The Blood Diamond by John Creasey Page A

the High Street, a high-powered limousine waited with a chauffeur at the wheel. The men in the little car stopped near it, scrambled out, left the little car at the side of the road and climbed into the limousine. It drove off towards Putney Hill, unmolested.
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    Tanker Tring’s conscience and tenacity were having a night out. They had been responsible for his vigil in Green Street, and the police raid.
    He was hammering on Mannering’s door, and Bristow was ringing the bell, when the woman screamed downstairs. The other policemen with them turned. Bristow said: ‘Go down, Tanker,’ and Tring led the way, two followed. They stumbled over the unconscious policeman on the landing. The woman was still screaming, and they heard a man’s voice, pitched on a low tone.
    Suddenly, two shots rang out.
    â€˜The devil!’ roared Tring.
    He leapt down the stairs, but stumbled at the foot; that was typical Tring luck. He pitched forward. The men behind had to jump out of his way. One lost his balance; the other went to the policeman who was lying on the floor, clutching at his stomach.
    The car moved off as a police whistle blew outside. The men in the hall lost precious time; the injured man was groaning, obviously badly hurt. The woman had stopped screaming, and was leaning against the door, her face chalk white.
    Upstairs, Bristow spoke sharply to the remaining men.
    â€˜You’d better get this door down. Make a job of it.’
    â€˜Right, sir.’
    â€˜Be careful as you go in,’ added Bristow, and turned and went downstairs.
    He found Tring and one policeman bending over the injured man, the woman still leaning against the door, and another policeman standing helplessly outside. Bristow didn’t speak, but went into the downstairs flat, and picked up the telephone. He called for an ambulance and a doctor, then put a call out for the stolen police car; unless it were left stranded within ten minutes or so, it would be stopped. He had never wanted to catch a man as much as he wanted to catch that gunman.
    Tring, trying to help the wounded constable, straightened up when Bristow reached his side.
    â€˜Not much chance, sir, I’m afraid. It’s Harris.’
    â€˜Where’d they get him?’
    â€˜Stomach,’ said Tring, heavily. ‘I’ve done all I can.’
    Bristow saw the padded handkerchiefs over the wound; rough first aid. There was nothing more he could do. He went upstairs. According to Tring, Mannering had left the flat some time ago, but Lorna Mannering should still be inside. Thieves who had shot their way out might have killed her.
    The door leaned on a broken hinge. His men were already inside the flat.
    Lorna Mannering was sitting in an easy chair.
    Her hair was a tumbled mass, pins and combs falling out, some loose strands on her shoulders, torn out by the roots. Her lips were red and sore, her face chalk white. A policeman was holding a glass of water to her lips.
    She caught sight of Bristow, and tried to smile; it was pathetic. Then she sipped the water.
    â€˜What damn fool game is John up to now?’ Bristow’s voice was harsh.
    â€˜It’s not—his fault.’
    â€˜Don’t you believe it. What’s he doing?’
    â€˜I—I don’t know.’
    She wouldn’t betray Mannering; if she were dying, she would say nothing to harm him.
    Bristow swung round and went through the other rooms. He saw the open settle, and searched inside. He inspected the safe and discovered how it worked; Mannering had done a good job, opening would have taken hours if his wife hadn’t helped.
    So she had resisted thieves, and they had turned rough.
    Downstairs, a policeman was dying.
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    Bristow set his men to work in the room, with cameras and fingerprint equipment, then went back to Lorna. She was alone, with the glass by her side. There was some colour in her cheeks, but her eyes were hazy and bloodshot; she looked ill.
    Bristow