“Well, for starters, you’re not on your toes. Not like you used to be. And this Hewitt woman could be trouble.” Driscoll closed the door. “Also, I worry about Jimmy. He’s doing too much coke. I’ve told him that to his face but—”
De Jersey put his arm around Driscoll’s shoulders. “I’ve never taken unnecessary risks with you or James and I’m not going to start now. If this caper looks like a no-win situation, or if one of you isn’t up to the job, I’ll be the first to pull out.”
Driscoll nodded, unconvinced.
De Jersey went on. “It means a lot to me that you’ve both offered to help.”
Driscoll sighed. “You’re worth it.”
“I’ll talk to James,” de Jersey said. “He won’t know it came from you. It’s obvious to me, too, when he’s high.”
Driscoll drove away, the dog staring out of the rear window. De Jersey watched the car go. He had suspected Wilcox of doing coke. He would have to keep an eye on him. Wilcox had always been a bit on the wild side, but in the end he delivered.
This time he would deliver even faster than de Jersey expected. That afternoon he got a call from Wilcox saying he might have located the vehicles. He’d seen an ad in Motor News, and he was going to check it out.
The following morning, Wilcox walked along the cobbled mews behind Leicester city center and paused outside a double garage. A peeling “Hudson’s Weddings and Funerals” plaque hung precariously from a rusty nail on the garage door. He had parked his Ferrari a good distance away, outside a large petrol station. He’d asked the proprietor to check the oil and fuel, telling him he would return soon.
The double garage appeared to be locked, and Wilcox stepped back, annoyed. But when he gave a really hard knock, there was the sound of footsteps. The door creaked open, and a short, wiry man with bifocal glasses peered out. He had iron gray hair in a spiky crew cut and was wearing oil-stained overalls. Ken Hudson was seventy and suffered from glaucoma. He gestured for Wilcox to follow him into the gloomy garage.
It was larger than it had appeared from the outside, with four covered vehicles parked in a square. Hudson switched on a yellowish light and launched into a monologue on his now defunct wedding and funeral business. He was selling everything, including the tools, the paint-spraying and car-cleaning equipment, the four vehicles. Wilcox poked around the small back office, which was home to a kettle and a small camping stove.
Hudson squinted at him through his thick glasses. “You wanna look at the vehicles?”
Wilcox smiled and shrugged. “Eh, Pops, I can shift the hearses, but they’re not what I’m after. I want to make this a paint shop, respray cars, stuff like that. I’ll take ’em, but it’s the premises I’m primarily interested in. What’s your asking price? It’ll be cash, so don’t play silly buggers.” Wilcox lifted a tarpaulin and discovered a Daimler.
“Ten thousand,” Hudson said.
“I’ll give you eight, cash.”
Hudson paused. “All right, but that’s a damn good price.”
The deal done, Hudson brought out the grubby documents, signed everything over to “Tom Hall,” and gave him a receipt for the cash. After another fifteen minutes of small talk, the old boy handed over the keys and left. When he was alone Wilcox dragged the tarpaulin off each of the Daimlers. They were exactly what de Jersey had requested. Two were hearses and two had been used for weddings, but not for some time. Mildew and cobwebs threaded across the seats. Wilcox inspected each vehicle’s engine. He would use two for parts, and it would take a lot of elbow grease to get that bodywork gleaming again.
Before driving back to London, he purchased a book on the Royals and, using a magnifying glass, checked out their Daimlers. He would need to make a copy of the mascot fitted to the Queen’s car. He also had to match the seat colors. It would take time, but he was in no hurry. It was still early days. In some ways it was good to have something to take his mind off his financial problems, and as the Colonel had said, if it didn’t work out and he wanted to walk away, he could. He was just carrying out orders, as he had in the past.
Later that day de Jersey arrived outside Sylvia Hewitt’s apartment block in St. John’s Wood. He had telephoned from a small café along the high street. Helen answered and told him that Sylvia was not at home but that she expected her at any moment.
