Avalanche of Daisies (51 page)

Bob didn't know how to answer her. ‘Oh come on, Heather,' he said. ‘She's as worried as you are. She
loves him. Anyone can see that. I mean, we're all in the same boat. You, me, her, all of us.'

‘No we're not. She got to say goodbye. I didn't.'

‘We are,' he said reasonably and tried to persuade her. ‘We're his parents, she's his wife. You can't get closer than that.'

It was a wasted effort. His calm exasperated her. ‘Will you stop being so bloody reasonable,' she cried, flouncing about the kitchen. ‘You're driving me up the wall.'

He grew touchy the way he always did when she was too wild for him to understand. ‘I'm pointing out the truth,' he said, standing stiffly beside the table.

She turned on him, her face blazing. ‘Truth!' she said wildly. ‘Truth! What's truth got to do with it? You don't know anything about it. You didn't write him that letter.' Then she stopped and put her hand to her mouth, angry and miserable and afraid, knowing she'd gone too far.

For a split second she hoped he might not notice but he was instantly alert and alarmed, understanding that this was serious and that she regretted what she was telling him. ‘What letter?' he asked.

‘Nothing. It's not important.'

He took two strides towards her, caught her by the shoulders, insisted, ‘What letter?'

She was caught. She would have to tell him now. ‘I wrote to him,' she said, her voice sullen with distress. ‘Just before he went missing. I told him she was carrying on.'

He was wearied with disappointment. ‘Oh Heather.'

‘Don't oh Heather me,' she said. ‘I can't bear it.'

‘I told you not to.'

‘I know. Don't go on about it.'

‘What a thing to do!'

‘Look,' she said, her face imploring. ‘It's not the way you think. I couldn't help it. I thought …'

‘Maybe he didn't get it,' he hoped.

That plunged her into despair. ‘Oh he'll have got it,' she said bitterly. ‘Sod's Law he'll have got it. And now he's dead and I can't take it back or say sorry or explain or anything. And we're stuck with that awful girl. Well now she can hook off and marry that fancy man of hers. I don't care.'

‘She won't do that.'

‘That's what he said. Second string to her bow. In case.'

‘No,' he contradicted. ‘She won't. She ain't that sort a' girl.' That much he was certain of.

‘You should talk to that Victor feller,' she said bitterly.

‘You didn't tell our Steve all this, did you?'

She was too distressed to remember
what
she'd told him. ‘I don't know. I could have. I was upset.'

And that could have been the last letter he got from us, Bob thought. Poor kid. ‘I'm sick to death a' this bloody war!' he said.

Victor had been fully occupied for the last three weeks keeping the ‘Hatton Garden' jeweller under observation. He and his two companions had done their work well, as the Skibbereen admitted, although grudgingly. They knew when the local bobby walked his beat and how long he stayed in the area and they'd found out virtually everything there was to know about the jeweller, who to their disappointment, didn't operate in Hatton Garden at all but had a small lock-up premises in a dusty cul-de-sac quite a long way behind that prestigious road.

They knew his name – Ebenezer Jones – and where he lived – in a house in Clapham with his mother – what he had for dinner – sandwiches wrapped in plain white paper – what and where he drank – a double scotch at the end of the day in the Three Tuns. They knew the name of his dog, the colour of his shirts, the size of his shoes, the newspaper he read, even when he
went to the toilet. More importantly, they'd discovered where he kept his keys and his safe, and knew exactly how to get in and out of the backyard behind his shop, and from there into the workroom where all the choicest pieces were kept. There was a toilet window that could be easily forced, because he left it ajar now that the weather was so warm.

During their long vigil, Victor had found out quite a lot about his companions too, that Mog had been turned down by the army because he was seriously undersized and that he was very touchy about it, that Tiffany was forty-two and an old lag, a professional burglar who'd met the Skibbereen in the Scrubs. He reckoned that was the turning point in his life. ‘Been with 'im ever since, except when we was doin' a bit a' bird. Never looked back, from that day to this.'

