Diamond Solitaire (15 page)

"Take us there now, if you please."

She took a sharp, indignant breath and turned in protest to Julia Musgrave, who told her firmly to do as Mr. Diamond instructed.

As if every step were on red-hot coals she led them upstairs and opened a door to a room containing three small beds. The quilts were thrown back.

"Which is Naomi's?"

Mrs. Straw pointed to the one nearest the door. A light green pair of child's pajamas lay over the pillow. Diamond picked them up.

"School property," Mrs. Straw informed him.

He tossed them back and opened the locker beside the bed. Nothing was inside. But before rising, he happened to notice the hard, straight edge of something squeezed between the bedstead and the mattress. He slipped his hand inside.

A remark of Julia Musgrave's came back to him:
They can
hide a favorite toy and weeks, months later, go straight to it.
What he had found was Naomi's drawing pad. He withdrew it and flicked through the pages to be quite certain.

"She left this."

"Must have forgotten it," Mrs. Straw said tersely.

"That isn't likely. She carried it everywhere, as you very well know." He felt under the mattress again and this time found the marker pen. "She kept the things here because they were so precious to her. She's unlikely to have left without them. Not freely."

Ridges had formed at the edge of Mrs. Straw's mouth.

"You were here," Diamond pointed out. "Did she have the opportunity of collecting her things?"

She gave no answer.

"Just now you gave the impression that this was a joyful reunion with mother," Diamond commented. "Hugs and kisses and a few tears into the bargain. Were they tears of joy, Mrs. Straw, or distress? You see, this discovery has rocked my confidence. I'm beginning to wonder if the child was taken from here against her will. If that is the case, you'd better say so, fast."

She shook her head vigorously, either in defiance or to contest his interpretation.

Confronted with the familiar challenge of the uncooperative witness, a trained interrogator like Diamond might have coaxed out the truth, but while Naomi was under threat, he wasn't wasting time on refinements.

"You lied."

Mrs. Straw arched her mouth and glared.

He shoved the drawing pad towards her, forcing her to sway back. "She wouldn't have gone' without this."

"Get away from me," she muttered.

He felt Julia Musgrave's hand on his arm, wanting to restrain him, without result. "Admit it. That woman took Naomi off by force." He portrayed the scene vividly. "She dragged the kid out of here screaming and kicking."

"No."

He gave her a moment for a more considered answer.

She added, "That isn't true—about the screaming. You can ask the cook."

"I intend to."

"She only struggled a bit."

"We're coming to it," said Diamond.

"There wasn't no screaming."

"Crying?"

"No."

"And there wasn't any kissing and cuddling, was there, Mrs. Straw? You bed about that."

"No."

"But you just said the child struggled. Come on, what are we to believe—that after this touching reunion her so-called mother had to wrestle with her to get her out of the place?"

She emitted a sound between a gasp and a sob and clamped her teeth over her lower lip. The dragon who deterred visitors was a cornered creature now.

Julia, probably succumbing to the tension, said, "No one is blaming you, Mrs. Straw"—which wasn't strictly true, and Diamond didn't let it pass. He was angry. And, more vitally, he was conscious of the minutes passing.

"Blame is exactly what this is about," he said without deflecting his eyes from Mrs. Straw. "You thought you could avoid more blame by telling this crap about kissing and cuddling. You don't want us to know what really took place this morning. And while you feed us horseshit, this woman is heading for God knows where with a child who was in your charge. You're in deep trouble, Mrs. Straw. By Christ, you'd better speak up."

The force of his speech had a dramatic result. Mrs. Straw turned ashen. The rigid mouth softened and quivered. Her hand fumbled in a pocket of the apron she was wearing and extracted a large red handkerchief. She pressed it to her nose and, instead of blowing it, emitted a long, low moan of distress. Her eyes reddened and dampened. Huge sobs convulsed her. The outburst was the more disturbing because she had always seemed so implacable.

"Now, now," said Julia in sympathy.

Unmoved, Diamond remarked, "We don't have time for this, Mrs. Straw."

