The Diamond Rosary Murders Read online

  A man came into the showroom with a blonde woman, whom he introduced as his wife; he gave his name and address which appeared to be that of a genuine jewellery dealer and his wife from Glasgow. The couple purported to be interested in purchasing, on behalf of a syndicate, the fabulous diamond-and-ruby Rosary given by King Philip II of Spain to Mary I, Queen of England, on the occasion of their wedding on 25th July 1554.

  Julius Henkel, chairman of the company, said the Rosary was unique and comprised a gold crucifix with all the beads represented by precious stones, mostly diamonds, and every decade a ruby, all threaded onto a gold chain. The presentation of the Rosary was made at Kensington Palace on 23rd July 1554. The marriage took place two days later. The Rosary was in a brown leather presentation case.

  The leader of the gang who did all the speaking in what was thought to be a Scottish accent was portly, aged about 50, had dark hair, a moustache and beard, horn-rimmed spectacles, and wore a dark suit. His accomplice was a woman aged 35 years who had a ‘striking’ figure, long blonde hair, and was wearing a dress decorated with black lace and a matching coat. The third man was the driver of the car which was said to be a silver Mercedes. The licence plate was found to be false.

  A witness said that he saw a car thought to be the getaway car stop to buy a newspaper from a street vendor on Farringdon Road.

  There is a reward of £1m for information leading to the capture and identity of the Chameleon and the return of the jewel.

  TWO

  The King George Hotel, Bromersley, South Yorkshire. Wednesday 7 December 2011. 10.30 p.m.

  James Argyle was the first into the room. His arms were behind his back and bound at the wrists with brown sticky parcel tape.

  Behind him, pushing him, was Charles Domino. He had the barrel of a Walther 38 sticking into Argyle’s spine. He jabbed it into him meanly from time to time.

  ‘All right. All right,’ Argyle said in a crisp Scottish accent.

  Domino looked down his nose at him and said, ‘I just don’t want you to forget who is running this show.’

  Argyle looked round the shabby hotel bedroom. He wrinkled his nose as if he’d just caught a whiff of the gravy vat in the cookhouse at Strangeways.

  ‘Not exactly the Ritz,’ he said.

  ‘It’s good enough for you,’ Domino said. He waved the Walther in the direction of a chair placed strategically at the far side of the room. ‘Sit over there,’ he said, pushing him by the shoulder.

  Argyle staggered towards the chair. ‘Steady on. Who are you, anyway? What do you want? And where’s my wife?’

  ‘She’s not your wife. She wouldn’t marry a tub of lard like you,’ Domino said as he moved behind the chair.

  ‘She’d better be all right. I don’t like that smelly, foreign little turd of yours hanging round her. Besides, she can’t tell you anything. She doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘Anything about what?’

  ‘Anything about anything. Tell me what you want and let me get out of this rat hole.’

  Argyle peered round to see what Domino was doing behind him.

  ‘Look to your front,’ Domino snapped, jabbing the barrel of the gun into Argyle’s right kidney.

  Domino produced a length of rope, draped it over Argyle’s front, pulled it round the back, threaded it through the chair spindles, pulled it tight and fastened it with a double knot.

  ‘Where is she, anyway?’ Argyle said. ‘She’d better be all right.’

  ‘Never mind her,’ Domino said, coming round to his front. He pulled two more short pieces of rope out of his pocket and fastened each of Argyle’s ankles round a chair leg.

  Argyle tried to move his legs but couldn’t. He sighed.

  Domino smiled.

  Argyle’s eyes narrowed. Events were moving too fast for him. He had had no time to think things out. He was used to meticulous planning, weighing the risks, considering possibilities and options: this was not one of them. He licked his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. He was in a mess. He tried to alter the position of each leg and then his arms. He could manage very little movement. The muscles of his face tightened. ‘What’s all this about?’ he said.

  Domino stuffed the Walther in his pocket, pulled out another chair, placed it in front of him back to front, about a metre away and sat astride it.

  Argyle was angry, and he was also afraid. He looked up at Domino and said, ‘What are you doing? Who are you and what do you want?’

  There was a knock at the door. It comprised three quick taps, a pause and then a single tap. Domino got up, crossed the room, pulled out the Walther and unlocked the door.

