Royal Heist

27

Maureen Stanley was not shown the picture removed from de Jersey’s office, but the police lab had blown up the section of the photograph that showed his face and shoulders. It was placed among seven other black-and-white photographs of men with similar build and hair coloring. They didn’t yet have photos of either Wilcox or Driscoll.

Chief Superintendent Rodgers waited as she stared at one photograph after another. She frowned and pursed her lips. She laid all eight in front of her as if she was playing patience. “I’ve got a good memory for faces.” She had now recovered from the kidnap ordeal, and bathing in the continued media interest, she was enjoying herself.

Rodgers interrupted her impatiently. “Mrs. Stanley, do you recognize the face of the man who held you captive? The man you claim to be the leader.”

“Oh, yes, without any doubt!”

“Could you please indicate to everyone here which of these eight photographs you believe to be this man?”

Maureen nodded, her hand poised over the photographs. “Without any doubt, that’s him!” she said triumphantly and held up the picture of George Ericson, one of the officers attached to the inquiry.

Rodgers closed his eyes.

Tony Driscoll signed the papers for the sale of his villa in Marbella. The estate agent was a glamorous blonde with an all-over tan and plunging neckline. The villa was going to a dapper Italian, who had agreed to pay cash. That, minus the agent’s cut, plus all the contents, left him with 130,000 pounds. Driscoll knew it was worth more, but for the sake of being paid in cash, he accepted the loss.

He was preparing to return to England when he received a call from his wife. She was hysterical. The cops had been round. “They were asking all this stuff, Tony, about this woman Sylvia Hewitt. Then-oh, my God, Tony-they were asking about the Crown Jewels robbery. Where you were on the day, where you are now. They got a search warrant, they’re all over the house.”

“Get off the phone, Liz.”

“What do you mean, get off the phone? What the hell is going on, Tony? Tony?”

But Driscoll had slammed down the receiver. He went to find Wilcox on the patio. He sat down on the sun lounger beside him. “We’ve got trouble,” he said quietly. “The cops have been round to my place asking questions, and they’ve got a search warrant.” Wilcox’s eyes remained closed. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah.” Wilcox removed his shades.

“What do you think?” Driscoll asked.

Wilcox got up, reached for his towel, and slung it round his neck. “I’ll go down to the harbor and call Rika, see if they’ve been nosing around my place too.”

“Then what?”

“Well, we’ll have to think what we do next.”

“I know what I’m doing, pal. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Stupid cow told them I was here, so how long do you think it’s gonna take for them to come and pick me up? One call to the Spanish police and we’re nabbed.”

“What did they want?”

“They were asking about Hewitt, then slipped in the date of the fucking robbery. Not hard to put two and two together. They’re fucking on to us.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“Well, I tell you one thing, I ain’t going back to find out.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Move on, lie low, and wait, I guess.”

Wilcox kept his cool. “You mind waiting until I speak to Rika?”

“Sure, but get a move on. We should separate, fast.” Driscoll went back into the villa.

Wilcox drove Driscoll’s Jeep to Puerto Banus harbor. Once there, he went into a bar and called Rika. He said little but listened as she told him that not only had the police been round asking questions but they had also returned later with a search warrant.

“Vhat are they looking for, James? Vhy you leave me? Vhere are you? Tell me vhat you do.”

He hung up and dialed his ex-wife, Françoise. He could hear his kids shouting in the background as he said he would not be able to return to England for a while and the boys should stay with her. Françoise hit the roof. He hung up on her and walked out of the bar. He drove back to the villa, his nerves in shreds.

As he parked the Jeep in the drive, trying to think what his next move should be, Driscoll came out, his bags packed. “I’m out of here,” he said flatly.

“Where you going?”

“I dunno, but I’m not staying around to be picked up, and if you’ve got any sense you’ll get out too.”

“On what?” snapped Wilcox, slamming the car door.

Driscoll sighed. “Look, I’m not ditching you in the shit. I’ve left five hundred quid on the kitchen table.”

