Royal Heist

24

The police hunt was further aided by a much calmer Maureen Stanley. She was taken over and over through the details of the day of the robbery.

Meanwhile, the forensic experts working in the warehouse had not found a single fingerprint. The debris left by the robbers was so minuscule that it was of no use. The acid had burned the clothes and articles Wilcox had placed in the bin. The remnants, however, were taken to the lab. The acid cans were checked out. Yet again Philip Simmons emerged as the purchaser. The company from which he had bought the acid in bulk gave the police his credit-card number, which threw up an address in Kilburn. When the police arrived at the Kilburn flat, the landlord told them he had never met the occupant. All details had been given over the Internet.

As one team of officers drove across London with search warrants for Simmons’s flat, a second team was trying to figure out how the robbers had been able to break into Buckingham Palace security and tap the phones of both Scotland Yard and the safe house. They knew whoever had done it had had access to the telephone exchange, so all employees were being questioned. One man with sufficient knowledge and authority had gone on holiday the day of the robbery. His name was Raymond Marsh. The second team headed for Marsh’s house in Clapham. Those in charge of Operation Crown were confident that arrests would soon be made.

As the squad cars pulled up outside the house, they were greeted by a For Sale notice with a sold sticker across it. Lined up in the hall were crates to be shipped to Marsh in South America. All were tagged and carefully packed but with only a poste restante address.

The estate agent was unable to provide an address for Marsh and said the proceeds from the sale of the property were to be deposited in his bank account. She did not know anything about the crates. Marsh had said that a friend would collect them and any bits of furniture the new owners did not want.

“Do you have this friend’s name?”

“No, I’m afraid not. As I said, we were just instructed to sell the property with the furniture. I presume whoever it is must have a key.”

Robbie Richards did have the key, but he didn’t have anywhere to store the boxes, so he had not got round to picking them up. He was supposed to have moved them on the night of the robbery and, in return for helping Marsh, take whatever furniture he wanted.

He was scared to death when he drove into Marsh’s street to see the house cordoned off by squad cars and cops wandering around like bluebottles. He turned his borrowed van and moved off fast. He would not have been able to assist the police in the heist inquiry, but he would have been able to give a lot of details about Marsh’s other illegal activities, such as the hacking and the credit-card skimming.

A team of officers broke into the Kilburn flat, but the occupant had long since departed. The damaged computer was taken away for tests, but it was deemed useless; the acid had burned through the plastic controls.

Maureen Stanley, after hours of questioning, ultimately proved unable to add to the array of sketches already drawn by the police artists. They had transferred the drawings to a computer-graphics program, layering in coloring and features to assist her, but this confused her even more. She constantly repeated that during the time before they left the warehouse she had been in a state of shock, frightened for herself and for her captive husband. She did say that Lord Westbrook was kind and considerate, and that the woman acting as her lady-in-waiting was called Pamela, or possibly Pauline.

Four days after the heist, led by their commander, the Operation Crown team assembled in their large office block. The press was now lampooning the inquiry as a failure. The culprits, who had once been vilified for stealing the Crown Jewels, were now lauded as antiestablishment heroes.

The police knew that the two Daimlers used in the robbery had initially been kept in the Leicester garage, but again a search by forensics teams had proved futile. The investigating officers were aware that the longer it took for them to sift through their findings, the more likely it was that the heist masterminds would evade them. Worse, however, was the possibility that the precious gems would be cut up and lost to the nation forever.

The most promising clue now seemed futile. Philip Simmons had organized his whole life over the Internet: setting up domestic bills, making numerous purchases, renting the warehouse and his flat. None of the apparently promising leads took them to the man.

The officers were instructed to spread their nets wider. The robbers had to have had a second, larger premises in which to prepare the vehicles and store them. Police press officers were instructed to continue to ask the public for assistance. They were looking for anyone in or around London who had leased a building large enough for the purpose. They still wished to question Philip Simmons, Lord Henry Westbrook, Raymond Marsh, and a blond woman possibly calling herself Pauline or Pamela. Sketches and computer images of Pamela and the other members of the gang were distributed widely and were continuously on the news.

Pamela was frightened. She watched the television updates like a hawk, and the computer image of her was closer than she had thought possible. Added to this, they now had her Christian name. She was also worried about Westbrook, who was dying but refused to allow her to call a doctor. His one fear was that, after all he had done, his son would not benefit. Pamela was adamant that, whatever the outcome, they could trust the Colonel. She knew his word was his bond. They had known it would take considerable time for the big payoff to come through. In the meantime the Colonel had given them all enough cash to live on well and safely. He had even arranged a flight for Westbrook. But this was of little use to his lordship now. Without medication, he was in agony.

