Royal Heist (34 page)

Pamela and the now sickly Westbrook had traveled from the City Thameslink Station to Brighton. There they switched to a second train for Plymouth. Pamela was concerned by Westbrook’s depleted energy. He was sweating profusely and had twice staggered to the lavatory to vomit. His face was yellow, and sweat plastered his hair to his head. The journey would take at least five hours, and they would need a taxi to get them to the safety of her flat. De Jersey had instructed them to separate and Westbrook to return to London, but his Lordship was too unwell to be left alone.

When they reached the station, they flagged down a taxi. Pamela had constantly to feed Westbrook his painkillers so that he had enough energy to walk unaided to her flat. She had made the taxi stop two streets away, not wanting to give the driver her address. Westbrook hardly spoke, but when she opened her front door and helped him collapse onto the sofa, he gave a dry sob, his face twisted in pain. Her heart went out to him. “We made it,” she said softly.

The helicopter too was reaching its destination. The yacht was anchored almost nine miles off Brighton Marina, and as he flew overhead de Jersey used his cell phone to call Dulay. He put the engine on remote control, slid open the side door, and tossed out the crate. He didn’t wait to see it hit the water. Instead he did a wide arc, then headed for the helipad at Brighton racetrack.

Dulay watched the crate hit the water and bob to the surface. It was just a few yards off its marker. He gave the signal to start up the engines, and the big yacht moved majestically toward it. Dulay and two crew hauled the crate aboard, then they were on their way back to the Riviera. He spotted a small yacht a good distance away but realized he could do nothing about it and hoped to God that no one aboard had seen the drop.

Three boys were testing the little yacht for the nationals. They had taken it without their parents’ permission and were smoking a large joint when the helicopter flew overhead. Through binoculars they watched in amazement as the crate fell out. At first they were unsure what they had seen, and they passed the binoculars around, wondering if they had witnessed a drugs drop. They did not, however, have a radio, and as the large yacht turned to head out to sea, they reckoned they were wrong. If it had been drugs, surely the boat would be heading inland. Suddenly they felt a flurry of wind and galvanized themselves to set sail back to the marina.

At the racecourse de Jersey went into the weighing room to see Mickey Rowland, surprising him. The jockey was heading toward the locker rooms carrying de Jersey’s racing colors, ready to dress. He thought it was odd that his boss was here to see Fan Dancer when he hadn’t made it to Royal Flush’s race at Lingfield, but he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his business where and when the boss showed up.

He shook de Jersey’s hand and told him that Fleming was heading over to the saddling enclosure. He watched de Jersey stroll out, smiling and acknowledging a few of the jockeys he knew. He also saw him pause by the Sheikh’s jockey and take him to one side. He wondered if his boss would go back on his word about his ride in the Derby.

De Jersey walked into the owners’ and trainers’ bar, acknowledging a few people he knew. He bought a gin and tonic but hardly touched it and, moments later, crossed to the saddling stalls. He stopped beside the Sheikh’s trainer. They discussed a few race meetings, and the conversation came round to Royal Flush. Evidently the horse’s progress was being monitored by everyone in the business. De Jersey felt a rush of pride and said casually to the trainer that it was his turn for the Derby. He paused as the trainer’s quiet, almost lisping voice said, “Yours, Mr. de Jersey, or Royal Flush’s?” It was an odd statement, and he would have replied to it but he saw Fleming waving to him.

He excused himself and joined his trainer. “Seen him fishing around. Any money he was asking you about Royal Flush. He’s got his eyes on him, you know,” Fleming said.

“So would I if I had his money and history of success.” De Jersey was referring to the Sheikh’s domination of the racetracks and his record of breeding champions. He had the finest stud in England, if not the world. The Arabs were well known for their love of the races. Their animals were kept in luxurious surroundings with the finest trainers and jockeys under million-pound contracts to race exclusively for them. One of their studs was not far from de Jersey’s.

“What brings you here?” Fleming asked as they headed across the green toward their allocated stall.

