He was so deeply in thought he was startled to find Natasha standing over him. She had on an overcoat over her nightdress, and Wellington boots.
“Is he all right, Daddy?”
He reached out his arm to draw her to his side. “He’s doing fine.” Then he stood up and ruffled her hair. She buried her face in his chest, and he chuckled. “Still my little girl. But you should be in bed.”
“I was worried about Royal Flush.”
“So am I, but the vet says he’s just got a chest cold, and there’s plenty of time for him to recover before the season starts.”
He turned out the lights, and they walked out of the office past the back room. This was where the racing colors of his stable were kept. He switched the lights on and stood breathing in the smells he loved and touching the colors displayed on the wall alongside the plaques and pictures of past champions. So many races, so much of his life was here in this tack room. Next to his knee boots and weight cloth hung Royal Flush’s bridle. Laid out on the table was the grooming kit that the lads used with such care to maintain his beautiful coat. Natasha slipped her arm through his as he touched Royal Flush’s bridle.
“Your granddad, he would have been so proud. You missed a lot not knowing him and my mother. In fact, she looked a lot like you: tall, strong, knitting. Always knitting. And when I was a little boy she’d read to me. She could read and knit at the same time. Click click. She had a soft, warm voice. She read me all the classics. Sometimes I think she knew whole passages of them by heart. I owe her a lot. Shall we go and say good night to my boy, then?” he asked.
They went into the yard, and he opened the stable door. Royal Flush kicked out, then stared at de Jersey angrily.
“What’s up with you, my old son?” he said quietly and approached him.
The magnificent horse snorted and allowed de Jersey to stroke his neck. From his glossy coat and impressive presence, it was hard to believe there was anything wrong with the stallion.
De Jersey rested his head against the big beast’s neck and closed his eyes. Here was the jewel in his crown. Never before had he placed so much expectation in a horse. “Don’t let me down,” he whispered. He felt so close to Royal Flush that it was hard to drag himself away. As he shut the stable door, he took one last look.
“What is it, Daddy?”
He had almost forgotten Natasha was there. “Well, darling, I’ve never put my dreams on the line like this. Sometimes at night I close my eyes and I see him winning the Derby. I truly see every moment, and I feel the most extraordinary pride. That’s my boy coming out of the starting gate, and I know he’s going to win for me. Then, when he passes that winning post, I’m cheering and waving my hat in the air… . But then I wake up and realize it was only a dream.”
She slipped her hand into his, and they walked back to the house in silence.
He had been thinking that he should come up with some kind of insurance in case the robbery was unsuccessful, whereupon not only would he lose the estate but any buyer for the yard would want Royal Flush. In the past he’d always had a backup plan in case a robbery failed. Now was the time to put in place a safety net.
CHAPTER
14
The problems with Royal Flush continued, and it was decided that his throat should be scraped. Any inflammation caused by mucus might have repercussions. The next morning de Jersey gave the go-ahead for the operation and watched sadly as the horse was driven from the yard. It was not yet seven o’clock, so he had a lengthy workout in his gym. He pushed himself, first on the treadmill, then the rowing machine before moving on to the weights. By the time he was showered and changed, he felt clearheaded and hungry. Christina cooked him scrambled eggs and bacon.
He reached for her hand. “Got some business to do in London. If I have to stay over I’ll call you.”
“Say good-bye to the girls. They go back to school today.”
He drained his coffee cup just as Natasha and Leonie came in. He hugged and kissed them both. When the phone rang, his body went rigid. It might be the vet. He nodded for Christina to answer it, which she did, then held out the receiver to him.
“Darling, it’s the vet.”
De Jersey took the phone with trepidation. Then his face broke into a wide smile. “You’re kidding? Are you sure?”
“We’re certain,” the vet reassured him. “We don’t think the operation’s necessary after all. It was just a bit of a cold. His chest is clear, and although his throat is a bit rough, he’s in terrific shape compared to when we last examined him. It must have been the antibiotics.”
“Are you bringing him home?”
“We are. Give him a day or so, and then he can go back into training.”
It was just what de Jersey needed. He rushed to Christina and lifted her off her feet. “My boy’s coming home. They don’t need to operate!” He kissed her lips and bounded out the door without a backward glance. Now he could get on with preparing for the robbery without worry about his “boy.” Everything was back on track, and he knew he had to get moving. It was already late January.
De Jersey walked through the door of the Kilburn flat and straight to the computer. There was an e-mail from Elvis asking when he wanted his next tutoring session. Then checking the post he had brought in with him, he found a long-anticipated letter from Gregory Jones, responding to his fake solicitor’s letter. The blue notepaper was stamped “Franklyn Prison.”
Jones’s handwriting was looped and slanted backward, but the letter was well constructed. It said that a visitor’s pass would be allocated shortly, and he was looking forward to discussing the possibility of appeal. De Jersey wrote to confirm he would see Jones, signing himself Philip Simmons.
Later that day, Paul Dulay phoned. He had an appointment in London several days hence, so they arranged to meet. Things were starting to pick up pace.
