“Sorry about the room,” Slate said. “I’m a private person, Detective, and I can be a pretty messy one, so I don’t like having people from outside of the business in my office where I have all kinds of documents lying about. I’ve just had this room redecorated, but we’re still waiting on the furniture. Still, I’m glad to be on my feet and away from the desk for a change, if I’m honest with you. Here you go.” Slate handed Hill a mug.
“Thanks.”
“Soy milk and no sugar, right?” Slate smiled, and Hill’s mouth dropped.
“Watching my figure,” Hill replied, hoping he didn’t appear rattled.
“Yeah, I saw your Instagram. You’re something of a fitness fanatic.” Slate’s white teeth flashed like a wolf’s. “And you follow some interesting people, Detective.”
Hill tried to feign calm by sipping at the tea, but it did little to melt the ball of ice that was formed in his stomach.
“Some young lady on there. @emslondon, I think her username was. She had some really fascinating videos.”
“She did? Tea’s great, by the way.”
“Isn’t it? Sri Lankan. And yeah, she did. I’d show you, but looks like she deleted the account, which is a shame.”
Hill cursed himself for leaving a trail to Emma, his coffee-shop witness, then remembered that she had already been compromised by the actions of PC Roberts.
If Slate wanted to play the game, then Hill would oblige.
“People spend too much time on social media,” he told Slate. “People don’t talk anymore, and that can be a problem. Lucky for me, I think of myself as a problem-solver.”
“Do you, now?” Slate asked, feigning a smile.
“I used to love doing jigsaws as a kid, Mr. Slate. My older brother liked to upset me by hiding the pieces around the house, but I’d hunt them down, one by one. When I got bigger, I stopped having to look for them.”
“Grew out of playing puzzles, did you?”
“No, Mr. Slate, but instead of looking for the pieces my brother was hiding, I’d just beat them out of him.”
For a moment Slate had no retort. Behind the facade of calm, Hill knew the man’s anger would be bubbling over. Police officer or not, he was walking a fine line.
“Diamonds, Mr. Slate. Your diamonds, stolen this morning.”
“It’s a crime to be a victim of crime, Detective?”
“No. But it’s a piece of a puzzle. A large one. And when the pieces of this puzzle are put together, it’s not going to be a steam train in the Scottish Highlands, Mr. Slate. It’s going to be a long stretch inside.”
Hill looked into Slate’s eyes. There was danger in them, a lot of danger, but Hill had faced intimidation before and knew how to deal with it. Both men had made their threats with insinuation and subtlety, but now Hill sensed the moment to be direct.
“I’m going to expose your diamond heist,” Hill told the man who could have him killed. “I’m going to expose you, Mr. Slate, and then you’re going to prison for a long, long time.”
Chapter 14
Hill slumped into the driver’s seat of his BMW.
“Fuck.” He exhaled heavily, his fingers tingling with adrenaline.
He sat there for a moment with the engine off, hands in his lap. He told himself the delay was to show Slate, who he was certain would be watching, the demeanor of an ice-cold detective. In truth, Hill didn’t trust his shaking hands on the wheel. He had walked a very fine line, and he was lucky to still be in one piece.
In one piece for now, at least.
After a moment to catch his breath and steady his nerve, Hill pulled out of the automatic gate and into the Chelsea traffic.
Taking a few more deep breaths, and noting that the trembling was almost gone, he called his boss.
“How’d it go with your idol?” Vaughn asked.
“You know what they say about meeting your idols, boss.”
“I wouldn’t know. Mine are Brian O’Driscoll and Rory McIlroy. Can’t say we move in the same circles.”
“Slate set up his diamonds to be stolen,” Hill stated, getting to the point. “They’ve been parading them outside the jeweler’s he owns for weeks. One guy, one bag, no other security. The guy walks to the end of the street, gets a taxi, and comes back at the end of the day the same way.”
“And where’s he going between those times?”
“Slate tells me it’s to show the diamonds to prospective buyers. I’ve got a list.”
