Royal Heist

20

Over lunch a couple of days later, Christina told de Jersey that she was planning a dinner party.

“Who do you want to invite?” he asked, as he unfolded his napkin.

“I don’t know. Maybe some of the jockeys and trainers, make it a fun evening.” She ladled out the spinach soup. “What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me. We’ve not had a staff get-together for a long time.” He broke up his bread and dipped it into the soup.

“Shall I organize it, then?”

“Sure.”

He looked up in surprise as her roll hit his head. “What was that for?”

She glared at him. “Do you think I’m blind, stupid, or what? I want you to stop treating me like a child and start telling me the truth. The yard is like a morgue. The entire east wing is empty, and half of the staff are missing. We’re in dire financial trouble, aren’t we?”

“Ten points.”

“Don’t use that sarcastic tone with me.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was using any specific tone.”

“God, I hate you when you’re like this. It’s like I’m sitting opposite a stranger. If things are bad, then we should discuss it like adults.”

“And what could you do about it, my darling? Did your mother leave you a vast legacy?”

She stood up, walked round to him, removed his soup plate, went to the kitchen, and threw it into the sink. She returned with a large bowl of salad and banged it down on the table. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you,” he said. She returned to the kitchen and came back with a roasted chicken. She banged that down too, jabbed it with a carving knife, then returned to her seat.

“Throwing a tantrum, Christina, is not going to help. Pass me your plate and I’ll serve.”

It whizzed past his head and crashed against the wall. “I’m waiting for you to tell me what is going on,” she said. “Or do you want me to go out and ask Donald Fleming?”

She poured herself a glass of wine as he carved the chicken breast. Eventually he said, “It’s those investments I lost out on. The situation is worse than I initially thought. A lot worse.”

“How long have you known?”

“Quite a while. I just didn’t want to bother you with it. With your mother’s illness, I felt you had enough to worry about without me adding to it.”

“How bad is it, then?” she asked.

“Well, I’ve had to sell off a lot of the horses, and I’ll probably have to sell more. Now is the time to do it. I shouldn’t be away too long. Couple of days.”

“Where are you going?” she snapped.

“To look at some auctions, maybe Dublin. I’m not sure.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“If you want.”

“What I want, Edward, is for you to be honest with me. If you’re saying we’re in financial trouble, why buy more horses?”

“I’m more than likely going to try to find buyers for the ones I have to let go. Does that answer your question?”

“Why are you being like this?”

He pushed away his plate and sighed. “Because it’s breaking my heart.”

“So you have to hurt me too?”

“Not intentionally. But I have a lot to think about and-”

“Maybe if you shared it, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

She was shocked when he met her eyes. His were brimming with tears.

“Oh, Edward,” she said softly.

“Christina…” He turned away from her, and she got up to put her arms around him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Darling, whatever happens, no matter how bad, if we see it through together we’ll be okay. That’s what’s important, sharing it.”

He drew her down to sit on his knee. “This is what happens when you marry someone old enough to be your father,” he told her. “I should be taking care of you and the girls, and here I am getting tearful because it’s all crumbling about my ears.”

Christina hugged him tightly. “So, from the beginning. I know it started with David Lyons’s suicide. I want you to tell me everything.”

He sighed. “David got me into this mess. He stiffed me rigid. He delved into every account and proved to me how dumb I was to place such trust in him. He had carte blanche.” He rocked her. “Let’s continue this in more comfort. I need a brandy.”

De Jersey walked with his wife into the drawing room. The fire was blazing, and she drew the curtains as he poured himself the brandy. He was working out in his mind how much to tell her. He lit a cigar and sat in the center of the sofa. He patted the cushion, and she curled up next to him, more like one of his daughters than his wife. She seemed so young and he felt so very old.

“I forgot to tell you. You must promise me that you’ll be free on the second of May.”

“What?”

“We have a school open day. They’re doing The Taming of the Shrew, and Natasha’s got the lead part. We have to be there at about six.”

He took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“So, now that you have your brandy and your cigar and I’m sitting comfortably beside you, start with David Lyons’s suicide.”

