by Roberta Kray
Shit, what’s the point? I’ve been through this a hundred times before. They’ve all got reasons, motives, but none of it makes the kind of sense it needs to. I stub out my cigarette and instantly light another. I reach down and retrieve the bottle of whisky.
Okay, one last drink. I pour a large one, a very large one, and stare back up at the ceiling. Let’s go back to the beginning and start again. The only flaw, as far as I can see it, is their decision to take Marc. He wouldn’t have been my first choice. Why not Dee? A woman would have been easier, less of a risk, less danger of a struggle. Especially in broad daylight. Unless . . .
And then it suddenly comes to me. There’s a cracking in my head, like boiling water flowing over ice. I sit up, leap off the bed and stagger over to the window. Shuddering, I wipe the sweat off my forehead. What’s happening? Jesus, I don’t need to ask. I know what’s happening.
I’m having a bloody revelation.
With my hands against the window, I stare out into the night. Like a madman, I beat my palms against the glass. Fuck. How stupid have I been? How fucking, fucking stupid?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Simone
I think it’s the rain at first, pounding against the glass. A storm. I turn over, wanting to go to sleep again. It’s only as I open my eyes that I see him standing there, a bleak silhouette against the window, his hands raised in a frenzy of rage.
‘Johnny?’
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t even acknowledge me.
I sit up, still half-asleep, not sure if this is real. I put on the lamp and say, more forcibly, ‘What’s wrong? What are you doing?’
He stops. As if exhausted, his hands fall down by his sides. ‘We need to talk.’
And suddenly I’m wide awake. Fear runs through me like a blade. ‘What’s happened?’ I leap out of bed. ‘It’s Marc, isn’t it? You’ve heard something. Oh God! Tell me, tell me!’
And now, in a blind panic, I’m grabbing his shoulders and shaking them. ‘Please!’ My heart’s jumping. I can hear my voice edged with hysteria.
He takes hold of my arms and lowers me back on to the bed. ‘It’s not Marc. He’s safe. I swear.’ And his voice sounds different too, tight and restrained, as if he’s fighting to keep control. ‘Stay there,’ he says. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’
I put my hand to my chest. It’s not Marc. Marc’s safe. I keep repeating it to myself. I sit shivering, swaying back and forth, on the bed. I want to force him to tell me what he knows but first I need to clear my head.
He glances over his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you get dressed while I make a drink?’
‘Why? Where are we going?’
Again he doesn’t answer but starts messing with the cups and saucers, picking them up and putting them down as if he needs to keep occupied. I can hear a faint hissing from the kettle as it starts to boil.
I gather up my clothes and take them to the bathroom. Now the immediate fear has dissipated, it’s been replaced by an oddly surreal sensation, as if this might just be part of some complicated dream. I feel slightly sick too, the way you do when you’ve been abruptly woken up. Quickly, I pull on jumper and jeans. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Johnny knows something, something important, and he’s about to share it. I want him to tell me and I don’t – because there’s something in his eyes that looks like pity. So why should he feel sorry for me? There’s only one reason. Marc may still be alive but time’s running out . . .
I can’t bear to think further.
I stumble anxiously back into the room and perch on the edge of the bed. There’s a cup of black coffee on the table and I take two fast gulps that scald my throat and make me cough.
Johnny’s standing by the window. He comes over and sits down beside me. ‘Now you have to listen and you have to stay calm, okay?’ Then immediately he gets up again, pours whisky into a glass and passes it to me. ‘You may need this.’
Now the panic’s beginning to resurface. ‘But you said he was fine, you said—’
‘He is. I give you my word.’
I take a sip of the whisky. Maybe it will help calm my nerves.
Then Johnny starts to pace, raking his fingers through his hair. He walks from one side of the room to the other.
He turns by the window. ‘Look, Simone . . . I haven’t always been straight with you. I’m the first to admit that. But do you trust me? Do you trust me at all?’
In an echo of his own answer to that question, only hours ago, I smile faintly and shrug. ‘Enough.’