“Would you like her to call you at home?”
“No, I’m in London. In fact, I’m not far from St. John’s Wood. May I come round tonight?”
“Of course,” Helen gushed.
“Good. I’ll see you shortly then.”
He snapped his cell phone shut and sat with his cappuccino, wondering how to approach the matter. He had to find out the private investigator’s name and, more important, if the PI had discovered anything that would lead Sylvia to him.
Helen opened the front door. She looked dreadful, even thinner than before. “Sylvia’s on her way. I called her office and she was just leaving.” She gestured for him to follow her into the drawing room. “Would you like some tea?”
“That would be nice,” he said. “I’ve had a long day.”
Helen clasped her hands. “I’ll just slip out to the high street. There’s a very good deli, wonderful cakes, unless …”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble but I’m a sucker for chocolate éclairs.”
Helen tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be two minutes. Would you like the television on?”
“No, thanks. It’ll be nice to sit here and relax.”
As soon as he heard the front door close, de Jersey was on his feet. He searched the room, then looked through the rest of the apartment, walking past the immaculate kitchen and bathroom to Sylvia’s bedroom. He was fast and careful, first her wardrobe, then her dressing table. Last he searched her bedside table and, in one of the drawers, discovered a photograph of her with David Lyons, several letters, and Sylvia’s birth certificate and driving license. He hurried from the bedroom into a small adjoining room she used as her office, where he uncovered the mail from Matheson in New York, his carefully listed expenses and updates of his investigation. Then he heard the front door open and was caught near the bedroom door. He smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, where’s the bathroom?”
Helen pointed to a door opposite as she made her way into the kitchen.
He went in and closed the door. Then he read one of the letters he’d taken from the bedroom. It was a love letter from David to Sylvia.
It was almost five thirty when Sylvia arrived. De Jersey stood up to shake her hand. Helen seemed as relieved as he was to see her. “If you two will excuse me, I think I’ll just go and have a lie-down. I hardly sleep at all these days,” she said.
“I’ll wake you for dinner,” Sylvia said.
She took off her coat and gestured for de Jersey to sit down. “I suppose you’ve heard all about her depression. I have to listen to it day and night, and it’s becoming a strain.” She tossed her coat over a chair and sat primly opposite him. “After everything is settled I think she’ll have enough to buy a small place of her own. These things take so much time, though. We’ve sold the house, or what was left of it after the fire, but poor David was in a dreadful mess. The house was in both their names, but he’d even remortgaged that. Helen just signed whatever he put in front of her.” She sipped her tea. “For a while the police and the fire specialist were suspicious of the way the fire had started, but in the end they couldn’t find anything, so the insurance company was forced to pay up. At least Helen has salvaged something from this mess.”
“Unlike you,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“I understand that you also invested money in the Internet company.”
“How did you find that out?” Sylvia asked, surprised.
“You aren’t the only one with access to information, Miss Hewitt.”
“Helen still doesn’t know I was one of the unlucky investors,” she said. “I’d prefer to keep it that way, at lea
st for now. It has been a very sad business all round.” She took another sip of tea. “I have contacted the two other main investors, and they are surprisingly reticent about the matter. Although I haven’t lost as much as them or you, I’m not prepared to sit back and accept it.”
De Jersey was angry. “So, contrary to my request that you keep my financial documents confidential, it seems you have been using them.”
“Well, David often stopped off with me to do some homework. He left a few files and I looked through them,” she admitted.
“Homework?” de Jersey asked, feigning surprise.
“It was such a long journey home that he often waited here until the rush hour was over.”
“You should tread carefully. If you are privy to my private transactions—”
“Not all of them,” she interjected.
“That is beside the point. As I have told you, I am distressed to think that my financial documents are being discussed without my permission. It is highly irregular, not to mention illegal.”
