Royal Heist

22

Sylvia uncorked a fresh bottle of wine and set it out with two glasses and a bowl of peanuts and crisps. She’d already had a few glasses to celebrate what she felt would be a sweet victory. She had vacuumed, dusted, and plumped up the cushions. She felt excited and powerful, and a little light-headed from the wine as she looked over the “stage” she had set. She went to her desk and called Matheson. He listened as she told him she had received his final invoice and would be sending him a check. She also told him she had tracked down Philip Simmons in London.

“He’s in the U.K., then?” Matheson asked.

“Yes, and I’m expecting him to come and see me now.”

“Well, congratulations. Job well done. Does he know where Moreno is?”

“I presume so. All will be divulged soon enough. I’m sure I’ll get my investment repaid, perhaps even more for all the trouble it’s caused me.” Sylvia was pleased with herself. “I might send you a little extra, Mr. Matheson.”

The doorbell rang, and she stood up. “I have to go. He’s arrived. Thank you so much again.”

She was still pleased with herself as she ushered de Jersey into the drawing room, gesturing for him to sit as she took his coat. She had decided not to accuse him of Moreno’s murder immediately. That was to be her trump card if everything else failed.

“Please help yourself to wine,” she said, carrying his coat into the hall.

“I would prefer coffee,” he said pleasantly.

“Oh, well, give me a moment, then.”

De Jersey picked up the bottle of wine and poured some, then took out the morphine and emptied it into the glass. He had just started to pour some wine for himself when she returned with his coffee.

“It’s instant. I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“No. That’s fine. The wine looked so inviting that I’ve poured some anyway.”

She passed him the coffee, picked up her glass, and lifted it to her lips. “Cheers,” she said and drank. Lowering the glass, she frowned and licked her lips.

“This is very strange,” she said.

De Jersey picked up his glass and sipped. “Do you think so?”

She took another sip. “Yes, is it all right?”

He sipped again. “It’s fine.”

She reached for the bottle to look at the label. “I don’t know, it’s not cheap,” she said and took another gulp.

He raised his glass. “Perhaps it should have been left to breathe awhile longer.”

Sylvia reached for the peanuts, took a few, and munched them like a squirrel. “You must be eager to hear what I have to say. I’m surprised you could contain yourself.”

He smiled. “Of course I’m eager to know, and I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me. It’s obvious that you’ve been very… active, shall we say? So, please.” He sat back and gestured for her to talk.

She laughed. “Oh, you’re a cool customer, Mr. de Jersey, but I don’t think you’ve given me the credit I deserve. I knew how important my discovery was when I found out you’d been to East Hampton. You have control of Alex Moreno’s properties, so you must be working with him, perhaps even helped him leave the country. His apartment and that estate he owned are worth millions, and I daresay you have no desire to share the proceeds with any of the other investors. But you’re going to share them with me.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked softly.

“Because I know who you are, and if you want that to remain our secret, I’ll need a considerable amount more than the money I lost.” She explained how she had discovered his identity through Moreno’s lover, Clint. “Not that he knew your names. Either of them,” she said and giggled. “I also showed your photograph to the site foreman at Moreno’s property. He was not as forthcoming as Moreno’s young friend, but gay men are so much more observant, don’t you think?”

“How much do you want?” he asked.

“Well, I’d say it would be worth fifty-fifty, don’t you? What you have been doing is highly illegal, and I would love to know exactly how you pulled it off.”

“Well, it took a lot of work. Just getting a fake passport was hair-raising. You know, I’ve never done anything illegal in my life before this, but I was afraid of losing everything I had, and when you’re desperate…” He got up and paced the room, continuing to talk about the stress he’d been under. Suddenly she felt hot, and her forehead became damp. She continued to eat the peanuts and drank the remainder of her wine.

Eventually she took a deep breath and interrupted him. “It’s been hard for all of us. The reason I think you should agree to pay me, however, is the disappearance of Mr. Moreno. According to his gay friend, he was alive the evening before he had a meeting with…” She trailed off.

“Are you all right, Miss Hewitt?” he said.

“No, I am feeling very…” Her body heaved and she felt as if she was about to vomit, but instead she flopped forward. She gave a strange laugh as she tried to focus her eyes. “Too much wine,” she said.

He stood up, collected his wineglass and coffee cup, and left the room. She tried to stand, but her legs gave way and she fell back into the chair. Now the room blurred and she felt dreadfully sick.

In the kitchen de Jersey washed his coffee cup and glass, dried them with a tea towel, removing all fingerprints, and replaced them on the shelf. He filled a glass with water, then took a small hypodermic needle from his wallet. He injected the water with ketamine, a horse tranquilizer, then replaced the hypodermic in his wallet. He opened the fridge, put some ice in the glass, and carried it back to the living room.

“Here, drink this.”

Sylvia seemed less drugged and held out her hand for the water. He made sure she had a firm hold of it before he returned to sit on the sofa. She drank thirstily, gasped, and looked at him in terror. “What have you put in this?”

