The King of Diamonds (40 page)

Vanessa looked at her husband, noticing how he was shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking away from her to hide his discomfort.

‘There’s something else,’ she said. ‘Something you’re not telling me. It’s Titus, isn’t it?’ she asked, her voice rising hysterically as she instinctively guessed at the truth. ‘He’s dead too, isn’t he?’

Trave nodded. And walked slowly over to his wife, putting his arms out to comfort her as she collapsed in tears on the sofa that they had bought together years before.

‘I’m sorry, Vanessa,’ he said. ‘You deserved so much better than this.’

And he held her gently as her body was rocked with wild sobs and she gave way to a terrible grief.

Cara waited under her master’s bed for several minutes after Clayton and Jacob had left the room. She sat wide-eyed in the darkness with her heart beating fast, waiting for the silence to return. And then, as the winter sun outside the window sank gently down toward the western horizon, she stepped out, picking her way carefully among the glittering diamonds scattered across the floor until she came to her master’s corpse. There she stopped, staring unblinking down into his dead eyes for a few moments before she laid herself slowly down, stretching her warm body over the blood-red stain that was still spreading out across the left side of his starched white shirt.

Superintendent Creswell waited a moment to make sure he had his temper firmly under control and then turned round a large, green, leather-bound book and pushed it across his desk so that it was right in front of Inspector Macrae, who sat perched on the edge of his chair with a pained expression on his stretched, pale face.

‘This is Titus Osman’s accounts book for the last four years,’ said Creswell in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. ‘And here on the right is a page entirely devoted to you.’ Creswell tapped his forefinger where the name
MACRAE
was written in capital letters. ‘As you can see, there are three entries – fifteen hundred pounds on 4 October of last year, the day after Mr Swain was charged; five hundred pounds on 2 February, just after his trial began; and then another five hundred pounds just over a week ago. What was that last payment for, Inspector – seems a bit early for a third instalment?’ asked Creswell, looking up.

‘None of this has anything to do with me, and you know it doesn’t,’ said Macrae defiantly. ‘I’ve never taken any money off anyone.’

‘And nor has Constable Wale, I suppose. Adam Clayton tells me that Mr Osman shouted down at him – “Help me. That’s what I pay you for” – just before he died. Why would Mr Osman have said that, I wonder?’

‘How the hell should I know? I wasn’t there. Maybe he was talking about his taxes.’

‘Oh, please, Inspector. You can do better than that.’

‘No, I can’t,’ said Macrae angrily. ‘And I don’t have to. You’ve got nothing on me. Nothing!’

‘So you won’t mind us taking a look in your bank account then? You’re quite sure we won’t find any large deposits round these dates?’ asked Creswell, pointing at the ledger.

‘You can do what you bloody well like,’ shouted Macrae, getting up, but Creswell sensed a burgeoning anxiety beneath his subordinate’s outward bravado.

‘All right, Inspector. We’ll do just that, and in the meantime you’re suspended on full pay. I suggest you enjoy the money while you can,’ said Creswell, nodding a curt dismissal.

Macrae stood his ground for a moment, but in the end thought better of giving vent to his rage. He opened the door to leave, but then, just as he was about to go out, Creswell called him back.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard about the new evidence that Bill Trave has dug up, but it appears that David Swain may well be an innocent man. And I warn you: if I find out that you or Wale laid a finger on that boy to extort his confession it won’t just be your job I’ll be after. You may have got away with using the thumbscrews in your last job, but you won’t get away with it down here. You understand that, don’t you, Mr Macrae?’ asked Creswell, emphasizing every word.

Macrae shot a venomous look at the superintendent and then turned away, almost colliding with Clayton in the doorway. Macrae stared at his erstwhile junior with undisguised hatred for a moment and then suddenly put out his hand and shoved Clayton out of his way. And after that, without a backward look, he hurried away down the corridor and disappeared around the corner.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Creswell, coming out from behind his desk and helping Clayton to his feet.

‘I’m fine,’ said Clayton, brushing himself down. ‘I was just taken by surprise, sir. That’s all.’

‘Well, Macrae won’t be working here again if I’ve got anything to do with it,’ said Creswell angrily. ‘He can go and join Wale down at Land’s End Police Station if he ever gets his job back.’

‘Will he?’ asked Clayton. ‘Get his job back, I mean?’

