BLOOD DIAMOND an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist (Detective Mike Nash Thriller Book 7)

by Bill Kitson

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Nash asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. I was trying to look at what Viv was told, viewing it from a woman’s perspective, and it doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘What doesn’t seem right?’

  ‘We were told that Frankie was allegedly going to run off with Callaghan, but if that was true, the last thing she’d do was tell her agent and the management of the place where she was working that she was quitting. That would be inviting all sorts of trouble if word got back to Ray Perry.’

  ‘Perhaps she did, and Ray actually did murder Callaghan.’

  Clara shook her head. ‘No, that’s wrong. A woman wouldn’t think or act like that, especially if she was cheating on her partner, given that he had a reputation for violence. There had to be some other reason.’

  ‘Any idea what that might be?’

  ‘I can think of two possibilities. Either because she had decided to get married, or—’

  Nash caught on quickly. ‘Or because she was pregnant?’

  ‘Exactly, and of the two, I’d go for the latter as being the more likely explanation. Women don’t stop working simply because they’ve got married, but they do when they’re going to have a baby.’

  ‘If your theory is accurate, that means all our previous ideas about Frankie, and all we were told about her, are wrong. Is that what you think?’

  Clara nodded. ‘No way would she consider eloping, unless the child wasn’t Ray’s. All her thoughts would be about protecting her baby.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe she got pregnant by Callaghan, and that gave them reason to run off, to get out of Perry’s reach. But Ray got to him first.’

  ‘I still don’t buy it. If Ray wasn’t the father, she’d certainly not have told her agent or the place where she was working. That would be close to suicidal.’

  ‘That story of the diamonds is also less credible now. For much the same reason. If she was intending to nick a fortune in precious gems, she wouldn’t want to give anyone a clue beforehand. Which puts us back to square one. I think when we do visit Sister Evangeline to tell her about Ray we should try to get some information from her.’

  ‘She might be too upset to be of any real help.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Women are surprisingly resilient, even when faced with the worst possible news.’

  The caller display on Margaret Fawcett’s phone simply read INTL. Margaret knew only one person who would be ringing her from abroad.

  ‘Hi, Mom, how ya doin’?’

  The accent was passable American, but Margaret knew better. ‘Hi, Tina, darling. How are things in the land of the free?’

  ‘Pretty busy at the moment,’ Christina abandoned her transatlantic twang. She’d been called Tina since her first day at pre-school nursery, and in the end even her mother had adopted the shortened version.

  ‘The good news is that we’ve made really good headway towards finishing the contract,’ Tina continued. ‘In fact, if the next few days’ work and the testing go OK, we should be finished and I could be back home in a week.’

  ‘You mean home, as in home for good?’

  ‘Yep, apart from an annual visit to install more systems and a bit of maintenance, that’s it.’

  ‘That’s terrific. Oh, damn.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

  ‘I’ve booked a continental coach tour starting next week. I’ll have to cancel it.’

  ‘Don’t be daft; you’ll do no such thing. It’s been nearly two years; a few more days won’t matter. I’ll be fine at home on my own. I can take care of myself, you know.’

  Margaret did know. Tina always had been self-sufficient, independent; at times wayward. She listened, and although it took some time to persuade her, eventually Margaret agreed to continue with her planned excursion. Tina’s deciding argument was that the money Margaret had paid would probably be lost if she cancelled now.

  ‘How will you go on for transport? Getting food and things? You can’t go using taxis, and there’s only one bus a week into Helmsdale. My car will be here in the garage.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mum. I’m not covered to drive yours anyway. The firm will pay for a rental car. It’ll be waiting for me to collect at the airport.’

  ‘That sounds very extravagant.’

  ‘Mum, that’s the way it works. Since I’ve been out here, all my hotel bills, food and transport have all been on expenses. The only things I’ve paid for are clothing and having my hair done. Right now I’m ringing on my cell phone, but the company is picking up the tab.’

