Heller's Regret (18 page)

When Farrell turned up, I made an
ostentatious display of checking my watch, shaking my head and
tutting loudly. I didn’t miss his secret smile, the barest turning
up of the corner of one lip. I told myself he enjoyed it when I
teased him. Though not a man naturally prone to showing mirth, I
knew from experience he had an excellent sense of humour.

He took some time to adjust his belt,
stepping into Clive’s office for a quick word about something I
couldn’t hear – not that I was trying or anything, honestly.

“You ready, Chalmers?” he asked, leaving the
office.

“What do you think, Hugh? I’m not just
standing here looking pretty.”

“You’ve got that right,” he replied, heading
out the door. I scurried to catch up to him. “You look like a bag
of bones.”

“Aw, don’t be mean. I look a lot better now
than I did a few weeks ago.”

“That wouldn’t take much.”

He strode to the locked key box, swiping his
ID card. He glanced around the garage, spotting the car he wanted.
He picked the key off its hook and signed it out.

Free of the ever watchful spies and cameras
in the Warehouse, on the drive over to the shopping centre he
asked, “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, though I have to admit I’m a little
nervous about beginning another assignment. I hope this one is as
boring as Heller promised.”

“It will be boring enough, but you know I’ll
be there for you if anything happens.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“I don’t know what Heller would do to me if I
let anything happen to you, but I can imagine.”

I smiled wryly. “It wouldn’t be pretty.”

“No.”

“He called you one of his trusted men. I’m
always surprised when he lets me go on an assignment with you,
considering . . . you know.”

“He does trust me because I’m a good,
reliable worker and he trusts me to look after you, because of . .
. you know. And he’s one of those rare people easily able to
separate his business from his personal life.”

“That’s true.”

We parked the car and walked through the
shopping centre to the department store. All the while, I kept my
eyes peeled for any sign of Miss Petunia, but thankfully didn’t see
her. In the awful event that our paths ever did cross, I hoped she
wouldn’t recognise me in my uniform with my hair pulled back,
especially as I’d lost so much weight recently.

We found the manager waiting for us outside
the closed doors of the store. I’d wondered if it would be Ted, a
nice man I’d worked for very briefly during a strange encounter,
but it was another man – a suavely dressed, well-groomed
person.

“Ah, good. You’re here on time,” the man said
when he saw us approaching. He didn’t offer us his hand, only his
name, Jean-Michel Smith. I thought that was an unusual combination
of names, though of course I kept that observation to myself being
the professional that I was.

“Follow me,” he said, leading the way.

He unlocked the small door to the side of the
enormous security rollers. We followed him to his office on the top
floor of the store.

“Take a seat,” he said brusquely, already
checking his watch as if we were taking up his precious time. “I
presume your boss has given you some background to the collection.”
We both nodded. “Good. I wanted you here so I could stress the
immense value of the jewellery. It’s been lent especially to us
from the duchy trust and I
don’t
want anything to happen to
it.” He cast me an unimpressed look. “You don’t look like much of a
security officer. My nine-year-old daughter could probably beat you
in a fight.”

Pissed off, I pursed my lips, but prudently
held my tongue. Who cared what he thought?

Farrell did, speaking up for me. “Officer
Chalmers is as well qualified and experienced as anyone at
Heller’s
. She’s just recovered from a serious illness.”

The rude man blushed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I
wasn’t denigrating your professionalism in any way.”

Right
, I thought to myself, awarding
him my ‘Prick of the Day’ award, even though the day had barely
started.
It wasn’t as though implying his young daughter would
stomp on my arse during a fight was in any way derogatory
.

“The security guards escorting the collection
have arrived and my staff are busy setting up the display,” he
continued blithely, as if the previous conversation hadn’t taken
place. “I’ll take you to the display. Follow me.”

Farrell and I exchanged a glance as we left
the manager’s office. I smiled at him for sticking up for me,
coaxing a nod in return.