“Big deal. How far am I gonna get on that?”

“It’s not my problem, Jimmy. We can’t risk staying together.”

“Well, it’s all right for you. You just made a packet on this villa, but five hundred’s not gonna last me long, is it?”

“Take the Jeep-all the documents are in a drawer in the hall-then go visit one of the chicks you’ve been hanging out with. Leave the keys on the table in the hall. The agent’s got another set, but you can’t stay on here for much longer. The new tenants are moving in at the end of the month.” He walked away without a backward glance.

Driscoll walked down the green gravel drive, past the kidney-shaped swimming pool, and into the half-completed lane beyond. The authorities had been “finishing” the roadway to the plot of villas since he had purchased his fifteen years previously. At the end of the potholed road he turned right and headed toward a small row of shops where he called a local taxi to take him to the airport. He still had no plan, but he called his wife and told her to sell the house. He told her not to ask any questions but to wait for him to contact her. Driscoll said little to comfort her, just that he was unable to return to England. He didn’t know how long he would be away and told her that she was to buy herself a house and leave a contact number with the estate agent he had used to sell the villa. He felt wretched to leave her sobbing and scared, but he reckoned that if they were on to him they’d have tapped his phone. And they knew he was in Spain now.

Using a false name, he hired a private plane to take him to Palma, Majorca. It was the only place he could think to go without having to show his passport. Once there he rented a run-down apartment overlooking a pottery factory. Not until he was installed in it did he relax. At least without Wilcox he felt less vulnerable. He did some grocery shopping and hurried back to the apartment. Having spent many summers with his family in Spain, he had a good grasp of the language, but he still sounded like an Englishman, and worse, he knew he would stick out like a sore thumb if he didn’t change his appearance. He decided to grow a beard, get a good suntan, and hide out. He knew he had to use his cash sparingly; there had been no big payday yet, and there might never be one. After reading all the English newspapers from cover to cover, he felt sick. Most were a day old, but they made no mention of the robbery, which scared him more than big headlines. It was always that way before the police swooped in.

Wilcox took from the villa anything he could sell: bed linen, cutlery, and Driscoll’s clothing. He loaded up the Jeep, knowing it would have to be the first thing he sold as it was licensed in Driscoll’s name. His main problem was where he was going to hide out, and he had to resolve it fast. Taking Driscoll’s advice, he wondered about shacking up with one of the girls he’d met on his first night there. Sharon was a waitress in a cocktail bar down on the harbor. If not her, there was Daniella, a masseuse who worked at the Marbella Country Club. She’d come on to him in a big way, and he’d arranged a date for that night.

Wilcox drove toward Sharon’s villa in the hills, but at the last minute he decided against it as she shared with two other girls. He turned round and headed for Daniella’s. By that evening he had sold the Jeep to a rental company, signing it away as Anthony Driscoll, and bought an old Suzuki for cash. He drove to Daniella’s small apartment on the outskirts of Nueva Andalucia. Even though Daniella was unsure how she felt about her new houseguest, he was charming and persuasive, and she finally relented. She warned him, however, that if he messed around with her he would have her brothers to deal with. As it was, they wouldn’t like her cohabiting with him.

He gave her money toward the rent immediately to show that his intentions were honorable, and that night he was introduced to Daniella’s family. He did not mention that he had six children and an irate mistress in England but gave an elaborate story about falling in love and wanting to make a new life with Daniella, outlining his intentions to look for work the following day. One of Daniella’s brothers offered him a job in his holiday apartment block as a general handyman, painting, decorating, and cleaning up after the clients had gone home. It was a far cry from what he was used to, but at least he felt safe, for now.

Neither Wilcox nor Driscoll had attempted to contact de Jersey. Wilcox decided that he should not even contact Françoise or Rika for some considerable time. At least the boys were with their mother, and he felt sure that Rika would not stay solo for long.