Dabbing her tears, she launched into a confession punctuated by frequent sobs. "I was too frightened to tell you exactly what happened. Naomi didn't want to leave. She put up a fight. What I said was true—about the picture and everything— and I'm positive they knew each other, only when it was obvious that the woman wanted to take Naomi with her, she went berserk—Naomi, I mean. She tried to run away and the woman grabbed hold of her arm and wouldn't let go. What could I do? I'm only supposed to be the help here. She kept on and on saying she was the mother and the passport was proof of it In the end I went upstairs for Naomi's things. What I told you about the two of them coming up here wasn't true. Naomi was in no state to do anything, so I collected her things myself. I didn't think to look for the drawing book. I put the spare clothes in a carrier and handed them over. Naomi had to be pushed and dragged all the way to the taxi."

"There was a taxi?"

"Yes, it must have been waiting. I noticed it when I first opened the door. And when they left, Naomi was struggling and kicking by the taxi door and only went in after her leg was slapped."

"Oh, no!" said Julia, who wouldn't allow anyone to strike a child in her school.

"What sort of taxi?" asked Diamond, trying to exclude everything but the essential information, though, he, too, was disturbed at the treatment of Naomi.

"The usual. I won't lose my job, will I, Miss Musgrave?"

"Black?"

"What?"

"The taxi, Mrs. Straw. Was it black?"

"Oh. Yes."

"I suppose it's too much to hope that you took the number?"

She shook her head.

"Anything about it—adverts on the doors. Try and remember."

"I can't. Anyway, I couldn't see it properly because of the hedge."

"What time did they leave? How long were they here?"

"I don't know—about twenty minutes, I suppose. It might have been less. It seemed like twenty minutes."

"Before eight-thirty, then?"

"I suppose so."

He told Julia, "I'm calling the ponce. We're going to need them."

Mrs. Straw covered her eyes and moaned.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The person who took the call at Kensington Police Station expressed doubt whether it would be possible to trace an unnamed Japanese woman and child who had stepped into a taxi in Earls Court at 8:30.

Diamond hadn't reprimanded a policeman for months, but he still had the knack. "Who the hell do you think you are-God Almighty?" he boomed down the line. "This is a bloody emergency. It isn't your job to look down from the clouds and say what's possible and what isn't. Action the call. I was in the police, son. I know what I'm talking about. The morning rush hour is the busiest time of day for taxis."

"That's just the point," said the hapless officer.

"What are you, a civilian? Put me through to someone in uniform, will you? Who's the station sergeant?"

"I am."

"God help us. Listen, I'm not telling you your job, sergeant, but there are ways of tracing taxis. Most of them work in fleets and radio their positions to the girl on the intercom, right? At the busiest times there's a large demand for cabs. If one was standing outside a school for twenty minutes, someone is going to remember—because it was unavailable for other work—follow me?"

"Yes, but—"

"And this cab driver, whoever he may be, is going to remember sitting there. He's also going to remember picking up a Japanese woman and a kid who was most unwilling to be with her. Now, you can't trace every taxi in London, agreed, but you can call the offices telling them to check with their controllers, or whatever they call themselves."

"Have you any idea what you're asking, Mr.—"

"Diamond. Ex-Superintendent Diamond. Yes, I know exactiy what I'm asking, and it's the obvious course of action apart from questioning the neighbors round here, which goes without saying. If you want help—"

"That won't be needed."

"Good. I'm glad you can handle that," Diamond said and added before the sergeant had time to come in again, "In that case I'll come straight down to the station. I can be more useful there."

This had the desired effect, a definite infusion of urgency. "Will you listen to me, sir? I want you to stay where you are. I'll be sending someone to take a statement from you."

"Sod that. I've given you the facts. Do I have to repeat that this child was taken from the school against her will? Abducted, sergeant. We've got to know where she was taken, and we've got to know fast."

He ended the call.

Julia Musgrave had overheard all this. She was pale, clearly disturbed by Diamond's bulldozing, without knowing that it was the sure way to get things done in the police. "You said this is an emergency."

His response was guarded. "I know that sergeant's type. If you told him a bomb had been planted in Buckingham Palace, he'd want it in writing first."

"Is Naomi in danger?"

"We've got to assume she is. Whoever this woman is— and she may be the mother, for all I know—she behaved suspiciously."

