Death Warmed Up

by John Paxton Sheriff

  ‘Charlie knew nothing about the diamonds.’

  ‘Me and him were like that,’ Rickman said, crossing middle and index fingers firmly and flopping down in Calum’s vacated chair. ‘He knew about the Liverpool robbery long before it took place. Knew Creeny planned it, knew when and how the gems were being brought into Gib. So he made his own plans – and they were good ones. Cast ground bait by talking about a Tangier trip, which really had me fooled. Then he whacked the courier over the head, took the diamonds and sailed away into the sunset. But only so far. Spanish pals took them off the Alcheringa before my boys could get to them, landed them on the coast. And that would have been it, never would’ve found them if, by a stroke of luck, poor old Pru hadn’t popped up dead.’

  ‘With a koala stuffed in her mouth. You have an Australian working for you. He was in Wales at the right time. What does that suggest?’

  ‘I’m not responsible for his movements, but I’d say that makes him a typical Aussie. Most of’em like to spend a couple of years in The Old Dart getting a taste of civilization.’

  ‘And your wife?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘The Astra carrying Pru’s body into Wales was picked up on CCTV being driven by a woman, blonde hair.’

  ‘Lots of them about.’ Rickman shrugged. ‘At the time you’re talking about Françoise was on holiday in Spain. Go down to the border and check. Or send your pal, Romero. Her car will have been booked in and out.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was stalemate, an impasse or, in a term more familiar to Ebenholz – who had moved to stand watchfully near the door from where he had a clear view of the whole room and everyone in it – a Mexican stand-off. My reading of the situation was that Rickman had called on us out of desperation, not really expecting any joy. Calum had apparently come to the same conclusion.

  He’d turned his back to the window and had been leaning against the sill and listening without expression.

  ‘What a complete and utter waste of fucking time,’ he said.

  ‘I have to admit I agree with you there,’ Rickman said.

  He began moving towards the door. Ebenholz beat him to it and was out and down the steps, either treating Rickman with deliberate contempt or unaware that the man existed. It crossed my mind that of the two villains I preferred the Australian – probably because I’d spent several years Down Under and had grown used to their dry humour and laconic way of talking. And, aware that Rickman seemed to be hanging back expectantly, and vaguely wondering why, I conformed to the description of my own loquacity and filled the space with talk.

  ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘I thought those two clowns were inseparable. Where’s Clontarf?’

  ‘Wondered when you were going to get round to noticing,’ Rickman said, his hand on the door, his eyes ablaze with fiendish delight. ‘You took your time, finally made it, then asked the wrong bloody question.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really,’ he mocked. ‘The question you really need to ask is, where is Sian Laidlaw?’

  And when he went out and clattered down the steps, he thoughtfully left the door wide open for me.

  I took the Punto down through the Rock’s hairpin bends at a speed that always kept two wheels on the road, cut through town without any recollection of doing so and at Marina Bay left the car parked at an angle that suggested I was either drunk, incapable or both. When I slammed the door, tumbled out and sprinted, my trainers slapped the concrete strip and echoed flatly from the hulls of yachts where rich owners were enjoying morning cocktails while working on their tans; and when I hit the deck of Tim’s canoe with both feet, rocking the boat as big as it was, the wave generated was a mini-tsunami that lapped against adjoining vessels and set green olives shivering in dry martinis battling with mind-splitting hangovers.

  I walked into the warm, airless saloon cringing, expecting the worst. Well, expecting emptiness at the very least, expecting that particular muffled silence denoting the absence of human life, which would leave me wondering if Sian had gone downtown with her PR friend Rosa, or was now being held in a rat-infested cellar near the commercial waterfront with the door guarded by the manic Glock-toting Australian, Clontarf. I’d forgotten to mention to Rickman that not only did I talk too much but that I frequently let my imagination run riot. I was doing that now, and knew it, but it didn’t stop me squeezing my eyes shut and remembering another time and a similar entrance that had revealed my brother lying dead on the settee. This time…?

  The door banged behind me. The echo faded into the expected silence. I opened my eyes.

