Mark has a contact for the stones. One of the old work colleagues he met with yesterday, while I was filming at Holli’s, has suggested a possible solution. Just in time. Once the diamonds are sold we can get the money wired straight to Switzerland and we’ll be all done. Our nest egg secured. I haven’t told Mark about Holli or DCI Foster. I want to get today out of the way first; I don’t want him worrying about the police until this deal is done. I’m certain they’re not looking into me yet, and if we get the diamonds sorted today, it’s over. I still haven’t told Mark about the baby either. I’m not deliberately keeping secrets; I just want to wait until the time is right. It’s such big news, I don’t want it tarnished by worry. I want it to be special. Pure.
I’ll tell him once this is done. When we sell the diamonds today, all traces of the bag will be gone, all traces of the plane gone. The diamonds are the last loose end.
Mark’s contact has come through a girl called Victoria—she was in the same training program as Mark at J.P. Morgan. She dropped out pretty early, specialized, and now she’s a quant trader in the Equity Algorithmic Trading team at HSBC. She’s Persian and has a half brother who advises and trades in tangible assets: that’s art and luxury goods, jewelry, Ming vases, Napoleon’s hat, that kind of stuff. Only joking, not Napoleon’s hat. Well, actually, yeah, maybe Napoleon’s hat, who knows? The liquid assets of the super-rich, whatever form they may take.
Victoria’s half brother has a website.
Naiman Sardy Art & Asset Advisors. My favorite page on the website is titled “Art as Collateral.” I wonder what Monet, de Kooning, Pollock, Bacon, and Cézanne, being the most liquid of all the assets, would have thought about being collateral.
According to the website:
In the wake of the international financial crisis, investors have begun to see the benefits of allowing nonmonetary assets such as art, yachts, jewelry, and other collectibles into their overall investment portfolios. These tangible assets, however, need expert care and delicate management, not just in the areas of storage, display, preservation, and insurance, but primarily as tradable assets of substantial value. They require the same level of oversight needed by solely financial investment portfolios. Here at Naiman Sardy we will ensure you achieve and maintain a balanced portfolio, by advising and making you, the investor, aware of current market values and advising on when to buy, to sell, or to hold while assisting at every stage with procurements and sales.
Well, there you go. A protective shell of art. Art being used like cigarettes in prison.
I suddenly realize the double meaning of “oversight.” “They require the same level of oversight needed by solely financial investment portfolios.” One of life’s ironies, I suppose.
I fear the clients of Naiman Sardy Art & Asset Advisors will be first against the wall when the revolution comes, collateral or no.
Anyway, Mark has asked Victoria to contact her brother Charles for “a client” of his. They’re LinkedIn friends, Mark and Victoria, and after a brief catch-up over coffee Mark brought it up. Would her brother be interested in meeting a potential new client who is looking to dissolve some assets over the next few months? The idea seemed to go down well. Mark said she sat up a little taller in the café and very much enjoyed playing the role of middleman. Her brother’s business had been hit quite hard by the current climate, apparently, and Charles could really use the commission right now. Victoria handed over one of Charles’s business cards and told Mark to pass it on to his “client.” She even thanked Mark for thinking of Charles for it.
Mark made the call, set up the meeting. I was to go, not as the client but as the client’s PA, Sara. So far so standard; I knew from Caro’s stories that most of her gallery sales came over the phone or through personal assistants buying at openings. Why go to buy your own collateral if you can send someone else?
I’m meeting Charles this morning. I leave Mark in the Patisserie Valerie at Green Park and make my way, alone, down onto Pall Mall.
The showroom in Pall Mall is discreet. As you enter, it looks more like a high-end private auction house than anything else. Self-contained display plinths pepper the room, housing treasures that I’m guessing probably aren’t for sale. Just totems placed to reassure clients that this is the right place for them, class-related dog whistles, trophies, emblems. But, to be fair, I’d imagine everything in there can be bought for the right price.
In one case, an Incan death mask glimmers warm in the glow of spotlights behind a good inch of thick glass.
