Royal Heist (11 page)

Although he welcomed her home warmly, Christina knew something was wrong. Her husband was deeply distracted and quickly retreated to his study. After unpacking she went to join him, but when he dismissed her concerns, she became angry.

“Please, darling, don’t fend me off as if I was a child. I know something has happened. Stop hiding things from me. What is it?”

He sighed. Now that Helen and her interfering sister had details of his private affairs, he could no longer keep the situation from Christina.

“David Lyons lost millions of my money. He invested badly, then tried to salvage the investment by throwing more money at it. He lost his own savings too and a few other people’s.”

“Oh, my God, that’s dreadful. Can you do anything about it?”

“No, it’s all gone.”

“Is that why Helen wanted to see you?”

“Her sister’s thinking of hiring a private investigator to try to retrieve some of her losses.”

“What can an investigator do?”

He shrugged. “I doubt he can do anything. The money has gone. The Internet company went bankrupt.”

“What is this investigator looking for?” Christina asked.

“Some Internet whiz kid.”

“If they find him, will they arrest him?”

“Even if they did they couldn’t prove embezzlement. He kept the money he made from selling the company’s software, but as he designed it, he owned it. The investment stank, and David was a fool. I have only myself to blame . . . and him, of course.”

“But what about that banker you met up with? Can he help?”

“I hoped he might but he can’t.”

Christina looked shocked. “How bad is it, Edward? Tell me.”

“Nothing I can’t fix.” He forced a reassuring smile.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, holding him tightly. “I know how much you love this place.”

“We’re not going to lose this.” He kissed her.

He walked across the yard and let himself into the office, shutting the door behind him. He took out the cell phone he’d bought in Simmons’s name and called Driscoll and Wilcox, informing them about Helen’s intervention. Then he locked away the phone and returned to the house. Christina was curled up in bed watching TV and laughing.

“What are you watching?”

“An advert,” she said, pointing to the TV. “It’s for royal jelly, and she’s so like her it’s unbelievable. For a moment I looked, and I thought, It can’t be, surely she wouldn’t, but it’s . . . Look, she’s identical!”

De Jersey stared at the TV. A look-alike playing the Queen was sitting on a throne wearing a fake diamond crown and holding up a pot of royal jelly. On the screen she mimicked Her Majesty’s voice to perfection.

De Jersey pulled his tie loose, laughing. Another piece of the jigsaw had just fallen into place. It was the first piece of good news he’d had all day.

The following morning de Jersey was up early and went riding alone. He returned to the house for breakfast. He suggested to Christina that she invite Helen Lyons for lunch to show her there were no hard feelings. He said he felt guilty for having been so brisk with Helen yesterday and for not attending David’s funeral. Christina slipped her arms around her husband’s neck. “I’ll call her if it’s what you want, but I hardly know what to say to her, considering how David has treated us.”

“Thank you, my love. Can you ring her now?” he asked.

“But it’s too early.”

“No, it isn’t.” He continued with his breakfast as he heard Christina arrange lunch for the following day.

Christina left in a chauffeur-driven car to collect Helen from the station. After watching her go, de Jersey took the helicopter to a small airport close to the Lyonses’ home. He hoped the house would be empty. He had called ahead twice to make sure no one picked up the phone. He let himself in with the keys from David’s desk, waited for the sound of an alarm; when nothing happened, he went straight to the study. He turned on the fake-coal fire and kicked some files closer to the grate, then he gathered all the documents he could find relating to Wilcox and Driscoll.

After de Jersey landed the helicopter, he went directly to the stables. One of the stable girls was waiting for him in his golf cart, and they drove toward the east wing.

“I didn’t know for sure they’d reached you.”

“How in God’s name did it happen?”

“We don’t know. He just stumbled on the way to the gallops, but when he returned, he was lame,” she said. “It’s quite badly swollen, but we don’t think there’s any bone damage.”

In the center of the yard, his trainer and a couple of lads hovered around Royal Flush. The vet had instructed he be walked about; Royal Flush dropped his shoulder, showing a pronounced limp. De Jersey was on his knees beside the vet when Christina and Helen walked across the yard.

“We’d given up on you,” Christina said, then fell silent as her husband looked up at her.

“We don’t think anything’s broken, but it’s badly swollen,” he said. “Helen, I’m sorry, but as you can see this is a bit of an emergency.”

“Will you be joining us for lunch?” Christina asked.

“Start without me, darling. I won’t be too long, I hope.”

To Christina’s annoyance, de Jersey never made it to lunch. After a rather tedious and tearful meal, she saw Helen on her way, making promises to stay in touch.

