Royal Heist (39 page)

The police were at yet another dead end, and the robbery was dropping out of the headlines. They felt their next best move was to have it profiled on a television crime program.
The Crime Show
had given over an entire fifty-minute episode to the case, and a private benefactor had offered 25,000 pounds for information leading to a conviction. As the program closed, the phones were ringing. The following morning, the calls were still being followed up.

Chief Superintendent Dom Rodgers, the officer overseeing Operation Crown, was feeling ill. He had been coughing for a couple of days and feared he had caught a virus. Now he felt red-hot, and he took himself to his G.P.’s surgery in Maida Vale. The waiting room was chilly and uninviting, and the two patients ahead of him both had streaming colds. He sat feeling wretched, wishing he had remembered to bring his morning paper. His cell phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. “Rodgers,” he answered, then listened. “What?” he said in amazement. “Look, I’m not far from their station. I’ll get right over there.”

He snapped off his phone, left the surgery, and drove straight to the St. John’s Wood police station. His chest hurt and he was sweating beneath his overcoat, but his excitement put his ill health to the back of his mind. He asked to speak to the officers involved in the Sylvia Hewitt inquiry.

Detective Sergeant Jon Fuller’s hand shook as he spooned sugar into a beaker of tea. “I’m so sorry, sir, but we had a list of David Lyons’s clients Miss Hewitt had named as losing in the crash of the Internet company and—”

“Just get to the fucking point, Sergeant. Philip Simmons. You called the robbery squad and”—he banged down a small tape recorder, then gestured with his hand—“go on, you’ve lost me enough times already, son. Philip Simmons.”

Armed with the details of the Hewitt case, Rodgers returned to Scotland Yard, where his team was waiting, having received the call from St. John’s Wood station earlier that morning. He tossed over his tape recorder.

“Listen to this prick, then come into my office. We’ve had a development we could have had fucking days ago.”

CHAPTER

25

O
ther developments now materialized in the wake of the television program. A taxi driver was sure he had picked up Lord Westbrook from Waterloo Station just before he died. He said he had driven him to his family estate but at the time did not recognize him. He was unable to say what train Westbrook had alighted from, but they had the date and time, so they could begin checking which trains had arrived around then. A hotel barman was sure he had seen Westbrook in the company of a man similar to the one described in the program, but he was more dark blond than redheaded. He could not recall the exact day but knew it had been sometime in January. A railway porter recalled seeing someone fitting Westbrook’s description on Plymouth station and said that he had arrived in a wheelchair pushed by an elderly, red-haired woman. A train had left Plymouth to arrive at Waterloo just before Westbrook was picked up by the taxi driver. The description of the woman wheeling the chair matched that of the woman who had purchased the flowers for Westbrook’s funeral.

The inquiry was buzzing again. An estate agent said that a man named Philip Simmons had rented a boathouse close to Putney Bridge. The transaction had been done over the Internet, and he had never met Mr. Simmons. The boathouse had burned down on the day of the robbery.

Officers were sent with frogmen and equipment to drag the river in and around the boathouse. They hauled up the wreck of a small speedboat. An identical boat was photographed and appeared on the front page of the
Evening Standard
with a request for anyone with information about a boat of this description to contact the police directly. This produced the mechanic who had sold the boat to Wilcox. He gave a description of Wilcox, whom the police identified as one of the men who had picked up Maureen Stanley, and who had purchased the two Daimlers. The mechanic, however, had never met anyone by the name of Philip Simmons.

All of this information made it look as if the robbers had escaped via the river, and appeals were made for anyone who had seen these two boats on the Thames to come forward. More officers questioned the owners of the vast number of boats along the Thames. This investigation yielded the location of the mooring facility rented for the two speedboats, and the name materialized yet again: Philip Simmons.

The Operation Crown officers were certain that Philip Simmons was the cyber-identity of their number-one man. But the most vital clue to his real identity came as a result of the death of Sylvia Hewitt, which now became part of the inquiry. They had the names of the men who had suffered extensive losses in the fall of the Internet company: James Wilcox, Anthony Driscoll, and Edward de Jersey. Could these three be connected in some way to Philip Simmons?

Pamela became frightened by the headlines—
POLICE ABOUT TO SWOOP
—and holed up in her grimy apartment. She felt cut off and alone. She wore a head scarf and dark glasses when she left to buy a dark brown hair dye. Then she went to the nearest off-license and bought a large bottle of vodka. When she returned she locked and bolted the front door, put the rinse on her hair, and left it for half an hour. She began to drink the vodka and chain-smoked, watching television from her bed. Her recent adventure seemed a far-off fantasy, except that the six o’clock news had implied it was just a matter of time before the robbers were arrested.