He blew a smoke ring, then closed his eyes. “I can’t believe you threw a roll at my head.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Followed by a dinner plate.” He laughed but stopped when he saw her expression. “I love you so much,” he said quietly.

“Don’t cut me out, Edward. Please. How bad is it?”

“Well, for me to lose one horse hurts like hell, so to lose an entire wing was a catastrophe. But I made enough from the sales to cover a substantial part of my losses. The estate is worth millions-the land alone is worth a fortune and I can sell some if I need an infusion of cash.” He talked on, embroidering the lies for his wife, wishing they were true.

That following afternoon, de Jersey went into the yard with Fleming to look at the horses, particularly Royal Flush, who was being saddled for a training session. De Jersey stroked his neck. “How you doing, my son, eh?”

“He’s a special one, isn’t he?” Mickey Rowland, the jockey, had joined them. He was fixing the strap beneath his riding helmet. “He’s been a bugger the last few days. If he gets downwind of the stud he’s a right handful. Couple of mares are in season, and you know what the young colts are like, randy sods.”

De Jersey nodded. It was rare to have a racing stable and a stud in the same vicinity-a colt could smell a mare in season from a good distance away. This was why racing stallions did not go to stud until they had won enough races to make it worth the stud fees. Once they had mounted a mare, they became willful.

Mickey took the reins and could not resist kissing the horse’s velvety nose. “I love him, he’s a real character,” he said.

De Jersey helped him into the saddle. “Yes, he’s special, Mickey, and he’s going to win the Derby.”

“That’s every racehorse owner’s dream,” Mickey said as he slipped his feet into the stirrups. “It’s my dream too, Boss. I’d give a lot to ride him in the Derby.”

“It’s your ride, Mickey, but you’ve got to bring him in first at Lingfield, yeah?”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”

De Jersey watched as his beloved Royal Flush walked out of the yard, Mickey talking to him as he tossed his head, eager to get to the gallops.

“Tony. Tony!”

Driscoll sat up in bed, his heart beating fast.

“What?” he yelled back.

Liz walked in with an invoice in her hand. “You’ve not paid the florist and they’re saying that if we don’t settle up they’ll take legal action.”

He flopped back onto the pillows. “Shit, is that all? I thought there was a bleeding fire.”

“I’d like to throw you in one,” she snapped. “The caterers are screaming too-and don’t you hide under the duvet, cos I’ve not finished. I had Michelle on the phone this morning. She tells me an estate agent’s been walking in and out of the villa showing buyers around. They’re on their honeymoon, for God’s sake!”

Driscoll closed his eyes. She sat on the edge of the bed and prodded him. “You’d better come clean with me, Tony. What the hell is going on?”

Driscoll burped, and she threw his antacid tablets at him. “I’m waiting. Have you not told me the full story about these bad investments?”

“I lost everything I invested.”

“And how much was that?”

“A lot. We’re in trouble now, but I’m gonna sort things out. In the meantime, though-”

“In the meantime you’ve got to pay these bills. It was your daughter’s wedding, and you know how people round here talk.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“Well, I do!” She paused. “Do you need the money from the villa to pay for the wedding?”

“Yeah. Soon as it’s sold I’ll sort out the florist.”

“But it might not sell for ages-and what about all my stuff there?”

“I’m selling it furnished.”

“But I worked my butt off doing that place up! I could have a real go at you, Tony. I really could.”

“Oh, go and work it off with your muscleman. I can’t take any more of your yelling.”

“I’m not yelling. But I think we’re gonna have to sit down and talk this out. I need to know just how badly off we are. We don’t have to sell this place, do we?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet! I’ve got a garden party arranged for this summer. We can’t sell. Please don’t tell me we’re in that deep.”

He sat up and rubbed his head. “Can you just leave me alone? I’ve got a headache.”

“You’ve had one for months,” she said and stormed off.

Kevin was warming up when Liz came in. She was about to join him when she burst into tears.

“I’ve just about had my fill of him.” She sniffled. “He’s selling the villa without even asking me.” Kevin handed her a tissue. “He’s got into some terrible financial difficulty. It’s just unbelievable that he’s not said a word to me.”

