Джеффри Арчер - And Thereby Hangs a Tale

Benny didn’t much like being in jail, but most of all he dreaded the weekends, when you could be banged up for eighteen hours at a stretch, with only a short break to collect an oily meal of spam fritters and chips from the hotplate.

The screws allowed the prisoners out for a forty-five-minute break in the afternoon. Benny could choose between watching football on television or taking a stroll around the yard, whatever the weather. He had no interest in football, but as Bryant always went straight to the yard, he settled for watching television. He was grateful for any break he could get in this hastily arranged marriage, and if Bryant was ever going to say anything about where the diamonds were, it was more likely to be in the privacy of their cell than in the bustling, noisy, overcrowded yard where other prisoners could eavesdrop.

Benny was reading an article about how the Italian Prime Minister spent his weekends when Bryant broke into his thoughts. ‘Why don’t you ever ask me about the diamonds?’

‘None of my business,’ said Benny, not looking up from his paper.

‘But you must be curious about what I’ve done with them?’

‘According to the Sun ’s crime correspondent,’ said Benny, ‘you sold them to a middle man for half a million.’

‘Half a million?’ said Bryant. ‘Do I look that fuckin’ stupid?’

‘So how much did you sell ’em for?’

‘Nothin’.’

‘Nothin’?’ repeated Benny.

‘Because I’ve still got ’em, haven’t I?’

‘Have you?’

‘Yeah. And I can tell you one thing. The fuzz ain’t never gonna find out where I stashed ’em, however hard they look.’

Benny pretended to go on reading his paper. He’d reached the sports pages by the time Bryant spoke again.

‘It’s all part of my retirement plan, innit? Most of the muppets in this place will walk out with nothin’, while I’ve got myself a guaranteed income for life, haven’t I?’

Benny waited patiently, but Bryant didn’t utter another word before lights out, four hours later. Benny would have liked to ask Bryant just one more question, but he knew he couldn’t risk it.

‘What do you think about this guy Berlusconi?’ he asked finally.

‘What’s he in for?’ asked Bryant.

Benny always attended the Sunday morning service held in the prison chapel, not because he believed in God, but because it got him out of his cell for a whole hour. The long walk to the chapel on the other side of the prison, the body search for drugs — by a female officer if you got lucky — the chance for a gossip with some old lags, a sing-song, followed by a saunter back to your cell in time for lunch, were a welcome break from the endless hours of being banged up.

Benny settled down in his usual place in the third row, opened his hymn sheet and, when the organ struck up, joined in lustily with ‘Fight the good fight’.

Once the prison chaplain had delivered his regular sermon on repentance and forgiveness, followed by the final blessing, the cons began to make their way slowly out of the chapel and back to their cells.

‘Can you spare me a moment, Friedman?’ asked the chaplain after Benny had handed in his hymn sheet.

‘Of course, Father,’ said Benny, feeling a moment of apprehension that the chaplain might ask him to sign up for his confirmation class. If he did, Benny would have to come clean and admit he was Jewish. The only reason he’d ticked the little box marked C of E was so he could escape from his cell for an hour every Sunday morning. If he’d admitted he was a Jew, a Rabbi would have visited him in his cell once a month, because not enough Jews end up in prison to hold a service for them.

The chaplain asked Benny to join him in the vestry. ‘A friend has asked to see you, Benny. I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.’ He closed the vestry door and returned to those repenting souls who did want to sign up for his confirmation class.

‘Good morning, Mr Matthews,’ said Benny, taking an unoffered seat opposite the detective inspector. ‘I had no idea you’d taken up holy orders.’

‘Cut the crap, Friedman, or I may have to let your wing officer know that you’re really a Jew.’

‘If you did, Inspector, I’d have to explain to him how I’d seen the light on the way to Belmarsh.’

‘And you’ll see my boot up your backside if you waste any more of my time.’

‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ asked Benny innocently.

‘Has he sold the diamonds?’ asked Matthews, not wasting another word.

‘No, Inspector, he hasn’t. In fact, he claims they’re still in his possession. The story about selling them for half a million was just a smokescreen.’

‘I knew it,’ said Matthews. ‘He would never have sold them for so little. Not after all the trouble he went to.’ Benny didn’t comment. ‘Have you managed to find out where he’s stashed them?’

‘Not yet,’ said Benny. ‘I’ve got a feeling that might take a little longer, unless you want me to—’

‘Don’t press him,’ interrupted Matthews. ‘It’ll only make him suspicious. Bide your time and wait for him to tell you himself.’

‘And when I’ve elicited this vital piece of evidence, Inspector, I’ll get two years knocked off my sentence, as you promised?’ Benny reminded him.

‘Don’t push your luck, Friedman. I accept that you’ve earned a year off, but you won’t get the other year until you find out where those diamonds are. So get back to your cell, and keep your ears open and your mouth shut.’

It was on a Saturday morning that Bryant asked Benny, ‘Have you ever fenced any diamonds?’

Benny had waited weeks for Bryant to ask that question. ‘From time to time,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a reliable dealer in Amsterdam, but I’d need to know a lot more before I’d be willing to contact him. What sort of numbers are we talkin’ about?’

‘Is ten mill out of your league?’ asked Bryant.

‘No, I wouldn’t say that,’ said Benny, trying not to rise, ‘but it might take a little longer than usual.’

‘All I’ve got is time,’ said Bryant, slipping back into one of his long, contemplative silences. Benny prayed that it wasn’t going to be another six weeks before he asked the next question.

‘What percentage would you pay me if I let you fence the diamonds?’ asked Bryant.

‘My usual terms are twenty per cent of the face value, strictly cash.’

‘And how much do you sell them on for?’

‘Usually around fifty per cent of face value.’

‘And how much will your contact make?’

‘I’ve got no idea,’ said Benny. ‘He doesn’t ask me where it comes from, and I don’t ask him how much he makes out of it. As long as we all make a profit, the less anyone knows the better.’

‘Does it matter what kind of stones they are?’

‘The smaller the better,’ said Benny. ‘Always avoid the big stuff. If you brought me the Crown Jewels, I’d tell you to fuck off, because I’d never find a buyer. Small stones aren’t easy to trace, you can lose them on the open market.’

‘So you’d cough up a couple of mill, if I deliver?’

‘If they’re worth ten million, yes, but I’d need to see them first.’

‘Why wouldn’t they be?’ asked Bryant, looking Benny straight in the eye.

‘Because figures reported in the press aren’t always reliable. Crime reporters like numbers with lots of noughts, and they only ever round them up.’

‘But they were insured for ten million,’ said Bryant, ‘and don’t forget the insurance company paid up in full.’

‘I won’t make an offer until I’ve seen the goods,’ said Benny.

Bryant fell silent again.

‘So where are they?’ asked Benny, trying to make the words sound unrehearsed.