Heist: BookShots Read online

  Scowcroft wanted to leave now. He wanted to charge. He wanted to see this through and restore his brother’s life not one minute later than he could. But he also knew that Barrett, a best friend to Tony since they were boy soldiers of seventeen, was the reason that his brother had been able to come home at all. Barrett’s training and instincts had rescued Tony that day. Scowcroft hoped that those instincts would not fail them now.

  ‘We wait an hour and a half,’ he told them. ‘And then we go to Amsterdam.’

  CHAPTER 7

  HILL CONSIDERED SOCIAL media to be an essential part of any business, particularly in the fitness industry in which he was determined to thrive, so he was an active user of all platforms and earned a look of admiration from Emma as she received a follow request from Hill’s Instagram account.

  ‘You’ve got eleven thousand followers!’ the barista said in awe. ‘And amazing abs,’ she cooed, scrolling through his pictures.

  ‘Thanks, but let’s concentrate on your video.’

  They did, and what the detective saw astounded him – two motorbikes charging down a group of three pedestrians, who somehow turned the tables on their assailants and overpowered them. For reasons unclear in the video, the trio then bolted by foot, rather than using the van that Hill assumed was theirs.

  ‘The tyres,’ Hill said aloud, thinking of the scraps of rubber beside the blood. ‘Someone slashed the tyres.’

  Thanking Emma for her time, Hill took a moment to stand alone outside the coffee shop, his eyes working the length of Hatton Garden.

  Two bikes, two riders and a van, all vanished. How? How was it possible to clear that carnage before the uniform had arrived on the scene? Neither Emma nor her video had been able to shed light on how or when the area had been cleared. She had been inside the coffee shop, busily uploading the video online.

  Hoping the witness who’d called it in could help solve the puzzle, Hill walked along the pavement and found her in a jeweller’s named Heavenly Diamonds.

  ‘Mrs Underwood?’ Hill asked a tall, nervous-looking woman in her sixties as the reinforced door closed heavily behind him.

  ‘I am,’ she replied, and seemed to brace herself as Hill held out his police identification.

  ‘I believe you reported a crime, Mrs Underwood.’

  ‘So what if she did?’ a man’s voice challenged from the back of the jeweller’s.

  Hill turned his head and caught sight of a grey-haired man he presumed to be her husband.

  ‘Mr Underwood?’ Hill asked.

  ‘So what if she reported a crime?’ the man asked again, ignoring Hill’s question and taking a stand behind the thick glass counter. ‘A fat lot of good it does.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hill posed, earning a contemptuous tut in reply.

  ‘I mean, someone tries to do the right thing, and where does it get them? Don’t bother to answer, and don’t bother to ask any more questions either. My wife did her bit. How about you do yours?’

  ‘I’m trying, Mr Underwood, but it would make my job a lot easier if I could talk with your wife.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Underwood answered for herself.

  ‘Well, OK then,’ Hill conceded, knowing a brick wall when he saw one. ‘I’m sorry to have taken up your time.’

  He made for the door, but Mr Underwood wasn’t done.

  ‘You want to talk to someone about what happened, talk to that bastard across the street.’

  Hill paused at the open door. ‘And which bastard would that be, Mr Underwood?’

  ‘Him,’ the man spat, pointing a finger towards the opposite side of Hatton Garden. ‘The owner of that sham.’

  Hill followed the angry stare and read the jeweller’s name above the tinted windows: Swiss Excellence.

  An alarm bell rang in Hill’s mind. A tripwire to a case five years ago, where a jeweller had loudly reported extortion and harassment, before finding himself face down in the Thames.

  Hill turned back to the shop’s owner, his tone lowered. ‘You don’t need to tell me anything, Mr Underwood. I believe I understand the predicament you’re in. It would help me, however, if you could nod in the right places.’

  After a few moments of thought, the man agreed with a look. He then unlocked the counter, placing several rings atop the glass. Hill played along with the ruse, pretending to inspect the jewellery.

  ‘Swiss Excellence. That’s now owned by Marcus Slate, isn’t it?’