  A woman almost fell in. Her arms were behind her back and her wrists also tied with brown sticky tape. She had a shock of blonde hair, and a figure with more curves in it than Silverstone. She was wearing a black lace dress and matching coat. Her eyes seemed to be half closed, and she had a permanent pout.

  She was pushed in roughly by a small man in a smart double-breasted suit.

  The man was Joseph Memoré. He was foreign-looking, had a face like a frog, and a smile like a snake. Memoré was perspiring a lot and had big, piercing blue eyes.

  Argyle’s face was red. He looked across at her. ‘Are you all right, Marcia?’

  She looked at Memoré as if he was something you wipe off your shoe after a walk in the park, then bawled out, ‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m all right.’

  ‘If that little foreign turd has as much as touched you.…’

  Memoré’s eyes shone like lasers and his face reflected perspiration. He began breathing heavily. He quickly dived into his pocket and took out a small, blue Beretta handgun. He ran across to Argyle, waved the pistol under his nose and said, ‘You annoy me, Argyle,’ in a strained, high-pitched voice. ‘Just keep quiet, othervise I may have to do somesing about it.’

  Argyle looked him in the eye. He said nothing. It was not a good idea to argue with a man with a gun pointing at you.

  ‘Anybody got a cigarette?’ Marcia Moore said in a voice that sounded as if she was about to drop off to sleep.

  Domino glared at Memoré and said, ‘All right, Joseph. Don’t get so excited.’

  ‘I could keel him,’ Memoré said.

  ‘All right. All right. Keep calm. What about her?’ Domino said.

  ‘She says she knows nossing.’

  Marcia glanced round the room again. ‘Anybody got a cigarette?’ she said.

  Domino placed a chair next to Argyle’s, looked at Marcia and said, ‘Sit here.’

  She crossed the room like a cat and obediently made her way to the chair.

  Memoré watched her sit down and cross her legs and smiled. He liked looking at her legs. When he smiled, he looked as if he was about to vomit.

  Domino took up a position astride the chair facing Argyle.

  ‘You robbed Henkel’s today and got away with the Rosary worth twenty million.’

  A slow smile developed on James Argyle’s whiskered face. ‘I should be so fortunate, my good man,’ he said.

  ‘I want it,’ Domino said. ‘Or rather the Chameleon wants it.’

  On hearing the mention of the Chameleon, Argyle’s eyes opened wide.

  Everybody was scared of the Chameleon. Where there was anything worth stealing, the Chameleon was there. He murdered anyone who got in his way. He slipped a slim knife between his victim’s ribs into the heart, and death was instantaneous. It took only two seconds. And it was an amazing fact that nobody knew who he was.

  Both Domino and Memoré saw Argyle’s reaction. They were not surprised.

  Memoré came across to the Scotsman, waving the Beretta in his face again. ‘I vant it too,’ he said. ‘Don’t mess about, Argyle.’

  ‘It has your stamp on it, Jimmy,’ Domino said. ‘Don’t waste time denying it.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ Argyle said. ‘And don’t call me, Jimmy!’ he bellowed.

  Memoré looked at the Scotsman. He didn’t like what he saw. The little man rubbed
his chin.

  ‘Marcia and I were in Meadowhall at the time of the robbery,’ Argyle said. ‘You’re confusing us with another couple. Isn’t that right, Marcia?’ he said, turning to her.

  She shrugged and continued looking down at the carpet. Her eyes appeared to be closed. ‘Guess so. Anybody got a cigarette?’

  Memoré suddenly breathed in noisily, raised himself to his full height of 5’ 2”. He seemed to have made a decision. He was clearly excited. His eyes were shining. He was almost smiling. ‘Let’s do it, Charles. Dis is only so much a vaste of time. Let’s get on with it.’

  Argyle looked at Memoré and frowned. He wondered what it was they were to get on with.

  Domino looked back at Memoré and said, ‘Let’s give him a chance.’

  Memoré’s face tightened. He was not pleased. ‘It’s just so much a vaste of time,’ he said with a shrug.

  Domino looked back at Argyle and said, ‘We want to be reasonable about this, Jimmy. Where is the Rosary? Where is it?’

  Argyle’s eyes opened wide. ‘I haven’t got it,’ he said. ‘I have never had it. I don’t know anything about it. I can’t be more explicit than that.’