‘I don’t know. Depends what’s in his bank statements – the entries in Osman’s accounts book aren’t enough on their own, but I expect you’ve already worked that out for yourself. We can’t prove there’s not someone else called Macrae who did business with Osman, even though I’m sure it’s him. And of course we’ll never know if he was in on Osman’s plot to frame Swain for killing his niece. What do you think?’ asked Creswell. ‘You were there for Swain’s interview.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Clayton, frowning. ‘Macrae and Wale definitely did stuff to Swain, just like Swain said at his trial – not that we can prove it, but that doesn’t mean Macrae knew Swain was innocent. If I had to guess, I’d say Macrae thought he was guilty and Osman paid him for doing a good job making Swain confess. But I could be wrong. It’s difficult to get a clear handle on a lot of what’s gone on, sir, to be honest with you.’

Creswell nodded and then sighed heavily, sitting back in his chair. ‘It was damn brave what you did yesterday, Adam. I’m going to make sure you get a commendation from the commissioner for it. That Mendel boy owes you his life.’

‘I think he knows that. He told me how grateful he is when I went to see him in his cell last night. It’s funny – it’s like what happened with Osman yesterday has knocked the wind out of him, at least for a bit. He couldn’t stop talking when Inspector Trave and I saw him in his flat. He was really obnoxious actually. But now he seems to be finding it hard to string two sentences together.’

‘Well, seeing death changes people – even the deaths of people we hate,’ said Creswell with a sigh. ‘And Osman’s death is going to catch up with you too, you know, sooner or later. You did what you had to do, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re the one who fired the bullet. That’s what I wanted to see you about actually. Don’t you think you should take some time off? Maybe talk through what happened with someone qualified to help. There are good people I can recommend you to if you’re willing. You can have as long as you need.’

‘Thanks, but I’d prefer not to, sir, if you don’t mind, at least for now,’ said Clayton, biting his lip. ‘It’s work that’s keeping me going at the minute.’

Creswell drummed his fingers on his desk, trying to make a decision. ‘Well, maybe you know best,’ he said eventually. ‘God knows, I’m going to need all the help I can get if we’re going to save Mr Swain from his appointment with the hereafter. Thinking he’s innocent is one thing; convincing those old judges up in London is quite another. If there’s one thing they don’t like doing, it’s interfering with a jury verdict.’

‘But surely there’s the new evidence for them to look at,’ said Clayton, looking surprised. ‘We’ve got Katya’s diary now, and then Osman pretty well admitted her murder to Jacob in the bedroom before I got there. Haven’t you seen Jacob’s statement?’

‘Yes. And it’s not enough. Like it or not, Jacob’s not a credible witness. You can’t get away from the fact that he had an oversized grudge against Osman – he broke into the man’s house three times; he threatened Osman and Claes’s sister with a gun; and he’s also got no corroboration. In fact, as far as I can make out, the only thing you and the rest of the people in the courtyard heard was Osman shouting at the top of his voice that he was an innocent man when Jacob had a gun to his head. And as for Katya’s diary, well maybe it exonerates Swain of the first murder, assuming you accept what a dead girl with a drug history has said about a note that no longer exists. And it certainly shows Claes and Osman had a motive to get rid of Katya, but it doesn’t do anything to change the fact that Swain had a strong motive too and that he was there in the girl’s room with a gun at right around the time she died.

‘It’s a pity that ballistics can’t do any better with Claes’s gun. “It might be the one that killed Katya; it might not be” – it’s exactly what they said about the gun Swain had. I just wish Osman’s safe had contained something to incriminate its owner with the murders. We need more than a dead man’s whisper, Detective. That’s the truth. Is Claes’s sister still saying nothing?’

‘Yes; it’s like she’s had her tongue cut out,’ said Clayton, sounding exasperated. ‘I’ve tried everything – shouting at her, appealing to her conscience – but all she does is finger her bloody crucifix and look at the floor.’

‘Do you think Macrae could have interfered with her? I told him to stay out of it yesterday.’

‘No, I don’t think so. She’s doing it herself; she doesn’t need any help,’ said Clayton, shaking his head.

‘Well, we can’t hold her indefinitely. Try and think of something to get her to talk. Like I said, we need something more.’

Clayton nodded, trying to look hopeful when he felt nothing of the kind. The superintendent’s incisive analysis of the state of play had left him feeling dismally deflated.

‘Have you heard from Trave?’ asked Creswell as Clayton turned to go.

