Diamond Solitaire pd-2

by Peter Lovesey

  “Yamagata love little girl.”

  Diamond had dreaded something like this. “No. That’s out. Definitely not possible,” he said, reinforcing it with a sweeping motion with his hand.

  Yamagata frowned.

  “I didn’t bring her here to give her away,” Diamond tried to explain. “She doesn’t belong to me, anyway. I’m taking her back to the school tonight, and that’s how it is.” He turned to the interpreter. “For God’s sake tell him what I’m trying to say.”

  There was a consultation in Japanese. The woman then told Diamond with another bow, “Pardon me for mentioning this, but I think you misunderstood Mr. Yamagata. He was beginning to tell you that he had a young daughter about Naomi’s age. He loved her deeply, but she died of meningitis last year.”

  Yamagata’s eyes moistened noticeably while this was explained.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Diamond said in sincerity. “A child’s death is the worst kind of grief to bear. But please get him to understand that Naomi belongs to someone else.”

  “He understands that.”

  Yamagata spoke again in Japanese, flattening his palm to his chest to reinforce his message.

  “He says he wants to help this little girl.”

  “Naomi? He wants to help Naomi?”

  Yamagata was nodding.

  “That’s kind,” said Diamond. “I appreciate the offer, but what could you do? Do you understand me? What could you do to help?”

  She put this into Japanese and got a quick answer. “He says you tell him.”

  This exercised Diamond for some time. He didn’t like to appear ungrateful. Finally, he answered, “I suppose you could do what I’ve been trying to do-drum up some publicity.”

  When this was conveyed, Yamagata curled his lip in a clear signal of distaste. He spoke again. The interpreter told Diamond, “Mr. Yamagata has heard your story and he trusts you. You have been a police detective, so you are well qualified to find out the truth about the child. Mr. Yamagata is a famous wrestler, not a detective. He is a rich man. He will pay all expenses. When you travel, fly to other places, stay in hotels, he will pay.”

  A sponsor.

  “I wasn’t planning on flying anywhere.”

  “Mr. Yamagata thinks it will be necessary.”

  Diamond shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  Another consultation, then she said, “Mr. Yamagata wishes to examine the drawing book again.”

  “Again?” It was back on Naomi’s lap. She allowed Diamond to take it from her and hand it across.

  The wrestler turned the pages until he came to the drawing of the lattice window that Diamond himself had started. He traced a finger around the shapes Naomi had drawn and said, “Airplane.” To reinforce the message he rested the drawing pad on his thighs and spread his arms wide.

  “What?” By no stretch of imagination could the drawing represent an aircraft of any description.

  Yamagata called his interpreter closer and spoke earnestly to her. She turned to Diamond. “He says you should look closely at this drawing.”

  On cue, Yamagata turned the drawing book in his hands and held it for Diamond to inspect.

  “He believes this may be the child’s view of inside an airplane.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t describe myself as a jet-setter, but I’ve flown a few times and not one of the planes had lattice windows.”

  “Please study the drawings with Mr. Yamagata.”

  Yamagata held it higher. As Yamagata spoke and traced the shapes with his fingers, the woman interpreted. “This grid shape that you have assumed to represent a window may be something else.”

  “You drew it from the patterns the child was making. Mr. Yamagata believes it may represent the document storage pocket that is fixed to the back of each seat.”

  Diamond knew what was meant. “That string thing that everything is stuffed into-the safety instructions and the airline magazine and so on? That’s a thought. She would be on a level with it if she sat in a plane. And mis other shape could be the flap that you rest your tray on. I believe he’s right.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s brilliant. Bloody brilliant. She’s letting us know that she was in an aircraft.”

  “Or an Intercity train.”

  An uneasy pause ensued.

  “Did he say that?”

  “I did,” said the woman. “I live in England. Many train seats have these flaps. The airplanes I have traveled in generally have fabric pockets.”

  She was right.

  “Hang on a minute,” Diamond said. “May I have the pad back?” He gestured with his fingers.

  Yamagata handed it to him.

  He turned to a fresh page, took a pen from his pocket and made two rapid drawings, very basic in shape, of an aircraft and a train. “Now, let’s see.” He held them up for Naomi’s inspection and covered the train with his hand. “This one?”

  She made no reaction.

  “Or this?” He revealed the train.

  After a worrying delay, the child put out her hand and touched the drawing of the train.

  “This one? This one, Naomi?”

  She tapped it again.

  “So you’re right. He was only partly right. He worked out what the drawing represented,” Diamond told the woman, “but she was telling us she traveled by train.”

  “Japan Airlines,” said Yamagata, nodding.

  “British Rail,” Diamond said, turning to speak to the woman. “Fancy you working it out.”

  She told him, “The credit for interpreting the drawings belongs to Mr. Yamagata.”

  “You got it between you, then. Bloody brilliant!”

  “Asian people write their language in ideograms. We have a sharp eye for symbols.”

  Yamagata spoke again in Japanese and his interpreter said firmly, “Mr. Yamagata must prepare for the basho. We should not delay him. He said he will pay whatever you need to find Naomi’s parents.”