“And I’ll bet a cross-check of them shows they’re friends or associates of Mr. Slate.”
“Exactly, boss.”
“So what’s in this sham for him?” Vaughn mused.
“I’m guessing at the moment, but I think it’s insurance.”
“Insurance? But what’s the point in that if he loses the diamonds? He’d just be getting back the value of the stones he’d lost.”
“Not if he stole them,” Hill explained. “Slate stages the robbery, keeps the diamonds, sells them on the black market, and gets the three million they’re insured for. As far as the insurers are concerned, Slate’s courier and jeweler were following the same pattern that had been safe every other day, and then got unlucky. What Slate didn’t see happening was another gang spotting an easy meal, and swooping in before his own guys could.”
“Bloody hell,” Vaughn sighed. “So who are this other lot, and where are they now?”
“I don’t know, boss, but wherever they are, they’re dead men walking.”
After exchanging good-byes Hill hung up and began to type Scotland Yard into a traffic-beating app on his phone. He was about to hit Enter when an incoming call flashed onto the screen—Vaughn.
“Boss?” Hill asked, puzzled.
“St Pancras station,” Vaughn told him, excitement in his voice. “The techies pulled three faces from Chancery Lane Tube station and the three flashed again on the facial recognition software. They’re at St Pancras.”
“Where are they going?” Hill asked, hitting a hard right turn.
“If they haven’t left already, then there’s one at the platform with a final destination of Amsterdam.”
“Amsterdam?” Hill replied. “I can’t think of a better place to offload the diamonds, can you?”
Vaughn couldn’t. As with many of the city’s vices, Amsterdam’s thriving diamond trade had a reputation for turning a blind eye.
“Departure time?” Hill pushed.
“Forty minutes ago. Trouble in the Tunnel again. I’ve got uniforms on their way there now.”
“Tell them to wait for me.”
“You’re on borrowed time, Hill.”
“I want to close this case, boss. Email me the shots of their faces.”
Hill hung up, then hit the blue lights and sirens that were concealed behind the BMW’s grille.
He raced through central London’s streets, his mind full of visions of how he could end his career in glory.
“Just stay where you are,” he prayed, and hoped the thieves would listen. “Just stay where you are and make me a hero.”
Chapter 15
Scowcroft fidgeted in his train seat and looked out the window. By now the train should have been inside the darkness of the Channel Tunnel, well on its way to Europe.
Instead, Scowcroft looked up at the magnificent wrought-iron ribs of St Pancras station’s roof.
“Why the hell are we still here?” he hissed at Barrett beside him.
Barrett shrugged. “Conductor says it’s a problem on the line.”
“Here,” Charlotte spoke up, handing them her phone—it was showing the BBC News app. “They’ve had refugees trying to get on the trains coming this way. Says that one of them’s dead.”
“Well, how long will that hold us up?” Scowcroft pushed, but no one had an answer for him.
Surrounding the thieves, Graham’s stag party were raucous, outlining in detail their hedonistic plans for Amsterdam and its red-light district.
“I’m gonna go take a piss,�
�� Scowcroft told them, standing. “See if there’s any sight of the big lad or the beard.”
“Don’t wander off,” Charlotte said, earning a contemptuous tut in reply.
Scowcroft left the carriage and tried the toilet door. It was locked, and sounds of retching came from within—the first casualty of the stag party.
He ran through the events of that morning in his mind. At no point had his face been revealed to the big man or the bikers, and he had been well clear of the scene before dumping his mask into the backpack. Of average height and build, Scowcroft was just one more twenty-something male in a city that held tens of thousands of them, so he considered it safe to walk the train. If he was on board, the courier was sure to be made conspicuous by his size. Likewise, the bearded man wouldn’t blend in amongst the increasingly irritated businessmen and parties of tourists.
Scowcroft moved from one carriage to the next, finally coming to one that served as a dining carriage. Scowcroft bought half a dozen sandwiches and bottles of water. The cost made him balk, and then the young man laughed, remembering that three million pounds’ worth of precious stones were taped to his chest.