Philip Simmons, Solicitor, pinned a visitor’s pass to his jacket. His briefcase was searched but contained only documents from the firm of Hunting and Letheby. He was ushered into a booth next to the main visiting hall, security cameras monitoring his every move.
After ten minutes, the door opened and Gregory Jones, wearing a yellow striped bib, was led in by two officers. They stood by the door as he sat down in front of de Jersey, then moved outside.
Once the door was closed, Jones, a surly-faced man with an athletic build, took out his tobacco and cigarette papers. His face was pockmarked, with two fresh scars down one cheek, like thin tramlines, where he had been cut with a razor. It was a typical prison injury, no doubt caused by a pair of razor blades stuck so close together in a nailbrush that the wound would be difficult to stitch. Jones rolled a thin cigarette, took a box of matches from his pocket, and placed it on the table. Then he broke the silence. “You had no trouble getting in, then?”
“No. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“You intrigued me.” His voice was coarse with a trace of the West Country. His teeth were stained. “There’s no hope of an appeal, so I know you aren’t from my solicitors.”
“Do they tape these meetings?” de Jersey asked.
“Invasion of privacy, pal.” Jones leaned back in the chair. “They’re supposed to monitor the odd phone call, but they don’t bother. Too much aggravation. Imagine the fucking nonsense they’d have to wade through.”
De Jersey looked down at the papers. “Your two daughters live with a relative in America?”
“California. One wrote for a while, then stopped. Why do—”
“You must want to see them again.”
“They’ll be married with kids of their own by the time I get out, if I ever do.” He sighed. “I’d like to see them. It’d be a light at the end of the tunnel.”
“How are your finances?”
“The savings I had disappeared with the legal costs. Like the wife.” He sucked in his breath. De Jersey could feel the man’s pent-up bitterness. “So, let’s get to the point, Mr. Simmons. You got the visitor’s
pass. I’m here. What do you want?”
“Information.”
“I thought as much. Who are you?”
De Jersey glanced at his watch. “I have a proposition for you.”
Jones stared at the ceiling. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”
De Jersey took out a file. “I need certain information, and it is imperative that the details you supply are legit.” He passed over a sheet of typed questions.
Jones took a long time reading it. He flicked ash from his roll-up a couple of times but did not look up until he slid the paper back to de Jersey. “What’s the deal?”
“Fifty thousand. Any bank account, any name, any country.”
“But I’m in here and you’re out there, so how can I trust you to do what you say?”
De Jersey leaned forward. “You can’t, but how about putting faith in the old saying ‘My word is my bond’?”
“I suppose I’ve not got much to lose,” Jones said.
De Jersey began to pack his briefcase. “You interested?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you have the information?”
“You know I do. That was my job, but how do I know you’re not setting me up?”
“Not much point. As you said, you’re in here already.”
“I need more information.”
“The less you know the better. But I mean no harm to the Royal Family.”
De Jersey clicked his briefcase shut.
“You want me to phone you with the info or what?”
“Too risky, even if they’re too bored to tape calls. I think the best way is another face-to-face. Before then you can phone me with your account details… . I gather you are interested?”
Jones lit up. “Bet your arse—and I’ll tell you something for nothing. I know a lot more than what’s on that page. The security there is archaic.”
A bell rang to indicate that time was up. De Jersey said, “I do not intend to break in. As I stated, I have no desire to harm the Royals or put them in jeopardy.”
Jones’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “You’re not the fucking IRA, then? Cos I draw the line there, pal.”
“I am not connected to them.” De Jersey leaned close, his voice hardly audible. “I can give you the light at the end of the tunnel, but no more questions. I need answers, understand me?”
Jones nodded. Their eyes locked, then the door opened.
Jones stood up. “Mr. Simmons, can we shake on it?”
De Jersey grasped the prisoner’s hand.
“I’ll call you just to arrange payment, all right?” Jones said softly.
De Jersey felt Jones grip tightly. “Yes, but I don’t want answers. Not then. After I hear from you, we’ll organize another visit.”
After Jones was led out, de Jersey waited for an officer to take him back to the gates. Next visit, Prisoner 445A should have all the answers he needed.
Raymond Marsh seemed even odder-looking than previously. His hair shimmered as if it had been sprayed with crystallized sugar. “Can’t stay long. Taking the wife out. There’s an Elvis at a pub that’s shit-hot. He’s Chinese, but he’s got an amazing voice.”
He sat in the chair in front of de Jersey’s computer and swiveled toward him. “You’ve been spreading yourself around the chat rooms. You’re getting quite good, but I was disappointed you were checking out other hackers when you’ve got the best right here.”
De Jersey smiled. “Prove it. I need some information.”
“What’s it for this time?” When de Jersey didn’t reply, Marsh gave him a sideways glance. “Novel, right? I read your messages. What do you want?”
“I need to know the Queen’s diary movements. I am writing about the Golden Jubilee. Can you do that?”
“Do what exactly?”