“I am aware of that. But under the circumstances with his suicide—”
“The manner of his death has little to do with me, Miss Hewitt. If you continue to search through my private papers, I will be forced to consult a lawyer to—”
“I haven’t shown them to anyone else. In fact, I’d have thought you’d be pleased that I’m making progress in trying to trace the man responsible for the losses you have incurred.”
“I am here to request again that you cease doing this.”
“But why? You have lost a substantial fortune, Mr. de Jersey. Don’t you want it back?”
“I am more than aware of what I have lost—”
“But I have some information. My private investigator has discovered that a man called Philip Simmons has been acting on Alex Moreno’s behalf in financial matters, and I am determined to track him down. I think they made some kind of deal that enables Moreno to benefit from the sale of his property without having to worry about creditors seizing the funds.”
De Jersey clenched his teeth.
“I’ll get the details for you.” Sylvia scurried from the room and returned with a bulging file. She sat down at the table and began to take out documents. She handed them to de Jersey with a flourish. “The same man, Philip Simmons, organized the continued refurbishment of the East Hampton property and apparently intends selling it as soon as it is completed. He also sold Moreno’s apartment. I have searched through file after file, and I can find no one of that name in David’s records. I’ve asked his assistant, Daniel Gatley, and he cannot recall meeting him. So who is he? Is he in partnership with Moreno? At the very least this Mr. Simmons must know how to contact him. Or maybe it’s something more sinister.”
“Sinister?” de Jersey repeated.
“Moreno has disappeared without a trace. Maybe Simmons is using an assumed name. I’m sure we’re on to something because Mr. Matheson has confirmed via some contact he has in Immigration that no one by that name ever arrived in the U.S. from Canada. In fact, they have no record of him entering the U.S. at all.”
De Jersey thanked God he had used his Cummings passport to enter the United States. “Is Simmons among the investors?” he asked.
“No, he isn’t. He might be Canadian, but I assume he lives in the States, because why would Alex Moreno use a Canada-based financial adviser? It doesn’t make sense. I have a list of the other investors if you would like to see it. None suffered the losses you, Mr. Driscoll, or Mr. Wilcox did.”
Every time she mentioned their names together he cringed inwardly.
“I have paid this detective a substantial amount already, so to just let it go would be silly,” she went on. “I have therefore asked him to continue. I think it would be sensible to pool our resources, split the cost of hiring Mr. Matheson. I’m sure he will get us results.”
“How much do you believe the house and the apartment in America are worth?” de Jersey asked.
“You mean, what has Simmons got away with?” she asked.
“Didn’t you say he was just a business adviser that Moreno employed?”
“Yes, but even if he isn’t profiting himself from the sale, he will know who the money goes to when it’s sold, won’t he?”
“And if you trace that person, do you think he will just hand over the money?”
“Well, whether it’s Simmons, Moreno, or someone else, they should be forced to split it with us. If we can’t make them, we’ll get the police and the courts involved.”
De Jersey remained silent for a moment as she began to collect the papers. Then he asked, “These two other major investors, have you their permission to act on their behalf?”
“No, as I said earlier, they’re rather dismissive. All the other investors I’ve spoken to are eager for results. I’ve also discovered David began to communicate with Moreno six months before the crash. He was e-mailing him daily. These are copies of the e-mails.” She passed the printouts to de Jersey. “As you can see, around five months ago Moreno wasn’t giving David any hint of the company’s financial troubles and instead was suggesting that he bring in more financial backers. And he did. You yourself remortgaged your property, as did Mr. Wilcox.”
“It seems suspicious to me that you have access to such sensitive information,” de Jersey remarked, in a cold but even tone.
“What do you mean?” Sylvia said, unnerved.
“I’m not sure if you want me to discuss this here,” de Jersey said and glanced toward Helen’s bedroom.
“Is it to do with Helen?”
“Yes. You see, David was an old and trusted friend. He often confided in me.”