"Maybe," she commented. "But you can't expect a mother deprived of her child to act rationally. She turned up here at breakfast time. Is that really to be interpreted as suspicious? If my child were missing, I wouldn't think twice about knocking on someone's door any time of the day or night."

"In that case why didn't she come here yesterday, directly after the television program?"

"We don't know where she was when she saw it. If she was in Manchester, for example, she'd have had to travel to London, wouldn't she?"

"She could have phoned."

"Perhaps she tried. You told me yourself that the BBC switchboard was jammed."

He wasn't going to get far with mis line of reasoning and he hadn't started it anyway, so he mentioned another obvious cause for mistrusting the Japanese woman. "I can't believe a genuine mother just reunited with her child would hit her."

"Stress."

He gave up. He knew really that his motives in treating the matter as an emergency were more instinctive than rational. Naomi had eventually come to trust him—at least to the extent of holding his hand. He wouldn't have admitted to Julia Musgrave or anyone else—bar Stephanie—that the child had captivated him. He'd felt the small hand in his own and now it was a self-imposed duty to find out whether she was safe. But he didn't want anyone running away with the idea that he—the veteran of a dozen murder inquiries—was a soft touch, literally a soft touch. He didn't particularly want to admit it to himself.

There was more to it, he insisted. He was deeply suspicious about the mother. How could she have allowed herself to be parted from her child for so long? Why hadn't she alerted the police, or at least her own embassy, when Naomi first went missing? Foreigners could be forgiven some confusion in a strange country, but anyone, of any nationality, ought to have reacted promptly to a crisis as basic as that.

So he wasn't giving up without satisfying himself that the "mother"
was
the mother, and was capable of looking after her child.

Before carrying out his promise (or threat) to call at the police station, he decided to give the area car ten minutes to drive up. Someone may have seen the woman forcing Naomi into the taxi and it was worth making sure that the right questions were asked. Thus far, he wasn't over impressed by the caliber of the Kensington plod.

Two PCs—male and female—arrived with a couple of minutes to spare, looking like extras in a TV soap opera. Why was it that no one in police uniform looked genuine anymore? To do them justice, they went about their duties efficiently and agreed to divide forces, one knocking on doors while the other questioned Mrs. Straw.

Diamond waited long enough to learn that not one of the neighbors had witnessed Naomi being bundled into the taxi. One man raised hopes by saying he had spotted the cab standing outside, and then could only add that the vehicle had been black and the driver white.

Down at the nick in Earls Court Road, someone must have issued a warning of imminent invasion. Two sergeants and a plainclothes CID officer—an inspector, as it turned out-were at the desk to repel Diamond. They didn't succeed, of course. He'd long ago checked the identity of the Deputy Assistant Commissioner for Six Area West, and nothing opens a door better than naming the man in charge.

This being Saturday morning, the Big White Chief wasn't about, so Diamond had to settle for his surrogate, Chief Superintendent Sullins, another name usefully committed to memory from the police directory in Kensington Library. For bis part, Sullins, a foxy little character in white shirt and red braces, trying strenuously to look the part of the Kensington supremo, claimed to have heard of Diamond, though they had never met until this handshake on the stairs.

"Everything under control" was Sullins' text for the day, at least for Peter Diamond's consumption. He was giving this matter of the missing child high priority. The police already knew all about Naomi ("I wish I did," Diamond commented in passing) from the night of the alarm in Harrods. They'd gone to extraordinary lengths to try and establish who she was. And now everything possible was being done to trace the taxi. Cab firms all over London were being contacted. So Diamond was free to leave in the sure confidence that nothing he could do would speed the process.

"Thank you, but I'd prefer to stay," he said amiably.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Sullins told him

"Why?"

"We don't allow members of the public—"

"Ex-CID," Diamond interjected.

"I appreciate the offer, Mr. Diamond, but we have our procedures."

He countered with: "You mean you need to get the Chiefs consent? Understandable." He smiled disarmingly. "I'll fix it. What does he do Saturday mornings—play golf or go shopping with his good lady? I'm damned sure he carries a beeper, wherever he is. And if he has to trot back to his car for the phone, I dare say he won't mind. Do you want me to mention you asked me to get clearance, or should I leave your name out of it, Mr. Sullins?''

