'He fell for you, Olive. Like me.'

'Him? Cold as a fish, lovey.' She clicked her handbag, turned smiling at me in the gloaming. 'Still, he dined me, gave me a diamond pendant. See it? Not bad for two photocopies and a list of addresses!'

'Of what?' I heard her snort of derision. I'd been too blunt. 'You could charm any man with a bus ticket, dwoorlink.'

'Do you really mean that, Lovejoy?' she purred.

'Course. Hang on, love.'

I hauled the pendant jewel from her cleavage, no mean feat. I squinted at it against the glim. I sensed something, only by guess in the bad light, but I wasn't wrong. If the American bloke at Saffron Fields had used Olive, then he was a cheapskate. And here I was doing exactly the same thing.

'This is a diamond, love, but the torn trade calls these Light Brown Rejects.'

The torn trade means jewellery, from Cockney rhyming slang: tomfoolery, jewellery. In fury she switched on the interior light, revealing our clandestine meeting to the universe. I shrank in my seat.

'Not real?' she shrieked, as secret as Radio One.

I hadn't a loupe with me, but did the trick of squeezing together two fingers and a thumb to magnify sight in one eye. The diamond was stuffed with brown debris. Still genuine, but hardly worth a train fare. Diamonds are graded according to purity, flaws, size, other factors. It was my chance to maybe learn a bit more about Taylor and Susanne Eggers.

'This thing should be for industry.' I let go, and smiled my most sympathetic smile.

'They're the ones sold at multiple stores, dwoorlink.'

'The bastard!' she breathed. 'After all I did!'

'I'm sure he appreciated ...'

'For two auctioneers' boxes and a list of dealers?' She was in floods of tears. 'He said it was a priceless effing diamond that the Queen once wore ...'

And so on. I couldn't wait to get away fast enough, now I'd found out what I wanted. I know I sound horrible, but I'd a million excuses, most of them honestly nearly almost quite good. I tried to make it easier for Olive by telling her the tale.

'Listen, dwoorlink. What time is it?'

She told me some ungodly hour, still wailing.

'Look,' I said, all sudden brainwave. 'There's just time to get hold of Diamond Pease.

He'll still be there! Quick, love! Go, go!'

'Who? What for?'

'He might change it for us. Into a valuable stone!' Some hopes.

She struggled upright and switched on the ignition, enthusiasm returning.

'Who's Diamond Pease?'

How the hell should I know? I thought, narked. I'd just made him up.

'Works in Hatton Garden, London's diamond district. An old pal. Might not be able to do anything, but at least we can ask, right?'

'Right! Right!'

We careered from the rural scene, me eager as Olive to reach civilization – that is, the town centre miles from the woods and fields I detest. As she dropped me at the war memorial I kissed her long and passionately, thanking her for a wonderful tryst. I asked to keep the pendant. She said okay. I promised I'd throttle the Yank with it if I bumped into him. Wish I'd not said that now, but what can you do?

Olive had given me enough to be going on with.

'See you soon,' I promised as she gunned away.

She called something that I wish now I'd heard, but I was already limping off down the road, my leg rediscovering circulation.

Who had the power to manipulate police, the judiciary and all the local antiques dealers including auctioneers, plus the local hoods? Nobody, that's who. Meaning no one person. But there is one mob – note the term – that has. It is mightier than the sum of its parts.

It's called the raj.

Some people call it the tally, the old word for counting, as if they're a benign club of elderly gents, all quill pens and ledgers.

Wrong.

They say the raj began when Raffles was rollicking round the Far East. Or maybe in Hong Kong or India back in the days of the Raj proper when pirates – loyal and freebooters alike – rioted over the globe trying to keep one horizon ahead of a vengeful Royal Navy. Me, I believe the raj began in the horrendous slums of Seven Dials or London's evil Arches, or St Giles Parish where starving folk had to steal for bread.

Dealers speak of it with bated breath. I'd never met, as far as I know, anybody in the raj. There's supposed to be from nine to fourteen of the blighters. Who they are nobody knows. There was talk that Big John Sheehan was in. And that Willie Lott had tried to gain entry, and been rejected. I gulped. I was terrified of Sheehan.

Olive was supposed to be in the know. Now, I wasn't so sure.

The raj frightens me, like everything unknown. They're said to top, as in eliminate, three or four antique dealers each year, and to be involved with arms handlers, drug lords, and political taipans you don't mess with. They control some of the great auction houses but from without. That is to say, they charge each auction a fee to simply allow it

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