“Gain access to the Royal household’s computer and check out the Queen’s diary dates, especially for her fitting of the Crown Jewels. I know it should be in May sometime, but I want the exact date and time. It should be listed.”
Marsh chewed his lip. “That’s a bit dodgy, mate.”
“I’ll pay you well.”
Marsh nodded. “A grand?”
“Five hundred, cash.”
“Okay, I’ll have a go. It’d be easier to read it in The Times. They list her comings and goings next to the births, deaths, and marriages.”
“By the time it’s public, it’ll be too late for what I have in mind.”
“And you’re writing a book.” Marsh grinned. “I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.”
De Jersey went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He could hear the click of the keyboard as Marsh moved through cyberspace, inching closer to his destination. After about half an hour he laughed. “I’m in! I’m fucking in!”
De Jersey leaned against the table.
“You’re in luck, pal,” Marsh said.
De Jersey read over his shoulder while Marsh printed out the lists as they appeared on the screen. Finally, he passed the pages to de Jersey with a flourish. “Her Majesty’s diary.”
De Jersey glanced down the list of all the Royal Family’s current engagements. He flicked to the May–June dates: June 1, Princess Royal takes salute at the Centenary Parade; June 3, Duke of Kent to open the Montgomery Exhibition; June 4, Duke of Edinburgh as Master of the Corporation of Trinity House attends the Outward Bound Charity Golf match; June 5, the Queen holds an Investiture at Buckingham Palace. There was no mention of the jewels fitting, no mention of Jubilee celebrations at all.
“This isn’t any good. It’s from the Royal Web site. I could have got it myself,” he said frustratedly.
Marsh dangled two sheets of paper in front of him. “Not these, though. For an extra two hundred, they’re yours.”
“One hundred. And let me see them first.”
Marsh threw the pages to him.
De Jersey studied them closely. This was made different from the engagements sites by the alterations, queries, and question marks. “TBC” was written beside numerous appointments. His heart jumped. There, on May 2, was the word “Fitting.” Beside it was the name of the jewelers, D’Ancona, and the time, 10:30 A.M. De Jersey folded the pages.
“Is that what you wanted?” Marsh asked. “I couldn’t come up with anything else.”
“Not really,” De Jersey lied. “I was hoping to find out about her portrait sittings, but it’ll still be useful.” He withdrew six hundred pounds from his wallet and handed the cash to Marsh.
“Ta. I’m gonna put it toward a holiday I’ve promised the wife. She’s not seen her sister for eight years. They live in New Zealand.”
As the door shut behind Marsh, de Jersey breathed a sigh of relief: he had found not only the date and time of the fitting but also its location. He reread the printout and laughed out loud. There was another piece of vital information on a February page: a D’Ancona representative was flying in from Antwerp for an appointment at the Palace. Since D’Ancona was a jeweler by appointment to the Queen, the alterations must be under way. By tailing the D’Ancona agent from the airport, perhaps he could discover the location of the “safe house” where the jewels were being kept. He needed Marsh again to find the list of passengers traveling on the nine fifteen from Antwerp to Heathrow.
The Daimlers had been stripped down. Wilcox had spent hours in the dank mews garage respraying and fixing them. As he expected, buffing the bodywork to gleaming Royal standard took time, but fitting the new carpets and replacing the leather seats would take even longer. Now Wilcox checked the engines. The cars would be taken to London in one of his own trailers. He didn’t want them to be seen driving through the city. He had already made the Royal mascot, which would be attached to the front, a silver St. George on a horse, poised victoriously over a slain dragon.
He had just turned on the electric polisher when de Jersey paid a surprise visit.
“How’s it going?”
“The engines are all tuned up, but the bodywork’s a problem.”
“I guess so, but they don’t make them like this anymore. We were lucky to find them. You wanna hear the engine?” He turned it on, and they listened to it purr.
“You here alone?”
“I get here early and leave late. I see no one.”
“Got a place to brew up?”
“Sure, out the back,” Wilcox said, wiping his hands on a rag.
As the two men sat with mugs of tea in the grimy back room, de Jersey updated Wilcox on the plan. Wilcox said little, smoking one cigarette after another.
“We’ve got a date, May second. Can the cars be ready by then?”
“Hell, yes. I’ll work on the upholstery in London, but we need a place to store them.”
“I’ll find it,” de Jersey said. “Gregory Jones is putting together the rest of the information, then I’ll proceed with the Palace security research. Now we just need the D’Ancona rep to lead us straight to the jewels.”
“What arrangements did you make for moving them on?” Wilcox asked.
De Jersey sipped his tea, and Wilcox repeated his question.
“You know, Jimmy, I still don’t have it direct from you that you’re not going to get cold feet—or Tony for that matter.”
“Don’t do this to me,” Wilcox said.
“What am I doing, Jimmy?”
“My head in. Obviously I wouldn’t be schleppin’ up and down the motorway fixing up these motors if I wasn’t in.”
“But you haven’t said it to me directly.”
“I’m saying it now, all right? And I reckon Tony’s in too.”
De Jersey continued drinking his tea.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Course I did.”
Royal Heist Page 19