Red Crystal (16 page)

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did he seem to
know
you had it?’

‘Oh … I see what you’re getting at. Well, yes, I
think
so. But – I can’t be sure.’

‘No?’

‘Well, you see, I was lying down like the others. And – I didn’t
see
a lot. In fact,’ she said miserably, ‘I had my eyes shut.’

When she’d gone, the inspector pondered. This one had more than a whiff of inside knowledge. And yet there was nothing
conclusive
…

He was wondering if he’d ever know for sure when his assistant, a particularly bright WPC, came in and said that in her opinion one of the witnesses – another bank customer – would most definitely be worth talking to.

The witness, Miss Izzard, was about twenty-five and very precise. She answered questions with a calm composure. The inspector wished that more witnesses were like her.

‘So, Miss Izzard. You are positive about the gun.’

‘Yes, I looked at it very carefully to be sure I would be able to identify it when the time came.’

He looked at the sheet the WPC had put in front of him.
Skorpion VZ 61 machine pistol; .32 cartridge; 840 rounds a minute automatic, 40 rounds a minute single shot; made in Czechoslovakia
… He ran down the specifications and noticed that a silencer was among the optional extras. His eye fixed on one of the notes at the bottom.
Use of the silencer has the effect of spreading the shot
.

He looked warmly at Miss Izzard. ‘And did you notice if both guns were of the same type?’

She nodded. ‘Definitely.’

‘Did you see the gunmen enter the bank?’

‘Yes. I was standing waiting my turn and I saw them come in. They already had their masks on. One jumped on to the counter, the other went straight to where Mr Chesil and the woman – Mrs Ackroyd – were talking.’

‘Talking?’

‘Yes, I saw Mr Chesil hand her the shopping bag and then start talking.’

‘
Before
the gunmen came in.’

She nodded.

‘So the gunmen couldn’t have seen the money change hands?’

‘No, but they knew it was there.’

The inspector started slightly. ‘How’s that, Miss Izzard?’

‘After they’d got everyone lying down and quiet they went straight to the bag and took it out of her hand. They didn’t search her – or
anyone
. They obviously knew.’

He could have kissed her. ‘Yes, Miss Izzard. That’s what I think too.’ It was too much to hope that there’d be more, but he asked, ‘Anything else you think I should know?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, two things.’

The inspector felt a stab of excitement. ‘Yes—?’

‘The one who spoke … Well, he talked like a
gangster
. He said, “Shut up or I kill you.” Not I’ll kill you but
I
kill you. Like in a gangster film.’

He tried to hide his disappointment. ‘I see …’

‘And the other thing,’ Miss Izzard continued. ‘The gunman who went into the banking section … was, I am absolutely certain, a woman.’

‘A
woman
!’

‘Yes. I only saw her for a moment when she walked through the bank, and then again briefly when she grabbed the money from Mrs Ackroyd. But I’m sure.’

He shook his head in amazement. No one else had spotted this, there hadn’t been so much as a
suggestion
… He asked incredulously, ‘Why are you so sure?’

‘The way she moved. She was wearing very loose clothing – a sort of boiler suit. In black. She was tall and at first sight she could’ve passed as a man. But she moved like a woman. In the hips, you understand.’ She added hastily, ‘Oh, and she had small hands and feet. Far too small for a man.’

A few days later the inspector found himself wishing Miss Izzard hadn’t been quite such a wonderful witness. The information about the shopping bag had been first class – it pointed firmly to someone having inside information or, at least, a great deal of local knowledge.

But the rest …

There had been no fingerprints. Neither had Scotland Yard been able to match the
modus operandi
– and particularly the machine pistol – to any known criminals.

For a while he’d pinned his hopes on an Irish connection. But Special Branch in Liverpool were doubtful. The IRA used a variety of arms – their favourite was the Armalite sub-machine-gun – but they weren’t fond of Skorpions which were essentially close-range weapons. Also they preferred to rob banks on their home ground in the Republic where they stood the best chance of going to earth and evading capture.

It didn’t leave him with very much: a local job which had none of the hallmarks of the local talent; and two villains, one of whom appeared to be a gangster film enthusiast, and the other a woman.

He would just have to hope that some of the numbered notes turned up soon.

All in all the case had a bad feel to it. And the more he went into it the more he suspected it was going to drag on to a less than satisfactory conclusion.

The flat was on the third floor, overlooking Montagu Square. It fulfilled all the requirements: it was in a block of fifteen similarly anonymous flats, it was just the right size, and it came fully furnished. But there was one problem: Gabriele hated it on sight.

The furniture was appalling: a brown Dralon three-piece suite with black screw-on legs and brass feet, miniature chandeliers and too much gilt. In itself the overblown look wouldn’t have mattered if it hadn’t reminded her so forcefully of her childhood.

She said to the agent, ‘No. It won’t do. Haven’t you anything else?’

‘Nothing similar in this area,’ said the young man. ‘Although if you were prepared to change your mind about having a
flat
, I do have a lovely mews house. Just behind here.’

She hesitated. A mews would be too quiet and one’s movements too easily observed. Also the neighbours were likely to be nosy. She shouldn’t even consider it. At the same time she was getting tired of looking. She agreed to go and see it.

Montagu Mews was even worse than quiet: it was a dead end. Number 42 was half-way down on the right. It had been fully converted into a house, the old stables on the ground floor having been replaced by a gaily painted brick façade with large windows. Two small fir trees in wooden tubs stood either side of the front door.

