Royal Heist

23

The line of expectant, well-groomed staff in the D’Ancona safe house reception area reminded Lord Westbrook of a school assembly. The two nervous secretaries were like his old headmaster’s daughters, flushing and dressed in their best. Next to them stood a large-bosomed, round-faced woman, who held her plump arms flat to the sides of her ample body like a military officer. She resembled his old matron. She was, in fact, one of D’Ancona’s chief gem experts and head of marketing. Three men reminded Westbrook of masters at Eton. They were all waiting to acknowledge Her Majesty as she passed by.

De Jersey was worried by the lineup: there were far more people than he had anticipated. He could feel the sweat breaking out as he wondered whether Hall had done his job. The only way de Jersey would know was by the stillness of the cameras. He glanced up at them. If Hall failed, they would all be caught on film. On his third glance he was relieved to see the cameras stop tracking them, their red lights disappearing.

The royal blue carpet swirled down the stairs and covered the reception floor. Vast displays of lilies were arranged prominently. The Royal party was greeted with polite bows from the two fitters, who wore immaculate pin-striped trousers and dark jackets with pristine white shirts and ties. They held white gloves, which they would put on when measuring and fitting.

“Good morning,” Maureen said, passing down the lineup. She smiled, but her eyes were like a frightened rabbit’s. Pamela remained close by, almost able to touch her. Lord Westbrook now took the floor, his charm and breeding shining like a beacon. His soft, aristocratic tone rang out as the party moved along the line, shaking hands and smiling.

The head representative, Mr. Saunders, a small and nervous man, took Westbrook aside. “The vaults are being opened. Her Majesty can view the jewels at her discretion.” Saunders bowed to Maureen, who was frozen-faced. Her manner made the man even more nervous.

“If you would kindly follow me down to the lower level, Your Majesty, we have the vaults prepared for you.”

Much to de Jersey’s relief, as soon as “the Queen” began to move down the second set of stairs to the vaults, most of the staff dispersed. The matron figure ushered the girls toward the stairs, and de Jersey watched them with bated breath: if they passed back into the entrance hall, they might see the security guard bound and gagged. They didn’t glance in his direction, however; instead they moved up a second flight of stairs to their offices.

The inner reception area was now empty, the outer hallway guarded by Hall. Short and Wilcox were ready to act as backup.

There were ten steps down to the vault with a polished brass rail on either side. They passed cameras poised at every corner and recess. None moved. Satisfied now that Hall had done his job, de Jersey hoped no one would notice that the cameras weren’t functioning.

Maureen leaned heavily on the banister rail, Pamela close behind as she continued down. De Jersey and Westbrook kept her closely guarded. Saunders maintained a rather stuttering speech, detailing the security surrounding the vault. Fortunately he and the fitters kept their eyes directed deferentially on the Royal party. When they reached the basement, a man stood waiting beside a trolley laden with iced water, fruit, and coffee. Saunders suggested a pause for refreshments, but Westbrook smiled and tapped his watch.

The party now approached the vault, with steel doors and two protective inner cages. The first thick steel door stood wide open, and the shining steel bars inside it were also open. Above the steel door was the edge of the grille that would slam down if an alarm button were pressed, protecting the contents of the vault and trapping anyone inside.

Westbrook kept the tension to a minimum by maintaining a steady flow of conversation, which de Jersey hugely admired. He constantly referred to Her Majesty as he recalled anecdotes of when he had been a page at the coronation. Whether he had or not was immaterial.

The vault was enormous, with banks of steel boxes surrounding the large central cage. Inside it was a massive steel-framed display case, lined with black velvet, where the spectacular jewels had been laid out for viewing. The sight stunned all of them into a strange silence, which was broken only when Westbrook exhaled audibly, then whispered, “Dear Lord above!”

This quiet expression of awe somehow made it easier for de Jersey to continue in the same tone: “Ladies and gentlemen, do not call out, but remain silent and no one will be hurt.”

Saunders half-turned, as if he had not heard correctly, and at that moment de Jersey revealed his automatic. “I need you all to lie facedown on the floor.” He pointed at Saunders. “You first. Do not make a sound.”

Saunders looked in confusion at his assistants, and his face drained of color. Driscoll opened his jacket and pulled out his shotgun. “Obey every word or I won’t hesitate to shoot. Get down, facedown!”

Maureen dropped to the floor, twitching. Her bag fell open, and cosmetics rolled across the vault. Pamela drew out a fake gun from her own bag and directed it at Maureen’s head. Driscoll ran back up the stairs, signaling to Hall to join them. He moved away from the door, and his position was taken up by Short.

Inside the vault, Saunders raised his hands and shouted, “You can’t do this. For God’s sake, no!”

