The Yellow Diamond

by Andrew Martin

  The second time Reynolds had spoken to him was a couple of months later. Quinn had come up to Reynolds and congratulated him on nicking ‘the last-orders killer’, Donnie Gray. Reynolds had been pleased with the thought processes that had led him to Donnie Gray, and what had been so thrilling about the exchange was that Quinn himself was known for his feats of pure deduction. He would post top-of-the-head comments on the HOLMES files of murder cases he had nothing to do with – and that would be the breakthrough, as team members would have to admit.

  Quinn had to be good. Not only was he not a Freemason, he had always – even when starting out in the dark days of the late seventies – been more or less openly gay, or bisexual. And he was always a loner, whereas the Met motto at any hint of a joint investigation was ‘Let’s form a squad’: that way alliances would be built and backs covered. Quinn was his own squad. Yet he’d always been a ‘flier’, on the fast track. Reynolds believed that Quinn had been ‘acting down’ as a Detective Super in order to keep free of admin. On paper he was a Detective Chief Super.

  Reynolds knew that forensics had been in and taken the laptop, and that Reynolds’ own immediate boss, Detective Chief Inspector Richard Lilley, head of West End Murder, had been with them. Reynolds mentioned this to Chamberlain, who said, ‘Oh yes, and Victoria Clifford came this morning. His secretary.’

  ‘Right,’ said Reynolds, eyeing Chamberlain.

  Quinn was not quite a one-man squad. He had a secretary. Her name was Victoria Clifford. Nobody quite knew how he’d managed it. Even assuming that Quinn was formally a Detective Super … that ought not to have entitled him to a personal assistant. Personal assistants came in at Assistant Commissioner level, but Quinn had had Clifford from his DI days in murder. He must have been on some special committee or review of the murder teams; or been asked to write some long report; he must have done something that required secretarial support.

  Victoria Clifford was a clever misfit like her boss. Reynolds had the feeling she’d been a secretary in Special Branch before coming to Quinn. She watched Quinn’s back, kept him clear of misconduct hearings, because he was known to cut corners evidentially, and he would take risks that would get him stood down from an investigation if anyone other than Clifford knew. Quinn seldom used the Met information bureau, or the administrative staff of whatever command unit he was attached to. Also, he had no line manager. He answered directly to his OCU commander, who in recent years was Deputy Assistant Commissioner Croft, who was number two in special ops.

  Reynolds had been trying to get hold of Victoria Clifford all day. He asked Chamberlain, ‘What did she want, do you know?’

  ‘She wanted a notebook of Quinn’s, said it might be important for the investigation.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Reynolds, ‘do you mean another computer?’

  ‘No, no, when I say a notebook, I mean it in the traditional sense of a book for taking notes in. A rather handsome one too. Shouldn’t I have given it her? She’s with the police, isn’t she?’

  ‘She works for the police.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘But she’s a civilian.’

  Therefore not covered by the warrant that had enabled DCI Lilley and forensics, and Reynolds himself, to be crawling all over the flat of a half-dead man.

  ‘What colour was this notebook, Mr Cavendish?’

  ‘A rather attractive red.’

  Regarding Chamberlain, the big question in Reynolds’ mind was this: How disingenuous is he? If the book was red then it was not Quinn’s official detective’s notebook, because these were black, and – Reynolds realised for the first time, looking down at his own – not at all attractive. Anyhow, DCI Lilley would have taken Quinn’s official book. So Victoria Clifford had got hold of something else.

  Half an hour later, they were back at the front door of Argrove – in the lodge, as it was called. A Harrods van stood in the courtyard beyond. As he shook Chamberlain’s hand, Reynolds asked, ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea what he was investigating?’

  ‘But surely you know?’ Chamberlain replied. ‘He must have been briefing his superiors.’

  ‘He didn’t have that many superiors. And he wasn’t briefing anyone, believe me.’

