The African Diamond Trilogy Box Set

by Christopher Lowery

  Adam braced himself. He had known that there wasn’t much chance of surviving, but at least he’d tried to save Jenny. He’d tried his best, although it wasn’t much good.

  D’Almeida hesitated, trying to concentrate, thinking about the diamonds. I can’t shoot him, he must have one of the keys. Then his confused mind realised that he didn’t know who had any of the keys. It could still be Jenny, even after her play acting. And he still needed to obtain the access code.

  Leticia had her arms tightly around Emilio, putting her body between the gunmen and her son. The sound of the shot had woken him and he looked around sleepily and started crying, confused at the unfamiliar surroundings.

  The Angolan shook his head and turned the gun away from Adam, pointing it at Leticia. “Shut that bastard up or I’ll shoot both of you. My head’s ringing like it’s got a bell in it.”

  Jenny saw the approaching lights through the window. “It’s a siren, a police car. It must be Espinoza.” The noise accentuated until it was a constant blare, coming towards the gates.

  The Angolan ran to the window and saw the cars pulling up at the gates. “I don’t fucking believe it!” He turned to face them, waving the pistol. “Who called the police? How did you call the police?”

  He studied his watch again. “Shit!” He looked desperately around the kitchen, thinking furiously. Everything had been going so well and now it had suddenly gone terribly wrong. He was out of time. If he shot them all he would never get the keys and the diamonds. He’d have to wait and try again, but he needed a bargaining chip, some kind of leverage. He herded the others at gunpoint to the back of the room and pushed them into the pantry. Shoving Leticia back against the wall, he grabbed Emilio from her arms. “Diga adios a seu pequeno canalho. Say goodbye to your little bastard, Leticia.”

  “No!” She screamed and tried to wrest the little boy from his hold, but he pushed her back again so that she fell on the floor. She pulled herself to her feet, trying to get hold of her son. The Angolan pointed the gun at Emilio’s head and stepped back to the door. Adam pulled her back, holding her away from the murderer. She tried desperately to wrestle free from him, shouting and struggling in her frenzy.

  D’Almeida held the screaming child against his legs, still aiming the gun at him, and stepped out of the room. “This is not over. I’m coming back and if you want this kid to stay alive, you’d better get me those keys.” He slammed the door shut and they heard the key turn.

  “Emilio!” Leticia screamed and pummelled at the closed door. Then she collapsed to the floor, curled up in a ball, huge sobs racking her body.

  The Angolan went to the front door, took his navy blue raincoat, wrapped it around the struggling child and fastened it with the belt. He switched off the hall light and opened the door. It was pitch black and freezing cold. The rain was bouncing up off the ground and water was cascading over the flower beds and down towards the driveway. He looked towards the entrance gate and saw the lights from the police cars. Taking hold of the raincoat belt with his good hand, he hoisted Emilio up like a parcel. He threw the key to the pantry door into the garden, put on his fedora, slammed the door and ran towards the flooded staircase.

  Esther refused the inflight meal. She hardly ever ate meat and all they had on offer was a ham and cheese sandwich. She lay back in her seat, trying to block out the noise of her neighbour chewing with his mouth open and slurping his beer. She was calculating whether she’d be in time to meet Ray’s flight. It would take her over two hours to collect her bag and get to Luton on the shuttle bus from Heathrow. Her plane was scheduled to arrive at eleven thirty, UK time, and his flight was due in at two in the morning. He would soon be boarding in Malaga, on his way to meet her. Twelve million dollars richer, thanks to her clever inside work at the bank.

  She fell into a doze as the aircraft cruised through the stormy skies across France towards the English Channel. She dreamed of running up to kiss him in Luton airport. Then hiding out for a few days in a small hotel room somewhere. Making love all day and night while they waited to swap the cold climate of the UK for the sun-soaked beaches of Panama.