  ‘Where did you go after you left Hatton Garden?’

  Argyle looked weary. ‘We didn’t go anywhere. We weren’t in Hatton Garden.’

  ‘You called in at Harry’s to have the number plates changed.’

  Argyle’s head swivelled round. That had touched a nerve. It had been a closely guarded secret part of Argyle’s plot.

  Harry’s was a one-man business situated in a lock-up contrived from space under an arch of the main railway line from St Pancras to Birmingham New Street. It was a specialist drive-in place – not open to the general public – where Harry Polinger would supply and change number plates on the spot and at great speed for a fee. The faster, the dearer.

  Argyle frowned. How could Domino have known that?

  ‘The job was done at 12.30,’ Domino continued. ‘After you called at Harry’s, then at Newton Pagnell for a turkey sandwich and a cup of black coffee.’

  There were more shocks on Argyle’s face.

  Domino smiled. ‘You see you were monitored the whole time, my dear James.’

  Argyle stared at him.

  ‘From the moment you put on your wee tartan socks this morning,’ Domino said, ‘until the moment we picked you up on the M1 this afternoon. So this babbling that you weren’t down the Garden lifting the Rosary from Henkel’s is just so much hot air.’

  Memoré strutted up to Argyle, waving the gun again. ‘This whole sing is a vaste of time. So vere have you put the Rosary?’ he said. ‘We want it and we will get it.’

  Argyle shook his head slightly. He froze when he saw Memoré out of his eye corner. Beads of perspiration appeared on the Scotsman’s forehead.

  Domino’s facial muscles tightened. ‘For the last time, Argyle,’ he said, ‘where is the frigging Rosary?’

  Memoré stood there, a face like Krakatoa, in his small bespoke suit, arms by his sides, Beretta in his pocket, looking as smart and efficient as a hypo of cyanide. He clenched and unclenched his fists twenty times.

  Argyle looked straight ahead.

  Memoré said, ‘Come on, Charles. Let’s do it. Let’s start with heem.’

  Domino looked at the Scotsman. ‘Do you know what floor this is, Mr Argyle?’ he said.

  Argyle gave a little shrug. He didn’t know and he didn’t care.

  ‘I’ll tell you. We are on the fifth floor. The fifth floor.’

  Argyle looked straight ahead.

  ‘If you open the window,’ Domino said, ‘you’ll see it’s a long way down.’

  Memoré’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes. Yes,’ he said excitedly and rushed over to open it. A cold breeze blew into the room.

  The cold air made Marcia Moore look up. She peered at the open window and shivered.

  Argyle looked straight ahead, feigning indifference. He couldn’t see the window. His chair had been placed at the other end of the room and the old chimney breast cut off his direct view of it. The chimney itself had been bricked up, plastered over and covered with distemper many years ago.

  Marcia Moore had been following what was happening on and off, and had looked progressively more uncomfortable. ‘Has anybody got a cigarette?’ she said.

  The three men looked at her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘Shut the window. It’s cold.’

  Domino turned to her. ‘There you are, Marcia. I thought we had lost you entirely. Your boyfriend has conveniently lost his memory. He refuses to tell us where the Rosary is.’

  ‘Well I don’t know where it is,’ she said, ‘I’ve already told you that.’

  ‘Yeah, so he is going out of the vindow,’ Memoré said, smiling. His eyes shone like the headlights on the Chief Constable’s Mercedes. ‘The fresh air might bring back de memory.’

  Argyle and Marcia Moore’s eyes met.

  Argyle said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. You can’t do that.’

  ‘We can,’ Domino said, his patience now entirely exhausted. He jumped up and looked across at Memoré who smiled and nodded.

  ‘We can. We can,’ Memoré said. There was an unmistakable sense of triumph in the foreigner’s voice. He advanced on Argyle.

  Domino threw his chair angrily out of the way. It clattered and rattled and ended upside down in the corner of the room.

  Argyle swallowed, then stared at them in astonishment.

  Domino went down on one knee and began to unfasten a tie round one of his ankles.

  Argyle looked down at him. ‘What’s happening? You’re not seriously intending to—’

  ‘You don’t mean it,’ Marcia said. ‘You’re out of your mind.’

  Memoré’s fists tightened. He glared across at her. ‘Vee are not out of minds,’ he bawled. ‘Just tell us what you have done with the Rosary. That’s all you have to do.’

