Royal Heist (30 page)

“I’m rotting away inside,” Westbrook said, stepping away defensively, but de Jersey held on to his jacket lapel.

“I’m depending on you and I’m watching you. Four days is all I ask for you to hold on to being straight. Then you can stew in your own shit for all I care. Four days. Look at me. Can you do it?”

Westbrook somehow found the strength to push de Jersey’s hand away from him. “Don’t threaten me. I said I’d be up for it. I haven’t let you down yet, and I have no intention of doing so now. Like I said, I have the drugs I need to keep me on my feet and my head clear. Take the morphine. I’ll suffer for you. How’s that?”

De Jersey felt compassion for him. “I’m sorry . . . but we’re worried about you. I don’t want you OD’ing on that stuff before the heist.”

Westbrook made a big effort to straighten up. It was both sad and admirable. “I’m ready, and I hope to God you are, because I don’t know how much longer I’ve got left.”

Sylvia had decided not to go into work but to take another week off. By the following morning, with still no call back from de Jersey, she was furious. She put in yet another, this time to the estate. A blustering man answered. He said he was the manager and would pass on the message.

Christina was in the kitchen when Fleming tapped on the door. “Mrs. de Jersey, there was a call from a Miss Hewitt for the boss. It came through to my office. Rude woman.”

“Oh, thank you, and yes, she is. She’s called here numerous times. Did you say he was still at his club?”

“No. I just said I’d pass on the message, and I gave her his mobile number as she said it was urgent. I hope that’s okay. I also need to have a word with him about scheduling some races. Can you ask him to give me a ring when it’s convenient?”

“Sure. I’ll call him now.”

Fleming seemed very put out about something.

“Are you all right?” Christina asked.

He gave her a curt nod and started to leave, then paused, his back to her. “It’s a tough time. A lot of the staff have been made redundant. It doesn’t make for good staff relations. Some of the young lads are worried. I know it can’t be helped, but like I said, it’s not easy.”

“I’m sorry, Donald, but Edward is trying to make himself financially more secure. It’s why he has to spend so much time in London. In fact, he’s meeting with bankers this week.”

Fleming gave her a rueful look.

“He said he may have to think about remortgaging the estate,” she told him. “If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Mrs. de Jersey.”

Christina left a message at the St. James’s, then called her husband’s cell phone.

He answered. “Hello, darling. It’s a bit difficult for me to talk right now, I’m in the middle of a meeting. It’s sounding as if I may have some good news. Is it urgent?”

“Not really. Sylvia Hewitt has called again, and Donald gave her your mobile number. He also wants to sort out some racing dates. Also, please don’t forget the girls’ school play. You promised you’d be there.”

“Can we talk about this later?”

“Yes, sorry to interrupt, but I felt that Donald would really like to talk to you, and from what he said, Sylvia was angry that you hadn’t returned her calls.”

“I’ll call them both.”

She hung up, then went into her husband’s study. On the desk was a large diary. She opened it and looked down the listed races and the horses earmarked to compete. Some had lines crossed through them. She turned a few pages. She noticed that May second was circled and that a memo about a race at Brighton had been written in. She saw her own note to remind him of the school play; she picked up a pen and printed
THE
TAMING
OF
THE
SHREW.
She replaced the pen in the holder and glanced over the neat desk. Then she hooked a finger through one of the drawer handles and pulled. It was locked, which niggled her, but she left the study and forgot about it.

Later, from the kitchen window, she watched the jockeys leading the horses out for their midday training. It was cold and the sun was bright. Royal Flush was playing up again, bucking and shaking his head. He kicked out, and then the long line of valuable horses was heading for the rolling acres beyond the track. It all looked so perfect, so affluent, and she sighed. She knew how much her husband loved this life. Christina threw on her fur-lined coat and dragged her riding boots out of the hall closet. By the time she reached the stable yard, most of the horses were out exercising, and she walked from stable to stable, then turned into the tack room. It was a hive of activity. The pungent aroma of saddle soap mingled with the fresh smell of hay and manure. For the first time she felt as if she didn’t belong. She walked for an hour around all the stables, into the various yards and offices, and then to the garages. She stood by her husband’s Rolls-Royce, which was being polished by one of the chauffeurs, ready to be sold. She asked where the driver she usually used was and discovered that he no longer worked for them. It was only now that she realized just how many of the staff had gone. It made her feel even more inadequate. No wonder Donald Fleming was concerned. So much had happened while she had been away. So much that she hadn’t noticed on her return.