When Helen arrived home, the house was blazing and the fire brigade struggled for control. The study, hall, and part of the staircase had been gutted. David Lyons’s papers had fed the fire, and charred documents fluttered in the chilly afternoon air. Helen, now faced with the destruction of her home, became so hysterical that her doctor had to sedate her.

Christina put down the phone, stunned.

“Who was that?” de Jersey asked.

“It was Helen. Said that the house was on fire when she got home. Started in the study. All of David’s papers were destroyed. Does that matter to you?”

“I don’t suppose so. Whatever documents he had I’ll have copies of.”

“She asked me if I knew these other investors, Driscoll and Wilcox.”

“She asked me the same thing. I’ve never heard of them. I wish she’d just leave it alone.”

Sylvia helped Helen into her car. “You’ll stay with me until it’s all sorted out.”

“I’m never going back to that house.”

“You won’t have to. I’ll get all your clothes and anything you want to put into storage. The estate agents aren’t worried—you could repair the house to sell, or sell it as it is.”

A couple of hours later they were in London. Sylvia Hewitt had a large flat in St. John’s Wood, overlooking Regent’s Park. Eight years Helen’s junior, she had never married. The apartment was spacious, with three bedrooms, and tastefully furnished. Sylvia hurried around, making up a bed, then setting a tray with tea, scrambled egg, and smoked salmon for Helen.

Helen leaned back on her pillows. She was simply too devastated to talk.

“Eat up. You’re going to fall down a crack in the pavement you’re so thin,” Sylvia said, puffing on a cigarette as she wandered restlessly around the room. “Bit odd that the fire started in David’s office,” she remarked. She started hanging her sister’s discarded clothes in the wardrobe.

“I think the window was open, and I must have left the fire on and some papers blew onto it.”

Sylvia stubbed out her cigarette. “Suppose there was information in David’s files that someone wanted to keep secret?”

“What do you mean?”

Sylvia folded her arms. “This Alex Moreno guy seems very dodgy. My detective, Matheson, can’t find him anywhere. All that money poured into leadingleisurewear and he just disappears? Matheson thinks something smells.”

Helen sighed. “I don’t know, Sylvia. I’m so tired.”

Sylvia removed the tray. Her sister had hardly touched the food.

“You’ll feel differently when you can think straight. I won’t let it go. You’ve lost a lot of money.”

“It wasn’t just me, you know. Edward de Jersey lost millions too, but he isn’t interested in doing anything about it. Didn’t want to hear about the private detective.”

“Maybe he can afford to lose the odd million.”

Helen sat up. “He lost a lot more than a few million, and it was mostly David’s fault. He could have advised them to get out when he knew it was heading for a fall. Instead he encouraged them to put up more money and . . .” She hesitated. “Edward had been his friend for twenty-odd years, and he trusted him implicitly. I think David made some illegal transactions. I found correspondence between David and this man Moreno and some documents from a private account. I think David took some of that money and was encouraging Edward to keep investing more and—”

“Helen, what if Alex Moreno didn’t want those papers floating around? What if he started the fire? I think we should contact all the people who lost their fortunes. I mean, maybe de Jersey has so much money he doesn’t need what he lost, but the others might.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Get some sleep. Don’t think about any of it—leave it to me. Daniel from David’s office is coming by to talk about a few things.”

Once Sylvia left the room, she called Victor Matheson, the private investigator, and informed him about the fire and her suspicions.

“You could be right, ma’am. Here’s what I’ve got so far: Alex Moreno left the hotel in the Hamptons early on the morning after his arrival. He was driving the Lexus, which I’m also trying to track down. The building contractors say Moreno’s business adviser was a Philip Simmons. Ring any bells?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Canadian? Tall, over six feet, red hair and a mustache?”

“Still no. My sister met with one of the investors, Edward de Jersey. He lost millions. His details are in the file I sent you. He didn’t seem interested in discovering Moreno’s whereabouts.”

“He must be stinking rich if he doesn’t give a shit about finding where all the money’s disappeared to.”

“Continue your inquiries for now,” Sylvia said. “I’ll be in touch again shortly. I plan to contact the other investors. If Mr. de Jersey isn’t interested in taking this matter further, maybe one of them will be. I’m determined to salvage my brother-in-law’s savings.”

The doorbell rang almost immediately after she hung up. She let in Daniel Gatley, David’s assistant, who held a briefcase.

“I have the information you asked for.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Helen doesn’t know I’ve lost money as well. It may not seem like a lot in comparison, but it was my life savings—two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t believe that fire was an accident. It’s odd that it started in David’s study and that his papers fueled it. Helen says she might have left the fire on and a window open, but that doesn’t make sense.”

