The Blood Diamond by John Creasey Page B

pulled up a chair to sit down. Tanker Tring entered the flat, heavy-footed, glowering.
    â€˜He’s passed away, sir,’ said Tring, in a harsh voice.
    â€˜Sure?’
    â€˜There ain’t no doubt. If I ever get that swine, I’ll—’ Tring broke off.
    â€˜We’ll get him,’ said Bristow. ‘Keep an eye on the others, Tanker. We’re in a hurry.’
    There was one good way of getting Tring out of a room where he wasn’t wanted; flatter him. Tring went promptly into the study. Bristow pulled up the chair and sat down. Lorna looked taut, defensive, defiant; he waited for her to speak. Her first words didn’t surprise him.
    Who is dead?’
    â€˜One of our men.’
    â€˜Those shots?’
    â€˜Yes. You see how well your husband looked after you.’
    She made no comment, he could question her all night and she wouldn’t betray Mannering. Asking her to would be as pointless as banging his head against a brick wall.
    What were the men like?’
    Her description was brief and vivid; the squat man’s eyes and foreign accent, the tall man’s small, high-bridge nose and curiously wrinkled forehead. Bristow made notes, then telephoned the Yard. Downstairs, a police surgeon had arrived from ‘C’ Division, and a police ambulance stood outside. Several newspapermen were at the door when Bristow went down.
    The body was already in the ambulance, and the police-surgeon was waiting to see Bristow.
    â€˜Anything much to tell me?’ Bristow asked.
    â€˜Nothing that won’t keep. I want to get those bullets out pretty soon.’
    â€˜Send them to Ballistics Department and ask them for a rush job, will you?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Anything we could have done to save him?’
    â€˜Nothing. Don’t blame yourself.’
    â€˜I know who to blame,’ Bristow growled.
    â€˜Who, Bill?’ A lanky reporter, just within earshot, murmured the question.
    â€˜You be careful,’ Bristow said.
    â€˜Give.’ Other reporters drew near, hopefully.
    â€˜Mrs. Mannering was attacked but not seriously hurt. Motive, robbery. They’ve taken some jewels. We’d had warning and they shot their way out. For anything else, see the Back Room Inspector at the Yard. There can’t be anything else tonight, and, no, you can’t see Mrs. Mannering.’
    â€˜Was Mannering here?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Any idea where we can find him?’
    â€˜You might have a look in hell,’ Bristow said. ‘You know your way around there, don’t you?’
    â€˜Okay, Bill,’ the lanky man said. ‘You’re sore. Who wouldn’t be, after tonight? We’ll do what we can.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    They went off, noisily.
    Bristow looked up and down the street, saw no sign of Mannering, and went back to the flat. Two policemen were on duty outside. Lorna came out of the bedroom; make-up couldn’t hide all traces of the attack, but she’d done a good job. Her eyes were feverishly bright, she moved as if with difficulty; that was from nervous reaction.
    â€˜Have a drink?’ she invited.
    â€˜Thanks. When will John be back?’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    â€˜Where’s your maid?’
    â€˜She’ll be back late – she’s gone to a dance.’ Lorna was at the cocktail cabinet in the drawing-room.
    â€˜I’ll help myself,’ Bristow said. ‘Sit down.’ She was obviously glad to. ‘I don’t know who’s the bigger fool – you or John. Why did you resist tonight?’
    â€˜It was worth trying. At least it gave you time to get here.’ She watched him squirt soda into his whisky. ‘Why did you come?’
    Bristow sipped.
    â€˜A dose of the truth will probably help you, Mrs. Mannering. Sooner or later someone has to knock sense into John’s head. You’re as good with a hammer as anyone. We came because Inspector Tring had a