The New Collected Short Stories (68 page)

‘Thanks to outstanding police work, you were arrested within days, although the diamonds have never been found. During the seven months you have spent in custody you have been given every
opportunity to reveal the whereabouts of the diamonds, but you have chosen not to do so.

‘Taking that fact, as well as your past record, into consideration, I am left with no choice but to sentence you to twelve years in prison. However, Mr Bryant, I would consider a reduction
to your sentence if at any time you should change your mind and decide to inform the police where the diamonds are. Take the prisoner down.’

Detective Inspector Matthews frowned as he watched Bryant being led down to the cells before being shipped off to Belmarsh prison. As a policeman, you’re meant to feel a certain
professional pride, almost pleasure, when you’ve been responsible for banging up a career criminal, but this time Matthews felt no such pride, and wouldn’t until he got his hands on
those diamonds. He was convinced Bryant hadn’t had enough time to sell them on and must have hidden them somewhere.

Detective Inspector Matthews had attempted to make a deal with Bryant on more than one occasion. He even offered to downgrade his charge to aggravated burglary, which carries a far shorter
sentence, but only if he pleaded guilty and told him where the diamonds were. But Bryant always gave the same reply: ‘I’ll do my bird, guv.’

If Bryant wasn’t willing to make a deal with him, Matthews knew someone doing time in the same prison who was.

Benny Friedman, known to his fellow inmates as Benny the Fence, was serving a six-year sentence for handling stolen goods. A burglar would bring him the gear and Benny would
pay him 20 per cent of its value in cash, then sell it on to a middle man for about 50 per cent, walking away with a handsome profit.

From time to time Benny got caught and had to spend some time in the nick. But as he didn’t pay a penny in tax, was rarely out of work and had no fears of being made redundant, he
considered the occasional spell in prison no more than part of the job description. But if the police ever offered him an alternative to going back inside, Benny was always willing to listen. After
all, why would you want to spend more time behind bars than was necessary?

‘Drugs check,’ bellowed the wing officer as he pulled open the heavy door of Benny’s cell.

‘I don’t do drugs, Mr Chapman,’ said Benny, not stirring from his bunk.

‘Get your arse upstairs, Friedman, and sharpish. Once they’ve checked your piss you can come back down and enjoy a well-earned rest. Now move it.’

Benny folded his copy of the
Sun
, lowered himself slowly off the bottom bunk, strolled out of his cell into the corridor and made his way up to the medical wing. No officer ever bothered
to accompany him while he was out of his cell, as he never caused any trouble. You can have a reputation, even in prison.

When Benny arrived at the medical wing, he was surprised to find that none of the usual reprobates was waiting in line to be checked for drugs. In fact, he seemed to be the only inmate in
sight.

‘This way, Friedman,’ said an officer he didn’t recognize. Moments after he had entered the hospital, he heard a key being turned in the lock behind him. He looked around and
saw his old friend Detective Inspector Matthews, who had arrested him many times in the past, sitting on the end of one of the beds.

‘To what do I owe this honour, Mr Matthews?’ Benny asked without missing a beat.

‘I need your help, Benny,’ said the detective inspector, not suggesting that the old lag should sit down.

‘That’s a relief, Mr Matthews. For a minute I thought you were being tested for drugs.’

‘Don’t get lippy with me, Benny,’ said Matthews sharply. ‘Not when I’ve come to offer you a deal.’

‘And what are you proposing this time, Mr Matthews? A packet of fags in exchange for a serial killer?’

Matthews ignored the question. ‘You’re coming up for appeal in a few months’ time,’ he said, lighting a cigarette but not offering Benny one. ‘I might be able to
arrange for a couple of years to be knocked off your sentence.’ He took a deep drag and blew out a cloud of smoke before adding, ‘Which would mean you could be out of this hell hole in
six months’ time.’

‘How very thoughtful of you, Mr Matthews,’ said Benny. ‘What are you expecting me to do in return for such munificence?’

‘There’s a con on his way to Belmarsh from the Old Bailey. He should be checking in any moment now. His name’s Bryant, Kevin Bryant, and I’ve arranged for him to be your
new cellmate.’

When the cell door was pulled open, Benny looked up from his copy of the
Sun
and watched as Bryant swaggered into the cell. The man didn’t say a word, just flung
his kit bag on the top bunk. New prisoners always start off on the top bunk.