Full of misgivings, Gabriele followed the agent inside. She had to admit that the place was rather nice. The house was a snug arrangement of small rooms, each brightly decorated in sun colours and floral prints. The living-room, which ran the depth of the house, had a sitting area at one end and a small dining table at the other. A plant had been trained up the wrought-iron banisters of the spiral staircase which rose from one corner. In the bathroom the loo had been painted bright yellow with a ring of green and red flowers inside the bowl.

She looked thoughtfully out of the window. There was parking immediately outside which would be handy … And perhaps the quietness would be an advantage.

It was much too expensive, of course, and she quibbled with the agent. But she could see that he wasn’t going to budge on the price; she looked too well dressed.

Eventually she said grudgingly, ‘I’ll take it.’

In the agent’s office she gave her name as Gabriella Carelli and produced an Italian passport as proof of identity. She stated her occupation as freelance photo-journalist, and gave the magazine
La Posta
of Milan as a reference. She paid a deposit and two months’ rent in advance.

Gabriele drove straight to another house agent behind Marble Arch. This time there was no problem about getting exactly the right thing: the agency specialized in service flats for visiting foreigners. She was shown several in the area north of Oxford Street, and settled on a fifth floor three-roomed flat in a block on Weymouth Street. It was furnished in a modern characterless style and had a well-equipped kitchen. She took it for four weeks in the name of Mr and Mrs L. C. Hoerst of Bern, Switzerland. She paid the deposit and rent in cash on the spot. The agent looked pleased.

On her way back she drove past the end of Montagu Mews and noted that it was only two minutes away from Weymouth Street, which would be most convenient. Then she headed the car down Park Lane towards Knightsbridge and Chelsea. The Vitesse had gone back to the rental firm three days ago, and she was now driving a small Fiat which she had bought through
Exchange and Mart
. The Fiat was better suited to her new occupation.

She parked off the King’s Road and, going into a couple of the better boutiques, bought a pair of high boots and a trouser suit in white cotton. In the last three weeks she’d spent over two hundred pounds on clothes. The camera equipment had cost even more – there were two Olympus 0M1 camera bodies, three lenses from 28mm to 50mm, a zoom, and a powerful telephoto.

She took her purchases back to the flat in Chelsea Manor Street, where she and Giorgio had been living since their arrival nearly four weeks before.

Giorgio was not at home. Systematically, she began to sort everything out, ready for the move to the mews house. She would keep this flat on, but only as a safe house to be used in the last resort. Certain things would need to be left here: a little money well hidden, a change of clothes, a list of telephone numbers, a passport.

She took a briefcase containing the money from under the bed. There had been just over thirty-two thousand when they’d first counted it. Now there was twenty-four. It seemed to go surprisingly quickly. And she would need a great deal to pay for supplies from Paris. Nevertheless it should last some weeks. Although there was one complication.

The money was divided into two piles, carefully separated. On the left, the slightly dog-eared used notes which they had been using for their expenses. On the right, the clean crisp new notes, virgin and untouched: six thousand-odd, sequentially numbered. She eyed the wads of notes uneasily.

It was far too risky to use the new stuff, either here or in Paris, and yet without it they’d be short.

Something would have to be done about those notes. And at the moment she couldn’t think what.

She removed two thousand pounds from the pile of old notes and put it on one side. From her old clothes she selected a pair of trousers, a blouse, a jacket, and some flat shoes, which she put with the two thousand.

Taking a list of numbers from the lining of her handbag, she copied the numbers on to another slip of paper, replaced the original, and tucked the copy into an Argentinian passport, which she slipped into the pile of clothes.

Finally, she took a copy of
Strike Back!
from her bag of books and papers and put in on top of the clothes. She couldn’t think why she should need it if she was on the run, but one never knew.

Now to find a hiding place. The kitchen units were built in, the base units raised above the floor by a recessed plinth. The cooker, however, was free standing. She pulled it out and, kneeling down, tried to lever out the plinth that ran alongside the cooker. She broke two knives before she thought of going down to the car and getting the wheel-changing kit. The small wrench used to remove the hub caps was strong enough to lever the plinth out and, wrapping the clothes, papers and money in a bag, she slid the bundle under the unit, knocked home the plinth and replaced the cooker.

She peered down. Apart from a slight splintering of the wood on the corner of the plinth, there wasn’t a sign.

Now to pack. She put her considerable number of new clothes into a couple of holdalls, and put them by the front door. Closing the case of money, she placed this too in the hall.

There was one last job to be done.

Going to the fridge, she removed a thick plastic container, the size of a large shoebox, from the bottom shelf. Opening the lid very carefully, she peered at the contents. Then, slowly, she put her nose to them and sniffed.

Satisfied, she closed the container again and placed it in one of the holdalls, well protected by clothes.

There was nothing to do now but wait for Giorgio.

Whenever she was on her own and had a free moment she liked to look at her list. With anticipation she sat in a chair and pulled the slip of paper out of the handbag lining again. The telephone numbers which she had copied were on one side, numbers which she had jumbled slightly to hide their true sequence. On the other side was a list of abbreviations of names.

The chief targets. The capitalist oppressors.

The list of names was not complete. But she was working on it.

V
ICTORIA BRAKED HARD
and spun the wheel. In a hail of loose stones the Mini careered off the road and, skidding sideways, shot on to the farm track, missing the ditch by a whisker.

The car ground to a halt. The radio was blaring ‘… the age of Aquarius, A-quar-ius …’ Victoria sat shivering in a hot sweat. It had been a near thing, that ditch. The tiredness had ruined her judgement. She just wasn’t used to staying up late, not after all this time. But then it wasn’t every day your sister had a party in London. She shouldn’t have gone, though. She hadn’t enjoyed it.

Shakily she started off again. The bottom of the car hit the lip of a pot-hole with a loud grinding noise. The holes needed fixing – like everything else.