‘No – nothing since yesterday.’

‘Well, ask him if he’s got any ideas when you get the chance. He’s more likely than anyone to think of something. Swain getting a pardon is the only way he’s going to get his job back.’

‘I don’t really think that that’s what’s motivating him,’ said Clayton, but Creswell had already gone back to his correspondence and was no longer listening.

Despite numerous phone calls and two abortive visits to the house on Hill Road, Clayton heard nothing from Trave for the next two days except for a cryptic telephone message left at the front desk of the police station on the Saturday morning telling Clayton to hold on to Jana Claes at all costs. Clayton complied, even though Jana continued to resist all his attempts to make her talk, instead remaining entirely mute, with the same faraway expression in her eyes that she had worn ever since she’d been told about her brother’s death.

Finally, late on Sunday afternoon, Trave called.

‘How have you been holding up, Adam?’ he asked. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m okay,’ said Clayton. He was touched by his old boss’s concern, but he saw no point in burdening him with a tale of the sleepless nights that he had been suffering since Osman’s death. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

‘Israel. I just got back. It was Vanessa’s idea, and now I’m dog-tired and flat broke.’ Trave laughed – he sounded happier than he’d done in months. ‘Did you get my message?’ he asked. ‘Have you still got Claes’s sister?’

‘Yes, until tomorrow.’

‘Good. Has she said anything?’

‘No.’

‘All right, meet me at the station in fifteen minutes. I need to talk to you.’ And Trave rang off before Clayton could ask him any more questions.

*  *  *

Trave was already waiting in what had once been his office when Clayton arrived. It was still the weekend, and there were few people around. Trave started talking before Clayton had even had a chance to sit down.

‘I want you to let me interview her,’ he said. ‘Right now.’

‘Don’t be silly. You know I can’t do that,’ said Clayton, taken aback by the request. ‘You’re not a policeman any more. You’ve got no right to talk to her in here. And besides, if she says anything it’ll be completely inadmissible.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Trave urgently. ‘It’s not evidence against her I’m after; it’s evidence against her brother. And once she hears about who he is, she may tell us what he did to Katya.’

‘What do you mean “who he is”? Who is he?’

‘Let me talk to her,’ said Trave, ignoring the question. ‘We’re going to need more than Katya’s diary and a bit of hearsay from Osman to get Swain off. You know that.’

‘Show me what you’ve got, and I’ll get her to talk,’ suggested Clayton.

But Trave rejected the compromise: ‘It’s got to be me. I know how to play her,’ he said. ‘We’ve gone too far to stop now, Adam. Surely you can see that. You’ve got to let me see it through.’

Reluctantly, Clayton nodded. It was entirely against his better judgement, but he knew he had no choice but to go with Trave. He’d broken far too many rules already to baulk at breaking one more now.

They interviewed Jana in the same little room at the back of the police station where David Swain had made his confession four months before.

Escorted by Clayton, she shuffled down the corridor from her cell and sat down heavily in the chair opposite Trave. She looked very different to when Trave had last seen her. Her greying hair was no longer tied up in a bun at the back of her head but instead hung loose and unkempt around her shoulders, and her black dress was wrinkled and stained. There were dark circles under her eyes, which had lit up in brief recognition when she first saw Trave but now filmed over again as she retreated back into herself and dropped her gaze to the floor.

‘You remember me,’ said Trave, speaking in a reasonable, friendly voice as if they were meeting casually in a coffee-shop somewhere and not in the back of a police station. ‘You remember how we talked after Katya died. You remember how you told me that you never took communion, never went to confession in your church, but you wouldn’t tell me why. Well, I think you should tell me why now, Miss Claes. I think it’ll make you feel better. I think deep down you want to say what happened to that poor girl but you’re just too frightened. Isn’t that what you feel?’

Jana did not respond, but Clayton saw with surprise that Trave had got her attention. She was looking in his direction and had taken tight hold of the silver crucifix that was hanging from her neck.

‘I don’t think you knew what Titus Osman and your brother were going to do,’ Trave went on in the same quiet, mesmeric tone. ‘Not until after it happened, when Franz came and told you. So you see: it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know; just like you didn’t know who your brother really was. And that’s what I’m here to tell you, Jana. It’ll help you if you know. I really think it will.’

‘Know what? What do you know about him?’ Jana burst out. She sounded scared, and her voice was hoarse, raw from not having been used in days.