Royal Heist (36 page)

Two days after the robbery, the police gained their next vital clue. The three boys out sailing who had watched a crate being dropped into the sea off Brighton had subsequently told their father, who reported the incident to the coast guard. He thought that although it might not have been connected with the robbery of the Crown Jewels, it was an unusual event and should be reported anyway.

The coast guard felt the incident warranted reporting to the police. Anything that sniffed of drugs was treated seriously. The local police interviewed the boys, then contacted Scotland Yard. Operation Crown officers traveled to Brighton.

The boys had only the first part of the yacht’s name,
Hortensia.
but told police that it had been flying the French flag. British customs were alerted, but there had been no further sightings of the vessel in any harbors along the coast. No customs officials had boarded her to ask why she was anchored off the Sussex coast.

The boys’ report added fuel to theories about the robbers’ possible getaway. The police had numerous helicopter sightings and were still checking with all the heliports on which helicopters had been used at the time of the robbery. When all the data were cross-referenced, they ascertained that four helicopters had been hired to coincide with the robbery. They had all had instructions to collect passengers from around the City of London, but the pickups had made no contact. What spurred the team up a notch was that the helicopters had been hired by Philip Simmons, who had now taken over from Westbrook as the most hunted man in Britain. His description and police identikit drawings were in every newspaper, and a computerized headshot of him frequently appeared on the daily television news coverage.

CHAPTER

24

T
he police hunt was further aided by a much calmer Maureen Stanley. She was taken over and over through the details of the day of the robbery.

Meanwhile, the forensic experts working in the warehouse had not found a single fingerprint. The debris left by the robbers was so minuscule that it was of no use. The acid had burned the clothes and articles Wilcox had placed in the bin. The remnants, however, were taken to the lab. The acid cans were checked out. Yet again Philip Simmons emerged as the purchaser. The company from which he had bought the acid in bulk gave the police his credit-card number, which threw up an address in Kilburn. When the police arrived at the Kilburn flat, the landlord told them he had never met the occupant. All details had been given over the Internet.

As one team of officers drove across London with search warrants for Simmons’s flat, a second team was trying to figure out how the robbers had been able to break into Buckingham Palace security and tap the phones of both Scotland Yard and the safe house. They knew whoever had done it had had access to the telephone exchange, so all employees were being questioned. One man with sufficient knowledge and authority had gone on holiday the day of the robbery. His name was Raymond Marsh. The second team headed for Marsh’s house in Clapham. Those in charge of Operation Crown were confident that arrests would soon be made.

As the squad cars pulled up outside the house, they were greeted by a For Sale notice with a sold sticker across it. Lined up in the hall were crates to be shipped to Marsh in South America. All were tagged and carefully packed but with only a poste restante address.

The estate agent was unable to provide an address for Marsh and said the proceeds from the sale of the property were to be deposited in his bank account. She did not know anything about the crates. Marsh had said that a friend would collect them and any bits of furniture the new owners did not want.

“Do you have this friend’s name?”

“No, I’m afraid not. As I said, we were just instructed to sell the property with the furniture. I presume whoever it is must have a key.”

Robbie Richards did have the key, but he didn’t have anywhere to store the boxes, so he had not got round to picking them up. He was supposed to have moved them on the night of the robbery and, in return for helping Marsh, take whatever furniture he wanted.

He was scared to death when he drove into Marsh’s street to see the house cordoned off by squad cars and cops wandering around like bluebottles. He turned his borrowed van and moved off fast. He would not have been able to assist the police in the heist inquiry, but he would have been able to give a lot of details about Marsh’s other illegal activities, such as the hacking and the credit-card skimming.

A team of officers broke into the Kilburn flat, but the occupant had long since departed. The damaged computer was taken away for tests, but it was deemed useless; the acid had burned through the plastic controls.

Maureen Stanley, after hours of questioning, ultimately proved unable to add to the array of sketches already drawn by the police artists. They had transferred the drawings to a computer-graphics program, layering in coloring and features to assist her, but this confused her even more. She constantly repeated that during the time before they left the warehouse she had been in a state of shock, frightened for herself and for her captive husband. She did say that Lord Westbrook was kind and considerate, and that the woman acting as her lady-in-waiting was called Pamela, or possibly Pauline.

Four days after the heist, led by their commander, the Operation Crown team assembled in their large office block. The press was now lampooning the inquiry as a failure. The culprits, who had once been vilified for stealing the Crown Jewels, were now lauded as antiestablishment heroes.

The police knew that the two Daimlers used in the robbery had initially been kept in the Leicester garage, but again a search by forensics teams had proved futile. The investigating officers were aware that the longer it took for them to sift through their findings, the more likely it was that the heist masterminds would evade them. Worse, however, was the possibility that the precious gems would be cut up and lost to the nation forever.

The most promising clue now seemed futile. Philip Simmons had organized his whole life over the Internet: setting up domestic bills, making numerous purchases, renting the warehouse and his flat. None of the apparently promising leads took them to the man.

The officers were instructed to spread their nets wider. The robbers had to have had a second, larger premises in which to prepare the vehicles and store them. Police press officers were instructed to continue to ask the public for assistance. They were looking for anyone in or around London who had leased a building large enough for the purpose. They still wished to question Philip Simmons, Lord Henry Westbrook, Raymond Marsh, and a blond woman possibly calling herself Pauline or Pamela. Sketches and computer images of Pamela and the other members of the gang were distributed widely and were continuously on the news.

