
A case of diamonds, deception, and death for DCI Jones.
London mobster and diamond enthusiast DB Parrish is on the hunt for a skilled safecracker. The right man for the job is proving hard to find.
Genius locksmith Sean Freeman has fallen on hard times. Bankrupt and desperate, heâs looking for a lucrative opportunity. When Freeman crosses Parrishâs path, he gets an offer he canât refuse. But with great reward comes even greater risks.
While Freeman is cracking safes, determined DCI David Jones and his trusted colleague DS Phil Cryer are hard at work cracking cases in the Serious Crimes Unit. When they hear of a series of unsolved jewel thefts, they know thereâs a chance the culprits could strike next in their jurisdiction.
Freeman and Jones are both at the very top of their game. But somebodyâs perfect record is about to suffer...
A DCI Jones novel from bestseller Kerry J Donovan.
(This book was previously published as 'A DCI Jones Casebook - Sean Freeman')
Chapter 1
Tuesday 3rd March
Digby Bertrand âDBâ Parrish rapped the butt of his Montblanc on the table to silence the boardroom and turned to the final page on the agenda: Any Other Business.
ââArry. You found anyone yet?â
Human Resources Director, Harry Bryceâslim bordering on scrawny, with a huge overbite and Toby jug earsâwilted under the scrutiny. He opened his mouth but didnât answer.
âWell?â Parrish kept his voice low. He learned long ago that a quiet voice in a big room could travel a long way if you carried a big stick. In Hutch, his ever-present pit-bull, he had a stick big enough to silence a roar.
Six directors of Parrish Enterprises Ltdâall competent, all menâstared at Bryce, their expressions ranging from studious concentration to relief. Each had been on the receiving end of Parrishâs interrogations and he liked to keep them sharp.
âHutch. Am I speaking Russian?â
The blue-eyed giant with the muddy-blond hair rose from his seat in the corner of the soundproofed, electronically secure room and positioned himself at Parrishâs right hand. He towered over the table.
âNo, Mr Parrish, you spoke English,â Hutch said, matching Parrishâs volume. âI could understand you perfectly.â
âSo why ainât he answering my questions, dâyou think?â
âNo idea, sir. Perhaps heâs deaf.â Hutch curled his fingers into fists, cracking his knuckles.
The hairs on the back of Parrishâs neck tingled at the narrow-eyed dread the noise induced in Bryce and the others. âYeah, maybe thatâs it. Heâs gone fucking deaf.â Parrish jabbed the Montblanc towards Bryce. ââArry?â
âYes, Mr Parrish?â Bryceâs voice cracked. He kept his eyes fixed on the pen.
âYou deaf?â
âNo, sir.â
Parrish looked up at Hutch, the only person heâd allow stand that close to him outside of a bedroom or a barberâs shop. âSee, Hutch. He ainât mutton.â
Hutch nodded. âI have to agree with you, Mr Parrish. There doesnât appear to be much wrong with Mr Bryceâs auditory sense.â
âYeah, right, but if thatâs the case, why ainât he answering?â
âSorry, Mr Parrish,â Bryce mumbled. âI was trying to put my thoughts in order.â
âYou ought to come to the boardroom prepared.â
âYes, sir. Sorry.â
âGet on with it.â
Bryce stiffened his backbone. âWeâve tried hiring from within the organisation, but thereâs no one as fits the bill, see. Theyâre either useless, past their sell-by date, or banged up. I trawled the other firms but none of the applicants was good enough. Not even close.â
âFuck,â Parrish said. âVacancyâs been open nearly a month. I want someone in place before I have to pass on another job. If Iâd known it would take this long I mightâve given that piece of shit a reprieve.â Parrish nodded toward a vacant chair, the back of which rested against the tableâs edge.
The directors looked anywhere but at the empty space.
Bryce found his voice again. âItâs not easy finding an applicant with that particular skill set, Mr Parrish. Cracksmen are a dying breed.â He flicked a glance at the empty chair, blanched, and soldiered on. âThese days itâs all hacking, electronic locks, and money transfersâŠâ
Parrish threw the Montblanc. Bryce ducked too late and squeaked as the fountain pen hit him below his left eye and bounced onto the tabletop.
âDonât fucking tell me what ainât easy, shit-for-brains!â Parrish yelled. âHuman Resources is your responsibility. Or are you tellinâ me you ainât up to it no more?â
Parrishâs gaze returned to the empty chair and wondered whether Bryce had pissed himself yet.
âN-no, Mr Parrish. Itâs not that, see. I contacted the Locksmiths Guild last week but it took them an age to get back to me.â
âWhy?â
âI-I donât know. It took them a while to find the information.â
âGive Hutch the name of the tosser what dragged his heels. Hutch has ways of teaching people not to keep me waiting. Donât ya, Hutch.â
The blond giant dipped his chin in agreement.
âYes, Mr Parrish,â Bryce said. âAll the relevant names will be in the personnel report.â
âSo, what they say?â Parrish asked.
âTurns out they do have a bloke on their books who meets the criteria.â Bryce picked up the Montblanc and stretched to place it on the table in front of Parrish. His mouth turned up at the edges in a weak smile. âItâs just that I didnât want to say nothing until weâd found him.â
âWhat you mean, âfound himâ? Where is he? Gone on his âolidays?â
Bryce shook his head. His shoulders twitched into a shrug. âThatâs just it, Mr Parrish. Nobody knows. The Guild lost track of him a year or so back. He got into financial bother and they dumped him from their system.â
âFinancial bother?â Parrish frowned. âIs he inside too?â
âNo, sir. Nothing criminal. Bankruptcy. His business failed and he closed up shop and moved away.â
âWhere from?â
âRedditch.â
âWhere?â
Hutch leaned close and spoke. âItâs a toilet south of Birmingham, just off the M42.â
âHow comes Iâm only learning this now?â Parrish picked up the Montblanc and twiddled it between thumb and forefinger.
âMy contact at the Guild only called late last night, Mr Parrish. One of my girls is working up a file on the bloke. I told her to call me when she prints it off.â
Parrish dropped the pen. âGive the bitch a bell. Tell her to pull her finger out her fanny and get me that file.â
Bryce pulled out his mobile.
âWhatâs this geezerâs name?â Parrish asked.
âFreeman, sir. Sean Freeman.â Bryce bowed his head and dialled.
âRight,â said Parrish. âI want him foundâyesterday. Call in some favours from our favourite plods. This Freeman sortâs gotta be somewhere. Am I right?â
Seven directors nodded. Seven voices chimed out in unison, âYes, Mr Parrish.â
Parrish waited a second before exploding. âWell? Why you all still sitting on your arses? Go find me Sean Freeman!â
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COLLAPSE
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