He took the glass from her and checked how much she had drunk. “Just a little sedative, Miss Hewitt. My vet uses it all the time.” He walked out of the room, taking her wineglass and the water glass with him, washed them, and put them away as the lethal cocktail of drugs flooded through her.

Putting on a pair of surgical gloves, de Jersey spent a considerable time gathering up Sylvia’s correspondence with Matheson and any other documents relating to the investment case. Then he went back to the sink in the kitchen and set light to it all. He cleared up the charred remains and placed them in the waste-disposal unit, turned it on, and ground away every fragment. Then he cleaned around the sink, wiping away any possible remaining fingerprints.

When he carried Sylvia to the sofa, she was unconscious. He lifted her head onto a frilled cushion, then went into her bedroom, took a quilt from her bed, and tucked it around her.

Christina was in bed when de Jersey called her from his room at the club. He knew straightaway that something was wrong.

“We have a lot to talk about,” she said rather coldly.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”

“Fine. I’ll be home in a few days. I have to go to Ireland,” he said affably.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I can’t put it off. You know why.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“I’ll be moving around, but I’ll be in Dublin first, then go to a few auctions. I’ve recently sold off a filly to a friend, so I need to settle her in.” He gave no hint of the tension he felt.

“Well, don’t forget we have the girls’ school play on the second.”

“I haven’t forgotten, darling. I’ll be home in plenty of time. Are you all right? You sound… What’s happened? It’s not Royal Flush, is it?”

“No, he’s fine,” she said. “We can discuss it when you get back.”

“You know I love you,” he said.

“And I love you.” She hung up.

His hand rested a moment on the receiver. She had sounded odd. If something was troubling Christina, he would find out what it was, but it would have to wait. He cleaned his teeth, showered, and got ready for bed. He felt uneasy, however, so he called Donald Fleming. “Sorry to ring so late, but I’m up against it at the moment. I’ve just spoken to Christina. Nothing wrong up at the house, is there?”

“Not that I know of, but she was around the yard this afternoon. I think she’s just worried like all of us.”

“Yes, well, let’s hope I come up with some extra financing. But keep your eye on her for me, would you? I don’t want her unduly worried. We’ll get through this, Donald.”

“I will. I see you’ve earmarked a runner for Brighton on the second. You gonna make it?”

“Perhaps. Depends on a few meetings.”

“But you’ll be at Lingfield for Royal Flush’s race, won’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Oh, any news on the other matter?”

“She’s going for a blood test in a few days,” Fleming said. “We’ll know if she’s in foal then, but I think your boy may have done the business.”

“Fine. I’ll keep in touch.” He hung up and sighed. He was tired to the bone, but before he settled for the night, he took out the bottle of morphine and the hypodermic needle with the ketamine. Sylvia Hewitt’s glass of water had contained enough horse tranquilizer to knock out a carthorse permanently, so he reckoned one heavy slug of it along with the morphine was enough to ensure she would no longer be a problem. He refused to allow himself to contemplate what he had done and instead concentrated on getting rid of the evidence. He wrapped the bottle and the syringe in a hotel napkin and smashed them against the wall, Then he took one of the glasses in his room, dropped it on the floor, and added the broken pieces to the crushed bottle and syringe. He slipped out of his room, walked along the corridor and up another flight of stairs until he came to an unattended porter’s trolley. He emptied the glass into the bin and tossed the towel and napkin in a laundry basket before he returned to his room. It was after eleven when he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Over the next two nights they began to move the vehicles to the warehouse. They had disguised the Royal mascot on the Daimler so no one would be suspicious, but when it was driven to the warehouse in Aldersgate at four in the morning, there was hardly a soul around. The movement of the clothes and motorbikes was simpler but also done under cover of night. There was no looking back now, and de Jersey called Dulay. The Hortensia Princess was on its way to the South Coast of England with Dulay at the helm. All the months of preparation, the working out of timings and details had begun to gel.

On May 1, Royal Flush won his first race of the season at Lingfield by seven lengths. Mickey Rowland was sad that de Jersey had not been there to witness his victory; Fleming was surprised. They both received calls from de Jersey and gave him a second-by-second account of the race, how Royal Flush had not even been breathing hard afterward. He had traveled home calmly and eaten his feed, and both jockey and trainer were confident.

“You should have been there, Mr. de Jersey,” said Fleming. “He did you proud. He did us all proud. You’ve got a champion there. You should have seen the Sheikh’s trainer sniffing around him. We’ll headline in the Racing News, I guarantee it.”

There was an awkward pause, then Fleming went on. “With regard to the filly, Bandit Queen, she’s in foal.”

“Jesus God,” de Jersey said, closing his eyes.

“You want me to ship her out to Ireland to this Shaughnessy character?”

“Yes, I’ll call with the details. Well done, and thank you again.”

Christina watched as the lads celebrated Royal Flush’s win. Fleming had cracked open the champagne. He was drinking directly from a bottle. “Did you see him?” he asked Christina.

“Of course. It was on Channel Four. Did you speak to my husband? He told me that he had to go to Dublin.”

“He was over the moon. If our boy wins the next one, he’s got one hell of a chance at the Derby. Can I offer you a glass? The boss ordered a crate for the lads.”