  The older man nodded, though a tremor of fear made it seem more like a twitch.

  ‘He bought it after the previous owner died?’

  ‘Was bloody killed,’ Underwood mumbled beneath his breath as he nodded, confirming the story that Hill had recalled.

  ‘The fight today. It seemed to be over a bag. Did it come from that jeweller’s?’

  Another nod.

  ‘I assume you have CCTV here. I don’t have to take anything away with me, but could I watch it?’

  This time the jeweller shook his head. ‘You’re not the first visitor we’ve had today, Inspector. All our hard drives have been taken.’ His wife seemed to shrink at the memory.

  ‘Someone came here before the police?’ Hill asked, provoking a bitter laugh from the man.

  ‘Before them?’ Underwood spat.

  Hill could see that the man knew he shouldn’t talk, and was struggling to contain his words, but resentment drove them from his mouth.

  ‘Let me rephrase that for you, Detective Inspector Hill. You’re not the first police visitor we’ve had today.’

  CHAPTER 8

  HILL WAS SHOCKED by the accusation. In truth, he refused to believe it.

  But then he visited the other jewellers whose CCTV may have covered the incident on the doorstep of Swiss Excellence. No one would talk. No one had footage which they’d hand over. In more than one instance, Hill saw a tremor of fear in the face of the shop owner as he announced himself as a police officer.

  Finally, it was time for Hill to visit Swiss Excellence itself.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’ a gentleman in a pinstriped suit welcomed him, putting forward a manicured hand in greeting.

  Hill took it, enjoying the man’s discomfort as he held his tongue.

  ‘Sir?’ the man finally managed, and Hill let go of the hand with a smile.

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ Hill stated. ‘There was an incident outside here today, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Winston, Detective. There was? What kind of incident?’ the man stammered, badly feigning shock.

  ‘The kind that people like to cover up, it seems.’ Hill smiled, catching Winston off guard with his directness. ‘Why didn’t you report the stolen diamonds?’

  ‘What diamonds?’ Winston protested, taking an involuntary step backwards.

  ‘You were here this morning,’ Hill asserted, closing on the man but still flashing brilliantly white teeth. ‘We have your voice on the call,’ he bluffed. ‘Your call to Marcus Slate. You were telling him what had happened instead of the police.’

  Hill had interviewed enough liars to read their eyes, and Winston’s screamed that Hill had hit a hole-in-one.

  ‘Listen, Winston, I’m not interested in who you tip off, or who you’re laundering for. What I want to know is, who cleaned up that mess outside your window?’

  Winston held his tongue. Then, as Hill inched his face closer, Winston saw something in the detective’s eyes – it was the same single-minded drive that shone in the face of Marcus Slate, and Winston knew there was no option but to confess to this man.

  And so he told Hill what he wanted to know.

  CHAPTER 9

  WITH TWENTY MINUTES until the Eurostar’s departure, it was time for the trio of diamond thieves to make their move.

  ‘There’s been nothing on the news,’ Scowcroft confronted his accomplices. ‘We got away with it, all right? Let’s just get the train and meet Baz’s buyer. I don’t get what’s wrong with you,’ he pressed. ‘Tony’s relying on us. He’s waiting on us.’

/>   ‘Which is exactly why I don’t want to mess this up, Alex,’ Charlotte retorted. ‘We went over every single possible scenario we could think of for this, but did we ever plan that there’d be a no-show from the police? We didn’t. That’s how strange it is. Something’s going on here.’

  ‘You’re just nervous.’

  ‘I’m cautious.’

  ‘Well, what do you think, Baz?’ Scowcroft pressed the gaunt-faced veteran.

  It was a long time before he replied.

  ‘Something that we don’t know about is going on behind the scenes, but the fact is, we can’t stay here for ever. I say we get the train and make for Amsterdam.’

  ‘You see?’ Scowcroft laughed, his bitter eyes on Charlotte.

  ‘Hang on, Alex. I wasn’t quite finished, mate,’ Barrett told him gently. ‘I think we should get the train, but divide the stones and split up. We can meet up again in Amsterdam, but at least this way, if something does happen, one of us should get through.’