“Down!” de Jersey commanded and took off his coat to reveal a large, lightweight rucksack. He tossed it to Westbrook. Driscoll and Hall held the staff at gunpoint as Westbrook lifted the platinum crown containing the Koh-i-noor Diamond and stashed it in the rucksack. De Jersey handed Westbrook the gun and began to drag more jewels from the display into a second rucksack, held open by Driscoll. When all the jewels were in the rucksacks, he gave the signal to move out.

The team backed toward the stairs as Driscoll shut the heavy steel doors, leaving Saunders, Maureen, and the two terrified fitters captive. Then the gang walked boldly up the stairs, through the reception area, into the small hallway, and past the bound security guard.

The bikers started their engines and moved off in different directions, although their destination was the same: the speedboats at the Tower Bridge Marina. Pamela and Westbrook left Newbury Street on foot. Neither could speak, and their legs were wobbly, but they walked toward the City Thameslink Station, looking over their shoulders as often as they dared, trying not to be too conspicuous.

Driscoll walked straight into Barbican Station and went down to the Hammersmith and City line. It seemed an interminable time before a train came, and he shook as he paced up and down. After three minutes he stepped into a carriage and cursed under his breath until the train’s doors finally closed and it left the station. He was dripping with sweat.

Wilcox and de Jersey knew they needed to distance themselves from the crime scene as quickly as possible, but they couldn’t leave the Daimler behind. It was too risky and time-consuming to take it back to the warehouse, and they didn’t want to drive it through town. This was where the furniture van came into play. It was parked nearby on a meter.

De Jersey climbed into the Daimler with both rucksacks. Wilcox slammed his foot down, and they screeched round the corner, sending the no-parking signs and cones flying.

“Slowly!” de Jersey snapped. The last thing they needed was to be picked up for speeding. The tense Wilcox managed to slow down, and they drove through the back streets until they reached the van. De Jersey leaped out and opened the van’s driving side, threw in the rucksacks, and got in. At the same time, Wilcox opened the rear doors, dropped the tailgate, returned to the Daimler, and drove it in. There was so little space to move that he took a while to squeeze out of the car. He drew up the back and shut the doors with himself inside, then banged on the front of the van for de Jersey to move off.

As de Jersey drove, he ripped off the wig, eyebrows, and mustache, keeping his speed to thirty miles an hour. It felt like a snail’s pace. He headed toward the river, crossed it, and turned right to drive toward Battersea.

The getaway had taken only fifteen minutes so far, but he could already hear police sirens blasting in the distance. As they passed the heliport in Battersea, de Jersey saw his two decoy helicopters take off. He checked his watch: it was perfect timing. The confusion should provide cover for his own copter.

The officials locked in the vault had screamed and shouted to no avail. They could not get out, and the lack of air was becoming asphyxiating. Maureen was hysterical, screaming that they had got her husband. The others in the vault had realized at last that she wasn’t talking about Prince Philip.

The staff from the upper floors carried on working, unaware of what was taking place downstairs. However, when the secretaries entered the reception area at the time the Royal party was due to leave, they were confronted by an overturned plinth of lilies and the bound and gagged security guard. With trepidation one of them opened the outer vault doors.

By eleven o’clock the City was wailing with sirens. No one could believe what had happened. It was one of the most audacious robberies in history. The first thing the police did was send up their helicopters to monitor the area. They were on the lookout for two Daimlers and two motorbikes.

The entire area surrounding the safe house was cordoned off. De Jersey was still driving the furniture van and was now passing Kingston, moving on toward the A3. He still had a way to go before he would reach his helicopter to lift the jewels away from London.

At the same time, two speedboats raced from separate moorings near Tower Bridge. Hall had dumped his motorbike and placed his helmet and leathers into a holdall. He now wore a thick cable-knit sweater and a baseball cap. He had walked to the first boat, which had been brought from the old boathouse in Putney. Before leaving he had tied weights to his holdall and dropped it into the river. He steered the boat toward Putney, intending to stash it in the boathouse and catch the tube back to his east London home from Putney Bridge.

Ten minutes later Short followed almost identical orders. He left his bike in a car park near Blackfriars and changed in the toilets. He walked down toward Temple, pulling his cap low over his face. When he reached his mooring, he had trouble with the engine. After a few false starts, however, he got the boat going and sped off after Hall just as the sirens started. Short had to drop the boat at the boathouse, then use a can of petrol to set light to the building and its contents. They hoped the fire would provide another distraction.

Short set a bunch of doused rags alight and exited quickly. He was a good fifty yards away when he saw the flames take hold. He was to continue on foot along the New King’s Road, catch a bus to Sloane Square, and from there take a tube to his flat.