“No, thank you,” she said, turning as one of the lads asked Fleming about arranging the horse box for Bandit Queen.

“Be over there later with the paperwork,” Fleming called back.

“Are you selling her?” Christina asked, perplexed. Edward had bought the horse for her.

“Yep, she’s being shipped out to Ireland.”

“Oh, I see. Is that why he’s going over there?”

“I guess so. She’s been bought by a Michael Shaughnessy, old friend of Mr. de Jersey’s.”

“Well, congratulations to everyone,” she said and went back toward the house. Then she changed her mind and went to her car. She drove over to where the brood mares were stabled and parked. She sat watching as the filly was led out of her stall while the lads drove up in the horse box. Christina got out and crossed to them as they were draping Bandit Queen in a blanket.

“Another gone,” she said, half to herself, then moved closer to stroke the mare’s head.

A young lad stood to one side holding the halter. “Sad to see her go,” he said. “We had high hopes for her.”

“Do you know this man Michael Shaughnessy who’s apparently bought her?”

“No, Mrs. de Jersey, but she must have cost him a packet. Like I said, we had high hopes for her, and she won her maiden race almost as well as our Royal Flush.”

“Thank you,” Christina said and went back to her car. She drove to the house, and as she went into the kitchen, the phone rang.

“Christina? It’s Helen Lyons.”

Christina sighed. “Hello, Helen,” she said. “How are you?”

“Oh, a little better now. I’m staying with a friend in Devon, and she’s taking good care of me. Is this an inconvenient time to call?”

“Erm, no.”

“It’s about my insurance from the house. Sylvia was taking care of it. They still haven’t settled, you know, since the fire.”

“Good heavens! That is a long time.”

“Well, that’s what I thought, but with things the way they are between Sylvia and me, I don’t feel I can call her.”

“I understand, Helen, but it seems you’re going to have to. Or perhaps you should write to her.”

“I have, but she hasn’t replied. I was wondering…” Her voice tapered off.

Christina said nothing.

“Well, as I said, I really don’t want to speak to her, and I was wondering if you would be kind enough to call her for me as you knew David so well.”

Christina sighed again. She could see no way out of it. “I’ll call her for you, Helen.”

“Oh, thank you. Please would you ask her to send me the details of the insurance policy. I’d be most grateful.”

Christina took down Sylvia’s number and Helen’s in Devon and said she would call her back as soon as she had contacted Sylvia. She hung up feeling irritated. She had no interest in Helen or her sister, especially when she considered what David Lyons had done to her husband. She lit a cigarette before she rang Sylvia. There was no reply. She made another call to Dublin, to the Westcliffe Hotel, where her husband usually stayed. She was told that Mr. de Jersey had not booked in, and they were not expecting him. This time she slammed the receiver down. Another lie! She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another immediately.

The phone rang, and she snatched it up. “Yes?”

“Christina, it’s Helen. Did you call her?”

“Yes, there was no reply.”

“Did you try her office? I did give you her work number as well, didn’t I?”

“No.”

Helen gave Christina Sylvia’s work number, thanked her profusely, and apologized again.

“Helen, I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve spoken to Sylvia. So there’s no need for you to ring me again. Good-bye now.”

Christina hung up. She felt like weeping. She sat smoking one cigarette after another, then forced herself to leave the kitchen. She’d change the beds and see to the laundry. After that she’d return to the study. She would go through every document she could find. When her husband returned home she would be ready for him, and this time she wanted answers, not lies.

Once everything had been transported to the warehouse, they cleared the barn. De Jersey and Driscoll spent hours cleaning up. They didn’t leave a scrap of evidence. The stove, the heaters, and the big lamps were all removed. They lit a bonfire to burn the waste, the paper cups, the rubber gloves. With only twenty-four hours to go, it was the calm before the storm.

De Jersey tapped the window of the Mercedes. In a chauffeur’s uniform behind the wheel, Driscoll lowered the window. “It’s time,” de Jersey said. “Let’s get the ball rolling.”

The Mercedes was owned by Wilcox but had fake number plates and would be driven to the crusher the minute they were done with it. Wilcox gave the thumbs-up, and Driscoll drove out of the warehouse. It was four fifteen in the morning on May 2. They left de Jersey alone to wait for the rest of the team to arrive. As they drove away, he looked at his watch. In a few hours the waiting would all be over.

“It’s five o’clock,” Eric Stanley said, a fraction before the alarm sounded. His wife, Maureen, lay next to him, her hair in pin curls. She sat bolt upright.

“Breakfast?” Eric asked, standing next to the bed with a tray that held a lightly boiled egg, two slices of buttered toast, and a cup of tea.

“You spoil me,” Maureen said.

By six, Eric had his wife’s little suitcase packed. She always took a few changes of clothes to advertisement shoots, because if they supplied them the skirts were always too long. For this one she had been asked to bring her own anyway. She had chosen a blue tweed coat with a velvet collar. She also had a hat in a box and a pleated skirt and blouse to go beneath the coat. Although they usually supplied a makeup artist, she made up her face carefully as she knew the exact shade of base and lipstick required. She must never look overly made-up. That would be a dead giveaway.