In another case a Japanese suit of armor.
In another a necklace with one glistening briolette diamond hanging as thick and as fat as a sherbet lemon from a string of lesser diamonds twinkling in the showroom lights.
Charles greets me. He’s a healthy, ruddy, well-haired red-trouser-wearer, with the hint of a South of France tan.
He appears to be the only one around. Perhaps they only open the shop for meetings. I can’t believe there’s much foot traffic, even in Pall Mall.
We sit nestled at the back of the room at an oversized mahogany partners desk. If it’s not a Chippendale, it’s definitely in the manner of Thomas Chippendale. I guess you’re meant to notice these things. I guess that’s the point of them; that’s probably why they’re chosen.
We sit and make light small talk deep inside the thickly carpeted showroom, Charles makes me a pod coffee, and I figure the business conversation ball is in my court. I’m sure Charles could keep the small talk going and divert me all day if I don’t cut to the chase. He’s definitely not the sort to bring up business first—it wouldn’t be the done thing in his trade, I’d imagine, cutting to the chase.
Even East End market-stall traders love the patter, don’t they? Of course, Charles is no market-stall trader, let’s be clear. He’s Oxbridge through and through: precise, sharp, but riddled with the self-imposed shame of underperforming his own potential. It seems that the one drawback of having every opportunity in life is that you can never fulfill that level of expectation. You’ll always fall short of your own potential. Any achievement will be the minimum expected of you, considering the circumstances, and any failure will be purely due to character weakness.
To be clear, I personally think Charles is doing really well. He’s got a lovely place here. It seems like a lovely job. I’d be a proud mother. That’s another thing about private school boys. They tug at the heartstrings, don’t they? They bypass the sexual and hotline the maternal. They never grow up.
I pop the diamond pouch out of my coat pocket and onto the desktop. The stones are now safely stored away in the soft cream leather wallet that Mark and I purchased for the purpose. The plastic baggie was not appropriate, and although the pouch set us back £150 it gives a wholly different tone to the current endeavor.
Charles clicks to attention. It’s the reason he’s here, after all, and it has been a bad year.
I explain that the family I work for is looking to liquidate some assets over the next months. The stones will be an initial sale to test the waters, to see how receptive the market is at the moment.
Of course, in reality there are no other assets. I wish there were. I wish we’d found more bags. But I figure the prospect of more sales to come for Charles will (a) get us the best price for the stones today and (b) lessen the suspicious nature of a one-off sale.
Charles’s interest is piqued. I knew the leather pouch was worth it.
He fetches a jewelry tray. I pass him the pouch. I want him to pour it out himself. To have the feeling I had the first time I saw hundreds of diamond pills pour out into the refracting light.
He shakes the pouch gently and they tumble out onto the green felt tray.
He feels it.
The hairs on the back of my arms rise. I feel it.
Opportunity. Possibility. He moistens his lips before he looks up.
“Very nice, lovely.” A hint of joy bubbles just under the surface of his deadpan expression. He’s no poker player, that’s for sure.
A rate of ten percent commission is agreed upon. He’ll get started as soon as I leave and should have some offers by the afternoon. Things move very fast in the diamond market. He can have a sale arranged by the end of the day if that’s something the family I work for would be interested in.
I leave with a handwritten receipt in lieu of the stones and head back to the café to meet Mark. And then I feel it: eyes on my back. I stop on the corner of Pall Mall and St. James’s Street, and with nerves fizzing pretend to look for my phone in my bag. The two men behind me pass by. They’re not police, and they aren’t following me, they’re just two well-dressed men on their way to a long lunch. I check over my shoulder, back all the way down the Mall to Trafalgar Square, my eyes searching for DCI Foster’s stocky frame among the few pedestrians. Of the twenty or so passersby, no one fits the bill. DCI Foster’s not here. He’s not watching me.
Stop it, Erin. Don’t be paranoid.
My heart flutters in my chest. A ghost instinct, nothing more. I head off up St. James’s to meet Mark.