“You can keep the change, love,” he told the server with a smile, and moved back to rejoin the others, the sound of the stag party reaching him long before he entered the carriage.
“Long time for a piss,” Charlotte snorted.
“I got these,” Scowcroft explained, dumping the bag into Charlotte’s lap.
“Shit,” Barrett groaned.
“What? You don’t like ham and cheese? It’s all they had, mate. Bloody French.”
“No.” Barrett shook his head, his face turning pale. “That.”
Scowcroft followed the man’s gaze, and the bread turned to ash in his mouth.
Two British policemen appeared to be casually walking the platform, but with a soldier’s instinct Barrett had recognized their fleeting glances at the train’s windows, and the hands that rested ready on the hilts of their extendable batons.
“They’re looking for us,” Barrett almost sighed.
“How can you be sure?” Charlotte pressed, desperate for him to be wrong.
“The insignia. Those aren’t transport police. They’re the Met.”
“Bollocks,” Scowcroft hissed. “Over by the escalators. There’s another one there. That must be why the big lad and his mate have done one.”
“They’re putting the nets out,” Barrett assessed.
“So what do we do?” Charlotte asked.
“We get off the train,” Barrett answered, and Scowcroft nodded in agreement.
“But first…” the younger man said, tapping his chest to still their questions.
Scowcroft left the carriage and moved to the closest toilet. It was open, but splattered with vomit. The thief had no time to notice. The sight of the police had sent his heart beating fast against the stones. He knew the time had come to divide them. He took eight from the pouch, placing four in each of his trouser pockets. He was about to retape the remaining four to his chest, but another idea came to him.
Scowcroft would swallow the stones. If the big man and his friends were to catch him, then they’d have to gut him before Scowcroft failed his brother.
He swallowed, washing down the diamonds with handfuls of water from the washbasin.
“Here,” he told Charlotte and Barrett when he got back to their seats, handing them the diamonds beneath the table. “Swallow them. Right now. Don’t mess around.”
Neither did, knocking back the small rocks with bottles of water.
“Christ!” Charlotte gasped.
“Hey,” one of the stag party grinned, his voice conspiratorial. “Is that Mandy?” he asked—meaning ecstasy.
“Travel sickness pills,” Scowcroft replied. “Sorry, mate.”
“Oh,” the man said sadly, before his eyes brightened up. “Guess I’ll stick to the coke then.” The size of his grin suggested much of the powder had already been consumed.
“This is the best place you found for us to sit, yeah?” Scowcroft whispered to Charlotte.
“You don’t have to be a Scowcroft to make a decision,” she replied. “If trouble comes, you’ll be glad I did. You’ll see.”
“Wait. You feel that?” Barrett cut in, smiling. “The table’s vibrating! We’re ready to go!” The conductor’s whistles on the platform were closely followed by cheers from the stag party.
“Thank God,” Charlotte sighed, seeing the police making no effort to board. “We’re clear.”
She couldn’t have known about the man entering the station, and how desperate he was to prove her wrong.
Chapter 16
Detective Inspector Hill sprinted across St Pancras station’s concourse, the uniformed sergeant beside him struggling to match the pace.
“Can’t they stop it?” Hill demanded of the man as the pair flashed identification at the border officials.
“We’ve got no cause, sir,” the sergeant told Hill for the third time. “Three robbery suspects is not enough to hold an already delayed international train. We’re not even sure they’re on there.”
“They’re on there,” Hill declared, trusting his gut and pushing his way through a group of startled tourists.
“Where are your officers? How many are on the train?”
“Well, none, sir,” the sergeant told him, fighting for air. “They can’t go to the Continent.”
Hill swore beneath his breath, scanning the scene about him. Whistles rang along the platform. Hill knew the train’s doors would close in a second, and with them his chances of catching the thieves.
