Royal Heist

28

The police were still maintaining a large team on the hunt for de Jersey and were armed with recent photographs of Wilcox and Driscoll. Liz Driscoll had no idea where her husband had been on the day of the robbery, and Rika said she was certain Wilcox had been at home because it had been his sons’ birthday party. Up to this point no physical evidence had connected either of the pair to the heist, but they had set themselves up for suspicion with their absence. The hunt for them was stepped up.

After nearly a month of wild-goose chases around Spain, the police came up with nothing. Chief Superintendent Rodgers was now looking into leadingleisurewear and Alex Moreno. But Moreno had disappeared off the face of the earth. Rodgers was feeling depressed when he called a meeting to update his top officers. He knew he had to remind the public that de Jersey was still at large-he needed their help-but even the press were no longer eager for bulletins. At his last weekly session with the big chiefs, they had hinted about bringing in a fresh team to review the situation.

He stood up, pushed back his chair, and went to the meeting room where the twenty male and two female officers on the inquiry sat waiting for him. He entered with a scowl on his face and stood in front of the rows of photographs assembled on one wall. “Well, I’m going to have the rug pulled out from under my feet if we don’t make some bloody arrests,” he snapped. “They’re still at large, and anyone with any bright ideas, now’s the time to spill them out.”

Sara Redmond, a small, pretty, blond detective, raised her hand. “It strikes me, gov, that the one lead we do have is this name, Philip Simmons. Why did he use that name? Maybe there’s some historical reason, some link to his past. Or perhaps he’s used it in other crimes. It’s worth a-”

The phone rang. Rodgers picked it up and listened, his face changing from drawn gray to deep red. As he hung up, he hit the table with the flat of his hand. “We’ve got a guy held in Newcastle, brought in after a burglary went belly-up. He’s asking for a deal.” They looked on in anticipation. “He’s admitted to being in the heist.”

The room erupted with a cheer, and they scrambled to their feet. Sara Redmond’s comment was forgotten.

In exchange for a reduced sentence, Kenneth Short had given a statement in which he admitted to being one of the bikers on the raid. At first he had denied knowing his partner, but eventually he gave the second name and the police picked up Brian Hall from the farm in Dorset where he had been hiding out. Short had been paid in cash by a man he knew only as Philip Simmons, twenty thousand up-front with a second twenty thousand to come after the stones had been sold. After reading in the press that the jewels had been recovered, he knew he would never see the second payment, but he had already got himself into debt on the strength of it. He had arranged to burgle a factory office, but he had been caught by a security guard with a dog.

Hall and Short described how they had used the boats as getaway vehicles, then set fire to the boathouse. Both motorbikes were recovered from where the men had left them. They also took the police to the barn, which still housed the second Daimler. In addition to providing the team with fresh evidence, the two men’s arrest put the robbery back on the front pages, and the police hoped for further developments.

Neither of the men arrested could give details of the setup for the robbery, but they told the police that they had been brought in by Tony Driscoll. Hall had worked for Driscoll years back but had met him again when he was hired to work at his daughter’s wedding. Both men identified Wilcox as the driver. Now the hunt for Driscoll and Wilcox intensified.

Wilcox and Driscoll were forced to sweat it out. Spain was crowded with British holidaymakers, and photographs of the two were placed in every Spanish police station, in bus shelters and airports, with REWARD in red letters printed above their faces.

The next lucky break came from a prisoner who also wanted to make a deal. He said he had heard a rumor that a guy in Franklyn had had something to do with it, a Gregory Jones.

Jones was unforthcoming. He was in for life and knew he would not get a more lenient sentence, even if he cooperated. He agreed to talk only when they promised to put in a good word for his transfer to an open prison. From Jones the team learned how he had told Edward de Jersey, posing as a solicitor named Philip Simmons, about the Royal household’s security procedures. Jones did not indicate that he had been paid.

Reviewing the outcome of the work, Rodgers was back on form, his energy renewed. And his officers were more confident now. They felt they knew both Wilcox and Driscoll, having spent hours interviewing Liz Driscoll and Wilcox’s live-in girlfriend and his ex-wife. Trudy Grainger and Sara Redmond, the two women attached to the team, had both been very visible when they and Christina de Jersey had been interviewed.

