Diamond Geezers Read online

  Title Page

  DIAMOND GEEZERS

  Echo Freer

  Publisher Information

  This edition published in 2014 by

  Acorn Books

  www.acornbooks.co.uk

  Converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright © 2005, 2014 Echo Freer

  The right of Echo Freer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the following people: Jon Howard of Solitaire Jewellers, Hatton Garden for the countless hours he gave to educating me in various aspects of the diamond trade. Joanna Flitman of Co-operative Funeralcare, Leytonstone and the staff of Co-operative Funeralcare, Manor Park, for their sensitivity and discretion when teaching me about the funeral business. The staff of the City of London Cemetery. Andrew Lawrence for his knowledge of diamonds. Sharon Foster, my lodger, for her support and patience as I was writing Diamond Geezers. My children, Imogen, Verien and Jacob for their proofreading and advice along the way. And my husband, Frank, for his tireless love and support. I would also like to thank my agent, Caroline Montgomery, who painstakingly corrects all the spelling and punctuation errors that Microsoft misses!

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my stepsons, Justin and Lewis - a pair of diamond geezers!

  One

  Mickey Bigg was jigging about nervously in the driver’s seat of the stolen Range Rover like a jack-in-a-box on a caffeine spree.

  ‘Pack it in, Mickey!’ his girlfriend, Harley, snapped at him from the back seat. Harley Spinks was the sixteen-year-old daughter of Harry Spinks, gangland boss and mastermind behind the Spinks Organisation. His firm ran just about every pub, club and boxing venue in east London - not to mention a portfolio of nefarious businesses that the taxman never got to hear about. ‘You got some sort of nervous condition you ain’t told me about, or you actually tryin’ to attract the attention of every goon in spittin’ distance?’

  ‘Sorry, Harl.’

  ‘Yeah, you will be if they come over ‘ere.’ Harley indicated two security men in great coats on the other side of the road. Their heads moved continuously, scanning Hatton Garden, the diamond centre of London, for anything that was remotely out of the ordinary.

  ‘They’ve bleedin’ well clocked us now, you pilchard!’ she said, seeing one of the men raise his walkie-talkie to his lips.

  ‘Calm down, calm down.’ Mickey’s father, Archie Bigg, was sitting in the passenger seat. He raised his eyes skyward and sighed deeply. ‘Just play it cool, you two.’

  Archie was Harry Spinks’ right-hand man. He loved his son but why, out of all the girls in east London, Mickey had to choose Harry Spinks’ girl to go out with, was beyond Archie: she made Cruella De Vil seem like Florence Nightingale by comparison. Turning round, he spoke to his boss’s daughter with a smile that would have soured milk.

  ‘Darlin’... I know your old man’s keen for you to learn the ropes an’ all that, but let’s not forget who’s running this blag, shall we?’

  ‘You got a problem with me being ‘ere, Archie?’ Harley challenged.

  ‘No, darlin’ - no problem at all,’ Archie replied, through gritted teeth. He turned forwards again and gave Mickey a reassuring pat on the thigh. ‘ ‘Ang on to your bottle, son. You’re doin’ fine. They’re checkin’ out that motorbike, not us - see?’ Archie sucked in air through thinly parted lips and shook his head. ‘Bleedin’ terrorists! There’s so much flamin’ security these days, I don’t know ‘ow anyone expects an honest villain to make a livin’.’

  Mickey drummed his fingers on the dashboard and peered anxiously at the bustle of people ahead. He hoped that girl in the pub last night hadn’t been winding him up. He didn’t want to waste everybody’s time.

  ‘So where d’you work?’ he’d asked her, more to kill time while his mate had gone to the loo than because of any genuine interest. Mickey and Harley had only been going out a couple of months and he still thought he was the luckiest bloke around.

  ‘In my dad’s shop,’ the girl had replied. ‘Down Hatton Garden.’

  Mickey’s ears had pricked up. ‘A jeweller’s? Wow! Bet that’s excitin’.’