Eric helped her into a raincoat. Though it was still dark, he could see it was cloudy, and he handed her a small folding umbrella. “You all set, darling?” he asked.

“I am. Is the car here?”

“I’ll go and check.” Eric opened the front door, walked down the path, and stood at the gate. A Mercedes was heading down the road.

Eric returned to the house and called, “They’re here, dear, just coming to the drive.” He turned as the Mercedes drew up behind his own car.

The driver stepped out, his hat pulled low, almost hiding his face. “Morning, I’ve come to collect-” At that moment she came out of the house, carrying the suitcase, hatbox, and handbag.

“I’m ready,” said Maureen pleasantly and turned her cheek to her husband for a good-bye kiss. Another man stepped out and opened the rear door of the Mercedes, taking her case as he helped her inside. The driver asked Eric if he could use their bathroom. Eric gestured for him to follow him inside. In the car, the second man placed a rug around Maureen’s knees, then closed the door and got into the front passenger seat.

“What on earth are they doing?” she asked after five minutes had passed and the driver had still not returned.

“He’s had a bit of trouble with his prostate,” the man replied.

At last the driver came out, red in the face, and closed the front door. As they drove out, Maureen looked back toward the house. “That’s odd,” she said. “My husband always waves me off to work. It’s a little ritual we have. I’m a very lucky woman.” She settled back. Sometimes his undivided attention got on her nerves a little. But, as Eric said so many times, his queen was worth taking care of.

Maureen Stanley had made her career as Queen Elizabeth’s look-alike. She was almost the same age and, like the Queen, was cutting down on the amount of work she took on. Millennium year had been fantastic, and she had often had two engagements on the same night. She enjoyed the television work more, though, than the special appearances.

“Where are we filming?” she asked Driscoll.

“Close to the BBC radio studios.”

After about ten minutes, Driscoll saw that she had fallen asleep, her head lolling forward. He looked at her and smiled at Wilcox. “Dead ringer, isn’t she?” he said softly.

“Yeah. Did all go to plan back at the house?”

“Yep. He’s comfortable, can’t hurt himself. Tucked him up on the sofa.” He glanced again at Eric’s wife, who was unaware that her beloved husband had been drugged and tied up. Eric had been bending over the hall table looking at some leaflet that had been pushed through his letter box for window cleaning when Driscoll placed his left arm across the small man’s chest and injected his right buttock through his trousers. Eric had tried to fend him off, but the sedative had acted quickly and his body had sagged.

“What… what have you done?” he’d gasped.

“Put you to sleep for a few hours, pal, nothing to worry about. You’ll have a bit of a headache when you wake up, that’s all.”

At six thirty, the Mercedes arrived at the Aldersgate warehouse. As the doors closed behind it, Maureen woke up. “Are we here?” she asked, looking around the large warehouse in surprise. “This isn’t the BBC, is it?”

Driscoll turned and smiled. “No, ma’am, it isn’t. Would you like to get out of the car? There’s coffee and doughnuts.”

“Thank you, I’ve had my breakfast.” She glanced around the vast warehouse.

“I’ll take you to your dressing room, then.” Driscoll opened the door for her. By the time she was settled, Wilcox was driving the Mercedes across London to be destroyed. Driscoll then set off again to pick up a rented furniture-removal van. It would play a major role in the getaway, and the team had prepared stickers to cover the name of the rental company and the number plate.

The dressing room was a small room off the main warehouse space, previously used for storing clothes and accessories. It contained a dressing table with a mirror, a comfortable chair, and a heater. Maureen was ushered inside and told to wait for someone to come and see to her hair and makeup. She nodded and put down her suitcase. She opened it to take out her clothes. A few items were already hanging on a rail. They were all expensive, with Aquascutum and Harrods labels, but she could see at a glance that they were too long. Why don’t they get their facts right? she thought. The Queen is tiny.

Outside the dressing room, there was a lot of movement. The Daimlers were ready and being given a final polish. Pamela was next to arrive, and de Jersey gestured for her to join him at the back of the warehouse. He told her their Queen was in the dressing room still unaware of her role, and he wanted her kept in the dark for as long as possible.

Pamela seemed relaxed but was chain-smoking. She poured herself a coffee. “I’ll go and get changed, keep her company.” She surveyed the warehouse. “Westbrook here yet?”

De Jersey checked his watch. “He’s due at eight. You all set?”

“Yes, of course. It’s rather like opening night at the theater.” She chortled.

De Jersey smiled. Pamela had been a great choice. “You’re a special lady,” he said softly.

“I know, darling. Pity I can’t find a decent fella who thinks so too.” She raised an eyebrow and sipped her coffee. “Maybe with all the loot I’ll get from this I’ll find me a nice boy-toy.” Then she went to the dressing room, knocked, and entered.

Even though she had been prepared to see her coartist, Pamela was taken aback by Maureen’s eerie likeness to the Queen.

“Morning, darling,” she said. “I’m your lady-in-waiting. We’ve got to shack up in here for a while before they take us to the location.” She plonked down her coffee and drew up the only hard-backed chair.