  Diamond’s eyes widened in surprise. “He’ll pay?”

  “That is so.”

  “Let me get this right. He’s offering to hire me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he really mean whatever I need?’

  More consultation ensued. Then: “Mr. Yamagata possesses the Gold Card of American Express.”

  “I’m impressed, but-”

  “He will give you his Gold Card number. If you need to make expenditure, you quote the number. I will write this down for you.”

  “He’s giving me carte blanche to spend his money?”

  “American Express,” said Yamagata himself, but with some difficulty over the letter R.

  “Mr. Yamagata has satisfied himself that you are honorable.”

  Encouraging as it was to have found unlimited sponsorship and been judged honorable, Diamond still had mixed feelings about the encounter. His expectation that these people had recognized Naomi had been dashed. He was pleased to have her drawing explained, but disappointed that it indicated nothing more than a journey on BR’s Intercity.

  After another bout of bowing and handshaking, he withdrew with Naomi to the blessedly unscented air outside.

  The interpreter followed them out and handed him a card with Yamagata’s Tokyo address. Below it she had written his credit card number. She said solemnly, “And my phone number is on the back.”

  The impulse to smile, or wink, or say something suggestive was hard to resist. But there are people you don’t risk upsetting, and this Asian dowager was one. Actually the mention of the phone jerked Peter Diamond back to a matter of more urgency. He still hadn’t called the school. He thanked her, pocketed the card and went to look for a callbox.

  To his immense relief, Julia Musgrave answered. She agreed that it had been right to follow up the summons from the sumo wrestler. She’d watched “What About the Kids?” Everyone in the school had watched it and there had been high excitement among the children when Clive had recognized Naomi. Julia was sorry that nothing of real substance had resulted fr
om the program, apart from Mr. Yamagata’s offer, because-she reminded Diamond, as if it wasn’t paramount in his mind-Naomi’s time in England was almost up. In less than forty-eight hours, she would be on that flight to Boston.

  Miss Musgrave had gone home, Diamond learned when the school’s front door was opened.

  It was a good thing he’d phoned first. The worst Mrs. Straw could find to complain of was that the child looked worn to a frazzle, poor mite. “Look at her. She can hardly stand up, she’s so done for.”

  Naomi slipped her hand free from Diamond’s and ran inside and up the stairs in quick, light steps, still holding her drawing pad.

  He raised his trilby to Mrs. Straw and went off to catch the tube.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Stephanie’s advice across the breakfast table was eminently sensible, if totally unacceptable.

  “Face up to it, Pete-you’ve run out of time. You can’t solve that little girl’s problem.”

  “Which problem is that?”

  She sighed. “Oh, don’t get pernickety, love. It’s too early in the day.”

  To demonstrate good will, he offered to put a slice of bread in the toaster for her. “I was only asking you to explain what you’re on about. Which of her problems am I incapable of solving?”

  “The speech.”

  “You mean the absence of it.”

  She sighed, rested her chin on the bridge she had made of her hands and gave him a look that said he was being unreasonably reasonable.

  He told her, “I never expected to restore her speech. All I’ve been trying to do is find her people. I’m a policeman, not a speech therapist.”

  “You’re neither,” she reminded him mildly.

  “An ex-policeman, then.”

  “But you weren’t dealing with abandoned kids.”

  “I’ve been through the training. I know the procedures. Look, Steph, you know me well enough. I’m not giving up now.”

  She got up from the table and carried her plate to the sink. “What can you do? It’s Saturday morning. You told me they’re flying her out to Boston tomorrow.”

  “Correct.”

  “Can’t you see it may be the best possible thing, Pete? The school is run by the Japanese. They have a wonderful reputation.”

  He had nothing against the school. “You want to know what I can do?” he said. “I can get her to draw things. She is definitely trying to communicate through the drawing. I’m getting her confidence now. She holds my hand.”

  Stephanie looked down at the water she was running over the dishes. Unseen by Diamond, she was smiling. By the simple act of holding his hand, one small, silent girl had succeeded in taming the bear.

  “Would you like to come with me?” he offered.

  “To the school?”

  “We could take her out together.”

  She thought for a moment, pleased that he’d suggested it, and then shook her head. “She doesn’t know me. She’s not going to open up if there’s a stranger tagging along. She’s seen too many well-meaning women already, social workers and embassy people and special teachers trying to coax something out of her-worthy, I’m sure, but not what the kid wants. Heaven knows how or why, but you seem to have reached an understanding with her. You go alone, love, only don’t pin your hopes on it.”

  Knowing the school routine on Saturdays, he timed his arrival for just before ten, after breakfast was finished, the rooms cleared and the kids dressed and playing. It was one of those brilliant, cloudless London mornings that make urban pollution seem like a myth. He could hear the children outside in the garden at the rear, so he walked around the side of the house. Clive spotted him immediately and came running, holding the toy car Diamond had given him and making a convincing engine sound. Diamond stopped and spread his hands in welcome, but the boy veered off to the left, as if he had just remembered that he was autistic and didn’t, after all, relate to adults.

  Mrs. Straw was on duty, seated on the bench under the sycamore, sedulously knitting something in a revolting shade of green.