“We may be getting to know Driscoll and Wilcox, but Edward de Jersey remains an enigma,” Trudy said as she checked over the recent statements.

“What do you mean?” Sara asked.

“Well, he doesn’t fit into the same pattern as either Wilcox or Driscoll. He’s a different kind of man, and you can almost understand why the press make such a meal of him, of all three of them. I mean, they didn’t use any violence during the robbery. Nobody got hurt.”

“You want to bet?” Sara said.

Trudy continued, “They didn’t use violence. It’s a fact. All right, they put the fear of God into the security guard at D’Ancona, ditto the staff, but in the long run it’s benefited that Queen look-alike. She’s getting a lot of mileage out of the kidnapping. She’s in the News of the World every week, and her husband is acting as her manager! Last Sunday they gave her a full-page spread in the magazine section on how to wear twinsets or some such crap. Like I said, nobody got hurt and they got the jewels back, so that’s why the public doesn’t give a toss.”

“I don’t agree about nobody getting hurt. Ask the wives-in particular Christina de Jersey-how they feel. They were lying bastards all of them, especially Edward de Jersey. He didn’t give a damn for his wife or his two kids. How do you think they’re coping?”

“Probably loving it,” snapped Trudy, irritated because she knew Sara was right.

“Loving it?” Sara asked. “No way. He walked out on them, and got away with millions. He’s not a hero to me. He’s a lying, two-faced son of a bitch, and I hope we catch the bastard.”

“Okay, you made your point. But for all his faults we can’t seem to get a single person to say anything bad about him.”

Sara leaned against Trudy’s desk. “No, that’s not quite right. It’s not that no one will say anything bad about him, it’s that they don’t want to say anything at all. Maybe because they’re afraid. But someone’s got to know him, got to be able to lead us to him.”

Trudy smiled. “Well, maybe you’ll find them now. I’ve got to take these in to the gov, so excuse me.”

Sara returned to her desk and sat doodling on a notepad. All the men arrested had spoken freely about Driscoll and Wilcox but seemed reluctant or unable to divulge much about Edward de Jersey. They said he spoke little, was always polite yet acted like an army officer. They had never seen him angry: he had always been pleasant, well dressed, and courteous. Brian Hall had said Wilcox and Driscoll hung out together, rarely talking to anyone but de Jersey; both men always referred to him as the Colonel. Sara drew a pin man with a big head and a curling mustache and printed under it THE COLONEL. Then she tore it into fragments and concentrated on looking over all the statements from Brian Hall.

Sara was not the only person who had picked up on Hall’s reference to Edward de Jersey’s nickname. When he was receiving all of the other information, Rodgers had not paid it much attention. But now it intrigued him, and he stepped out of his cubicle. “Sara, can you print up Brian Hall’s statements for me?”

“Sure, just going over them myself, gov.”

Rodgers sat down again in his swivel chair, his desk empty but for a telephone and a notepad. He detested clutter as much as he loathed computers. He was hemmed in by boxes and filing cabinets. It was as if the hunt for the jewel thieves had been going on for years instead of weeks.

Sara placed the statements on his desk and watched as he thumbed through them. “You looking for something specific?” she asked.

“Yep. It was something Hall said. It’s lodged in my brain. Did he say that Driscoll and Wilcox called de Jersey by a nickname, something like the Colonel?”

“Yes, gov. It’s on page four, about five lines in.”

Rodgers looked up, surprised. “Thanks. That’s all for now.”

She walked out, and he frowned, rereading the sentence in Hall’s interview as a bell rang in his mind. He closed his eyes and thought back to his days as a rookie officer, days when stories abounded about a mythical, untouchable robber known only as the Colonel. Could de Jersey have been that mastermind? He was the right age. Suddenly Sara Redmond’s suggestion that de Jersey had used the name Philip Simmons for a historical reason came flooding back to him. Could it be that if he looked again at the robberies attributed to the Colonel-the Gold Bullion Raid and the Great Train Robbery-the name Philip Simmons would crop up there too?

Rodgers walked into the main incident room. “I need a car. I want to go to Edward de Jersey’s place. Is Trudy around?”

“No, sir. She’s just left to check out Gregory Jones’s bank statements. She’s going to interview his mother and-”

“Never mind. You come with me. Right now.”