Kevin hovered. “Perhaps he didn’t want to worry you.”

“Worry me? He can’t pay for his daughter’s wedding. I’m worried all right.”

Kevin took another tissue and handed it to her as she blew her nose. “I’m sorry. Do you want to leave the workout this morning?”

“No, no I don’t. I want to work this out of my system. I want you to really push me this morning, Kevin. Take my mind off that husband of mine.”

“I can think of a number of ways I can do that,” he said, taking her in his arms. They went into a passionate embrace as he tried to peel off her red leotard.

“No, Kevin, we can’t. He’s in the house.”

“So? He’s been in and around before. It never bothered you then.”

“Well, it does now. I’m just not in the mood. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, but you know sometimes? You should think about the way you treat me, like I’m just a hired stud.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? You pay for me to train that body. How long’s it gonna be before you start asking me how much I charge for a fuck?”

“Ah stop it. You know I care about you.”

“So you say.”

“I do. But I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“You said that about the wedding, so you didn’t see me. Now it’s something else, but I’m not taking it, Liz. This has been going on for almost a year now.”

“Kevin, don’t do this to me, please.”

“It’s my doing it to you that you said kept you sane. Your old man can’t get it up, so is that all I am? Sex therapy? You said you two don’t do it anymore. Well, what’s going on, Liz? I care about you, you know that.”

“Kevin, it’s not the way it looks. I really care about you, I do. But he’s my husband, impotent or not. He has been a real pain for the past six months. You know that. He’s never home. I dunno what he’s doing. He’s hardly said two words to me.”

Kevin flexed his muscles and stared at his reflection in the gym mirror. She came to his side and touched his arm, resting her head against his back, staring at their reflections. Kevin’s body was honed to perfection. His hair was just starting to recede at the front, but he was handsome and he noticed her. If she had a new haircut, he noticed. When she had her nails done, he noticed. He’d even recommended the doctor who’d pumped her lips up and noticed when she’d had it done. Tony had asked if she’d got a cold sore because her lips looked puffy! Lately Tony seemed to be in a perpetual bad temper, burping and complaining about his stomach and snoring beside her every night, usually without so much as a good night kiss.

As she thought about her husband, Kevin gently eased her around to face him and began kissing her neck and stroking her breasts. He lifted her off her feet and laid her down on the bench press, stripping off her leotard and sucking at her nipples. If Tony tried to lift her in his arms, he’d put his back out! They became more passionate.

“Not here, Kevin. Take me into the sauna.” She sighed and hugged him close.

The pair was having such a good time that neither heard Driscoll calling her name, or the sound of him at the sauna door. He opened it only a fraction, but he saw enough: his wife naked with her legs over Kevin’s shoulders and her face flushed in pleasure. He shut the door, saying nothing. He left the house fifteen minutes later. His initial anger was gone; in its place there was a cold, seething calmness. He was going to be risking his neck in a few weeks’ time, and in many ways he had been risking it for her; he had not wanted to let her down. Now he didn’t care if he ever saw her again. Win or lose, he would do this last one for himself alone.

Driscoll drove to Chelsea and parked in the underground car park at Chelsea Harbor. He went into the apartments and up to number 204. The apartment was now on the market, but he’d not yet had time to tell Nikki, his patient longtime girlfriend.

Nikki opened the door and immediately wrapped her arms around his portly little body. “I’ve missed you. I’ve not heard from you in weeks.”

“I know, darling, but I’ve had big troubles.”

She brewed coffee the way he liked it with hot milk and then heated up some ginger biscuits. He also liked them hot. Driscoll, for all his fury against his wife and the trainer, never considered that his having a mistress was in any way a fault. In the good old days, when he had been flush with money, Liz had shopped till she dropped and he had screwed until he dropped.

“Nikki, I’ve got financial problems. I’m gonna have to sell this place. I’m sorry. There’s no way round it. But if you go and live with your mum for a while, maybe… I can’t say why or how, but I think I might be free and you and me can go off abroad to live together.”

“Live with my mum?” Her pale face clouded and she started to cry.

