CONFLICT DIAMONDS: THE START OF THE BEGINNING

by Verner Jones

  Marta descended the stairs feeling sure someone was going to stop her and ask where her partner was. She felt as if the walls were watching her as she made her way past the receptionist. Each step took her a foot closer to freedom. A buzzer sounded releasing an electronic lock on the front door that sprung ajar. The noise startled her and she fought back the urge to run for the opening. Instead she reached out her arm and fully opened the door and stepped out into a late afternoon chill. She paused momentarily and took a deep breath,

  “Damn you, Henrick,” she said, and turned in the direction of the hotel wondering how long it would be before Stipe called her.

  Stipe's bottom had started to go numb. He checked his watch. The glow from the luminous hands said 7.10. It had been fifteen minutes since he had heard any noise from within the building. He was sure he was alone at last. He flicked on the switch. The light squeezed his pupils trying to diminish the effects of the sudden brightness. He removed the handle and stepped onto the landing, his vision slowly starting to adjust. Catlike he waited. Ears and eyes alert for any threatening noises. Silence. He took a penlight from his pocket, activated the piercing light, and made his way to Simon Botham’s office. He tried the door and it opened. Closing the door behind him, he switched the light on and went to the telephone and dialled the number for his room at the Bingham Hotel. Marta answered after the second ring.

  “Stipe?”

  “Of course! Expecting anyone else?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Are you okay?”

  “Fine. I’m in his office. What did you find out?”

  “Not a great deal, only that he said all the important papers relating to wills were in his care. It’s in that room somewhere. You’ll have to go through everything. Sorry darling.”

  “All right then. I’ll be an hour, hopefully.”

  “Be careful won’t you Stipe.”

  “ Like a man walking on glass. Don’t worry I’ll be back soon.” Stipe replaced the handset and looked around the room switching off the flashlight and replacing it in his pocket. First stop, the filling cabinets. One was locked, the other open. He went through the available folders meticulously and found nothing. Reaching into his bag he removed a small crowbar and hammer and forced the lock on the second filling cabinet. Again, a thorough search gave zero remittance. He went through the entire floor standing units and wall shelving until only the desk remained unchecked. He sat in the chair and started on the draws when a familiar name stared back at him from a folder on top of the desk. He closed the draw and picked up Maria Stavell’s file wishing his good fortune had arrived five minutes earlier. He opened the file and found what he was looking for three sheets down. The Certificate of Administration from the probate’s office naming Stalwart & Granger as executors of Maria Stavells’s will. He put it to one side and checked the file for anything else that might be useful. There was a key taped to a sheet of paper. Stipe put it into his pocket. Closing the file he replaced it back into its original position. His work finished in the office, he collected the document and left the room heading for what he believed to be the secretaries’ office on the second floor.

  Stipe took the stairs two at a time jumping the last four onto the hallway. The first doorway was just another office. The second one revealed two computer workstations. He sparked up the light and three fluorescent tubes hummed into life. Stipe closed the Venetian blind and checked over the desks. The letter-headed paper he was looking for was on the corner in a tray on the first desk. He selected several of them, studied its surface and then put them with the document into a large manila envelope. He dropped himself in front of a computer terminal, and after fumbling around for five minutes, had it up and running. Reading from one of the letterheads he retyped the address at the bottom of the page altering some of the details, then sent it to print. The printer chattered relentlessly, the sound of each jot and tickle being accentuated by his unlawful presence. He checked the finished article. All was in order. He closed down the computer, collected everything and returned the room to its slumbers. Now he had to get out.