  ‘He was creating this new department, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say it was a department. I mean, he was the only one in it – him and Victoria Clifford.’ It was the smallest OCU that Reynolds had ever heard of: two people, and one of them wasn’t even a copper.

  ‘But more officers were going to be brought in?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘What was it if it wasn’t a department?’

  ‘A unit. An operational command unit.’

  ‘And it was to keep tabs on the so-called “super-rich”, I believe?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to mention this because … well, you know how Quinn could get? He could become … rather grandiose, speaking for rhetorical effect … after a few drinks.’

  ‘What did he tell you, Mr Chamberlain?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what he told me.’

  ‘Please do,’ said Reynolds, waiting to make a note.

  ‘ … for what it’s worth,’ said Chamberlain.

  Reynolds eyed Chamberlain. He wondered whether he’d ever heard of section 5 (2) of the Criminal Law Act 1967: wasting police time, punishable by six months in prison to the best of his recollection.

  Chamberlain said, ‘He told me he was onto just about the biggest money crime you could imagine. That’s got you thinking, I can see. Oh, and murders as well, he said. That’s murders, plural.’

  ‘But no details?’ said Reynolds, because what Chamberlain had said seemed at once too much and too little to note down.

  ‘None at all, I’m afraid.’

  4

  ‘He seems to have been fixated on Mayfair,’ said Reynolds.

  Five hours after leaving Quinn’s flat, he had finally got hold of Victoria Clifford. They’d met up at the Yard, and she now faced him across a little table with arms determinedly folded. They were in Mayfair themselves – in the relatively scruffy part of it called Shepherd’s Market. If Mayfair had a ‘wrong end’, this was it.

  In choosing this basement Indian restaurant, Victoria Clifford had been making a point – something to do with expenses. In tacit acknowledgement that Reynolds was a small-timer in this area, she’d selected the cheapest of the many restaurants she frequented with Quinn. He knew for a fact that in the past month alone, the two had dined at some of the best restaurants in Mayfair (certainly Nobu and La Gavroche, which even Reynolds had heard of).

  But even though this would be a cheap dinner, it was still dinner and he was paying for it, with money he wouldn’t get back for a month, and that only after a tussle with his finance manager, if past experience was anything to go by. It wasn’t just dinner, either. When they’d stepped out of the Yard, Clifford had looked with a sort of longing at a taxi going past, so they’d come to Mayfair in that instead of by Tube. Well, it had been raining heavily, as Reynolds would be telling his finance manager. As far as he knew it was raining still. He couldn’t tell from this basement which was greenish and full of plants, like an aquarium. Reynolds’ black notebook was on the table. He had made a few notes on arriving at the restaurant and Clifford had asked, ‘Is it good or bad when you make a note of what I’ve said?’ Realising that she retreated further into herself with every new note, Reynolds had closed the book.

  ‘How do you mean, fixated?’ Victoria Clifford now asked.

  ‘He socialised here, set up his new unit here. In Down Street.’

  ‘He wanted to investigate the High Net Worths. Where do you think he should he have gone? Tooting?’

  A very, very few people, Reynolds believed, called Victoria Clifford ‘Vicky’. She was the sort of person who made him acutely conscious of his northern accent. ‘He seems to have done all his socialising here. His flat is here – in The Argrove. I mean A
rgrove. It’s in Mayfair, anyhow …’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s on Piccadilly,’ said Clifford. ‘And it’s not called a flat. It’s a set.’

  ‘Whatever it’s called, I went there this afternoon,’ said Reynolds.

  ‘Haven’t forensics cleaned it out?’

  You should know, thought Reynolds, since you went there this morning.

  ‘His laptop and so on,’ said Reynolds.

  ‘They won’t find anything on that,’ said Clifford.

  ‘Well, it’s gone to data recovery.’

  ‘He could barely turn it on,’ said Clifford, ‘let alone hide any data on it. He hated using it. All those things popping up all the time.’

  ‘Do you think he could delete his search history?’

  ‘Probably,’ she grudgingly agreed.