“How many horses have been sold?” she asked a girl she passed on her way back to the house.

“I think about twenty, Mrs. de Jersey,” she replied sadly.

“Does that include the ones from the east wing?”

“No, Mrs. de Jersey, they went a while back. The latest ones went to the Tattersalls sales and over to Ireland,” the girl continued. “But we’ve big hopes for Royal Flush,” she added.

Christina gave her a wan smile and walked on. It dawned on her that perhaps her husband was not going to be able to get out of his present financial trouble. It was obvious that it was a lot worse than he had suggested. By the time she had returned to the house and removed her coat and boots, her depression had turned to anger.

Christina went back into her husband’s study. Even there she felt like an outsider. The neatness and the locked drawers infuriated her. She went into the kitchen, found a screwdriver, then returned to the study. She wrenched open one drawer after another, took out the contents, and placed them on the desk. She was panting, half in fear, half in anger, as she set about sorting through them. To begin with she found nothing of importance: fees for trainers and purchases of horses, notes on horses he was considering buying, at least before the current financial crisis. However, there were also unpaid bills and outstanding accounts and a 155,000-pound VAT bill, with a warning that unless it was paid within a week legal action would be taken.

At the bottom of one of the drawers she found a paper with Edward’s handwritten notes. She sat down in the desk chair and scrutinized the figures. He had been neat and meticulous. He had listed and dated everything that Lyons had invested as well as everything on which Moreno had frittered the money away: meals, houses, expensive office supplies. Seeing in black and white the losses, in not thousands but millions, she felt almost faint with shock. Her husband was virtually bankrupt.

Christina went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Her throat was dry with nerves. She poured a tumbler of orange juice and went back to the study. She began to return the documents to the drawers, at first hoping she could replace them as she had found them, then not bothering. He would know by the marks of the screwdriver on the drawer handles and locks that she had broken in. She stuffed loose papers into the top right-hand drawer and slammed it shut, but it was too full so she snatched out a handful of papers and slammed it shut again. The glass of juice toppled over. “Shit.” She ran from the room and returned with a wet cloth.

Back in the study she faced the front of the desk to scrub at the carpet on her knees. She half-rose and was leaning against the rim of the desk with the palm of her hand when it moved. She stood up. “Now what have I done?” she muttered. She tried to push the desk back into position, then saw a small hinge. She pressed it, and to her astonishment, the right-hand side of the front of the desk opened. She bent down to discover three more drawers. The lower ones were locked, and even when she attempted to open them with the screwdriver they wouldn’t budge. She could see they had what looked like a steel rim.

“It’s a safe,” she said aloud. Then she tried the smaller top drawer, which opened. It contained envelopes full of documents about the estate mortgage. A brown manila envelope was tucked beneath them. Her heart missed a beat. Inside it, she discovered two passports. Both contained pictures of Edward but with different names. One was in the name Edward Cummings, and there was a recent New York customs stamp inside. The other passport was Irish, in the name of Michael Shaughnessy. None of this made sense. Christina was certain her husband had been in the United Kingdom on the date marked in the Cummings passport. In another envelope, there were passports for herself and their daughters, all with different names. She sat back, unsure of anything anymore. She had believed de Jersey was in London after Christmas because he had told her so, but according to the passport he had been in New York. What else had he lied to her about?

De Jersey was in the warehouse inspecting Wilcox’s work on removing the wall that separated it from the D’Ancona cellar. Wilcox had put the bricks back into position with a sugar and flour solution mixed with gray water paint for the right color to cover the missing cement. They would fall apart if a hand pushed hard against them. The work was good, and de Jersey was pleased. Then a call came through on his cell phone. It was Sylvia Hewitt.

“Mr. de Jersey, I had hoped you would call me.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Hewitt, I’ve been very busy.”

“So have I,” she said softly. “I need to meet you urgently. I have just returned from New York. I believe you were there?”

“You must be mistaken.”

“I don’t think I am, and I’m not playing games with you anymore. This is a very serious matter, perhaps even for the police . . . or we could come to some financial arrangement. Either way, we should discuss my findings. I think you know what I’m referring to.”

“No, I don’t,” he said coldly.