Driscoll walked out of the tube station at Shepherd’s Bush and picked up his car from a car park. He drove home, calm now although his shirt was soaking. He wondered if de Jersey had made it. He wanted more than anything to call Wilcox, to know that everyone was home and free, but he resisted the urge and kept on driving.

De Jersey had parked his helicopter at Brooklands airfield. It was used mostly at the weekend, so it was deserted now, with just a small office in operation across the car park. Wilcox jumped down from the back of the van, climbed into the driving seat, and drove out of the airfield, catching de Jersey’s eye as he left. Both allowed themselves half-relieved smiles, but they were not in the clear yet.

An experienced pilot, de Jersey knew that there would be no problems with air traffic control. Contrary to popular belief, most low-level airspace in the United Kingdom is uncontrolled. He had used the Brooklands airfield a few times when he had horses racing at Epsom and Goodwood. Today he was expected at Brighton for a two-year-old’s maiden race. He used the airfield’s bathroom to wash off the wig glue, put on a camel overcoat and his brown trilby, stashed the rucksacks in two suitcases, and loaded them into the helicopter, which contained an incongruous-looking crate. It was watertight, lined with polystyrene squares held together with waterproof glue.

De Jersey saw only one person by the hangars, a man cleaning a glider who didn’t pay him any attention. As he left the washroom, the caretaker, who was sitting in his office eating his lunch, asked if he had a tip for the races. De Jersey laughed and said perhaps an each-way bet on his colt, Fan Dancer, but he wasn’t optimistic as it was his first time out.

As de Jersey started the engine and the propellers began to move, Wilcox was six miles away, heading toward the old barn. Once there he drove the furniture truck in through the large doors, drove the Daimler out, and removed the number plates. The registration number on the engine had already been removed. He used four cans of acid to destroy the seats, paintwork, and all the contents of the boot. He smashed every window with a hammer and attacked the dashboard. The exertion felt good. Then he stripped the stickers off the sides of the removal van to reveal its true identity. The “Double Your Time” rental company did not expect it back until later that afternoon. Their headquarters were in Leatherhead, so it was just a short drive back down the A3. Wilcox left the truck in a large car park and posted the keys into a box at the gates. Philip Simmons had hired it after seeing the company’s advert on the Internet and had paid for it. Then Wilcox caught a train home from Leatherhead.

De Jersey’s horse was running in the three o’clock at Brighton. It was the perfect opportunity to show his face and establish an alibi, but he had to do the drop first. As he headed for the coast, he looked down on the busy traffic heading in and out of the center of London. He wondered whether it was his imagination or there was a glint of flashing blue light in every direction. He didn’t dwell on it, knowing that by now every airport would be targeted as a possible getaway route, likewise the ports. It would take a long time to organize a full search, however, and by then he hoped they would be home and free.

Pamela and the now sickly Westbrook had traveled from the City Thameslink Station to Brighton. There they switched to a second train for Plymouth. Pamela was concerned by Westbrook’s depleted energy. He was sweating profusely and had twice staggered to the lavatory to vomit. His face was yellow, and sweat plastered his hair to his head. The journey would take at least five hours, and they would need a taxi to get them to the safety of her flat. De Jersey had instructed them to separate and Westbrook to return to London, but his Lordship was too unwell to be left alone.

When they reached the station, they flagged down a taxi. Pamela had constantly to feed Westbrook his painkillers so that he had enough energy to walk unaided to her flat. She had made the taxi stop two streets away, not wanting to give the driver her address. Westbrook hardly spoke, but when she opened her front door and helped him collapse onto the sofa, he gave a dry sob, his face twisted in pain. Her heart went out to him. “We made it,” she said softly.

The helicopter too was reaching its destination. The yacht was anchored almost nine miles off Brighton Marina, and as he flew overhead de Jersey used his cell phone to call Dulay. He put the engine on remote control, slid open the side door, and tossed out the crate. He didn’t wait to see it hit the water. Instead he did a wide arc, then headed for the helipad at Brighton racetrack.

Dulay watched the crate hit the water and bob to the surface. It was just a few yards off its marker. He gave the signal to start up the engines, and the big yacht moved majestically toward it. Dulay and two crew hauled the crate aboard, then they were on their way back to the Riviera. He spotted a small yacht a good distance away but realized he could do nothing about it and hoped to God that no one aboard had seen the drop.

Three boys were testing the little yacht for the nationals. They had taken it without their parents’ permission and were smoking a large joint when the helicopter flew overhead. Through binoculars they watched in amazement as the crate fell out. At first they were unsure what they had seen, and they passed the binoculars around, wondering if they had witnessed a drugs drop. They did not, however, have a radio, and as the large yacht turned to head out to sea, they reckoned they were wrong. If it had been drugs, surely the boat would be heading inland. Suddenly they felt a flurry of wind and galvanized themselves to set sail back to the marina.

