And Thereby Hangs a Tale Read online

Bryant leaped off the top bunk and, towering over Benny, their noses almost touching, shouted, “Tell me. Tell me. I’ll do anything to get even with that bastard!”

  “Well, if you don’t want to wait twelve years before you next bump into him, you’ve got it in your power to make him come to you.”

  “Stop talking in fuckin’ riddles,” said Bryant. “How can I get Abbott to come to Belmarsh? He’s hardly likely to apply for a visiting order.”

  “I was thinking of something more permanent than a visit,” said Benny. It was Bryant’s turn to wait impatiently for his cellmate to continue. “You told me the judge offered to reduce your sentence if you told where you stashed the diamonds.”

  “That’s right. But have you forgotten they ain’t diamonds no more?” shouted Bryant, inching even closer toward him.

  “Exactly my point,” said Benny, not flinching, “so it shouldn’t take the police long to work out that they’ve been taken for a ride, while Abbott has ended up with ten million of insurance money in exchange for two pounds of paste.”

  “You’re fuckin’ right,” said Bryant, clenching his fist.

  “As soon as the police realize the diamonds aren’t kosher, they’re gonna throw the book at Abbott: fraud, theft, criminal deception, not to mention perverting the course of justice. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was sent down for at least ten years.” Benny lit a cigarette and slowly inhaled before he added, “And there’s only one place he’s heading once he leaves the Old Bailey.”

  “Belmarsh!” said Bryant, punching his fist in the air as if Manchester United had just won the Cup.

  The physical instruction officer at Belmarsh had never seen this particular con in the gym before, despite the fact that he clearly needed some exercise, nor, for that matter, the police officer he was deep in conversation with, who clearly didn’t. The governor had told him to lock the gym door and make sure that no one, screw or con, entered while the two men were together.

  “Bryant has made a full confession,” said Detective Inspector Matthews, “including where we’d find the diamonds. Half a dozen of them were missing, of course. I presume there’s no chance of retrieving them.”

  “None,” said Benny with a sigh. “It broke my heart to watch him flushing them down the toilet. But, Inspector Matthews, I was thinking of the bigger picture.”

  “The one where you leave this place in a few weeks’ time?” suggested the detective inspector.

  “I admit it had crossed my mind,” said Benny. “But I’m still curious to know what happened to the rest of the diamonds?”

  “The insurance company sold them back to Mr. Abbott at a slightly reduced price, on the understanding that neither side would refer to the matter again.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Benny, “because I’ve got a favor to ask you, Inspector Matthews.”

  “Isn’t two years off your sentence enough to be going on with?”

  “It certainly is, Inspector Matthews, and don’t think I’m not grateful, but it won’t be long before Bryant works out the reason you haven’t arrested Abbott is because the diamonds are kosher, and I double-crossed him.”

  “Go on,” said the detective inspector.

  “I just wondered if you could find it in your heart, Mr. Matthews, if I was ever foolish enough to be found wanting again, to make sure that I’m never sent back to Belmarsh.”

  Matthews rose from the bench at the far end of the gym and looked down at the old con. “Not a hope, Benny,” he said with a grin. “I can’t think of a better way of ensuring that you finally get yourself a proper job and stay on the straight and narrow. And by the way, there may even come a time when you want to come back to Belmarsh.”

  “You must be joking, Mr. Matthews. Why would I ever want to come back to this shit hole?”

  “Because the judge was as good as his word,” said Matthews. “He’s cut Bryant’s sentence in half. So, with good behavior, he should be out in a couple of years’ time. And when he is, Benny, I have a feeling it won’t be Mr. Abbott he comes looking for.”

  “I WILL SURVIVE”*

  7

  When the doorbell rang, Julian Farnsdale looked up.

  The first decision he always had to make was whether to engage a potential customer in conversation, or simply leave them to browse. There were several golden rules that you adopted after so many years in the trade. If the customer looked as if he needed some assistance, Julian would rise from behind his desk and say either, “Can I help you?” or, “Would you prefer just to browse?” If they only wanted to browse, he would sit back down, and although he would keep an eye on them, he wouldn’t speak again until they began a conversation.

  Julian wasn’t in any doubt that this customer was a browser, so he remained seated and said nothing. Browsers fall into three categories: those simply passing the time of day who stroll round for a few minutes before leaving without saying anything; dealers who know exactly what they are looking for but don’t want you to know they’re in the trade; and, finally, genuine enthusiasts hoping to come across something a little special to add to their collections.

  This particular customer unquestionably fell into the third category.

  Julian studied him out of the corner of one eye, an art he had perfected over the years. He decided he was probably an American—the tailored blazer, neatly pressed chinos, and striped preppy tie. The man may have been a browser but he was a browser with real knowledge and taste because he only stopped to consider the finest pieces: the Adam fireplace, the Chippendale rocking chair, and the Delft plate. Julian wondered if he would spot the one real treasure in his shop.

  A few moments later, the customer came to a halt in front of the egg. He studied the piece for some time before looking across at Julian. “Has it been signed by the master?”

  Julian rose slowly from his chair. Another golden rule: don’t appear to be in a hurry when you’re hoping to sell something very expensive.

  “Yes, sir,” said Julian as he walked toward him. “You’ll find Carl Fabergé’s signature on the base. And of course the piece is listed in the catalog raisonné.”

  “Date and description?” inquired the customer, continuing to study the egg.

  “Nineteen hundred and ten,” said Julian. “It was made to celebrate the Tsarina’s thirty-eighth birthday, and is one of a series of Easter eggs commissioned by Tsar Nicholas the Second.”

  “It’s magnificent,” said the customer. “Quite magnificent. But probably out of my price range.”

  Julian immediately recognized the bargaining ploy, so he mentally added 20 percent to the asking price to allow a little room for maneuver.

  “Six hundred and eighty thousand,” he said calmly.

  “Pounds?” asked the man, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” said Julian without further comment.

  “So, about a million dollars,” said the customer, confirming that he was American.

  Julian didn’t reply. He was distracted by a screeching sound outside, as if a car was trying to avoid a collision. Both men glanced out of the window to see a black stretch limousine that had come to a halt on the double yellow line outside the shop. A woman dressed in a stylish red coat and wearing a diamond necklace, matching earrings, and dark glasses stepped out of the back of the car.

  “Is that who I think it is?” asked Julian.

  “Looks like it is,” said the customer, as the woman stopped to sign an autograph.

  “Gloria Gaynor.” Julian sighed as she disappeared into the jewelry shop next door. “Lucky Millie,” he added without explanation.

  “I think she’s doing a gig in town this week,” said the customer.

  “She’s performing at the Albert Hall on Saturday,” said Julian. “I tried to get a ticket but it’s completely sold out.”

  The customer was clearly more interested in the jewel-encrusted egg than the jewel-covered pop star so Julian snapped back into antique-dealer mode.

  “What’s the lowest price you