Find My Diamonds!

By Roy Whitlow

Benedict Mason, recently discharged from the British Army after a training accident, is a claims investigator with an insurance company in Bristol. He is ordered to do a fast-track course relating to diamonds and then to join a team charged with setting up a database on diamond theft and recovery. But before he gets very far with any investigations he becomes trapped into an armed robbery of a large quantity of diamonds – there is a fatality.
The mastermind behind the robbery is a well-respected and skilled solicitor, who is also a criminal of breath-taking proportions. The stolen diamonds belong to a rich collector who is planning to sell his fabulous stones – which to him are more than carbon. Mason is attracted to Sir Vivian’s secretary and they both become entangled in a dangerous game when the stolen diamonds are stolen again by another gang. The chase is on with Mason and Jenny, the criminals and the police all trying to track down and recover the diamonds worth several million pounds. There are several tense life-threatening moments and more deaths.
The final scenes take place in an old stream-driven mill and involve desperate struggles with several lives precariously in the balance. When the diamonds are eventually recovered there are several more surprises.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Whitlow
• Release date: Sep 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301027569

Book preview

Chapter 1

September 1995, Sussex, England.

Bakker had waited for an hour and forty-five minutes, but he was prepared to wait for much longer. He had his instructions: to wait, however long it took. The white Ford van would be along soon because the driver also had his instructions – which he would follow to the letter. Everyone employed by the Boss always followed their instructions to the letter. It was the way of things, the Baas, as Bakker called him, was always obeyed. It was the way to stay healthy – alive.

Janni Bakker was used to being patient: his father had been a farmer in Bultfontein, South Africa, and he had instilled in him the importance of self-control. Janni, his two brothers and two sisters, were beneficiaries of a strict Calvinistic upbringing – both mother and father embraced a particularly unsmiling version of their faith. The farm was profitable, even comfortable, but there had been two main problems just before he left. The farm was located some twenty miles from Bultfontein, which was itself near Kimberley, principally a mining area. The mining companies paid more than most farmers could afford and local government had more to gain from the mining companies than from farmers. The other problem was the Dutch Reform Church, which had so controlled the lives of the Bakker family and others like them who had developed farms and businesses through several generations. The traditions were deep-rooted; the codes of conduct strict; the essence of almost every thought stemmed in some way from the Calvinist ‘teachings’. The history of the church had been very much bound up with the politics of the Afrikaner community in South Africa; theologically it supported the apartheid system and the dominance of white-skinned people, especially the Afrikaners. But then in the early 1980s the World Alliance of Reformed Churches declared apartheid to be a heresy and expelled the Dutch Reformed Church from its organisation. This was a devastating blow that shook faiths to the core. The prospects of change alarmed and unsettled many. Apartheid was going to end, it was said; a different government was expected; livelihoods would be threatened. Some farmers, such Hendrik Bakker, and certainly his wife, were prepared to face the future stoically; accepting whatever was to come as God’s will. As is the way, though, many men (especially young men) rebelled against the new ideas. They could not see any of the rumoured sociological and economic changes being for the better as far as they were concerned. Some protested in peaceable ways, some marched and demonstrated vociferously and some chose violent methods of dissent.

It was the last of these methods that Janni and his brother Morten chose. His mother was horrified and forbade such wickedness; his father never gave his consent, but they both knew they had his tacit support. Their acts of violence were of course badly organised and exceedingly dangerous. One night, in a clash with police and security guards from a local mining operation, guns were fired and explosives thrown. Morten and three other ‘patriots’ were killed – five were injured; worse still, two policemen were killed. Janni Bakker became a wanted man. His mother blamed him for Morten’s death. Father, Hendrick, neither cried nor raged. He simply gave Janni an old leather suitcase and a handful of gold coins and told him to leave South Africa.

Janni Bakker was both saddened and bitter. None of his friends could help him; no one at the church would even speak to him: well, he could do without any of them. He managed to find his way to Durban and boarded a ship bound for Europe: Lisbon first, then through France and Belgium, doing odd jobs, taking handouts where they were offered, and finally to Denmark. His chosen destination was however Britain – London to be precise. After two months his money ran out and he turned to petty crime. He lived a miserable and risky existence for two years. His luck changed when a similarly strapped-for-cash acquaintance recruited him for an unusual job. He was to drive a motor caravan from Copenhagen to London. Hidden in a false wall would be two valuable paintings stolen from a gallery in Brussels three weeks earlier. He would be paid, quite generously in fact, but more importantly, he would be given a new passport, and therefore of course, a new identity. After the handover of the paintings and disposal of the vehicle – and collecting his ‘fee’ – he would be free to stay in the United Kingdom – with a British passport.

There were no problems: he drove to Caen, rather than Calais, and boarded a ferry to Portsmouth; along with several hundred holidaymakers, he passed unchallenged through Customs. He found the rendezvous – in a place called Hackney in London – quite easily and there he handed over the two packages. He disposed of the van and was paid, and thought that was that. Two weeks later, and broke again, he was contacted and taken to meet the Baas. This man was impressive: he was rich, well-respected and ran a number of operations of a criminal nature. The Baas was as astute a man as Bakker had ever met; his planning was meticulous, with great attention to detail; his sources of information seemed endless and impeccable; his control of an operation was frighteningly firm-handed. Working for the Baas changed Bakker’s view of life dramatically. There was another delivery job: over to Amsterdam and back. It went like clockwork, and the pay was handsome. A number of other ‘jobs’ followed, involving varying degrees of criminality, but always well paid. After a further six months the Baas, clearly appreciative of Bakker’s quickly developing skills in this new profession, installed him as a sort of regular team leader. Bakker was good at commanding a group of average criminals, but his greatest skill and his greatest asset as far as the Baas was concerned was his nerveless ability to kill people. In the lines of work in which the Baas was engaged the removal of inconvenient people was often necessary. Janni Bakker excelled at this.