At the racecourse de Jersey went into the weighing room to see Mickey Rowland, surprising him. The jockey was heading toward the locker rooms carrying de Jersey’s racing colors, ready to dress. He thought it was odd that his boss was here to see Fan Dancer when he hadn’t made it to Royal Flush’s race at Lingfield, but he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his business where and when the boss showed up.

He shook de Jersey’s hand and told him that Fleming was heading over to the saddling enclosure. He watched de Jersey stroll out, smiling and acknowledging a few of the jockeys he knew. He also saw him pause by the Sheikh’s jockey and take him to one side. He wondered if his boss would go back on his word about his ride in the Derby.

De Jersey walked into the owners’ and trainers’ bar, acknowledging a few people he knew. He bought a gin and tonic but hardly touched it and, moments later, crossed to the saddling stalls. He stopped beside the Sheikh’s trainer. They discussed a few race meetings, and the conversation came round to Royal Flush. Evidently the horse’s progress was being monitored by everyone in the business. De Jersey felt a rush of pride and said casually to the trainer that it was his turn for the Derby. He paused as the trainer’s quiet, almost lisping voice said, “Yours, Mr. de Jersey, or Royal Flush’s?” It was an odd statement, and he would have replied to it but he saw Fleming waving to him.

He excused himself and joined his trainer. “Seen him fishing around. Any money he was asking you about Royal Flush. He’s got his eyes on him, you know,” Fleming said.

“So would I if I had his money and history of success.” De Jersey was referring to the Sheikh’s domination of the racetracks and his record of breeding champions. He had the finest stud in England, if not the world. The Arabs were well known for their love of the races. Their animals were kept in luxurious surroundings with the finest trainers and jockeys under million-pound contracts to race exclusively for them. One of their studs was not far from de Jersey’s.

“What brings you here?” Fleming asked as they headed across the green toward their allocated stall.

“I missed my boy’s last race, so I felt I should make an appearance. Don’t want the gossipmongers spreading it around that I’m not taking an interest anymore.”

Fleming saddled Fan Dancer, and together they went to the ring to watch him being led out to wait for the jockey. There were ten horses racing, so nine other owners and trainers stood waiting as well. Mickey walked out, fixing his helmet strap beneath his chin. He stood with de Jersey and Fleming for a few moments, listening to last-minute instructions, which were to give Fan Dancer an easy race. He was helped into the saddle, and they went out of the parade ring to watch him canter up to the starting gates.

De Jersey and Fleming stood side by side in the owners’ and trainers’ stand. Fleming had to lend his boss his binoculars.

“I can’t stay too long. Christina and I are due to watch the girls in The Taming of the Shrew,” de Jersey said, monitoring Fan Dancer. “After the race I’m going to have to shift myself to make it.” Then he focused the binoculars on the Sheikh’s trainer, who stood nearby studying the racing form.

The horses were under starter’s orders, and then they were off. Fan Dancer ran a good race but seemed to get boxed in early at the rails. De Jersey watched Mickey move him out, but the horse didn’t like pushing his way between two others. Then Mickey moved him through a nice gap and, hardly touching Fan Dancer with the whip, rode him into fifth position. He dropped back to sixth, then moved up again to remain in fifth as they crossed the finishing line.

“He’s no Royal Flush,” de Jersey said, returning Fleming’s binoculars to him.

“Few are” came the reply as they turned to walk back to the stables. De Jersey excused himself, asking Fleming to tell Mickey he’d ridden a good race.

De Jersey left the Brighton track at four o’clock and did not relax until he was alone. He gave his pocket an involuntary pat and felt the object cushioned against his leg. He knew the exact weight was 105.6 carats, but it had felt even heavier when he had prized it out of the crown. If they lost the bulk of the jewels he had dropped for Dulay, he would still retain the prize Koh-i-noor Diamond.

The City of London learned that the most daring robbery in history had been pulled off through numerous news flashes that interrupted TV programming for that day. The Evening Standard ran the story on the front page, and the police were stunned at the audacity of the raiders. They gave away little about the robbery, but Maureen was pictured on the front page dressed as Her Majesty with a fake crown and a frozen smile. She was currently under sedation and unable to speak coherently. Her husband, she had been told, was safe if badly shaken. Though she was hysterical, she had been able to tell the police how she had been kidnapped and her husband’s life threatened. She had also given a description of the man she said headed the robbery. Although she had never heard his name, she described de Jersey as a “military kind of man.” He was in his mid-fifties, she said, had red hair and a mustache, and was very tall.