  Sian was standing at a mirror, arms up as she fiddled with the band that she uses to restrain her thick blonde hair. She spun in alarm. I reached her in three long strides, pulled her into my arms and buried my face in the hollow of her neck. Her hair was soap and scent and softness, her skin silk, her body the enveloping warmth of the womb.

  After a long moment she gripped my arms and held me away. She looked into my face, put the tip of a finger to each of my eyes in turn, her mouth a small O of concern.

  ‘Jack,’ she said tenderly, ‘your cheeks are wet.’

  ‘You hair, Soldier Blue,’ I said huskily. ‘Often does that; golden strands get caught in my long eyelashes, draw tears of pain.’

  ‘But if I didn’t know you better, I’d have sworn you were crying.’

  ‘How much better can you know me? What’s the phrase, joined at the hip?’

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured softly, pulling me close and thrusting gently, ‘though hip’s a bit wide of the mark, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Close,’ I whispered, ‘but no cigar.’

  ‘Goodness, not a panatela, that’s for sure.’ She leaned back from the waist, her eyes dancing, did a little lower-body squirm. ‘I’m no expert but there’s a really big cigar Reg smokes, it’s called a Cuaba Salomones—’

  ‘And just moments ago,’ I said, ‘I was musing on how often I let my imagination run riot.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Brought back to earth with a bang, Sian pushed me firmly away, looked hard at me. ‘You charged in here like a one-man SWAT team, Jack. What the hell’s happened?’

  ‘Rickman’s idea of a cruel joke. He came barging into the bungalow with Ebenholz. Last night Charlie and Adele managed to break away from the two men in suits and crossed into Gib. Rickman was convinced they’d come to us. We talked, got absolutely nowhere, and before leaving he suggested that you had been taken by Clontarf.’

  ‘Nobody’s been here. I breakfasted, showered yet again, guessed you’d gone to the bungalow and was on my way up.’ She plonked herself down on a chair. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘you put the canoe up for sale and forgot all about Tim’s shotgun, the expensive Verney-Carron over-and-under. I admit I was nervous here on my own with Sea Wind just across the way, so I went looking and found it in a locker. It’s loaded. I’d’ve cut Clontarf in half.’

  ‘It would have come in handy at the bungalow. Because you weren’t there, Ebenholz took his frustration out on Calum and drew blood.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  I grinned. ‘Anyway, although Rickman was insisting the Wises must have come to us, his heart wasn’t in it. And now this threat to you has been shown to be without substance, I’m sure he’s going to leave us alone.’

  ‘Mm. The bit about Charlie and Adele’s interesting though, isn’t it? They got away from those two nutters – which must have taken guts and a lot of luck – but why Gib? I know they got shafted by their Spanish so-called friend, but if they still want to get close to the diamonds and claim the reward, what’s this latest move of theirs telling us? That the diamonds are here, have been here all along?’

  ‘Rickman planted some worrying thoughts,’ I said. ‘I’ve sort of grown to like Charlie, and would love to think he’s been telling the truth. But the story Rickman gave me was all too plausible. He and Charlie Wise were as thick as thieves—’

  ‘Actually they are thieves.’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, I know, which thought makes the rest much worse. If Rickman is to be believed, Charlie loved the life he was leading, swanning about the Med in a big yacht, mixing with the super rich. He was in Rickman’s confidence all along so knew about the diamond robbery in advance. And the way Rickman sees it, Charlie had developed a taste for the high life; opportunity presented itself, and he got greedy.’

  ‘Which takes us back to that long-ago talk in Reg’s house, and the follow-up conversation in Luis Romero’s office. That was the way we had it worked out: Charlie stole the diamonds, devised a cunning plan that saw them sailing halfway to Tangier before being plucked from the Sunseeker by their Spanish pals.’

  ‘With the diamonds.’

  ‘Yes. Taken off the Sunseeker in a holdall or something. But in that case the diamonds are still in Spain. Pru was murdered, which yanked Charlie and Adele out of hiding. With security the way it is they can’t possibly have carted them all the way from Spain to the UK, then back again by car across Europe. Then across the border last night… .’ She trailed off, frowning. ‘Hang on, why did I say that, I’m missing something here – aren’t I?’