He lights up when he sees me enter. He wants to know how it went with Charles.
“Very, very good,” I assure him. “He’s looking for buyers as we speak. He was really excited. He was trying to hide it but I could tell. This might be done in a couple of hours! He’s going to call me this afternoon with some offers.” My hands are shaking ever so slightly. Mark slides his hand over the café table and rests his palm over mine.
“You’re doing really well, honey. I’m impressed.” He undercuts it with a grin. I can’t help breaking into one too. What are we doing? It’s scary but it’s also completely thrilling. I can’t speak for Mark, obviously, but I’ve only ever gotten the occasional parking fine before now. I’m not a criminal. But it’s amazing how smoothly we’re taking to all this. I console myself that it’s okay to be paranoid every now and then, it’d be crazy if I weren’t, considering what we’re doing. We’ve brought all of this danger home with us, to England.
“Listen, Erin, honey, why don’t we just stay in town and wait for Charles’s call together? And if an offer comes through, we’ll just take it, okay? And you can pop back down there and do the deal and we could be completely done by this evening. Diamonds out of the house, done. We can go back to our normal lives. Well, normal-ish.” That smile again.
My mobile rings at around one-thirty. It’s Charles, calling back already. I recognize the final three digits from Mark’s call this morning. Mark gives me the nod and I answer after four rings. We don’t want to sound too desperate.
“Hello?” I answer, brusquely. Sara, my imaginary PA character, has much more important things to be getting on with than waiting for Charles’s call.
“Hello there, Sara, it’s Charles from Naiman Sardy?” He’s tentative.
“Oh, fantastic. Hello, Charles, what can I do for you?” I sound breezy, aloof, and professional. Mark catches my eye and smiles. He likes this character. Very sexy.
Charles hesitates again ever so slightly, but I catch it. An infinitesimal pause down the line before he plunges in. “Sara, I’m ever so sorry. But unfortunately I’m not going to be able to help with this. As much as I’d love to, I’ll have to sit this one out, I’m afraid.”
My stomach flips and my eyes dart to Mark. He’s already caught the change in energy from me and he quietly scans the faces in the café. Are we busted? Is it finished?
I’ve been silent a beat too long on the phone. I focus and continue calmly. “Is there some sort of problem, Charles?” I manage to sound slightly passive-aggressive. Sara isn’t sure why Charles has been wasting her goddamn time if he isn’t capable of selling diamonds.
Mark’s eyes are on me again.
“I’m terribly sorry, Sara. It’s just a small issue of provenance, that’s all. I’m sure you can understand. I’m embarrassed to mention it really. I’m certain your clients are unaware that they are in possession of…well, needless to say there have been quite a few red flags regarding the provenance of the stones, which may cause potential problems further down the line. So I’m going to have to bow out at this stage. I’m sure you understand?” Charles leaves a silence for me to fill.
I shake my head at Mark. No sale. Provenance. I frown. And then I get it. Charles is letting me know that he thinks we’re dealing with blood diamonds. That our stones come from some ethical void or another in Africa. Of course, with no papers, no trail, that’s what they must look like. And I’d rather Charles thinks they’re blood diamonds than that their lack of provenance is due to the fact that we simply stole them. Of course he must have suspected something was off when I handed them over. But I’d wager his concerns are more to do with potential heat than ethics. If he’d been able to offload the stones to literally anyone over the past few hours, I’m guessing he’d have done it. I don’t blame him at all for balking. If I were Charles I’d run a mile, especially if he’s having a bad year. People like Charles don’t last long in prison.
“I see. Well, thank you, Charles, that’s all extremely helpful. I’m sure my clients will be very interested to hear that. You’re correct in assuming they would be completely unaware of any complications of that nature. So, thank you for your discretion.” I oil him. I know he’s not going to tell anyone, but he’s worth greasing if it makes life easier.