The public marveled at the robbery, but most were confident that the culprits would be caught. The Metropolitan Police Special Branch and the Army announced that they would join forces to recover the jewels. Operation Crown began immediately.

Quickly the police processed the section of the security film that had been recorded just moments before Hall had forced the guard to pull the plugs. The team were caught on film entering the hallway and heading toward the reception. But when they got the film back from the labs they saw that there was a clear shot of Maureen but no single frame in which her lady-in-waiting could be seen because of the large hat the woman had worn. They could see only a partial profile of Driscoll and a shoulder and body shot of de Jersey, his face obscured by the only member of the team caught fully on camera. Lord Henry Westbrook was shown smiling and talking before the screen went blank. It was only a few hours before he was identified by a police officer who had been involved in his fraud case.

At a press conference, reporters were informed that progress had been made. There was a warrant out for the arrest of Lord Henry Westbrook. Meanwhile the staff at the safe house were all asked for detailed descriptions of the men and the woman involved in the heist. Their descriptions of Pamela varied, so the police were relying on Maureen for details. She was still sedated and in hospital, her husband at her side. He gave a description of the driver of the Mercedes that had picked up his wife. He could offer only vague details of the man’s companion.

No one could provide a decent description of the two bikers as their attention had been focused on the “Queen.” The sketches depicting the tall man hardly seen on the videotapes were confusing. All agreed that he had red hair and a mustache, but none could give a clear description of his face. Saunders maintained that this man was the leader. His voice was cultured, and he had a military manner. He had been the first to leave the vault.

A massive search for the cars was mounted, and witnesses were asked to come forward if they had seen the convoy driving toward the safe house, but no one called.

Christina was selecting what to wear for her daughters’ school play when the phone rang. She pursed her lips, sure it would be her husband making some excuse.

But it was Helen Lyons. “Have you been able to contact Sylvia yet?” she asked.

“I’ve called her home and her office, who told me she’s taking some time off in America. I told you this last time we spoke. I got no reply from her flat, so she must still be away.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m really worried about my money situation. I’m not broke, but David always took care of all our finances.”

“He certainly took care of ours,” Christina snapped. “I’ve called your sister for you, and I don’t want to get involved any further. I’m sorry, we have money problems too, thanks to your husband’s misappropriation of our finances. The more I discover about how much David stole from us, the more I find these calls tedious. Now, I really have to go, please don’t call me again!”

She replaced the receiver, then felt dreadful. She knew she was taking out her own anxiety on the poor woman-but what she had said to her was true.

Just after three she drove away from the estate to do some shopping.

De Jersey got home at five o’clock. He stashed the wig and mustache in a briefcase and hurried toward the house. He seemed calm and collected, but his adrenaline was still pumping. When Christina returned from her shopping, he had bathed and changed, and was in the kitchen.

“You’re back,” she said.

“I am, my darling. We have a date tonight, don’t we?”

“The girls’ play, yes. I thought, with all your problems, you might have forgotten it.” She walked past him to unpack the groceries.

He turned, surprised at her tone. “You make it sound as if I’m in the doghouse,” he said.

“You are, if you must know.” She joined him at the table. “I might as well tell you, because you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Find out what?”

“I was in your study and broke…” She paused. She looked at him, frowning, then leaned forward and rubbed his sideburns. “You’ve got glue or something stuck to your face.”

He backed away. “It’s shaving lotion. Go on, what have you broken?”

“I haven’t broken anything,” she said petulantly, then faced him angrily. “Please stop treating me like a child. I broke into your desk drawers.”

He hesitated a moment. “Really? And why did you do that?”

Christina chewed her lip, then took a deep breath. “I don’t know-no, I do. I’m sick of your lies. I just wanted to know what was going on.”

“When was this?”

“Does it really matter? Anyway, what I found upset me. I wanted to discuss it with you face-to-face. That’s why I didn’t mention it to you when you called. Why didn’t you tell me, for God’s sake? If you can’t be honest with me after all these years… You’re virtually bankrupt!” Christina said.

De Jersey relaxed a little. “Why don’t we go and sit in the drawing room and you can tell me about it.”

“You go ahead,” she said. “I’ll make some tea.” He nodded and walked out.

She took a deep breath. Her nerves were in shreds, but she was determined not to let him off the hook this time.

De Jersey listened as Christina detailed her discoveries. “I don’t understand why you would need fake passports.”

“I’ve been using aliases off and on for years. It’s been a sort of ploy to allow me to move in and out of the horse auctions without my real name attached.”

“That can’t be the reason,” she said angrily. “You even had passports for me and the girls, all in false names. There are recent stamps in one passport to New York. You never told me you’d been to New York. What’s going on?”