Nikki was twenty-nine years old. He’d met her in the perfumery department at Harrods several years ago. For a while his wife received more gifts of perfume and cosmetics than most women would need in a lifetime. Three months later Nikki agreed to move into the apartment. They had been lovers ever since, on and off. He knew she probably dated other guys, but if so he never saw any sign of them and she never mentioned any other person being in her life. She simply focused on him when he arranged to see her. He paid money into a bank account for her every month, but now he had to tell her that he couldn’t do that any longer either.

Driscoll managed to make love to Nikki. It was not a majestic performance by any standard, but as always, she made him feel as if he was the greatest stud in the world. They had some lunch and a bottle of champagne, and with a few more tears, she showed him out, promising that she would leave the apartment by the end of the month. She also promised she would show any potential buyers round when they called.

As the door closed behind him, she swore under her breath and went to the phone. She dialed her brother first, telling him to get a van round ASAP. She wasn’t going to leave a single stick of furniture behind. Then she called her boyfriend and asked whether she could move in with him. Driscoll had been a “nice little earner” for Nikki, nothing more. She was just angry that she hadn’t persuaded him to put the apartment in her name! She had a good mind to call his wife and give her an earful, but she didn’t bother. Besides, she didn’t want to tip the idiot off that she was doing a moonlight flit.

Driscoll met up with Wilcox at Kingston boat yard for some “shopping” for the heist. Wilcox was checking over a secondhand two-seater speedboat for sale. It had seen better days and smelt of mildew as he hauled the tarpaulin off the trailer.

“It’s been knocked around a bit. It’s had a shoddy repaint job. How much are they asking?” Wilcox asked, looking at the For Sale card stuck on the windscreen. “I suppose we won’t do better for this price,” he said, but Driscoll was miles away, still deep in thought about Nikki.

“I mean, I couldn’t say anything,” Driscoll said. “But you know, if we pull this off, I’m gonna make sure Nikki does all right, take her abroad with me.”

“What, leave the wife?” Wilcox asked, still more interested in the boat.

“Yeah, she nags all day. Caught her with her legs akimbo in the sauna today with her one-on-one trainer!” Driscoll said.

“How long have you had her?” Wilcox asked.

“Who, the wife?”

“No, the little girlfriend,” Wilcox said as he bent down to check out all the rust. “This hasn’t been under cover for a few years, never mind in the water,” he said.

“She’s been a fixture for four or five years,” Driscoll said. “She’s a lovely redhead. Tall, lovely long legs. You know, she’s always there for me, makes me feel good, and she’s great in the sack. Used to work in Harrods.”

“You’ve been keeping her then?”

“Yeah, nice pad she arranged. Very tasteful. I used to love going to see her when I could. Needed her, know what I mean?”

“Yep, this is a real old boat. We do the business then torch it.”

“Okay, what about you? You got any little dollies stashed away? You always used to.”

“Nope. I had but they’ve been elbowed. Rika and I are on a good thing right now, and I don’t want her to get her knickers in a twist just when I need to be chilled out.”

“Right, yeah right. I don’t want any aggro either. I’m just sorry I’ve got to sell the apartment. And me and Nikki’ll get back together. She’s gonna move in with her mother.”

Wilcox nodded, not really interested. He fished in his pocket for some readies to deal with the boat owner. The bulbous-nosed elderly mechanic, wearing oil-streaked dungarees, had been hovering in the background, tinkering with another boat. Wilcox gestured for him to come over, and together they eased the boat off the trailer and down the few yards of slip road into the water. Wilcox started up the outboard, and he was surprised when it turned over quickly and appeared sound. He climbed out again as the old boy kept hold of the rope.

“Five hundred,” Wilcox said, counting the fifty-pound notes.

“Nah, no way. Thousand quid, pal,” the old boy insisted, winding the rope round a post, then wiping his filthy hands on an equally filthy rag.

“Six is my final offer,” repeated Wilcox, still counting.

“Na, I’ll go nine fifty and I’m doing myself an injury.”

“Six hundred, take it or leave it,” Wilcox said again. By this time he had the money stacked in a neat, tight wad.

