The Yellow Diamond

by Andrew Martin

  Mr Rye had not come on the tour. He had discovered that Mr Rostov would be in residence – as indeed he was, having arrived by helicopter that morning – and he had declared in a very pompous way, ‘I’m sorry – the house is simply not big enough for the two of us.’ It was so silly because Mr Rostov was not even aware of Mr Rye’s existence, and Margaret feared that would continue to be the case even now that she had given Mr Rostov a copy of Mr Rye’s book, The Turners of Gladwish: A Study in Stability. It would have been nice if Mr Rye had signed the book, but of course he had refused point blank.

  They were in the Morning Room now, and Margaret was pointing out the portraits of the Turners, and there was no stumble this time about their being ‘the owners’, they were very definitely the former owners. She added, ‘We will be seeing a picture of the new owner later,’ which she thought a nice touch: a little tease, and the boy had smiled at her as she said it, as though this was a most intriguing mystery.

  It wasn’t as if the Turners had been particularly solicitous towards Mr Rye. They had been quite a snobbish family in many ways, and had not helped him with his book.

  She had not handed the book personally to Mr Rostov. She had handed it over to Mr Rostov’s personal secretary, the woman called Valentina, in the office in the stable yard that morning at ten o’clock (because Margaret always arrived early to walk in the grounds before the walking tours began). Valentina had been speaking Russian on the phone in what sounded like an agitated voice, but a man in the office had indicated in broken English that the book would be given to Mr Rostov as soon as possible. At the time there had been a lot of shouting in Russian from the stable yard – not least from Major Porter, who was English of course but spoke Russian fluently. When he shouted, it was like somebody commanding a hunt. This might have been to do with the parking of the big black cars that had been turning up all morning, and were being manoeuvred around the yard just then, or it might have been to do with all the work going on in the grounds. Margaret believed that an electronic fence was to be installed around the entire perimeter – an intelligent electronic fence.

  The cars had darkened windows, so it was impossible to see inside, but Margaret thought their arrival might have concerned the delivery of Mr Rostov’s art collection from a secure storage centre in London. She had heard about this from her husband, who in turn had it from a man called Patterson he would see occasionally in the pub, and whose daughter worked on the local paper, which was trying to find out all it could about Mr Rostov, and not getting very far. An hour later, when Margaret had returned from her walk, she happened to see the man who’d taken delivery of the book. He was talking to Major Porter by the West Conservatory. Normally Margaret would have given them a very wide berth, but she was emboldened by this being the last day. She had thought she had better address Porter first, since he was English, and probably in charge.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘is this a good moment?’

  Porter tilted his head half towards her. He had a rather red face, and didn’t like to be looked at. ‘Well, what is it?’

  From his voice, she would have said he was well educated, but not well mannered. She turned to the Russian, who was smoking a cigarette, a far more relaxed character. ‘Excuse me, but did you manage to give the book to Mr Rostov?’

  ‘Of course, he have her yes.’

  Margaret thanked him and, as she hurried away, she heard Porter say, ‘She is an appendage of the house, I suppose.’

  It was mortifying of course, but not as bad as it might have been, because Porter was really talking to himself. The Russian wouldn’t have understood an English word like ‘appendage’. Porter must be very clever, but he had no ‘social skills’ at all. With his tweed suits and flat cap – he always looked as though he was going to the races – he was the sort of man you’d expect to own a place like Gladwish. Perhaps he was filled with bitterness that he did not. Then again, Margaret believed he had his own country estate somewhere up north.

  They were approaching the entrance hall, and the end of the tour; and Margaret found that she had tears in her eyes. Thirty years of the walking tours were finally ending. What would she do with her Tuesdays? She thought of all the things she had hoped for at Gladwish that had never come to pass: wine tasting in the wine cellars, chamber music in the ballroom, a proper restaurant in the West Gallery as opposed to the rather irregular summer teas. She stopped. She would tell them about the funny little embossed leather screen, just to prolong the tour slightly.