Christina was nervous but so hurt and betrayed that she felt her salvation lay in what she was about to do. Once confronted by Chief Superintendent Rodgers and three senior officers, however, she became flustered and tearful. She was offered tea or coffee but asked for water. She remained silent, head bowed, as Rodgers gently began trying to encourage her to talk. She agreed to the interview being tape-recorded.

“Why have you come to see us today?” he asked.

“I feel compelled to voice my suspicions of someone’s involvement in the robbery of the Crown Jewels and the death of Sylvia Hewitt,” she replied in a flat, unemotional voice.

Rodgers glanced at his officers. “Who are you referring to, Mrs. de Jersey? We have asked for the public’s assistance in many areas.”

“Philip Simmons.” She did not look up.

“Do you know who he is?”

“Yes, I think so.” They waited as she coughed and sipped the water, her head still bowed. “I think he’s my husband.” She looked up then and began to talk quickly, explaining how she thought she had recognized him from the television program but she had not wanted to believe it.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. de Jersey, but until you saw that program did you have any reason to believe your husband was Philip Simmons?”

“No, not really. He had been worried about money and-”

“Once you’d recognized him from the depictions on the TV program, what did you do?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, was he at home? Did you confront him?”

“Yes.”

“So you confronted your husband and accused him of being this man we are trying to contact, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You asked him if he was Philip Simmons?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he wasn’t.”

“He denied it, then?”

“Yes, to begin with, until…”

The tension in the room was almost palpable, and Christina hesitated. “Until… I found the diamond.”

Rodgers sat back in his chair with disbelief. “Mrs. de Jersey, are you saying you found the stolen jewels?”

Christina’s hands were clenched. “One of them. It was in the toe of one of his boots.” She described how she had found the stone and said she was now sure that it was the Koh-i-noor. She told of how she had confronted her husband, how he had said it was a fake, and how she had then used the stone to cut the dressing table mirror, proving that it was real.

“What did he do then?”

“I asked him point-blank if he was involved in the robbery.”

Rodgers and the other officers leaned forward. “And what did he say?”

Christina paused. “He said he was.”

The silence in the room was deafening. This was the confirmation they had all been waiting for. She continued, “When he told me… I didn’t know what to say. It was like I was in shock. He made me some tea and…” Tearfully she explained how he had laced it with sleeping tablets and how she’d awoken to discover he had left during the night in the helicopter. Then she broke down, and Rodgers called for a break.

Once they resumed, she was questioned again about Sylvia Hewitt and was able to recall the night of the woman’s death.

“Are you aware that Sylvia Hewitt died from a mix of morphine and ketamine?” Rodgers asked quietly.

“I didn’t know how she died. I believed it was suicide. I told you this when you came to the house.”

“Ketamine is a strong horse tranquilizer, and vets also use it for putting smaller animals to sleep.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said, with a dull-eyed stare.

“Would your husband have had access to this drug?”

“I suppose so… he did run a racing stable. You should ask Mr. Fleming. I don’t know.”

“You say he fed you sleeping tablets the night before he left?”

She looked up, shocked at what he was suggesting.

“Did you suspect that he may have been trying to silence you? You have told us he left the same night.”

“Yes, that is correct, but there were pills left in the bottle, and if he had wanted to kill me he would have used them all.” Her voice rose.

“So, you do not think your husband meant to harm you?”

“No!”

Rodgers remained silent, then leaned close to her. “When we came to the house, you said nothing of this to me, Mrs. de Jersey. Not a word about finding the diamond, not a word about confronting your husband, not a word about his admission of guilt. And that makes me suspicious.”

For the next hour, Christina was forced to repeat many times the moment she confronted her husband. When she was accused of aiding his escape, she stood up. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know! I didn’t know!” she yelled and broke down sobbing. “I didn’t think he would leave me,” she cried, and it was Trudy Grainger who took Rodgers aside and said that Christina should be allowed to rest.

Rodgers was fully aware that the woman was in shock, but he felt only excitement at the advances they’d made. The old adage that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned was giving them their biggest break to date.