“Shall we say six this evening at my flat? You know the address, don’t you, Mr. Simmons?”

She hung up. He stared at the phone in his hand, hardly able to believe what he had just heard. His heart was beating rapidly, and he felt dizzy. This was the worst thing that had happened so far, and he was going to have to sort it out fast. He slowly walked away from the coal cellar and into the grimy toilets. He splashed his face with cold water until he felt calm, then patted it dry with a grubby white towel. He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. He crossed to his overcoat, felt in the pocket, and took out Westbrook’s bottle of morphine. He held it in the palm of his hand, as if weighing it. He would have to find out how many other people Sylvia Hewitt had told, then make a decision about the woman herself. He sighed. He would do it alone so that only he risked paying the ultimate price.

CHAPTER

22

S
ylvia uncorked a fresh bottle of wine and set it out with two glasses and a bowl of peanuts and crisps. She’d already had a few glasses to celebrate what she felt would be a sweet victory. She had vacuumed, dusted, and plumped up the cushions. She felt excited and powerful, and a little light-headed from the wine as she looked over the “stage” she had set. She went to her desk and called Matheson. He listened as she told him she had received his final invoice and would be sending him a check. She also told him she had tracked down Philip Simmons in London.

“He’s in the U.K., then?” Matheson asked.

“Yes, and I’m expecting him to come and see me now.”

“Well, congratulations. Job well done. Does he know where Moreno is?”

“I presume so. All will be divulged soon enough. I’m sure I’ll get my investment repaid, perhaps even more for all the trouble it’s caused me.” Sylvia was pleased with herself. “I might send you a little extra, Mr. Matheson.”

The doorbell rang, and she stood up. “I have to go. He’s arrived. Thank you so much again.”

She was still pleased with herself as she ushered de Jersey into the drawing room, gesturing for him to sit as she took his coat. She had decided not to accuse him of Moreno’s murder immediately. That was to be her trump card if everything else failed.

“Please help yourself to wine,” she said, carrying his coat into the hall.

“I would prefer coffee,” he said pleasantly.

“Oh, well, give me a moment, then.”

De Jersey picked up the bottle of wine and poured some, then took out the morphine and emptied it into the glass. He had just started to pour some wine for himself when she returned with his coffee.

“It’s instant. I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“No. That’s fine. The wine looked so inviting that I’ve poured some anyway.”

She passed him the coffee, picked up her glass, and lifted it to her lips. “Cheers,” she said and drank. Lowering the glass, she frowned and licked her lips.

“This is very strange,” she said.

De Jersey picked up his glass and sipped. “Do you think so?”

She took another sip. “Yes, is it all right?”

He sipped again. “It’s fine.”

She reached for the bottle to look at the label. “I don’t know, it’s not cheap,” she said and took another gulp.

He raised his glass. “Perhaps it should have been left to breathe awhile longer.”

Sylvia reached for the peanuts, took a few, and munched them like a squirrel. “You must be eager to hear what I have to say. I’m surprised you could contain yourself.”

He smiled. “Of course I’m eager to know, and I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me. It’s obvious that you’ve been very . . . active, shall we say? So, please.” He sat back and gestured for her to talk.

She laughed. “Oh, you’re a cool customer, Mr. de Jersey, but I don’t think you’ve given me the credit I deserve. I knew how important my discovery was when I found out you’d been to East Hampton. You have control of Alex Moreno’s properties, so you must be working with him, perhaps even helped him leave the country. His apartment and that estate he owned are worth millions, and I daresay you have no desire to share the proceeds with any of the other investors. But you’re going to share them with me.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked softly.

“Because I know who you are, and if you want that to remain our secret, I’ll need a considerable amount more than the money I lost.” She explained how she had discovered his identity through Moreno’s lover, Clint. “Not that he knew your names. Either of them,” she said and giggled. “I also showed your photograph to the site foreman at Moreno’s property. He was not as forthcoming as Moreno’s young friend, but gay men are so much more observant, don’t you think?”

“How much do you want?” he asked.

“Well, I’d say it would be worth fifty-fifty, don’t you? What you have been doing is highly illegal, and I would love to know exactly how you pulled it off.”