  But that was the work of a moment, and now she was in the entrance hall, and indicating the photo of Mr Rostov. ‘The new owner!’ she said, and it was all coming out broken because she was being so silly and emotional. As she spoke, she glanced at the little boy, and he was looking at the photograph and nodding gravely, thoughtfully taking it all in, the dear little thing. Margaret hurried over to the Burmese gong and handed the beater to the boy, because by now she was simply too choked to speak. The boy smiled as he took the beater, and he turned to the gong. He knew just what to do.

  27

  Four o’clock on the dark and cold Friday afternoon. The weather might have been made for offsetting the Christmas decorations of Mayfair, a district that had seemed full, that afternoon, of young men with swept-back hair carrying oil paintings about.

  Reynolds was standing in a Mayfair courtyard, somewhere off St James’s Street. On one side was the façade of the Duke’s Hotel. He was supposed to be meeting Eugene Crawford, the important Texan hedge-funder, and employer of the late John-Paul Holden, in the cocktail party of Duke’s. Reynolds now knew what Crawford looked like and he was waiting for him to turn up before going in himself. Reynolds had on the good suit, and what Clifford had called, as she draped it over his shoulders, ‘Quinn’s second-best covert coat’.

  The coat had been a sort of peace offering.

  They had both been late into Down Street that morning, Reynolds especially. He had not been delayed by another row with Caroline, who always left for work before he did. He had been delayed by the revelation that she had already started packing. And so he had eaten a stunned, solitary breakfast.

  ‘Well?’ Clifford had said, when he’d entered the office.

  ‘I might ask you the same question.’

  He went first. Clifford adopted a pious, and patronising, listening pose (arms folded, head down, eyes possibly closed) as he told her about the time he’d spent with Anna Samarina, holding back his personal feelings about her, which Clifford had presumably guessed in any case.

  He told her that Anna Samarina knew they were on to her about something. She must know about the death of Holden, having been engaged to him and the news having been all over the papers, but Reynolds had not broached the subject, and she had certainly not brought it up, no doubt for fear of being entangled in a murder investigation. She certainly also knew about the shooting of Quinn – that equally newsworthy event – but she’d been at a party at Heathrow when that had occurred. All Reynolds knew for certain was that she’d been involved in the theft of a two-and-a-half-carat yellow diamond.

  He also told Clifford about Quinn’s library books and how a Russian journalist called Max Aktin, who had died in a fire in 2001, seemed to be the ‘Sfinsk’ of the floppy book. He told her that he believed a certain Porter was Andrei Samarin’s head of security, and that he was evidently very well rewarded, since he owned an estate in Northumberland, and a half-million-pound car. He told her Zav Hussein had called him, mentioning the name Anna Samarina as being possibly connected to John-Paul Holden. He told her he’d blanked Hussein, and Clifford approved of that, which did not make him feel reassured. He added that he’d offered to interview the hedge-fund man, Crawford, employer of Holden, and Clifford said, ‘I think that’s an excellent idea.’

  He wondered aloud how they could find out about Porter. Clifford said it was not easy to find details of an army service record. It was even harder – this regarding the death of Aktin – to get a coroner’s repo
rt off a coroner. ‘But maybe it was written up in a newspaper.’ Or she might try a contact of hers in the London Fire Brigade, which she called the LFB, in a familiar way.

  In return for all this, she’d given him next to nothing about her dinner with Croft: ‘It was primarily social. He knows we’re onto some funny Russian business. He doesn’t want the detail yet, because then he might have to do something.’

  ‘Does he know about Anna Samarina and the yellow diamond?’

  She had shaken her head. Reynolds rapidly looked up the HOLMES file on the Holden case. ‘Nothing’s changed on that,’ said Clifford, by which she meant that Anna Samarina’s name had not appeared. Not yet, anyway.

  After half an hour’s futile pursuit of Max Aktin leads, Reynolds had said, ‘I’m getting a coffee and a sandwich from the Mini-Mart. Do you want one?’

  ‘I’ll have a coffee and a Toffee Crisp please.’

  As he left, she’d said, ‘Thank you, dear,’ and given him one of her more straightforward smiles.