“I didn’t know I’d be going there myself, and I got the passports for you and the girls just in case you accompanied me on one of these undercover buying trips. You know I hate being apart from you. That’s the only reason.”

“So what were you doing in New York?”

De Jersey decided to come partially clean. “I went to see the man who ruined me. I didn’t want it to get out that I had.”

“Why not?”

“He used me, Christina. As you know, he let his company go belly up and consequently did the same to my whole life.”

“So you went to see him?”

“Yes, but I used a different name because I didn’t want to alarm him or forewarn him. Turned out he still had some of my money invested in some properties out there. He was a cheap con man. I caught him just about to skip the country for South America. He got scared I’d get the cops on to him, so he coughed up. Not all of it, just a fraction, really, but enough to keep my head above water for a while.”

“Does Sylvia know?”

“No. If I’d told her I would have had to pay her off, and then the other creditors would be hounding me for their cut too. This way, I got some of my losses back and Moreno took off, I hope never to be seen again.” He shrugged.

“So how are things now, financially?” she asked.

“Well, not good, but they’re a hell of a lot better with Moreno’s cash. At least I’m not forced to sell this place, which I would have been if I hadn’t got to the bastard.”

“Did you have to do it illegally?”

“Of course. I had to carry the money back into England in a suitcase, which is another reason I thanked God I’d used a false name. It was all done to protect us. Legal or not, I did it, but who is Moreno going to cry to? Not the police. He’s the criminal, not me. He committed a massive fraud that bankrupted a lot of people. I know I’ve told you a few lies, but darling, I had to do this on the spur of the moment. I didn’t have any time to waste, and the fewer people who knew of my intentions the better.”

“On the spur of the moment? Do you think I’m stupid? Some of the dates on the passports go back years. And who is this Michael Shaughnessy character?”

“Well, having a fake identity worked once, so I did it a few times. As I said, it was to protect myself. You buy horses in Ireland and it’s all over the Racing News! The fewer people know what I’m doing the better.”

“But I’m your wife!”

“And if I hadn’t pulled it off, you’d have been run through the mill with me. I was only trying to protect you.”

“Treat me like an idiot, more like,” she snapped.

“If that’s what you call protection, then yes. I didn’t want to involve you in case it went wrong. I might have been arrested at Heathrow with the cash. Fortunately I wasn’t, so there was no harm done. I also couldn’t put the cash into a bank because I’d be hauled up for taxes. But we’re not bankrupt yet, my darling, so as I said, no harm done.”

“There is, though.” He frowned at her. “You’ve made me feel inadequate and helpless. You were in trouble when we went to Monaco, but you never discussed it with me and instead bought me expensive gifts as if nothing was wrong, when all the time you were in dire trouble. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“Loved?” He laughed, but she turned away angrily.

“No, foolish. But it is still not making sense to me. For instance, you’ve sold Bandit Queen, and Fleming thinks she’s been bought by this Michael Shaughnessy, which is the name on one of your passports. But that doesn’t make sense because it’s really you, isn’t it? The passport had your photograph in it.”

“Correct. It’s simple. If I went bankrupt, Bandit Queen would have been part and parcel of the debts. This way I still own her.”

“But she was mine! You bought her for me!”

“Well, that’s true, but she still is in a way.” He got up, put his arms around her, and kissed her neck. “You’ve had so much to deal with recently, with your mother’s death. I just didn’t want to worry you. And”-he looked at his watch-“if we don’t get a move on, we’ll both be in the doghouse because we’ll be late for the girls’ production.”

She nodded and kissed him, then touched his face. “That is such a weird smell, like glue. Next you’ll tell me you’re really as bald as a coot and you’re wearing a wig.” He grinned, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her out of the room. The phone rang, and she shrieked, “Don’t answer it! It’ll be Helen Lyons.”

He carried her up the stairs and set her down midway. His knee was throbbing. The phone rang and rang. He wanted to answer it in case it concerned him, but Christina caught his hand.

“She’s called every other day. She’s trying to get me to contact her sister for her.”

“Why?” He looked over the banister rail to the hall table below, where the phone still rang.

“Because when she found out David and Sylvia were having an affair, she said she was never going to speak to her again. She asked me to call her on her behalf. Did you know about it?”

“What?”

“That Sylvia was seeing David, for years apparently.”

“Good God! No, of course I didn’t. What did she want? Is it to do with David or what?”

“It’s the insurance money. Apparently Sylvia was handling all the claims, and now Helen is running short of cash.”

The phone had stopped ringing.

“Did you speak to Sylvia?”

“No. I even called her office, but they said she was away. New York, I think. But when Helen called again, just before you got home, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I told her that, considering what David had done to us, she could damned well call Sylvia herself!”