“Do you have the script?” Maureen asked, still fussing with her clothes.

“No, sweetheart, I don’t. The director will let us know what we have to do.”

Maureen nodded. She always liked to have the script well before they filmed so she knew what would be required.

“Did you want a coffee?” Pamela asked, taking out another cigarette.

“No, thank you.”

As Pamela held the lighter to the end of the cigarette, she saw that her hands were shaking. For all her bravado, she was nervous. She knew she had to ignore the butterflies starting in the pit of her stomach. She had come too far to back out now.

“Do you play cards?” Maureen asked hopefully.

“I do, darling! Have you got a pack with you?”

Maureen produced one from her handbag. “Never without! These shoots are so boring. They always get you here far too early, don’t you think?”

Wilcox and Driscoll returned in plenty of time. Wilcox couldn’t help but admire the Daimlers, which were polished like mirrors. The bikes stood beside them. He turned sharply as the gate opened and the two bikers entered. Hall and Short gave him a cool nod, but Wilcox kept his distance from them. To all intents and purposes, they were hired villains and to Wilcox the most dangerous to security, but de Jersey and Driscoll had assured him they were reliable. They went to change into their police uniforms, leaving Wilcox to continue checking the Daimlers. He looked up as Driscoll appeared with coffee.

“You can’t get them any cleaner,” Driscoll said. He noticed the two bikers. “Nice to see they’re on time.” He moved closer to Wilcox. “The one on the right did twelve years for that Asprey and Garrard jewel heist. The one on the left was inside for fifteen. Same kind of gig but got out over the wall about a year ago.”

Wilcox changed the subject. “The Colonel told me he was straight with that Hewitt woman.” He tossed the duster aside.

“What do you think he meant by that?”

Wilcox gave a shrug. “Well, he paid her off, I guess.”

“This has sure cost him a bundle.”

Wilcox nodded. Then he smiled. “But what a payout we’re in line for!”

They grinned and slapped hands, each man as tense as the other but refusing to admit it.

Westbrook arrived in a navy blue pin-striped suit, a blue shirt with a starched white collar and cuffs, his old Eton school tie with a pearl pin, and a rose in his lapel. He had washed his hair and combed it back from his high forehead. Even his teeth appeared whiter. His pallor, however, was sickly, and his luminous eyes were far too bright. He had taken his first hit of speed.

“Morning, Colonel,” he chirped in the familiar upper-crust drawl. He executed a small pivot turn on the heels of his new Gucci loafers. “How do I look?”

“Good.” De Jersey glanced down at his socks: no holes. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thank you. Is H.M. installed yet?” He fiddled with his kid gloves.

“She’s in the dressing room with Pamela. She’s not been told her script yet, so take care what you say to her and remind Pamela not to remove her gloves. That goes for you too. The place has been cleaned.”

“Fine. Any coffee on?”

“Help yourself.” De Jersey looked at his watch. It was coming up to eight o’clock. They would leave the warehouse at ten twenty-five exactly. He watched Westbrook stroll across to the coffeepot, and his heart went out to him. He was so well dressed it was hard to believe that he was the same messed-up creature de Jersey had been worried about. He just hoped to God that his lordship could keep up the pretense.

Westbrook tapped on the door and entered the dressing room, and de Jersey heard Pamela shriek at how gorgeous he looked. So far, so good. Everything and everyone was on time. De Jersey changed into a cheap polyester suit, black shoes and socks, a white shirt and black tie. He used a nasty silver tiepin and tucked a handkerchief into his breast pocket. He stared at himself. He looked every inch the private security guard, down to his large frame. He sat down, opened his briefcase, and removed an expensive wig of fine reddish hair. It was the one he had worn in the Hamptons, along with matching mustache and eyebrows. He spent some time carefully gluing the mustache into place and even longer adjusting the eyebrows and wig. Satisfied, he peeled off the surgical gloves, replacing them with soft black leather ones.

He spent another half hour spraying every surface that might reveal fingerprints or DNA. He had already sprayed and cleaned the coffee mugs and food area. The trash had been collected in a black bin liner, which he would incinerate. He wanted to be sure that there wasn’t a single print or clue left to identify him or anyone else in the team. He put down his briefcase and clicked it open. It contained his cell phone-the vital link to Raymond Marsh. Now all Marsh had to do was get the right code word. If he didn’t come up with the goods, they were screwed.

At ten to nine, he went into the dressing room. He gave Pamela and Westbrook a nod to leave him alone with Maureen. He apologized for breaking up the party and explained it was time to leave for the location.

“Well, I can’t say it’s not before time.” Maureen started to gather her things. “What do you want me to wear? You’re the director, aren’t you? I’ve been here since just after six and I haven’t even been shown a script yet!”

De Jersey stared at her. “I think the coat you’re wearing would be perfect, if that’s okay with you. Do you think you should wear a hat or a head scarf?”

“Well, that depends on the script. I mean, is it interior or exterior? She doesn’t wear a hat all the time, but I’ve brought a selection.”

“It’s exterior moving to interior.”