Chapter 13

We followed him down a multitude of
escalators until we reached a small room off the main floor on the
first level. Walls draped in red velvet with gold threads running
through, sparkling in the light, exuded luxurious extravagance. In
the middle of the room stood four glass display cabinets, each
lined with tasteful black velvet to showcase the jewels to their
best.

The armed security guards waited, watching
with suspicious attentiveness as white-gloved store staff handled
the jewellery. I’d thought the men at
Heller’s
were man
mountains, but these guys were terrifyingly massive, their guns
doing nothing to soften that appearance. As they guarded the
jewellery, you could almost see the cogs in their brains cranking
out strategies for dealing with any staff member who’d dare to do a
runner with any of the pieces. It was fair to assume that more than
a few of those strategies involved gunfire.

I presumed their orders were to stay until
the jewellery was properly secured again. The men didn’t work for a
local firm, but one of the big, nationwide security businesses –
the type of business that Heller had worked in with Sid and Clive
before he’d established
Heller’s
.

We nodded to them as a professional courtesy
and they gruffly nodded back. Even from where we stood at the door,
the jewellery was spectacular. I couldn’t wait to inspect the
beautiful pieces at closer range. Farrell, however, watched the
transfer with detachment, more interested in also keeping an eye on
the staff than on the gems.

An older woman, her suspiciously blonde hair
secured in a severe chignon, a small pair of spectacles perched
imperiously at the end of her pointy nose, hastened over to us.
Farrell greeted her on behalf of the both of us, in the process
learning that she was Mrs Burwood (no first name provided). She
told us in an exceedingly snooty voice that she was manager of the
jewellery and women’s accessories section, which included watches,
sunglasses, scarves, hats and belts, but most emphatically
not
handbags or shoes, which had their own sections. The
sniffy way she’d told us that made clear her opinion of those
managers.

Farrell stared at her in bemusement, unsure
if that was strategically important information he should remember.
He wasn’t the kind of guy who regularly indulged in retail therapy,
especially in the women’s department.

Mrs Burwood proceeded to launch into a
detailed description of the eminent qualifications of the jewellery
section staff, which neither of us was particularly interested in.
Farrell tuned out, his eyes glazing over, though his face remained
polite. I knew I should be concentrating on what she was saying,
but my eyes were drawn back to the glass cabinets housing the
jewellery. I’d never been a covetous person by nature – as a
late-age daughter after two older sons in a middle-class family,
I’d received everything I’d ever wanted – but that jewellery was
breathtaking. For the first time in my life, I suddenly understood
the sentiments behind Marilyn Monroe’s pretty warbling about
diamonds being a girl’s best friend, and the hunger that drove some
women to do anything for them.

The collection consisted of necklaces,
earrings, rings, brooches and tiaras, all in solid gold and studded
with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls and some other jewels I
couldn’t even name, but which added their brightly varied colours
to the others. The store staff took their time positioning each
piece, making minute adjustments to ensure everything was expertly
displayed in the cabinets. Discreet lighting emphasised the sharp
facets of the priceless jewels. The collection screamed of the
incredible wealth and privilege of its owner. Maybe the duchess had
been a woman so valued by her husband that he’d willingly allowed
her to spend a fortune draping herself in precious gems. Or maybe
she’d been independently wealthy. I’d have to discover her name so
I could do some basic internet research on her.

I liked all the pieces, but the absolute
masterpiece for me was a necklace resting on a small raised
rotating dais, featured as the centrepiece of the main cabinet. It
shone above the other jewels surrounding it like a bevy of
handmaidens to the duchess herself. An unusually long twenty-four
carat gold chain held an exquisite flower-shaped pendant, in the
centre of which sat a ruby encircled by small diamonds. Large pink
diamonds had been shaped into petals surrounding the ruby and
diamonds. A teardrop deep green emerald dangled from the flower,
presumably representing the stem. I wasn’t sure why I was so
captured by it, but it was simply beautiful, like nothing I’d ever
seen before. I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to wear such
valuable jewellery, owning only a very modest collection. The most
expensive pieces I owned were a bracelet given to me by Heller and
the locket from Miss Grimsley.

