The informant had certainly whetted the Squad’s appetite but they were too long in the tooth not to test these extraordinary claims. These were the days that dear old Norman Potting and our hero Roy Grace were brought up in; detectives were expected to be able to reach out to the underworld to pick up the whispers of who was up to what and when and where. Some had the Midas touch and found that crooks just couldn’t help spilling their guts to them. Others, like me, struggled somewhat but our talents lay elsewhere.
It soon became plain that the underworld chatter was indeed rich with stories of ‘the Plum’, as well as others of manor houses and safety deposit boxes crammed with stolen gems. Electrified by this, Nigel rushed to obtain a warrant to search a Brighton bank’s vault.
The chosen magistrate, who was used to authorizing the searches of homes, offices and warehouses, was stumped as to whether he had the authority to grant search powers in such a secluded hideout. Luckily, a check of the law confirmed he could, and he readily signed the warrant. So, armed with this, and filled with almost childlike excitement, Nigel and his colleague, the burly DC Alan Reed, dashed to the bank whose cellars were unwittingly concealing their prize.
These places, like Southern Deposit Security, the intended venue for Abby’s stash of stamps in Dead Man’s Footsteps, consist of discreet and secretive strongrooms and owe their very being to the anonymity they provide. Uncovering a stash of ill-gotten gems in one of these places would not be straightforward but the Squad knew that justice and their very existence depended on it.
Those entrusted with safeguarding such places are not keen on flinging the door open to any passing detectives to allow them free access to their depositor’s property. Call it protocol, call it polite obstruction, they will do what they can to put barriers in the way rather than be seen to be too accommodating to Plod.
Eventually, the posturing out of the way, entry was reluctantly granted and the search could start. This wasn’t a door-busting raid as in the hunt for Ewan Preece in Dead Man’s Grip. This was a search of one box in one vault where access to the necessary key was, while not easy, at least possible.
Nigel’s heart raced in anticipation as the tumbler bolts fell. The nervous tension was almost unbearable as the tiny safe door gave way, surrendering its secrets.
The contents glittered like an over-lit Christmas tree.
The box was rammed with a stunning array of rubies, diamonds, emeralds and a plethora of equally exquisite jewels that glistened in the half-light — a breathtaking haul of ill-gotten gains, each item representing a victim’s loss and anguish.
But among it all was the prize they were seeking. Proudly dwarfing the array of precious stones, nestled amongst them, sat a bright blue beacon that needed no introduction. The Plum.
Salvation was theirs. Surely now justice would be served and the Squad would regain their reputation as premier league crime fighters.
All the gems were carefully photographed, catalogued and seized, much to the chagrin of their powerless protectors.
Painstaking efforts were made to identify each and every item in the hope that they would reveal further victims whose heartache the jewels’ return might go some way to salve. Sadly, the vast majority of stolen property is not identifiable, either due to it not being distinctive or the owners never having thought it necessary to record the details of its existence.
Thieves rely on this. And there was no greater thief than the lessee of the box. He was a big name, a top-level target. His scalp would prove to the world that the Squad had lost none of its edge.
True to form, though, once arrested his interview strategy was simple; say nothing and let the cops prove it. If guilty, only fools protest their innocence and try to explain. Top villains sit back, listen and keep it zipped.
Our misnomer of a criminal justice system encourages this, with it being incumbent on the prosecution to prove beyond reasonable doubt any case they bring, while the defence merely have to introduce a grain of uncertainty from any quarter. This creates a courtroom combat rather than a search for the truth. In the troublesome trial of Suresh Hussain in Dead Simple, Grace is on the wrong end of the same kind of joust that I became very familiar with, where all sorts of allegations are thrown in the hope that they damage a perfectly just case.
It is important for charges to be properly proved within the rules. But when ethically brought prosecutions fail because a witness has a dodgy past, stolen property remains unidentified or suspects refuse to account for their actions, this cannot be defined as justice being done, especially for victims. They too often become forgotten bit players in the duels between the bewigged combatants. As the twentieth-century poet Robert Frost noted, ‘A jury consists of twelve persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer.’
I have, on many occasions, had to sit down with people who have lost their life savings, their privacy and sometimes their innocence and gently explain to them that a not-guilty verdict is not the same as them being disbelieved. To these tearful, dismayed victims it is little comfort that the justice they sought has been denied purely because one barrister argued his or her case better than the other. It’s a tough message to give and one that I could never deliver with any conviction that the system was fair.
Devastated at being unable to locate anyone with a claim to the other gems, Nigel and Alan’s last remaining hope was pinned on the Plum. Surely their just rewards were now a mere short flight away.
Years of their man having slipped through the net, of victims being robbed of their treasures by his arrogance and his apparent immunity from prosecution were about to come to an end. They could almost taste sweet justice as they stepped off the commuter aircraft, the Plum securely but anonymously nestled in the carry-on bag that never left their sight.
If only they had known how misplaced their optimism was. This should have been straightforward yet no-one could have anticipated the massive shock that awaited them.
After the customary hospitality from their locally based colleagues, Nigel and Alan swiftly made the short journey to the wonderful mansion. Having finally reached the top of the ludicrously long drive, they rapped on the huge door.
Knowing they had to go through the formality of introducing themselves to the butler did not make the wait any easier. They were desperate to secure that final confirmation which would turn the jailer’s key once and for all on their nemesis.
As they were ushered into the cavernous hallway they could not believe their eyes. They nudged each other, barely able to contain their delight.
This was surely a gift from God.
In pride of place beside the sweeping staircase was a huge portrait, probably from the nineteenth century, depicting an alluring young woman dressed in the finery of the day, adorned by the most magnificent necklace, the centrepiece of which was the Plum sapphire. Its distinctive size, colour and cut had been beautifully reproduced by the artist. Surely, Nigel and Alan couldn’t be this lucky. But there it was, if ever they needed it, proof that they had won the lottery. The Plum was clearly one of a kind and its owner would very shortly be moved to tears upon its return.
The strangely edgy and uncomfortable aristocratic owner emerged into the hall from one of the many doorways, unnerving them.
‘Good day, gentlemen. I trust you have had a pleasant journey. I do hope you haven’t had a wasted trip.’
This seemed an odd greeting, but sometimes people behave oddly in front of detectives.
Perhaps he had not been told the wonderful reason for their mission. They soldiered on and proudly explained the whole story. The intelligence, the hours of investigations, the recovery of the Plum, the arrest of the suspect, and now — building to the climax — the spectacular sapphire reunited with its rightful owner. Victory was theirs.