“I can’t do that. I’m giving you a good price. This is a fast boat. I worked on it myself. Nice seats too.”

“You don’t drive the seats though, do you? And with the amount of rust it’s got, I’ll be lucky if it stays afloat.”

“Look, I’ll come down to seven fifty, but that’s it, that’s my final price.”

“Okay, thanks. Sorry not to be able to do business with you.”

Wilcox opened his wallet, about to replace the money when the dirty hand made a grab for it.

“Six hundred, you bastards. Go on, take it!”

Wilcox climbed into the boat followed by Driscoll, who almost overbalanced and fell into the water. He then started the outboard and they set off up the river toward Richmond.

“We got moorings for this?” Driscoll yelled above the noise of the engine, his hair standing on end.

“Yeah, the Colonel’s arranged it. Plus we’ve got another speedboat to check over. It’s already at the boathouse.”

It was blisteringly cold as they sped past Bucklands Wharf, then on toward Chiswick. Just past Teddington Lock the outboard coughed and spluttered, then cut out. Wilcox managed to get it going again, and they turned round, back up the river toward Putney.

“What a piece of fucking junk,” Wilcox said, as they made it past the Putney rowing club and puttered on toward a boathouse a quarter of a mile away.

“We only need it for a few hours and, besides, it won’t be us using it,” Driscoll said, rubbing his hands.

“Right, but if it screws up they’re fucked.”

They passed beneath a willow tree. Wilcox maneuvered the boat into the boathouse, then switched off the engine. The boathouse was at the end of a garden. The house was up for lease, and the owners had let the boathouse and their speedboat for six months to a Mr. Philip Simmons. They had advertised it in the property pages on the agent’s Internet site. The other boat was moored inside, covered with a tarpaulin. Driscoll stepped out onto some broken steps, then climbed up to the garden path. “I’ll see you later,” he said. “I’m going to get us some food-I’m starving.”

In the boathouse there were gaps between the floorboards and holes in the roof. The water was murky and clogged with weeds and debris. Wilcox eased the doors shut and put on an overall to start work.

When Driscoll returned he was carrying two takeaway hamburgers, two cartons of soup, and coffee.

“You took your bloody time. This other one’s rusted to hell and back too,” Wilcox muttered, as he scraped then peered under the speedboat’s steering column.

“I got you a cheeseburger,” Driscoll said, handing him one, then sitting on an old orange box.

“This engine’s been hammered into the ground, but I’m tuning it and it’s sounding better.” Wilcox opened his cheeseburger box, then looked at Driscoll slumped on the crate.

“You okay? Tony?”

Driscoll shook his head.

“What’s happened? You get bad news?”

“No more than five hours; no, six. I only told her six fucking hours ago. It’s unbelievable. She’s even taken the fucking toilet-roll holder. The kitchen’s like a war zone, all these fucking wires hanging out. I was selling it fucking furnished!”

“What are you talking about?” Wilcox asked as he stuffed the food into his mouth.

“Nikki. I went back by the apartment. I just wanted to make sure she was okay. She must have got a bloody furniture removal van there before I got the bleeding front door shut. She’s cleaned the place out, the bitch!”

Wilcox couldn’t help grinning, and Driscoll became irate. “What’s so funny?”

“Well, you going on about this lovely redhead and now she’s a bitch. Maybe she’s gone with it all to her mother’s.”

“What? With a whole furniture van full of gear?”

Wilcox made his face straight and went over and patted Driscoll’s shoulder. “Good riddance and better you find out now. If she had been around when you got the cut from this little job, she’d have screwed you over even worse, right? Best it happened now.”

Driscoll sighed. He felt foolish and totally humiliated. It had been bad enough finding his wife with her trainer, now Nikki had betrayed him too.

“I tell you something, next woman I get is gonna be one hundred percent special.”

“Hello?” Pamela’s throaty, theatrical voice floated in to them, and she appeared at the door. In an oatmeal-colored coat, low-heeled fawn shoes, and a white silk shirt, she was looking much smarter than usual.

“What are you doing here?” Driscoll asked.