Daniel opened his briefcase. He looked uncomfortable. “This is all I could find on the main investors, but I shouldn’t let these documents out of the office. They’re confidential.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Daniel, there
is
no office now. But if anyone asks I’ll say David left them here.”

He took out the files and placed them on the table. “Does Helen know?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nobody knows, apart from you,” she said. She covered her face with her hands for what seemed a long period. “I miss him so much. I’ve had to look after Helen when all I wanted to do was curl up and cry.”

“I know David cared deeply for you,” Daniel said awkwardly.

“Yes, I know he did too. But he lost my life savings and I’ve got to do something about it. Do you think Moreno could have had anything to do with the fire at the house? It’s all very convenient, isn’t it?”

“Well,” Daniel said, “I’ve got the files here for the other investors, apart from Edward de Jersey. After David’s death, he came and took everything out of the office. David had put everything on disk for him.”

Sylvia opened a drawer. “I have some disks too, which David left here, so I know just how much de Jersey lost.”

Daniel nodded to the files he had brought. “Details of the small investors plus the other two main ones.”

She snatched the top sheet of notes from him. “Driscoll and Wilcox,” she read. “I’ll concentrate on them.”

Daniel stood up to leave. He pulled a Jiffy bag out of his briefcase and handed it to her. “Just a few personal items from David’s desk that I thought Helen or you might like to keep.”

“Thank you for coming over. And for keeping my secret. Helen hasn’t the slightest idea about David and me. I don’t know what it would do to her if she did find out.”

Daniel nodded. At the door, he paused and turned. “Sylvia, I wouldn’t bring this arson thing to anyone’s attention. The police will be looking into the fire because of David’s suicide, and if there is any hint that it wasn’t an accident, the insurance won’t pay out. As you said, Helen has been through enough already.”

CHAPTER

9

S
ylvia contacted James Wilcox first—his unlisted telephone number had been in David’s file. “I’m David Lyons’s sister-in-law,” she told him. “My sister Helen has asked me to help her sort out David’s financial problems in connection with the Internet company leadingleisurewear. I believe you were one of the main investors and suffered considerable losses.”

“That is correct,” Wilcox said. “My business adviser is looking into the matter.”

“I have hired a private investigator to try to track down Alex Moreno.”

“My advisers are handling my interests, and I am loath to confuse the issue by becoming involved with any other backers. I would appreciate it if you did not press this matter further on my behalf or call again.”

“But you lost a fortune!”

“That’s my business.” Wilcox sounded annoyed.

“Do you know Edward de Jersey?”

“No.”

“Mr. de Jersey was the largest investor and will lose everything he has—” Wilcox had hung up. Sylvia was astonished that he didn’t want to know any more.

Undeterred, she called Anthony Driscoll. He was not as brusque as Wilcox, but he made it clear that his own advisers were investigating the company’s downfall. “Please feel free to call again if you acquire any information you think I would be interested in,” Driscoll said.

“I am contacting all the investors,” Sylvia persisted. “Are you aware that a Mr. Edward de Jersey lost nearly a hundred million pounds?”

Driscoll was taken aback momentarily. “No, I am not. Listen, are you asking for me to assist this investigator?”

“Only if you wish to do so. I am quite happy to continue paying him until I get results.”

“Well, I admire your tenacity, Miss Hewitt, but I am quite perturbed that you have called an unlisted number and that you seem to have access to very personal details.”

“I explained who I was,” Sylvia replied rather petulantly.

“That in itself does not give you, or anyone close to Mr. Lyons, the right to access my private and highly confidential transactions. I want my losses to remain my own business.”

“Well, I apologize,” she said, embarrassed. “I am really doing this for my sister.”

“Frankly, Miss Hewitt, I am not interested in who you are doing this for. While his suicide was tragic, David Lyons made some extremely ill-advised business moves. I blame myself for making the investments; nevertheless I was under Mr. Lyons’s guidance. That I had a disastrous loss is my business, and I would appreciate it if you did not call again or use my name in reference to any private investigation you may instigate.”

Sylvia interrupted before he could hang up on her, like Wilcox. “May I just ask if you know any of the other investors? A Mr. James Wilcox.”

“No, I’ve never met any of the others.”

“Did you ever meet Alex Moreno, the man who ran leadingleisurewear?”

“No. Furthermore, I have no interest in meeting him. I wish you success, but I have no time to discuss this further. Good-bye.” He hung up abruptly.

Sylvia was aware that big investors did not like their losses known. However, she was infuriated that these three men could accept losing millions. She had lost a pittance in comparison, but it had been her life savings. She had no intention of letting the matter be swept under the carpet.