Pamela bought some grass from a guy upstairs, and it seemed to ease Westbrook’s pain. One evening she returned from shopping to find him stoned but dressed and trying to tie his shoelaces. He was shaking badly, and his hair was plastered to his head, making him appear skinnier than ever. He had hardly been able to eat, sipping only watered brandy.

“Papers are still full of it,” she informed him.

“My face seems to be on every TV channel.” He grinned boyishly, and she could see that his gums were bleeding.

“I’ll put this through the mixer and see if you can keep it down.” She held up a ready-made meal and popped it into the oven.

“No, don’t. I’m leaving.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I’ve been here too long, and I don’t want to put you at further risk.”

She was relieved but ashamed to show it. “Where the hell will you go? It’s already six o’clock.”

“Home.” He tried to stand, but his long, thin legs shook violently.

“I’m sure you’ll make it in that state.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm.

“Sure I will, sweetheart. I’ll roll a joint, get a bit more energy up, and then you can call a taxi.”

“I can’t have you picked up from here, darling. That’s too much of a risk.”

“I know. Get it to pick me up at the station. I can make it that far.”

“You can’t even stand up.”

He straightened and gestured with his free hand. “Course I can.”

“But if you take a taxi to Pimlico, you’ll be picked up within minutes.”

“Not that home,” he said softly and eased himself back down. “My real home. My ancestral pile.”

“Are you joking? Isn’t it miles away?”

“Yes, maybe the taxi isn’t such a good idea. Just get me onto a train to Waterloo, and I’ll sort something out from there. Please, Pamela.”

She approached him and cupped his face in her hands. “Let me think. If that’s what you want, we’ll work it out somehow.”

She left the flat and returned shortly with a wheelchair borrowed from one of the elderly tenants. “It’s a long walk, but we’ll make it. So roll up your joints and let’s get moving.”

Westbrook allowed her to shave him and give him a shirt left by a long-gone lover. He wore a polo-neck sweater over it, and she wrapped a blanket around him. She put a hat on his head and pulled it down low.

At eight she set off to walk the two miles to the railway station. Emaciated though he was, Westbrook was heavy to push, and she had to stop for a breather every now and then. His head bobbed up and down on his chest as she eased the chair across the pavements.

There was a train to Waterloo in fifteen minutes, so she bought a one-way ticket and wheeled him onto the platform. She didn’t want to think about how he would get on and off the train. They sat together, saying little. To her astonishment, when the train headed into the platform he found enough strength to stand unaided.

“This is good-bye, fair Pamela. Take care of yourself. I adore you and cannot thank you enough for your care. Now, please go and don’t look back. Just walk out before I blubber like a schoolboy. I never had much control over my emotions. Reminds me of saying good-bye to my mother when I went back to boarding school.”

Pamela kissed his wet, yellow cheek and fussed with the chair to hide her own tears. She knew she would never see him again.

She returned to her room and began to clean up. When she had folded the soiled sheets and Hoovered around the sofa, she sat down and broke into sobs, partly out of relief that he had gone and partly because she would miss him. Then she heated the ready-made meal and poured a large brandy. She couldn’t bring herself to switch on the television, fearing she might hear a report of his capture at Waterloo. When she found his unused plane tickets, with two thousand pounds that he had left for her, she broke down again.

Westbrook huddled in a corner of the train compartment and slept for the entire journey. No one paid him any attention. When the train arrived at Waterloo, he mustered the strength to walk the length of the platform toward the taxi rank. Pain forced him to sit down for fifteen minutes. Then, sweating profusely, he rose and hailed a taxi. He asked to be driven to Andover, a good two hours away. At first the driver refused to take him; then he saw Westbrook’s cash and helped him into the car.

“You sick?” he asked.

“You could say that. I just had my appendix out.” Westbrook rested against the seat, amazed he had managed to come this far. “When we get there, squire, wake me up and I’ll direct you to the lodge.” He closed his eyes. He knew that from the lodge he could get through the keeper’s gate and possibly manage the quarter of a mile to the house. He was too exhausted to open his eyes but passed the time in counting how many steps it would take him to get from the lodge to the kitchens, into the main hall, and from there up the stairs to his bedroom.

His mind drifted back to the room he had known as a boy. He had always been terrified of the dark, shut up in the east wing. He had never received much attention from either of his parents. He could not recall his father showing him any form of warmth or understanding. His mother had tried, when she was sober, but when he had needed her most she was always at some society event. The one great love of his life had been the wondrous building to which he was on his way-the halls, the ballroom, the library, and the vaulted, hand-painted ceiling in his room, with round pink cherubs beckoning him to the clouds on which they rested. All his ventures had been disasters, but with the money from his last enterprise, he was going to make sure his son and heir, living far out of his reach, could return to his rightful home. It was a fantasy, but it kept Westbrook alive for the duration of the taxi ride.