Christina’s mood changed. “I have felt very lonely while you’ve been away, Edward.”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t have any choice.” He stroked her face and kissed her gently.

“But is everything all right? I mean, truthfully. Please, no more lies. I hated prizing open the drawers like some demented, jealous woman, and then when it all became clear how badly off we are financially, I almost hated you for being so dishonest with me.”

“The truth is that we’re out of trouble now, and with the expectation I have for Royal Flush… If he wins the Derby, it’ll put this place on the map. He’ll be worth millions.” He kissed her again. “We’re almost in the clear, sweetheart.”

“And you didn’t have to remortgage the farm?”

“Nope. I got away without having to do that by the skin of my teeth. We’re safe.”

She leaned against him as they continued up the stairs. “Things have to change between us,” she said quietly. “From now on, don’t lie to me anymore.”

“I won’t. Hell, you might take a screwdriver to me next, never mind my desk!” He drew her close to him, and they walked up to their bedroom. He gave silent thanks that he had taken Philip Simmons’s passport with him to Paris. If he hadn’t, Christina would have found it with the others.

They left for their daughters’ school an hour later and sat through a lengthy production of The Taming of the Shrew. Both girls were delighted that their father was there, but Christina did not tell them he had slept through most of the last act. They had wine and cheese with the other parents, then left. They listened to classical music on the car stereo rather than the news, and it was almost one in the morning by the time they reached home.

De Jersey was so exhausted he went straight to bed and fell into a deep sleep. Christina lay next to him, her eyes wide open, wondering how many other lies her husband had told her. She was so naïve, she realized, and this was the first time she had ever questioned their relationship or his past. She had never felt their age difference until now and wondered what he had done in the years before he met her. She looked at him now, sleeping like a baby, and felt intensely irritated. They hardly made love anymore, and he had not even kissed her good night. She flopped back on her pillow, the seeds of discontent continuing to grow.

Driscoll sat in the TV room with a large gin and tonic. He had been watching the news flashes, partly in amusement and partly in denial. They were not in the clear by any means. The biggest plus was that neither he nor Wilcox had been in trouble with the law before, so even if Maureen could describe them, she could look at mug shots until the cows came home: they were not in the books. The news flashes described the missing vehicles, and requests for information were repeated with numbers to call if anyone had information. A warrant had been issued for Westbrook’s arrest. A parade of debs and his associates were interviewed on the news, telling tales of his womanizing and dealings in high society. His face was becoming as familiar as Lord Lucan’s.

“What the hell were you doing all day?” Liz asked, setting down a bowl of raw carrots.

“Touting for business,” he said, then looked at her as she started to crunch a carrot.

“Christ, do you have to do that?” he asked.

“I’m on a diet.”

“Well, I’m hungry. I didn’t have time for lunch.”

She stood up. “What do you want?”

“Omelet. Nothing too rich. My gut’s giving me hell.”

“You should see another specialist. You want anything in the omelet or just plain?”

“Bit of cheese.”

“That’s fattening.”

“I don’t give a fuck!”

“Tony!”

“I’m sorry, but I’m trying to listen to the news.” Suddenly he felt gleeful. “You seen it?”

“I only just got in. I’ve been having a mud bath at the new hydro clinic.”

“Well, there’s been a big robbery.”

“Oh, I know about that. Sandra had the TV on. Do you want a side salad with your omelet?”

“Sure.” He watched her walk out of the room. He wondered how Sandra would feel if she knew her last customer’s husband had been in on the robbery of the Crown Jewels.

Shortly after Westbrook and Pamela arrived home, Pamela dyed her hair back to its usual auburn. Westbrook was on her sofa bed and continued to apologize for imposing on her, swearing that as soon as he recovered he’d make his own arrangements. He had a fake passport and cash to leave the country, but until he could stand up travel was out of the question. He watched the television all that day and night, but even the news flashes could not hold his attention and he dozed fitfully. Where on earth had they managed to get so many photographs of him, let alone of his so-called associates? He wondered where these close friends had been for the past year.

Wilcox arrived home in time for the twins’ birthday party, which he’d forgotten. It was a bit of a pain; all he wanted to do was relax and watch the news. But he blew up balloons and sat out with the kids as they ate sausages, eggs, and chips. He left the chaos for a while to go to the local video store. He returned, arms loaded with Mars bars, Smarties, cartoons, sci-fi films, and all the evening newspapers he could lay hands on. The headlines all told of the robbery, and everyone was talking about it, even in the video store. The public seemed to view it as sacrilege. Later in the evening he sneaked away to his bedroom to watch the late-night television news. The hunt for Westbrook was on, but as yet there seemed to be no clues as to the identity of the rest of the team. Nevertheless, they gave out descriptions based on what little they had to go on. Wilcox sighed with relief. He wanted to call Driscoll. He ached to hear how he was coping and became paranoid that the police had to be withholding evidence. He chopped up the last of his stash of cocaine, and Rika found him snorting it in the bathroom. They had a blistering row, which somehow eased his tension.