  *

  In spite of the Crombie, he was getting cold pacing the courtyard, which was made up on three sides by the backs of other hotels. So far nobody had gone into or come out of the Duke’s Hotel. But perhaps he had somehow missed Crawford. He went in again. The old-fashioned cocktail bar contained two grand American women and one white-jacketed waiter. On the wall, along with various works of art, was a framed picture of Sean Connery as James Bond. In Mayfair, all roads lead to James Bond. According to the notice under the photograph, this was the place you could get an authentic James Bond Martini. Reynolds stepped back into the courtyard.

  To kill time, he dialled the number of the jeweller, Almond. No reply. That was the third time he’d called. Then his own phone rang. It was Clifford, calling from Down Street, which she was just about to leave.

  She said, ‘Crawford can’t meet you at Duke’s Hotel.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to. He’ll see you in Fox’s on St James’s.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A tobacconist’s. He’ll be there in five minutes. You can be there in two.’

  ‘What are we supposed to do there?’

  ‘Smoke a cigar. In the smoking room. It’s on the first floor.’

  ‘I don’t smoke cigars.’

  ‘You’ll get more out of him if you do. He’ll probably buy you a very good one. He’s not generous or anything, but he is rich.’

  Reynolds had to do little more than cross the road. A beige Bentley was parked illegally outside the shop marked ‘Fox’s’. A wooden Indian stood guard outside. There was another one inside, together with a lot of plaques and shields commemorating feats in the making of cigars and pipes. Sort of smoking heraldry. Then he saw Crawford. He was in the humidor at the back: a ‘walk-in’ humidor – that was the term. So Reynolds walked in and introduced himself.

  Eugene Crawford was not dressed for winter; he was not dressed for Mayfair and he was certainly not well dressed. He wore shapeless black trousers, black trainers, an open-necked shirt – very open-necked – and a thin blue jacket. He was talking to a shop assistant. Greeting Reynolds with half a nod, he said, ‘What’s smoking well right now?’ He had a Texas drawl, and a ponytail. The assistant showed Crawford some cigars, presumably suitably expensive, but he wasn’t interested. ‘Show me something vintage.’

  The assistant was now delving down amongst wooden boxes to show Crawford some exceptionally long, thin cigars, while saying something about ‘1997 … a very refined smoke, sir.’

  Crawford turned to Reynolds. ‘You smoke a cigar?’

  ‘At Christmas,’ said Reynolds.

  ‘It’s Christmas now,’ said Crawford, which was true enough. He was examining a cigar. It was about a foot long. ‘Montecristo Number A,’ said Crawford. ‘Okay with you?’

  ‘All right,’ said Reynolds, ‘thanks very much.’

  This was not to be an interview under caution. He was allowed to accept a cigar. The three of them walked over to the till. Apparently it was perfectly legal to sample cigars on the premises with a view to purchase, although Reynolds knew in advance that he would not be purchasing any of these Montecristo Number A’s since they were fifty pounds apiece. Crawford paid with a card while looking bored.

  The smoking room was upstairs. As they entered, a young, upper-class English voice was saying, ‘We did thirty thousand yesterday morn—’ He stopped dead when he saw Eugene Crawford. Someone else in the room said, ‘Good afternoon, Eugene.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Crawford.

  There were half a dozen in the room, four of them probably English, two probably not. Strong electrical fans were blowing; there was a coffee machine, and several coffee tables between leather chairs, with big ashtrays on them and matches that were more like firelighters. Reynolds and Crawford sat down. There was no question of any notebook being involved. It occurred to Reynolds that he couldn’t have said, at that particular moment, where his detective’s notebook actually was. Beyond the window, day had become night. As Reynolds and Crawford lit their cigars, one of the Englishmen was talking about the places offering the most ‘interesting’ skiing, as though skiing were an intellectual pursuit. But everything stopped again when Crawford said, ‘You people think we killed this guy?’

  ‘John-Paul Holden,’ said Reynolds, treating the question as rhetorical. ‘There are some aspects of his private and professional life that I’d like to ask you about.’