  He greeted her civilly and asked if Miss Musgrave was about. When speaking to Mrs. Straw, everyone on the staff referred to everyone else as Miss, Mrs. or Mr.

  “She’s busy.”

  “In her study?”

  “Busy, I said.”

  “Yes, but where can I find her?”

  “She doesn’t want disturbing.”

  “I understand that. I’m asking where she is.”

  “On the phone.”

  Some of Mrs. Straw’s statements, if taken literally, had a surreal quality. Diamond had a mental picture of Julia doing a balancing act on top of the phone. “I didn’t actually ask you what she was doing.”

  Silence.

  “The one in her office?” he asked. There were three phones that he knew about.

  Still no word.

  “I’ll go in and see for myself, then. Where’s young Naomi this morning?”

  If anything, Mrs. Straw pressed her lips more tightly shut. This morning she was even more unobliging than usual. She continued to knit with tight, tense movements.

  “Aren’t you in charge?” Diamond asked, nettled by the dumb show. “Shouldn’t she be out here with the others?”

  “She’s gone.”

  He tensed. “What do you mean-gone?”

  “It’s plain English, isn’t it?”

  “Gone away?”

  She gave a nod.

  “Left altogether, do you mean?”

  “Collected this morning.”

  Mrs. Straw hadn’t even looked up from her knitting. She gave the information casually, as if it were common knowledge, and now she had started the next row.

  Diamond was so astounded that he could only say an inane, “What?”

  “Are you deaf?”

  He turned away and went to look for Julia Musgrave.

  Just as Mrs. Straw had said, Julia was on the phone. Seeing him in the doorway of her office, she said into the phone, “It’s all right. He’s just walked in. I can tell him myself.” She put down the phone and said, “I was talking to your wife.”

  “My wife

  “Trying to contact you. I didn’t know you were coming in. I have some news that might upset you.”

  “Mrs. Straw just told me about Naomi.”

  Her face tightened. “That woman! She handed the child over without informing me or the social services or anyone else.”

  “Weren’t you here?”

  “It all happened before I arrived. About eight this morning, when the children were having breakfast. The only staff here were Mrs. Straw and the Malaysian girl who cooks. I gather that this Japanese woman knocked at the door and announced that she was the mother and had come to collect her child. As proof of identity, she produced a passport and a photo of Naomi and Naomi definitely recognized her, according to Mrs. Straw.”

  He was trying to assimilate the information. “A passport and a photo, or a passport containing a photo?”

  Julia shook her head. “The photo was separate. The passport belonged to the woman, but the child was mentioned in it.”

  “Naomi?”

  “Some other name. Naomi was the name we gave her, if you remember.”

  “What was this woman like?”

  She shook her head. “You know what it’s like trying to drag information out of Mrs. Straw. I was so incensed when she told me that she’d handed Naomi over without reference to anyone that I lost my chance of a normal conversation with her.”

  “We’d better have her in here immediately,” said Diamond. “She’s got to give a proper account of what happened.”

  “All right. You’ll stay?”

  “You bet I will. I’ll fetch her now.”

  In the garden he got a glare fit to petrify, but Mrs. Straw folded her knitting and went with him.

  They sat stiffly among the children’s toys and pictures in Julia’s office, Diamond on the wooden trunk, Mrs. Straw on a chair just inside the door, as
if poised for a quick exit.

  Julia explained that she wanted to go over the details of what had happened that morning.

  Pointedly ignoring what was said to her, and thrusting out her chin defiantly, Mrs. Straw demanded, “What’s he doing here?”

  Diamond drew breath to lambaste her, but Julia got in first, and her rebuke was the more effective for being spoken in a soft, measured voice. “Mr. Diamond, as you very well know, takes a special interest in Naomi. He has worked for the police.”

  “It’s nothing to do with the police.”

  “I didn’t say it was, but I have to be sure about this woman who claims to be Naomi’s mother. She could be an impostor.”

  “Impossible,” said Mrs. Straw.

  “Not at all. It’s quite possible that some childless woman could have seen Naomi on television and decided that she could pose as the mother.”

  Mrs. Straw was unimpressed. “The woman had the photo of Naomi.”

  Diamond intervened. “Before we go into that, can we have it from the beginning, when the woman arrived?”

  Without a glance in his direction, Mrs. Straw said, “I already told Miss Musgrave.”

  “You gave me the essential facts,” said Julia. “Now we need to know more.”

  Mrs. Straw sat back, exhaled noisily and folded her arms. “There isn’t any more.”

  “Then tell me again, so that Mr. Diamond can hear exactly what you recall.”

  She rolled her eyes upward in protest. “It’s simple enough. I answered the door when the children were having breakfast.”

  “What time?” Diamond asked.

  “Round about eight. I don’t have a watch. It was this Japanese woman. She asked if the little girl who was on the television yesterday was here. She said, ‘I am the mother.’”

  “What was she like? Can you describe her?”

  “She was Japanese.”

  This, apparently, said it all, so far as Mrs. Straw was concerned.

  “And���?” Diamond prompted her.