“Well, it took a lot of work. Just getting a fake passport was hair-raising. You know, I’ve never done anything illegal in my life before this, but I was afraid of losing everything I had, and when you’re desperate . . .” He got up and paced the room, continuing to talk about the stress he’d been under. Suddenly she felt hot, and her forehead became damp. She continued to eat the peanuts and drank the remainder of her wine.

Eventually she took a deep breath and interrupted him. “It’s been hard for all of us. The reason I think you should agree to pay me, however, is the disappearance of Mr. Moreno. According to his gay friend, he was alive the evening before he had a meeting with . . .” She trailed off.

“Are you all right, Miss Hewitt?” he said.

“No, I am feeling very . . .” Her body heaved and she felt as if she was about to vomit, but instead she flopped forward. She gave a strange laugh as she tried to focus her eyes. “Too much wine,” she said.

He stood up, collected his wineglass and coffee cup, and left the room. She tried to stand, but her legs gave way and she fell back into the chair. Now the room blurred and she felt dreadfully sick.

In the kitchen de Jersey washed his coffee cup and glass, dried them with a tea towel, removing all fingerprints, and replaced them on the shelf. He filled a glass with water, then took a small hypodermic needle from his wallet. He injected the water with ketamine, a horse tranquilizer, then replaced the hypodermic in his wallet. He opened the fridge, put some ice in the glass, and carried it back to the living room.

“Here, drink this.”

Sylvia seemed less drugged and held out her hand for the water. He made sure she had a firm hold of it before he returned to sit on the sofa. She drank thirstily, gasped, and looked at him in terror. “What have you put in this?”

He took the glass from her and checked how much she had drunk. “Just a little sedative, Miss Hewitt. My vet uses it all the time.” He walked out of the room, taking her wineglass and the water glass with him, washed them, and put them away as the lethal cocktail of drugs flooded through her.

Putting on a pair of surgical gloves, de Jersey spent a considerable time gathering up Sylvia’s correspondence with Matheson and any other documents relating to the investment case. Then he went back to the sink in the kitchen and set light to it all. He cleared up the charred remains and placed them in the waste-disposal unit, turned it on, and ground away every fragment. Then he cleaned around the sink, wiping away any possible remaining fingerprints.

When he carried Sylvia to the sofa, she was unconscious. He lifted her head onto a frilled cushion, then went into her bedroom, took a quilt from her bed, and tucked it around her.

Christina was in bed when de Jersey called her from his room at the club. He knew straightaway that something was wrong.

“We have a lot to talk about,” she said rather coldly.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”

“Fine. I’ll be home in a few days. I have to go to Ireland,” he said affably.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I can’t put it off. You know why.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“I’ll be moving around, but I’ll be in Dublin first, then go to a few auctions. I’ve recently sold off a filly to a friend, so I need to settle her in.” He gave no hint of the tension he felt.

“Well, don’t forget we have the girls’ school play on the second.”

“I haven’t forgotten, darling. I’ll be home in plenty of time. Are you all right? You sound . . . What’s happened? It’s not Royal Flush, is it?”

“No, he’s fine,” she said. “We can discuss it when you get back.”

“You know I love you,” he said.

“And I love you.” She hung up.

His hand rested a moment on the receiver. She had sounded odd. If something was troubling Christina, he would find out what it was, but it would have to wait. He cleaned his teeth, showered, and got ready for bed. He felt uneasy, however, so he called Donald Fleming. “Sorry to ring so late, but I’m up against it at the moment. I’ve just spoken to Christina. Nothing wrong up at the house, is there?”

“Not that I know of, but she was around the yard this afternoon. I think she’s just worried like all of us.”

“Yes, well, let’s hope I come up with some extra financing. But keep your eye on her for me, would you? I don’t want her unduly worried. We’ll get through this, Donald.”

“I will. I see you’ve earmarked a runner for Brighton on the second. You gonna make it?”

“Perhaps. Depends on a few meetings.”

“But you’ll be at Lingfield for Royal Flush’s race, won’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Oh, any news on the other matter?”

“She’s going for a blood test in a few days,” Fleming said. “We’ll know if she’s in foal then, but I think your boy may have done the business.”

