Something in the Water(66)

A flicker of a voice in my head reminds me that I consistently am the one closest to all this, in terms of traceability, if it all goes sour. I am the one on CCTV in Switzerland, I am the one on CCTV in Pall Mall. Not my name, but my face. As I walk back with the stones to meet Mark, I wonder: Was this my idea, to get so close? Or did I just fall into my role? Am I braver, am I more adept than Mark? Or am I stupider? Why is it always me?

But then, Mark’s the one with the contacts, so he can’t do the transactions, can he? It does make sense. And to be honest, I don’t like taking the back seat on things. We’re actually a perfect team.

Mark’s fresh out of diamond ideas when I get back, so we decide to call it a day. His brain seems to have shifted back to business concerns now. He has to meet another old work friend this afternoon about financial regulation in private consultancy; setting up the new business is going to mean jumping through a lot of hoops. I tell him to go. We really need more time to think about our next move with the diamonds anyway. I kiss him goodbye and head back home, the diamonds cocooned inside their buttery leather and my cold, pocketed hand.



* * *



—

It’s while I’m walking back to the tube that the idea comes to me.

So, if slow-moving Charles can sell diamonds, why can’t we do it ourselves? Charles is a middleman, someone who takes the things very rich people don’t want anymore and finds other people to buy those things. He trades with other people’s money. If Charles can pick up the basics of trading assets alongside his BA in Fine Art, I’m pretty sure it’s not rocket science. Like Mark used to do in the City, but Charles does it on a much smaller scale. And we’ve certainly bought diamonds before; we know our four C’s from all the extensive diamond searching we did together after our engagement. We know approximately how much these stones are worth, so we just need to find someone willing to buy them. And fancy that, there’s a whole street in London entirely devoted to buying and selling diamonds. We just need someone who isn’t too concerned about provenance to show an interest. Someone a little more, shall we say, proactive than Charles. We can at least test the waters.

I dip into an alleyway off Piccadilly, shake one fat diamond out into my palm and pocket the rest.

At Farringdon Station I walk up through a warren of side streets into busy Hatton Garden. It’s cold today, with a fierce sharp wind. The road is bustling with Hasidic Jews, hands holding down their wide-brimmed hats against the wind, and moneyed cockney traders muffled to the chin in cashmere coats, all in a hurry to get somewhere.

It’s probably a stupid idea, coming here, but again I don’t exactly look like a jewel thief, do I? Why would a well-dressed woman in her early thirties draw attention by having a diamond valued in Hatton Garden? People do it every day.

I look down at my engagement ring; it’s beautiful. Mark did spend too much on it really. It’s easy to see that now. But at the time, I remember thinking how much he loved me. How much he’d sacrificed to buy it. The hours he’d worked for it. How beautiful it is. How sparkly.

Now I see a trophy. A game head. Mark’s hard work mounted on my finger. If we’d needed the money, I would have sold it in a heartbeat for us. For our house. For our baby. The thin gold band beneath it means more than the sparkle above. But after the bag I won’t ever need to do that. And I suppose if I manage to sell the stones there’ll never be any need for me to sell anything again.

I try the open-fronted diamond exchange market first. It’s a cavernous space filled with many different store counters, different traders specializing in different gems and metals. Orthodox Jews sit leaning over counters next to sharp-suited cockney traders, a smorgasbord of family businesses cheek to cheek.

I don’t get far before a trader motions me over. Although no one appears to be looking at me, I know I’m a fox that’s just wandered into a hunt.

“What you after, darling?” He’s bald, cockney, shirt, tie, fleece. Practical: a man who dresses for the weather. He’s got a friendly enough smile. He’ll do.

“I’m looking to sell, actually. I’ve got a two-carat stone. Used to be in an engagement ring.” I figure that’s a fairly foolproof story. No one’s going to ask whose engagement ring, are they? I mean, logically, whoever once owned it is either dead or not married anymore. Not the kind of sales patter anyone wants. Not that useful in oiling the cogs of commerce. And the fact that the stone is not in a ring anymore is fairly ominous too, ominous enough that it would be inappropriate to ask. Well, here’s hoping. I came up with my story on the tube. I think it’s pretty good.

“Two carat? Lovely. Let’s have a look then.” He’s genuinely excited. I guess it’s the kind of job where you never know from day to day what might turn up. Something about his expression as I fish out the single stone from my pocket reminds me of that famous episode of Only Fools and Horses. You know, the one where Del and Rodney find the watch and they finally become millionaires? He’s bought my story.

I place it on the felt tray on his counter. It barely hits the felt before he snaps it up. Lens out, studying it. His eyes flick up to me again, assessing. I’m just a woman, middle class, well dressed, late twenties/early thirties. Whatever was worrying him is allayed by my appearance; he squints back at the stone.

He calls a colleague over. Martin. Martin gestures a friendly hello. He’s younger than the guy in the fleece, who now passes him the stone. His son, perhaps? A nephew? Martin pulls out his own lens and inspects the diamond from all angles. He throws a look to me too. Sizes me up.