“Bringing you the mooring permits from our lord and master.” She tossed over a large manila envelope.

“You look different,” Wilcox said as he sipped his soup.

“I’ve been buying my wardrobe for the opening performance. I’m the perfect lady-in-waiting.”

“Apart from the fag hanging out of your mouth,” Wilcox joked, and she laughed, turning to leave.

“See you later, I suspect. Have a lovely day out on the river, boys!”

Driscoll checked his watch. “We should be going to the barn soon. How long you gonna be?”

“As long as it takes to fix the engine and see what gears it’ll need. You go on ahead. I’ll see you there.”

When Driscoll entered the barn, he was still chilled from the river and blew into his hands. “Will somebody get those bloody heaters on?”

“You’re in a pleasant mood,” Pamela said, opening a bottle of water to fill the kettle.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a bad day.”

“Let’s have a cup of tea and maybe you’ll feel better.” She opened the box of tea bags and looked around. “Have you heard from his lordship? He was supposed to be here before me.” She lit a cigarette.

On cue the door opened and Westbrook entered. He smiled wanly, began to unbutton his coat, then keeled over onto the ground.

Driscoll stood above him. “Christ, is he pissed?”

“No, he’s sick. Help him up. He gets these headaches that make him faint.”

They assisted Westbrook to a chair. He sat down, shaking, and gripped his head. “I’m so sorry. Feel rather poorly today. Be okay in a while.”

Driscoll turned away. It was fucking ridiculous. What a choice for the heist!

Pamela fussed over Westbrook, fetching him water, searching his pockets for his pills, and standing over him as he sipped. Then she helped him to the back of the barn, where he lay down on some sacking. “Will you marry me?” His voice was racked with pain.

Pamela stroked his head, which was glistening with perspiration. “I would have done like a shot, dear, once, but I’m too old for all that now. The best thing for me now would be retirement in the Bahamas. You could always be my houseguest.”

“I’d like that,” he said, hardly audible. Pamela watched over him until he drifted off to sleep. He didn’t stir when Wilcox came in and banged the door. He was disheveled and freezing cold, and went straight to the heater to rub his hands.

Driscoll passed him his rubber gloves and nodded to Westbrook. “He fainted, flat on his face.”

“Is he gonna be all right?”

“He’s sleeping,” Pamela said, as she put the kettle on the burner.

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Wilcox said. “He’s a fucking liability.”

“Don’t you swear at me, Jimmy, because I won’t take it,” Pamela said. “Tony is popping antacid tablets like mad, and you’re not exactly a choirboy, so the pot’s calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”

Wilcox became irate. “I’m clean. What about you? Top yourself up with gin before you came, did you?”

“Stop it,” Driscoll snapped at Wilcox. “Just shut the fuck up! Any problems we’ve got, we put before the Colonel and let him sort them out. Bickering’s a waste of time and energy.”

De Jersey stood outside the door, listening, choosing his moment. Eventually, he stepped forward and they saw him. “Problems?”

Wilcox pointed to where Lord Westbrook was sleeping. “Did a pratfall when he came in. Couldn’t stand upright.”

De Jersey went to the back of the barn, sat on his heels, and looked at the sleeping man. Westbrook’s eyes opened. “I will not let you down,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll take the tablets before I go, not wait as I did today. It’s just that I have to test how long I can go between these wretched attacks.”

“What do they feel like?” de Jersey asked.

“Excruciating migraine, dizzy, sick. But my pills sort me out, really they do.”

De Jersey patted his shoulder. “Okay, old chap, I believe you. Just rest here a while, and when you feel up to it, come and join us.”

“Thank you.”

De Jersey began to confer with Wilcox and Driscoll about the look-alike. “We take her straight to the Aldersgate warehouse. Try to keep her calm, maybe even let her think that that’s where we’ll be filming. Not until we have her secure inside do we give her the details. We need her standing by earlier to be sure, I’m thinking now maybe six o’clock, seven at the latest, so we can prime her. Meanwhile we need to get to her husband fast. There’ll be no need for any rough stuff.”