‘Enough to believe that I wouldn’t lie about this – about Marc?’
I force myself to nod.
He picks up his glass of whisky and knocks it back in one. If I didn’t know better I’d think his hand was shaking. ‘Okay.’ He sits down beside me again. Hearing him take a deep breath, I prepare for the worst. But still he doesn’t speak.
‘Johnny?’
He can’t look me in the eye. Instead he stares down at the carpet. Eventually, he clears his throat and says, ‘Okay. I’m not sure where Marc is exactly but I am sure that he’s safe, that he’s not in any danger.’
‘What do you mean?’
He repeats, ‘Marc’s safe.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’ I wonder how much whisky he’s drunk tonight, if he’s had any sleep at all. Perhaps these are just the ramblings of a drunken insomniac. ‘You’ve seen the ransom note. You know what happened to Eddie. How can he be?’
He shakes his head. ‘Simone . . .’ Then he gives a long sigh. ‘Fuck, I can’t believe it. I’m such a bloody fool.’
‘For God’s sake,’ I almost shout, ‘look at me, can’t you?’ I grab hold of his arm. ‘And tell me what’s going on. I can’t take any more. You wake me up in the middle of the night, you say you have to talk to me and then . . .’
He does look at me now and then, oddly, he laughs. It’s not an amused kind of laugh but the very opposite: bitter, harsh and nasty. It makes my flesh crawl.
‘Marc isn’t in any danger,’ he repeats. ‘He never has been.’
I stare at him, alarmed, the first stirrings of a different kind of fear blossoming in my gut. I’m in a room, alone, with a man who’s served eighteen years for murder. If anyone’s the bloody fool, it’s me.
He leans in closer. I can smell the whisky on his breath. When he speaks again there’s a coldness to his voice, a clearly suppressed rage. ‘There was never any threat, never any kidnap, never any bloody anything. We’ve both been taken for a ride, sweetheart. We’ve both been sold up the fucking river.’
Jesus, now I know he’s drunk. Or mad. He’s finally lost the plot.
‘No,’ he says, seeing the expression on my face. ‘You’re the one who’s got it wrong.’ He stands up and goes to pour himself another drink. ‘You’re the one clinging to a fantasy.’
My heart starts thumping as he sits down beside me again. I make an effort not to flinch. Best to keep calm, to try and humour him. What’s the time? I glance at my watch. Twenty to four – the bleakest and loneliest time of the night.
If I screamed, would anybody hear me?
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says. ‘But I’m not lying. I promise.’
Why is he saying this stuff? I’ve watched all the cop shows, seen all the hostage scenarios. All I have to do is stay completely calm. Softly, I try to reason with him. I even attempt a rather shaky smile. ‘But that can’t be true, Johnny. How can it? You were there, you saw the note, you know about Eddie, and you know how worried Marc was – he was frightened, desperate—’
‘Marc wasn’t afraid of Eddie’s killer.’
And he says it with such firmness, such authority, that a sliver of ice runs down my spine. And with it my first terrifying doubt.
But still I attempt to refute it. ‘We were together,’ I insist, ‘don’t try and tell me that he wasn’t scared.’
He laughs again. ‘Oh yeah, he was scared all right
– but it wasn’t about being next on the list. That was the one thing he didn’t have to worry about.’
My fingers clench around the glass. I draw it carefully towards my mouth and take a drink. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ It’s intended as an accusation but emerges as more of a whisper. And even as it sneaks out through my lips, I get the terrible feeling that I don’t really want to hear the answer.
And Johnny, despite his anger, seems equally reluctant to provide it. He hesitates, his forehead creasing up into that familiar frown. ‘Because he knew,’ he eventually says softly, ‘he knew who’d killed Eddie.’
He’s waiting for me to ask but I won’t. I can’t. My lips can’t even begin to form the question.
He draws in his breath again. ‘It was Carl.’
Now I’m the one to laugh.
‘What?’ he snaps. ‘You think he’s not capable?’