As soon as our dull briefing was over, Mrs
Burwood left us for more important matters. The other security
officers also departed after one of them checked the security of
the cabinets, the other double-checking what his partner had just
done. I took the opportunity of the quiet time before the display
opened to the public, to lean closer to the cabinets, peering at
all the jewels, spending an extra long time appreciating the flower
necklace.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a soft, shy
voice in my ear. Startled, I pulled back. “It’s the highlight of
the entire collection. It was made in the eighteenth century, and
is unique. If it wasn’t impossible to find a perfect emerald, I’d
say it’s flawless. But the one in this necklace is as perfect as
they come, and its deep green colour is especially rare. The colour
of the ruby is also incredibly deep and rich, so it’s rare and
valuable as well. And of course, the pink diamonds are very rare.
Altogether, this necklace is so valuable it’s almost
priceless.”

I subjected my informative new acquaintance
to a quick once-over. A small woman with fair hair in a neat bob
and intelligent soft blue eyes gazed back at me, blushing a little
at her own enthusiasm.

“So I’ve heard,” I said amenably.

“Irreplaceable.”

“It won’t need to be replaced,” I assured
with admirable confidence in Farrell’s abilities to keep it safe
(not so much in mine).

The woman abruptly pulled of her glove,
thrusting out her hand with all the awkwardness of someone who
didn’t introduce themselves to other people very often. “I’m
Francine Browning, jewellery section staff member.” I shook her
hand, which felt dry and cool to the touch. “I’m Mrs Burwood’s
assistant,” she added with a touch of something too humble to call
pride.

“I’m a drone from
Heller’s Security and
Surveillance
,” I introduced in turn.

She smiled slightly. “Even drones have
names.”

“Tilly.”

“Nice to meet you, Tilly.” She turned back to
the necklace and the glow in her eyes might have been the
illumination from the cabinet or it might have been something else
altogether. “It’s a flower, a reference to spring – youth,
regeneration . . . love.” The faint blush across her face and neck
deepened, before she gathered herself. “The reason it has such a
long chain was to allow the pendant to sit on the duchess’ ample
bosom, thereby drawing attention to it. She used the necklace to
intimidate the other ladies in her elevated circle. She used her
bosom to impress any piece of young aristocratic crumpet that
caught her fancy during parties and balls.” She laughed, a hard,
rusty bark, sounding as though she’d forgotten how to do it.

I raised my eyebrows in amusement. “Really?
And here I was thinking romantic thoughts about eternal love and
devotion from her husband.”

She snorted. “Not in that day and age. It was
a marriage of convenience, as most were at that level of society.
The duke and duchess didn’t seem to dislike each other as so many
other aristocratic couples did, having a fairly amicable
relationship throughout their lives. She brought boatloads of money
to the family coffers, and in return they gave her a coveted title
and position in high society. Once she popped out the obligatory
‘heir and a spare’ and also a couple of daughters to marry off in
the future to advantage the family, she was free to romance to her
heart’s content.” She shot me an arch glance. “As long as she was
discreet, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“God knows her husband, the duke, was quite
the rake himself, judging from his lurid diaries and letters to his
many various lovers, male and female.”

I smiled. “Sounds like they were real
swingers back in the eighteenth century.”

Head on one side, she regarded the necklace
again and lowered her voice to a more confidential level, as if she
was gossiping about a colleague. “I read she received the necklace
as a reward for taking in her husband’s three illegitimate
daughters to raise as her own. They were the result of an
ill-conceived affair he’d had with a laundry maid who had the bad
luck to die young, but the good luck to leave a very detailed and
scandalous diary of their, ah, somewhat . . . athletic trysts which
she sent to the Duchess when she realised she was dying. The duke
seemed to prefer his bit-on-the-side a little more low class and
rougher than he ought to have, considering his position. He lived
in constant terror of his mother, the domineering dowager duchess,
finding out about his affairs. She was the queen of propriety and
an absolute dragon from what I’ve read.”