Diamond Solitaire

themselves.'

'Have you any idea what you're asking, Mr.-'

'Diamond. Ex-Superintendent Diamond. Yes, I know exactiy what I'm asking, and it's the obvious course of action apart from questioning the neighbors round here, which goes without saying. If you want help-'

'That won't be needed.'

'Good. I'm glad you can handle that,' Diamond said and added before the sergeant had time to come in again, 'In that case I'll come straight down to the station. I can be more useful there.'

This had the desired effect, a definite infusion of urgency. 'Will you listen to me, sir? I want you to stay where you are. I'll be sending someone to take a statement from you.'

'Sod that. I've given you the facts. Do I have to repeat that this child was taken from the school against her will? Abducted, sergeant. We've got to know where she was taken, and we've got to know fast.'

He ended the call.

Julia Musgrave had overheard all this. She was pale, clearly disturbed by Diamond's bulldozing, without knowing that it was the sure way to get things done in the police. 'You said this is an emergency.'

His response was guarded. 'I know that sergeant's type. If you told him a bomb had been planted in Buckingham Palace, he'd want it in writing first.'

'Is Naomi in danger?'

'We've got to assume she is. Whoever this woman is- and she may be the mother, for all I know-she behaved suspiciously.'

'Maybe,' she commented. 'But you can't expect a mother deprived of her child to act rationally. She turned up here at breakfast time. Is that really to be interpreted as suspicious? If my child were missing, I wouldn't think twice about knocking on someone's door any time of the day or night.'

'In that case why didn't she come here yesterday, directly after the television program?'

'We don't know where she was when she saw it. If she was in Manchester, for example, she'd have had to travel to London, wouldn't she?'

'She could have phoned.'

'Perhaps she tried. You told me yourself that the BBC switchboard was jammed.'

He wasn't going to get far with mis line of reasoning and he hadn't started it anyway, so he mentioned another obvious cause for mistrusting the Japanese woman. 'I can't believe a genuine mother just reunited with her child would hit her.'

'Stress.'

He gave up. He knew really that his motives in treating the matter as an emergency were more instinctive than rational. Naomi had eventually come to trust him-at least to the extent of holding his hand. He wouldn't have admitted to Julia Musgrave or anyone else-bar Stephanie-that the child had captivated him. He'd felt the small hand in his own and now it was a self-imposed duty to find out whether she was safe. But he didn't want anyone running away with the idea that he-the veteran of a dozen murder inquiries-was a soft touch, literally a soft touch. He didn't particularly want to admit it to himself.

There was more to it, he insisted. He was deeply suspicious about the mother. How could she have allowed herself to be parted from her child for so long? Why hadn't she alerted the police, or at least her own embassy, when Naomi first went missing? Foreigners could be forgiven some confusion in a strange country, but anyone, of any nationality, ought to have reacted promptly to a crisis as basic as that.

So he wasn't giving up without satisfying himself that the 'mother' was the mother, and was capable of looking after her child.

Before carrying out his promise (or threat) to call at the police station, he decided to give the area car ten minutes to drive up. Someone may have seen the woman forcing Naomi into the taxi and it was worth making sure that the right questions were asked. Thus far, he wasn't over impressed by the caliber of the Kensington plod.

Two PCs-male and female-arrived with a couple of minutes to spare, looking like extras in a TV soap opera. Why was it that no one in police uniform looked genuine anymore? To do them justice, they went about their duties efficiently and agreed to divide forces, one knocking on doors while the other questioned Mrs. Straw.

Diamond waited long enough to learn that not one of the neighbors had witnessed Naomi being bundled into the taxi. One man raised hopes by saying he had spotted the cab standing outside, and then could only add that the vehicle had been black and the driver white.

Down at the nick in Earls Court Road, someone must have issued a warning of imminent invasion. Two sergeants and a plainclothes CID officer-an inspector, as it turned out-were at the desk to repel Diamond. They didn't succeed, of course. He'd long ago checked the identity of the Deputy Assistant Commissioner for Six Area West, and nothing opens a door better than naming the man in charge.

This being Saturday morning, the Big White Chief wasn't about, so Diamond had to settle for his surrogate, Chief Superintendent Sullins, another name usefully committed to memory from the police directory in Kensington Library. For bis part, Sullins, a foxy little character in white shirt and red braces, trying strenuously to look the part of the Kensington supremo, claimed to have heard of Diamond, though they had never met until this handshake on the stairs.

'Everything under control' was Sullins' text for the day, at least for Peter Diamond's consumption. He was giving this matter of the missing child high priority. The police already knew all about Naomi ('I wish I did,' Diamond commented in passing) from the night of the alarm in Harrods. They'd gone to extraordinary lengths to try and establish who she was. And now everything possible was being done to trace the taxi. Cab firms all over London were being contacted. So Diamond was free to leave in the sure confidence that nothing he could do would speed the process.

'Thank you, but I'd prefer to stay,' he said amiably.

'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' Sullins told him

'Why?'

'We don't allow members of the public-'

'Ex-CID,' Diamond interjected.

'I appreciate the offer, Mr. Diamond, but we have our procedures.'

He countered with: 'You mean you need to get the Chiefs consent? Understandable.' He smiled disarmingly. 'I'll fix it. What does he do Saturday mornings-play golf or go shopping with his good lady? I'm damned sure he carries a beeper, wherever he is. And if he has to trot back to his car for the phone, I dare say he won't mind. Do you want me to mention you asked me to get clearance, or should I leave your name out of it, Mr. Sullins?''

No ambitious policeman was proof against that kind of blackmail. 'Ex-CID, you said,' Sullins remarked as if he had only just registered the information. 'I suppose it's possible you may be of use. It's highly irregular.'

Diamond nodded. 'Cheers. I'll keep myself inconspicuous.' Which was by some way the most unlikely assertion anyone had made that morning.

In the communications room, a WPC was keying something into the computer. Diamond squeezed around her to reach for the log of calls that the switchboard operator had beside her. 'Got anything back from the taxi firms- about the Japanese kid?'

'Zero so far,' she told him.

'How many are there?'

'Cab firms? Have you looked at the Yellow Pages?

He picked a directory off her desk. What he saw depressed him. 'How many have you done?'

'About twelve.'

'Keep going.'

She gave him a withering stare. 'Who are you?

'It is a young kid,' he said.

'Japanese, aged about seven,' she chanted without looking at a note, 'red corduroy dress, black tights, white trainers, accompanied by a Japanese woman about thirty, of smart appearance, with short, dark, wavy hair, grayJacket and matching trousers believed to be made by Rohan.'

He took the opportunity to ask how anyone would recognize Rohan garments and was told that the name was displayed on them.

So Mrs. Straw was not, after all, a connoisseur of fashion, but her information was probably reliable.