“Fine. I’ll keep in touch.” He hung up and sighed. He was tired to the bone, but before he settled for the night, he took out the bottle of morphine and the hypodermic needle with the ketamine. Sylvia Hewitt’s glass of water had contained enough horse tranquilizer to knock out a carthorse permanently, so he reckoned one heavy slug of it along with the morphine was enough to ensure she would no longer be a problem. He refused to allow himself to contemplate what he had done and instead concentrated on getting rid of the evidence. He wrapped the bottle and the syringe in a hotel napkin and smashed them against the wall, Then he took one of the glasses in his room, dropped it on the floor, and added the broken pieces to the crushed bottle and syringe. He slipped out of his room, walked along the corridor and up another flight of stairs until he came to an unattended porter’s trolley. He emptied the glass into the bin and tossed the towel and napkin in a laundry basket before he returned to his room. It was after eleven when he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Over the next two nights they began to move the vehicles to the warehouse. They had disguised the Royal mascot on the Daimler so no one would be suspicious, but when it was driven to the warehouse in Aldersgate at four in the morning, there was hardly a soul around. The movement of the clothes and motorbikes was simpler but also done under cover of night. There was no looking back now, and de Jersey called Dulay. The
Hortensia Princess
was on its way to the South Coast of England with Dulay at the helm. All the months of preparation, the working out of timings and details had begun to gel.

On May 1, Royal Flush won his first race of the season at Lingfield by seven lengths. Mickey Rowland was sad that de Jersey had not been there to witness his victory; Fleming was surprised. They both received calls from de Jersey and gave him a second-by-second account of the race, how Royal Flush had not even been breathing hard afterward. He had traveled home calmly and eaten his feed, and both jockey and trainer were confident.

“You should have been there, Mr. de Jersey,” said Fleming. “He did you proud. He did us all proud. You’ve got a champion there. You should have seen the Sheikh’s trainer sniffing around him. We’ll headline in the
Racing News,
I guarantee it.”

There was an awkward pause, then Fleming went on. “With regard to the filly, Bandit Queen, she’s in foal.”

“Jesus God,” de Jersey said, closing his eyes.

“You want me to ship her out to Ireland to this Shaughnessy character?”

“Yes, I’ll call with the details. Well done, and thank you again.”

Christina watched as the lads celebrated Royal Flush’s win. Fleming had cracked open the champagne. He was drinking directly from a bottle. “Did you see him?” he asked Christina.

“Of course. It was on Channel Four. Did you speak to my husband? He told me that he had to go to Dublin.”

“He was over the moon. If our boy wins the next one, he’s got one hell of a chance at the Derby. Can I offer you a glass? The boss ordered a crate for the lads.”

“No, thank you,” she said, turning as one of the lads asked Fleming about arranging the horse box for Bandit Queen.

“Be over there later with the paperwork,” Fleming called back.

“Are you selling her?” Christina asked, perplexed. Edward had bought the horse for her.

“Yep, she’s being shipped out to Ireland.”

“Oh, I see. Is that why he’s going over there?”

“I guess so. She’s been bought by a Michael Shaughnessy, old friend of Mr. de Jersey’s.”

“Well, congratulations to everyone,” she said and went back toward the house. Then she changed her mind and went to her car. She drove over to where the brood mares were stabled and parked. She sat watching as the filly was led out of her stall while the lads drove up in the horse box. Christina got out and crossed to them as they were draping Bandit Queen in a blanket.

“Another gone,” she said, half to herself, then moved closer to stroke the mare’s head.

A young lad stood to one side holding the halter. “Sad to see her go,” he said. “We had high hopes for her.”

“Do you know this man Michael Shaughnessy who’s apparently bought her?”

“No, Mrs. de Jersey, but she must have cost him a packet. Like I said, we had high hopes for her, and she won her maiden race almost as well as our Royal Flush.”

“Thank you,” Christina said and went back to her car. She drove to the house, and as she went into the kitchen, the phone rang.

“Christina? It’s Helen Lyons.”

Christina sighed. “Hello, Helen,” she said. “How are you?”

“Oh, a little better now. I’m staying with a friend in Devon, and she’s taking good care of me. Is this an inconvenient time to call?”

“Erm, no.”

“It’s about my insurance from the house. Sylvia was taking care of it. They still haven’t settled, you know, since the fire.”

“Good heavens! That is a long time.”

“Well, that’s what I thought, but with things the way they are between Sylvia and me, I don’t feel I can call her.”

“I understand, Helen, but it seems you’re going to have to. Or perhaps you should write to her.”

“I have, but she hasn’t replied. I was wondering . . .” Her voice tapered off.