  ‘He could have taken the diamonds with him, all too easily. Have you ever been stopped at an airport, walking past those green signs put up by customs with nothing to declare?’

  Sian grimaced and shook her head. ‘You’re not getting it. If he took them with him rather than leave them buried somewhere in Spain, and got away with it,’ she said, ‘then the final stage of the round trip was by car and they were in the boot of Calum’s Mercedes for all of five days.’

  I was speechless. Had we been that close to the diamonds? Had they been there, practically in Calum’s paint-stained hands, all the way to La Línea?

  In something of a daze I wandered through to the tiny galley and spent a few thoughtful minutes making coffee. I carried the two steaming mugs through with an open packet of butter shortbreads, and by the time I sat down I’d had another thought that made my hair stand on end.

  ‘What happened last night when Calum drove through suburbs decked with a riot of blossom and into the shadowy and far less salubrious areas of La Línea?’

  Sian sipped coffee, snapped a shortbread biscuit, stared at me.

  ‘Charlie and Adele found two armed nutters in suits waiting for them, and were left with no choice.’

  ‘Indeed. They went with them. As anyone would. But did our Wise friends go toddling off empty-handed, perhaps with a couple of toothbrushes sticking out of Charlie’s shirt pocket, or did they stall long enough to drag their luggage out of Calum’s boot?’

  ‘Christ on a donkey,’ Sian said. ‘That must have been at the back of my mind. If they left their luggage with Calum, and he came over last night—’

  And then, having the same effect you might get by inserting a finger in an electric socket, my mobile phone trilled.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Charlie.’

  ‘Good-time Charlie, Champagne Charlie—’

  ‘Charlie fuckin’ Wise.’

  ‘Oh, that Charlie. Well, hang on a minute and I’ll pass the phone to Bernie—’

  ‘Bloody hell, no, don’t do that—’

  ‘Relax.’ I grinned at Sian. ‘I’m winding you up, Charlie. Rickman’s not here. More to the point, where are you?’

  ‘Out of sight. And with no time to waste. Did Calum tell you about the reward?’

  ‘Offered by the Liverpool firm for recovery of their diamonds? Yes, he did.’

  ‘Well according to a friend of mine, Tony Ramirez, we’re entering the end game.’

  ‘Is that some kind of spy jargon? The only end game I know has something to do with chess.’

  There was the sound of a harsh, indrawn breath of exasperation.

  ‘The man who’s got the diamonds has now arranged a sale. To an Arab, to a Russian – I don’t know, and I don’t care, and nobody’s ever going to know his name. But it’ll happen in the next few days. So someone’s got to be there, right, to jump in, like, all guns blazing, put a stop to it and recover those diamonds for the rightful owners. And whoever it is doin’ that has to know that it’s me who’s done all the hard work, and then make sure it’s my name goes to those Liverpool jewellers.’

  I was looking at Sian. She raised her eyebrows. I slowly shook my head.

  ‘If it’s going to take place over here,’ I said, ‘the Gib police need to know. If it’s across the border, then it’s the Guardia Civil, the Spanish cops. So why are you phoning me?’

  ‘Come on! Me and Adele are not exactly on the run, but you know I can’t go strolling into a police station. I stay undercover, or I can kiss goodbye to the reward. And that’s where you come in.’ There was a pause. ‘Also, there’s something else.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tony didn’t come up with this; it’s something I worked out. I’m pretty sure I know the name of the man who’s got the diamonds, but that’s not something I can discuss over the phone. We need to meet.’

  ‘Okay. Give me an address, and the best time.’

  There was silence. I knew he was wondering if he could trust me.

  ‘If I don’t know where you are,’ I said, ‘there’s not much chance of us meeting.’

  He grunted, then gave me the information.

  I had nothing to write on so closed my eyes and relied on memory – it was a simple address in Catalan Bay, on the other side of the Rock. When I switched off the phone, Sian was on her third biscuit, and had refilled her coffee mug. I sipped mine. It was lukewarm. I brought her up to date, told her Charlie wanted to see me at ten that night.

  ‘Jack, we’re going to Reg’s. Dinner, remember, seven-thirty for eight?’

  ‘Stacks of time. Nothing on the Rock’s more than fifteen minutes away.’