  ‘Neh, not really.’ And over the course of the next hour, she’d divulged all the information Mickey had needed to take home to his father and earn himself the accolade of being made getaway driver on his first robbery.

  But now he was beginning to have misgivings.

  ‘D’you think we could’ve missed him, Dad?’

  ‘I thought she told you the punter was a Saudi sheik and they was bringing the diamond down from the Bourse at half four.’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Well, it’s only just half four, ain’t it?’

  ‘She? Who’s she?’ Harley asked. ‘You didn’t tell me it was a girl what gave you the info.’

  ‘It ain’t a big deal, Harl. I didn’t say nothing ‘cos I didn’t want you gettin’ jealous and that.’

  ‘Whoa!’ The fourth member of the gang, Flash Finlayter, sat forward on the back seat. ‘The Bourse?’ There was annoyance in his tone and Archie grimaced. ‘Arch - why am I getting the impression you ain’t been entirely honest with me?’

  ‘What’s the Bourse, when it’s at ‘ome?’ Harley Spinks asked.

  ‘The Bourse is the suite of offices where a load of diamond brokers ‘ang out. Legit diamond brokers!’ Flash said, pointedly.

  Archie cleared his throat. ‘Er - we’ll talk about this later, Flash, all right?’

  ‘No, Arch, it ain’t all right. I come out of retirement for this blag on account of you tellin’ me it was for a good cause.’

  ‘It is for a good cause,’ Archie protested. ‘It’s gonna get me sorted out financially, get ‘Arry out of gaol and your share’ll buy you and Opal that plot of land you want in Jamaica.’

  ‘Dad, Dad!’ Mickey pointed along the road to where a sleek black limousine had pulled up. They all watched as the chauffeur opened the rear door allowing a tall man in Arabian attire, complete with ghutra, to emerge. If, as the girl in the pub had intimated, this was the punter, then a broker from the Bourse would be coming along any minute with a ten point six flawless intense pink diamond for inspection. Mickey bit his bottom lip nervously. He knew his dad had a lot hinging on the success of this robbery.

  Last summer, while Archie had been in America negotiating a buyer for some seriously hot antiques (which, by virtue of the BBC’s Crimewatch programme, could no longer be disposed of in this country), Harry and half the Spinks firm had gone down for a bank robbery they didn’t commit. Unfortunately for Archie, his timely transatlantic trip had made him the number one suspect as snake in the grass. Harry was not a happy man, and it didn’t do to upset Harry Spinks. On top of that, Archie’s own business, Bigg Builders, was foundering financially.

  Mickey knew that his father saw this diamond heist as his last chance to win back Harry’s trust and, i
f everything went according to plan, it would also make enough money to finance an extremely lucrative building contract to get his own firm out of difficulties and pay for Harry’s escape from Belmarsh Prison.

  Flash pushed his head between the father and son in the front seats. ‘Them ain’t good causes, Arch - them’s desires,’ he said, earnestly.

  Mickey had grown up hearing about Flash. In his day, ‘Flash’ Gordon Finlayter had been a top man. The speed of his hand could deceive the eye of the sharpest eagle and his skill as a confidence trickster, pickpocket and gentleman thief was legendary. But, according to Archie, Flash had never been the same since they’d tried to pull that scam down at the Buddhist Centre.

  ‘If it weren’t for the fact that everyone else is banged up, I never would’ve brought Flash in,’ Archie had explained to his son. ‘But we need someone what’s quick and we need someone what knows the ropes.’

  But now, Flash’s newfound conscience was proving more of a problem than Archie had envisaged.

  ‘Keep your eye on the punter,’ Archie instructed Mickey as he turned to the back seat. ‘All right, Flash, so maybe I wasn’t totally up front with you. But, bleeding ‘ell, what did you think I meant? ‘Cos, I might be right out of my tree ‘ere but, to me, getting ‘Arry out of gaol, you out of the country and me out of very, very deep manure, are three extremely good causes.’