Rodgers headed out to the estate again. This time he wanted to talk at greater length with those who worked there, those who had been in day-to-day contact with de Jersey. Up until now Rodgers had concentrated on the physical evidence and myriad leads, but now he knew he would have to understand the man. One thing everyone mentioned fascinated Rodgers: de Jersey was obsessed with Royal Flush. He had treated the stallion like a son, they said, had given him more attention than his own daughters.

At the estate, Rodgers was surprised to see so few people. But there were heavy cement trucks and building equipment: the new owner had begun renovations. In the stables Rodgers went from one empty stall to another, and Sara trailed after him. It was obvious that the staff, or most of them, had left. Rodgers came across Fleming talking to the vet.

“Afternoon,” Rodgers said. “Could I just ask you a few questions?”

They returned to Fleming’s old office, stripped now although the photograph of de Jersey with the Queen remained on the desk. The vet told Rodgers that de Jersey had been beside himself when Royal Flush was injured and ill. He said that de Jersey himself had tended the horse’s injured leg. Fleming told Rodgers that de Jersey seemed able to communicate with the horse better than anyone else. He recalled de Jersey’s outright refusal when it had been suggested they geld Royal Flush due to the vicious temperament that might destroy the horse’s concentration on the racetrack. Fleming decided not to mention the “arrangement” he had had with de Jersey or his payment of ten thousand pounds. He was too ashamed of it and knew it would not help the inquiry. As much as de Jersey loved the horse, he had risked his performance in the Derby. But Fleming now understood why de Jersey had used the stallion illegally to cover his champion dam. He had known that he might lose him and wanted the chance to own another racehorse as great as Royal Flush.

The vet left, and Rodgers with Sara, who had not said a word, remained in the office. Fleming was uneasy.

“Nobody wants this, then,” Rodgers said, picking up the silver-framed photograph of de Jersey with the Queen.

“I do,” Fleming said softly. He gave a glum smile. “The Derby was the race he always wanted to win. He had entered many of his horses over the years. It was something to do with his father.”

“What about his father?” Rodgers asked. “Did Edward de Jersey inherit this from him?”

Fleming looked surprised. “No. His father was an East End bookie.”

Rodgers was stunned. “A bookie?”

“Yes. I think his first name was Ronald, not that he ever said much to me about him. The boss wasn’t the kind of man you had lengthy personal conversations with. He went to Sandhurst, but I only knew him as a racehorse owner. He hired me over twenty years ago.”

“Did you like him?” Rodgers asked. He waited as Fleming hesitated, then repeated the question.

“Did I like him?”

“As a man,” Rodgers persisted.

“I don’t know how to answer that. It’s hard to, after what’s happened. They were a special couple, though. Ask my wife.”

“I’m asking you.” Rodgers stared hard at Fleming.

“Well, I just answered your question, didn’t I? You don’t work for a man for twenty years and feel nothing for him. I respected him and…”

“And?” persisted Rodgers.

“If he did what he’s accused of, then I must never have really known him, because he was always on the level with me, until right at the end. But I put that down to him having money troubles. Listen, I’ve got nothing more to add, and I’d like to get on with things, if you don’t mind. Still got some loose ends to tie up for the new owner.”

“Well, thank you. I appreciate you talking to me. I need to get to know the man I’m trying to track down.”

“I gathered that, but I don’t wish you all that much luck. I hope he stays free.”

Rodgers stood up, looking angry, and nodded to Sara, who had still not said a word. “Well, I hope he doesn’t. When it boils down to it, he’s a thief. A cheap con man. And he’s not going to get away with it.” He walked out. Sara gave a nod to Fleming and followed.

Alone now, Fleming picked up the silver-framed photograph his old boss had been so proud of. He did have more to say about de Jersey, but he couldn’t because it would implicate himself. Right now he and his wife were looking for a new place to live. He had discussed working for the Sheikh and had been offered a job in their offices. It was a comedown, but it would pay the rent and also provided accommodation. His retirement would be a considerable time off, and now he had no bonus or pension. When de Jersey had hit his financial troubles, he had stopped paying the pension scheme for his staff. Suddenly anger welled up inside him. Fleming wondered where de Jersey was hiding out and felt a rush of fury that he had put so much trust in his old boss. He smashed the photograph against the desk.