  The door to the front of the building had two dead bolts fitted. Definitely a no no. The alarm box at the side of the door was flashing a red light in the armed position. Whichever way he went out bells would be ringing and that blue light would pulse. He had an idea and ran back up the stairs to the conference room. His luck was holding. He took the overcoat that was on the coat stand and put it on. A reasonable fit. He retraced his steps to the hall and chose a room at the rear of the house and checked the outside. It was the twilight period before the night had stamped its dominance for the next eight hours. Outside was a neglected garden with a lane connecting the rear of the terraced houses together. From his position he could see no one outside. This was his only opportunity. He unfastened the catch to the window and climbed through, dropping a metre and a half onto grass and weeds. Immediately he heard the consequences of his actions as the alarm bell started ringing at the front of the house. He quickly made his way to the lane checking in all directions for any signs of movement. A couple of heads appeared at two bedroom windows, but were sufficient distance away so as not to be of any real threat. Stipe reached the lane, calmed himself and began to walk briskly to the open slash of orange street lamp that indicated the main road. He joined the few pedestrians that were spattered around the green, and a couple of ladies walking dogs, just another office worker who had finished late, eager to get home.

  It was two days before Zoran relocated Henrick again. He hadn’t been to his office and an inquiry with his manager informed him that he was at the Najinsky Private Hospital having a minor operation and that he was expected back at work in two or three days. Zoran bought flowers and took a cab to the hospital, and posing as a relative, he was informed at the information desk that Mr. Van der Meen was in a private room, No 106 on the fifth floor. He took the lift along with an aged person in a wheel chair with a beefy looking orderly at the helm that looked as if he regularly overdosed on steroids. They journeyed silently to the fourth floor, where his two travelling companions exited, leaving him alone. At the fifth floor Zoran left the lift and viewed the length and breadth of the corridor. There were several nurses unhurriedly going about their business, and from a room opposite a TV was churning out the latest sport statistics. Zoran turned left from the lift as directed, noticing as he walked the absence of any chemical smells. If the nurses had worn maid’s uniforms it would have been hard not to think he wasn’t in a hotel corridor.

  Zoran counted the rooms as he passed them. Henrick's was the sixth along the corridor from the lift. As he approached a doctor emerged, paused at the exit to give some instructions to his junior, and then started in Zoran's direction. As he drew near, Zoran halted him.

  “Excuse me. Have you just come from Mr Van der Meen’s room?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “I wanted to visit him. The people at work nominated me to bring a little gift and show our concern for him, but I wouldn’t want to intrude if he has his family with him.”

  “Oh that’s all right. He’s doing fine and he’s alone at the moment. You can go in if you wish.”

  “Thank you doctor.” They parted company and Zoran came alongside Henrick’s room. He paused for a moment then entered the room. The door closed with a solid click of the latch that had an air of finality about it.

  Henrick looked up from his covers at the stranger standing silently, staring into his space. Surprised, he said,

  “Can I help you? I think that you have the wrong room. I’m the only one here as you can see.” Zoran smiled.

  “I’ve brought you some flowers Henrick. I don’t know if they’re your favourites, but Tulips are always popular. They have such nice vibrant colours, don’t you agree?” Henrick stared at the stranger who had advanced to his bedside and placed the flowers next to his medication. An uneasy feeling started to grow in the pit of his stomach. Zoran sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Who are you and w
hat do you want?”

  “I see that you are a man who likes to get straight to the point. So, Henrick, I will too. You have recently had some dealings with an associate of mine, and his two friends. Toni Popovic ring a bell at all Henrick?” Henrick’s face muscles tightened. He shifted his hand under the covers secretively looking for the attendant call buzzer chord.

  “No. I don’t recall that name.” Zoran scowled back at Henrick who felt the stature of the man increase in size.

  “I may only have one good arm, Henrick, but if you lie to me again I will take great pleasure in slamming the closed end of it into the centre of your face. Am I making myself clear?” Henrick swallowed hard and images of Stipe and Toni’s battered face flashed into his mind and the reply to his inquiry at the time, ‘ A ghost came back to haunt us only his fist was real’. They had used the singular. He was looking at the man who for some reason had battered both of them and would definitely do the same to him if he didn’t cooperate.