He gave the driver a generous tip and watched him leave, then used the stone wall as an aid to make his way toward the lodge gates. The magnificent house loomed dark and silent as he walked to the kitchens, counting each step. He made it into the house and up to his bedroom, then lay down on the French quilt, his head resting on the rolled satin cushions with their gold tassels. The pink cherubs danced on the ceiling above him, their fingers outstretched. A white marble bust of his great-great-great-grandfather stood at the window. Lord Alexander Westbrook, his periwig curling to his shoulders, stared down at him with his sightless eyes. Westbrook gave a soft sigh of satisfaction. He was home, just in time to die.

Westbrook’s body was discovered the next day by an elderly cleaning lady. By the time the doctor was called, two family retainers, now hired as cleaners by the commercial ice-cream company who rented the estate, had removed his soiled clothes and washed his body. They had called the police, who arrived with sirens screaming, as the doctor finished his examination.

The body was taken to the mortuary and an autopsy performed. The cancer that had been seeping through him had rendered his heart and lungs useless. When the body was released, one of the old retainers provided the funeral home with his lordship’s uniform and sword. They felt it only fitting that he should be laid out in his uniform, even though he had been disowned by his regiment. He was Lord Westbrook, after all. His dress uniform had been on display in the hall for visitors. His family was summoned to England for the funeral. His soiled garments were taken by the police to be examined, and the retainers were questioned but released without charge.

Westbrook made headlines again, but he had left the police without clues. He had thrown away anything that might link him to the robbery or to Pamela. He died knowing that the Colonel would be impressed by his tenacity and care. But then he had always been a true gentleman.

De Jersey lowered The Times and allowed himself an appreciative smile. The article stated that Westbrook had died of natural causes, and his death was not being treated as suspicious. He had heard no word of Sylvia Hewitt, and nothing had appeared about her in any of the papers. He took this as a good sign. In fact, although the newspapers still carried front-page articles about the hunt, he sensed that they might be in the clear. He was not stupid enough to think everything the police uncovered would be handed to the journalists, but at the same time, five days after the robbery, they had not arrested anyone and did not appear close to doing so. Still, the daily requests for information regarding Philip Simmons, the artists’ sketches and computer pictures posed some risk to him. He just hoped that all links between him and Simmons had been destroyed.

De Jersey continued his usual business on the estate, exercising the horses and discussing the future racing programs with Fleming. He was attentive to Christina, who seemed less anxious about their situation now that he was at home with her. As in the rest of the country, there were many discussions in the yard about the robbery, but eventually interest died down as the flat season got under way.

After going through a gamut of emotions, Helen Lyons had decided to telephone her sister. For all her faults, Sylvia was the only family she had, and Helen was lonely. Her friend in Devon had suggested that she try to sort out her finances and visit her sister, hinting that Helen had overstayed her welcome.

Sylvia, however, appeared to be away, or at least was not answering her phone. The office confirmed what Christina de Jersey had told her, that Sylvia was still possibly in New York. When she had not heard from her sister after a week, Helen caught a train from Devon, then took a taxi to St. John’s Wood. She still had her own key to Sylvia’s apartment. She unlocked the front door. “Sylvia,” she called, “… it’s Helen.”

She entered the apartment and stepped over a stack of mail. As she walked into the drawing room, she noticed a pungent smell. Sylvia’s body lay on the sofa. Helen ran to the caretaker’s apartment. The caretaker didn’t know what to do. Sylvia was obviously dead and had been so for some time, but they called the doctor anyway.

When the doctor turned up, he confirmed what they already knew and said that they would not know how she had died until a postmortem had been conducted. He called the police, and a young, uniformed officer took a statement from him and Helen. There was no sign of a break-in, and no items were missing or disturbed.

Helen had to wait for the body to be removed to the mortuary. She opened all the windows to get rid of the stench. There seemed no real reason for her to leave, and she discovered all the documents regarding the insurance on her home neatly stacked in a drawer of Sylvia’s desk. She also found Sylvia’s will and learned that she was the main beneficiary. The apartment was now hers, but until she took it over legally she would stay in the spare room where she had slept before.

There were some unanswered questions in the police investigation into Sylvia Hewitt’s death, and the case remained open. The suspicion of suicide seemed to be confirmed when the postmortem revealed a heavy presence of morphine. What perturbed the pathologist, however, was the additional presence of ketamine. Helen was dumbfounded by this and collapsed in tears. The young sergeant sitting opposite her had to wait a considerable time before he could continue to question her.