They stopped for lunch, and the team assessed the information. They were worried that they might have lost the big fish as they had received no word from Interpol. As for the other stolen gems, Christina had no clue where they could be. Unknown to her, a search warrant had been issued. To the consternation of the new owner, an army of police officers had arrived to search the house and stables. The same scrutiny was also directed at Tony Driscoll’s property and James Wilcox’s house.

That evening the police gave a statement to the press saying they were now able to name Britain’s most wanted man as Edward de Jersey, also known as Philip Simmons. Additional warrants had been issued for the arrest of James Wilcox and Anthony Driscoll. The police said that both men were possibly residing in Spain.

On the following day, accompanied now by her solicitor, Christina began another lengthy session with the police. They asked detailed questions about her husband’s trips abroad. When they learned of the trip to Monaco, they looked again at the inquiry into the Hortensia Princess owned by Paul Dulay, who had been under surveillance for weeks. Until now they had had only his confirmation that he owned the Hortensia Princess and his explanation of the “drop” witnessed by the boys.

Dulay was arrested by the French police. At first he was adamant that he had had an innocent reason for being anchored off Brighton. However, they were now armed with the fact that de Jersey had been at the Brighton racecourse on the afternoon of the heist and that he had arrived there shortly after the eyewitnesses said they had seen the drop. Under pressure Dulay refused to answer questions without a solicitor.

Dulay’s shop and home were searched again, and under further questioning he began to break. His lawyers agreed to a deal if he gave information and admitted his part in the robbery. He took the police to the small cove and pointed out the bobbing lobster pot. The cove was jammed with sightseers and reporters as the launches set out to make the collection.

The crate was returned to the shore and taken to the local police station, where it was opened. In it they discovered all the stolen jewels, except for the fabulous Koh-i-noor Diamond.

Dulay was questioned round the clock and at last gave details about the sale of the diamond, and the Japanese buyer was traced. At first he refused to be interviewed, but then, on condition that there would be no repercussions, he admitted to having given a large down payment to Dulay for the diamond but said he had not yet received the stone. Dulay was questioned again, with the British police present, and admitted to paying Edward de Jersey half a million dollars in Paris; the rest he had kept for himself.

Now the police feared that the stone had already been broken up. They persisted in their interrogation until Dulay cracked. They could hardly believe it. The stone was hidden among pebbles by a waterfall in his garden.

When British officers reached the waterfall, they found a mermaid spouting a trickle of water from her outstretched hand. Beneath her tail fin, gleaming among the rockery stones, was the Koh-i-noor. As the water bounced off it, refracted rainbows danced in the sunlight.

In England the excitement of the jewels’ return was dying down, but reporters had given heroic stature to the men they believed were behind the theft. Edward de Jersey’s name was on most people’s lips. The police were sent on one wild-goose chase after another. Two weeks later there were no arrests except for that of Paul Dulay. He had spilled his guts, but it became clear that he had known only so much. He had never met Driscoll or Wilcox or any of the others involved in the heist, he maintained, but when he was shown the photograph of Edward de Jersey, he identified him as Philip Simmons. He remained in a French prison until he could be brought to England to stand trial.

After naming de Jersey as the main operator, Dulay was returned to his cell. He had not disclosed that he had met Anthony Driscoll many years before. The police still had no notion that Dulay, along with de Jersey and his team, had been behind the bullion robbery. Dulay asked for notepaper and a pen. Then he tore up his shirt and hanged himself in his cell. The note he left for Vibekka and the children asked them to forgive him. His death was a severe blow to the police. It was four weeks from the day of the robbery.

Chief Superintendent Rodgers insisted that he would not give up searching for the robbery suspects. He stated that he would arrest the culprits within the next few months. However, de Jersey’s trail had gone cold. A man on the run with nothing was easy to pick up. But de Jersey had more than enough money to buy a new identity, a new face if he so desired. Even with the efforts of the FBI and Interpol, they had no leads. He, like Wilcox and Driscoll, had disappeared.