After his last meeting with Dulay, de Jersey headed back to Ireland using the passport in the name of Michael Shaughnessy. He owned a smallholding in that name, which was managed by a local Irish horse breeder. De Jersey had visited whenever he was in Ireland, but always in disguise. It had been his little secret. Bandit Queen, now in foal, was there.

The mare had cost 125,000 pounds and had been purchased from Tattersalls in 1999. She had raced only three times in the de Jersey colors. While the hysterical manhunt for Edward de Jersey continued, he was calmly arranging to send Bandit Queen to America. First he chartered a flight and paid shipping agency and export testing fees. He arranged the Weatherbys papers, listing Royal Flush’s brother, a stallion called Royal Livery, as the sire. He did everything he could to conceal that Royal Flush had been put to stud illegally. Bandit Queen, in foal by Royal Flush, was transported in a horse box to the airport. She would be held in quarantine in America, for which he had also paid, then taken to East Hampton. De Jersey hired a boy to travel with the horse and paid him well to make sure he took the greatest care of his precious cargo. De Jersey, as Shaughnessy, then flew from Ireland to Virginia. From there he took a flight to New York.

After arriving at JFK, de Jersey traveled on, still as Shaughnessy, to East Hampton on the jitney bus. He had only one suitcase and stayed at the Huntting Inn. He checked that Bandit Queen had traveled well and was undergoing tests at Cornell. He was certain they would find no discrepancies with her papers or blood tests. As with everything, he had covered his tracks well. He rented a cottage near Gardiners Bay in Springs, East Hampton. He rarely left the property but ordered anything he needed over the Internet as he planned how to regain ownership of Moreno’s property. He was careful, knowing that by now the U.K. police might have traced his connection to it, but he was not prepared to walk away from millions of dollars.

The hands at the Cornell quarantine stables led Bandit Queen down from the trailer, impressed by her size and obvious quality. She had a smallish head, almost Arab, with a powerful neck and a strong, muscular body. The foal she was carrying was not showing to a great extent. She was checked by a vet, who found that the long journey had not upset her, and she ate her first feed hungrily. Her coat gleamed in the late-afternoon sun.

By the end of May, de Jersey, now comfortable with his new name, contacted the law firm to which he had sent the crate of paintings, saying he would collect it personally. He drove there in a rented Jeep, walked into their offices, handed over his documents, and paid for the delivery. Then he drove to a warehouse they used for storage of their clients’ possessions. This was not an unusual transaction; the nomadic nature of many homeowners in the Hamptons meant that lawyers acted as “house carers,” paying bills and monitoring properties during the winter months, when they were vacant. De Jersey put the crate into the Jeep and returned to his house. He took out twenty thousand dollars, then hid the rest in waterproof plastic bags beneath the floorboards.

Over the last month he had aged considerably and lost a substantial amount of weight. Like Driscoll and Wilcox, he now had a full beard. He hardly went out unless to buy groceries. He bought from the local farmers’ markets and ate good, fresh food, trying to build up his strength, and every day he called to check on his unborn foal. At the quarantine stables they became used to the soft-toned voice of the man they had never met. “Hello, this is Michael Shaughnessy. How’s my lady?” he’d ask. He said he was hoping to leave Ireland shortly and gave no indication that he was already living in East Hampton.

De Jersey looked around for a property where he could eventually stable the mare and foal. Beneath the floorboards he had more than enough to keep him for many years, and when he eventually discovered a way to get his hands on the Moreno property, he would retire in luxury. His long-term plan was to open a racing stable in Virginia. Until then he was content to bide his time. The locals were aware that there was a new resident along the bay, but they made no approach. That was part of the joy of the Hamptons, the privacy: you could be social if you liked, or remain incognito. It was an artists’ colony, too, and the gaunt man with the long coat and beard fitted in. The beaches were always empty, and he took early-morning walks to watch the sun rise. He clambered over the rocks and sat contemplating his life, his future, and thinking of Christina, of his daughters, wishing that it had turned out differently. This, however, was the only way he could stay free, if lonely.

