The Courier

Beth shrugged, and didn’t look up. She twisted the bag’s cord around her fingers.

Harry had another question, though she didn’t expect an answer to this one either.

‘Why did you stay with him?’

This time, Beth looked up. ‘You think that, just by leaving, the violence would’ve stopped?’ She shook her head, jerking at the drawstring on her bag. ‘Leaving is more dangerous than staying, sometimes. Unless you plan it right.’

She slid Harry a glance, then dug an envelope out of the bag.

‘Know what this is?’ She hooked her fingers under the flap and extracted something small. ‘Here, catch.’

Harry caught the tiny pellet Beth had flung into the air. She rolled it between her fingers, then held it near the red light in the door. It looked like a piece of clouded crystal, about the size of a garden pea. Even in the tiny glow of light, its metallic lustre gleamed.

‘That’s over a carat,’ Beth said. ‘Maybe a hundred and twenty-five points.’

Harry stared at her. ‘This is a diamond?’

‘A rough diamond, uncut. Africa’s finest.’

Harry turned the stone over in her hand. It felt smooth, as though coated in an oily film, and looked more like a chip of polished lead than a diamond. She shook her head.

‘So I broke into Garvin’s safe to let you steal his diamonds?’

Beth pointed to her bloodied eye. ‘Call it compensation.’

Harry stared at the frail woman in front of her. Battered wife or burglar, who could tell? At this point, Harry’s internal barometer was swinging wildly.

She held the stone out to Beth, who waved it away.

‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘You’ve earned it.’

Harry shook her head and tossed the stone into Beth’s lap. Then she sprang to her feet, her limbs suddenly twitchy with the need to get away. She switched her attention to the vault door, running her hands along the cold steel. The man with the gun must have gone by now. Surely he couldn’t risk hanging around a dead body, live witnesses or not?

‘How do we get out of here?’ Beth’s voice was tight.

But Harry wasn’t worried about how to get out. Security was paramount for this kind of vault, but its focus was to keep intruders out, not lock hapless prisoners in.

The question was not how to open the door, but what was waiting for them on the other side of it.

Harry’s fingers groped in the dark till she found what she was looking for: a long metal lever. It was the vault’s internal escape mechanism, required by safety regulations in case someone got trapped inside. The regulators probably hadn’t had her exact situation in mind, but Harry was grateful for their foresight.

She pressed her ear to the door. Nothing. Then she wiped her palms against her thighs, and gripped the lever. She glanced back at Beth.

‘Ready?’

Beth jumped to her feet and nodded, hitching the duffel bag over her shoulder.

Harry pushed the lever down with both hands. Bolts shunted back through metal, one after the other. The light flicked green. Holding her breath, Harry pressed her shoulder to the door. It didn’t budge.

Shit. Had the killer’s bullets damaged the mechanism?

She slapped her palms flat against the door, arms fully extended. ‘Come on, push.’

Beth joined her at the door, and together they heaved. A chink of light sliced into the vault.

‘Keep pushing!’ Harry said.

‘Something’s jammed up against it!’

Grunting, they leaned their weight into the door until finally it gave way, breaking open a small gap. Beth’s rail-thin figure disappeared through it.

‘Beth, wait!’ Harry froze, waiting for the spray of bullets. When it didn’t come, she peeped out into the room. It was empty.

She grabbed her case and squeezed through the gap, stumbling over the reason why the door had jammed. Garvin’s body lay wedged against it, face down on the floor.

His hair was wet with blood, and Harry caught a whiff of dried urine in the air. She backed away, clutching the case to her chest, then raced out into the hall.

‘Beth?’

The front door was wide open. Harry sprinted outside, checking the street. People were out strolling, taking in the sea view over the wall. There was no sign of Beth.

A siren whined in the distance. Harry whirled round, taking in her choices. Behind her, the open front door. To her left, her red Mini parked by the kerb. In spite of the chill blowing in from the sea, Harry’s brain was over-heating.

She edged towards her car, raking over the highlights of her morning so far. A safe that she’d broken into illegally. A client who’d disappeared. A duffel bag full of stolen diamonds. Not to mention a dead body. The list wasn’t encouraging.

The siren grew louder and she fumbled for her keys. Did she really want to stick around for the police? The last time she’d got close to an investigation, she’d ended up a suspect. Still was, for all she knew. That wouldn’t help her credibility this time round.

With trembling fingers, she opened the boot of her car and dumped her case inside. She thought of the man in the baseball cap who didn’t leave witnesses, and her throat closed over. She knew she should talk to the police, but for the second time that day, a voice in her head screamed ‘run’.

The siren grew more strident. It wasn’t too late. After all, no one knew who she was. The killer didn’t know her name, and the police didn’t need to know it either.

Harry gasped. Her business card. It was still on the desk inside. She spun round and scrambled back up the steps, taking them two at a time. The siren was close now, in the same street. She raced back into the house and made straight for the office. Averting her eyes from Garvin’s body, she scoured the surface of the desk. She hauled out drawers, checked on the floor.

Tyres squealed outside, car doors slammed. A cold shiver rippled down Harry’s spine.

Her business card was gone.

4 (#ulink_47743c86-8911-53cb-b9ff-3515e27e67c3)

‘Beth Oliver died four months ago.’

Harry turned away from the window and gaped at the plain-clothes detective by the door. ‘What?’

‘That’s right.’ He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms folded across his chest. ‘So now as well as all the other holes in your story, you’re saying you were hired by a dead lady.’

Harry squinted at him, as if sharpening her focus could change what he said. He was lean and wiry, his sandy hair cut short like a schoolboy’s. His name was Hunter, and he’d been questioning her in Beth’s kitchen for two hours.

She thought of Beth: the battered face, the passport, the bank statement. She shook her head, but her insides were sinking.