Helen told him that it was incomprehensible that anyone could have wanted Sylvia dead, but it was possible she had taken her own life. “In the last couple of days, before I left her, I’ve learned that she lost a considerable amount of money on a bad investment deal,” she said. “It was connected to my husband.” Then the story of the affair tumbled out. Perhaps Sylvia had taken her own life after losing David, her savings, and her sister. She had also told her employers that she would not be coming into work.

Helen was asked if she knew of anyone who had seen her sister during the past two weeks, but she did not. The police, still dissatisfied, began to check phone calls Sylvia had made or received on the evening of her death. They also questioned friends and work colleagues. No one else they spoke to felt that Sylvia would have taken her life, and they told the officers of her trip to New York. This tallied with the last phone call Sylvia had made, to a private detective named Matheson in New York City. When Detective Sergeant Jon Fuller contacted him, Matheson was shocked. He explained that he had been hired by Miss Hewitt to trace a man called Alex Moreno, who they believed was involved in a fraud. He was also aware she had lost a considerable amount of money.

“Did she sound depressed?” Fuller asked.

“No, far from it,” he told them. “She was very positive because she had traced the man she believed could help her regain some of her losses.”

“Did Miss Hewitt give this man’s name?”

“Philip Simmons.”

“Did you know him?”

“I never met him, but I knew he had been in New York recently. In fact, we thought he was still here. He was Moreno’s business adviser. Miss Hewitt also said everything was going well and she no longer needed my services.”

“Do you have any idea where Simmons would be?”

“No. As I said, I never met him, but I think he was Canadian.”

Fuller’s report was passed to his superior and placed on file. He had concluded that, although it was probably suicide, Miss Hewitt’s death still seemed suspicious. Why would a woman committing suicide with morphine and ketamine bother to clean her kitchen before she died, leaving no trace of how she had consumed the drugs? Why was there no suicide note? He also wanted to speak to the person who may have been the last to see her alive: Philip Simmons, the name entered and underlined three times in her desk diary for a 6:00 P.M. meeting on the day she died. As yet they had found no trace of him in her address books or office files.

Fuller was told to continue the inquiry, and Sylvia’s body was released for burial. Even though the robbery squad had told the media that they were searching for a man called Philip Simmons, D.S. Fuller did not make the connection. The suicide of a woman in St. John’s Wood was not the crime of the century. The name Philip Simmons was simply listed among many others they wished to interview in connection with Sylvia Hewitt’s death.

The robbery squad took a big step forward when British customs, working with Interpol, traced a motorized yacht named the Hortensia Princess, owned by Paul Dulay and anchored in the south of France. They contacted their European counterparts, whose records showed that the Hortensia Princess had left Cannes four days before the sighting and returned four days later. They e-mailed a photograph of Dulay’s boat.

The boys who had seen the yacht on the day of the robbery were questioned again by customs and asked if the boat they had seen bore any resemblance to the photograph of Dulay’s vessel. They agreed without hesitation that it was the same one. Then the investigating team discovered that Dulay was a jeweler. Two detectives were sent to interview him and his crew.

The two crew members confirmed that they had picked up a box dropped by a helicopter off the English coast. When they hauled it aboard it had been full of junk, so they had tossed it back into the sea. They said a fault in the fuel gauge had occurred, which was why they were anchored off Brighton. They had been able to repair it themselves, then hauled up the anchor to return to France. When asked if the owner of the boat had been aboard, they said that he had and that he had instructed them to retrieve the package.

Paul Dulay was working in his shop when the officers questioned him about his trip. He kept his cool, saying that he had not been ashore in England. He gave the names of three companies he had called from the yacht to ask for assistance with the fuel gauge before they had managed to repair it. He didn’t flinch when asked about the crate.

“Oh, yes. We saw a helicopter flying overhead and watched it drop something into the water. I instructed my crew to haul it aboard.” He gave a knowing look. “It might have been drugs-anything, you know. When we opened it, it was full of empty bottles, a couple of jackets, and some other clothing. We tossed it back into the water. It’s probably still floating around out there.”

The police asked about the helicopter, but Dulay shrugged. He couldn’t remember, possibly a twin engine as it was quite large, and there were two or three people aboard. The officers left, only to return an hour later with a helicopter manual showing different designs. Dulay took a long, hard look, then pointed to a Sikorsky S-76. “This one.”

“Would you mind if we searched your boat?”

“No, of course not.”

“We’d also like to look over your premises.”

“I don’t see why this is necessary, but by all means.”

The two officers left Dulay in a cold sweat. He called the captain of his boat and told him to reiterate the make of the helicopter he’d identified and to say that three people were on board.

The officers reported that they had searched Dulay’s boat, home, and workplace but had found nothing incriminating. They did note that Dulay himself cut stones and had a very well appointed workroom at the rear of his shop. He also had a successful business with influential clients. They said he had been helpful in every way and that they were not suspicious.

