The Verdict Read online

Not to worry… not to worry…

  She spoke to him with warmth and sincerity, doing her best to reassure him that he had an absolute warrior at his side, fighting for him all the way. She promised him everything and guaranteed nothing.

  It was pure bullshit to me, but it seemed to work on VJ.

  When we got up to leave twenty minutes later, VJ rose with us and helped Christine to her feet, tenderly, like a devoted son. Then he hugged her and said, ‘Thank you.’

  And he shook my hand too, with a double grip, and winked at me with both eyes. That chilled me to the marrow. He’d done exactly the same thing the day he’d found out Quinlan had been taken off the investigation.

  He was guilty then. He was guilty now.

  I knew it. I didn’t doubt it.

  He’d killed Rodney. And he’d killed Evelyn Bates.

  No way was he getting away with it again.

  No way.

  You can’t cheat karma.

  ‘That was incredible, Christine,’ Redpath said, on the Tube back into town. ‘You even had me convinced.’

  ‘All part of the service,’ she said, bowing her head in acknowledgement. ‘But I meant some of it.’

  She was sitting between us, leaning on her stick, staring through the window.

  ‘You don’t think he’s innocent, do you?’ Redpath asked.

  ‘You know what the biggest problem with this case is, from the prosecution’s point of view?’ she asked him.

  ‘Where they’re going to celebrate after the verdict’s in?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Vernon James got a starred first in economics from Cambridge University.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Getting in to Cambridge is hard enough. Coming out of it with the highest mark you can get is next to impossible.’

  ‘So? He’s very bright. Big deal. Some sociopaths are.’

  ‘That’s just my point. Vernon is a highly intelligent, highly educated man. So, Liam, why would he go and kill someone in his hotel suite, and just leave the body on the bed while he merrily went about his day?’

  ‘Are you saying he was set up too?’

  Christine shifted a little in her seat, so she was looking directly at him.

  For the first time that day, she smiled.

  The train stopped and the doors opened. No one got on or off.

  She didn’t answer his question. Which meant she either knew something and was keeping it to herself, or she was bluffing us like she’d just bluffed her client and was keeping that to herself too.

  33

  Back at the office I went on the trail of the missing Rolex, and stayed on it for the rest of the day. It was a numbers game, laborious as hell, working my way through a list of over six hundred jewellers, watchsmiths and pawnbrokers up and down the country.

  And I’d made exactly zero progress, just as I’d expected.

  Still, though it may have been water-treading work, right now it was useful, because it took my mind off what was going on in the office. Adolf had gone and pulled another of her petty divide and conquer, stick and twist moves.

  Today was Michaela’s birthday. She’d turned twenty-four. She’d got a card from the department, which everyone had signed – apart from me. The first I heard about it was when Adolf and Iain started singing ‘Happy Birthday’ shortly after I got back from Belmarsh. Probably planned that way.

  Now they were all getting ready to go out together after work, my colleagues and their partners and friends. One big happy gang. Needless to say, I hadn’t been invited.

  I’m not going to pretend it didn’t get to me. Yet I wasn’t going to give Adolf the satisfaction of a confrontation. I couldn’t afford that. I had to keep my head down and get through this until the verdict was in. I was almost looking forward to unemployment, to never having to put up with this crap again… Until the next time.

  I called up Allen & Sons, a jeweller’s on Bond Street.

  ‘Grenville Allen.’

  ‘Good afternoon. My name’s Terry Flynt. I work for Kopf-Randall-Purdom, a law firm. We’re trying to track down a missing Rolex on behalf of a client, and I’m calling to find out if you might’ve come across it recently.’

  I didn’t use the word ‘stolen’ when talking to dealers, because that would put them on all kinds of defensive and stymie cooperation.

  ‘The watch is a 1951 Oyster Perpetual Datejust. Stainless steel with a gold rim around the glass. Ivory face, steel and gold bracelet,’ I said.

  ‘Let me just check our records for you. Please bear with me.’

  Adolf was over by Michaela’s desk, talking to her in whispers and giggles. She’d done herself up for the night ahead, let her hair down to her shoulders and ditched the usual corporate two-piece and blouse for jeans, heels and a tight black Ed Hardy T-shirt. I hated to admit it, but she looked pretty good.

  ‘I’ve acquired five Rolexes this past month,’ Allen said. ‘A Paul Newman Daytona, a Cellini Cestello, a President and two GMT Masters, but no pre-1970 Datejusts.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘If you come across it, can you please give me a call?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  I gave him my direct line. He read the number back to me. He had an old, well-bred voice that made me think of that bygone generation of Englishmen who stood up when women walked in the room, or tipped their hats when they passed them in the street. He also sounded like he had all the time in the world to talk. Everyone else I’d spoken to so far couldn’t get off the phone fast enough when they found out I wasn’t calling about business.

  ‘You said it’s a 1951 Datejust. Those rarely sell for more than £800 to £900, depending on their condition,’ he said.

  ‘It’s barely been worn,’ I said.