Liz Driscoll had answered Sylvia’s call, and after he hung up, she waited for her husband to explain it.

“So who is this Sylvia woman then?” she asked eventually.

“The sister-in-law of an old business adviser.”

“So what’s she calling you for?”

“He topped himself,” he said irritably.

“Who did?”

“David Lyons, the business adviser.”

“Do I know him?”

“No, but he handled an investment of mine.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, pouring some power juice ingredients into the mixer.

“Do you?” he snapped.

“Yes, anything concerning money is a mood swinger with you. Bad news was it?” The mixer whirred noisily.

“Yeah, but nothing I can’t take care of.”

“I know, darling, but what’s she doing calling you at home? Was it an emergency?”

“No.”

“So was it about this guy topping himself?”

“Yes,” he hissed.

“Why did he do it?”

He hesitated, then prepared to face the music. He rested both hands on the marble worktop. “I just lost a bundle on what I was told was a surefire investment.”

“Oh, Tony. How much?” she said sipping her drink.

He simply shrugged. When he avoided eye contact with her, she became worried.

“Tony, answer me. How much did you lose?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Cos I hate fucking losing, all right?”

“Don’t you swear at me. I knew something was up. I just knew it. It started in Florida, didn’t it? You were told about this then.” He nodded. “Why don’t you talk to me, Tony? Worried myself sick wondering, is it me? Isn’t he enjoying his holiday or is something up with the kids? Tony, all these things go through my mind when you get this way. I was worried all holiday. Look at me. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

When he walked out of the room, she followed. “Tony, tell me. Have you got yourself into real financial difficulty with this? I need to know, especially now.”

“What do you mean especially now?”

“I was going to tell you tonight. It’s Michelle. She wants to marry that Hamilton boy, you know the one who plays polo with Prince Charles?”

“What?”

“She’s been keen on him for months. Blond with nice blue eyes. He’s been around here, Tony, loads of times. They met at the Dunhill polo match at Windsor last summer, and she was with him over Christmas in France.”

“She’s only seventeen!” he blustered.

“So? I was only eighteen when we married.”

“That’s different. She’s my daughter.”

“He’s coming over with his family for dinner Thursday.”

“Thursday? I might have to go into town to get this stuff ironed out.”

“What stuff?”

“I told you. I done a bad investment, got to catch up on the finances.” Under pressure he always lost his grasp of grammar, even his old accent returned.

“How much have you lost then?” she asked, frightened. She had already started planning a sumptuous wedding. What they lacked in class she intended to make up for in expenditure.

“Not enough for you to worry about.”

“I hope not. He’s a sweetheart, you know, and his family are all titled. It’ll take me three months to plan and prepare, and they want to do it as soon as possible. Where are we going to hold the reception? What about her dress? I was going to see about getting Stella McCartney to do it. You know, have a real fairy-tale wedding.”

“Sweetheart, if my baby wants to get married in a palace I’ll arrange it, you know that. She’ll have the wedding of her dreams, that’s a promise. But why the rush? She’s not up the spout, is she?”

“No, she bloody isn’t! Oh, Tony, you’ve got me all worried now.”

“When have I ever let you down?” He kissed her.

“Never. I love you, Tony,” she said.

Driscoll plodded across the bedroom and fell flat on the bed. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He stuffed two antacid tablets in his mouth and chewed them like peppermints. A fucking wedding was all he needed. Then there was the call from Sylvia Hewitt to worry about. The three men had never been linked together like that, and he didn’t like it one bit. Finally, he was really concerned about de Jersey’s financial situation. He could never recall feeling sorry for de Jersey before, but though Driscoll had lost most of his own savings, he could still find nearly a quarter of a million, while, if what Sylvia said was true, de Jersey had lost everything. Driscoll, probably more than anyone, knew what the stud farm meant to de Jersey. He could remember old Ronnie Jersey’s words: “I once owned a leg in a horse. I cried when he won a little race at Plumpton. I loved that horse, Tony.” Sometimes Ronnie had fantasized about owning his own racing stables. “It’s a mugs’ game for the rich nobs, though,” he’d said. “You can’t win. It’s all payout. Gotta have more money than sense.” His son had achieved all Ronnie had ever dreamed of, and it made Driscoll sad that the old man had never known of Edward’s success. Truth be told, he’d been a bit overawed by it himself. In many ways Driscoll was more like Ronnie than his own son was.