  “Now let me rephrase my question. Where the fuck are the three of them and what are they up too?” Henrick fought to keep the tremble out of his voice. He looked past Zoran to the door hoping someone would walk through it. It remained closed. His hand located the chord to the buzzer, and praying Zoran wouldn’t notice as he moved his hand along the chord to the switch.

  “I don’t know. We had some dealings a week or two ago. We finished our business and I haven’t seen them since.” Zoran pursed his lips. His anger was rising. He stood and leant over Henrick. Zoran reached inside his jacket, pulled out his gun and pointed it into Henrick’s face.

  “Don’t fucking mess with me you fat lying bastard, or I’ll spread your face over this pillow. Tell me now. Where are they?” Henrick recoiled. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow.

  “You can’t shoot me. You’ll never get out of this hospital if you do.” Zoran thought a moment.

  “You’re right fat man.” Zoran replaced the gun under his coat. Henrick seized his moment and pulled the chord until he had the switch in his grasp. He fumbled to get control and press the buzzer. Zoran’s reactions were lightening. He slapped Henrick's hand knocking the buzzer onto the floor before Henrick could signal for help.

  “You’re a fucking hero aren’t you fat man, protecting your friends, lying to me. Let’s see how far you can go shall we?” Zoran snatched the pillow from under Henrick’s head and smothered his face with it, pressing down with his elbow and body weight. Henrick began to wriggle and scream. His muted cries went unheard. Zoran gave him thirty seconds then released his hold on him. Henrick gasped in air. “Ok, Ok, I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me what fat man?” Zoran pushed the pillow back into Henrick’s face and closed off his air source again. Henrick thrashed around trying to push Zoran off of him. He was too heavy and wouldn’t budge. Zoran laughed to himself and spurred Henrick on. “Come on fat man. You can do it. Kick a bit harder fat man. That’s the way.” Henrick’s movements started to slow as consciousness started to fade. Zoran released Henrick and the warm air of the room felt cold against Henrick’s hot clammy face. The air passed through his mouth like a sock in a wind tunnel experiencing a force 8 gale. Henricks complexion had a grey pallor and his lips had a tinge of blue. A stabbing pain shot through his chest and he clutched at his breast. “Now what do you want to tell me Henrick?”

  “They’re they’re In London. Richmond. Bingham Hotel. Please, that’s all I know.”

  “What are they doing there?” Henrick, fighting for his breath felt a second pain. “Robbery. Stealing a statue. Please get help, my chest the pain it’s it’s…” Zoran thought for a moment.

  “Thank you fat man. I think I have all I need to know.” Zoran drew close to Henrick. “Help me, please.”

  “Of course I will fat man.” Zoran lifted the pillow and placed it over Henrick’s head and pressed down hard. Henrick’s resistance was feeble. Zoran waited until his struggling ebbed, then he released Henrick and checked that he was still breathing. His breath was shallow and fading. Zoran placed the pillow underneath Henrick’s head and straightened the covers. “You know you should do something about your weight fat man. You’ll give yourself a heart attack if you’re not careful. Zoran left the room with Henrick fighting for his life.

  20

  The National Westminster Bank sat on the corner of the high street, a lion at full yawn, waiting. The two men in suits approached walking side-by-side blending well with the early morning commuters and the brisk traffic that was heading for the centre of London, perpetuating the daily ritual of city life. The sun sprinkled a few rays into the shop windows, illuminating them like a giant reflector. It was as if the street was trying to maximise the few glints that had escaped the overcast sky to brighten the mood of the street and the people. It was a poor result. On a judges score card, a 4 out of 10.

  Stipe and Toni, feeling conspicuous in their office uniform of dark grey and blue worsted suits, crossed the road. The façade of the bank loomed heavy with the ornate stonework, stained by traffic pollution and pigeon excrement, daring anyone to challenge its authority as the principle building in the street. It started to drizzle and the reflections on the shop windows retreated. The advance of a sunny morning morphed into bleak oppressiveness triggering a reciprocate response in Stipe. They reached the wooden, double doors of the bank, side stepped a lady coming out and entered into a busy trading hall with a row of glass fronted cubicles. The rain started to fall heavily outside.

