Peter Lovesey - Diamond Dust

The blood pressure rocketed. 'You don't give up, do you?'

'Would you?'

He ignored that question and asked one of his own. 'If we had a blazing row and I shot her in the heat of the moment, how is it she was killed in Royal Victoria Park?'

'I didn't say anything about the heat of the moment. This was a planned murder.'

'What – to punish her for burying my gun?'

'The motive has never been established.'

Conversations with McGarvie were an incitement to violence. He bit back his resentment and tried all over again. 'Have you heard any more from ballistics? It's beginning to look as if mine wasn't the murder weapon.'

'They say they can't prove the bullets were fired from that gun.'

He held out his hands in appeal. 'So?'

'There's still a good chance they were.'

'What do you mean?'

'There are points of similarity, but insufficient for legal proof. As you know, the bullets weren't in the best condition. They may have been tampered with, prior to firing, to hamper the investigation.'

'How?'

'By scratching the jacket, or scoring it with a file to distort the rifling. It suggests a professional gunman – or someone with a knowledge of weapons.'

'Like an authorised shot?'

The drooping lids of McGarvie's eyes lifted a little, but he said nothing.

'Is that their last word on the subject?'

'Apparently.'

'Trust the men in white coats to foul up. So it's back to the drawing board, is it?'

McGarvie said with an air of self-congratulation, 'We're going on Crimewatch.'

'So you admit you've run into the sand?'

'Not at all. It's the right move at this stage. There must be more witnesses out there. After all, this happened in daylight, in the open, close to an enormous car park. We still haven't traced that jogger.'

Diamond had dismissed the jogger from his thoughts. This was the woman Warburton had claimed he spoke to at the scene.

McGarvie added, as if Diamond had never seen Crimewatch, 'They'll do a reconstruction with actors. It's worked in the past.'

'And the best of British.'

'And what about you?' McGarvie said. 'What have you learned?'

'I'm not on the case.'

'Get real, Peter. We know you've been out and about talking to snouts – or is that just a blind?'

He wasn't being provoked into passing on information until he judged the moment right. He'd handle Dixon-Bligh himself.

'If I hear anything, you'll be told.' He almost said, You'll be the first to know. There were limits.

No question. Harry looked every inch the aristocrat when, precisely at two, he strode up to the desk at the Dorchester with a porter in tow wheeling in his smart suitcase filled with telephone directories.

'Sir John Mason. I made a reservation. You have my details.'

'Yes, Sir John. One moment.'

Harry glanced through his horn-rimmed frames at the staff behind the desk busy issuing keys and taking phone calls and printing out accounts. No chance of spotting the stoolie who had tipped him off. He'd be somewhere behind the scenes preparing medallions of venison with chestnuts.

'We've got you down for one of the roof garden suites, Sir John.'

'That's what I asked for.'

'Would you care to make a reservation for dinner?'

'Tonight I shall dine out, thank you.' True. Instead of sampling the haute cuisine of his fellow-conspirator he'd be grabbing a bacon sandwich at the airport cafe while he waited for his flight to Cork.

'Very good, sir. And would you care to order a newspaper for tomorrow morning?'

' The Times' An uncollected paper outside the door was better than a 'do not disturb' sign at keeping the staff away.

'Jules will take you to your suite and show you how the key works. Enjoy your stay with us.'

'I intend to.'

He followed Jules to the lift and up to the roof garden level.

'Are you staying long, sir?' Jules asked.

Under an hour, if the Arabs are up to the job, he thought privately. 'Just the week.'

'London has so much to offer this time of year.'

'Let's hope so. Is the hotel busy?'

'Very.'

'Full of wealthy foreigners, I expect.'

'Quite a few visitors, yes.'

He hoped Jules might throw in a mention of the Kuwaiti Royal Family, but you don't get everything you wish for. And they didn't pass any white-robed gentlemen in the walk from the lift to the door of the suite.

He was shown how to use the plastic key and they entered a light, luxurious sitting room with original paintings on the walls. Jules hoisted the suitcase onto a stand and switched on the TV. A message flashed up saying 'Welcome to the Dorchester, Sir John Mason,' and giving a rundown of the facilities. Jules showed how the curtains worked and opened the doors to the bedroom and bathroom. Harry tipped him two pounds.

Alone in the suite, he took out his mobile and called Zahir.

'Yes?'

'Yes.' He gave the name of the suite.

So professional. Nothing more was said. He switched off and put on a pair of polythene gloves he'd thoughtfully brought with him, collected some tissues from the bathroom and busied himself wiping the suitcase to remove any prints of his own. His part in the scam was nearly over, thanks be to Allah. He looked at the time.

The doorbell buzzed. He opened it.

A woman in hotel uniform carrying a bunch of flowers. 'I'm Mary the housekeeper, just checking you have everything you require, Sir John.'

Everything except my dusky friends, he thought. 'I'm quite content, thank you.'

'May I change your flowers?'

He hadn't even noticed the lilies on the coffee table. 'If you're quick. I'm expecting visitors.'

She fussed with the vase and left with yesterday's blooms. Harry looked at his watch again.

Ten more minutes passed. 'Shortly after, Zahir will knock. You will admit him, and Ibrahim, and your job will be over.'

Bloody long 'shortly after'.

He stood by the sliding windows and looked across the roof garden and noticed a movement behind one of the taller shrubs. First he thought it must be a bird or a cat. Then another movement showed it was larger.

Someone was out there.

The hairs straightened on the back of his neck. He backed away from the window, waited a few seconds and then took another look. The same figure ducked out of sight behind a bush, but not before Harry noticed he was cradling something that looked horribly like a submachine-gun. There was another movement at the edge of Harry's vision. Two of them at least. He had an impression of black uniforms.

Police marksmen.

Jesus.

He swung away from the window, back out of sight against the wall. It didn't take rocket science to work out that it was an ambush and he was cornered. They'd have men in the corridor as well, waiting to pick up the others if they hadn't nicked them already.

Hold on, he thought. They won't bust us until after the crime is committed. They'll let Rhadi bring the Hatton Garden man in here and they'll delay until the moment the diamonds are snatched.

They'll need to time it right.

The place must be bugged.

A listening device is so small you can hide it anywhere. There wasn't time for him to make a proper search.

His eyes darted left and right and lighted on the flowers the woman had brought in. Was she really a hotel employee? He stepped closer. Those enormous lilies could hide a microtransmitter with ease. The police couldn't have known in advance which suite would be used, so it was a cool move. He bent closer and examined the flower arrangement without touching anything.

The bug was there all right, lodged in the side of one of the spike-shaped buds.

He picked up the entire arrangement in its vase and carried it to the bedroom, placed it on the floor of the wardrobe and gently slid the door across. Then he returned to the main room, shutting the bedroom door after him.