The rain – just a sort of desultory drizzle – had stopped. So much the better, thought Bakker. The road surface would be wet: reflections from a wet road hampered visibility and the surface could be slightly slippery. He was parked in a field: just inside a farm gate, high hedges on either side were keeping him hidden. This part of the plan – a plan he had devised, approved by the Baas, naturally – was the simplest – just a couple of loose ends that needed to be tidied up.

The main part of the job had gone well. It never ceased to amaze Bakker that some firms could be so obvious and would make it so easy for the likes of him. The building company, Beesley and Cowan, had operated from a yard on the outskirts of Maidstone for just over forty years. They built houses and schools, renovated old buildings, converted lofts, erected barns for farmers, and were well known in the area. Evidently, they were also well known to the Baas: he knew how many employees they had, how much the wages bill was for each week and – more importantly – how and when the money was delivered from the bank to the Beesley and Cowan office. The timing, the route, the whole routine in fact, never varied.

Bakker and his helpers appeared at the office precisely thirty seconds after the security van opened its doors. They were away again two minutes and forty-five seconds later – perfect timing as usual. Unfortunately, one of the security guards resisted and had been shot by Bakker himself – all the fault really of a panicky helper who got in the way and allowed the guard a bid for bravery. The money was now safely with the Baas. However, a loose end was the gun – it could of course be traced. Loose ends had to be tidied up. The gun, a sawn-off, had to be got rid of. The solution was relatively simple: Archie Copley, the driver of the vehicle used in the robbery had been instructed to dispose of the gun in an expanse of water known as Keeley’s Lake, located a few miles to the west in the county of Sussex. After this, he was to drive himself and Gerry Venables, the somewhat panicky helper, to a meeting point where they would be paid off. The trouble was that Copley and Venables were two of the loose ends. Tidying up was necessary.

He’s taking his bloody time, mused Bakker, to himself. He’s probably driven miles away, ‘to be on the safe side’. Ah – lights – car coming. It was the white van. It still had the Beesley and Cowan sticker on the side: a spot of camouflage to get into the builder’s yard. Bakker cursed under his breath: they were supposed to peel that off before disposing of the van. They were leaving it until the last moment – stupid idiots. The van passed the gateway. He waited a moment and then started his engine and pulled slowly out – the Range Rover responded powerfully when he eased down on the throttle. The tail lights of the white van were about three-hundred yards ahead. Bakker was driving with just sidelights; he slowed slightly, not wanting the distance to close just yet.

Bakker had driven over this road several times recently and knew it well. There would be a sharp right-hand corner and then a steep hill, second gear – rather long. The red light in front disappeared at the corner. He rounded the corner – red lights again. Now, we here go, he muttered. He accelerated quickly and the big car surged forward – up the hill, slight bend left at the top. He could see the fence and lights twinkling below. He pressed down harder, rushing up behind the van. Then he was alongside, on its right. He glanced across – saw the startled face of the driver – Copley.

‘Goodbye, you assholes,’ shouted Bakker. He pulled his steering wheel hard over to the left. He felt a bump and heard a dull scraping noise as the two vehicles collided. The little white van was no match for the Range Rover. It left the road with lurch that took its front end up into the air. Bakker kept the left-hand lock on and bumped up onto the grass verge himself. He knew this spot though and knew exactly how long to keep the crunching grinding pressure on. The suddenly the pressure disappeared; he swung to the right and bounced back on to the road. He braked hard and stopped – he jumped out and ran back.

There was a mess of churned up grass and soil, and beyond that a gaping hole in the wooden post-and-rail fence some fifteen feet beyond where the tarmacked road surface met the grass verge. He stepped carefully over the rutted verge. He heard them before he saw anything: a series of crunching smashes. And then he could see the now seemingly diminutive white van cart-wheeling down the steep sloping hillside below. There was flash of yellow flame and the crump of an explosion. A ball of white, yellow and blue fire burst upwards, and a surge of black-grey smoke billowed above this. A low roar came from the van, no longer to be seen, but engulfed in fire.

Janni Bakker nodded with satisfaction and watched for another two minutes before stepping, again carefully, back onto the tarmac road surface. Three loose ends neatly snipped away, he thought, pulling on his leather gloves a little tighter. He felt the curious feeling in the pit of his stomach: the feeling he always got each time a job was completed. The Baas would approve – would be pleased even, although what constituted pleasure in the Baas had never been apparent to Bakker. He walked back to the Range Rover and looked along the left side, gauging the extent of the damage. Nothing too serious – easily fixed. He climbed in and drove away thinking that he had heard the last of Copley and Venables. He was wrong.

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Chapter 2

Sixteen years later

On a rainy October afternoon, two men sat in an office situated in Jacob’s Hill Chambers in Clifton, Bristol.

