A Death in Diamonds

Darbishire did as he was told. He felt something dig in his back, through his coat. He didn’t know if it was a knife, or a rolled-up newspaper, or a gun. They walked down past the square at a fair clip. The road was busy enough with cars, vans and pedestrians. If his new companion tried to steer him into a side street, out of public view, Darbishire would make a move, but for now, he wanted to hear what the man had to say. He remained tense, ready for action.

The other man’s casual tone belied the strength of the grip on his shoulder.

‘I come bearing a message. With your best interests at heart. It won’t take long.’

‘Who sent you? I talk to organ grinders, not their monkeys.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, old chap. Monkey it is. Believe me, if you knew who the organ grinder was, you’d be flattered.’

‘What message?’ Darbishire asked.

‘The Chelsea murders. You’re doing an excellent job, very thorough. Admirable. We’re right behind you – we want the villains caught as much as anyone. Happy to assist in any way. But you’re going up a blind alley, I’m afraid, old chap. A dangerous blind alley. We’d appreciate it if you left well alone.’

Who on earth had the chutzpah to threaten a detective inspector in broad daylight, in the centre of London? They were still surrounded by people, although, in the nature of Londoners, none of them took a shred of notice.

‘I’m a policeman,’ Darbishire muttered. ‘I don’t leave well alone. It’s my job not to.’

‘All very admirable, as I said. But it won’t help you here. The witnesses have told you all they can and they haven’t lied. Monkey or not, I can assure you of that.’

Darbishire was not assured. ‘I assume you mean Gregson. Who on earth squats in a mould-covered, stinking flat, purely so they can mislead a police investigation? What’s going on? What don’t I know about?’

‘Nothing that need concern you. Nothing of any illegality whatsoever.’

‘Oh? I suppose the neighbours wiped a building down of its fingerprints because they were feeling tidy. This isn’t my way home, by the way.’

‘I know.’

The little man pushed him left at the corner of Cadogan Gardens. His tone was still light.

‘You’re probably imagining criminal gangs and drugs and all sorts of unpleasantness. Were they were planning a bank robbery, like The Ladykillers? Excellent picture, very funny. Have they kidnapped the scion of a royal family? Or did they keep a mouldering body in the basement? I can assure you none of these things are true.’

Darbishire had been imagining exactly these things, or variations on them. He was more sure than ever that he was dealing with a gang. Who else would send someone with a prim little voice who called you ‘old chap’ and looked like a cut-price Humphrey Bogart? The incongruity of it all was what made it seem most likely. But the specific denials were a surprise. Were they to distract from another possibility that he’d missed? Or a tissue of lies?

‘Excuse me if I don’t take the word of a total stranger who accosts me in the street.’

The man relaxed his grip. ‘I understand your hesitation. But I wanted you to hear it from us personally. No hard feelings. Carry on the good work. Just . . . focus on what was said, not who said it. Be a good boy. It’s to everyone’s advantage.’ He raised his free hand for a moment, as if waving to a distant friend. ‘Ah, this is me. It’s been good to have this little chat. Don’t forget what I said.’

A black cab pulled up smoothly in the road beside them and he climbed into it almost without breaking step. The taxi pulled out into the traffic of Sloane Street and Darbishire watched as it disappeared in the direction of Hyde Park. He had no idea who the man was, or who he was working for, but he had to admire the slickness of their operation.

And Venables was in on it. That’s why he took Darbishire to that particular pub. It was so obvious that the chief inspector didn’t feel the need to pretend to hide it. Which meant that either this went all the way to the top, or Venables was in with some extremely shady characters. Either way, pursuing those elusive witnesses wasn’t going to lead anywhere.

His initial suspicions about this job had proved spot on. Turning for home, Darbishire smiled grimly to himself.

Chapter 14

Philip was right when he talked about the need to end the outdated flummery of court presentations for young, marriageable debutantes. They might have worked well in the days of Queen Charlotte, but in 1957 the Georgian tradition had become decidedly quaint. And it took up so much time. The Queen had already decided that next year would be the last of them, though it had yet to be announced. However, after her wonderful evening with Duke Ellington, she decided to make an exception for Bridget Fairdale’s coming out ball.