The house phone starts ringing the moment I unlock the front door. Mark is out looking at more office rental spaces this afternoon. He should be home in an hour or so; I asked him to come back around three just in case it all went wrong with Lottie.
The phone rings twice before I can reach it, racing across the front room. It could be the silent caller again. It could be Patrick. I might catch him this time.
“Hello, is this Erin?” It’s a gruff voice, forties, cockney. It’s something to do with Eddie, I know it instantly.
“Uh, yes, yes, speaking.” I try to sound professional, as if this might still be a legitimate work call. I really hope Andy Foster isn’t monitoring my calls, because if he is, this one could very quickly become incriminating.
“Hello, Erin. My name’s Simon. I’m meant to be picking up a package from you, I think?” A second’s silence on the line. “Now, I know you’re busy but I’m in the area at the moment; would now be a convenient time for you?” He must suspect a phone tap too because he’s working around it; he just sounds like a courier. Or at least that’s what we can argue in court, if we have to.
“Yes, that would be—now would be fantastic. Five, ten minutes?” I try to mask my relief, my excitement at the prospect of finally being free of the diamonds.
They will be out of our home in less than an hour. It will be finished. The bag, the plane. Only the USB and the phone nestling under the attic insulation left as evidence.
I cradle the phone against my shoulder and hastily jot down the Swiss bank account number on a slip of paper. I’ve learned it by heart now. There is no paper trace of the number. I burned all the paperwork over a week ago, in the garden in our fire pit. All the relevant information is memorized. The number and the password. On his end, I hear a car engine come to life.
“Right then. Ten minutes it is. See you then.” The line goes dead.
He seemed friendly enough, sounded pretty easygoing. I suppose he must know the situation. My favor. Eddie’s favor. Our mutual favors.
Hell, who am I kidding; Simon’s probably been following me all day, hasn’t he? From here to Lottie’s and back again. I wonder who else has been following me as I go about my day. SO15, Patrick, and now Simon. They can’t all be following me. If one of them found out about the others, the whole house of cards would come tumbling down around me. But Simon must have been tailing me today; how else would he know I just got home? That’s why he’s in the area.
I grimace. I might actually be the world’s most naïve criminal. Completely oblivious. I’m lucky I’m not dead yet.
I have less than ten minutes to prepare before he arrives. I stuff the slip of paper with the account number into my trouser pocket.
The stones are up in the attic where I left them after I got them back from Charles. I take the stairs up, two at a time. I need to be ready before Simon gets here. I don’t want to have to leave him unattended in the house while I go up to the attic alone. I don’t want him wandering around. I can’t trust him.
Suddenly a thought occurs. What if this guy isn’t connected with Eddie at all?
Or what if he is connected but somehow I’ve misread Eddie’s personality entirely and this situation isn’t going to end well for me? Maybe this isn’t safe.
I imagine Mark coming home to find my dead body crumpled, like a fleshy rag doll, in the hallway, a single shot to the head, execution-style. Job done.
But that won’t happen. My instincts tell me. And if I can’t trust my instincts, what can I trust? I’m sure it’s fine. I’m sure. I’m sure I’m sure.
Even so, I dash back downstairs and grab my phone. I dial Mark’s number.
Three rings in he picks up. He sounds distant, distracted, the background noise muffled.
“Mark?”
“Yeah, what’s happening? You okay? How did it go?” He means with Charlotte.
“Um, yeah, really good. Listen, quickly, someone called. Someone called about—” Shit. I suddenly realize I can’t say this over the phone, can I? I can’t mention the diamonds or Eddie. If Andy’s tapped my mobile, then we’ll be screwed. Okay, think. Think fast. Talk around it.
“Someone, um, wants to collect the honeymoon souvenirs.” Is it okay to say that? Sure, it’s fine—we bought souvenirs for Mark’s folks; if I get them FedExed this afternoon to East Riding, this call is perfectly explainable. God! This is complicated. Being a criminal is mentally exhausting.
On the other end of the line Mark is silent. I imagine he’s trying to work out what he can and can’t say over the phone too. I’m glad I married someone shrewd.
“Okay, that’s great. Can you manage by yourself, honey, or should I come back to help?” He keeps his tone even but I can tell he’s worried. He made his feelings about Eddie clear. He doesn’t trust Eddie at all.
“No, I’m fine. Everything’s great, Mark. I just wanted you to know that was happening now. It’s all fine, I can manage. I have to dash now, though, he’ll be around here in a minute. Okay?” I want to give Mark a chance to stop me if I’m being stupid. Am I being stupid? Giving a man I don’t know a million pounds’ worth of diamonds? In my own home, our home?
