Peter Lovesey - Diamond Dust

'Raffles has taken it harder than I have.'

'Poor old Raffles.'

'Cats aren't so forgiving as humans. He didn't like his litter box being searched.'

'That's a liberty.'

'Hasn't used it all day.'

'Where does he go?'

'Outside when I open the door – at the double.'

She laughed. 'At least they dug a hole for him.'

'You haven't seen the size of the hole. For a cat it would be like squatting over Beachy Head.'

'And you still can't think how the gun got from the loft to the garden?'

'No idea. That's something else I need to find out.'

'You ought to get the locks changed.'

'I should. There's plenty to keep me busy.'

'You're going to need some domestic help. A cleaner.'

'I'll cope, thanks. Life is complicated enough.'

'A cleaner would simplify it.'

'I can manage without.'

'You were always too stubborn for your own good.'

'Thanks, Julie. I'll have that on my tombstone.'

'No, there's a better epitaph than that,' she said. '"Stuff 'em all" Good luck to you, guv.'

He was starting to speak his thoughts aloud. A bad sign, so he'd always heard. Worse, he was speaking to Steph as if she were there in the room.

'You've got some explaining to do, my love. Either you buried that shooter yourself, or you know who did. I don't see a sign of anyone breaking in. It happened while you were here, didn't it? But why, Steph?'

He'd never told her he'd kept the revolver all those years. She didn't know the threats he was under when he left the Met. That was why he'd hidden it in the loft where she hardly ever went because of her fear of spiders.

'Well, now,' he continued, as if she were standing in the room. 'Just suppose you did go up there for some reason and found the damned thing. You must have been deeply shocked. You hated guns and weapons of all kinds. It would get to you, having a handgun in the house. So I guess you may have decided you couldn't live with it. I can understand that. I can even understand you thinking of burying it. What I just can't fathom, Steph, is why you didn't mention it to me. I was secretive, yes, and I'm sorry for that, more sorry than I can say. But you were always open about everything. You would have told me, wouldn't you?'

He filled the silence with a sigh.

There was something else she hadn't told him. She hadn't mentioned a word about T' – whoever that was. There were three references in the diary to this 'T'. Two phone calls, and the meeting in the park, all in the two weeks prior to her death. And she'd had her hair done specially. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff was so unlike Steph. Maybe she didn't think it was important enough to mention. Was that a reasonable assumption? If'T' was a woman friend, for instance, someone Steph knew well, and not a man, as the demons in his head kept whispering, might she have made these diary entries without saying a word about it?

Unlikely. She always told him things.

At best, she had acted out of character. At worst, there was a secret liaison with someone who turned out to be a killer.

And now, instead of talking to Steph, he turned on himself. 'You're a flake, Diamond. You're starting to mistrust her. While she was alive, she never gave you a moment's uncertainty. She was loyal right to the end. How can you think this way?'

This was a sharp suit, a two-piece by Zegna, in a pale grey woollen cloth with a faint blue thread. Harry Tattersall bought it for nine hundred pounds, off the peg at Selfridges. With his slim build the only tailoring he ever needed was to the leg length. The silver-tongued West Indian salesman told him he looked as smooth as a dolphin, which was meant as a compliment. Harry would have preferred to look like a lord – the object of this exercise – but he guessed he would also need a good white shirt and an old boy's tie to get the aristocratic effect.

The Arab way of doing things appealed to Harry. Who else paid cash upfront to kit out their team? These fellows had style. And the good thing was that his part in the scam would be over before the punch-up began. He'd be out of the Dorchester and hightailing it to a safe distance. Even if the others were all nicked, he'd still be sitting pretty in his dolphin-smooth Zegna suit with six hundred in the back pocket.

Rhadi called him at the weekend and asked if he was ready.

'Is this the lift-off, old chum?'

'No, no,' Rhadi said. 'I'm just checking that you'll be prepared when the time comes.'

'At concert pitch. I've bought the suit.'

'You had enough dosh to cover it?'

'Enough for a shirt and shoes as well.'

'And the disguise?'

'All under control.'

'Don't go downmarket for the hair colouring, will you?' Rhadi cautioned. 'Nothing looks worse than badly dyed hair.'

'A cheap wig.'

'You're wearing a wig for this?'

'No. You said nothing looks worse. I'm telling you a cheap wig does. Don't fret. I'll look the part.'

'Have you picked a name yet?'

'How does Lord Muck strike you?'

'For the love of Allah take this seriously, Harry. I told Zahir you're totally dependable. If you mess up, if he even thinks you might mess up, we're both dead meat.'

'He's as dangerous as that?'

'He's all right if you do the job. Now what are you calling yourself?'

'Sir John Mason. There are several in Who's Who. A computer-hacking friend of mine has found me the credit card details of one of them, and I've had my own card made by someone in the business. Satisfied?'

'It will do, I guess.' Rhadi cleared his throat nervously. 'Now, these are your instructions. Listen carefully. When the time is right – and we don't know when that will be – you'll get a call from someone who won't give his name.'

'This ex-RAF type?'

'He'll simply tell you that the goods you ordered are coming in on… and he'll name a date.'

'The payday?'

'Yes. Thank him and put the phone down. Don't say any more. Then it will be all systems go. First, you pass on the info to me.'

'This will be the date the Prince has booked at the hotel?'

'Right. Then you go to a payphone at some suitable place – let's say the Festival Hall – and call the Dorchester as – who was it?'

'Sir John Mason.'

'… and reserve one of the roof garden suites. Say you want it for a week.'

'A week from when?'

'The day following the date you have just been given. The Prince will be well installed by then.'

'I give them the credit card details. If they check, they'll find it's all kosher.'

'All right. You still have some money left, I hope?'

'A little. Good suits don't come cheap.'

'You will also need some new luggage. A case, of superior quality. Fill it with bulky objects unconnected with yourself. Cushions, newspapers – something like that. Be careful not to leave fingerprints.'

'I wasn't born yesterday.'

Rhadi said primly, 'I'm telling you all this because we won't be in contact again – not until after it's over. On the day, you must arrive in disguise, by a taxi hired outside one of the main railway stations. You will be carrying the suitcase. You check in to the Dorchester at two in the afternoon. No earlier, no later.'

'How do I let you know which suite I've been given?'

'Do you have a mobile?'

'Of course.'

'Get a new one. New number. Use it only for this. Once you're alone in the suite, call Zahir and tell him where you are. This is his number. Got a pen?'

'Go ahead.' Harry noted it. 'Do I call you as well?'

'No need. Shortly after, Zahir will knock. You will admit him, and Ibrahim, and your job will be over, apart from leaving discreetly.'

'I think I can manage that.'

'Where will you go?'