Benny went back to his paper while Bryant placed a thin bar of white soap, a green flannel, a rough green towel and a Bic razor on the ledge above the washbasin. Benny put his paper down and
studied the new arrival more closely. Bryant was every inch the armed robber. He was about five foot five, stockily built, with a shaved head. He unbuttoned his blue-and-white striped prison shirt
to reveal a massive tattoo of a red devil. Not much doubt which football team Bryant supported. On the fingers of one hand were tattooed the letters HATE, and on the other, LOVE.

Bryant finally glanced across at Benny. ‘My name’s Kev.’

‘Mine’s Benny. Welcome to Belmarsh.’

‘It’s not my first time in the slammer,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ve been here before.’ He chuckled. ‘Several times, actually. And you?’ he asked once
he’d climbed up on to the top bunk and settled down.

‘Fourth time,’ said Benny. ‘But then, I don’t like to hang around for too long.’

Bryant laughed for the first time. ‘So what are you in for?’ he asked.

Benny was surprised that Bryant had broken one of prison’s golden rules: never ask a fellow con what he’s in for. Wait for him to volunteer the information. ‘I’m a
fence,’ he replied.

‘What do you fence?’

‘Almost anything. But I draw the line at drugs, and that includes marijuana, and I won’t handle porn, hard or soft. You’ve got to have some standards.’

Bryant was silent for some time. Benny wondered if he’d fallen asleep, which would be unusual on your first day inside, even for a regular. ‘You haven’t asked me what I’m
in for,’ said Bryant eventually.

‘No need to, is there?’ said Benny. ‘Your mugshot’s been on the front page of the tabloids every day for the past week. Everyone at Belmarsh knows what you’re in
for.’

Bryant didn’t speak again that night, but Benny was in no hurry. The one thing you’ve got plenty of in prison is time. As long as you’re patient, everything will eventually
come out, however secretive an inmate imagines he is.

Benny didn’t much like being in jail, but most of all he dreaded the weekends, when you could be banged up for eighteen hours at a stretch, with only a short break to
collect an oily meal of spam fritters and chips from the hotplate.

The screws allowed the prisoners out for a forty-five-minute break in the afternoon. Benny could choose between watching football on television or taking a stroll around the yard, whatever the
weather. He had no interest in football, but as Bryant always went straight to the yard, he settled for watching television. He was grateful for any break he could get in this hastily arranged
marriage, and if Bryant was ever going to say anything about where the diamonds were, it was more likely to be in the privacy of their cell than in the bustling, noisy, overcrowded yard where other
prisoners could eavesdrop.

Benny was reading an article about how the Italian Prime Minister spent his weekends when Bryant broke into his thoughts. ‘Why don’t you ever ask me about the diamonds?’

‘None of my business,’ said Benny, not looking up from his paper.

‘But you must be curious about what I’ve done with them?’

‘According to the
Sun
’s crime correspondent,’ said Benny, ‘you sold them to a middle man for half a million.’

‘Half a million?’ said Bryant. ‘Do I look that fuckin’ stupid?’

‘So how much did you sell ’em for?’

‘Nothin’.’

‘Nothin’?’ repeated Benny.

‘Because I’ve still got ’em, haven’t I?’

‘Have you?’

‘Yeah. And I can tell you one thing. The fuzz ain’t never gonna find out where I stashed ’em, however hard they look.’

Benny pretended to go on reading his paper. He’d reached the sports pages by the time Bryant spoke again.

‘It’s all part of my retirement plan, innit? Most of the muppets in this place will walk out with nothin’, while I’ve got myself a guaranteed income for life,
haven’t I?’

Benny waited patiently, but Bryant didn’t utter another word before lights out, four hours later. Benny would have liked to ask Bryant just one more question, but he knew he couldn’t
risk it.

‘What do you think about this guy Berlusconi?’ he asked finally.

‘What’s he in for?’ asked Bryant.

Benny always attended the Sunday morning service held in the prison chapel, not because he believed in God, but because it got him out of his cell for a whole hour. The long
walk to the chapel on the other side of the prison, the body search for drugs – by a female officer if you got lucky – the chance for a gossip with some old lags, a sing-song, followed
by a saunter back to your cell in time for lunch, were a welcome break from the endless hours of being banged up.