After they had made love, Rika lay beside him, her body glistening with sweat, and he leaned on his elbow, smiling at her. “The kids had a great day. Thank you. They get on really well with you, Rika. Dunno what I’d do without you, but they’re gonna go to boarding school soon. Their mother suggested they go and stay over with her for the next holidays and-”

She turned toward him. “Vhat you saying? You don’t need me no more?”

“No, I am not saying that at all.”

“Then vhy you say it?”

“No reason. Why do you question everything I bloody say?”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Vhy vere you so late coming home? I told you I needed things for the party.”

“I hadda sell a car. In fact, I’m selling off most of them.”

Rika pouted. “You still got no money.”

“Yeah, but not for long.”

“Ve get married then? You marry Rika?”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah, maybe… Just let me get some kip. I’m tired out.”

Rika got off the bed and put on a robe. She tightened the belt and walked out. He sighed and picked up the remote control. He switched from one program to another and fell asleep with the remote still in his hand.

Not long after the robbery, the police discovered that the team had pulled the plugs on the panic alarms, and they backtracked through the coal chute to the warehouse base. It was two in the morning when they broke in with a search warrant. Now they had their next big lead. There, rotting in acid, was one of the Daimlers used in the heist. Fingerprint experts and twenty officers were shipped in to examine the warehouse inch by inch. They were also trying to find out who had rented the place, but it was a further five hours before they got the man’s name: Philip Simmons.

The day after the robbery, Her Majesty made an unprecedented broadcast, asking for the public’s assistance in apprehending the thieves who had taken the precious items of British heritage. The interview was followed by a documentary about the Crown Jewels, watched by 10 million viewers. That led to another breakthrough. An elderly man believed the Daimlers used in the robbery might have been the ones he’d sold in Leicester. He informed the police there had been two, and a chap had bought the lease on his garage more than six months previously. When questioned, he gave the best description of Wilcox his memory afforded him. The police matched the garage owner’s description to that of the driver Maureen had given.

They had also discovered that Philip Simmons had rented the Aldersgate warehouse. After questioning the estate agents who had negotiated the transaction, they had yet another description of the man they now believed had led the gang. It was confusing, though. Most of the negotiations for the warehouse had been done by telephone, but the agent who had shown de Jersey the property was unable to verify that he had red hair as he had worn a hat. As far as he could recall, he had no mustache. Although the description was sketchy, he confirmed that the man was tall and well built, and spoke with an upper-class accent.

Operation Crown’s initial hype was starting to fade. The description of Pamela had yielded no response. The police knew their biggest card would be the capture of Westbrook. The inquiry now fielded a force of over a thousand officers, all sifting through statements and calls from the public. Fifty telephone operators were working round the clock.

There had been hundreds of sightings of Westbrook on the day of the robbery and after the event. Some were at Heathrow Airport, some at the ferry in Dover, and others at various railway stations in the south. One caller said she was sure she had seen him on a train going to Plymouth with a blond woman. She also said he looked drunk or sick. As it had not been disclosed to the public that Westbrook had cancer, this was a valuable piece of information that might lead to the discovery of the lady-in-waiting too.

Two days after the robbery, the police gained their next vital clue. The three boys out sailing who had watched a crate being dropped into the sea off Brighton had subsequently told their father, who reported the incident to the coast guard. He thought that although it might not have been connected with the robbery of the Crown Jewels, it was an unusual event and should be reported anyway.

The coast guard felt the incident warranted reporting to the police. Anything that sniffed of drugs was treated seriously. The local police interviewed the boys, then contacted Scotland Yard. Operation Crown officers traveled to Brighton.

The boys had only the first part of the yacht’s name, Hortensia. but told police that it had been flying the French flag. British customs were alerted, but there had been no further sightings of the vessel in any harbors along the coast. No customs officials had boarded her to ask why she was anchored off the Sussex coast.

The boys’ report added fuel to theories about the robbers’ possible getaway. The police had numerous helicopter sightings and were still checking with all the heliports on which helicopters had been used at the time of the robbery. When all the data were cross-referenced, they ascertained that four helicopters had been hired to coincide with the robbery. They had all had instructions to collect passengers from around the City of London, but the pickups had made no contact. What spurred the team up a notch was that the helicopters had been hired by Philip Simmons, who had now taken over from Westbrook as the most hunted man in Britain. His description and police identikit drawings were in every newspaper, and a computerized headshot of him frequently appeared on the daily television news coverage.