‘I cannot believe that you are serious. For one thing, a collection such as yours is unique and for another it is worth a great deal of money. If it were to be offered on the open market there would be great consternation among owners and dealers, both here and abroad. If you haven’t got enemies already you would soon have plenty. Another thing, showing off your collection will be like dangling a huge carrot in front of a herd of ravenous donkeys, except that most of those looking will be a good deal smarter than donkeys. Some will undoubtedly want to relieve you of a sizable portion of your display – and some will not mind how they achieve this. Some, indeed, will be quite prepared to use – shall we say, violent means – kill people, even. In my opinion, you will be putting your life and the lives of others in grave danger.’

The man speaking was sitting in a very old and elaborately carved chair of almost black wood. The chair was placed behind an equally old desk, also dark-coloured and with an inlaid dark-red leather top. The intricately tooled leather was nearly totally covered with piles of papers, many in bundles tied with pink ribbon. The desk and chair were in a room that was seemingly as old: it was oak-panelled; the windows were draped with light-brown velvet curtains; the carpet was a similar shade of brown to that of the panelling and the lighting was anything but bright. A large marble – swirling shades of dark green – fireplace dominated one wall and in it crackled a wood-log fire. On the overmantle there were silver and glass ornaments, clearly of some antiquity. Other furniture in the room included three upright chairs – dark-coloured, naturally, with carved and pierced backs – and two dark-red leather club armchairs. The walls not panelled were masked by tall bookcases carrying important looking large volumes, some in matching sets, with red, brown and green-ribbed leather spines.

This was the office of a remarkable man; the man who was seated at the desk; the man who was speaking. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit of black cloth bearing the faintest pin-stripe. He and the room matched each other: both looked old and well worn, but with an unmistakably distinguished air. ‘Distinguished’ might not be the right word: a man confident in himself, certainly; a man who had succeeded and who knew that in future ventures he would succeed again. There was no contention, at least in his own mind, but that he was, and would always be, a successful man. The man’s features gave the impression of a large bird of prey. The greyish skin of his face was drawn tightly over the bones to produce a somewhat cadaverous look, this being enhanced by his oversize and slightly hooked nose. His eyes were set deep in darkening sockets and were distorted by the black-framed spectacles he wore. He did indeed look old, and was old by some standards, since he had passed through more than sixty summers and winters. However, again ‘old’ might not be the right word: ‘experienced’ would be more fitting.

Any reasonably observant person would notice his sharp voice and quick darting hand movements, perhaps suggesting a brain of some vigour. He had a habit of lifting his chin quickly and briefly when talking, so that the small scrap of beard lying there seemed to affect a sort of punctuation as he spoke. His name was Esmond Bartlett Fermoy and he was a solicitor of some repute. Some thought his liking for things of great age, such as his office and its furniture, an affectation; others to their cost had assumed this a sign of old-fashioned weakness. Esmond Fermoy was not weak, nor was he by any means old-fashioned in his grasp of modern law: no, this was very detailed, precise and on many occasions all too prescient.

On this damp and dismal afternoon he was addressing a client of his of very long standing. This client was Sir Vivian de Monville, one of the world’s very rich men. By comparison, Sir Vivian’s attire and manner were quite modern. His suit was expensive, single-breasted and well-tailored in pale grey. He wore a pale-pink shirt and a pale-blue tie that colour-matched his tastefully embroidered waistcoat. Sir Vivian was sitting on one of the upright chairs with one leg casually crossed over the other. There was a glass of red wine in his hand. A faint smile passed across his face as he nosed the wine – it was as if he was amused by the choice his solicitor had made for an afternoon libation – or he may have been amused at the reaction he had just heard from his legal counsellor.

‘Believe me, Esmond, I am very serious,’ said Sir Vivian, still nosing the wine. ‘You are, of course quite right in pointing out that my collection is unique and large, and that its sale will cause a bit of a stir – but, you see, that is precisely what I intend.’

‘You intend to cause a stir?’

‘Oh, yes! I have decided on a change of course. A man can spend too much, devote too much of his life, to a single idea. A psychiatrist might suggest it has been an obsession with me – this collecting and acquiring. Well, the obsession is over. I have decided. It is all to go.’

Esmond Fermoy nodded. He picked up a slender letter-opener and studied it as he held it lightly at its extremities. ‘All to go, you say. And how long have you been pondering on this – er, momentous decision, Sir Vivian?’

‘Not long,’ replied Sir Vivian. ‘As a matter of fact for only a few hours. I decided this morning while I was eating breakfast. There I was, applying marmalade to toast, as I have done on countless previous mornings. All of a sudden, I knew what I was going to do. No debate, no argument – just – that’s it. All will go. Decision in an instant, but that is me – my way – as I expect you know, Esmond.’

‘What I imagined I knew of you isn’t quite as complete as I thought, obviously. I was certainly not aware of this – er – interesting trait of making very sudden decisions, without, it appears, spending much time in consideration – and without, if I may be so frank, taking the very sensible course of discussing the matter with your legal advisor.’ The solicitor’s voice had taken on a rasping tone that might have bothered some men. Sir Vivian, however, smiled broadly. He looked at the wine left in his glass and then with studied deliberation placed the glass on a small table alongside his chair.

Esmond Fermoy set the letter-opener down carefully and neatly at the front of his desk. This did not of course add to the tidiness thereon, but it was a metaphor not lost on his client. Fermoy looked up and opened his mouth to speak, but Sir Vivian’s hand was now raised.