  ‘One of us is enough for Tony,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘We should go different ways. One on the train, one on the ferry and one flying.’

  ‘Are you off your head?’ Scowcroft yelled.

  ‘Keep your voice down, mate,’ Barrett warned the young man, seeing heads turn in their direction.

  Scowcroft did lower the volume, but his tone was as harsh as ever as he laid into his brother’s fiancée. ‘You ran out on Tony with nothing,’ he hissed. ‘You think I trust you to stay when you’ve got a million quid’s worth of diamonds in your pocket?’

  Charlotte stood quickly and raised her right fist to bring it crashing into the side of the petulant boy’s skull, but Barrett caught her wrist.

  ‘Everyone calm down,’ he urged. ‘People are looking. Do you want to bollocks this up now?’

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ Charlotte replied with heat.

  ‘Alex?’ Barrett asked, but was ignored. ‘Alex?’ he asked again.

  But Scowcroft’s attention had left the group, and the argument. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the escalators that carried patrons to the champagne bar.

  And there, wearing a fresh suit and with his arm in a sling, was the big man that Scowcroft had stabbed only hours before.

  Barrett and Charlotte followed the young man’s gaze.

  ‘Staircase,’ Scowcroft told them. ‘We all get the train, and we get it now.’

  This time there were no arguments.

  CHAPTER 10

  IT TOOK HILL only two minutes to drive to Snow Hill police station, the location from where Police Constable Amy Roberts had responded to the call of the Hatton Garden incident.

  ‘Why only her?’ Hill pressed the stoat-faced desk sergeant.

  ‘Wasn’t a crime in progress, and we’re on a tight budget. Big area to cover and not enough coppers. She was just there to take reports.’

  ‘And where did she respond from?’

  ‘Here, on foot. Budget,’ the desk sergeant explained again.

  ‘She arrived seventeen minutes after the witness called,’ Hill said, his voice hard. ‘It’s a five-minute walk.’

  The sergeant merely shrugged.

  ‘Where can I find her now?’ Hill asked, tiring of the silence.

  ‘I can call her in.’

  Hill shook his head.

  ‘She’s on her patrol route around the Stock Exchange area. You’ll recognise her easy enough. Tall and blonde. Wasted in this uniform, to be honest. Sooner she gets a plain-clothes gig the better.’

  Hill didn’t bother to reply and left the station on foot.

  The London Stock Exchange was close, and as Hill walked down Newgate Street he caught glimpses of the magnificent dome of St Paul’s Cathedral between the buildings. Hill had been born and raised in the city, and the image of that cathedral standing tall amongst the fires of the Blitz had always provoked an intense pride within him. Now that his own grandparents were gone, it was almost as if the iconic architecture of the old city had taken their place as the guardians of Hill’s heritage.

  ‘Bugger it,’ Hill thought aloud and took a side street towards the cathedral. He knew that starting a business would consume his time for months, perhaps years to come. When would he get the chance to sit and stare in awe at the striking lines and the subtle beauty of a place like St Paul’s?

  The case could wait twenty minutes.

  Hill entered through Paternoster Square, taking his time to admire the space that so brilliantly trapped the autumn sun. Passing through a narrow archway, and squeezing by a group of eager Chinese tourists, Hill came out at the rear of the cathedral.

  There was a cafe to his left and Hill took a seat, ordering coffee and a chicken sandwich. Then he pulled his headphones from his pocket, connected them to his phone, and opened an app that had become part of his daily ritual.

  After years of training his body for optimal performance, Hill had finally been convinced by Deb of the need to train his mind. The app centred on a form of meditation known as mindfulness, the calm voice guiding Hill through his breathing exercises and helping him to put order into the scattered thoughts that bounced around inside his mind. In central London, a man with his eyes closed was not enough to draw attention or comment, and when Hill finished the seven-minute session, feeling revitalised and energised, a coffee and a sandwich sat in front of him.

  But before he had reached for either he saw her.