“Not a problem at all, Sara.” I hear a relieved smile in his voice. “Could I ask, though, that you inform your clients that I’m very happy to look into any other assets they’d be interested in liquidating? I’m happy to be of use if they need me for anything else. You do have my details, don’t you?” He wants the spoils but he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. Join the queue, Charles, join the queue.
“Yes, of course, and I know they’ll appreciate your discretion in this matter,” I say.
Mark shakes his head. I’m smoothing the ego of a man who just told us we’re criminals, and it’s working. People are strange, aren’t they?
“Wonderful, many thanks. Oh, Sara—would you mind awfully collecting them from my office now? I’ll have them bagged and ready. It’s probably best.”
I hang up and slump onto the café table. God, being a criminal is exhausting. Mark ruffles my hair and I raise my eyes slowly to him.
“No sale.” I keep my tone hushed. “He thinks they’re blood diamonds. He’s fine, though. No intention of telling. I’ve got to go get them back now.”
“Dammit!” It’s not what Mark wanted to hear. He put a lot of work into smoothing that transaction. “This part was supposed to be the easy part. He doesn’t know it’s us selling, does he?”
“No,” I reply quickly. “There’s no way he could know. And if he does, he’s definitely not the kind to ever mention it. I’m sure people bring him all sorts. Blood diamonds are probably the least of his worries. If he’s too scared to try and sell the diamonds for us, then he’ll definitely be too scared to shoot his mouth off about them. Who knows who my clients could be? Who knows what they might be capable of?” I’m not concerned in the least about Charles ratting on us.
Mark’s frown fades and he flashes me a little smile. “So, what the hell are we going to do now?” He says it lightly, the absurdity of our situation evident in his tone. Because what are we going to do now? We don’t know anyone else. We don’t know how to sell diamonds.
I let out a giggle. He grins back, eyes crinkling around the edges. God, he’s gorgeous.
“I really thought that Charles was it; I half expected him to make an offer on the spot,” I say. “God, why can’t it just be that easy?”
“I kind of thought it would be too. Switzerland spoiled us, I think; that went almost too smooth. We’re going to have to look down other avenues for these, though. We’re not done yet. I’ll get on it now. You go get the stones back.” He nods toward the door.
I leave Mark brainstorming while I head back to Charles’s office to pick up our diamonds. And suddenly this feels fun again. I could do this forever with Mark, a Daisy to his Gatsby.
When I get back to the gallery, Charles isn’t there. A security guard answers the bell and hands me the offending pouch in exchange for Charles’s receipt. It seems Charles wants to cover his bases, distance himself. Mark will have to feign ignorance of the whole thing if he ever meets Victoria again. Act shocked and dismayed that his contact was trying to offload blood diamonds. Who knew! It’s perfectly plausible. Mark’s been far enough away from the action to plead ignorance, and there are a lot of bad rich people out there. Aside from being my husband, Mark has no tangible connection to anything that just happened. But then, I wasn’t here either. Sara was here.
A flicker of a voice in my head reminds me that I consistently am the one closest to all this, in terms of traceability, if it all goes sour. I am the one on CCTV in Switzerland, I am the one on CCTV in Pall Mall. Not my name, but my face. As I walk back with the stones to meet Mark, I wonder: Was this my idea, to get so close? Or did I just fall into my role? Am I braver, am I more adept than Mark? Or am I stupider? Why is it always me?
But then, Mark’s the one with the contacts, so he can’t do the transactions, can he? It does make sense. And to be honest, I don’t like taking the back seat on things. We’re actually a perfect team.
Mark’s fresh out of diamond ideas when I get back, so we decide to call it a day. His brain seems to have shifted back to business concerns now. He has to meet another old work friend this afternoon about financial regulation in private consultancy; setting up the new business is going to mean jumping through a lot of hoops. I tell him to go. We really need more time to think about our next move with the diamonds anyway. I kiss him goodbye and head back home, the diamonds cocooned inside their buttery leather and my cold, pocketed hand.
It’s while I’m walking back to the tube that the idea comes to me.