“Really?” Now it was her turn to tense.
“I have said that my business with your brother-in-law was highly confidential. The fact that he embezzled substantial amounts of my money is shocking, and I was not prepared when my solicitors informed me of another perplexing and deeply worrying discovery.”
Her face took on a puzzled expression.
“Perhaps David had a partner assisting him in the fraud. Someone with access to his papers, to his clients, someone to whom he was very close.”
Sylvia sat back nervously. “I don’t follow.”
“I think I should make it clear, then. I’m presently taking legal advice, and we have been discussing action against you, as we believe you assisted David in embezzling money from my accounts which I had not authorized to be invested.”
Sylvia sat in shocked silence.
“There is also a trust fund that David stole from me, and we believe he must have had an accomplice.”
“That is ridiculous.” Sylvia bristled.
“Is it? Well, then, perhaps you should know we are aware that you and David were involved sexually. We have photographs of the two of you together in—”
“That isn’t true!”
“I’m afraid it is.” He knew he’d got her. “I know that you were his mistress.”
Sylvia stood up, her face drained of color.
“I’m sure poor Helen has no idea that you and David had been having an affair for years. You may have hired a private investigator, Miss Hewitt, but so did I. I can assure you that my information regarding your connections to David could have you charged with conspiracy.”
“No, no! I swear before God it’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? Maybe you’re pretending to pay for a detective when what you’re really doing is attempting to squeeze even more money out of the investors.”
“You’re wrong.”
De Jersey stood up and stared at her. “I’m warning you, Miss Hewitt. You will return my financial documents and everything else in your possession that concerns me or I shall proceed with legal action.”
Sylvia began to weep. “I admit that David and I were lovers, but I did nothing illegal. Nothing.”
“Well, I would like to believe you, but my solicitors do not agree. I came here today to warn you. I care for Helen and don’t want to see h
er hurt any more than she already is.”
“Please don’t tell her this, she’ll have a breakdown.”
De Jersey ran his fingers through his hair. “Then you had better call off this chap in America. My financial situation is not your problem. My people do research on my behalf. If they prove to me without a doubt you had no involvement—”
“But I didn’t!” She started to sob. “I loved him, but whatever I say won’t help. I know how it must look, but I had no idea he was involved in such terrible frauds. I’m sure most of it was unintentional. He always spoke so highly of you.”
“Miss Hewitt, I am not interested in hearing sad stories about David,” he snapped, and this time he moved very close to her. “I will not hesitate to make sure your sister knows the truth, and I won’t be sorry to drag you through the courts if that’s what it takes to stop you invading my privacy. Do you understand?”
Fifteen minutes later de Jersey left the St. John’s Wood apartment, carrying disks and papers he had taken from Sylvia. She had called Matheson in New York and, in front of de Jersey, taken him off the case. She’d also signed a confidentiality agreement, promising not to divulge anything she had learned about his private affairs. She wept when he promised that he would reimburse her losses at some time in the future if she kept her word. He warned her against making any further calls to Wilcox or Driscoll or making his losses known to other investors.
It was after eleven when de Jersey arrived home. He went straight to his study and had just filed away the papers he had taken from Sylvia when Natasha walked in. “Daddy, we’ve been trying to contact you all day.”
He whipped round, startled. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Royal Flush. The vet’s taken swabs from his throat. He’s had a bad chest after his training session.”
“Thanks for telling me. I’ll go and have a look at him.” He threw on an overcoat and walked out into the yard. He let himself into the manager’s office and read the vet’s reports with a sinking heart.
After tests it had been surmised that Royal Flush had nothing more than a cold. But the mere fact that the horse had been off color worried him. First the leg injury, now the chest infection. If Royal Flush had trouble with his breathing, it was a sure sign of problems to come. As soon as the weather cleared the horse would begin training for the Derby, but fortunately there was still considerable time before June. He put the reports back in their place.
Royal Heist Page 18