De Jersey had plenty of time to think about Driscoll and Wilcox, but there was no remorse. In fact, he had none for anything he had done, except perhaps Sylvia Hewitt, but that had been necessary. Believing that helped him come to terms with her death. He had no intention of returning to England, or watching the Derby, whatever anyone hunting for him might think. He had no need to go home. Bandit Queen was expecting his champion’s foal. He was certain that he had got away with it and that one day he would win the Derby with Royal Flush’s foal.

His conversation with Fleming and the vet was further confirmation to Chief Superintendent Rodgers that he was dealing with a complex man in Edward de Jersey. His father had been a bookie, yet de Jersey was able to mix with Royalty at one moment and steal the Crown Jewels at the next. As the squad car drove away from the estate, he looked at Sara. “What do you think?”

She gave a rueful smile. “I don’t think anyone really knew him.”

“Well, I’m damn well going to, because I’m gonna catch the bugger. Then I’m gonna retire.”

Rodgers decided he had to go back into the past to find out what made de Jersey tick. De Jersey had no previous criminal record, but Rodgers found old news coverage and articles on his father’s betting shops and the feuds between rival East End gangs. There was little information about either father or son, but there had been a memorial service for the well-liked bookie. He had asked for his ashes to be spread over the Epsom racecourse on Derby Day, but permission had been denied.

Rodgers, again with Sara’s assistance, now checked out births, marriages, and deaths, and discovered de Jersey’s birth certificate. He was older than Rodgers had believed, which fueled him to unearth even more about the man. He checked medical and school records. He checked Fleming’s comment that de Jersey had been at Sandhurst and found out that he had been discharged due to a complex knee injury that had required delicate surgery. It was Sara who discovered that James Wilcox had been at Sandhurst at the same time as de Jersey and, like him, had been forced to leave, although for different reasons.

At night, in the privacy of his home, Rodgers pieced together the paper trail; it fascinated him. Sara helped to uncover further details of de Jersey’s past on the computer, and Rodgers studied his career in the estate business. Sara acquired tax records, which showed his growing affluence, but nothing told them how he had acquired wealth enough to buy the luxurious estate. Now Rodgers concentrated on finding a past link between de Jersey and Driscoll. After hours of checking and cross-referencing, he was certain he was on to something: both Driscoll’s and Wilcox’s affluence coincided with de Jersey’s, all shortly after the Gold Bullion Robbery. Before he discussed his findings with his team, Rodgers instructed Sara to try to find when de Jersey had acquired the “de” in his name. She produced details of his first wife, Gail, whom he had married when he was still called Eddie Jersey. Remarried twice, she was now divorced and living in a mews house in Chelsea. Sara gave Rodgers her phone number.

The ex-Mrs. Jersey did not at first agree to be interviewed but eventually acquiesced. Rodgers hung up and looked at Sara. He would take her with him. After all, it was she who had put the idea of tracing de Jersey’s history of crime into his head. “You busy?” he asked.

“I was just about to type up the interview statement from the farmer who leased de Jersey the barn,” Sara said. “The forensic team is still at work, though it’s looking like their efforts aren’t producing much.”

“Trudy, can you take that over? Sara, I want you with me.”

Trudy pulled a face. “I can,” she told Rodgers, “but I’ve got information that Philip Simmons, a.k.a. Edward de Jersey, paid money into Gregory Jones’s mother’s account. Fifty grand!”

“Good work, and if that lying bastard thinks he’s going to a cushy open prison, he’s got another think coming.” He turned to Sara. “I need you for maybe a couple of hours, okay?” he said, and she closed down her computer. “Order a car for us, will you?”

Sara hurried out after Rodgers, who was pressing the lift button. “I need you to come and interview de Jersey’s first wife with me. She’s agreed to see us.”

“Why? You think she knows where he is?”

“I just want a clearer picture of the man.”

The small but expensive house was in Glebe Place, and Gail Raynor herself opened the front door. She was rather brittle and unforthcoming as she led them into a pleasant sitting room. She did not wait to be asked but went into a terse speech, saying that she realized they had come about her ex-husband but that she had not seen or had any contact with him for over twenty-five years. She had read the news coverage regarding his connection to the robbery, so she had thought they might want to speak to her, but she was not harboring him, she assured them. “And if he did make contact, I would waste no time in calling the police. It was a despicable crime, and I’m glad it failed. The stolen gems are now back, I hope, in safer hands than they were before.”