So, if slow-moving Charles can sell diamonds, why can’t we do it ourselves? Charles is a middleman, someone who takes the things very rich people don’t want anymore and finds other people to buy those things. He trades with other people’s money. If Charles can pick up the basics of trading assets alongside his BA in Fine Art, I’m pretty sure it’s not rocket science. Like Mark used to do in the City, but Charles does it on a much smaller scale. And we’ve certainly bought diamonds before; we know our four C’s from all the extensive diamond searching we did together after our engagement. We know approximately how much these stones are worth, so we just need to find someone willing to buy them. And fancy that, there’s a whole street in London entirely devoted to buying and selling diamonds. We just need someone who isn’t too concerned about provenance to show an interest. Someone a little more, shall we say, proactive than Charles. We can at least test the waters.
I dip into an alleyway off Piccadilly, shake one fat diamond out into my palm and pocket the rest.
At Farringdon Station I walk up through a warren of side streets into busy Hatton Garden. It’s cold today, with a fierce sharp wind. The road is bustling with Hasidic Jews, hands holding down their wide-brimmed hats against the wind, and moneyed cockney traders muffled to the chin in cashmere coats, all in a hurry to get somewhere.
It’s probably a stupid idea, coming here, but again I don’t exactly look like a jewel thief, do I? Why would a well-dressed woman in her early thirties draw attention by having a diamond valued in Hatton Garden? People do it every day.
I look down at my engagement ring; it’s beautiful. Mark did spend too much on it really. It’s easy to see that now. But at the time, I remember thinking how much he loved me. How much he’d sacrificed to buy it. The hours he’d worked for it. How beautiful it is. How sparkly.
Now I see a trophy. A game head. Mark’s hard work mounted on my finger. If we’d needed the money, I would have sold it in a heartbeat for us. For our house. For our baby. The thin gold band beneath it means more than the sparkle above. But after the bag I won’t ever need to do that. And I suppose if I manage to sell the stones there’ll never be any need for me to sell anything again.
I try the open-fronted diamond exchange market first. It’s a cavernous space filled with many different store counters, different traders specializing in different gems and metals. Orthodox Jews sit leaning over counters next to sharp-suited cockney traders, a smorgasbord of family businesses cheek to cheek.
I don’t get far before a trader motions me over. Although no one appears to be looking at me, I know I’m a fox that’s just wandered into a hunt.
“What you after, darling?” He’s bald, cockney, shirt, tie, fleece. Practical: a man who dresses for the weather. He’s got a friendly enough smile. He’ll do.
“I’m looking to sell, actually. I’ve got a two-carat stone. Used to be in an engagement ring.” I figure that’s a fairly foolproof story. No one’s going to ask whose engagement ring, are they? I mean, logically, whoever once owned it is either dead or not married anymore. Not the kind of sales patter anyone wants. Not that useful in oiling the cogs of commerce. And the fact that the stone is not in a ring anymore is fairly ominous too, ominous enough that it would be inappropriate to ask. Well, here’s hoping. I came up with my story on the tube. I think it’s pretty good.
“Two carat? Lovely. Let’s have a look then.” He’s genuinely excited. I guess it’s the kind of job where you never know from day to day what might turn up. Something about his expression as I fish out the single stone from my pocket reminds me of that famous episode of Only Fools and Horses. You know, the one where Del and Rodney find the watch and they finally become millionaires? He’s bought my story.
I place it on the felt tray on his counter. It barely hits the felt before he snaps it up. Lens out, studying it. His eyes flick up to me again, assessing. I’m just a woman, middle class, well dressed, late twenties/early thirties. Whatever was worrying him is allayed by my appearance; he squints back at the stone.
He calls a colleague over. Martin. Martin gestures a friendly hello. He’s younger than the guy in the fleece, who now passes him the stone. His son, perhaps? A nephew? Martin pulls out his own lens and inspects the diamond from all angles. He throws a look to me too. Sizes me up.
“How much are you after?” Martin’s chillier now than his initial hello, businesslike. I suppose that means it’s something they want. Game faces are set.