‘I quite expected your disapproval, Esmond. I do not hate you for it, but nor must you dwell on it. My mind is made up. I trust though that you will assist me in carrying the plan through. I know that in my position, bearing in mind the importance and value of my collection, that it is only fair that I should think of others. That is what I intend to do. All the main dealers and other collectors know of the collection and what it contains. Some think they know all of it. I doubt very much that they do. You, yourself may be inclined to assume that you have all the details to mind, especially some of the historical facts. Am I right?’

It would have been wrong to say that the bird-like features of the man behind the desk showed any emotion. Nevertheless, he hesitated to answer the question and may have – just may have – lost a little of his normally so self-assured poise. So much was his distraction that he made a minute adjustment to small stack of folded and be-ribboned documents close to his right hand. These he looked at and, without looking directly at his client, he replied, ‘I am always only in possession of those details you have allowed me to know. So, if there are more, I would crave enlightenment.’

‘I am quite sure that the true extent of your knowledge about my affairs – indeed about any of your clients’ affairs – rests not entirely on what we allow you to know. You would not be the legal brain I know you to be if you did not have various sources to supplement what we, your clients, deign to divulge to you. Having said that, I am quite certain that your albeit extensive knowledge of my little items does not include everything there is to know. Many people, including your knowledgeable self, my dear Esmond, are in for a few surprises.’

‘I shall look forward to being enlightened, Sir Vivian,’ said the solicitor a shade sardonically. ‘At this moment, this afternoon perhaps, may I know what precisely your plans are? Also, will you instruct me to assist you legally in them?’

‘Of course, my dear Esmond. Please forgive me if I seem – er, over mysterious – perhaps over-cautious is a better way of putting it. It will become clearer at a later date why. There are three basic parts to my collection. First, there are the simply exquisite items, gathered, often with no expense spared for their sheer beauty of appearance. Placing value on any of these will be greatly difficult; mere intrinsic value is in most cases meaningless to me – and possibly to many others. The second group comprises items of outstanding quality and historical rarity. Some of these were obtained at great cost to me and occasionally to others. However, they do have identifiable market appeal and value. Finally, there are what I call the reserve parcels. Some might think of these as pure investments, rainy-day somethings, hedges against inflation and life in general. It has taken me the better part of forty years to acquire my collection and I am more than a little sentimental about many of the items.’

‘That I can well understand, Sir Vivian. I too am a collector of sorts, mostly antique furniture and ornaments. I treasure some far above their sale-room value. If you are, as you say, sentimental about some of the collection, how then can you bear to break it up? Will you keep back some especially favoured items?’

‘Not one single item shall remain in my possession, not one. It will all go, but the market, certainly some of the big dealers, will not all be pleased if I were put the entire collection up for auction. The impact would be catastrophic for some. No, this is what I am going to do, my dear Esmond, and with your estimable help. In just over three week’s time, on the tenth of November, if it can be managed, I aim to stage a grand display. I will assemble my entire collection; calling it in from its various storage locations and from several museums who have items on display. I will set up a showing in the library at Deerwood Park – of my entire collection.’

This time Esmond Fermoy’s face did register emotion – possibly a rare event. His mouth opened, but no words emerged past his large and yellowing teeth. He half stood, still speechless, his hands still resting on the desk. After a minute or so he lowered himself back into the chair. Sir Vivian reached for his wine glass and drained it. He took a pale yellow silk square from his pocket and dabbed his lips. He carefully folded the silk square and returned to his pocket. He uncrossed and re-crossed his legs – and chuckled.

‘You know, Esmond, I think that is the very first time I have seen you speechless.’

Esmond Fermoy recovered his voice, but not quite his composure. He almost spluttered, ‘Are you mad, Sir. Everything? The entire lot? In your library? It’s about as secure as a tin of sardines. You are asking for trouble in a big way. What about the insurance companies. What the hell are they going to say to such a hare-brained scheme? And then there’s the police and the…’

The smile did not leave the face of Sir Vivian de Monville, but underneath the smile an acute observer would read – determination. ‘No, no, I am not mad,’ he said sharply, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, looking his solicitor squarely in the eye. ‘Yes, the entire collection will be on display. Yes, Deerwood House is like a leaky bucket. As for the insurance companies and the police – that is where you come in. Get me whatever permissions I need. If the insurance cover has to be re-negotiated against a higher premium or even temporarily suspended, then I want it done. I fully expect appraisals to be required – anyway, some items will require certificating – I will arrange this myself.’

The mind of Esmond Bartlett Fermoy was racing. This was probably the craziest thing he had ever had to do. His firm, Gransden and Fermoy, had been solicitors for close to thirty years. Hugo Gransden, however, had passed away some ten years ago and had left no descendants. Although the letterheads and business cards still announced Gransden and Fermoy, Solicitors at Law, the firm in reality consisted just of Esmond Fermoy as the principal partner, assisted by a small staff of associates and clerks. The decision was therefore his and his alone to make. He could see the immense folly or follies even, in Sir Vivian’s plan. He could also see potential – a great potential in fact – for making a lot of money. Making lots of money was in fact the main guiding factor in most of the decisions made by Esmond Bartlett Fermoy. He therefore agreed to represent his valued client in his unusual venture. He picked up the letter-opener again – it obviously was his comforter.

‘Then, of course, I shall be delighted to help. I will draw up some contractual documents tomorrow. After you leave, I shall start making contact with the various interested parties.’