They were told to stay away from him until further notice but not to return to England. They were to keep surveillance on him and to make it obvious. He might not have given them reason to doubt him, but the coincidence of his profession and his having been near England at the time of the robbery and the business with the crate made him a suspect.

The same photograph of the helicopter was subsequently shown to the boys, who knew nothing about helicopters and were unable to confirm if it was the same make.

The team began to inquire into who in the United Kingdom owned a Sikorsky helicopter. They also contacted the companies Dulay said he had asked for help. All remembered the inquiry, so his story could not be disproved. Launches were sent out to find the crate.

Dulay was sure he was being watched, and his nerves were getting the better of him. He wanted to contact de Jersey but was afraid to. However, a few days after he’d been interviewed he received a call from the man himself. The newspapers were full of details of the helicopter, stating it was likely to have been the getaway vehicle, so de Jersey had known Dulay would be unnerved. He called from a pay phone at Kempton Park racecourse. He had just watched Royal Flush sail home first with ease, ensuring his place in the Derby. He had congratulated Mickey, avoided posing for photographs, and watched his horse get rugged up.

He was still on a high when he rang Dulay. “How are you?” he asked.

“They’re on to me, I’m sure,” hissed Dulay.

“Not if you followed orders.”

“There’s some witness who saw the drop.”

“But you kept to the story?”

“Yes. They searched the boat from top to bottom. My house, the shop-”

“But it’s well hidden, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.” De Jersey maintained his calm.

“Yeah, but you’re not the one being tailed. Man, I am shitting myself.”

“Just carry on as if nothing’s happening. Don’t go near the loot, just stick to the plans. We don’t collect until the heat’s off. Go about your business and see how Mr. Kitamo is. We want that down payment.”

“He’s going to want to authenticate the Koh-i-noor, but I’m too hot right now to retrieve the jewels.”

“Well, if he wants the diamond, he’s just going to have to trust us. You tell him we want the million dollars before we’ll let him see it. Unless he’s completely out of touch, he knows by now there are some priceless gems to be had.”

“I hear you. Anything happening at your end?”

“No. Still in the clear.”

By the end of the call, de Jersey was edgy. He had not expected a problem so soon. Apart from the Koh-i-noor, the jewels were still in the crate, wrapped in tarpaulins and haversacks, hundreds of feet down in the ocean. A lobster pot marked the place where it had been dropped off the coast of Cannes, toward a small inlet and fishing harbor. When it was time to collect, Dulay would go in single-handed with a speedboat: no crew, no witnesses.

The coast guard retrieved a large, old wooden crate. It contained boiler suits, boots, two jackets, and a pair of shoes. It provided the robbery squad with no further clues and made Dulay’s explanation seem more credible.

Dulay read on the Internet that the crate had been recovered, but the news did little to ease his mind. He had been lucky so far, but how long would his luck hold out?

Sylvia Hewitt’s death looked suspicious to D.S. Fuller. He had removed her business diary and personal papers from her office, plus letters and files from her St. John’s Wood flat. He discovered from her office diary that she had had numerous appointments for the weeks after her death and had made dates for dental and medical checkups the next day. This was not the pattern of a woman contemplating suicide.

He called Matheson again; the PI felt certain that when he had last spoken to her in New York Sylvia was not suicidal but determined to trace Moreno in the hope of recouping her losses. Matheson added that Moreno had disappeared.

Also in her office diary were the names and contact numbers of certain clients of David Lyons who had suffered similar losses. Among them were Anthony Driscoll, James Wilcox, and Edward de Jersey. These three were underlined, so Fuller decided to concentrate on them.

The first of the threesome to be interviewed was Tony Driscoll. He almost had heart failure when his wife came into his study to tell him a police officer wanted to talk to him.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Jon Fuller, and this is Police Constable Margaret Kilshaw. I am here concerning a woman named Sylvia Hewitt. I believe you were a business associate.” Driscoll hesitated, but Fuller continued, “You should know that Miss Hewitt is dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, but I didn’t know her.”

“Miss Hewitt recently suffered financial losses due to her involvement with an Internet company, and your name was listed in her diary.”

“Ah, yes. Now I know who she is, but I never met her. I think she got my number from David Lyons, who advised me to invest in the same company.”

“Could you tell me why she contacted you?”

“I suffered substantial losses in the same company, and Miss Hewitt asked if I would be willing to hire someone to help trace the man she believed was responsible. I was rather annoyed that she had got hold of my personal details, which I pointed out to her was illegal.”

“And you never met her?”

“No, I did not. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“Just one more thing. Do you know someone named Edward de Jersey?”

“No.”

“Do you know someone called James Wilcox?”

“No.”

“Philip Simmons?”