It was obvious that at one time she had been beautiful, but she had not aged well. She had tinted blond hair, arched eyebrows, and vivid blue eyes. She seemed to prefer to talk about herself rather than her connection with de Jersey. She had married young and soon realized that he wanted her more for her contacts than for love. Her father had owned estate agencies around Chelsea and Fulham, and de Jersey had taken over the running of them. Following the death of her father, he had control of the business. She was still disgruntled, despite the generous divorce settlement she had received.

“Did he buy the estate then?” Rodgers asked.

Gail shrugged.

“It was worth forty million,” he said softly, and her jaw dropped.

“The lying son of a bitch. Forty million! Jesus Christ.” She ran her fingers through her hair.

“Can you tell me anything about his background, his family?” asked Rodgers.

“His father was a bookie. He apparently made a killing on Derby Day, which enabled him to open his first betting shop, but apart from that I know nothing. In fact, oddly enough, Eddy didn’t have many friends. Forty million! I know the estate must have increased in value since he bought it, but it’s just unbelievable. He told me he only earned fifty thousand a year from Daddy’s business.”

Rodgers’s theory that de Jersey had acquired the estate using illegally procured funds seemed to hold water, and a knot of excitement formed in his belly. “So where do you think he got the finance to purchase it?” he asked, tentatively.

“I have no idea. He sold all Daddy’s agencies, so probably from them. I really don’t know. He always had money, though, very good at investments. He remarried some model young enough to be his daughter.”

“Did you ever hear anyone refer to him as the Colonel?” he asked.

“The Colonel?” Gail repeated. “He went to Sandhurst for a while but got kicked out. Injured his knee or something. He was always complaining about it, but that was his only Army experience. He was never a colonel. Though, knowing him, I wouldn’t put it past him to say he was. He may have played one once, I don’t really know.”

“Played one?” Rodgers asked.

“His mother was in some amateur dramatic society, and he used to be in their productions when he was a kid. I don’t know much about it, but he had some photographs of himself in costumes and wigs. He didn’t do it when he was married to me. Too keen to get on Daddy’s good side.” She stood up and looked toward a small antique desk. “I’ve got a photograph, I think. I’m sure I have.”

She opened a drawer and began searching for a photograph album. “I’m sure I had it somewhere.” She looked around the room, then crossed to a bookcase.

“Did you ever meet James Wilcox?”

“James?” Gail asked. “Yes, I knew him from the days we used to hang out in the clubs. He introduced me to Eddy.”

“Tony Driscoll?”

“I read about him in the papers, but I never met him.” She continued searching along the shelves, then pointed to a row of books. “There it is.”

Sara, who was taller than Gail, reached up and took down a leather-bound album. She handed it to Gail, who began to turn the pages.

“Maybe I’m wrong. After he left I made a point of throwing out anything connected to him. Ah! I’ve no idea why I kept this, but here it is.” She lifted the plastic covering off three black-and-white photographs. “It’s a production he was in when he was a kid. See for yourself. He’s standing at the end of the row.”

Rodgers looked at the picture.

“They did A Christmas Carol. He’s the one next to the little boy on crutches.”

Rodgers could see no resemblance to the man he was hunting in the tall, thin boy standing shyly to one side. He turned the picture over, and scrawled on the back were the names of the actors in the show. He passed it to Sara. The one listed as playing Tiny Tim was H. Smedley, and de Jersey had written “Me” for himself. She gave the photograph back to Gail. “Thank you.”

Rodgers knew instinctively that Gail didn’t have any more useful information so he stood to leave and thanked her for her time. But she hadn’t finished her tirade. “He walked out on me, you know. He never had the guts to say to my face that he was leaving. I woke up and found he’d packed and gone. The worst part was that he’d been preparing to leave me for ages. My lawyers said he must have spent at least six months arranging it all. That’s what kind of person he is, a devious liar.”

Rodgers murmured his thanks again, then said, “Well, I hope we catch him this time.”

To which Gail replied, “No point, really, is there? I mean, he’s almost a national hero, according to the press, and they got the jewels back. It’s not as if he killed anyone.” She gave them a watery, blue-eyed stare as she closed the door.