  D’Almeida pounded up the staircase at the side of the stream. The stairs were awash with water, splashing up and soaking his shoes and trousers as he ran. The stream was now a river, rushing down alongside him in a torrent, boosted by the torrential rain. His head, face and shoulder were killing him. But his thighs, muscled by climbing and skiing over the last few years, pushed him rapidly up towards the perimeter wall. Under his arm he was carrying Emilio, wrapped in the blue raincoat. The little boy was crying and screaming, but his voice was virtually unheard against the sound of the rain and running water.

  The tree branch was wet and slippery and he almost dropped Emilio. He scrambled over the wall and staggered across the forested area, climbed into his car and dumped the screaming child on the back seat. The car screeched away on the dirt track towards the Coin road. The pain from his shoulder was intensifying, it felt as if hot needles were being pushed up into his neck. The bleeding from his hand and face had stopped, but his hand was stiffening up. The cut was severe. His head felt as if it had been hit with a steam hammer and Emilio’s crying wasn’t helping, but his mind was calculating madly, trying to find a solution to this new situation.

  He looked at the clock on the dashboard, it was eleven fifteen. He had a seat on the Luton flight, leaving at half past midnight from Malaga. There was also an ID card in his pocket in the name of Jean-Pierre Bastien and the photograph wasn’t very good. He could easily have got through immigration. He wondered fleetingly if the guy’s body had ever been found in Haute Nendaz when the snows melted. Stupid French asshole, trying to steal from me. Who tries to steal from a ski bum? He knew I had nothing to steal.

  His plan had been perfect. I would have been in the UK with Esther by two in the morning. Lost amongst the millions of illegal immigrants before breakfast time. Before the gardener came and found the bodies in York House, before the alarm went off in Spain. Easy to get out by boat to Ireland, then on to Panama when things quietened down. Easy to sneak back for the diamonds when the time was right.

  Thanks to that bitch, Jenny Bishop, it was no longer a perfect plan. He was hurt. He was covered in blood. He didn’t have the safety deposit keys and he had the police on his tail.

  Shit. Those interfering fucking police! Where the hell did they come from? He knew he couldn’t make it to the airport now, the police were too close. But he had the child. If he could get onto the highway he might stand a chance. They wouldn’t take any risks with Leticia’s little boy. Twelve million dollars. The hard part’s done, stay calm and you can make it.

  Emilio was still screaming for his mother, the noise intensifying the pain in his pounding head. “Shut your mouth, you little bastard!” He drove as fast as he was able.

  NINETY-ONE

  Sunday, 27th April, 2008

  Marbella, Spain

  Espinoza jumped down from the wall, stumbling and almost falling into the rush of water that was pouring down through the gate. The others followed on his heels up the driveway, running through the deluge, holding their guns ready as they ran. The stairway from the drive was flooded and they splashed up to the entrance porch. The front door was locked but through a side window they could see lights in the kitchen and living rooms. They hammered on the door but no one came.

  Espinoza shot the lock away and they ran inside. He was terrified at what they might discover. They raced through the hall into the kitchen. It was deserted, the floor littered with broken glass and pieces of duct tape. They heard the sound of banging and shouting from the pantry door at the back of the room. There was no key in the lock.

  “Who’s in there?” Espinoza shouted.

  “It’s Jenny. There’s three of us here. We’re alright but we can’t get out.”

  “What’s been going on?” Espinoza motioned one of the policemen forward. He brought out a vicious looking knife, like a jemmy with a sharp blad
e, and tried to force the door open at the lock.

  “It’s Francisco, he’s a murderer, he’s got Emilio. We’re all right, but he’s taken the boy with him.” Jenny shouted the words out over the noise of the jemmying. There was a crack as the blade snapped off clean in the policeman’s hand.

  “Francisco? You mean the lawyer?”

  “He’s not a lawyer, he’s a fake and a killer!”

  “Jesus Christ!” Espinoza took out his pistol. “Can you stand to the other side of the door from the lock? I’m going to shoot it out.”

  There was a loud gunshot. The door swung open and the three hostages emerged.

  Adam blurted out, “He’s got Emilio and he’s got a gun.”

  The policeman looked at Adam’s bloody, battered face. “Who are you?”

  “He’s Adam Peterson, a friend from South Africa. He saved our lives.” Jenny looked around desperately. “Francisco’s just escaped. He’s carrying Emilio. He can’t have got far.”