Benny settled down in his usual place in the third row, opened his hymn sheet and, when the organ struck up, joined in lustily with ‘Fight the good fight’.

Once the prison chaplain had delivered his regular sermon on repentance and forgiveness, followed by the final blessing, the cons began to make their way slowly out of the chapel and back to
their cells.

‘Can you spare me a moment, Friedman?’ asked the chaplain after Benny had handed in his hymn sheet.

‘Of course, Father,’ said Benny, feeling a moment of apprehension that the chaplain might ask him to sign up for his confirmation class. If he did, Benny would have to come clean and
admit he was Jewish. The only reason he’d ticked the little box marked C of E was so he could escape from his cell for an hour every Sunday morning. If he’d admitted he was a Jew, a
Rabbi would have visited him in his cell once a month, because not enough Jews end up in prison to hold a service for them.

The chaplain asked Benny to join him in the vestry. ‘A friend has asked to see you, Benny. I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.’ He closed the vestry door and returned to
those repenting souls who did want to sign up for his confirmation class.

‘Good morning, Mr Matthews,’ said Benny, taking an unoffered seat opposite the detective inspector. ‘I had no idea you’d taken up holy orders.’

‘Cut the crap, Friedman, or I may have to let your wing officer know that you’re really a Jew.’

‘If you did, Inspector, I’d have to explain to him how I’d seen the light on the way to Belmarsh.’

‘And you’ll see my boot up your backside if you waste any more of my time.’

‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ asked Benny innocently.

‘Has he sold the diamonds?’ asked Matthews, not wasting another word.

‘No, Inspector, he hasn’t. In fact, he claims they’re still in his possession. The story about selling them for half a million was just a smokescreen.’

‘I knew it,’ said Matthews. ‘He would never have sold them for so little. Not after all the trouble he went to.’ Benny didn’t comment. ‘Have you managed to
find out where he’s stashed them?’

‘Not yet,’ said Benny. ‘I’ve got a feeling that might take a little longer, unless you want me to—’

‘Don’t press him,’ interrupted Matthews. ‘It’ll only make him suspicious. Bide your time and wait for him to tell you himself.’

‘And when I’ve elicited this vital piece of evidence, Inspector, I’ll get two years knocked off my sentence, as you promised?’ Benny reminded him.

‘Don’t push your luck, Friedman. I accept that you’ve earned a year off, but you won’t get the other year until you find out where those diamonds are. So get back to your
cell, and keep your ears open and your mouth shut.’

It was on a Saturday morning that Bryant asked Benny, ‘Have you ever fenced any diamonds?’

Benny had waited weeks for Bryant to ask that question. ‘From time to time,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a reliable dealer in Amsterdam, but I’d need to know a lot more
before I’d be willing to contact him. What sort of numbers are we talkin’ about?’

‘Is ten mill out of your league?’ asked Bryant.

‘No, I wouldn’t say that,’ said Benny, trying not to rise, ‘but it might take a little longer than usual.’

‘All I’ve got is time,’ said Bryant, slipping back into one of his long, contemplative silences. Benny prayed that it wasn’t going to be another six weeks before he asked
the next question.

‘What percentage would you pay me if I let you fence the diamonds?’ asked Bryant.

‘My usual terms are twenty per cent of the face value, strictly cash.’

‘And how much do you sell them on for?’

‘Usually around fifty per cent of face value.’

‘And how much will your contact make?’

‘I’ve got no idea,’ said Benny. ‘He doesn’t ask me where it comes from, and I don’t ask him how much he makes out of it. As long as we all make a profit, the
less anyone knows the better.’

‘Does it matter what kind of stones they are?’

‘The smaller the better,’ said Benny. ‘Always avoid the big stuff. If you brought me the Crown Jewels, I’d tell you to fuck off, because I’d never find a buyer.
Small stones aren’t easy to trace, you can lose them on the open market.’

‘So you’d cough up a couple of mill, if I deliver?’

‘If they’re worth ten million, yes, but I’d need to see them first.’

‘Why wouldn’t they be?’ asked Bryant, looking Benny straight in the eye.

‘Because figures reported in the press aren’t always reliable. Crime reporters like numbers with lots of noughts, and they only ever round them up.’

‘But they were insured for ten million,’ said Bryant, ‘and don’t forget the insurance company paid up in full.’