  Flash shook his head. ‘You see, that’s where we differ these days, Arch. ‘Cos, you say to me “good cause” and I’m thinking along the lines of exposing the illegal trade in conflict diamonds.’

  ‘Bleeding ‘ell, Flash! Do I look like Mother flamin’ Theresa?’ Archie gave the younger man an incredulous stare. ‘When ‘ave you ever known me to expose anything what’s illegal?’

  Flash sat back in his seat, uncomfortable with what was about to go down. ‘I’ve changed my mind, Arch. You got me ‘ere under false pretences and I want out.’

  Harley Spinks turned to the man sitting next to her. ‘Well, you can’t have out, so that’s all there is to it! You agreed to be in, so you’re in.’

  ‘I weren’t told the full picture, was I?’ He shrugged. ‘I was an idiot.’

  Harley leaned forward. ‘No arguing with that,’ she sneered.

  Flash eyeballed Harley and moved even closer. ‘The fool who thinks ‘e is wise, she indeed is the real fool,’ he misquoted.

  ‘Jeez!’ Harley sneered.

  ‘No, Buddha, actually,’ Flash retorted. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m outta ‘ere.’

  ‘ ‘Ang on, Flash, mate,’ Archie pleaded.

  ‘You set one foot outside this car till Archie tells you and my dad’ll make sure you never set foo-’ Harley began.

  ‘Dad! Dad!’ Mickey shouted, bouncing up and down again. ‘There’s some bloke goin’ in the shop.’ All conversation in the car stopped as its occupants watched a small man in a long black coat enter the jeweller’s.

  ‘This is it.’ Archie took a deep breath. ‘Mickey, Harley - stay in the car. Keep the engine running, son, and move it forward so that you’re ready to go soon as we come out.’ He turned to Flash. ‘You go with me on this one, Flash, and I swear to you, you can ride off into the Caribbean sunset and rest in peace.’

  Flash looked at Harley Spinks and shuddered. It wasn’t what the girl would do if he refused that worried him - but her father? Harry might be behind bars but his influence wasn’t. He sighed heavily.

  ‘All right - but I’m doing this for you, Arch. For old times’ sake.’ He glared at Harley. ‘I’m not doin’ it for no one else. And you can keep my cut. I ain’t gonna start my new life on dirty money.’

  Archie bent down and picked up two black felt fedoras. ‘You’re a diamond geezer, Flash, my old china. Now put this on.’ He handed one of the hats to Flash. ‘Helps us to blend in with the crowd and the rim’s wide enough to hide our faces from the security cameras.’ He smiled, relieved. ‘And I promise - this will be your very last blag.’

  No one in the Range Rover had any idea just how true Archie’s words would turn out to be.

  Two

  Modesty de Mise crouched at the top of the carved oak staircase that led from the hall of her parents’ funeral parlour to the family’s living accommodation upstairs. As she peered through the banisters, a figure dressed as Darth Vader made his way slowly along the wide hallway from the chapel of rest towards the door. He had one cloaked arm draped round the shoulder of a sobbing Anakin Skywalker, while his other arm comforted R2D2. A battalion of Jedi knights followed in their wake, accompanied by Modesty’s father, Mortimer de Mise.

  At the door Darth Vader offered her father an enormous gloved hand.

  ‘Thank you, Mr de Mise. I thought Mum looked lovely.’

  Modesty watched her father shake the gauntlet with an air of reverence. He nodded graciously. ‘The crematorium is booked for eleven fifteen on Tuesday, Mr Ogden, so we will be at your house on Tuesday morning at nine thirty and then back here for a short service in the chapel before going on to the crematorium.’

  Modesty knew the Ogden family by reputation only. Having founded the east London branch of the Star Wars Appreciation Group (SWAG for short), they graced many a church fete and school open day with their re-enactments of intergalactic battles. Sadly, Mrs Ogden Senior (registered at birth as Mavis but, having changed her name by deed poll, would be remembered as Princess Leia Ogden) had met an untimely end with a light sabre at the previous week’s meeting. Her family and fellow SWAG members had decided that, as a mark of honour, they would hold a silent vigil round her coffin - in full costume.