  Espinoza looked around, “Well, he hasn’t come out the driveway and he hasn’t passed the guard at the entrance.”

  Leticia cried out in Spanish. “He must have gone up the garden to the top wall. He’s going round to the Coin road. You’ve got to find him, he’ll get away with Emilio.” She ran to the door and down the staircase, forgetting that she couldn’t follow them alone.

  Espinoza spoke on his walkie-talkie. “Felipe, he’s a villain and he’s coming your way. He’s armed and he’s got the kid. Stop him but no shooting!” The policemen ran to the door. “Vamos. Miguel, we’ll follow him up the back. Martín, you go around behind Felipe and block the road.” He turned to Adam, “I’m calling an ambulance for you.”

  Adam had wrapped a handkerchief around his burned fingers. “I’m fine. I don’t need an ambulance. I’m coming with you to nail that bastard.”

  The policeman decided not to waste time arguing. “What about you?” he asked Jenny. She nodded and they followed the officers out of the kitchen, running after Leticia, down the drive and out the small gate. The two women climbed into the back of Espinoza’s vehicle and Adam went with Martín, the Policia Nacional officer. They sped down to the main entrance and separated. Two cars swung around to the right to drive up the side of the urbanisation and follow the direction of Ray’s car and the other made for the Coin road.

  D’Almeida had the sidelights on, but not the headlights, the police didn’t need any help. There were no street lights and it was so dark that only the occasional flashes of lightning helped him to see the road. When he reached the forested area there was no light at all. He took the corner too fast and had to press hard on the brake. The car skidded on the slick, muddy track. Shit! It slid towards the trees. He swung the steering round again and felt a stab of pain from his injured shoulder, winced, and tugged the wheel too far over. The back end of the car spun round and hit a rocky outcrop. He pulled the wheel round the other way, crashed the front wing into a tree on the verge and there was the sound of smashing glass.

  The car wouldn’t pull back in reverse. It was a front wheel drive and the wheels were spinning in the mud. Lousy piece of crap! He got out and pushed the front end out of the mud, his shoulder screaming with the effort. It was a small car, not very heavy. It slid over the slick surface and he got it onto the track again. He climbed back in, soaked and hatless, his trousers covered in mud and blood on his face and jacket. His shoulder and hand were throbbing with pain and his head was pounding. Emilio was screaming even louder than before on the back seat. In Spanish, he shouted, “Keep your mouth shut, you little shit. You’re my ticket out of here.”

  He pulled away and switched on the headlights this time. One was dead, the other pointed away at an angle, but he could see the road. The noise of sirens was approaching from behind as he accelerated along past the forest and looked in his mirror. The sky was lit by the flashing lights of the police car. They were maybe a kilometre behind. He drove through the curve before the Avenida Parc project, still accelerating.

  “There he is!” Coming from the opposite direction, Felipe Montero jammed on his brakes and swung the wheels across the track in front of the construction site. The two officers jumped out of the car, guns in hand.

  The Angolan pulled the steering violently to the left and stamped on the brake, desperately trying to avoid the police vehicle. His car mounted the verge and smashed into an upright supporting the huge sales sign. The support was pushed over backwards and the sign detached itself with a loud crack. It fell sideways, held only by the one remaining post. The back end of the car hit the barrier, pushing it over so that the stanchions were pulled almost out of the sodden earth. The car was stuck against the barrier.

  “Come here you little prick.” D’Almeida grabbed Emilio from the back seat with his injured hand and climbed out into the rain, his gun in his right hand.

  “Police! Stop there! Drop your weapon and put down the child.” As Felipe stepped forward into the light from his car’s headlights, d’Almeida raised the pistol and shot at him. The policeman clutched his chest and dropped to the ground. The Angolan turned round as Espinoza’s car pulled up behind him.

  As they raced along, Jenny breathlessly told Espinoza about d’Almeida. How he’d killed at least four people and he’d just stolen a fortune from them by Internet. She omitted the part about the Angolan Clan and the remaining diamonds. It was too complicated.

