“We're not taking the vehicle. We're just looking at it.”
Something stirs behind him. An Alsatian uncurls and seems to self-inflate until it stands as high as the desk. The dog growls and the guard hisses a command.
“Don't mind him. He won't hurt you.”
“You'll make sure of it.”
There must be a hundred cars on the lot, each with a number and grid reference. It takes the guard several minutes to find the details of Rachel's Renault Estate.
The reference says the car was found on Lyndhurst Road with the keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked. Someone had stolen the stereo and one of the seats.
He directs us across the pound, which is divided into painted squares.
Rachel's car is beaded with rain and the internal light doesn't work when I open the door. I reach inside and trigger it manually.
There is no front passenger seat. The space is empty except for a dark blanket bundled on the floor. Carefully lifting the blanket I find a bottle of water, chocolate bars and a hand-held periscope.
“Someone was meant to lie on the floor, out of sight,” says Joe.
“Rachel must have delivered the ransom. Someone went with her.”
We're both thinking the same thing—was it me? Campbell called me a vigilante. Aleksei said no police, which means there were no surveillance teams in cars, on motorbikes or in the air.
“If I were delivering a ransom, what would I make sure of?”
“Proof of life!” says Joe.
“Yes, but apart from that—when I was physically carrying the ransom, what would I be sure of?”
Joe shrugs. I answer for him. “Backup. I would have wanted someone following me, at least from a distance. And I would have made sure they didn't lose me.”
“How?”
“A tracking device.” I would have put one in the car and another with the ransom.
The universe suddenly shrinks to one thought. That's how Aleksei found me at the prison. And that's why Keebal wanted to search the house. One of the bundles of diamonds must have a transmitter.
Ali!
One ring, two rings, three rings . . .
“Pick up the phone. Pick it up now!” I wait several seconds. She's not answering.
I try her home number. Pick up the phone, Ali. Please.
“Hello.” (Thank God.)
“What did you do with my coat?”
“It's here.”
“Stay right there! Lock the door. Stay away from the windows.”
“What's wrong?”
“Please, Ali, just do as I say. There's a tracking device with the diamonds. That's how Aleksei found me.”
The traffic suddenly melts away. Joe has his foot down, weaving through backstreets, taking shortcuts across garage forecourts and parking lots. God knows where he learned to drive like this. He's either an expert or a complete amateur who's going to put us through a plate-glass window.
“What diamonds? What are you talking about?” he yells.
“Just shut up and drive.”
Ali is still on the phone.
“I might be wrong about the transmitter,” I tell her. “Just relax.”
She's already ahead of me—ripping open the packages. I can hear her breaking open the blocks of foam. I know what she's going to find. Radio transmitters can weigh less than eighty grams and have a battery life of three, maybe four weeks. My kitchen floor was dusted with polystyrene foam and scraps of plastic. I hollowed out the foam with a knife.
“I found it.”
“Disconnect the battery.”
Joe is yelling at me. “You have Aleksei Kuznet's diamonds! Are you crazy?”
The car swerves suddenly into Albany Street and he brakes hard, pulling us around a line of traffic. He accelerates again and we leap over a speed bump.
Ali lives in a run-down, crumbling neighborhood in Hackney, on a narrow street of soot-blackened warehouses and barred shop windows. She's still on the phone.
“Where are you now?”
“Close. Are the lights turned off?”
“Yes.”
In the background I hear a doorbell ringing.
“Are you expecting anyone?”
“No.”
“Don't answer it.”
Ten . . . twenty . . . thirty seconds pass. Then comes the sound of breaking glass.
“Someone just smashed a door panel,” says Ali, her voice thick with fear. The burglar alarm is sounding.
“Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
“Just give them the diamonds, Ali. Don't take any risks.”
“Yes, Sir. I can't talk anymore. Hurry!”
The phone goes dead.
The next few minutes are the longest I can remember. Joe has his foot hard on the floor, braking around the corners and running red lights. Weaving onto the wrong side of the road, he accelerates past three buses and forces oncoming cars off the road.
Wrenching the wheel, he puts us into a half spin, sliding around a tight bend. I'm thrown against the door and the phone smacks my ear. I'm calling the police, telling them there's an officer in trouble.
“It's the next on the left . . . about halfway down.”
There are terraced houses on either side of the road. The streetlights have turned everything yellow, including the pebble-dash facades and net curtains.
Ali's place is ahead of us. The burglar alarm is still ringing. The car brakes and I'm out of the door hobbling in a half run toward the house. Joe is yelling at me to slow down.
The front door gapes darkly. Pressing my back to the outside wall, I glance inside. I can see the hallway and the stairs to the upper floor. Sliding sideways, I move inside, letting my eyes get used to the darkness.
I have visited Ali's house once before. It was years ago. We sat outside on her roof garden, drinking beer and resting our feet on a skylight. Everything was painted gold by the sunset and I remember thinking that maybe London
There's a living room just off the left and a dining room farther along the hall. The kitchen is at the rear. I can see moonlight coming through the window and no sign of a telltale silhouette.
The shrill alarm is shredding my senses. Running my fingers along the wall, I search for the control panel. The alarm will be linked to the main electric supply and have a backup twelve-volt battery with an anti-tamper switch.
Joe puts his hand on my shoulder and nearly gets flattened with a walking stick. Shouting to be heard, I tell him to go back outside, find the alarm bell and pull it off the wall.
“What with?”
“Use your imagination.”
He disappears and I search the kitchen and sitting room. A streetlight is shining outside and I can see Joe crossing the road with a tire iron. Hoisting himself onto a brick wall, he takes a swing at the alarm bell. Twice more he hits the box and suddenly the alarm falls silent. The change is so dramatic it feels like the air pressure has dropped.
