Diamond Solitaire

'And is it curable?'

'Let's say that the condition is usually of limited duration.'

'So she will recover her speech?'

'I wasn't discussing a particular case.'

Diamond conceded with a nod. 'That's another possible explanation, then. So far we have autism, elective mutism, and now, trauma.'

Ettlinger beamed. 'Have we muddied the water sufficiently?'

Diamond nodded. Confusion wasn't the object, of course; quite the contrary. He'd enlisted the support of an expert in questioning the assumption that Naomi was autistic. He hadn't enough clout to prevent her being put on that flight to Boston on Sunday, but he felt more clear in his own mind that he was right to protest

Late that afternoon there was another boost. A call from the BBC. A generous minded producer who had given him not a glimmer of hope that morning had since talked to someone's PA over lunch at the Television Center, and she'd passed on the word about Naomi to her producer, who was now on the line. A new program Diamond had never heard of called 'What About the Kids?' had been running on BBC2 for two weeks, a Friday afternoon show featuring children and presented by children. It consisted mainly of two- or three-minute items such as song and dance, circus acts, animal training, a word game, demonstrations of toys, interviews with kids who'd been in the news and with adults like writers and artists who produced work for children.

The whole thing sounded like a dog's breakfast, but Diamond was careful not to say so. 'I bet the kids love it.'

'Surprisingly, the audience figures aren't all that encouraging,' the producer, who reveled in the name of Cedric Athelhampton, admitted, 'but we are back-to-back with Tin-Tin and Jackanory. The controllers are willing to live with moderate figures as long as we have some educational content, social issues and so forth. We're trying to include some items with more weight.'

Try me for size, Diamond frivolously thought In fact, he felt lighter than air at this minute. 'You're looking for serious issues?'

'Exactly-only they have to be conveyed simply and directly. And they must involve children, which is why I pricked up my ears when I heard about your Japanese girl. She is the child found in Harrods?'

'Yes.'

'And she still doesn't speak a word?'

'Not a syllable.'

'And nobody has identified her in all this time? I'll tell you how I see mis, Mr. Diamond. I've had a rather creative idea. We'll present it as a challenge. Do you follow me?'

With admirable self-restraint, Diamond indicated mat he was keeping up.

Cedric Athelhampton's voice thickened and swelled in anticipation. 'This will really engage our audience. Kids adore playing detective. See if they recognize her from school or the park or the street where they play. Tell me, Mr. Diamond, what exactly is your connection with this girl?'

He was primed for this one. 'I just took an interest in her case. Speaking of detectives, I'm ex-CID myself.'

'How divine.'

It was the first time he'd heard it so described.

The only hitch in all this euphoria was that Cedric was thinking in terms of the program a week on Friday.

'Sorry. No chance,' said Diamond. 'Can't you slot her in this week?'

'I wish I could, ducky, but we're in pink script for Friday.'

'Does that make a difference?' he enquired, trying manfully not to let the 'ducky' unsettle him.

'It's a live show, Mr. Diamond. We can't take more risks than we have to.'

'A live show for children? Is that usual?'

'Nothing about our show is usual. That's why it's so riveting. Can you come in on Friday week?'

'No. She'll be in America by then.'

'America! Whatever for?'

Without hesitation, he said, 'Prime-time television. She's going to be a sensation over there, they tell me.' He could be creative too, when pushed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

David Flexner turned over the envelope for the umpteenth time and looked at the four hastily scribbled words Hope Venice was magic. Schmaltz, pure schmaltz, he told himself, as an all too genuine tear misted his vision. Pop, you always knew how to pluck the heartstrings; and you always succeeded.

No question, Venice had been magic. He'd acted on Manny's advice and driven there the same night. Dropped everything, or almost everything. Bullish from handling his first executive assignment so effectively, he'd invited the winsome Pia to accompany him. To his delight, she'd laughed, squeezed his hand and accepted. They'd stayed three days and two unforgettable nights in a palace-the Hotel Cipriani on the tip of Guidecca Island, facing the Lido. Venice had been magic and so had Pia.

All of which made the aftermath-the return to Milan-even more distressing. Rico's, 'Where were you? We had no way of contacting you,' may not have been meant as a recrimination, but sounded like it On being informed what Manny had done, David had felt overwhelmed by guilt. Only afterwards, during the flight to New York, did he mentally run through the sequence of events and accept that his father had wished it this way, wished him to get away-actually to enjoy himself-before he learned the terrible news.

Manny had fallen twenty-one floors and died on impact with the parking lot Cancer would have taken him in a matter of months. A double shock for David.

On arrival at JFK, he was met by Michael Leapman, who embraced him supportively and handed him the letter from his father. He didn't immediately open it. The message on the back was as much as he could take at this time. At David's own suggestion, they drove straight to the morgue and went through the necessary ordeal of identification. Amazingly Manny's face was unmarked. There was damage to the base of the skull, the mortician explained, but he had hit the ground feet first. For the viewing of the corpse, everything was covered except the face. Prepared for injuries so extreme that he would have difficulty in recognizing his father, David was surprised and deeply moved to see the features he'd known and loved. He stooped to kiss Manny's forehead and whisper a farewell, and, as he did so, a curious thing happened. David's hair, fastened as usual in a ponytail, slipped off his shoulder and flopped over the pale face. Quickly he drew it aside and Manny's left eye opened. The dragging movement of the hair must have been responsible, but the effect was startling. It was almost as if his father winked at him. He stroked his hand over the face and closed the eyelid. The incident was over so rapidly mat the others may not even have noticed. Certainly nothing was said.

Out in the daylight, Michael Leapman suggested a drink before returning to the office. They picked an Irish bar on the next block. 'You may wish to catch up on your letter,' Leapman suggested when they were seated. There was something else besides sympathy in his manner, and it was not unlike respect. In their previous encounters in the boardroom, more often than not he'd disregarded David-but then so had most of the other directors.

'Later.'

'Don't get me wrong. I don't want to be a drag, only I think you should look at it now, before we check in at the office. If it's anything like the letter I had, there are things to be done real soon.'

Leapman was right, David discovered. It was that sort of letter-Manny still calling the tune. Just one sentence to indicate that this was a suicide note: 'Sorry it had to happen like this, Davey, but you know me- couldn't ever wait for a darned thing.' Then straight to business: '/ want you to take over as Chairman. My entire estate, including my holdings of shares, will come to you. I told Michael Leapman my wishes and he's promised his support. He'll propose you for Chair- man at an Emergency Meeting I've asked him to convene. The Board will back you. It's essential there's no delay, no perceived reluctance from you, or the stock will drop and the predators will swallow us. Handle it as positively as you just handled the problem in Milan and we'll get through without damage, hell, no, we'11 prosper. Take my word for it, Davey, when you're in charge, you'll be on a permanent high. Just remember you're the boss. You take the