  ‘Do you have the box?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’

  Off I went to the memory bank. I was amazed at how quickly and clearly it all came back. I was fourteen, standing in James Newsagent’s with VJ and his dad. Rodney was performing his birthday rite, putting his prize Rolex on; babbling away about the watch’s history, interweaving the Swiss company’s story with that of his Trinidadian patriarchs. He’d placed the box on the shop counter and very carefully taken the watch out, slipping his index fingers under the bracelet, as if handling a sacrament. Then he’d wriggled it on to his skinny wrist, a touch of luxury in that realm of the humdrum – stacked tabloids, canned food, cigarettes, porn mags and booze.

  ‘The box is black leatherette, with the crown logo stamped in gold on top,’ I said. ‘The inside’s dark-red velvet.’

  ‘Hinged?’

  ‘Yes. The inside lid is printed with the logo and a legend below it: “Accuracy That Is Truly Remarkable”,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a gift box,’ Allen said. ‘What’s the watch’s history?’

  ‘It belonged to the client’s grandfather, who got it as a retirement present.’

  ‘What did he do, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Managed a bank in Trinidad.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Do you have the serial number to hand?’

  ‘Yes. It’s 7353.’

  ‘Seven-three-five-three. That’s it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure? Not six digits? As in seven-three-five-three-zero-zero?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Rolex watches manufactured after 1937 have six-digit serial numbers. In 1955, they went to seven digits. This dropped back down to six in the late 1980s, but they were prefixed by a capital letter,’ he said. ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but are you sure your client’s watch is authentic?’

  ‘Pretty sure,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll need to do some research, but four-digit serial numbers for a mass-produced watch are highly unusual.’

  ‘So it could be valuable?’ I asked, remembering that Fabia had supposedly told VJ her father was a watchsmith in Switzerland.

  ‘All Rolexes are worth something, Mr Flynt. Wha
t they’re worth depends on the collector. There are various types of collector, just as there are various makes of Rolex.’

  ‘One for each?’

  Allen laughed. ‘You could say that. Some collect by make, some by face colour, some by year. And yes, some collect by serial number. Three- and four-digit watches are extremely rare in themselves because they tend to be highly limited runs. Prototypes are even more limited. Sometimes less than five will ever be made. You said the watch was missing? Was it stolen?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ I said.

  ‘The serial number – 7353. It sounds familiar. I need to look it up. Are you OK holding again?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I checked the office clock. Almost 6 p.m. This would be my last call of the day. Then I’d head off home. On Thursday I’d be back on the interview round with Swayne, talking to the Blenheim-Strand staff who’d given statements.

  ‘Hi babe!’ Adolf called out, jolting me.

  Kev Dorset, her fiancé, had just walked in. It wasn’t a smooth entrance. He was so tall and broad he had to stoop and swivel to get in the room.

  We’d never been introduced, but he knew who I was. He strode right past me without a word or a look, his big feet cratering the carpet. I could tell he’d come straight from the office. His grey suit was slightly crumpled, his tie undone and he had a leather manbag slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Hiya,’ he said, jovially. He had a naturally loud, room-filling voice, and an oafish, yawning way with his delivery, which reminded me of the way the semi-deaf speak.

  Adolf hugged him. He had to stoop again, this time all the way down like he was getting fitted with a lei, so she could drape her arms around him and plant a smacker on his pursed lips.

  ‘I got that thing you wanted,’ he said, reaching into his bag.

  She shushed him angrily, looking my way.

  I was turned away from them, still seemingly staring at the bath house picture, but really watching the middle of the room in my peripheral vision, missing nothing.

  Kev passed Adolf a large envelope from his bag and looked over his shoulder at me, to see if I’d noticed. He fell for it too.

  Adolf took the envelope over to her desk, bent down and put it in the bottom drawer.

  Then Grenville Allen came back on the line.

  ‘Mr Flynt. I’ve checked the serial number you gave me. Seven-three-five-three. Are you absolutely sure of this?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  I heard him breathing hard, panting almost.

  ‘May I ask who your client is?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. Just rules.’

  ‘Well, his – or her – or their watch… It’s the holy grail.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘There are only two of that particular model in existence. One’s in the Rolex corporate museum in Geneva, and the other belongs to your client,’ Allen said. ‘It’s known in collector circles as the “Three E”.’

  ‘The Three E – as in the letter “E”?’

  ‘Yes. Rolex pride themselves on perfection. If a batch of watches is in anyway flawed, they’ll recall the lot and replace them,’ he said. ‘Several things are special about your client’s watch. First of all, it’s a prototype. The Datejust models were still in their infancy in 1951, only five years old. Rolex were still modifying the design, adapting it for modern times.

  ‘The Three E is so nicknamed, because the “e” in the brand name on the face is back to front. As is the “e” in “Datejust”. The third reversed “e” is found when you open up the watch, the brand name etched on the inside of the back cap is also flawed.

  ‘Prototypes are never meant to enter public circulation. A few have in the past, either because they’ve been sent out by mistake, or they’ve been stolen. Rolex are known to be highly efficient at tracking them down. And they also pay substantial rewards for the ones that are still outstanding.’

  ‘So, if a Rolex collector, or someone familiar with the watches came across the Three E, they’d know what they had?’ I asked.

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘How much is it worth?’