  ‘Ah’ll give you half an hour. Then ah have to go.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Reynolds enquired.

  ‘Edinburgh,’ Crawford said, somewhat unexpectedly. He called it ‘Edin-burrow’.

  ‘How are you getting there?’

  He made a take-off gesture with his non-smoking hand. ‘Sky rocket,’ he said, which came out ‘Skah rocket’. If Reynolds wasn’t careful he’d be hypnotised by the Texan accent.

  Crawford reminded Reynolds that he’d already been interviewed by ‘two previous guys from the London police’.

  One of those would be Hussein; the other would be one of Hussein’s DS’s. The implication was that Crawford’s patience had worn thin, and he was entitled to be jetting off to Edinburgh.

  Reynolds said, ‘Holden. What kind of … a man would you say he was?’ The cigar was a pleasant surprise, milder than he’d envisaged.

  ‘Ah would say he was a boring kind of man.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Ah personally have been bored by him.’

  ‘In conversation?’

  ‘Many a time and often.’

  ‘What did he say that was so boring?’

  ‘It was a question of what he didn’t say. See, ah like a guy who’s into some weird securities …’ He tailed off, smoking.

  ‘He wasn’t bringing the necessary returns?’

  Eugene Crawford pulled a face – could have meant anything.

  ‘A guy works for me – he needs to generate a little mystique … Sorry about the change of arrangement, by the way. Over there,’ he said, vaguely indicating the Duke’s Hotel with his cigar, ‘you can sample the James Bond Martini. You ever tried that, Mr Reynolds?’

  Reynolds shook his head. You were supposed to go where the interviewee led, but Crawford appeared deranged.

  ‘Ah have,’ said Crawford. ‘Ah was not shaken and ah was not stirred.’

  Reynolds dragged Crawford back to the subject of John-Paul Holden. He was too unimaginative at work, apparently. What Crawford enjoyed – and what, it seemed, had made him rich – was short selling on complicated derivatives, and Holden did not do enough of that.

  Reynolds said, ‘He’d turned himself in for insider trading.’

  ‘He did that to hurt us.’

  ‘You mean he reported himself or did the trade to hurt you?’

  ‘Ah guess … both.’

  ‘He told the FCA that your compliance officer had told him to hush it up.’

  ‘Not true. Rolling River would
never do anything of the kind.’ Crawford blew smoke. ‘Not worth our while.’

  ‘He was popular socially, I think. Would you say he was a sort of … people person?’

  ‘What’s a “people person”?’

  It seemed he genuinely didn’t know. Reynolds attempted an explanation, during which he heard from the room, ‘We told the riff-raff from the RAC Club to get to their side of the garden.’

  Having had the term ‘people person’ defined for him, Crawford just shrugged, saying, ‘Ah never saw the point of the guy.’

  ‘But you employed him.’

  ‘Yeah. It was a mistake.’

  Without pen and notebook, Reynolds was free to ask, ‘Did he have a wife or partner or girlfriend, as far as you were aware?’

  Eugene Crawford shrugged. ‘Ah was not aware.’

  ‘He didn’t bring a woman to any company social events?’

  ‘Ah really couldn’t say. We do have dinners and so on but, see … ah don’t go to them all that often.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Mah managers lay them on to boost morale. But see … mah morale does not need boosting.’

  ‘But presumably the idea is for you to boost other people’s morale. As the top man, I mean?’ The more he spoke, the more English Reynolds sounded in the presence of this man, who was now looking at the ceiling while blowing smoke. After a while, Crawford asked, ‘What was that you just said?’

  Reynolds was back on St James’s Street before the fifty-pound Montecristos were halfway down. All the Ferraris were going home. They would proceed in a series of darts. It was the low engine note that marked out the winners of the Mayfair world. All the other drivers … it was as if their voices hadn’t broken. The beige Bentley remained outside Fox’s tobacconist’s, watched by the wooden Indian, somehow immune from parking tickets. It was a black four-by-four that had taken Crawford to the airport.