Driscoll’s heart was fit to burst through his chest. “No. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I only spoke to the woman once on the phone.” He hesitated, then decided he had said enough.

Wilcox was tipped off fast by Driscoll.

“I warned everyone about that bloody woman,” Wilcox said tightly.

“Yes, I know, but we’ve no problem. She’s dead.”

There was a pause as Wilcox took this in. “How come they came to you?”

“The bitch had my details in her fucking diary, so she must have yours and the Colonel’s. I’ll warn him too.” Driscoll paused. “So far so good, huh?” he said.

“Yeah. Let’s hope it stays that way,” Wilcox replied.

When Detective Sergeant Fuller visited that afternoon, Wilcox denied knowing Sylvia Hewitt, Driscoll, or de Jersey. “Did you know that David Lyons committed suicide?” Wilcox asked the sergeant innocently.

“Yes, we are aware of that. Just one more thing, do you know a Philip Simmons?”

“No. I didn’t mix with Lyons socially, so I didn’t know any of his other clients. All I do know is we all lost a considerable amount in this Internet company we invested in. Maybe he was one of the losers.”

“Via a Mr. Alex Moreno?”

“I believe so. But I think he did a runner. I know we have little hope of recovering any money.”

As he had said he would, Driscoll made a short warning call to de Jersey, who was abrupt and noncommittal. When he replaced the phone, Driscoll was aware of a dull sensation in the pit of his stomach. He was sure that de Jersey had played some part in Miss Hewitt’s demise, but as with Moreno, he hadn’t asked and he didn’t want to know. He was just relieved that she was no longer a problem.

However, both Driscoll and Wilcox needed cash injections. Driscoll decided to put his house on the market, unaware that Wilcox was contemplating the same thing.

Jon Fuller and his P.C. now made the journey to de Jersey’s estate. If Fuller had been impressed by the properties owned by Driscoll and Wilcox, de Jersey’s took his breath away. The patrol car drew up beside the west wing stables. Fuller asked a boy if he could tell them where they would find de Jersey and was pointed to a vast, semicovered arena with a horseshoe-shaped swimming pool for exercising the horses.

De Jersey was watching Royal Flush swimming around the perimeter of the pool. He had seen the patrol car enter the yard and paid it no attention. As the officers approached, he continued to call out instructions. “Keep him going. Give him another two half circles.”

“Good morning, sir.” Fuller showed his card and introduced his companion.

“This is my pride and joy, Royal Flush,” de Jersey said, gesturing to the swimming stallion. “Put your money on him for the Derby,” he advised and gave the officers a charming smile.

He walked with them back to the house, where he told them he had met Sylvia Hewitt twice, once at her brother-in-law’s house and a second time when he had visited her at her apartment in St. John’s Wood.

“Miss Hewitt was found dead in her apartment,” Fuller said.

“My God! When did this happen?” De Jersey stopped in his tracks.

“Two weeks ago. We believe it was suicide, sir.”

“Well, that’s dreadful, but I fail to see how I can be of any help. I didn’t really know her.” He added that he was surprised Sylvia would contemplate suicide. Then he paused. “I don’t know if I should go into this, but her brother-in-law, as you must know, also committed suicide quite recently. The reason I am hesitant to say anything derogatory about Sylvia is that I had a great affection for David and his poor wife.” He paused again. “I believe Sylvia and David had been lovers for some time.” He sighed. “I am deeply sorry this has happened. In some ways I wish I had known her better. The loss of certain investments was deeply disturbing for me, but in comparison…”

“Did you ever think of taking legal action?” asked the detective.

“Well, my father always used to say, ‘Never invest in anything you don’t understand,’ and I wish to God I had taken his advice. This chap Moreno ran off with whatever he salvaged out of the mess.”

“Did you ever approach Moreno?”

“Good heavens, no. Sylvia was trying to find him. She wanted me to help, but private detectives can’t be trusted, and I just felt it was best to forgive and forget. David was dead, and that was the end of it as far as I was concerned.”

“And you do not know an Anthony Driscoll or a James Wilcox?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Have you ever met a man called Philip Simmons?”

At this moment Christina appeared in the doorway with a tray of coffee.

“Darling, do come in.” De Jersey rose and made the introductions. She put down the tray and shook their hands. De Jersey handed round the coffee as he explained the reason for the officers’ visit.

Christina sat down, shocked. “Good heavens. How terrible. I must call Helen,” she said.

De Jersey put his arm round her. “Yes, of course, we should.”

She gazed at him a moment, then smiled at the officers. “Excuse me,” she said and left the room.

Outside the study door Christina waited to hear her husband tell the police whether he knew Philip Simmons. “I don’t think I do. Was he one of David’s clients?” she heard him say.