“Do you believe that?” Rodgers asked Sara as they returned to their car.

She hesitated. “No, I don’t. I think he killed Sylvia Hewitt. I also think he might have killed Alex Moreno.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I know everyone thinks Edward de Jersey is some kind of hero, but to me he’s just a thief. Maybe he’s been one for many years, and the more I hear about him, the more I uncover, the more I get this nasty feeling about him. I wouldn’t trust him an inch, but if I met him I think I might just as easily fall in love with him. That’s why he’s so dangerous. I’m certain that if Alex Moreno did steal from him, he wouldn’t let him get away with it.”

Rodgers gave her a sideways glance. “Lemme tell you something, Sara. Maybe I think the same, but if we start an investigation in the United States, they’ll get in on the act. We’ve come a long way to catch this bastard, and I want to be the one who does. I’m retiring after this, and no one else is gonna get the credit. I’ll get this son of a bitch. I’m close to it. I know it.”

“Unless he’s in the U.S.”

He gave her a dull-eyed stare. “If he tries to get his hands on the Moreno property, we’ll know about it. I’ve got the contractor over there keeping an eye open for us. Right now, all I’m interested in is catching the bastard myself. I honestly think I know Edward de Jersey now, really know him. He’s a cold fish. He dumped his first wife and did the same with his second.”

“He does sound ruthless. To do that to his two daughters is just unbelievable,” Sara remarked.

Rodgers unlocked the car doors. “Yes, he’s ruthless, but he has one vulnerable area. I realize that now.”

“His daughters?” she asked, getting into the car and slamming the door.

He got in beside her. “No. Somewhere, somehow he was able to cut out normal, everyday emotions like that. Sure he must care about them, but the man is calculating. He spends months working out every little detail. The planning of that robbery was a work of art.”

“So what’s vulnerable about him?”

“His racehorse Royal Flush, and if my gut feelings are correct, the bastard won’t be able to stay away from the race of his life.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ve got a little straw number,” she said.

He frowned, not understanding.

“I’ll need a hat for the races.”

He gave an odd, snorting laugh. “Get a good one on expenses. If he’s there, he might be in the boxes. I’m thinking of getting kitted out with a top hat and tails.”

She laughed, and he turned to her with a scowl. “I’m not joking. If he’s there, the bastard won’t be crawling like a rat in and out of the punters’ legs, he’ll be moving with the high flyers-and, knowing the fickle aristos of this world, they’ll probably welcome him, just like they covered for Lord Lucan. They’ll think it’s all a good laugh.”

She nodded. “I hope to God the laugh’s not going to be on…” She was about to say “you” but instead she said “us.”

“It won’t be, I’m sure of it. He’s going to be there, and it’s not gonna be funny. He’s going to get thirty years just like the Great Train Robbers, and I’ll be right there watching him as he’s taken down. That’d wipe the smile off anyone’s face.”

“I wouldn’t know.” She smiled sweetly. “I wasn’t born when that happened, gov.”

“I was,” he said softly. “I remember it all. I was also around for the Gold Bullion Robbery.” He took a sharp breath. He had been about to say they had never caught the man nicknamed the Colonel, but he stopped himself, knowing he still could not prove his suspicions. But what a retirement bonus he would get if he could!

Two weeks before the race Rodgers asked Christina to be at the Derby. She tried to refuse, but he was insistent. Who would be better able to identify de Jersey than her? She did not want them to look too closely at her financial situation, so she agreed but did not tell her daughters. She looked over the invitations that had been sent to her and was touched by how many people had asked her to join them in their boxes. Until she had been contacted by the police, she had planned to refuse them all. Now she accepted one, saying how much she appreciated the hosts’ kindness in asking her and that she looked forward to seeing them.

The police operation was planned and outlined. They would have the racecourse covered with officers in plain clothes, mixing on the lower levels, wandering around the tick-tack men, hanging out in the oyster and champagne bars. They would be by the main Tote betting shop. They would even be up in the Royal balconies. They would be in the restaurants and private rooms. They would be, as Rodgers said, everywhere de Jersey might appear. They had installed several cameras at the finishing line, covering the winner’s enclosure, the owners’ and trainers’ sections in the stands, the bars, and the small helicopter landing pad. It was a massive operation to catch one man.