Driscoll and Wilcox were in the same boat as Pamela, albeit a more comfortable one. They both watched the news bulletins and read the papers from cover to cover. They had each watched
The Crime Show
with equal trepidation, their confidence dented. Their women put their bad moods down to financial pressures. Unlike de Jersey, Wilcox and Driscoll rarely left their homes. They felt more terrified with every phone call and knock on the door. The waiting was becoming unbearable, and eventually each decided independently that he had to flee the country.

Driscoll went to Spain, telling Liz that he needed to secure the sale of their villa, and after a quick phone call, Wilcox agreed to join him. They were breaking the Colonel’s rules, but they were unable to deal with the pressure alone. Still, they resisted the urge to contact de Jersey.

The latest developments had given Chief Superintendent Rodgers fresh energy, but by late afternoon on the day after he had interviewed Detective Sergeant Fuller, his temperature had risen again and he was forced to go home. The doctor insisted he spend at least two days in bed. The police press office assigned to the robbery now put out a statement saying that they had acquired vital new evidence and were confident arrests would soon be made. Rodgers warned, however, that not one of the three men’s names was to be divulged until they had more evidence. Above all, they didn’t want them tipped off. They knew that they were still in England from the statements taken by the young officer, but Rodgers made the mistake of delaying the requestioning of Wilcox, Driscoll, and de Jersey when he took to his sickbed.

Although Liz Driscoll knew her husband was going to Spain, Rika had no idea that Wilcox was leaving. He put the twins in his car, saying he was taking them to stay with their mother for a few days, and never returned.

De Jersey occupied himself with his horses. The friction between him and Christina had not eased and was a constant source of worry to him. It came to a head on the night of the television documentary. Christina was watching it in the bedroom, while he saw it in his study with brandy and a cigar. Halfway through he clenched the cigar in his teeth, switched off the television set, and got to his feet.

Christina heard her husband leaving the house and watched him drive away in the Range Rover from the bedroom window. She waited for a full ten minutes, but he did not return, and by the time she went back to the program it was over. The constant references to Philip Simmons had terrified her because, although the man was described as having red hair and a mustache, it had also been suggested that this might be a disguise. The man they wished to question had either worn a wig or dyed his hair. Although the computerized pictures of Britain’s “Most Wanted Man” did not look like her husband, the description of his size, demeanor, and military bearing made her suspicious.

Christina went into de Jersey’s office and closed the door. The room still smelled of his cigar, and the brandy glass was half full, as if he intended returning shortly. She went to his desk and tried the drawers. All had been fitted with new locks and handles. Christina was of two minds whether to force the locks again. Then she saw the keys on the desk. She opened the first drawer on the left side. It contained a few papers but nothing of importance. The next drawer contained veterinary and feed bills, and a stack of brochures for horse auctions in Ireland. The next had details of sales at Tattersalls, all of which she had already seen. She then turned to the right-hand side of the desk, opened the secret compartment, and removed everything, placing it on top of the desk. The envelope with the passports was no longer there. In its place was the last will and testament of Edward de Jersey. He had left his estate to Christina and their daughters. Also included were many donations to charities and detailed lists of personal mementos and monies to be paid to his staff. The will must have been drawn up a long time ago, not just because of the date but because she knew there was now no money for donations. She found nothing incriminating, except that he had removed the passports. Had he found a new hiding place for them?

She relocked the drawers and replaced the keys on the desk. She was calmer now but still disturbed. She kept telling herself that she was being paranoid. As if she was on automatic pilot, though, she began to search her husband’s dressing room. She went first to the underwear drawers, then to his socks and the shelves containing his cashmere sweaters. She felt underneath them. She searched his jackets, his shoes and boots. It was a waste of time. She stood up in a rage and swiped at the hangers. Jackets fell noiselessly to the floor, and the ineffectiveness of the search made her scream with frustration.

She returned to the bedroom, opening bedside cabinets and drawers, then threw herself on the floor to look under the bed. By now she did not care about covering her tracks and frantically searched everywhere, even the girls’ bedrooms. All she wanted was something, anything to stop the nagging fear that her husband was somehow involved in the robbery of the Crown Jewels.