  ‘You thinking of taking Reg?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Well, I’m not thinking of his diplomatic skills. But this thing with the diamonds is the darker side of high finance, or sort of, and isn’t that his line?’

  I grinned. ‘Are you saying he’s a crook?’

  ‘I’m suggesting he knows the crooked ways of a particular class of rich people.’

  ‘And I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, going alone might be a mistake, so I’ll give it some thought.’

  Sian nodded. She was watching me closely.

  ‘It sounds straightforward. So why do you look mystified?’

  I held up the phone, waggled it.

  ‘It’s like that anonymous phone call that leaked Eleanor’s address to Rickman. I still can’t understand how that happened, and neither can Eleanor – and now there’s this. Tell me, Sian: where and how did Charlie Wise get my mobile phone number?’

  Twenty-three

  Dinner was over, a piquant Spanish paella cooked using the menu from a book Eleanor had picked up in a Liverpool charity shop, served in deep Chinese dishes hand-painted in red and gold, washed down with a chilled Italian Soave and followed by baked Alaska, Moroccan coffee and Abernethy biscuits. Calum the Scot would have recognized those – he’d graciously declined the invitation to join what he said was a family gathering – and would certainly have smoked a Schimmelpenninck in their honour.

  It was a quarter past nine. Sian and Eleanor were relaxing in the living room on pale ivory leather as soft as chamois, bare toes curling in the thick pile of Persian rugs, gin and tonics in delicate glasses turning their fingers blue as they chatted idly to a background of soft music played by flamenco guitarist Paco Peña.

  Reg hadn’t allowed the Bose stereo’s speakers into the suspended sun room so that’s where he and I were sitting, the wrap-around windows giving the effect of being surrounded by the night’s velvet blackness, the distant town’s lights everywhere reflected. I was nursing my usual Aran single malt, served in a heavy cut-crystal glass. Reg was drinking an ice-cold Heineken straight out of the can. He said he’d heard that was the lager Daniel Craig would be supping in his next movie, and what
was good enough for James Bond, Reg said, was certainly good enough for him.

  ‘According to Adele,’ I said absently, ‘Charlie insists on Laphroaig Quarter Cask single malt Islay Scotch whisky.’

  ‘Typical,’ Reg said. ‘Her, I mean, not him. Dammit, you won’t find me putting on airs and graces,’ he said, and he lifted his green can with a grin.

  ‘Charlie told me that things are hotting up,’ I said. ‘That’s why he wants to see me.’

  Reg grunted. ‘Wondered about that, old boy. Seem to remember we had him down as the jewel thief. Came to that conclusion the first day, didn’t we, and when we spoke on poor old Tim’s yacht you reckoned Rickman had found him and that was the end of it. Obviously not the case. Or did he?’

  ‘Oh yes. But since we last spoke I’ve had a visit from Rickman. He came to the bungalow. Charlie and Adele got away, and made it back to Gib.’

  ‘But this business of Charlie and the jewels?’

  ‘Over in the UK he pleaded his innocence very convincingly. I’d just about got around to believing his story when Bernie Rickman came bouncing into Eleanor’s, raging at their escape, and with a scenario almost identical to the one we’d pictured: Charlie planning and executing a daring robbery, complete with exit strategy.’

  Reg pinged his can with a fingernail, his brow furrowed. ‘Rickman’s theory may have matched ours, but you do realize that if it points to Charlie having the diamonds, then he’s miles out, just as we were?’

  ‘Do I? I know I discussed this at length with Sian and Calum. We came to the conclusion Charlie could have been carrying the diamonds from the time they jumped ship in the straits. All the way to the UK, and back again. We even thought for a while that Calum might have unwittingly carried the diamonds to Gib in the boot of his car. No such luck, of course.’

  ‘It’s all nonsense anyway, old boy.’ Reg shook his head. ‘Charlie hasn’t got’em, never had’em – and that’s a gnarled old diplomat giving you the benefit of his vast experience. I mean, he wouldn’t phone you if he was trying to sell them himself, now would he?’ He thought for a moment. ‘So this “hotting up” business. What d’you think Charlie means by that? And where’s he getting his information? D’you know?’