  ‘I’ll leave a set of keys next door, shall I? That way you’ll be able to get in whenever you arrive. He never goes anywhere. Not during daylight hours, anyway.’

  Margaret smiled as she put the phone down. Tina had said ‘rental car’ and ‘cell phone’, very American. It was time she returned home.

  Nash had gone through to Netherdale when Ramirez phoned Helmsdale. Mironova took the call. ‘What can I do for you, Professor?’ As soon as she asked the question, she realized that she had laid herself open to the sort of innuendo Mexican Pete thought amusing, but it appeared he was in business mode. ‘I’ve been going through that file again, the one Nash asked me to look at,’ he told her.

  ‘Was that the Max Perry murder case?’

  ‘That’s right, and I believe I have something that might be significant. It’s to do with the place where Perry’s body was found. It was an old railway arch that he had rented and used as a lock-up. At some time in its history, the place had been whitewashed. Over time, with the vibration from the trains constantly passing overhead, some of that dried whitewash would have flaked off, and dropped from the roof. Bear in mind we’re talking really small fragments here. When the pathologist conducted the post-mortem, they found minute traces of the whitewash on the body.’

  ‘OK, I follow that,’ Clara wondered where this was leading.

  ‘What they didn’t pick up on at the time, and I confess it escaped me when I first read the file, was that a substantial amount of the whitewash they recovered had found its way into Perry’s wounds.’

  ‘How is that significant?’

  ‘I’m not saying it is, only that it might be. What it suggests is that Perry was held captive there for some time before he was killed, probably before he was tortured, even.’

  ‘I see, thanks, Professor. I’ll be sure to let Mike know.’

  After lunch when Nash returned, and entered his office, his phone was ringing. The caller was Brian Shaw. ‘I had a word with my boss. He’s been here since charge sheets were written in Latin, so he knows all there is to know about some of our more distinguished citizens.’

  Nash smiled at Shaw’s sarcasm, and listened with interest to what he had to report.

  ‘Here’s what my governor says about Phil Miller. This is more or less word for word, right? “He’s a slimy character, good with numbers. Miller’s been suspected of being behind a lot of computer-based crime. You know the sort of thing, spoof letters in imperfect English from Nigeria purporting to be from someone with millions to dispose of. Just give us your bank details and we’ll empty your account. Phil Miller’s a pure money-making machine. All business, highly successful and totally devoid of scruples. He appeared sometime after Max Perry was killed, took over his business empire having moved into Corinna Perry’s bed. If ever a man shagged his way to the top, it was Phil Miller. He wasn’t even on the radar beforehand.”’

  ‘Did your boss say where Miller appeared from?’

  ‘I asked him if anyone knows anything about his background, and he said, “Miller goes out of his way to discourage anyone from getting too close or asking indiscreet questions. He emerged from the shadows and very quickly took control of Max Perry’s organization. It was after that he moved in and tried to annex part of Callaghan’s old operation.”’

  ‘What happened, then, did he say?’

  ‘He told me Miller came up against Callaghan’s replacement. Appa
rently, Callaghan had been grooming him to succeed when he retired. That’s the man I told you about, Trevor Thornton. My boss agreed with my opinion of Thornton; as nasty a piece of work as you could come across. The clubs Thornton runs are a one-stop shopping experience for every kind of vice you can think of. Gambling, nightclubs, drugs, booze, prostitutes, both his and hers, you name it, Trevor supplies it. At a cost, of course. Anyway, rumour was he and Miller cut a deal so the big turf war everyone was anticipating never took place.

  ‘One thing you should be aware of, if only to show how things have changed. Although Max Perry was never involved in the drugs trade, Phil Miller goes in for it in a big way. We’ve never had sufficient on him to put him away; witnesses tend to get amnesia. You know how it works. It’s a bloody shame, because if we could put him out of circulation I reckon we could roll up a good percentage of the drugs trade in the area. He lives part of the time in Spain. Got a ruddy great palace of a house near Marbella.’

  ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Only a word of advice. If you’re planning on going near him – don’t! But if you have to, watch your back and those of everyone around you. He doesn’t deal kindly with anyone who crosses him. There are one or two women down here who are still wondering if they’re widows or not because their husbands upset Phil Miller.’

  ‘If it comes to it, I’m really looking forward to meeting him.’

  Nash could almost see Shaw’s grin as the DI replied, ‘I didn’t think that would faze you much. All I’m saying is be extremely careful.’

  ‘Thanks, Brian, that’s been very useful.’

  After Shaw rang off, Nash told Mironova what he’d learned. ‘Which more or less confirms what Wellings told us,’ she responded after he finished. ‘This Miller character sounds really unpleasant, and the other guy, Thornton, doesn’t sound much better. By the way, I’d a call from Mexican Pete whilst you were out.’

  She reported what the pathologist had told her. ‘What do you make of that?’ Nash asked.

  ‘I had a look at the file. I wondered if they tortured Max to get the combination of a safe or something from him. If that was the case, they’d be desperate to keep him alive until they’d got it.’

  ‘If they succeeded and got hold of the diamonds, that wouldn’t explain why people are running around frantically looking for them now,’ Nash pointed out.

  ‘Oh, no, I hadn’t thought of that. Why now?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why have those diamonds suddenly become so important, if that truly is the reason for these crimes? According to what your pal in the Met told you, Miller doesn’t need the money, hasn’t needed it for years by the sound of things. Admittedly, all criminals of his sort are greedy, but that sort of greed wouldn’t wait a quarter of a century, either.’

  ‘I don’t honestly know. Perhaps it was to do with Ray Perry being released from prison.’

  ‘But if he’s been locked away all this time, he wouldn’t know where they are. Unless he hid them, in which case why try to murder him? You’d be more likely to want to capture him and torture him for the information. Besides which, I can’t remember the exact dates, but wasn’t Ray Perry arrested soon after his Uncle Max was killed? He’d hardly have had time to stash the diamonds away somewhere that would remain safe for twenty-five years.’

  ‘All very valid points, Clara. And they illustrate the difficulty of looking into events that occurred such a long time ago. Scratch Ray Perry as the catalyst then, but speaking of him, have you had any success raising Sister Evangeline?’

  ‘No, she was giving a lecture this morning. I’ve to call back later this afternoon.’

  ‘What on, water divining as a source of prayer?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re treating the pious community with the reverence you should,’ Clara told him.

  Shortly before he left for the day, she reported progress. ‘We can visit Sister Evangeline the day after tomorrow, if that’s convenient.’

  ‘Good, that will give me time to prepare myself. I’ll take you along, to ensure I’m on my best behaviour. Do me a favour beforehand, will you? Get me a couple of phone numbers. One for Northumbria Police, and one for the Freeman Hospital in Newcastle.’

  Margaret glanced at the clock for the fifth, or was it the sixth time in as many minutes. She checked her handbag again, making sure her passport was inside, and that she hadn’t forgotten the euros and traveller’s cheques she’d collected from the bank. It was the fourth time she’d done that. Then she walked through to the kitchen, and read through the various post-it notes she’d left for Christina on the work surfaces, the fridge-freezer and the larder cupboard door. She made certain she’d written the milkman and newsagent’s phone numbers down correctly, together with those for the greengrocer and butcher, who each had vans that delivered in the village.

  She walked back into the lounge and her gaze went automatically to the photo on the mantelpiece. It had been taken several years ago when Christina had graduated from university. In the photo, Margaret and Christina had been standing together outside the imposing edifice of Durham Cathedral. Those few people, neighbours or tradesmen who had seen the photo on her fireplace commented on the likeness between them, but Margaret knew she had never been as lovely as Christina. Margaret was by no means an ugly sister, but she was nowhere near as stunning, as head-turning as Christina, or for that matter…. She shook her head at a distant memory.