“I’m not too sure, to be honest. I know it’s two carat. The cut and color are pretty flawless. I’m guessing around…five grand?” I aim low, low, low. I’m testing the water. I’m pretending I don’t know what I’ve got. I know what I’ve got. Charles confirmed what we’ve got before he bowed out. This diamond, like all the others in the pouch, is color D (colorless), clarity IF (internally flawless) or VVS1 (very, very slightly included). Charles wrote the specs very precisely on the receipt he gave me. A basic round stone with those specs would reach eight grand per stone wholesale, nine and a half grand with tax. But the stone they hold in their hands now is a radiant-cut diamond, rectangular and cut to enhance brilliance and sparkle. These stones are rarer, they’re brighter. They come in, wholesale, at about eighteen to twenty grand before tax.
These guys can’t believe their luck.
The guy with the fleece juts out his lower lip as if to say five grand seems reasonable. He glances at Martin.
“What do you think, Martin? Can we stretch? It’s a nice stone.” He’s playing it well—if I didn’t know any better I’d think they were doing me a favor.
Martin eyes the stone again before exhaling loudly. He looks at me, his mouth pursed, weighing up the decision.
“Yeah, we can do that. Why not? Sure, let’s do it. I’ll get it written up.” He nods at the fleecy man.
Fleecy Man smiles over at me, brisk. “You happy with that, love?” he asks.
I’m happy in that I’ve achieved here what I wanted to achieve. These stones can be sold. There are people who will overlook where they might come from, if there’s a bargain to be made. Even if we let them all go for five thousand each, that’ll still give us a cool million. We could get more than that, I know we could, but a million is fine. Let’s not be too greedy.
I nod my head sagely, having a think, and I let them stew a moment.
“That sounds great, guys. Fantastic. I’ll have a chat with my husband about it tonight and see what he says and maybe pop back in tomorrow?” I give them a chummy smile—we’re all friends here—and pocket my stone.
Of course, I have no intention of coming back. I have no intention of selling two hundred diamonds one by one at various diamond markets. And as we’ve learned, the high-end traders won’t touch them with a barge pole. So, what we need is to find someone who will look the other way for the right percentage. I think of all the stories Mark’s told me over the years about the people he’s worked with, the people he’s worked for. The things they do, the things they’ve done. I’m certain we can find somebody.
Mark’s in the living room when I get home, full of renewed vigor. His business meeting went really well, apparently: thankfully, most of the industry regulations encourage and support new business; people are setting up their own firms more than ever before, and there’s plenty of demand for them in the current climate. He’s been working on his potential client list too. It’s looking very healthy, he says with a smile. His luck finally seems to have turned. A rich fug of coffee hangs in the air. He hands me a cup too, a welcome-home gift.
“Any luck with anything?” he asks. He leans against the side of the sofa, his arms folded across his chest with the low light from the setting sun illuminating him. We’ll have to turn the lamps on in a minute.
It’s funny how much we’re both enjoying this. It’s become a game; sometimes a game of skill, sometimes a game of chance. Maybe we like it so much because we’re winning it right now.
“I had an idea after I left you,” I say tentatively. “Bear with me. I went to Hatton Garden. Don’t worry—I didn’t do anything crazy. I just wanted to test the waters. I wanted to see if there were people who might be willing to look the other way on provenance. And, Mark, there are! There definitely are.” I smile at him, feeling my face flush. He doesn’t smile back.
I persist. “What we need is someone just the wrong side of legal to buy them off of us. Someone who wants the money and isn’t too worried about where they came from.” I try another tentative smile but he looks back at me blankly. Why isn’t he going with me on this?
He rises and starts to pace the room, lost in thought. Something’s not quite right. I bite my bottom lip and wait.
After a moment he turns and looks at me, his face unreadable.
“What is it, Mark? What’s bothering you?” It comes out slightly sharper than I’d expected. He looks away. I guess I can only hold so much in before it starts to seep out. I’m keeping too many secrets right now, the pressure too heavy in my head. We need to sell these diamonds as soon as we can so we can go back to our real lives. I don’t understand why he doesn’t see that. We were having so much fun together earlier. I don’t understand the sudden withdrawal.
