The Blood Diamond Read Free Page A

electrically controlled. She pressed a switch concealed in the carved back of the piece, then was able to lift the seat easily. Inside was a steel box. She pressed another switch, concealed inside the seat, and took a small key from her bag and unlocked the box. A second box was inside it, with a combination lock; this was the safe itself. She knew the combination by heart, and twisted and turned with the tumblers clicking, until it opened. Inside here were a few small packages and one or two jewel cases. She put the packet in, closed the safe, and locked it. Soon, there was just an old oak settle against the wall.
    Opening the safe seemed to have opened a partition in her mind. The caller with his shy, awkward manner was one of several whom John had arranged to see here lately. Judy, the cook-general, had twice given her brown paper packets, left as this one had been.
    Judy was out—
    Never mind Judy!
    Who were the callers? Why didn’t John see them at the shop? The packages contained jewels, of course; yet he had never referred to them or the callers.
    Why not?
    Had her moodiness discouraged him?
    Was there really mystery?
    She laughed, but not easily. John thrived on mystery; always had, always would. Mystery, trouble, crime – they were part of his life, the only part she hated.
    Hated? The truth was, it frightened her. She had been frightened, over the years, because he would never leave a mystery alone. He had to solve it, no matter where it took him. Some were trivial, some . . .
    Why had she had to fall in love with a man who had always lived dangerously? His passion for jewels was responsible. She’d persuaded him to buy Quinn’s, hoping the shop would absorb the passion, but it hadn’t. Nothing would, nothing could. Probably he had not mentioned the callers because she’d flare up at him, driven on by her fears – that this would lead to a danger he couldn’t escape.
    Nonsense?
    She’d see him – now. Talk to him, make him talk; he’d probably be able to banish her fears.
    She laughed.
    He might still be at Quinn’s.
    She hurried out, slamming the front door.
    Â 
    Twenty minutes later, her taxi pulled up at the end of Hart Row. A heavy van was waiting to come out, and as Quinn’s was not far from the corner, she paid the driver and walked towards the shop. As she drew near, a man came out; not a man likely to come from Quinn’s. He carried a cardboard tray with some matches and bootlaces, and wore an old coat, old flannel trousers and a pink shirt. He was hatless, his greying hair long and straggly. He came towards her slowly, with a dreamy expression on his face. Only once did he turn away from her; to glance at the window and its single diamond.
    They were nearly level when he looked round again.
    Lorna missed a step
    This was the model! The dreamy eyes held a glow, like the eyes of a girl in love. The face itself was interesting – weak yet with a hint of stubbornness; no, not exactly weak; arresting, in a strange way. The mouth was good, so was the chin. The cheekbones were a little high, the halo of hair gave him the look of an Old Testament prophet. If she searched London high and low, she wouldn’t find a better subject.
    He moved towards the road, to let her pass, and looked at her, surprised to find her staring at him so intently. He smiled, and fingered a box of matches.
    â€˜Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m afraid I haven’t got much of a selection, but—’
    â€˜Selection?’ She stared. ‘Oh, those. No, thanks. Are you busy?’
    The question was absurd; she was absurd; but he looked at her with a sparkle of humour which reminded her of John.
    â€˜I am not overworked,’ he said.
    â€˜Could you sit for me for a few days?’
    â€˜I don’t understand you,’ replied the tramp. ‘Sit for you?’
    â€˜As a model. I am a painter. I’d like—’
    He gasped.
    â€˜Are you