And that brings me up short. If there’s a memory that will never leave my head, it’s the one of Carl and Gena outside the house last Christmas. I saw what he did to her. I witnessed his brutality and the pleasure he took in it. But there’s a difference isn’t there, between . . .
‘Carl killed Eddie Tate,’ he repeats slowly, ‘and Dee helped cover it up.’
No, that can’t be true. It’s madness. I can feel the dampness under my arms, the gathering sweat of fear. I turn to him, incredulous, confused. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘She told me herself. She even gave me the details but I’ll spare you those, they’re not recommended on an empty stomach. It’s all to do with the diamonds, of course. Carl thought Eddie was standing in the way so he decided to remove the obstacle. And that’s why Marc was so eager to get to Spain. Like me, he didn’t fancy being implicated in a murder.’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
But Johnny continues regardless. ‘Quite when they hatched their inventive little plan, I’m not sure. But they had to act quickly. They knew I wouldn’t hang around after Eddie’s killing – I wasn’t going to wait for the knock on the door – and that meant they were going to lose the diamonds too. So they had to come up with something – and fast.’
I stare at him, open-mouthed. None of this is true. It can’t be. Because if it is, then I know what’s coming next and it’s going to tear my bloody heart out.
‘There was only one person left who might be able to persuade me to pass those diamonds over: Someone who had nothing to lose, someone who’d do anything to help save her husband—’
‘No,’ I shout, ‘you’re wrong, you’re twisted. You’re bloody lying!’
Johnny drops down on to the floor. He kneels at my feet and takes hold of my hands. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but they used us both. There was never any kidnap. While we’ve been running round in circles, chasing our tails, your husband has been holed up in some hotel, ordering room service and living the life of fucking Riley.’
I pull my fingers away and cover my eyes. Suddenly it seems so viciously clear that all I can do is think of reasons to deny it. ‘No, they wouldn’t, they couldn’t. They’re my family.’ But even as I speak the word, I know it’s meaningless. I’m an outsider. I always have been. I’ve never really belonged.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.
But still I can’t bring myself to accept it. Carl couldn’t do that to Eddie. And Marc couldn’t do this to me, couldn’t let me suffer, couldn’t put me through all this hell. I’m his wife, for God’s sake. He loves me. ‘No, you’re only saying it because . . . because you want to keep the diamonds. You don’t want to hand them over. You want to keep them for yourself.’
I’m grasping at straws but who cares? Anything’s better than facing the truth.
Patiently, he replies, ‘So why haven’t I just walked away? I don’t need to be here, telling you any of this. The minute I worked it out, I could have packed my bag and gone, conscience clear, nothing left to worry about.’
He stands up and walks across the room. Picking up his jacket, he removes a small black pouch from one of the pockets. He brings it back and throws it down on the bed.
‘Open it,’ he says.
I do as he asks. I turn it upside down and empty the contents over the duvet. A handful of gems spill out. Small, pretty, perfect, they catch the light from the lamp and sparkle. I stare at them.
Johnny’s still standing over me. It’s as if he’s waiting for something, a reaction, a response, but I’m not sure exactly what he wants.
They’re diamonds. I’ve seen diamonds before, although not loose like this. I pick one up and hold it in the palm of my hand. So this is what greed and misery look like. It’s for these tiny pieces of sparkling carbon that three men have already died.
‘You want them,’ he says abruptly, ‘you keep them. If you really believe that Marc’s in danger, you take them home and give them to Dee.’
I look up at him, bewildered. ‘What?’
He shrugs. ‘You’ve got a life to save, haven’t you? Go on. Gather them up. Put them in your handbag. Why not?’
‘Because . . .’
‘Go on,’ he urges. ‘What’s stopping you?’
But he already knows what. Just like I do. There’s a dammed-up river of grief inside me, waiting to burst, and it’s getting fiercer and stronger by the minute. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it in. My husband’s betrayed me, my so-called family has deceived me, and sometime soon I’m going to have to face up to it. With one fast angry movement, I swipe the gems off the bed. ‘You can keep your fucking diamonds!’