He turns back to me. “I just can’t believe how incredibly stu—Nothing. It’s fine. No. You just carry on, Erin.” He stops and goes to his desk; he busies himself with work papers.
“How stupid what, Mark? What? Sorry if I’m not getting this but…Just say what you want to say to me, please. Today has been tough and I think I’ve played it pretty well, so if you have a problem with what I’m doing, then could you please tell me? Or better yet, why don’t you tell me your ideas, Mark?” I demand.
He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me.
“Erin, I found DCI Foster’s card in the pocket of your other coat.” He says this softly; he’s not angry, he’s disappointed, which is worse. He didn’t think we did things like this, kept things from each other. “I needed change, before you ask. When were you going to tell me about him, Erin? You scared the shit out of me! When did you stop telling me things?” Mark looks at me, hurt in his eyes. “First of all, I thought you’d been to talk to the police about the bag. I thought you’d told them everything. I had to Google the guy. Then I saw it was counterterrorism and I didn’t know what the hell was going on. And then I started thinking, is she having an affair with this guy or something? Why does she have his card? And then, like a pathetic moron, I look through your emails—and thank God! Thank God I saw your email to Phil about yesterday. About Holli. So, at least now, I know it’s just work you’re keeping from me. Which is fine, Erin, but don’t freeze me out, okay? I have a right to know what’s going on. Keeping secrets, especially about the police at a time like this, that…that is how things start to go wrong.” He frowns at me accusingly. “I wasn’t going to mention it, I was going to let you get around to telling me in your own time, but I guess we’ll just have to talk about it now. So, I’m sorry if I’m not completely ecstatic about what you’ve been up to all day, but I think you can see where I’m coming from, right? You’ll be all over CCTV in Hatton Garden, you know that, right?” He says this calmly, but his words pound in my head. “It’s not going to look good if they start looking into you. And it will definitely not look good if DCI Foster finds footage of you.”
He’s right, of course. I am acting like an idiot. I am so incredibly screwed if everything goes wrong.
“Just tell me we’re in this together, Erin. You’re not keeping anything else from me, are you? It’s just you and me, right?” It’s a serious question that requires a serious answer. I feel the importance of this moment. He’s putting himself on the line; I must take him or I leave him, he’s not offering half measures.
I still haven’t told him about the pregnancy, about Eddie knowing where we live, knowing everything about us, but I can’t tell him now, can I? I’m already on shaky ground. I’m the irresponsible one; I’m the one running around town risking everything, lying. Imagine if he knew I was doing it while I carry our unborn child. If I tell him now, I might break this fragile thing we have that we’ve spent so long creating.
He’s waiting for my answer. He’s genuinely concerned. I feel bad. So bad.
“I’m sorry, Mark. I’m so sorry. I was going to tell you after we’d sold the diamonds. I just didn’t want you to worry. And if I genuinely thought Andy—sorry, DCI Foster—was having me followed, I wouldn’t have gone to Hatton Garden, I promise. We really need to get the diamonds out of the house, though, you see that, right? Especially now.”
He’s hurt. I see that, even though he doesn’t want me to see that. But after a moment, he nods. He knows we need them gone.
I nod back in reply. “So we agree. We need to sell the stones as soon as we can. We need them gone, out of this house, and we need the money in the bank ASAP?” It’s a question. If he wants me to end all this now, I will end it. I love him too much to push it.
He pauses, briefly, and then nods again. “Agreed.”
“I should have told you about DCI Foster. I’m so sorry, Mark.” I angle for a half smile and he doesn’t let me down. God, I love him.
I cross the room to him and put my arms around him.
“Just don’t make a habit of it, Mrs. Roberts.” He pulls me close. “Let’s sell some sodding diamonds then.”
I press against him, relieved. “Do you know anyone who could help us do that?” I ask.
He looks down at me. “Do you?”