Something in the Water(83)

“Hello, Erin. My name’s Simon. I’m meant to be picking up a package from you, I think?” A second’s silence on the line. “Now, I know you’re busy but I’m in the area at the moment; would now be a convenient time for you?” He must suspect a phone tap too because he’s working around it; he just sounds like a courier. Or at least that’s what we can argue in court, if we have to.

“Yes, that would be—now would be fantastic. Five, ten minutes?” I try to mask my relief, my excitement at the prospect of finally being free of the diamonds.

They will be out of our home in less than an hour. It will be finished. The bag, the plane. Only the USB and the phone nestling under the attic insulation left as evidence.

I cradle the phone against my shoulder and hastily jot down the Swiss bank account number on a slip of paper. I’ve learned it by heart now. There is no paper trace of the number. I burned all the paperwork over a week ago, in the garden in our fire pit. All the relevant information is memorized. The number and the password. On his end, I hear a car engine come to life.

“Right then. Ten minutes it is. See you then.” The line goes dead.

He seemed friendly enough, sounded pretty easygoing. I suppose he must know the situation. My favor. Eddie’s favor. Our mutual favors.

Hell, who am I kidding; Simon’s probably been following me all day, hasn’t he? From here to Lottie’s and back again. I wonder who else has been following me as I go about my day. SO15, Patrick, and now Simon. They can’t all be following me. If one of them found out about the others, the whole house of cards would come tumbling down around me. But Simon must have been tailing me today; how else would he know I just got home? That’s why he’s in the area.

I grimace. I might actually be the world’s most na?ve criminal. Completely oblivious. I’m lucky I’m not dead yet.

I have less than ten minutes to prepare before he arrives. I stuff the slip of paper with the account number into my trouser pocket.

The stones are up in the attic where I left them after I got them back from Charles. I take the stairs up, two at a time. I need to be ready before Simon gets here. I don’t want to have to leave him unattended in the house while I go up to the attic alone. I don’t want him wandering around. I can’t trust him.

Suddenly a thought occurs. What if this guy isn’t connected with Eddie at all?

Or what if he is connected but somehow I’ve misread Eddie’s personality entirely and this situation isn’t going to end well for me? Maybe this isn’t safe.

I imagine Mark coming home to find my dead body crumpled, like a fleshy rag doll, in the hallway, a single shot to the head, execution-style. Job done.

But that won’t happen. My instincts tell me. And if I can’t trust my instincts, what can I trust? I’m sure it’s fine. I’m sure. I’m sure I’m sure.

Even so, I dash back downstairs and grab my phone. I dial Mark’s number.

Three rings in he picks up. He sounds distant, distracted, the background noise muffled.

“Mark?”

“Yeah, what’s happening? You okay? How did it go?” He means with Charlotte.

“Um, yeah, really good. Listen, quickly, someone called. Someone called about—” Shit. I suddenly realize I can’t say this over the phone, can I? I can’t mention the diamonds or Eddie. If Andy’s tapped my mobile, then we’ll be screwed. Okay, think. Think fast. Talk around it.

“Someone, um, wants to collect the honeymoon souvenirs.” Is it okay to say that? Sure, it’s fine—we bought souvenirs for Mark’s folks; if I get them FedExed this afternoon to East Riding, this call is perfectly explainable. God! This is complicated. Being a criminal is mentally exhausting.

On the other end of the line Mark is silent. I imagine he’s trying to work out what he can and can’t say over the phone too. I’m glad I married someone shrewd.

“Okay, that’s great. Can you manage by yourself, honey, or should I come back to help?” He keeps his tone even but I can tell he’s worried. He made his feelings about Eddie clear. He doesn’t trust Eddie at all.

“No, I’m fine. Everything’s great, Mark. I just wanted you to know that was happening now. It’s all fine, I can manage. I have to dash now, though, he’ll be around here in a minute. Okay?” I want to give Mark a chance to stop me if I’m being stupid. Am I being stupid? Giving a man I don’t know a million pounds’ worth of diamonds? In my own home, our home?

“Great. Sure, okay. It sounds like you’ve got it covered, honey. I’ll see you a bit later then, all right? I love you?” It’s a question. Sometimes it is a question, isn’t it? In the question there’s a lot of stuff.

“I love you too,” I answer. In the answer there’s a lot of stuff. And then he’s gone.

Shit, I didn’t ask how he was. I didn’t even ask where he was. It sounded outdoorsy, busy, crowded, maybe a station but—

I really don’t have time for this. I race up to the top landing, fumble the loft ladder stick into its hook in the ceiling, and pull.

I find them up in the loft, exactly where I left them, tucked under a loose layer of pastel yellow insulation, in their pouch. Glittering in the cream leather, gently warmed by the heating pipes. I seize them and push the insulation back into place.