“My car’s pulled up across the front!” he shouted at the sergeant, tossing him the BMW’s keys as he leapt through the open door and onto the train. The closing door cut off the sergeant’s shocked reply.
“You can’t do this, sir,” Hill lip-read. He smiled as he waved the man good-bye.
The train lurched forwards. There was no turning back now. Either he would come out of this a champion or a disgrace. He knew he was placing his redundancy package—and therefore the future of his business—in jeopardy, but Hill believed in bold strokes, and he trusted his gut. The thieves, and Slate’s diamonds, were on this train.
After a few moments to collect his thoughts, Hill pulled out his phone.
“Now, don’t get angry,” he said into it after Vaughn answered, “but I’m on the Eurostar.”
“Yes, I just bloody heard from the sergeant! What the hell are you doing, Hill? Get yourself off there at the first stop. If you’re lucky, maybe we can keep the IPCC out of this.”
“I’m going to Amsterdam, boss, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You’ve got no jurisdiction to operate on the Continent, you stupid idiot!”
“I know that, boss. That’s why I’m calling you to let you know I’m taking tomorrow off as leave. Pretty sure I’ve got a couple of days left in the bank, and I was already pushing into overtime today. This is just an above-board day break across the Channel.”
“Right, but all that goes to shit when you find these thieves of yours.”
“Exactly. When I find them,” Hill smiled. “These thieves scream amateur to me, boss, and they’ve bitten the hand of one of the shadiest men in London. If I don’t find them before his crew does, then we’ll have an international murder inquiry on our hands.”
“Christ. OK. I’ll call ahead to a friend of mine in Amsterdam. I’ll write it up as a familiarization visit.”
“You’re a good bobby, boss,” Hill told Vaughn, and meant it.
“Save the ass-kissing, Hill. Just find those thieves before they’re corpses.”
Chapter 17
Opening the email Vaughn had sent him, Hill once again studied the faces of the three thieves he was tracking. State-of-the-art, antiterror surveillance software had matched the images, but to a human eye the photo stills were distorted and blurry, and there was little Hill could gain from the photos except the knowledge that he w
as tracking two men and a woman. Luckily for him, he’d spent the last thirteen years of his life spotting people breaking the law, and he had come to recognize the signs. The thieves would make a mistake, or somehow show their hand, he was sure of it.
So Hill began a slow inspection through the carriages. He had to assume his suspects would have split up for the journey, so anyone who could match their description had to be studied. Hill knew the trio had been fit and able enough to beat off the attack of the bikers, so he kept his eyes peeled for healthy but potentially bruised individuals.
Hill’s searching drew several comments from passengers, but the detective let them wash over him. He may be causing some slight offense, but he hoped he was doing nothing to attract the kind of attention that would jeopardize his search.
He was wrong.
“Sir?” A conductor stopped him in the passageway between carriages, the man’s English accented by French. “May I see your ticket, please?”
Hill’s eyes were drawn through the glass door to where a rowdy stag party were bawling football chants.
“Sir?” the Frenchman pressed.
“I don’t have one,” Hill confessed, reaching for his wallet. “Amsterdam, please. One way.”
“Sir, I’m afraid you cannot purchase a ticket on board the train. You should not have been allowed to board without one. May I see your passport?”
“My passport?” Hill asked, incredulous. “You don’t have that authority.”
“Then please accompany me to the police officer at the front of the train, sir. They do.”
“I am a police officer.” Hill spoke quietly, discreetly showing his badge.
“Are you on duty?” the Frenchman asked.
“I’m not, no.”
“Then I must ask you to accompany me, sir. You will be required to pay a fine.”
At least comforted by the knowledge that his thieves had no way of leaving the train before him, and not wishing to cause a scene that could draw attention, Hill turned to follow the conductor.
Then, as he stepped out of the gangway connection, Hill heard the flushing of the toilet, and its door unlocked. With the overactive senses of an officer, Hill turned to look as a man emerged from within.
Kill or Be Killed Page 11