A few seconds later – and I can’t remember how I even got here – I’m standing in the bathroom, leaning over the basin. The water’s running. I want to be sick. It would be better to vomit, to get rid of all the bile, but all that comes out of my mouth is empty retching. Any pain would be better than this, any physical pain. I smash my fist against the wall. It hurts – but not enough. I want to cry but I can’t. Instead, I lean forward, rest my forehead against the cool white tiles, and silently pray: Please God, please God, help me!
I turn the water off and listen to my own uneasy breathing.
I stare into the mirror. A ghost returns my gaze, wide-eyed, haunted. I’m still waiting for the full force to hit me, to sweep me off my feet, but all I feel is . . . emptiness.
Walking back into the room, I find Johnny sitting on the bed with the diamonds in his hand. He must have crawled around the floor to retrieve them. Not very dignified – but who the hell am I to talk? I’m the woman whose husband has used her, abused her, and left her hanging out to dry. You can’t get more undignified than that.
He holds them out to me and smiles. ‘Do you know how much they’re worth?’
What does he want to do – rub my nose in it?
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Take a guess.’
Jesus, has he no sensitivity at all? But as he’s clearly not going to give up. I think back to the internet cafe, to the website, the facts and figures on the screen. Although I’m not sure how much they weigh, I do know that pink diamonds are rare and precious, I know they’re valued for their weight and clarity and colour and . . .
He smiles. ‘About thirty grand,’ he declares, ‘on a good day.’
That’s not even close to the figures I was reading about. They should be worth more than that. They have to be. I mean, no one’s going to . . . but slowly it registers: these are diamonds all right, but they’re not pink, not even remotely pink – they’re a clear bright white. I glance up at him, frowning. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? All this mess, all this shit, over something that never actually existed.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say again. It’s like I’m caught in a loop that I can’t escape from. ‘I don’t . . . ‘
Johnny pours the gems from one hand to another. ‘There never were any pink diamonds,’ he says. ‘Plenty of these but that’s all.’ He stops and holds them up towards the light. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’
And now I’m even more confused.
He looks at me. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’
I don’t get anything. A white mist has fallen over my brain. Nothing makes sense. Nothing has even approached sense in the past twenty minutes.
‘It’s not that complicated,’ he explains. ‘We went in, did the job, and came out. It ran like a dream, no problem. We got what we wanted. It was only later that . . .’ He stops and stares down at the diamonds. Then he reaches for his glass and drops another inch of whisky down his throat. ‘It was only later that the papers claimed we’d got away with a damn sight more than we had.’
‘Why would they say that?’
Johnny shrugs. ‘My guess? Probably an insurance scam. The pink diamonds could have been on the premises – perhaps we just missed them – but more likely they were stashed at home in some lucky jeweller’s safe. Come the robbery, he saw the perfect opportunity to cash in twice – to claim the insurance and then sell the ice on privately.’ He laughs. ‘Jesus, we did that guy such a favour.’
I laugh too. The response is involuntary. And almost instantly I want to scream. What the hell am I doing? My life’s just been smashed to pieces. I shouldn’t even be listening to him but I am. I shouldn’t be able to concentrate, to take in a word, but it’s currently all I’m capable of doing. As if all my hopes, my emotions, have been cut away, I feel like I’m floating, drifting, clinging to any small chance of rescue. And if that means contributing to this crazy conversation then I’ll do just that.
‘But if Roy Foster and Eddie were with you then why did they think . . .’
‘Only Roy was in the building. Eddie was the driver; he was waiting outside. And Roy saw what we took but later he began to have doubts, to question his own eyes, to imagine that one of us – Dixie or me – had managed to hide them.’ He rakes his fingers through his hair again and glances up. ‘The power of the press,’ he says, wryly.
And that was what the fight was about?’
He nods. ‘And of course after the . . . accident . . . Eddie started believing it too. It became one of those myths, you know, a rumour that just fed off itself.’