It was after twelve when Christina, exhausted, went downstairs to get a whiskey. She had looked just about everywhere, but as she passed the cloakroom, she paused. De Jersey’s riding caps and jackets were stacked near the rows of Wellingtons and boots. She picked up one after another, turning them upside down. Something was lodged in the toe of a muddy riding boot, hidden beneath a thick, rolled-up sock. As she took out the sock, her heart pounded. Resting against the wall, she withdrew an object wrapped in an old cloth, then sank slowly to the ground as she looked at the glittering stone: the Koh-i-noor Diamond. There was no denying it. She had found what she had been looking for.

De Jersey returned at about one fifteen. He was carrying a black briefcase and entered silently. He went into his study and put the case beneath his desk. He looked down at the drawers, picked up the keys, and weighed them in his hand for a moment. Then he hurried to the cloakroom. He didn’t have to turn on the light to realize that the coats had been searched. He turned and made his way up the stairs. All the bedroom lights were on, and he prowled from room to room before entering his own bedroom. There was only a small bedside lamp on, and from the doorway he could see the disturbance.

Christina was waiting in bed for him, a pillow behind her head. He leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “Did you find what you were looking for?” He came to stand at the end of the bed, his eyes boring into hers as he eased off one shoe, then the other, and kicked them aside.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. Christina turned away from him. He took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, then walked into the bathroom and closed the door. She could hear the shower being turned on, and off a little later, the clink of his toothbrush in the glass, and then his electric shaver buzzing. It was over fifteen minutes before he walked out wearing a white towel robe. In his bare feet, he crossed to his dressing room, glanced inside and saw the fallen clothes and coat hangers, then went to the dressing table.

“You have been busy,” he said mockingly as he combed his wet hair, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Then he turned.

She wanted to hide from his eyes, and at first she couldn’t work out why she felt that way. Then it came to her. It was because she found him so sexually attractive, more than she had for a long time. His presence filled the darkened bedroom, and she was not afraid of him anymore.

“We need to talk.” Her voice was surprisingly calm.

“Not yet.” De Jersey pulled the duvet off her. Now her eyes met his and, contrary to her misgivings, she opened her arms as he knelt on the bed and moved toward her. He touched her, gently at first, kissing every part of her body before tearing off his robe and pulling her tightly into his arms. This time his kiss was harder and deeper, and she responded, moaning softly, as he began to make love to her, hard and fast, pinning her arms behind her head until they climaxed simultaneously. He rolled onto his side, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

“Well, that’s made me feel better,” he said and reached to the bedside table to pour a glass of water. He gulped almost half, then offered the glass to her.

She shook her head and drew the duvet around her naked body.

“First, let me tell you that I love you, I always have,” he said, replacing the glass.

“I don’t know you!” She had tears in her eyes.

“No, I don’t think you do—well, not all of me.” He said it so matter-of-factly that she curled away from him. “But it’s too late now.”

“What have you done?” she said, afraid.

“So much, my darling, but like I said, it’s too late. It would take too long to explain.” He lifted his right arm. “Come here.”

“No.”

“Come here,” he said firmly and drew her into the curve of his body as if she were a child. “It’s safer if you know as little as possible. You already know too much, and I don’t know how you will be able to deal with knowing more.”

“I found what you had hidden in the toe of your boot,” she said and leaned up on her elbow. “What is it?” He looked into her frightened face and smiled, but he did not answer her. She turned away. “I watched the program tonight, about the robbery.”

“I know.”

“Please tell me it isn’t what I think it is.”

He said nothing, and she rummaged beneath her pillow, then withdrew the stone. “I could feel it, hard against my head, when you were fucking me,” she said, holding it tightly.

He reached across, and she clenched her fist over it. “Give it to me,” he said.

“No, I won’t. Not until you tell me what it is. Not until you tell me why you have it.”

He leaned over and almost crushed her hand as he took the stone, then held it up to catch the light. It sparkled.

“Mountain of Light,” he said softly, and his face was like a boy’s as he looked at the stone. “It is the most priceless diamond in the world.”

“Why have you got it?” she said in awe.

“Because I needed it.”

“You have to return it.”

“Do I?”

“You can’t keep it.”

“I can’t?”

“No, you must be insane even to think that you can.”

“Why is that?”

She sat up angrily and looked at him. “It’s stolen.”

He gave her a glance that chilled her. She moved away from him, and the fear she had felt earlier returned. At first it was fear for herself, but he had softened again and he reached out to her.

“No, please don’t touch me. I don’t want you near me. I can’t deal with this.” She got up, reached for a robe, and wrapped it around her. “What did you have to do with Sylvia Hewitt’s death?”