“Great. Sure, okay. It sounds like you’ve got it covered, honey. I’ll see you a bit later then, all right? I love you?” It’s a question. Sometimes it is a question, isn’t it? In the question there’s a lot of stuff.
“I love you too,” I answer. In the answer there’s a lot of stuff. And then he’s gone.
Shit, I didn’t ask how he was. I didn’t even ask where he was. It sounded outdoorsy, busy, crowded, maybe a station but—
I really don’t have time for this. I race up to the top landing, fumble the loft ladder stick into its hook in the ceiling, and pull.
I find them up in the loft, exactly where I left them, tucked under a loose layer of pastel yellow insulation, in their pouch. Glittering in the cream leather, gently warmed by the heating pipes. I seize them and push the insulation back into place.
As I’m making my way down the ladder, the doorbell rings. I freeze, mid–ladder rung.
A flash of terror, like a shot through my system.
I suddenly wish we still had that gun—the one we dumped in the sea in Bora Bora. Were we stupid not to keep it? Do I need it?
But then, what the hell would I do with a gun? I don’t know how to use one. I wouldn’t even know if it was loaded or how to do the safety catch or anything.
No, I don’t need a gun. This will be fine. I’m being paranoid. It’s broad daylight. I continue down the ladder from the loft, jumping the last three rungs and sprinting back down to the hall.
Hot-cheeked, I pull open the front door, grateful for the blast of September wind it lets in. And there stands Simon.
Simon looks harmless. Suit, tie, smile. Not the smile of a predator, just the smile of an iffy friend of your dad’s, maybe. A little bit too knowing a smile, but ultimately harmless.
I don’t need a gun, of that I’m suddenly sure.
His manner suggests we’re both in this together; I’m part of the gang now.
“Simon?” I have to say something; we’ve been standing in silence for slightly too long now.
“Guilty as charged.” He grins. I’m pretty sure he’s used that one before. But the inoffensive humor settles me.
“Great.” I nod. I really don’t know what we do next. “Do you want to come in?” I hazard. From my tone I think it’s fairly clear to Simon I have no idea how this situation is usually supposed to go. I’m hoping he’ll take the lead quite soon.
“Nah, gotta dash. Thanks though, love. I’ll just grab the stuff and get out of your hair, if that’s all right?” He’s dealing with me beautifully. I appreciate this delicate handling of my obvious ineptitude; in an odd way, it’s very reassuring. I hand him the pouch. I’m relieved to be unburdened. That’s half the battle. He takes it.
But what about the money? Should I say something? Is that rude? But he beats me to it.
“You got a number for me?” He’s one step ahead. He’s obviously done this before.
“Yes, yes, here we go.” I fish the paper slip out of my pocket and smooth it out on my upper thigh. “Sorry, it’s creased. You can still see the numbers, though, can’t you?” I pass it to him.
We both stare down at the slip of paper in his hand, very clearly legible through the slight folds. I’m an absolute moron.
“Hmm, yep, yep, that should be fine,” he mumbles, over-feigning interest in the rumpled slip. “Right, I should be off then.” He weights both hands: a note in one, a million-pound pouch in the other. He grins and turns to leave, then stops.
“One quick question, love. How did it go today? Eddie wants to know.”
“Um, I don’t think it’s going to work out.” I say it gently, as if I’m personally heartbroken about the cruel twist of fate. Eddie the reformed hero denied a second chance with his daughter.
Simon seems confused by my answer.
“Why, what did she do?” He looks at me quizzically.
“Well, she watched it. The video. She cried. She was extremely upset but she was concerned about her children and—”
“Oh, the kids,” he interrupts. “Oh well, fair enough.” He seems satisfied. I wonder if this was an official inquiry about Lottie or if I’ve spoken out of turn.
“Don’t worry about the kids.” Simon’s smiling again. Order restored. “He can get round all that. Good work, though, sweetheart. She cried, aye? Nice. Very good sign. Eddie’s gonna bloody love that. That’ll cheer him right up. If she’s crying, we’re halfway there.” He beams at me. Today’s going well for him.
“Right, darling, I’m off then. Take care.” And with a cheery hand raise, he’s away.
“Um, thank you, Simon!” I call after him. I don’t know why. I have to say something, don’t I? I can’t just stand in silence as he strides back toward his black Mercedes with my diamonds in the palm of his hand.