The team of detectives decided to focus their search in Spain and try to pick up Wilcox and Driscoll. Armed with photographs of their suspects, plus a substantial reward for information, they headed off.

After days of interrogation Christina collapsed. She spent two days in a private clinic, and her father came to England to care for his granddaughters. At last she was given permission to return to Sweden with the girls. The Swedish authorities agreed to put surveillance on them all in case de Jersey made contact.

Christina had been in Sweden almost a week before she went to the bank. She had her own account there, with money left to her by her mother and some small items of jewelry in a deposit box. She wished to sell the jewelry as she had decided to remain in Sweden. She spoke briefly to the manager, who took her to the vault. She unlocked the box in private. In it she found a letter addressed to her. She knew from the writing on the envelope that it was from her husband. With shaking fingers she ripped it open and read the single sheet.

My Beloved,

By the time you read this, either I will be a man you despise intensely or you may have found it in your heart to forgive me. I had no option but to sell fast and make no indication to you of my intentions. I did not ever want to implicate or harm you and our children in any way. I love you as much now as I did when we were first married, and I love my daughters wholeheartedly too. I also respect you and know you will bring them up to be as beautiful and admirable as yourself.

I know you would never betray me, but to safeguard your life and ensure your future happiness, the best possible scenario is for me to disappear. I have made provision for you all. The keys enclosed belong to a lovely house I chose with you all in mind, as I knew you would return to Sweden. I will love you until the day I die, and I thank you for the most beautiful and perfect twenty years. God bless you.

She held the letter loosely, reading and rereading it as the tears welled in her eyes and dropped onto the page. The keys were attached to a small card with an address on it, and beneath that was a thick envelope with bank cards and accounts in the name of Christina Olefson, her maiden name. They contained one and a half million pounds. The house was valued at three quarters of a million.

Later that day Christina sat on the stripped-pine floors of her new home, staring out at the gardens. He had thought of everything, as always through their marriage. He had loved her, and she had not trusted him. He must have known she would not, and guilt now replaced the pain she had carried for weeks. But there were no more tears: she had wept too many. She got up and pressed her face against the cold windowpane. She drew a heart in the condensation on the glass, wrote her name and his, then slashed an arrow through it. She walked out of the room as the heart dripped tears. She knew now that their life together was truly over. She had loved him so much, perhaps too much, and it had made her blind. Christina would not have cared if they had been penniless, but he would have, and that was why he had jeopardized the happiness of his family.

Christina intended to keep secret the money she had received. She did not ask the bank manager when or how her husband had accessed the deposit box. She preferred not to know. She asked her father to move in with her and the girls; then it might be thought that her father had bought the house or at least part of it. The police, she knew, were still monitoring her, perhaps hoping de Jersey would make contact. But now she was certain he would not.

She enrolled her daughters in the American school in Stockholm and began furnishing and decorating her new house.

It had been one of the coldest Mays on record, but Royal Flush was in peak condition, ready for the Derby on June eighth. The massive stallion had lost his frantic, often dangerous edge. He had been groomed until his coat looked like black patent leather. He left the other top-class horses a good furlong behind in training, and as the buildup to the flat-racing season started, Mickey Rowland became confident that, although the owner had changed, he would still have the ride of his life. It had been written into the deal de Jersey had struck, and for that Mickey could forgive his boss’s sudden departure and the salary he was still owed.

Royal Flush’s new owner kept his prowess under wraps. No spectators were allowed to watch his training sessions. Having won his two trial races with ease, he was the hot favorite for the Derby, even more so because he had been Edward de Jersey’s horse. The most wanted man in Britain was about to see taken from him the prize he had coveted.