  ‘The last flawed Rolex, which had a back-to-front dial, was sold at auction in 1992 for £150,000. It’s widely believed the company bought it. They don’t like having dodgy products in the public domain. Bad for the image,’ he said. ‘I’d estimate the Three E to be worth close to double that. Much more with the box and paperwork.’

  ‘Say you were offered this watch, face to face? Do you have a protocol or a procedure?’

  ‘Of course. I’m a Rolex-approved trader,’ he said. ‘I’d handle it no differently from any Rolex I got offered. First, I make sure it’s not fake. That’s easily done. All you need to do is take the back off and check the engine. Counterfeiters can replicate a Rolex shell easily enough, but the mechanics take time, talent and money, which will defeat the whole purpose of a forgery. Then I’ll call the company to formally authenticate the watch and make sure it hasn’t been reported stolen. Almost all Rolexes are registered under their owner’s name. This is because of repairs and servicing.’

  VJ wouldn’t have registered the watch. It would still be under his grandfather’s name. Or maybe even the bank that had given it to him.

  ‘What about an unlicensed dealer, or a pawnbroker?’ I asked.

  ‘They probably wouldn’t buy the Three E, because they’d notice the flaw and think it was a fake,’ he said. ‘If the watch turns up in sanctioned Rolex trader circles, I’ll know about it. We’re a village, Mr Flynt. We all know each other’s business.’

  ‘Will you please call me if you hear anything?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ he said. ‘And can you please call me if it turns up. I’d love to see it.’

  ‘Yes. Count on it.’

  ‘Good luck in finding it.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ I said.

  I was now alone in the office. Everyone had left.

  I sat back, pondered.

  Going on VJ’s version of events, where Fabia existed and everything had happened the way he said: she’d asked to see his watch, noticed the reversed E in the logo, and either knew what it was or thought it highly unusual, and possibly valuable. She’d kept it. Maybe she’d even beaten him up because of the watch – assaulted and robbed him.

  It was a good enough theory for Christine to run with. But for it to be viable, we had to prove that Fabia wasn’t a figment of VJ’s imagination. And, so far, she seemed to be.

  Swayne had drawn a complete blank there. And we only had four weeks to find her.

  I typed up my notes and emailed a copy to Christine, Janet and Redpath.

  It was almost 6.30. I’d be home in time for dinner.

  I stood up, stretched, yawned and rolled my neck to get the kinks out.

  Then I remembered the envelope Adolf had stashed in her desk.

  What didn’t she want me to see, or know about?

  Not exactly hard to figure out. She was on a high-profile case featuring a newsworthy footballer, and Kev was angling for a permanent contract at the Daily Chronicle. I could smell an ethics violation…

  What the hell? She’d have done the same to me.

  I went over to her desk.

  The brown envelope was the only thing in the bottom drawer. It wasn’t sealed. The flap was tucked in.

  Inside was a ten-page transcript of a conversation between a mobile and a London number.

  No idea what this was about. Tapped phone evidence couldn’t be used in court anyway. Adolf knew that. Maybe she was helping Kev out. How? Looking into one of our cases for him, perhaps? Then she’d be violating client-lawyer confidentiality. If it was that, I’d really have a lot more over her than just adulterated sandwiches.

  I slipped the transcript back in the envelope. It wouldn’t go all the way in. Something was blocking it from the bottom. I shook it out.
<
br />   A thick white business card landed on the desk.

  David Stratten?

  That was the same name and number listed as a contact on VJ’s list of ongoing business deals – one of the two that had been scrubbed out.

  I checked the list again.

  Yup.

  Stratford Quakers. Contact: David Stratten. 07423 814921.

  Was Adolf looking into my case?

  34

  I’d got the key in my front door, when Arun came staggering out of his flat, face bloated and blotchy, moving like a cork trying to stay upright in a whirlpool.

  ‘Awrite, Terry?’

  I nodded to him.

  Piss off – fast!

  He burped loudly, put his fist to his mouth afterwards, giggled at the memory of manners past. I smelled the beers he’d had for breakfast and lunch, the ones he was having for dinner.

  ‘I got sumfin’ for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This geezer dropped it off.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Left it with me, dinn’e?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘He gave it me ta safekeep for you.’

  ‘With YOU? Where is it?’

  He pointed to his flat. I heard his baby crying inside.

  ‘Can I have it, then. Please?’

  ‘Yeah, sure… ’course. But… um… ur…’

  He scratched his thatch of chestnut hair. A scrap of tin foil floated out and rested on his shoulder.

  ‘I was finkin’, right. I don’t wanna be… vague or nuffink… but can I get like a… a reward, please?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A reward.’

  ‘You want me to pay you for holding my mail?’

  ‘Lotta dishonest people around ’ere, you know, Tel? And I coulda nicked it m’self for all you know.’

  I took a step towards him.

  ‘Arun. Get me my mail – now!’

  He burped again.

  ‘Awrite, bruv, awrite.’ He backed off towards his door. ‘No need to get stressed. Bad for yer elf.’

  Swayne answered on the first ring, like he’d been expecting my call.

  ‘What’s on this?’ I asked, looking at the unmarked DVD he’d dropped off.