But for all their accumulating knowledge, they were no nearer to knowing when the diamonds were being delivered than they'd been at the outset. The April heatwave continued and Vic put on his best suit and visited the shop pretending to be a prospective buyer. ‘I'm looking for an engagement ring.' But it was all the old stuff they'd seen in the window for the last two weeks and when he demurred that he couldn't find anything he really liked, nothing else was forthcoming.

‘Maybe he's changed his mind,' Mog said, as he and Victor were drinking their customary evening beer in an obscure pub just round the corner. ‘I mean, we can't keep this up fer ever. I ain't seen a bit a' skirt in weeks.'

‘Nor me!' Victor said. Although in his case the long wait could be an advantage. Give old Spitfire time to get over the hollering. You always left a gal alone for a bit when you'd hollered at her. That was only sense. Meantime he had to admit he'd enjoyed himself pretending to be a customer. He thought he'd done it rather well, with just the right amount of superiority, which had been easy enough because he'd been anticipating the moment when he would slide one of
those sparkling diamonds onto Spitfire's finger and put everything right again. The job
was
taking a long time. But it would all be worth it in the end.

The end came with a suddenness that took them all by surprise. Vic and Tiffany were strolling into the culde-sac one warm afternoon when a taxi pulled up outside the shop and a foreigner got out, wearing a beige suit and a very French hat and speaking in wonderful broken English as he paid his fare.

He was in the shop for over an hour and when he finally emerged into the sunshine, he looked extremely pleased with himself and went briskly off towards Hatton Garden leaving a strong smell of French cigarettes behind him. The two observers waited until he was out of sight and then Tiffany sent Victor into the shop to try his luck again, while he shot off to ring the Skibbereen.

Mr Jones was delighted to see him. ‘Yes, sir,' he said. ‘I do remember you. An engagement ring, wasn't it? You're in luck. I've just had a new consignment. Very fine rings. You won't find better in all Hatton Garden, though I say so myself. I'm sure you'll find something to suit today.'

It was a dazzling collection, three rows of very grand diamond rings, all of them shooting fire against the black velvet of their tray – tray 32 – and enough to make anyone yearn with greed. Vic was entranced by them. He didn't have to act when he said there were at least three that would suit very well. And it was pure joy to make his final choice and to be told that he'd selected the finest diamond of the lot.

‘'Course, I can't make a decision now,' he said, when he'd made as many mental notes as he needed. ‘I mean, my fiancee must see it too, you understand. I'll come back tomorrow and bring her with me.'

Mr Jones said it would be a pleasure to see them and smiled his customer out of the shop. And Victor stood on the doorstep and lit a cigarette, very slowly and
thoughtfully, while he noted where tray 32 was being taken. Back into the workshop and a turn to the right, where the bench is. Couldn't be better.

The Skibbereen was waiting in their chosen cafe. ‘That's it then,' he said, with great satisfaction. ‘Midnight. As planned. I'll go out in the garden and
see to my fence.'

But at midnight everything went wrong.

They got over the back wall easily enough although rather more noisily than Vic thought necessary. But then Mog protested that he didn't think he could get through the toilet window.

‘I'll never do it, Tiff,' he whispered. ‘It's too small. I shall get stuck.'

‘No you won't,' Tiffany told him, sternly. ‘We've measured it. That's all took care of.'

‘Let Vic do it,' Mog begged. ‘You'll do it, won'tcher Vic.'

Victor scowled at him, his eyebrows pulled together into a straight dark line of annoyance. ‘You always do this to us,' he hissed. ‘I won't. Thass your job. Get you on with it.'

‘Push him in,' Tiffany whispered.

Which they did, and presently he opened the back door and let them in. So far so good.

But there was nothing on the workbench at all. And no keys on the hook either.

‘That's a bugger,' Tiffany said. ‘He must've taken 'em home with him. We'll have to blow it. We need some padding. I don't suppose the old fool's got any cushions.'

He hadn't, so they had to take the curtains down and use them instead, which made Mog feel exposed. ‘Anyone could look in an' see us,' he complained to Victor.

Victor was nervous himself but he cloaked it with anger. ‘Don't talk squit,' he said crossly. ‘There's no one out there.'

‘Stand back,' Tiffany ordered. And the safe blew up.