“We’re not sure,” replied Fuller. “It’s just that there are various notes in Miss Hewitt’s diary with regard to this man and, according to the detective in New York, she felt that he was connected to Alex Moreno.”

“I can’t recall meeting someone of that name, but then I do meet a lot of people at the racetracks.”

“Have you been to New York yourself recently?”

“No, I have not.”

Christina remained listening until they began to discuss racing. Then she went slowly up to her bedroom. She could understand why he had lied. He had done something illegal in New York, he had told her that. But how on earth could it be connected to Sylvia Hewitt? She went to the window to see de Jersey ushering the officers out and watched as they walked to their parked patrol car.

A few moments later de Jersey came into the bedroom. “I wasn’t expecting you home for a while,” he said.

Christina watched him. He frightened her.

“How much did you overhear?” he asked.

“Well, I heard them ask you about being in New York.”

“And I was not likely to admit I was there, and you know why,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed.

“But they’ll find out, surely.” She avoided his eyes.

“Why should they? I’ll destroy those passports if you like.”

“I would if I were you, but I don’t understand why all this subterfuge is necessary.”

“I explained it to you.”

“I know you did, but why did Sylvia Hewitt have notes in her diary about this man you went to see?”

“Because, sweetheart, she was trying to trace him to get her own money back. I’ve told you this. In fact, it was David who suggested I use a pseudonym when traveling to buy racehorses. He even got the passports for me. As soon as sellers know my name, they put up the price. I would say the reason she kept on calling here was that she might have found out and wanted to squeeze money out of me. She really was a very unpleasant woman.”

“She’s dead, for God’s sake.”

“I know, and by her own hand. She was not a nice woman at all, carrying on with David behind Helen’s back. Her own sister!”

“Suddenly you’re coming over all moralistic,” she said in disbelief.

“Not really, but she was only concerned about getting her money back. She had probably discovered that she didn’t have a hope in hell of seeing any of it again, and it must have been too much for her.”

“How did she do it?”

“I have no idea. We didn’t get into those kind of details.”

“Did you go and see her, then?”

“What?”

“I said, Did you go and see her after she kept calling?”

“No, I put it off. I had enough to think about-and considering that that son of a bitch David has virtually bankrupted me, I would think you could understand my reasons for not wanting anything to do with her.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Have anything to do with her?”

“Why on earth are you asking me that? I just told you I didn’t go to see her. I don’t want to discuss this any further. It’s finished.” He walked out, slamming the door.

De Jersey was treading on dangerous ground, and now the person he cared most deeply for might also be the most dangerous to him. He was angry with himself for having left the passports to be found, angry that the one area he had felt was secure was now vulnerable. He had to find a way to sort it out quickly and efficiently.

Raymond Marsh, unaware that he was under investigation, had arrived in Rio de Janeiro without a hitch. Almost immediately he had a reaction to something in the climate that gave him blinding headaches and a rash all over his body. His wife and daughter booked into a hotel with him, but he decided he wanted to move on. South America was not to his liking. He called his friend Robbie with instructions on where to send his packing cases. When he was told that cops were swarming around his old house and his face was plastered all over the newspapers and on television, he slammed the phone down. It was imperative to get out of Brazil. The police might have discovered from Robbie where he was. He paced up and down the hotel room, itching and sweating, trying to think where they should go, when his wife walked in with their screaming child.

“She’s got a rash too. It’s the heat.”

Marsh looked at her and grinned. “Let’s get out of here then. Tell you what, why don’t we visit your place?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, sticking a pacifier into the baby’s mouth.

“New Zealand,” he said.

Anything can be bought in Rio, and within one afternoon Raymond Marsh had new passports. At ten in the evening, he, his wife, and his daughter flew out on tickets booked through their illegal credit cards. During the flight he began to feel worse, and by the time they landed he had a high temperature. They moved into the best hotel in Auckland, and a doctor was called. Marsh’s allergy subsided, but the fever and aches persisted. He was diagnosed with a virulent form of shingles. He remained in a darkened room under sedation for two days. He felt so ill that he didn’t even watch TV.

His quick exodus from Rio meant there was no clue as to his present whereabouts. When the detectives traced the poste restante address on his boxes to Rio, they set off with a warrant for his arrest but returned empty-handed.

In London, the headlines now blasted on about the police’s failure to capture Marsh or to trace Philip Simmons. The articles made their way to the hotel where Marsh was staying. By the time he saw the papers, the story was a week old.

Marsh read the coverage with relief. It was believed that he was still at large in Rio. He was amazed at the photographs they had used of him, which had been taken from his packing boxes. Some were in Elvis mode, others showed him in school uniform. He knew he must not use any of the credit-card numbers from the United Kingdom.