Both men rose to their feet. Esmond Fermoy came around to the front of his desk holding out his hand, which Sir Vivian grasped firmly. Sir Vivian turned towards the door and as Esmond Fermoy moved to open it he clapped his hands almost like a young child and uttered a strange whoop of delight. ‘Good. Good. Thank you, my dear Esmond. You will not regret this little venture. Quite apart from the excitement of it all, I shall expect your fee to be suitably enhanced – as it should be considering the overall value of the sale. I fully expect the Massenet group to head up a syndicate. They will need to dig deep.’

Esmond Fermoy paused with his hand hovering over the gleaming brass door handle. ‘How deep, would you say?’

‘What?’ Sir Vivian replied, apparently not at once grasping the question.

‘You said, Sir Vivian, that the buyers will have to dig deep – implying, I think, that a very large sum of money will change hands as your collection changes hands. I was merely enquiring how ‘deep’ the digging – into pockets, wallets, savings accounts and so on – will be necessary.’

Sir Vivian turned to face other man and, being a little shorter, he had to look up. His look had a penetrating quality and it was directed straight into Esmond Fermoy’s eyes. ‘Ah, yes. How much is my collection worth. Well, you know how difficult it is to place value on some things. Intrinsic worth – mm – I would say around two-four – two-eight. After considering the quality of workmanship, beauty of presentation and historical provenance of some of my wonders, though – three-eight is nearer the total I shall be seeking.’

In spite of all of the self-control for which he was noted, Esmond Bartlett Fermoy gasped. ‘Three-eight?’ He swallowed audibly, and then in a sort of hoarse whisper. ‘Do you mean three-point-eight million pounds?

At this Sir Vivian laughed with his head momentarily thrown right back. ‘Three-point-eight million? Are you insane, man? Three-point-eight? Good God! I can put that much on one table. Three-eight! Thirty-eight. My collection ought to fetch at least thirty-eight million pounds sterling. After all it is the finest collection of diamonds the world has ever seen – or is about to see.’

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Chapter 3

At about the time of Sir Vivian de Monville’s startling revelation to his solicitor, Benedict Mason was writing the word ‘Diamonds’ at the top of an A4 feint-ruled pad. He carefully underlined this title and then, two lines down and against the left-hand margin, he wrote ‘1.’; alongside this he wrote ‘Expensive’. He then leaned back and surveyed his handiwork. This was a start – a start on his file on diamonds. He held his pen – a simple plastic black-ink ball-point – with both hands horizontally just under his nose. Hmm, he thought, is this really the sum total of my knowledge of the world’s most precious ornament? He allowed his gaze to wander; to the window and out over the green of Cornwallis Square. It was raining again and looking down he could see people hurrying along with their heads down. Why do people hurry when it is raining? Presumably, they think they will get less wet. Maybe there was some logic in that; after all if you stood still in one place you would get more wet. This though he felt begged the question of how fast a person would have to move to stay dry. Stupid, he thought. Still, even those with umbrellas are hurrying. There was even a pretty blonde girl tripping along with tiny steps in high-heels and covering her bare head with a shoulder bag. Mason craned his neck to follow her attractive, but now retreating, form. He wondered if she was wearing diamonds – an engagement ring perhaps.

Mason was not a ladies’ man as such. He was attracted to women, especially attractive women, and had a healthy appetite for heterosexual encounters, but he liked to think he was selective. He also liked to think of himself as a gentleman, and not a chaser or a one-night-stander. For these fine moral aspirations he had his Aunt Barbara to thank: she was no prude, but had insisted on and instilled in him a code of conduct that she thought ‘proper, decent and safe’. Some of his army colleagues had often teased him about his reluctance to casually bed a female simply because she was available for the night. He had had occasional affairs, none lasting very long, and none that had been at all deep and meaningful. There was no doubt that women found him attractive for nature had endowed him with good looks. At six feet one and a half inches, weighing about ninety kilograms and having the sort of physique special-services training provided, he was a handsome example of the male human. He wore his almost black hair short and neat, with no parting; his blue eyes were inherited from his beautiful mother and his craggy face from his father. At school and at college he was into several sports: rugby football, cricket, tennis and squash, and, strangely enough, darts. In fact, at O.T.C. and later in the regimental mess, his prowess at darts kept him in drinks and helped accumulate a small collection of cups and plaques. He missed the camaraderie of the mess, the laughter, even the teasing – it was standard practice in the regiment for everyone to be joshed and ridiculed whenever an occasion arose, excuses could be really trivial. A man had to learn to take the banter and to give as good as he was given. This was necessary partly to establish a sort of social credibility – mess-cred perhaps, and partly to build up relationships and understandings that would underpin actions in the field, when every man would be dependent on close colleagues and them on him.

Mason realized he was day-dreaming and turned his gaze away from the window. He looked back at his pad. Diamonds! What did he know?

Actually, diamond is the commonest gemstone, although not the most abundant; certainly the gem known to almost all people, especially adults, especially girls – women. ‘Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,’ it says in the song, he mused. Some women would simply refuse to venture out in public unless adorned with a diamond or two. Men also love diamonds, for mainly two reasons: owning diamonds means you are rich and giving diamonds is impressive whomever the recipient – wife, mistress, girlfriend … boyfriend … mother, daughter … maiden aunt … Don’t get too silly. Huh, he thought, I have never given anyone – anyone at all – a diamond of any sort. What do I wish for the most, he thought? To be able to afford to buy a diamond or to have someone that means enough to me to give her a diamond. Either way, pipe dreams.