Pamela broke in. “If the Queen becomes troublesome, what should I do?”

“She won’t if we’re threatening her husband.”

Driscoll snorted. “If it was me and you had my wife, I’d tell you to keep her!”

Later that evening, when everyone except Wilcox, Driscoll, and de Jersey had left, de Jersey asked them for their opinion. He believed he had come up with a solution to the panic alarms. He opened the diagrams he’d printed off from the CD. “The power source for the alarms is located here, in what would have been the old coal chute.” He pointed to a spot on the diagram. “The on-street chute access has been cemented over, so the only way into it is from inside the house.” De Jersey marked it as he spoke.

“How the hell do we get in there?” Driscoll asked.

De Jersey opened his cigar case and offered it to Driscoll and Wilcox, who shook their heads.

“Have another look at the information on the CD,” he said. “The warehouse where we’ll be is just a hundred yards from the safe house, but its cellar extends beyond the actual warehouse space. It’s almost next to theirs. All these properties were supplied with coal using the same chute. If we enlarge the small chute door in our warehouse’s cellar, we’ll have access to the room at the bottom of the chute. At the other side there should be a similar door leading into the safe house’s cellar. We open up our side and gain access to their cellar through this coal chute. We can’t do it any other way. Marsh tells me they test the alarms every day at nine. After that we disconnect the lines. We will have only a short time because we’re moving out the convoy at ten twenty-five, but at least we’ll know that anyone pressing a panic button is not going to worry us. What do you think?”

“It might be the only way,” said Wilcox.

Heartened, de Jersey outlined how long it would take and what equipment they would need, and both men agreed the idea was workable. They would use a high-powered laser gun to cut soundlessly through the cement, but as they would have to go brick by brick, their nights from now on would be busy. All he had left to work out was how to disconnect the alarms without them going off once they were inside. For this he would need Marsh again.

They turned to the getaway plan-they hadn’t yet worked out the fine details of their own escape. They had to get rid of the Royal vehicles, then get themselves and the jewels away from the scene as quickly as possible.

By late evening, they believed they had a plan, but they wouldn’t know until the day of the robbery whether it would work.

Christina was in the kitchen sorting through some of her mother’s old letters and photographs when the phone rang.

“Could I speak to Edward de Jersey, please?” said an unfamiliar voice.

“He’s not here. Can I take a message?”

“Where is he?”

“Who is speaking?”

“Sylvia Hewitt. Who’s that?”

“Christina de Jersey. Do you want to leave a message?”

“When do you expect him back? I need to see him.”

“In a few days. Does he have your number?”

“Thank you, and yes. Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. de Jersey.”

Christina hung up. She didn’t know why, but the call unnerved her. She’d never met Sylvia, but she knew she was Helen Lyons’s sister. She had been so abrupt, almost rude. She jotted down the message on a yellow Post-it and stuck it on the phone.

Liz Driscoll had just returned from a manicure when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?”

“Could I speak to Mr. Driscoll, please?”

“He’s not at home. Who’s calling?”

“Sylvia Hewitt. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“He’s out on business.”

“When do you expect him?”

“Sometime this evening. Do you want to leave a message?”

“Just say I called. I think he has my number. Sorry to disturb you.”

Liz hung up. This was the second time she’d taken a call from the woman, and if Tony was up to his old tricks again she’d really have it out with him.

Marsh was pleased with the new equipment. He had spent thousands in computer stores across London. The skimmer was well worth the five thousand he’d paid for it. He’d given his wife carte blanche to go shopping at Harrods with the fake credit cards he’d had a pal create using several numbers he’d got from the skimmer, and she had departed, leaving him to take care of their child.

De Jersey had traveled by public transport to Marsh’s house. It was almost five thirty when they met. They discussed the phone conversations between Scotland Yard and the safe house. Marsh was still confident they would have no problem in gaining the IRA code word for the second of May. He played the tapes he had recorded of numerous IRA informants calling in to give the day’s code word. It was usually an odd name, sometimes a place or object. The tapes reassured de Jersey that Marsh was as good as his word, and they played them again so that de Jersey could practice an Irish accent. Marsh also confirmed that there had been no changes in the Queen’s official diary and the fitting date remained fixed. The Royal party was to depart from Buckingham Palace at ten that morning.