  Stipe and Toni approached the enquiries cubicle and were greeted by a young woman wearing a pale blue blouse.

  “Good morning. I would like to see someone who could deal with this matter for me please,” said Stipe, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and retrieving an envelope. He slid the document under the glass and the girl opened and read the letter.

  “Can you wait just a moment? I’ll give this to my colleague who will be able to deal with it for you.”

  “Thank you very much.” The girl departed with the letter in hand and entered an area sectioned by fabric-covered screens, temporarily disappearing. Toni let out a hissed breath.

  “I’m fucking shitting myself here, Stipe. It feels as if the whole bank is looking at my briefcase. Why do I have to be the one to hold the statue?” Stipe fronted a relaxed persona.

  “You’re supposed to be my assistant, remember? Now stay calm and focused. Nobody can see what you are holding. Remember we are by all accounts here on legitimate business, so, act professional and don’t give anyone cause to doubt us and we will be out of here in less than thirty minutes.”

  “Sorry , Stipe. I’m just a bit edgy.”

  “So am I. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” The girl emerged from behind the screen accompanied by an elder, official looking gentleman with thinning hair. He was holding the letter and the girl indicated in Stipe’s direction as they paused to speak; then she left and he advanced towards them.

  “The man’s coming over. Stay focused.” They adjusted their stance to greet the official. Stipe monitored his expression as he approached, looking for any suspicious indicators. The man drew within two steps and a broad welcoming smile stretched his moustache. He scratched the bridge of his nose, then offered his hand to Stipe,

  “You are Mr. Kazoulis?”

  “Yes, I am, and this is my colleague Mr.Claremont.” They finished shaking hands.

  “Come this way into my office and we can get things organised for you.” He turned and led the way back to his section with Stipe and Toni dutifully following. They sat opposite each other, separated by a cluttered desk and a heap of files; the trade marks of a heavy workload. A nameplate on the desk informed anyone in view that the gentleman opposite Stipe was Mr. Archer. Mr. Archer read the letter again. It said,

  ‘Dear Sirs, We represent the estate of Mrs Maria Stavell who was recently deceased and we are in the process of winding up her affairs. Our colleagues, Mr Kazoulis and Mr Claremont, are dealing with this matter in person and who are the bea
rers of this letter and all relevant documents required. Please would you afford all assistance in this matter and make available the accounts of Maria Stavell.

  Yours Sincerely

  David Stalwart

  Stipe watched intently as Mr Archer’s head remained bowed, and prayed quietly to himself that he hadn’t made any spelling mistakes in the letter. Even though the spell checker on the computer he had used at the local library to construct the forgery assured him that the document was correctly written, nagging doubts were snapping at his ankles. This was the acid test and Mr. Archer seemed an awful long time raising his head. Stipe shuffled in his chair. Mr. Archer looked up. “Do you have the Certificate of Administration from the probates office?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Archer.” Stipe opened his attaché case and removed the document he had stolen from the solicitor’s office and handed it over the desk. Mr. Archer examined the document for a few moments, then the furrow that had been creasing his brow since he first sat down melted, and his broad smile returned.

  “Everything seems to be in order Mr. Kazoulis. What can I do for you first?”

  “We would like copies of statements of all Mrs Stavells’s accounts and we would like to inspect the contents of her safety deposit box.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Archer lifted the phone and gave instructions for copies of the accounts to be brought to him and took a form from his desk and filled in its contents. “While we are waiting gentlemen, can I get you anything to drink?”

  “No thank you. If it is possible while we are waiting for the accounts to be brought could we possibly view the safety deposit box? Our time is rather restricted this morning. I am due in court at 11.30.”

  “As you wish. Just sign the bottom of this form. It’s just for the release of the box into your custody.” Stipe signed and handed the form back. Mr. Archer stood.