Benedict Mason was not given to idle dreams usually. He had always, until a few months ago, prided himself on being a very pragmatic person. This present job – a desk job – was something he had sworn against not so long ago. As desk jobs go it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t particularly well paid, but he could have done worse. His army career had been cut short by an unfortunate accident, not even on active service, but on a training exercise in Norway. He had been leading a team testing a new type of snowmobile. This was a state-of-the-art gadget-filled vehicle designed to place men and equipment in what had become known as ‘fast-insertion’ techniques – oh yes, there were several alternative and witty definitions of that title. After several days of exhilarating and (for the designers) rewarding testing they came upon the first major fault: the vehicle was prone to overturn when manoeuvring on steep ice-covered slopes. His vehicle, climbing rapidly on hard-packed snow with a surface coating of ice, hit a mogul just as the driver had thrown it into a tight right-hand turn. Over it went, several times, sliding and tumbling down the hillside for some three-hundred metres – gathering speed, until it hit a tree. The consequences were severe: two men killed and three, including Lieutenant Mason, injured. He had been fairly lucky, he told himself: a knee and several vertebrae knocked about. The injuries were not actually crippling, but the knee joint would always be weak – he could still walk, run (jog), swim, work-out in a weights’ room – however, squash, badminton, tennis even, were out. Worst of all, he was out – of the Army. Oh, there was a pension of sorts and no-expenses-spared rehabilitation, but the career that he enjoyed so much was over.

Mason had spent several months feeling very sorry for himself, behaving in a manner his Aunt Barbara had deemed to be ‘unsatisfactory and a denial of his true worth’; Uncle Wilfred’s comment was ‘bloody stupid’. It was a chance meeting with his old commanding officer that brought him back to his senses. The Colonel knew another colonel, as they do, who knew someone in an insurance company: they were looking for a ‘sound type’ to work in fraud and recovery. Following, a simple interview and a letter of recommendation, he was duly given this desk, a telephone, a filing cabinet and a cupboard for his coat. The office was small and he shared it with a ginger-haired character called Grant Hendersby. Grant was pleasant enough, competent enough, but was totally, if not quite equally, absorbed in two things: Samantha and rock climbing – fiancée and hobby. Grant was away at the present: knocking pitons into limestone in the Peak District; with Samantha, of course. The office was all his for a few days – and he hated it – quiet, boring.

When Mason had started the job with Geerson-Heathstone Insurance, he had looked forward to an exciting series of challenges – solving fraud cases, recovering stolen paintings. He bought three new suits and several other presentable garments, acquired the lease on a flat – No. 9c Valida Road, Clifton, Bristol, and borrowed a bit to indulge in a shiny green BMW coupé.

But here he was, installed in a very ordinary office in Cornwallis Square in Bristol – a city of great history (some good, some dubious), some splendid restaurants, great pubs, green parks and lots of people buying insurance. And, yes, some of those, having bought insurance, then embarked on a course of fraud and deceit. And, yes, Benedict Mason’s job, as an employee of the long-established but modern out-looking (a phrase used in the current Mission Statement), Geerson-Heathstone Insurance, was to devise ways and means of preventing such wrongdoing – and, failing that, devise tactics for rectifying the losses incurred by the company. So far, in the slightly-less-than-illustrious second career, he had mainly been engaged in writing up insurance cover for special clients. It was mostly routine stuff: sponsors and organisers of art exhibitions requiring cover for valuables in transit and on temporary display; advertisers and publicity people who were borrowing valuable jewellery, paintings and so on; celebrities attending functions and wanting to insure the furs and jewels normally kept in bank vaults. Perhaps the oddest job he had had was the insurance of a rare type of crocodile that was sent to a zoo in Thailand to mate – several offspring and no claims resulted – a perfect result.

While some of the assignments were of moderate passing interest, if only for curiosity value, they were hardly likely to start any adrenalin flowing in an erstwhile super-fit keen-brained twenty-seven year old ex-Special-Services bod. So when, at about 11.00 a.m. that morning, Mason was summoned to Mr Clive Streetly’s office, he went up with hope and expectation brimming in his mind. Mr Clive Streetly was on the Board of Directors and was responsible for security matters – in other words, he was Mason’s top boss. It did not occur to Mason that he might be going upstairs to be carpeted – the confidence of the young! As it happened, it was not a carpeting, it was a new assignment – an assignment that would cause him eventually to stray outside of the law and bring him into great danger.

Mr Streetly’s secretary, Brenda, had smiled sweetly and routinely, looking up from her keyboard, as Mason hesitatingly opened the door to the outer office. He was still only halfway in when he started to explain his purpose. ‘Er, Benedict Mason – to see Mr Streetly?’

‘He’s expecting you, Mr Mason. Just a moment.’ Brenda pressed a button on her telephone and talked into an unseen microphone. ‘Mr Mason is here, Mr Streetly.’

A disembodied voice replied, ‘Send him in’. Brenda got up, crossed to a pair of double doors. She walked through them without knocking, opening both doors as she did so; once through she stood to one side and inclined her head – an invitation to enter, evidently.

Mason was surprised as a heavily-built man in a brown suit, yellow shirt and regimental tie, stood up and walked towards him with a hand outstretched. ‘Thank you for coming up, Mr Mason. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything crucial.’

