now he was caught himself with no means of escape.

‘Open the fucking safe!’ Jacob repeated his demand with a snarl in his voice; and then, when Osman did not immediately comply, he turned the gun a fraction of an inch and fired through the window overlooking the courtyard, shattering the glass with the bullet. A wave of cold air blew into the room, and Osman’s legs gave way beneath him as, unseen, the cat disappeared under the bed.

Slowly, Osman got back to his feet and took the picture down off the wall with shaking hands. He glanced across at Jacob and then twisted the knob, entering the coded numbers one by one until the steel door clicked and he pulled it open. Behind Osman, Jacob leaned forwards, looking in at the lines of small blue silk bags, each with a different tiny white number embroidered on its side, and, behind them on a shelf, taking up most of the space at the back of the safe, three thick, dark green, leather-bound books.

‘Get those out,’ ordered Jacob, pointing at the books. ‘Show them to me.’

‘They’re my accounts. That’s all – who I’ve sold to, who I’ve bought from, my expenses – nothing else,’ said Osman as he took out the ledgers. He put the first two down on the ground and then held out the third one, turning the pages for Jacob’s inspection, as if he really thought they might convince Jacob that he was indeed an innocent man.

‘How far do they go back?’ asked Jacob, looking up from the names and dates and the columns of figures recorded in red and black ink.

‘This one four years,’ said Osman. ‘But it’s not finished. The other two are five each.’

‘Fourteen years. And before that?’

‘I don’t have records before I came to England. It was the war, you know,’ said Osman. He made it sound like the war explained everything.

‘No, I don’t know. You’re lying,’ said Jacob, losing his temper as his frustration boiled over. He’d pinned all his hopes on the stupid safe, and it had yielded him nothing. Trave had been right about Blackwater Hall. There was nothing here – no evidence, no proof, nothing. Or at least nothing that he was going to find without Osman’s help. And that help would only be forthcoming if Osman really believed that Jacob would kill him if he didn’t talk. The bastard didn’t believe that at present – that much was obvious. Jacob had to convince him. That’s what he needed to do.

‘Get down on your knees,’ he ordered, stepping back and retraining the gun on Osman’s head.

Osman saw the homicidal look in Jacob’s eyes and was filled with a mortal terror that he’d never felt before. He couldn’t be going to die. Not now when he’d finally got everything he’d ever wanted. He grabbed a handful of the silk bags from inside the safe and pulled open their drawstrings, spilling radiant diamonds of all sizes and colours and cuts into his hand, holding them out to Jacob.

‘Here, take them,’ he said. ‘There are more, lots more. I can sell them for you if you want. They’re worth millions, more than you can imagine.’

Jacob looked down at the array of jewels glittering in Osman’s outstretched hand and felt like he was going to be sick. He thought of his family members, dying terrible deaths in unspeakable places just so Osman could get hold of these meaningless baubles of crystal carbon and call them his own. They enraged him, and he leant forward with his free hand and dashed the diamonds out of Osman’s hand onto the floor. They fell, scattering in all directions across the pale blue Axminster carpet, and such was Osman’s obsession with the jewels that he looked down at them for a moment in disbelief, unable to believe that a person could treat such beauty with such contempt. But then he looked back up into Jacob’s cold, angry eyes and remembered his situation.

‘Get down on your knees,’ Jacob commanded again.

But Osman stood his ground: he knew what would happen when he knelt, and he wasn’t going to assist in his own death. He closed his eyes and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in for rescue, and, as if in direct response, the roar of a police siren rent the silence, followed by the sound of a car coming fast up the drive. And suddenly the fog outside was lit up by flashing blue lights. Doors were opening – car doors and the front door of the house, and several moments later a familiar voice shouted up at them from down below: ‘Come out, Jacob Mendel. We know you’re in there. Come out now.’