“I missed my boy’s last race, so I felt I should make an appearance. Don’t want the gossipmongers spreading it around that I’m not taking an interest anymore.”

Fleming saddled Fan Dancer, and together they went to the ring to watch him being led out to wait for the jockey. There were ten horses racing, so nine other owners and trainers stood waiting as well. Mickey walked out, fixing his helmet strap beneath his chin. He stood with de Jersey and Fleming for a few moments, listening to last-minute instructions, which were to give Fan Dancer an easy race. He was helped into the saddle, and they went out of the parade ring to watch him canter up to the starting gates.

De Jersey and Fleming stood side by side in the owners’ and trainers’ stand. Fleming had to lend his boss his binoculars.

“I can’t stay too long. Christina and I are due to watch the girls in
The Taming of the Shrew,
” de Jersey said, monitoring Fan Dancer. “After the race I’m going to have to shift myself to make it.” Then he focused the binoculars on the Sheikh’s trainer, who stood nearby studying the racing form.

The horses were under starter’s orders, and then they were off. Fan Dancer ran a good race but seemed to get boxed in early at the rails. De Jersey watched Mickey move him out, but the horse didn’t like pushing his way between two others. Then Mickey moved him through a nice gap and, hardly touching Fan Dancer with the whip, rode him into fifth position. He dropped back to sixth, then moved up again to remain in fifth as they crossed the finishing line.

“He’s no Royal Flush,” de Jersey said, returning Fleming’s binoculars to him.

“Few are” came the reply as they turned to walk back to the stables. De Jersey excused himself, asking Fleming to tell Mickey he’d ridden a good race.

De Jersey left the Brighton track at four o’clock and did not relax until he was alone. He gave his pocket an involuntary pat and felt the object cushioned against his leg. He knew the exact weight was 105.6 carats, but it had felt even heavier when he had prized it out of the crown. If they lost the bulk of the jewels he had dropped for Dulay, he would still retain the prize Koh-i-noor Diamond.

The City of London learned that the most daring robbery in history had been pulled off through numerous news flashes that interrupted TV programming for that day. The
Evening Standard
ran the story on the front page, and the police were stunned at the audacity of the raiders. They gave away little about the robbery, but Maureen was pictured on the front page dressed as Her Majesty with a fake crown and a frozen smile. She was currently under sedation and unable to speak coherently. Her husband, she had been told, was safe if badly shaken. Though she was hysterical, she had been able to tell the police how she had been kidnapped and her husband’s life threatened. She had also given a description of the man she said headed the robbery. Although she had never heard his name, she described de Jersey as a “military kind of man.” He was in his mid-fifties, she said, had red hair and a mustache, and was very tall.

The public marveled at the robbery, but most were confident that the culprits would be caught. The Metropolitan Police Special Branch and the Army announced that they would join forces to recover the jewels. Operation Crown began immediately.

Quickly the police processed the section of the security film that had been recorded just moments before Hall had forced the guard to pull the plugs. The team were caught on film entering the hallway and heading toward the reception. But when they got the film back from the labs they saw that there was a clear shot of Maureen but no single frame in which her lady-in-waiting could be seen because of the large hat the woman had worn. They could see only a partial profile of Driscoll and a shoulder and body shot of de Jersey, his face obscured by the only member of the team caught fully on camera. Lord Henry Westbrook was shown smiling and talking before the screen went blank. It was only a few hours before he was identified by a police officer who had been involved in his fraud case.

At a press conference, reporters were informed that progress had been made. There was a warrant out for the arrest of Lord Henry Westbrook. Meanwhile the staff at the safe house were all asked for detailed descriptions of the men and the woman involved in the heist. Their descriptions of Pamela varied, so the police were relying on Maureen for details. She was still sedated and in hospital, her husband at her side. He gave a description of the driver of the Mercedes that had picked up his wife. He could offer only vague details of the man’s companion.

No one could provide a decent description of the two bikers as their attention had been focused on the “Queen.” The sketches depicting the tall man hardly seen on the videotapes were confusing. All agreed that he had red hair and a mustache, but none could give a clear description of his face. Saunders maintained that this man was the leader. His voice was cultured, and he had a military manner. He had been the first to leave the vault.

