Someone Else's Shoes(125)

“Please—just tell me you’ve got the diamonds hidden somewhere,” says Sam.

“Nope. They’re in the heels of those shoes.”

“You could have kept them!”

“And then I would have been no better than him.”

“That man destroyed my house. He put the fear of God into all of us. He took twenty years from you and brought your son to his knees. And you’re just going to give him what he wants and walk away? And you made me watch while you did it? I don’t understand you, Nisha. I really don’t.”

“Girl’s found her voice,” says Jasmine.

“I have enough,” Nisha says calmly. “If I have a roof over my head, my son with me and my friends, then I have enough. I’m happier. Okay? I’m happier this way.”

Sam wrenches the camper-van out into the traffic. The two other women have fallen silent, Nisha apparently deep in thought and Jasmine briefly silenced by this turn of events. Sam, trying to focus on driving the unwieldy vehicle, decides she cannot think about this just now. She cannot feel so angry. The whole few days have been too discombobulating. She just wants to go home and be with Phil. She wants to be with people she understands.

“Where’s the traffic cop?” says Nisha.

“What?”

“The cop you pointed out on the way here. Where is she?”

Sam glances at Jasmine, who gives the universal subtle facial arrangement that says, No, me either.

“I’m not going to run another red light,” she says, irritated. “I’m going to drive back very carefully. Okay?”

“Go past the traffic cop. There. There she is.”

Sam indicates left, even though that way is longer, and drives at a precise 20 m.p.h. until she sees the policewoman.

“Slow down,” says Nisha. “Now pull in.”

Sam, confused, stops the camper-van, ignoring the blast of the horn behind her. Nisha waves vigorously out of the window. The traffic officer looks up, then tilts her head to one side as if she’s unsure what she’s seeing. She begins to walk over to the van, clocking the huge sunflower on the side.

“Not you again,” she says, when she sees Sam.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam begins. “I’m not sure why my friend is—”

Nisha is leaning out of the passenger window.

“I have a tip for you that is going to change your life. Take down this registration: PYF 483V. In this car there will be a man with a pair of fake Christian Louboutin shoes. In the heels there are more than a million dollars’ worth of uncertified diamonds that have been imported illegally into this country. It’s not the first time he’s done it.”

The cop looks at Nisha, then at Sam. “Is this a joke?”

“No,” says Nisha. “I am so far from joking.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

The two women stare at each other for a minute. Some peculiar understanding that only occurs between one woman of a certain age and another seems to take place.

“Illegal diamonds.”

“If this doesn’t get you a massive promotion I will come back here and you can arrest my ass.”

Jasmine and Sam say nothing. The traffic officer studies Nisha’s face. “What was that registration again?”

“PYF 483V. The car will be leaving the Bentley Hotel and headed toward London City Airport. In about five minutes.”

The woman narrows her eyes.

“It’s true,” says Sam.

“How’s your friend?” says the officer, suddenly.

“Really good, thanks,” says Sam. “Her hair’s growing back.”

“Oh. Nice.” The officer nods, satisfied.

“Five minutes,” says Nisha. “Tops.”

She looks at each of them in turn, still thinking. As they wait, she slowly lifts her radio to her mouth, her eyes never leaving Nisha’s.

“Control? Yeah, I need eyes on a vehicle possibly containing smuggled diamonds. Registration PYF 483V. Yes. ASAP. Leaving the Bentley Hotel and headed for City Airport. Yes, large quantity of illegal diamonds on board.”

She lowers her radio.

“And this tip comes from?”

“Oh, just an anonymous member of the public.”

The officer gazes at Nisha’s left hand. “An anonymous pissed-off ex-wife member of the public?”

“I like you, PC 43555. You should have been a detective.”

“Marjorie,” says the officer. “And I’ve been bypassed for promotion four times in five years.”

“Not after this one. You have a great day, Marjorie,” says Nisha, and as the officer turns back to her radio, Sam pulls into the road.

Sam drives for a few minutes, her mind racing. She keeps glancing at Nisha, who is sitting beside her, eyes closed, hands resting on her knees, as if some huge turmoil is finally easing. “I’ve just worked it out. You were ahead of him the whole time.”

“He wouldn’t have left me alone. Or you. Or Ray,” Nisha says, opening her eyes and staring straight ahead through the windscreen. “But he thinks we know nothing about the diamonds. So he won’t associate us with what is about to happen to him.”