  Her suitcase was positioned ready, close to the front door. She fiddled with the labels, making sure they were firmly attached. She ran through everything she’d packed, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. She’d checked everything off against her list as she’d put it in the case, but in her mounting excitement, that fact had slipped her mind.

  Although she was looking forward to the trip, Margaret still had reservations about leaving Christina alone at the cottage. She dismissed these altogether. All the neighbours knew Christina would be there, and what possible harm could befall her in this village, of all places, a village where nothing ever happened? After all, Christina had just spent over two years in America without coming to any harm, and that was a far more dangerous, violent place.

  A car had pulled up opposite her cottage. Not her taxi. She frowned then saw the driver struggling with a map. She smiled fleetingly; tourists were forever getting lost round here. Part of that was down to the youths of the village, whose favourite sport was turning the arms of the signposts round. Any other time, she’d have gone out and offered assistance, but she’d more important things on her mind.

  A taxi drew to a halt right outside her front gate. This was it, then, the start of her big adventure. The front door led straight from her lounge onto the front path, via a small wooden porch. She waved to the taxi driver and lifted her case over the threshold then returned to collect her handbag, casting a final look round. She’d locked the back door already. There was only the front door to lock; then she was off. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

  Her driver had already loaded her case into the boot of the taxi and was holding the back door open for her. In the periphery of her vision she noticed the driver of the other car still struggling with his map reading. She felt a brief pang of sympathy, then as she climbed into the back seat of her taxi she forgot all about him.

  Phil Miller, the man classified by Margaret as a tourist, was far from being lost. He watched her departure out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to study the road map. The suitcase interested him. If the woman was going to be away, and by the look of the case it seemed her trip might be a prolonged one, well that suited him just fine.

  He followed the taxi at a discreet distance. When they reached Helmsdale he watched Margaret transfer into the waiting coach emblazoned with the legend, British and Continental Tours. As soon as the vehicle pulled off the cobbled market square he got out of his car and walked across to the coach company’s office.

  ‘I wanted to have a word with a friend o
f mine. I think she’s leaving on one of your coach trips this afternoon. Can you help me, or have I missed her?’

  The receptionist adopted a sympathetic expression. Silly sod, she thought, leaving it to the last minute. Aloud, she told him, ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid it’s just left. I can contact the vehicle and speak to the tour guide if it’s extremely urgent.’

  ‘No, it’s not vital. Nothing that won’t keep. How long is she going to be away for, can you tell me?’

  ‘It’s our regular fifteen-day tour of the capital cities of Europe.’ The receptionist indicated the large poster on the wall behind her desk. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to ring the coach? I can have a message passed to your friend.’

  ‘No, not to worry. I’ll see her when she gets back.’

  He drove slowly back to the cottage he’d rented. The woman’s holiday meant he could change his plans. With her away for over two weeks there was no reason to rush the job. He picked up his mobile.

  ‘How did it go?’ Corinna asked.

  He smiled triumphantly. ‘Found her! And she’s just gone away. She’ll be gone a couple of weeks. We can get into her house dead easy and search it together. With two of us looking, the job will be much easier.’

  ‘Are you sure this is the right one?’

  ‘Yeah, has to be. There’s only a couple in that dead-and-alive hole fit the age group, and one of them is a carrot top. This one’s just right. Apart from anything else, she even looks a bit like the other one. Or how she might look these days.’

  ‘And there’s no one else at her place?’

  ‘No, I told you. Besides, I saw the way she locked up before she left. No way you’d do that if there was someone else inside.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The first leg of the journey to Kelso was conducted for the most part in silence. Clara’s brief, once they were clear of more familiar territory, was simply to give directions. ‘Why don’t you get satnav?’ she asked, as she stared at the road atlas.