Marsh studied himself in the mirror. Since he had been ill he’d not had time to fix his hair, and it was stuck together in unattractive clumps. He went into the bathroom, put his head under the shower, and shampooed it three times to get the grease and old mousse out. It had taken years of practice to style his hair into a teddy boy quiff, but now it was receding badly and hung limply to his chin. He picked up a pair of nail scissors and chopped it short. He was near tears. It wasn’t just his hair he had lost but all his memorabilia. The crates containing his hero’s guitars and his autographed pictures were now in the hands of the Metropolitan Police.

His wife barged in with a dirty nappy and had to sit on the edge of the bath, she was laughing so hard. When she stopped giggling, she wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Christ, Raymond, you don’t half look different!”

“I’ll get a transplant,” he snapped.

Marsh calculated they would have real financial problems soon, but he knew that to contact Philip Simmons was tantamount to suicide. He would have to monitor the papers and lie low. He moved his family into a small apartment in Wellington and applied for a job with a local computer company. It was a far cry from the life he had hoped for, but at least he was free.

Sylvia Hewitt’s funeral took place within days of Lord Westbrook’s. The latter was a more public occasion, with press and photographers lining the streets outside the family estate. His ex-wife, his son and heir, and his two daughters had returned to England for the occasion. The ice-cream company now running the house and grounds allowed them to use the chapel and crypt, and the mourners were old family friends and various distant relatives. Displays of lilies sat on either side of his photograph. The police officers seated at the rear of the tiny chapel looked on with disgust: this man had been a petty criminal and then part of a robbery that still stunned the nation.

Lord Westbrook had dreamed of his son returning to the ancestral seat. The boy stood beside his mother in a gray suit. Neither he nor his mother knew of Westbrook’s dream. More distant relations told the press they were appalled by his actions.

De Jersey was relieved to see the funeral on the news. It meant one major risk was gone, but he would honor his promise. When payday came, Westbrook’s son would receive his father’s cut. Whatever else de Jersey was, he was an honorable man. He had still not seen anything in the papers about Sylvia Hewitt’s “suicide” and hoped to God they had closed the inquiry.

Pamela saw the televised snippet of Westbrook’s funeral and sobbed. She wished she could have been there. She had sent flowers with a card that simply said, “From your lady-in-waiting, with love and fond memories.” She paid for the bouquet in cash.

The police filmed the entire funeral, hoping that people linked to the robbery might show their faces, but no one did. They also examined the flowers. Pamela’s message was obscure, perhaps from a mistress or a lover, though “lady-in-waiting” seemed to refer to the robbery. The florist was contacted and remembered that a bedraggled, red-haired lady with a refined voice and sophisticated manner had placed the order. Unfortunately she had not left an address or contact number. When shown the computer pictures of Pamela from Maureen Stanley’s description, the florist gasped. “Oh, my God, this is the woman wanted for the Crown Jewels robbery. I don’t believe it.” She took another look at the photo fit and shook her head. “No, it wasn’t her. The woman I met was much older.”

The police were at yet another dead end, and the robbery was dropping out of the headlines. They felt their next best move was to have it profiled on a television crime program. The Crime Show had given over an entire fifty-minute episode to the case, and a private benefactor had offered 25,000 pounds for information leading to a conviction. As the program closed, the phones were ringing. The following morning, the calls were still being followed up.

Chief Superintendent Dom Rodgers, the officer overseeing Operation Crown, was feeling ill. He had been coughing for a couple of days and feared he had caught a virus. Now he felt red-hot, and he took himself to his G.P.’s surgery in Maida Vale. The waiting room was chilly and uninviting, and the two patients ahead of him both had streaming colds. He sat feeling wretched, wishing he had remembered to bring his morning paper. His cell phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. “Rodgers,” he answered, then listened. “What?” he said in amazement. “Look, I’m not far from their station. I’ll get right over there.”

He snapped off his phone, left the surgery, and drove straight to the St. John’s Wood police station. His chest hurt and he was sweating beneath his overcoat, but his excitement put his ill health to the back of his mind. He asked to speak to the officers involved in the Sylvia Hewitt inquiry.

Detective Sergeant Jon Fuller’s hand shook as he spooned sugar into a beaker of tea. “I’m so sorry, sir, but we had a list of David Lyons’s clients Miss Hewitt had named as losing in the crash of the Internet company and-”

“Just get to the fucking point, Sergeant. Philip Simmons. You called the robbery squad and”-he banged down a small tape recorder, then gestured with his hand-“go on, you’ve lost me enough times already, son. Philip Simmons.”

Armed with the details of the Hewitt case, Rodgers returned to Scotland Yard, where his team was waiting, having received the call from St. John’s Wood station earlier that morning. He tossed over his tape recorder.

“Listen to this prick, then come into my office. We’ve had a development we could have had fucking days ago.”