Maureen displayed her hats, but he chose a pale blue head scarf that matched her coat and gave the right casual feel for the occasion. He asked her not to wear it until they reached the set. Then he chose a large brooch for her to wear on the coat lapel before hurrying her to get into the car.

“It’s just typical this, you know,” Maureen complained. “I’ve been here since after six, and now it’s all hurry-hurry. I’ve not even had my makeup checked. I need at least to freshen my lipstick. Will we rehearse?”

“Yes. I’d like you to come to the car.”

She chattered on as he guided her to it. His lordship was seated in the front, and Pamela was waiting in the rear passenger seat with the door open. Maureen got in beside her, remarking on how unusual it was to be driven with the director.

“Oh, we’re not moving yet. We just want to rehearse getting in and out of the Daimler.”

“Well, I’ve certainly done that many times,” Maureen said. She and Pamela got in and out as Westbrook oversaw the rehearsal.

De Jersey checked his watch and looked at Pamela. “I need to have a chat with the artist.” Then to Maureen he said, “Would you please get back into the Daimler?” Maureen hesitated and looked at Pamela, then climbed in. De Jersey got in beside her, leaned back, and took a deep breath. He could smell the glue he had used to stick his wig and mustache in place. “Do you love your husband?” he asked quietly.

“Pardon?” Maureen said.

“I asked if you loved your husband,” he repeated.

“Of course! We’ve been married forty-two years.”

“Good. Now, I want you to remain as calm as possible and pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. Your husband is being held at gunpoint. He’s perfectly safe and will not be harmed if you do exactly as I tell you. If you do not, he will be shot.”

She stared, her mouth open. She blinked rapidly.

“Do you understand? It is up to you whether or not you see your husband again. If you cry out or give any indication that we are holding him captive, you will never see him alive again. If you obey to the letter what I am going to tell you to do, if you value your husband’s life, you do exactly as I say, no harm will come to him or you. Do you understand?” de Jersey asked. “This is not a game. This is not a film. This is happening, right now. Give me your hand.”

Maureen lifted it as if she were a robot, and he clasped it tightly. “We are all about to commit a dangerous robbery, and we need you to portray Her Majesty the Queen.”

Driscoll glanced at the Daimler. They had been in it for ten minutes. He had heard no sound but the low murmur of de Jersey’s voice. It was now almost nine o’clock. He reckoned they were taking one hell of a risk with the woman. What if she fell apart and couldn’t keep up the act? He began to feel sick.

The car door opened, and de Jersey got out. He closed the door again, leaving the woman inside, and crossed to Pamela. “Go in and sit with her. Go through the routine.” He nodded to Westbrook, who stood up. Wilcox looked at him nervously.

“She’s going to be fine. Maybe a little drop of brandy will set her up, but she’ll be just fine.”

In the car, Pamela sat beside Maureen.

“Are you part of this?” Maureen asked, hardly audible.

“No, but I don’t think they’ll hurt us. We just have to do exactly as we’re told and nothing will go wrong.”

“They’ve got my husband.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Have they got yours too?” she asked.

Pamela turned and took her hand. “Yes, darling, so we’re in this together. We just have to think it’s a film. It’s the only way we can get through it.”

The door opened, and Westbrook passed in a small silver flask. “Have a nip of this, ladies, we’ve got about half an hour to go.”

Pamela winked at him and unscrewed the flask. Maureen clutched at it with both hands and gulped down the brandy. It made her cough and splutter. Her hands were shaking and her knees were jerking. “I’m so frightened. This is terrible, terrible.”

Pamela gripped her hand again. “Now stop this, stop it now. We have to do what they say. It’s my husband as well, you know.”

Maureen nodded and closed her eyes. “I need-need to redo my lip-lipstick,” she stammered.

De Jersey’s cell phone rang, and he snatched it up. “All on course, are we?” came Marsh’s chirpy voice.

“Just waiting for you,” de Jersey responded. He glanced at his watch. It was ten past nine.

“Well, I’d hit your coal bunker. I’ve just sensed activity on the alarm phone lines, which means they’ve done their tests. You’ll need to do your IRA threat in about three-quarters of an hour.”

“Fine, but what’s the code word?”

“They’ve not phoned it through yet. Don’t panic. I’m on to it.”

“You’d better be.”

“Over and out.” Marsh clicked off.

De Jersey stood up. He knew that the wait would get to them all now; he also knew that, above all else, he had to show no sign of his own tension. He turned to Wilcox and nodded for him to get ready to climb through into the D’Ancona coal room. Wilcox was wearing an overall, thick gloves, and a helmet with a light attached. “How long have I got?” he asked.

“It’s nine fifteen now. I’ll make the threat call at ten, and Marsh will intercept to the safe house shortly after that. Then we’ve got twenty minutes before we move out.”

Wilcox walked down into the cellar and made his way to the opening between the two buildings. He switched on his lamp and started to remove the loosened bricks.

“How we doing?” came a soft whisper. Wilcox whipped round. De Jersey looked like a ghost in a white paper suit to protect his clothes from the dust.

“Just breaking through now. How am I for time?”