  ‘Did he have online banking?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything? And no he certainly did not.’

  ‘I’ve asked to see his emails and anything material.’

  Reynolds had asked DCI Richard Lilley. Whether, or how soon, Lilley would comply was up in the air. Lilley was tougher than his name suggested, and he was wary of Reynolds.

  ‘I suppose you went through all his cupboards,’ Clifford said.

  Reynolds was waiting to see if she would mention taking the red notebook. It appeared she would not. He said, ‘There were a lot of suits.’

  ‘At least thirty.’

  ‘All made to measure, I suppose?’

  ‘Bespoke,’ she said, icily.

  Reynolds picked up the menus, handed one to Clifford. He asked a question that he knew would annoy her: ‘How could he afford to live in that flat?’

  ‘He was on one of the old leases.’

  Reynolds put the menu down and eyed Victoria Clifford. ‘You mean sort of two florins a week?’

  She was deciding her response when the waiter came up. The waiter was a nice man, and he was very sorry to hear that his good friend Detective Superintendent Quinn had been shot. ‘I hope he is as well as can be expected?’

  ‘He’s in a coma,’Victoria Clifford said, looking at the menu.

  ‘I do not like the sound of that,’ said the waiter. Much to Reynolds’ surprise, Victoria Clifford then introduced him to the waiter and almost touched his hand in the process: ‘Ravi, this is Detective Sergeant Reynolds. He is on the team investigating the shooting.’

  ‘Good to hear it,’ said Ravi, and he turned to Reynolds: ‘He was the top man for you people, wasn’t he? A real Sherlock of the force.’

  ‘He was a very special copper,’ Reynolds said, while Victoria Clifford stared at him, apparently with disgust.

  ‘I think it is one of these Mayfair millionaires who have shot him,’ said Ravi, who was evidently up to speed with the new unit.

  ‘Yes,’ said Reynolds. ‘So do I,’ and he looked towards Victoria Clifford, who was now examining the menu. Ravi took their order. Both Reynolds and Victoria Clifford declined his offer of free poppadums, Reynolds because he didn’t want to eat what was basically a giant crisp in front of Victoria Clifford. He had asked if she wanted wine, and she gave a short nod. ‘I dare say I can run to a bottle of house white,’ he said.

  ‘Very gentlemanly of you.’

  There were two reasons why she might be blocking him. One: she thought he thought Quinn was on the take, corrupt, and was trying to protect him. She hadn’t liked the question about his banking arrangements. Two: she thought the unit would be closed down, having barely begun its operations, and she – a woman of a certain age – would be out of a job. When the wine came, Reynolds decided to probe in the first area. ‘Can you tell me about the panama hat?’

  ‘What panama hat?’

  ‘The one he claimed three hundred pounds expenses for.’

  Victoria Clifford sipped wine briefly. ‘He got a lot of stick about that. But you should have seen the way he beat down the seller.’

  ‘All the way down to three hundred quid.’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty. It was un véritable panama: a Montecristi.’

  ‘I thought they were cigars.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Montecristos. It was made according to the true Ecuadorian principles.’

  Reynolds eyed her.

  ‘About two thousand weaves per square inch,’ Clifford continued. ‘It can hold water, and if you scrunch it up into a ball, it still comes back to its original shape.’

  ‘No wonder the finance manager put it through.’

  ‘He did put it through, once the whole background was explained to that not very intelligent man. It was essential for Quinn to look like somebody who would lay out fifty thousand pounds for ten forged Picasso prints.’

  That was some sort of excuse, Reynolds supposed. The starters arrived. Clifford said, ‘You were in the Clubs Squad, weren’t you? Before Murder?’

  Reynolds nodded warily. This was her revenge for his questions about the hat. He wondered how much she knew of his time in the Clubs Squad.

  Clifford said, ‘Quinn was in the Clubs Squad, when he was a DS.’

  Reynolds knew that. In the early eighties, Quinn had been awarded the Queen’s Medal for Gallantry for disarming a man in a club off Piccadilly.

