”.. but it’s worthless, really. Just compressed carbon with a bit of a polish.” Paul was getting nowhere fast, and he knew it.
The police detective sitting across the table in the badly and very brightly light interrogation room, who had given the name to the tape record as DI Tasman, but not to Paul, looked as though he’d had a very long day. Paul’s excuses were the very last thing he needed to hear, and his face made no attempt to mask his contempt. “Firstly, Mr Eliott,” in tones laced with venom, and a hint of cheap brandy, “you don’t strike me as man who really believes he can talk his way out of this. You were caught red handed. And don’t give me that nonsense about the economy. We’re all living through it.”
DI Tasman took a big gulp of breath, but judging by the look of disappointment upon his face Paul thought the DI would have preferred a large gulp of something a little more liquid. Nevertheless the police carried on with his second point, “… and secondly, I don’t give a fuck what you have to say. This case is open and close - in fact”, turning to the PC stood behind him, “why am I even here?”
"You were requested," the PC’s voice had a distinctive edge to it, "by the chief … sir."
Tasman noted the edge. He was well aware of how people saw him. A drunk, a washout, and loser - is how most viewed him. There wasn’t much point denying it, it being the truth. He was a cliché and he knew it. A deadbeat copper. Risen as far as anyone would ever allow. Handed the worse cases, the no hopers; this was his life now.
But this case, it wasn’t a no hoper. It was a slamdunk; doesn’t come much easier than this piece-of-piss. What was going on?
Paul sensed the policemans confusion and leap upon it. “What seems to be the trouble, boss?” He said with a smile on his face.
"What the what? None of your fuckin’ business, Mr Eliott. Now I’ve you’d kindly refrain from talking. That would be most fuckin’ helpful." Tasman’s head was starting to pound. The combination of florescent light, heat, and brandy wearing off was starting to take it’s toll.
Tasman was about the storm from the room. He had his hand on the handle when it began to turn, and another detective handed him a folder. The other detective seemed to be in a very big hurry to get away as fast as his poor legs could carry him. What did he know?
"… but detective. Oh, is that an evidence report? Aren’t you going to read it?", as the documents were slapped onto the table between the pair with more force than would ever be needed.
"I don’t need to read them," said Tasman, with fury filled eyes, "I know what they say. That you were caught, as red handed as any man in history, with pockets full of diamonds."
"Are you sure that’s what it says, detective?" Paul said with a sneer. The detective suddenly became extremely unnerved, but tried his utmost to hide it, although admitted he wasn’t sure it had worked. His minded turned over and over, is this why I got this case?
In his best attempt at casualness, Tasman opened the folder, and began to flick. He skimmed most pages looking for the report on the diamonds. The key was the stones. Everything else was rock solid, but if there was a problem with the stones then … god forbid, this man could walk.
Leafing ever quicker, Tasman began to worry, “where is it?” He hadn’t meant to speak. But he hadn’t time to worry about what Paul might hear, or might have to say - he was saying something, muffled by the rustle of pages.
"Found it!" The detective yelled with pride. Again, he hadn’t meant to vocalize his triumph, but what did it matter?
Reading carefully his face most of shown his mounting terror, because Paul had begun to snigger. Tasman couldn’t, no wouldn’t believe it. There was simply no way. He’d been caught in the store stuffing diamonds into his pockets. They’d all seen him. The owner, the staff, the shopper, and the police.
Then how could it be, that what was recovered from his pockets was, “GLASS?”