To Chief Superintendent Rodgers, the lack of sightings and of public information regarding Driscoll and Wilcox, even with a large reward, was unfathomable. Clues to the whereabouts of Pamela Kenworthy-Wright had also borne no fruit until they received a call from Plymouth police. A woman had been badly burned in a fire at her flat in a run-down area known as the Fort. She had apparently fallen asleep while smoking and drinking. The neighbors had seen smoke coming from beneath her door and tried to break in. Unable to do so, they had called the fire brigade. Pamela was found in a sorry state on her bed, badly burned and suffering from smoke inhalation. When the paramedics had tried to take her to hospital she became hysterical, but by then she was sinking into a coma. Beneath her bed the police discovered a large tin box containing three thousand pounds in cash and a variety of articles that warranted suspicion. There was a shirt with Lord Westbrook’s monogram and a gold signet ring with his family crest on it.

Chief Superintendent Rodgers and two officers caught the train to Plymouth, and a squad car picked them up at the station. Within fifteen minutes of their arrival at the hospital, Pamela died. It was a bitter blow that they had been unable to interview her, though her part in the robbery was later confirmed by Maureen Stanley, who identified her as the lady-in-waiting.

They spent a considerable time sifting through Pamela’s belongings but came up with no further clues. She had been as diligent as de Jersey had instructed her to be, except for Westbrook’s ring, which he had left her along with the cash.

Alone, and with little contact from anyone, Pamela had taken to drinking heavily as she read the exploits of the police in their hunt for the raiders. But even that began to mean little to her as she drank more and ate less. Poor Pamela. She had died a horrible death, but she made front-page headlines, and the papers showed a photograph of her taken years ago in a touring production of The School for Scandal. In the photographs from her old scrapbook she looked beautiful, so at least she was saved the disgrace of anyone seeing her raddled, drink-blotched face and carrot red hair. She died as Lady Teazle, and even long-lost friends who had known her as an actress came forward to give eulogies about her talent and her wonderful nature and humor. She would at least have liked that part.

In Spain, Wilcox was tanned and had grown his hair and beard. He was still working for Daniella’s brothers. One positive outcome of his new modest lifestyle: he was getting his cocaine addiction under control. One lunch break, Daniella’s brother held up a Spanish newspaper. “There’s a horse here that was owned by the guy they say did the Crown Jewels robbery,” he said, stabbing at the paper. “It’s called Royal Flush.”

When the young man had gone, Wilcox read the story about Royal Flush. He turned the page to see a picture of Edward de Jersey, still at large, and yet another lengthy article about the jewel heist. He stared at de Jersey’s impassive face. It would be just like him, Wilcox thought, to turn up at the Derby, bold as brass, and watch his horse run. He wondered whether the police had thought the same thing. He could not resist touching the image of de Jersey’s face and sending up a silent prayer that he did not.

Driscoll was flicking through the U.K. satellite channels. Eventually he settled on one where they were discussing the forthcoming Derby. At first he paid little attention as he had never been a gambling man. When he had worked in Ronnie Jersey’s betting shops, the old boy had warned him to keep his money in his pocket and let the punters lose theirs. Driscoll had religiously followed his advice. Then the program focused on a horse called Royal Flush, once owned by Edward de Jersey, and he gave the TV his full attention. Driscoll had not allowed himself to think about de Jersey, but hearing his name brought it all back. He rarely left his apartment for fear of being recognized and had grown a full beard. He had lost a considerable amount of weight, partly as a result of living on his nerves and partly thanks to the fresh salads and vegetables he bought at the market. The stomach pains and indigestion he’d lived with for years had abated, and he was much fitter thanks to the nightly jogs he took to pick up newspapers left on the beaches by the tourists. Over the past couple of days he had been in a panic: his own face was plastered over the papers along with Wilcox’s. He sent up a silent prayer that for his sake, for Jimmy’s, for the old Three Musketeers, de Jersey would stay hidden.

By late May, Christina knew that the hype for the Derby would soon pick up, and this Derby would have special implications for her. She would not place a bet-she never had-but for de Jersey’s sake, she hoped Royal Flush would win. Like Wilcox, she wondered if he would risk watching his horse race. This was the race her husband had wanted so badly to win, with its connection to his long-dead father, though exactly what the connection was she did not know. All she hoped was that he would not surface.