“We’re fine.”

As de Jersey spoke, Wilcox pushed another brick loose, cringing as it dropped to the opposite side. He pulled bricks toward him onto an old duvet he’d laid on the floor to dull the noise.

“They’re doing the final cleanup of the warehouse,” de Jersey told him.

“Great,” said Wilcox, working hard. Both men remained silent for a moment. “We’re in,” he said softly. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs making a call, for Christ’s sake?”

“I’m on my way. Just get in and see if it’s going to be a problem.”

“Bit late for that now, isn’t it?” said Wilcox and crawled out of sight.

He had already seen inside the room when he opened up the wall, so he knew what he would find. Marsh had been correct. There was the box with all the lines plugged into it, each neatly labeled with the location of the related panic alarm, such as “under floor reception” or “vault walls.” On the far side a steel door led into the safe house. D’Ancona had never suspected anyone would be able to gain access from the opposite side. That had been their mistake.

Wilcox was dripping with sweat. If one of the plugs was pulled a fraction earlier than the others, the police would be round in minutes and they’d be on the run without the reward. The technique Marsh had come up with for removing the plugs was brilliantly simple. At the end of each plug was a small loop where it met the cable. Wilcox took a piece of stiff wire from his belt and began to thread it through all the loops. He took his time. He didn’t want to jolt any of the plugs. After five minutes the wire was in place. This was the moment of truth. He took hold of each end of the wire and pulled.

Driscoll was ready, pacing up and down beside the Daimler. The two bikers sat with their helmets in their hands. Wilcox seemed to be taking ages. Eventually he emerged, covered in dust, and gave a thumbs-up. The team heaved a collective sigh of relief, and Driscoll patted him on the back.

Westbrook checked the time. It was five to ten. He was starting to sweat and unsure if he should take his last hit of speed now.

“Is there a bog in this place?” Westbrook asked. Driscoll pointed to the rear of the warehouse. Westbrook walked off and let himself into the dirty bathroom. He was just a few minutes behind Wilcox and heard him snorting up a line of cocaine through the door. “I wouldn’t mind a line if you have one to spare,” he said quietly. Wilcox opened the door and beckoned him in. They huddled together as Wilcox chopped up two very long lines.

“For Christ’s sake, don’t let the Colonel know I’m doing this,” Wilcox said.

“He knows I need it.” Westbrook was already rolling a rather creased five-pound note in anticipation. Wilcox produced a short silver straw and Hoovered up his line. He was still wearing his overall, his face filthy from the dust.

De Jersey checked the time again and again. They had half an hour to go, and there was still no word from Marsh. It was insanity to have depended so heavily on him. He was starting to think about leaving the warehouse and killing the man with his bare hands when the cell phone rang. The IRA code word for that day was Boswell. With trembling fingers, de Jersey made the call. When someone answered, he said, in a mild Northern Irish accent, “Boswell, I repeat, Boswell.” The officer taking the call did not question the authenticity and put the receiver down fast. De Jersey sighed with relief.

Marsh was listening in to a call from the commander at Scotland Yard to Buckingham Palace informing them of the IRA threat and putting a halt to the day’s plans. His final task was to intercept the call from Scotland Yard to the safe house, which would inform them of the cancellation.

The team waited in silence. Wilcox had changed into his chauffeur’s uniform in preparation for driving the second Daimler and stood chewing his lips. All were on edge for the last call to come in. When it did, everyone stared at de Jersey as he answered. Marsh had intercepted the call, and the safe house had no idea that the fitting had been canceled.

De Jersey checked his watch: it was exactly ten twenty. They prepared to move the short distance from the warehouse to the safe house. De Jersey climbed into the Daimler beside Wilcox. Driscoll took his position in the second Daimler containing Pamela, Westbrook, and the silent, terrified Maureen. The bikers lowered their helmets and sat astride their police bikes. The minutes ticked by slowly.

“Open the doors,” de Jersey said. The biker nearest pressed the automatic button to slide back the warehouse doors, and they were on the move.

The convoy turned left. Maureen sat beside Pamela, clutching her handbag, her blue head scarf tied round her head, her lipstick badly reapplied. She wanted to go to the toilet, but she was too scared to open her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear. Pamela occasionally patted her knees, which were still shaking alarmingly.

“Well, we got the show on the road,” de Jersey said, resting his arm along the back of the front seat, just touching Wilcox. “We got the show on the road,” he repeated, when Wilcox didn’t respond. He gave him a sharp look. “How much of the stuff did you take?” he asked.

“Enough to keep me steady. I needed it. My nerves were shot.”

De Jersey stared at him and withdrew his arm. “Fuck up and I’ll kill you.”

Wilcox licked his lips.

“Bikers are still in position,” de Jersey continued. He picked up his cell phone and dialed. “How’s Her Majesty?”

“She’s doing just fine,” Westbrook told him.

They passed the traffic cones, which had been placed by the two bikers earlier that morning. This was the only road leading to the safe house. They passed the no-entry sign at the end of the street, again placed by the bikers to avoid any other traffic entering. The journey took less than three minutes.