‘No … I. I can catch up.’ His hand was being shaken very firmly, almost painfully. ‘Good morning, Mr Streetly.’

Streetly held on to Mason’s hand a moment longer, while looking directly into his eyes. ‘Good morning, to you, Mr Mason,’ he said. ‘Please – sit down.’

Mason sat in the chair indicated by a wave of the other man’s hand. It was a black leather club chair; Streetly sat in a similar one. Between them was a low table with a glass top; on it a tray with two small porcelain cups, a porcelain coffee pot and a matching teapot. Streetly picked up the coffee pot. ‘Coffee,’ he asked, ‘Or tea?’

‘Oh, er – coffee – please.’

‘How?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Just black, please. Thank you’

Streetly poured two sups of coffee and passed one to Mason. He then picked up a silver box. ‘Biscuit, Mr Mason?’

‘Er, no – thanks’

‘Have you settled in here by now? Got the hang of things – the way we work?’ He took a Bourbon biscuit from the silver box and bit off a small piece; looking at Mason all the time.

Mason started to relax. This welcome by a director was so unexpected. He had considered himself to be quite low in the pecking order, a mere minion – but now, morning coffee in expensive china was – great, really.

‘Yes, oh yes. Everyone has been so helpful. Lots of advice – showing me the ropes.’

‘Quite different, though, from what you used to do?’ Another bite of biscuit and a little nod.

Mason had tried a sip of coffee, it was very hot – the tip of his tongue felt rough and numb. He put the delicate cup onto the table. ‘Yes. I was in the Army’. He was sure he was now speaking with a lisp.

Streetly carefully poured a small amount of cream into his cup and took a sip. ‘Ah, yes. Special Services. Tough was it?’

‘Sort of – well, the training was. Tough training, easy battle – as they say. I was invalided out – had an accident.’

‘In Norway, right? Bloody hard luck. You think your whole life is down the kibosh, don’t you? Happened to me, you see. Still got a bullet in me lower back. Sodding thing keeps moving. I have to get an x-ray every six months – if it moves to a convenient spot, they’ll take the bloody thing out. Fingers crossed, eh?’

‘Absolutely, Sir. Where …?’

‘Northern Ireland. Still … Anyway, tell me a bit about yourself. I’ve got your army record – skipped through that earlier. You’ve got good write-ups all along. What about before?’

‘Before, Sir?’

‘Before the Army. Your file is a bit hazy. Parents, for example.’

‘Ah, I see. Both my parents died when I was eleven. I was brought up my mother’s sister and her husband, Barbara and Wilfred Mason. I …’

Streetly leaned forward – Mason reasoned that he could be intimidating, if he thought to be so. ‘So, you took you Uncle’s name. Why’s that?’

‘It was their idea. You see my father was killed during a robbery. He was a crook, I suppose. I don’t remember much about him. He was always kind to me and to my mother, as far as I know. He’d done a bit of time: car thieving, a bit of breaking and entering – small stuff, nothing violent. Anyway, he was escaping from this robbery and was being chased. There was a crash and he was killed. The police reckon he had handed the money to someone else before they spotted him and went after him. They never did recover the money or find out who the others were. The police said he was the mastermind, but looking back now I would say that was unlikely.’

‘That’s a sad story, Mr Mason. What happened to your mother, then?’

‘My poor mother was not very strong, either physically or intellectually. My father’s death left us virtually penniless, but it was the disgrace of what he was and what they said he had done – you see, a security guard had been killed during the robbery. Apparently, dad had done that. No one was mourning for him, except my mother. It was more than she could bear and three months later she took an overdose.’

‘Leaving you an orphan.’

‘Yes. Aunt Barbara and Uncle Wilfred were wonderful. They took me in and loved me as one of their own – they had two: Diana and Richard. They were several years older than me; I got a few knocks, but they mostly looked after me. I went to their school and then won a scholarship to Wellesley College – the army college. Apparently, I was quite bright. I got the right A-levels eventually and got into O.T.C. The Army was spot-on for me – the right mixture of independence and interdependence. After a couple of years, I got my second pip for full lieutenant and then was transferred to Special Services. I felt so lucky, so good – life was great.’

‘Until a snowy day in Norway. And now you are here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you telling me all that, Mr Mason. It may have been a bit nosey of me, but I wanted to hear you tell me in your own words.’

‘You mean, you knew all that?’

‘Yes. But I wanted to see how you viewed things. You have had a few set-backs in your life – and seem to cope very well with sudden changes. Good. Because, I want to offer you another change. I cannot promise it will be exciting, but it may well be interesting. First, I want you to learn as much as you can about gemstones – in particular, about diamonds.’

‘Diamonds?’

‘Diamonds. As insurers, as you know, we offer cover for high-value items of – among other things – jewellery and jewels. Well now, in conjunction with one or two other companies of a similar ilk, we have decided to set up a sort of hush-hush investigation unit. The brief will be to study activities both legal and illegal associated with trade in diamonds – and maybe other gemstones, but mainly diamonds. A special unit has also been set up involving the Metropolitan Police and a number of regional constabularies, including our local Bristol and Somerset Police. We hope that a national database will result, which will help to both deter and remedy crimes associated with diamonds. But, of course, one of the main aims – since we are an insurance company – will be to recover property illegally obtained and assist the police in apprehending fraudsters and others of a criminal bent.’