The noise of the explosion in such a small space was shattering. Vic could feel his eardrums vibrating as if they were gongs and there was so much dust in the air that for a second he couldn't see anything else. Then he became aware that there was somebody shouting in the street and that Tiffany was grabbing trays and boxes from the safe and throwing the rings into a velvet bag. And he put his own hands into the wreckage and tipped the rings from tray 32.

‘Scarpa!' Tiffany said, throwing the trays to the ground and belting towards the door. The shouts were getting louder and now they could hear running feet.

So Mog and Vic ran too, out of the open back door, over the wall, along the alley, panicking that they'd be arrested at any moment. But the alley was empty, Tiffany had vanished, there was no sign of the coppers and all the noise seemed to be coming from the street. And presently they emerged into Farringdon Street and a train went chuffing past making such a racket that it gave them a chance to catch their breath and calm down.

‘Now what?' Mog asked, as he leant against the wall, gasping and spluttering.

‘Home,' Vic gulped. ‘I need a drink.'

‘You going back for the car then?'

‘No I hain't!'

That worried Mog. ‘What if the cops pick it up?'

‘Let them,' Vic said, heading for the nearest tram stop.

‘They'll trace you.'

‘I'll tell 'em it was stolen. Are you coming or not?'

‘What about the Skibbereen? You still got some a' the rings ain'tcher?'

‘He'll find us,' Vic said. ‘He knows where we are. He won't expect us to hang around here, now will he?'

So they caught the tram, which was a bit of a comedown after staging a successful jewel robbery but better
than walking. They'd have been horribly conspicuous on foot in the City at that time of night. And after a complicated journey they came safely back to the Isle of Dogs and Phossie's soot-dark house. It smelt sour and filthy, a combination of Phossie's old socks, stale food, and the reek of that clogged lavvy. But there were two bottles of whisky in the sideboard, where Vic had left them before he set out that morning, so they settled down to drink and wait. And day-dream about how they would spend their cut.

‘I shall rent a decent house,' Vic said. ‘Something with a bit of style.'

‘You'll be lucky,' Mog said. ‘They're all bomb damaged.'

‘Not further out. What'll you do?'

‘Buy a Jag. I'm sick a' driving other people's. How much d'you reckon we'll get?'.

‘There's fifteen rings on a tray,' Vic said, ‘that's two hundred if it's a penny. Say four trays, maybe five. Could be a grand. Which reminds me, I'd better get my lot wrapped up. They're still rolling around in my pocket an' he won't think much of that. Shan't be a tick. I'll just go and find a box or something.'

And sort out the rings he intended to keep. He chose three, a half hoop, the biggest cluster and the solitaire he'd fancied in the shop. She could take her choice and he'd sell the others. Then, having hidden them away among his shirts, neatly tucked up in a clean sock halfway up a sleeve, he arranged the rest of his haul in the smallest box he could find and went back downstairs.

Mog was sprawled in his chair, shaking out the last drops from the first bottle as Vic put his box on the table. They'd only just filled their glasses, when they heard two cars drawing up outside. Mog got up, rather unsteadily and peered through the curtains. And there, looming towards the door, with Tiffany sloping behind him like a shadow, was the Skibbereen.

He filled the room, like a bull in a stall, massive and aggressive as if he was about to paw the dirty lino and snort down those wide nostrils, a barrel-chested, iron-fisted, threatening hulk. ‘You got a lot to learn, son,' he said to Vic. ‘Never leave yer car. That's a mug's game. Tiff's brought it back for yer. Swap it for another one first thing tomorrer. Where's the ice?'

Mog quailed into his chair but Vic stood, ready to fight back. He caught the keys Tiffany tossed to him and pointed at the box. ‘Right here,' he said. ‘All present an' correct.'

‘Twelve,' the Skibbereen counted as he opened the lid. He looked suspiciously at Vic. ‘Where's the other three?'

‘That's all there was,' Vic said boldly, and when the Skibbereen glowered, ‘He must've sold some.'

‘Don't mess me about,' the Skibbereen said. ‘All the other trays was full.'

‘That's right,' Tiffany endorsed. ‘Fifteen apiece. We counted.'