  “You were right, Chief Inspector, I’m sorry, but you were right. There was a motive, there was money in Switzerland. He’s the killer. He killed my husband and my father-in-law and two other friends, in New York and in Switzerland. He’s not Spanish, nor American. He’s from Angola and Brazil, a pathological murderer. I can’t believe you got here in time, he was just about to shoot us because he’s got the money now. We should all be dead. I can’t believe it.”

  Leticia said nothing. Her mind was hardly functioning. She kept repeating to herself, in Portuguese, Please God, save Emilio. Please God.

  At the dirt road Espinoza had to slow a little, it was pitch black. The siren was still blaring and the emergency lights were flashing red. As they drove through the edge of the forest the branches above their heads glowed scarlet. The rain fell through the glow like a blood-coloured waterfall. It was like driving through hell.

  Jenny said, “But I don’t understand what made you come over here so quickly? Our messages weren’t very urgent. When we phoned we didn’t know that Francisco was really someone else. We just saw something in the computer that put the wind up us.”

  “You can thank your email to Pires da Silva for that. A young woman in Washington put two and two together and faxed me. Then you said you might have some evidence and your phone was off. So I feared for the worst. It’s just instinctive.” He rubbed the mist from the inside of the windscreen. “Look, you can see his tail lights, we’ve got him. Just in time”

  Leticia roused herself. “Señor Espinoza, we are only in time if we save Emilio. We must stop that monster. Please promise me that you’ll save my son.”

  “We’ve got him now, Leticia, he can’t get out, he’s in a box and we’re about to close the lid. He won’t do anything to Emilio. It won’t help him and we’ll have him completely covered.” Espinoza sounded more confident than he felt. Crazy people with guns did crazy things. “Please try to stay calm and leave it to us. This is our job.”

  More lights appeared ahead. They were at the Avenida Parc development. Espinoza slowed again as they approached, then stopped, the other car pulling up alongside them. They climbed out into the torrential downpour, to be confronted by a nightmare scenario.

  NINETY-TWO

  Sunday, 27th April 2008

  Marbella, Spain

  A small black car was jammed against the barrier around the excavation. Two wheels were on the grass verge and the driver’s door was open. One headlight was on, shining into the void, the other was dead. Broken glass littered the verge and there were skid marks on the track. The AVENIDA PARC sales
sign was hanging from a single upright at a crazy angle above the car and one of the fence support posts was lying back, just holding in the ground, almost detached from the barrier. On the other side of the road, the local police car was parked diagonally across the track, its headlights illuminating the scene. Felipe, the local policeman, was lying on the ground on his back under the pounding rain. He was bleeding from the chest, the blood forming a dark pool on the dirt road. The other policeman was sheltering behind the open door of the car, holding a pistol in his hand.

  D’Almeida was standing at the side of the black car. He had no raincoat or hat on. His face and clothes were covered in mud and blood and the rain was pouring down over him, soaking his jacket and trousers. He was holding Emilio in front of him. The little boy was still wrapped in the blue raincoat, standing immobile. Too frightened to make a move. The Angolan was pointing his gun at the child’s head.

  “Emilio! Emilio! Oh, Dios mío.”

  The boy looked around at the sound of Leticia’s voice, squinting through the rain in the half-light. “Mamá, Mamá.”

  Leticia tried to run towards her son. “Vengo, Emilio. I’m coming.”

  The Chief Inspector stopped her. “Don’t move. You’ll endanger your child. Wait, we’ll get him.” He barked out an order to the remaining policeman.

  Just then, the other blue and white police car pulled up behind Felipe’s vehicle. Adam got out with the two officers. He stared in disbelief at the scene, then looked across at Leticia and Jenny.

  He shouted to the Angolan. “What do you want, Ray, if that’s really your name? What do you want the boy for? Are you a paedophile like da Silva was?”

  “Keep your fucking nose out of this, you interfering bastard. Shut your filthy mouth up. I’ve shot one asshole already. How’d you like to be the next?” D’Almeida tightened his hold on Emilio, pressing the gun against the terrified child’s neck.