Mason was finding it difficult to take all this in. ‘It sounds an exciting venture, Sir, but … er, where do I fit in?’

Streetly took another Bourbon biscuit and leaned back in the club chair. ‘You, Mr Mason, will be our expert here at Geerson-Heathstone Insurance and in the Bristol and South West Regional Group of companies. We want you take a super-fast training course in diamonds: what they are, where they come from, what their properties are, why some are more expensive than others – the works. Find out how diamonds are bought and sold. Find out who is currently buying and selling. Work with the police to get a picture of diamond crime, so that we as insurers can assess risks. How about it? There would be a modest increase in salary and er – moderate expenses. What d’you say?’

Mason stared at the man opposite, who was now calmly biting off pieces of brown biscuit and chewing them with an audible crunching noise. He only hoped that if he said yes to this proposition that he, Benedict Mason, ex-lieutenant, would not be biting off more that he could chew. He took a deep breath. ‘I would love to give it a go, Sir.’

Streetly jumped up and held out his hand again. ‘Good man. My secretary will give you details of a man you are to go and see. He’s expecting you at four-thirty this afternoon. Good luck. Keep me posted – but, you know – security and all that’

The hand grip was still very firm, but this time the recipient was better prepared; however, he didn’t remember leaving the office, collecting an envelope from Brenda and taking the lift down to his own floor. Back at his desk he looked in the envelope; and saw that that afternoon he was to meet Sir Vivian de Monville at 15 St Francis Crescent, Clifton.

[Back to Top]

Chapter 4

Thankfully, the rain had stopped and the pavements were becoming dry again. Mason had therefore decided to walk the short distance between Cornwallis Square and St Francis Crescent. He strode at a military tempo (out of force of habit) along Royal York Crescent and then Sion Hill. A watery sun was just breaking through the clouds as they lightened and lifted. The elegant towers of Brunel’s famous suspension bridge appeared on his left. Traffic was queuing to cross the bridge as he got to Suspension Bridge Road; he turned right, away from the bridge; and then crossing and moving up Clifton Down Road, in the direction of Clifton College and the City of Bristol. The Victorian houses in this part of Bristol all looked solid and permanent, with their stone facings and stone-mullioned bay windows. St Francis Crescent is formed in a slight curve as its name implies. Short driveways led in from the road, their entrances un-gated, but flanked with stone pillars surmounted with capstones of varying shapes: spheres atop pyramids seemed to be the commonest. At number fifteen the pillar adornments were large stone acorns.

Just inside the gateway and just off the tarmac drive a brass plaque mounted on two wooden posts announced Deerwood Estates. Mason stopped just outside and consulted the address he had been given – yes – 15 St Francis Crescent. He turned into the driveway; there were three stone steps leading to a very solid-looking front door. Another, smaller plaque again proclaimed the occupants as Deerwood Estates. He rang the bell.

When the door opened, Benedict Mason was for a moment speechless, for it was opened by the most attractive woman he had ever seen. She was about five feet and eight inches tall and had fair, almost blonde, hair cut short and neat. The suit she was wearing was not really expensive, but it was certainly well chosen, for it fitted the contours of her figure exquisitely. The suit was a pale grey, smooth, slightly shiny, fabric; the jacket front held by two buttons; the skirt finished slightly above her knees. Slim and elegant, her legs were clad in nylon and disappeared into smart grey court shoes. Under the jacket Mason could see the rise of firm breasts; on the cream blouse at her throat she wore a brown and white cameo brooch.

He realised he was staring; a slight quizzical smile started to form on the face of the vision.

‘Hello , er, I have an appointment with Sir Vivian dem … er, de Monvee. Benedict Mason.’

He wished he had been wearing a hat, which he could have doffed with old-style gallantry. As it was, he gulped and stared.

The vision spoke: ‘Sir Vivian de Monville is whom you have come to see, I think, Mr Mason. He is expecting you. Please come in.’

She turned and walked into the house and waited. He followed, stammering thanks. She closed the door and walked past him to a wide carpeted staircase. Following her up the stairs was both agonising and extremely pleasurable. He could not tear his eyes from the swinging derrière ahead of him at eye level – and yet the gentleman in him felt guilty. He clutched his document case tightly and looked down at the carpet – it was blue. He looked up again – at the grey …

At the top of the stairs his guide turned along a carpeted corridor. Several black-painted doors opened off this and at the third one along she stopped, tapped politely and walked in.

An elegantly dressed silver-haired man was standing by the window. He turned as they entered and strode towards then enthusiastically, hand outstretched.

‘Mr Mason, I believe. Do come in. I am so pleased you could come along this afternoon. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, Sir. Yes, please.’

‘Splendid!’ The man turned to the vision. ‘Thank you so much, Jenny. Would you bring a tea tray for two? Most kind. Now, Mr Mason, do have a seat.’

The vision, now revealed as Jenny, quietly left the room – a faint waft of her perfume stayed, tantalising Benedict Mason’s senses. Sir Vivian’s voice broke into his hiatus.

‘Yes. She is rather stunning, isn’t she? She has men walking into lampposts, you know. For your records, Mr Mason, her name is Jennifer Bridges, she is twenty-four (don’t tell her I told you); she is unmarried, not engaged and is perfectly respectable; as well as being a damn good secretary. So there you are – save time won’t it? Save you asking other members of my staff. Please, do sit down.’

Mason realising how