  Clifford asked, ‘What was the music like in your day?’

  ‘It was called trance.’

  ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘Nobody liked it. You weren’t meant to like it.’

  ‘Did you see the records in Quinn’s flat?’

  Reynolds shook his head.

  ‘He loved Schubert,’ she said. ‘And KC and the Sunshine Band. He went to see KC and the Sunshine Band once.’

  ‘In his three-piece suit?’

  ‘Yes. He had a disco suit.’

  ‘You mean a sort of white suit?’

  ‘Of course not. Just a good, lightweight suit. He was a real raver in his thirties, you know. More wine?’ she said, filling her own glass.

  ‘You knew him then?’

  ‘Yes, mainly socially. I was with Special Branch at the time.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Secret,’ she snorted suddenly with laughter. She was probably about fifty-five. She had sort of honey-coloured hair, possibly dyed, and a neat, squareish face with quite a pointed nose. She was pretty, and she reminded him of a vole. She had nice, rather approachable breasts, but she seemed to want to define herself by the prim cardigan she wore.

  Reynolds said, ‘Do you have any idea at all what he was working on? Any persons of interest?’

  ‘He was setting up the unit,’ she said, avoiding the question.

  After leaving Art and Antiques, Quinn had put to his mentor, Assistant Commissioner Croft, the idea of a unit based in Mayfair to keep tabs on the super-rich, and Croft had given the green light. It was partly a PR move. Eighty per cent of new properties in central London bought by foreigners, or whatever it was; and the billionaires didn’t seem to play by the rules. There were political vendettas, brothel-keeping, unlicensed gambling. Jewel and art theft had become a very live issue in Mayfair. There was money laundering through diamonds, art and antiques. There had been the murder in late September of the young hedge-fund analyst, John-Paul Holden, although the killing – he’d been stabbed in the eye – had occurred in Hampstead. Therefore it was being investigated by North London Murder. But Holden had worked in Mayfair. Increasingly often, the money trails followed by the financial investigators started or finished at a brass nameplate in Mayfair rather than the City. So the plan had been for Quinn to bring in a couple of DS’s from the Economic and Specialist Crime Command, and a couple more from Central e-Crime. There’d been talk of Detective Superintendent Hugh Jenkins, Quinn’s old boss at Arts and Antiques, coming out of retirement to work with him.

  Quinn’s new unit had been announced Met-wide on 31 October. The following week, a press release had been put out. But for a good two months beforehand, Quinn and Clifford had been acclimatising themselves with lunches and dinners and genera
l party-going. Quinn’s taxi bills were said to be particularly amazing, given that he lived within five minutes’ walk of his office.

  It remained to be seen what was on Quinn’s laptop, but he hadn’t posted on Crimintel since setting up the unit. He hardly ever responded to the daily briefings from borough command or the Yard – most likely didn’t even read them. As for the missing notebook … Reynolds would give Victoria Clifford a little more time to come clean about that.

  He asked her, ‘Did he use a mobile phone?’

  She nodded. ‘Disposable ones. What’s it called? Pay-as-You-Go. He’d say, “Vicky darling, would you mind nipping out for a mobile phone and a packet of fags?”’

  ‘So he didn’t want his calls traced.’

  ‘That must be it.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea who he was calling?’

  ‘A lot of things he didn’t tell me in order to protect me.’

  ‘Do you think he felt under threat?’

  ‘Yes. But he was fatalistic about it, and if he complained to Croft, then Croft would have to take him off the case … whatever the case was.’

  The main courses came. Clifford handed Reynolds his napkin, which he’d been ignoring.

  ‘Now you’ve spoken to Lilley,’ he said, to cover up his embarrassment.

  ‘Twice over coffee at the Yard. He didn’t offer lunch or dinner.’

  Probably because this was the Metropolitan Police and not some lonely hearts club.

  ‘And you told him …’

  ‘Just what I’ve told you.’

  Therefore nothing.