De Jersey looked out the window, then spoke into the phone. “Stand by, we’re there.” He switched off the cell phone and pulled at his glove. Ahead he could see the security guard in his uniform and cap waiting at the entrance to the safe house.

“The show is on.” De Jersey laughed softly, and Wilcox gave him a covert glance. He seemed relaxed, as if he was enjoying himself. De Jersey caught the look and patted his shoulder. “Three Musketeers, eh? Just like the old days.”

Wilcox dropped down a gear to move to the side of the road just ahead of the entrance so that the Queen’s Daimler could park with ease directly behind him.

“Good morning,” de Jersey said to the waiting security guard as he climbed out of the car. The heavy, studded doors of the safe house were open, a red carpet placed on the steps to the entrance. Lined up inside the reception area were the D’Ancona employees. “The road should stay closed until we leave,” de Jersey said to the guard in a quiet but authoritative tone. “One of my officers will stay out here to help you if there’s any trouble.”

“Yes, sir.”

At this moment the head representative from D’Ancona appeared in the doorway, wearing a pin-striped suit and a rose in his buttonhole. He stood to one side, waiting. There was a fraction of a pause, just two or three seconds, which felt like minutes. Then Lord Westbrook stepped out of the front seat of the Queen’s Daimler. He gave a cold, arrogant look to the guard. Then he opened the passenger door to allow Pamela to exit first. She stood to one side, holding Maureen’s handbag, as Maureen stepped from the Daimler with a frozen smile.

The guard bowed, and as rehearsed, Pamela fell into position behind Maureen. Lord Westbrook stepped to her left, with de Jersey behind him, and Driscoll brought up the rear. They began to proceed into the safe house as one of the bikers, Hall, stepped forward to check the road and the buildings opposite for any signs of disturbance.

As the Royal party moved into the entrance hall, then down the stairs and out of sight, the D’Ancona security guard decided to go back to his workstation. Within four feet of the safe house main doors there was a cage, grilled on all three sides. Inside it were banks of monitors, all showing the Royal party heading slowly down the thickly carpeted stairs to the lower floor reception area. As the guard went to enter the cage, Hall, still with his helmet in place, moved in close behind him, so close that he unnerved the guard, who turned to find the muzzle of a handgun pressed into his neck. “Back into the cage and do exactly as I tell you or this blows your head off,” Hall hissed.

The man put his hands up and obeyed but trod on a concealed panic button.

“Further in, pal. Move it!”

The Royal party was displayed on every monitor. They were now being led into the reception area. Other banks of monitors showed virtually every inch of corridor and office, plus the vault on the lower level, which was standing wide open. Hall’s thuggish bulk came close to the guard. “Pull the fucking camera controls, pal. The alarms are dead. And so will you be if you make me wait another second. Do it!” The guard hesitated but got a rough push from the gun, pressed now in the small of his back.

One by one he unplugged the cameras, and the monitors went blank. Hall pushed him roughly into the chair, tied his hands and feet with tape, and gagged him. He then crammed the man’s hat down on his head and turned the seat slightly so that anyone passing the cage would see him sitting “on guard.”

Wilcox was still seated in the Daimler. Eventually Hall left the cage and signaled to him that the coast was clear. Wilcox turned on the engine and drove back to the warehouse. He opened the doors with the electronic buzzer and drove in. The Daimler had served its purpose; moving fast, he poured acid over the bonnet, removed the number plates, and stuffed them with the chauffeur’s uniform into a black rubbish bag that already contained the paper suit de Jersey had worn. He carried it to the rear of the warehouse and placed it in a bin. He poured more acid into the bin, then replaced the lid and left it to smolder. Minutes later he walked out to take up his position in the driving seat of the second Daimler in front of the safe house. Spittle had formed at the sides of his mouth, and he kept licking his lips.

As the robbery was going on, Raymond Marsh walked out of the Scotland Yard telephone exchange and prepared to perform his last task. He traveled by underground to Edgware Road, then caught a bus to Kilburn. He let himself into de Jersey’s flat and dismantled the satellite linkup. Once the connections to de Jersey’s home computer were broken, he poured acid over the controls, the keyboard, and the printer. He took off his gloves as the acid was burning through the leather, then appraised the flat room by room. Nothing of a personal nature was left, just old newspapers and journals. He headed off to his own home.

His wife had already packed. Only his precious guitar collection and Elvis memorabilia were going with him and his family to Brazil. These items were crated up, ready to be shipped out. A friend had the house keys and contact number for the shippers. Simmons had his banking details. When payday came, his cut would be transferred to his account via the Internet.

Marsh had taken great care to look after number one, even down to arranging holiday time for himself and his family, but he knew he was still traceable. The police would discover that someone had had access to the phones to hack into the safe house and Scotland Yard lines. By then, however, he would be long gone. Like Ronnie Biggs, he had chosen Brazil as his first port of call. Unlike Ronnie, however, Marsh didn’t run solo. He had first-class tickets for himself, his wife, and daughter, all under assumed names. He gave little thought to the men and women involved in the robbery as he prepared to make his getaway. He just hoped they would pull it off.