No ambitious policeman was proof against that kind of blackmail. "Ex-CID, you said," Sullins remarked as if he had only just registered the information. "I suppose it's possible you may be of use. It's highly irregular."

Diamond nodded. "Cheers. I'll keep myself inconspicuous." Which was by some way the most unlikely assertion anyone had made that morning.

In the communications room, a WPC was keying something into the computer. Diamond squeezed around her to reach for the log of calls that the switchboard operator had beside her. "Got anything back from the taxi firms—about the Japanese kid?"

"Zero so far," she told him.

"How many are there?"

"Cab firms? Have you looked at the Yellow Pages?

He picked a directory off her desk. What he saw depressed him. "How many have you done?"

"About twelve."

"Keep going."

She gave him a withering stare. "Who
are
you?

"It is a young kid," he said.

"Japanese, aged about seven," she chanted without looking at a note, "red corduroy dress, black tights, white trainers, accompanied by a Japanese woman about thirty, of smart appearance, with short, dark, wavy hair, grayJacket and matching trousers believed to be made by Rohan."

He took the opportunity to ask how anyone would recognize Rohan garments and was told that the name was displayed on them.

So Mrs. Straw was not, after all, a connoisseur of fashion, but her information was probably reliable.

"They're not cheap," the girl added, "but they're smart. Kind of sporty. Rohans are really something else in trousers—all those pockets."

He thanked her. "Now can I help in any way, by calling over the numbers, perhaps?"

"Is that meant to be a hint, or something? I was going as fast as I could before you interrupted."

"What if one of them calls back?"

"Harry over there will take it. He's had nothing up to now."

Harry over there was wearing earphones. He looked up from a copy of
Viz
and raised his thumb in greeting.

"I'll let you get on, then," Diamond told them tamely.

"Ta."

He moved away. He fancied a cigarette now, and he hadn't smoked in years. Didn't even approve of it

Feeling alien and ineffectual, a sensation he'd never have dreamed was possible in a police station, he went to look for the canteen. Five cigarettes and two black coffees later, he went back upstairs, only to be greeted with Harry's palms spread wide in a negative gesture.

In an hour he returned and the operator said that she'd contacted every taxi firm except three that had probably gone out of business. Most of them had said they'd need to check with their controllers or their drivers, some of whom had changed shift since eight in the morning. The standard arrangement was that they'd ring back if anyone could remember picking up the Japanese woman and child in Earls Court.

Harry was filling in a football pools coupon.

"Nothing yet?"

"Zilch."

Diamond went in search of Superintendent Sullins. He found him in an office upstairs dictating a letter. "About to leave, Mr. Diamond?"

"We seem to have drawn a blank with the taxis."

"Nil desperandum.
One of the firms could ring back anytime."

"I know, but it's almost six hours since they were last seen."

"Let's not be melodramatic," Sullins unwisely commented. "We're not dealing with a mine disaster."

"Melodramatic!
This is a missing child."

"Possibly."

"Have you alerted the airports and the main line stations?

"Alerted them to what? A mother slapping her child's leg? Let's keep this in proportion. And now you're going to tell me that we don't know if she's the mother."

"We don't."

"But she produced a photograph, Mr. Diamond."

An eruption was irnminent. Only a buzz on the intercom prevented it.

Sullins touched a switch. "Yes?"

The voice was female. "Sir, we're taking a call from a taxi firm in Hammersmith called Instant Cabs."

"Put it on," Sullins ordered.

A man's voice was saying, "... went off duty at twelve, and we've only just been able to trace him. He's your driver, all right He picked up a Japanese woman at seven-fifty this morning in Brook Green. She had a suitcase, dark blue. He drove her to Kempsford Gardens School in Earls Court-would that be right?—and waited until eight twenty-five, or soon after, when she came out with a child, a small girl. Japanese, like the woman. She seemed to be playing up, he said. He drove them to the airport."

"Heathrow?"

"Yes."

"Which terminal?"

"Three. The intercontinental."

Diamond didn't wait to hear any more. He was out and down the stairs and telling Harry to get Immigration on the line.