  Argyle said, ‘She doesn’t know. Leave her alone. If you harm her, you will pay for it.’

  Memoré sniggered. He turned to Domino and said, ‘Let’s throw her out first.’

  Domino looked up. His forehead creased in thought. He looked across at her and made the decision. He retied the rope round Argyle’s ankle then stood up.

  Marcia Moore gasped.

  Memoré smiled, his face as repulsive as the smell and sight of the steamed cod on the hotplate in Strangeways cookhouse. He dashed over to Marcia Moore, took hold of one arm and pulled her to her feet. Domino took hold of the other arm.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ Argyle said. ‘This is murder.’

  ‘You’re the murderer,’ Domino said. ‘You know how to stop it.’

  Argyle stared resolutely ahead.

  Domino and Memoré dragged Marcia Moore across the room to the window. The toes of her shoes dragged across the carpet.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ she said.

  They lifted her out through the window.

  ‘No. No. No!’ she said.

  Her legs dangled over the side of the sill.

  ‘James! James!’ she cried. ‘If you have any pity in you at all, James, tell them where it is.’

  Argyle’s eyes grew bigger than fried eggs in a pan.

  Domino said, ‘This is your last chance, Argyle. Where is the Rosary?’

  Argyle swallowed.

  ‘Let her go, Charles,’ Memoré said. ‘I vant to see her fly.’

  ‘No,’ Marcia screamed weakly. ‘You can’t do this. Please. Please don’t do this. James! James, help me!’

  Domino’s face was scarlet. ‘Where is the Rosary, Argyle?’ he yelled.

  Argyle stared ahead as if in a trance.

  ‘I can’t hold her any longer,’ Memoré said. ‘Let her go.’

  There was the slightest gasp from Marcia Moore and she was gone into the cold, dark night.

  Memoré’s eyes glowed like a cat’s caught in headlights. ‘Just look at that,’ he said with a smile. ‘Vonderful.’

  T
he two men came back from the window. They stared at Argyle. His lips were trembling.

  Memoré rushed to a suitcase under the bed, opened it, found a torch and went back to the window. He looked out and flashed the torch down below briefly. ‘You should look at this, Mr Argyle.’

  The Scotsman was in a daze.

  Domino and Memoré unfastened the ties round his legs and waist and escorted him across the room to the window. All three men stuck out their heads. Memoré flashed the torch briefly. Argyle gasped.

  The two men then dragged a bewildered Argyle back to the chair.

  He couldn’t speak. He looked as if he was in a trance.

  Domino said, ‘It’s cold. Close the window.’

  Memoré lowered it.

  Argyle was shaking his head in disbelief.

  Memoré smiled. It looked as if he’d drunk three fingers of vinegar.

  Domino glared at Argyle and said, ‘You’re next if you don’t tell us where that frigging Rosary is.’

  Bromersley Police Station, South Yorkshire. Thursday, 8 December 2011. 8.28 a.m.

  Detective Inspector Angel arrived in his office full of charm, cheerfulness and general goodwill to all mankind. Christmas was coming, and peace reigned supreme at home as well as at work. The previous day, he had put the final touches to his evidence in the case of the mystery of the Cheshire cat murders and pushed that along to Mr Twelvetrees, the barrister at the CPS, and he now had the opportunity to clear the backlog of circulars, police reports, inconsequential letters and junk emails as well as consequential letters and important emails that were on a pile in the middle of his desk. He sat down determined to reduce it. He was pulling the pile towards him when the phone rang. He glared at it then reached out and picked it up. ‘Angel,’ he said.

  It was the duty sergeant. ‘DS Clifton, sir. Last night’s report, sir. I don’t suppose you’ve had time to read it.’

  ‘No, Bernie, I haven’t. Something special on it? Tell me.’

  ‘Got a triple nine just before midnight, sir,’ he said. ‘A man called Wiseman staying at the old King George Hotel reported seeing a dead body in the area at the back of the hotel. A patrol car team were sent, Sean Donohue and Cyril Elders. They said that they had a good look at the spot where the man said he saw it, but there were no signs of a body. The caller, however, Mr Wiseman, insisted that he wasn’t seeing things and that he had seen it. He wasn’t under the influence and he seemed genuine enough.’