De Jersey looked around the room. “You’re certainly spending the money I’m paying you. Perhaps you should slow down a bit. You don’t want to make anyone suspicious about all this equipment you’ve got. You couldn’t buy it on your wages.”

“I’m watching my arse, don’t you worry.” Marsh swiveled round in his chair and looked at de Jersey. “Come on, what is it? There was no real need for you to come and see me today. What else do you want?”

De Jersey put his hand into his pocket and took out a thick envelope. “I need your help with something. Take a look at this. It’s D’Ancona’s visual display, the alarms, the panic buttons.”

Marsh grinned. “You’re something else, man, you really are.” He took the CD and put it into his computer. “Fuck me! How did you get hold of this?” he exclaimed.

“Inadvertently via you. You set the cat among the pigeons when you tried to hack in, so they had to check all their files, and I have my contacts.”

“This must have cost.”

De Jersey smiled. “Not really.” He tapped the screen. “My problem is this. I know how to get into this area here”-he pointed to the coal chute-“and I know that’s where we can get access to the panic alarms. But I don’t know how to deactivate them.”

Marsh’s mouth turned down as he peered at the screen. He scrolled down, then back up again. “Well, it’s simple enough to unplug lines from boxes-it’s just a matter of pulling them out.”

“I can tell there’s a but coming,” de Jersey said.

“There is, and it’s a big one. The second you pull any one of those plugs, all the others will activate and notify the call center. You’ll have every copper in London down there in a jiffy.”

“What do you suggest?”

Raymond tugged nervously at his cuffs. “I haven’t a clue. You’ll need to find a way to pull out all the plugs at the same moment. A fraction of a second out and it’s bye-bye Crown Jewels!”

There was a moment’s silence as the two men contemplated their predicament. Marsh clicked, and the interior of the safe house came up again on his screen. The silence was broken by his daughter, who started howling. He left the room, and de Jersey could hear him cooing and talking to her.

Then Marsh charged back in carrying the child. “I’ve got it! I think I know how we can do it-but she’s filled her nappy so I gotta change her.”

Rika had just put the twins to bed and was thumbing through the TV Times when the phone rang. She hoped it would be Jimmy. He’d been gone all day.

“Is Mr. Wilcox there?”

“No, he not back yet.”

“My name is Sylvia Hewitt. Could you ask him to call me? He has my number. Tell him it’s quite urgent, would you?”

“Who?”

“Sylvia Hewitt. Are you expecting him this evening?”

“Yes, I tell him you call. Sylvia who?”

“Hewitt. Please give him the message.”

Rika got a pen and notepad. She started to write down the message then crumpled the paper and threw it into the bin. She was sure this Sylvia Hewitt was after her man. She had spoken so rudely, as if Rika was the maid.

De Jersey left Marsh’s house grinning from ear to ear. A taxi passed him, slowing down. The inside was lit, and de Jersey saw that the blond-haired Mrs. Marsh was paying the driver. She had a vast array of boxes and bags, all with the Harrods logo. He watched until she had entered the house, and then, as the cab made a U-turn, he stepped out and flagged it down.

He asked to be driven to Wimbledon Station, and the driver beamed. “That’s lucky. I’ve just come from Knightsbridge. Didn’t reckon I’d get another fare back.” He switched on the clock.

“That was some shopping your last fare had,” de Jersey said.

“Don’t know where they get the dosh. Took two Harrods doormen to load me up. Said her husband had made a killing on the horses. Wish he’d give me a few tips.”

De Jersey sat back against the seat as his driver gave a monologue about his lack of luck on the tracks. “You a racing man?” he asked eventually.

“No, I’m not,” de Jersey replied.

“Best way to be. It’s a fool’s game,” the driver said, then turned to glance at de Jersey. He was sitting in the shadow, his face virtually in darkness. “Not a gambling man, then, eh?”

“No.”

“Don’t take risks, eh?”

“No, I don’t like risks.” He closed his eyes.