  PC Amy Roberts was on the opposite side of the square, giving directions to a pair of grinning backpackers. Thanking his luck that he wouldn’t have to pace the area endlessly to find her, Hill picked up his lunch and walked towards the police constable.

  As he drew near, and the backpackers went on their way, Hill saw that the desk sergeant had been right: Hill was six-two, and Roberts was easily his match. She was also strikingly beautiful.

  ‘No wonder they all come to you for directions,’ Hill smiled, then took a deep bite of his sandwich.

  ‘Excuse me?’ PC Roberts asked, her beautiful face drawing into the haughty mask that she used to drive away unwanted male attention.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Hill replied through a mouthful of bread and chicken.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Roberts asked, forcing herself to add the title.

  ‘Actually, you can,’ Hill said, swallowing the mouthful. ‘You can tell me how much they paid you to cover up the Hatton Garden robbery.’

  Roberts froze, but her eyes widened in alarm.

  ‘Are you a reporter?’ she finally managed.

  ‘Afraid not, Amy. I’m from Scotland Yard.’ Hill dropped the words as casually as he tossed a corner of his sandwich to the pigeons. ‘But I’m not with internal,’ he added.

  ‘Who the hell are you, then?’ the constable asked, regaining some of her composure and fire.

  ‘Well, that depends on what you tell me. I can be the guy who ends your career, and sees you do a nice stretch inside, or I can be the guy who conveniently forgets to include certain things in his report, and nobody cares because the case will be solved, and someone else will be going to prison. How’s the second option sound to you?’

  ‘Like I have a bloody choice. The same as I didn’t have a choice this morning.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Look at me. I can’t blend in. I can’t hide. They know where I am, and they know we patrol alone now since the cuts. Why do you think I’m standing in the middle of this sodding square giving directions?’

  ‘Because you’re scared,’ Hill answered with empathy.

  ‘Because I’m fucking terrified,’ she hissed, her eyes backing up her words. ‘They stopped me on my way there. Told me what I had to do.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘Turn a blind eye while they cleared the scene. There was no one there, just two bikes on the pavement and a van with slashed tyres. I had to wait for the tow trucks to come, and then they sent me to gather the CCTV.’

  ‘Where’s that now?’

  ‘In the Thames, I’d imagine.
One of them came with me, pretended to be a plain-clothes officer, but I could see that the owners of the stores knew better. There’s a racket going on there, and they all know about it.’

  ‘Marcus Slate?’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe. There’s been a big guy parading up Hatton Garden every morning. Catches a taxi from the end of the street. I saw him on my rounds a couple of times. I thought he looked out of place, a right thug in a nice suit, but then when I saw him come out of the shop that Slate owns, it made more sense.’

  ‘What are they running out of there?’

  ‘Diamonds, and I’m not going to die because two gangs were fighting over them.’

  ‘How do you know it was diamonds?’

  ‘It’s Hatton Garden – what else can it be?’

  ‘OK. Look, I understand why you did what you did. I know it’s not black and white on the streets.’

  Hill watched as Roberts balled her hands into angry fists, no doubt wishing she could take revenge on the men who’d threatened her and forced her to turn her back on the job and service that she no doubt loved.

  ‘I feel like a piece of shit for it,’ she said with anger. ‘But these guys are serious, and I did what I had to do.’

  Hill had nothing to say and simply handed her his card.

  ‘I really hope you figure it all out,’ Roberts told him, and Hill could feel her sincerity. ‘But figure it out quickly, because someone’s going to die for those diamonds.’

  CHAPTER 11

  SCOWCROFT PULLED A wedge of twenty-pound notes from his pocket and waved them at the waiter to catch his attention, before dumping them on the table – the last thing the thieves needed was to be chased by the bar’s security for running out without paying their bill.

  ‘Follow me,’ he told the others, and took them to the stairwell at the opposite end of the bar from the escalators, where the gorilla of a courier was now scanning the tables.

  ‘How did he know where to find us?’ Charlotte asked as they pushed through a fire escape. There was no alarm on the door, and the stairs led down into the main station.