They were drinking Black Baron, a speciality here. When Louis returned, Diamond asked him, 'Did you hear about that woman going missing, the wife of Stormy Weather, one of the Fulham crowd from the old days, though I can't recall him too well?'
'Saw something about it on my screen. Marriage tiff, I reckon.'
'That's what I thought.'
'Changed your mind?'
'Obviously, I hope she's okay, but . . .'
'Hope you're wrong,' Louis said. 'I've known her for years. u'd remember her yourself, I reckon. She was around in your time here. Fresh face, bright blue eyes, dark hair. Bit of an organiser. We called her Mary, after Mary Poppins.'
'It rings a bell, but faintly.'
'Nice woman, anyway, and good at her job. She got to be a sergeant at Shepherd's Bush. Then she changed careers. Went into business on her own running some kind of temping agency.'
'Where do they live?'
'In the suburbs. Raynes Park, somewhere like that. Stormy is still in the Met, I think.'
'Just hope his wife is all right.' Diamond returned to the main purpose of his visit. 'So how am I going to find Steph's ex-husband?'
'He was local, you say?'
'Blyth Road - until the end of February.'
'Has he got form?'
Diamond shrugged. 'I wouldn't know. Owes a couple of months' rent'
'Then it's going to be difficult, Peter. I can put out some feelers. Dixon-Bligh is an unusual name, and that may help. If you did this through official channels you might get a quicker result.'
'Can't do that,' Diamond said. 'It's only supposition up to now. A few entries in her diary that could - or could not - refer to him. Some things are starting to link up, but not enough for a general alert.'
They walked back together. The chance to air his thoughts to an old colleague had given him a lift. But the parting handshake they exchanged outside the entrance to Fulham nick was a reminder that he was going to have to battle on alone.
17
Two months had gone by since Harry Tattersall had bought the suit. He'd worn it a few times around the house so that it would feel comfortable and hang well on his trim physique. Two months. He was beginning to wonder if the diamond heist had been cancelled. Nobody had been in touch, even though his answerphone was always switched on. Arabs, of course, are well known for taking the long view, hardly ever giving way to impatience - something to do with riding camels vast distances across the desert. Or drilling for oil. He had to take the long view himself. A hundred grand would be worth the wait.
Finally the call came one Sunday evening about eight-thirty, and he was at home to take it in person, watching
'Yes?'
'Mr Tattersall?'
'Speaking.'
'The goods are coming in on the tenth of next month.' An accent redolent of blue-grey serge and brass buttons and high tea in the officers' mess, well up to Dorchester Hotel standards.
The phone clicked, and that was it. Harry thought: I wonder if he gets a hundred K just for that?
Slightly under two weeks, then. He poured himself a large Courvoisier.
He was relaxing with the drink, spending the money in his imagination, with the movie still running on the box, when a troublesome thought popped into his head. Suppose this entire operation was a clever sting. There was a way of checking if the call came from the Dorchester. He got up and dialled 1471. The caller had withheld his number.
No sweat, he told himself. Any professional would do the same.
Next morning, positive again, he took the tube to Waterloo, came up the escalator to the mainline station and strolled in sunshine along the South Bank walkways to the Royal Festival Hall, where he used one of the public phones in the foyer.
He called the Dorchester and reserved one of the roof garden suites in the name of Sir John Mason for a week from the tenth.
Simple.
He called Rhadi and told him the booking was made for the tenth. They kept the conversation short.
Then it all went quiet again. He swanned around London enjoying the good weather, the parks and the pubs. Two days before the heist was due, he went into Boots in Oxford Street and picked some hair colouring to go nicely with the moustache he'd already bought. He spent a long time choosing. Sir John Mason, he decided finally, would favour Rich Chestnut. Personally he favoured rich anything.