The wind eased in his belly, but that didn’t make Driscoll feel better. He wandered slowly around the vast upstairs part of his home, from the children’s bedrooms to the gym, where his wife was working out with a young instructor in tight Lycra shorts, then down the wide staircase to the baronial-size hall, where antique side tables and oil paintings decorated the circular, oak-paneled reception. The spacious drawing room had been copied from a
Homes
and
Garden’s
picture his wife had liked. Sitting at the grand piano, he lifted the lid, revealing the ivory keys in perfect condition. No one had ever played it. He looked over the array of large, silver-framed photographs of his family and their various dogs, his daughter’s horse and his son’s aviary.

He loved his family. He was proud of his own achievements. He reckoned that he was a good man. He’d certainly given enough to charities over the years. He had never been a violent person. He’d seen violence at close quarters, but he had never taken up a gun or taken a life. He drummed his fingers on the polished lid of the piano. The villa would have to go, plus the Chelsea Wharf apartment. All the trappings of wealth would need to be sold off, and this just as he had a massive tax bill coming in. Though he didn’t know what de Jersey’s scheme was, he knew that it would be planned down to the last detail. He slapped the piano lid hard with the flat of his hand and swore out loud at David Lyons. He should have refused to invest; he was almost bloody well retired. As he shook his head at his own stupidity, the pit of his stomach started to rumble again.

Wearing an oil-stained overall, Wilcox was leaning over the Ferrari Testarossa. His young mechanic was sitting inside the old car, revving it up. Wilcox spent hours in his garage, tinkering with his eight vintage sports cars. They were like much-beloved toys. He would race round and round the small racetrack he had built in his grounds, testing and reworking the engines. These were the only times he was totally content. His domestic life was clouded. He had always searched for the perfect union, but the reality was he had found it and it had four wheels. Today, however, he was unable to concentrate. The call from Sylvia Hewitt was nagging him like a hungry, mangy dog. He hated the fact that she knew so much about him and knew that she could be trouble. He was also rattled that de Jersey had not brought him or Driscoll into his plans to get rid of Moreno. It was, after all, very much their business. It was also very unlike de Jersey. He had never advocated violence, so why had he murdered the guy? It should not have been his decision alone.

Wilcox sat wiping the oil from his hands, perched on the bumper of a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce. He had let the mechanic go for a spin on the track. His financial situation had proven even worse than he had at first anticipated. He had left himself short, and he had various outstanding debts that needed to be paid. His drug dealer for one was screaming for his due. Wilcox had been shocked at how much he owed—two hundred thousand pounds to be exact. He couldn’t believe how much he was using. He had planned to cut back, though under this recent pressure he’d needed more. If de Jersey found out, he might consider him a security risk.

Wilcox tossed the oily rag into the bin. What if he trashed the entire garage and hangar and claimed on the cars’ insurance? He couldn’t bring himself to do it, even though the premiums were another vast expense. The days of running twenty garages were certainly over. He’d begun buying and selling cars at the age of forty, flush with the proceeds of the gold bullion robbery. Later, he had blithely and irrationally continued buying vintage vehicles without reselling them. By then he had grown tired of the business side and just wanted to race his cars and enjoy life. He truly did not want to be drawn back into crime, but he knew that he would feel obliged to go along with whatever the Colonel was putting together. The prospect scared and excited him, prompting him to take more cocaine. He needed the drug from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning and used it all day. That was more worrying than anything else. What had started out as a release from boredom had slowly taken over his life.

“I’ve got to kick the habit,” he muttered as he chopped four lines up in the back of the garage. After snorting all four of them, he called Driscoll.

“It’s me.”

“Yeah, I recognized your voice. You heard from the Colonel?”

“Only to warn me about that woman.”

“Oh, right, well that’s why I’m calling you.”

“We’re not supposed to make contact.”

“Yeah, well, I just did, all right? I am really worried about this woman, Tony.”

“She called me at the house.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I didn’t like it,” Driscoll said. “Are you on something?” Driscoll could tell Wilcox was unusually wired.

“I’m just looking out for us. Is that a bad thing? What’s got into you?”

Driscoll cut across the potential argument. “He’s lost the lot. Did she tell you? Reckons his stud will go down the tubes.”

Wilcox let out a long sigh. “Yeah, she said he’d lost his shirt. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Yeah, he’s more broke than we reckoned.”

After a pause, Wilcox’s voice came back over the line sounding slightly muffled. “No, Tony, it means whatever he wants from me, he’s got.”

There was a long silence. “Me too, I suppose,” Driscoll said, resigned. Wilcox slapped the cell phone off and turned to see the young mechanic standing close enough to have overheard every word.

“What’s with you?” he snapped.

“Sorry, James. We broke down on the S bend, pouring smoke and oil. You wanna take a look?”

“Don’t go sneaking up on me like that,” Wilcox said angrily.

“Sorry, I did knock.”