  Suddenly, though, their silence was shattered by the sound of heavy metal blasting from the second floor of the large Victorian house. Modesty sprang from her position on the stairs with the alacrity of a sprinter off a starting block and bolted up to the bedroom of her thirteen-year-old sister.

  ‘Grace!’ she said, in a tone of incredulity. ‘There are clients downstairs!’

  ‘And?’ Grace was dressed from head to toe in black lace and was spraying purple streaks into her hair.

  Modesty strode through the clothes, magazines and CDs that littered her sister’s floor.

  ‘Can you really not guess where I’m going with this?’ She turned down the volume on the hi-fi until the floorboards stopped vibrating. ‘What’s got into you, Grace? You know the score.’

  The younger girl plonked down the can of hairspray and picked up a black lip liner. She leaned forward and spoke to her sister through the mirror. ‘Woooo! So who nicked your dummy? Don’t tell me - Dad’s still not letting you in on old Grandma Appleby’s do?’

  ‘It’s not a do - it’s her funeral,’ Modesty snapped.

  Beattie Appleby had been a sprightly seventy-nine- year-old who, together with Modesty, had led the protest against the proposed development of the southernmost end of the cemetery. Modesty had been devastated by Beattie’s death - it meant not only the loss of a fellow-campaigner but also of a friend and confidante.

  Ever since the planning application had been submitted to the council, Beattie had led the campaign from a bender high up in one of the eighteenth-century sweet chestnut trees at the heart of the disputed area. But Modesty’s involvement had caused a major dispute in the de Mise household.

  ‘I do not want my family involved,’ Mortimer had decreed. ‘Impartiality - that’s the watchword here.’

  ‘But we are involved,’ Modesty had argued. ‘If you don’t care about the environment, then surely you care about your business.’

  ‘I’ll mind my own business, and I’ll thank you to mind yours.’

  Modesty had been implacable. ‘You won’t have a business to mind if this goes ahead. And anyway, I thought this was going to be my business one day. Or is that just a load of hot air too?’

  ‘Now, now, dear,’ her mother had soothed.
>
  Modesty had looked from one parent to the other. ‘Tell me, you two, doesn’t it hurt your bums?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Mortimer had exploded.

  ‘Sitting on the fence!’

  ‘Go to your room this instant. And I forbid you to have any more contact with that silly old fool.’

  So, faced with the choice between her own principles and those of her parents, Modesty had defied her father by offering the elderly eco-warrior support and sustenance behind his back. Unfortunately, a sudden squall the previous night had tested the endurance of the three-hundred-year- old tree which had become Beattie’s home. At some time between two and four o’clock in the morning (according to the pathologist), the bough had broken and down had come Beattie, tree-house and all. Modesty had been in tears for most of the day.

  When her father had called her into his office as soon as she’d arrived home from school that afternoon and explained that he was short-handed and would need her assistance with a viewing, Modesty had felt herself stiffen with anger. She’d already been denied the day off to grieve for her friend and now he expected her to work with him when all she wanted to do was go to her room.

  ‘Why can’t I help with Beattie’s arrangements? You want me to learn the business - this is the perfect opportunity.’

  ‘Your mother’s dealing with the Appleby arrangement. That’s why I need you to assist me,’ he’d replied, poring over the schedules for the forthcoming week.

  Simply sitting opposite her father at the dinner table had required a superhuman level of patience on her part recently. The last thing she wanted, today of all days, was to be working with him in a confined space. ‘Well, if I did Beattie’s arrangements, Mum could help you. It’s simple,’ she’d reasoned.

  ‘It’s not appropriate. You’re emotionally involved and you’re too young,’ he’d replied distractedly, moving a green card from one page of the ledger and placing it on the next. ‘That’s better,’ he’d muttered under his breath. ‘If the Gormans don’t mind Wednesday, then I can fit in Dr Palmer at Southend on Thursday.’