A massive search for the cars was mounted, and witnesses were asked to come forward if they had seen the convoy driving toward the safe house, but no one called.

Christina was selecting what to wear for her daughters’ school play when the phone rang. She pursed her lips, sure it would be her husband making some excuse.

But it was Helen Lyons. “Have you been able to contact Sylvia yet?” she asked.

“I’ve called her home and her office, who told me she’s taking some time off in America. I told you this last time we spoke. I got no reply from her flat, so she must still be away.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m really worried about my money situation. I’m not broke, but David always took care of all our finances.”

“He certainly took care of ours,” Christina snapped. “I’ve called your sister for you, and I don’t want to get involved any further. I’m sorry, we have money problems too, thanks to your husband’s misappropriation of our finances. The more I discover about how much David stole from us, the more I find these calls tedious. Now, I really have to go, please don’t call me again!”

She replaced the receiver, then felt dreadful. She knew she was taking out her own anxiety on the poor woman—but what she had said to her was true.

Just after three she drove away from the estate to do some shopping.

De Jersey got home at five o’clock. He stashed the wig and mustache in a briefcase and hurried toward the house. He seemed calm and collected, but his adrenaline was still pumping. When Christina returned from her shopping, he had bathed and changed, and was in the kitchen.

“You’re back,” she said.

“I am, my darling. We have a date tonight, don’t we?”

“The girls’ play, yes. I thought, with all your problems, you might have forgotten it.” She walked past him to unpack the groceries.

He turned, surprised at her tone. “You make it sound as if I’m in the doghouse,” he said.

“You are, if you must know.” She joined him at the table. “I might as well tell you, because you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Find out what?”

“I was in your study and broke . . .” She paused. She looked at him, frowning, then leaned forward and rubbed his sideburns. “You’ve got glue or something stuck to your face.”

He backed away. “It’s shaving lotion. Go on, what have you broken?”

“I haven’t broken anything,” she said petulantly, then faced him angrily. “Please stop treating me like a child. I broke into your desk drawers.”

He hesitated a moment. “Really? And why did you do that?”

Christina chewed her lip, then took a deep breath. “I don’t know—no, I do. I’m sick of your lies. I just wanted to know what was going on.”

“When was this?”

“Does it really matter? Anyway, what I found upset me. I wanted to discuss it with you face-to-face. That’s why I didn’t mention it to you when you called. Why didn’t you tell me, for God’s sake? If you can’t be honest with me after all these years . . . You’re virtually bankrupt!” Christina said.

De Jersey relaxed a little. “Why don’t we go and sit in the drawing room and you can tell me about it.”

“You go ahead,” she said. “I’ll make some tea.” He nodded and walked out.

She took a deep breath. Her nerves were in shreds, but she was determined not to let him off the hook this time.

De Jersey listened as Christina detailed her discoveries. “I don’t understand why you would need fake passports.”

“I’ve been using aliases off and on for years. It’s been a sort of ploy to allow me to move in and out of the horse auctions without my real name attached.”

“That can’t be the reason,” she said angrily. “You even had passports for me and the girls, all in false names. There are recent stamps in one passport to New York. You never told me you’d been to New York. What’s going on?”

“I didn’t know I’d be going there myself, and I got the passports for you and the girls just in case you accompanied me on one of these undercover buying trips. You know I hate being apart from you. That’s the only reason.”

“So what were you doing in New York?”

De Jersey decided to come partially clean. “I went to see the man who ruined me. I didn’t want it to get out that I had.”

“Why not?”

“He used me, Christina. As you know, he let his company go belly up and consequently did the same to my whole life.”

“So you went to see him?”

“Yes, but I used a different name because I didn’t want to alarm him or forewarn him. Turned out he still had some of my money invested in some properties out there. He was a cheap con man. I caught him just about to skip the country for South America. He got scared I’d get the cops on to him, so he coughed up. Not all of it, just a fraction, really, but enough to keep my head above water for a while.”