Pamela was frightened. She watched the television updates like a hawk, and the computer image of her was closer than she had thought possible. Added to this, they now had her Christian name. She was also worried about Westbrook, who was dying but refused to allow her to call a doctor. His one fear was that, after all he had done, his son would not benefit. Pamela was adamant that, whatever the outcome, they could trust the Colonel. She knew his word was his bond. They had known it would take considerable time for the big payoff to come through. In the meantime the Colonel had given them all enough cash to live on well and safely. He had even arranged a flight for Westbrook. But this was of little use to his lordship now. Without medication, he was in agony.

Pamela bought some grass from a guy upstairs, and it seemed to ease Westbrook’s pain. One evening she returned from shopping to find him stoned but dressed and trying to tie his shoelaces. He was shaking badly, and his hair was plastered to his head, making him appear skinnier than ever. He had hardly been able to eat, sipping only watered brandy.

“Papers are still full of it,” she informed him.

“My face seems to be on every TV channel.” He grinned boyishly, and she could see that his gums were bleeding.

“I’ll put this through the mixer and see if you can keep it down.” She held up a ready-made meal and popped it into the oven.

“No, don’t. I’m leaving.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I’ve been here too long, and I don’t want to put you at further risk.”

She was relieved but ashamed to show it. “Where the hell will you go? It’s already six o’clock.”

“Home.” He tried to stand, but his long, thin legs shook violently.

“I’m sure you’ll make it in that state.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm.

“Sure I will, sweetheart. I’ll roll a joint, get a bit more energy up, and then you can call a taxi.”

“I can’t have you picked up from here, darling. That’s too much of a risk.”

“I know. Get it to pick me up at the station. I can make it that far.”

“You can’t even stand up.”

He straightened and gestured with his free hand. “Course I can.”

“But if you take a taxi to Pimlico, you’ll be picked up within minutes.”

“Not that home,” he said softly and eased himself back down. “My real home. My ancestral pile.”

“Are you joking? Isn’t it miles away?”

“Yes, maybe the taxi isn’t such a good idea. Just get me onto a train to Waterloo, and I’ll sort something out from there. Please, Pamela.”

She approached him and cupped his face in her hands. “Let me think. If that’s what you want, we’ll work it out somehow.”

She left the flat and returned shortly with a wheelchair borrowed from one of the elderly tenants. “It’s a long walk, but we’ll make it. So roll up your joints and let’s get moving.”

Westbrook allowed her to shave him and give him a shirt left by a long-gone lover. He wore a polo-neck sweater over it, and she wrapped a blanket around him. She put a hat on his head and pulled it down low.

At eight she set off to walk the two miles to the railway station. Emaciated though he was, Westbrook was heavy to push, and she had to stop for a breather every now and then. His head bobbed up and down on his chest as she eased the chair across the pavements.

There was a train to Waterloo in fifteen minutes, so she bought a one-way ticket and wheeled him onto the platform. She didn’t want to think about how he would get on and off the train. They sat together, saying little. To her astonishment, when the train headed into the platform he found enough strength to stand unaided.

“This is good-bye, fair Pamela. Take care of yourself. I adore you and cannot thank you enough for your care. Now, please go and don’t look back. Just walk out before I blubber like a schoolboy. I never had much control over my emotions. Reminds me of saying good-bye to my mother when I went back to boarding school.”

Pamela kissed his wet, yellow cheek and fussed with the chair to hide her own tears. She knew she would never see him again.

She returned to her room and began to clean up. When she had folded the soiled sheets and Hoovered around the sofa, she sat down and broke into sobs, partly out of relief that he had gone and partly because she would miss him. Then she heated the ready-made meal and poured a large brandy. She couldn’t bring herself to switch on the television, fearing she might hear a report of his capture at Waterloo. When she found his unused plane tickets, with two thousand pounds that he had left for her, she broke down again.

Westbrook huddled in a corner of the train compartment and slept for the entire journey. No one paid him any attention. When the train arrived at Waterloo, he mustered the strength to walk the length of the platform toward the taxi rank. Pain forced him to sit down for fifteen minutes. Then, sweating profusely, he rose and hailed a taxi. He asked to be driven to Andover, a good two hours away. At first the driver refused to take him; then he saw Westbrook’s cash and helped him into the car.

“You sick?” he asked.

“You could say that. I just had my appendix out.” Westbrook rested against the seat, amazed he had managed to come this far. “When we get there, squire, wake me up and I’ll direct you to the lodge.” He closed his eyes. He knew that from the lodge he could get through the keeper’s gate and possibly manage the quarter of a mile to the house. He was too exhausted to open his eyes but passed the time in counting how many steps it would take him to get from the lodge to the kitchens, into the main hall, and from there up the stairs to his bedroom.

His mind drifted back to the room he had known as a boy. He had always been terrified of the dark, shut up in the east wing. He had never received much attention from either of his parents. He could not recall his father showing him any form of warmth or understanding. His mother had tried, when she was sober, but when he had needed her most she was always at some society event. The one great love of his life had been the wondrous building to which he was on his way—the halls, the ballroom, the library, and the vaulted, hand-painted ceiling in his room, with round pink cherubs beckoning him to the clouds on which they rested. All his ventures had been disasters, but with the money from his last enterprise, he was going to make sure his son and heir, living far out of his reach, could return to his rightful home. It was a fantasy, but it kept Westbrook alive for the duration of the taxi ride.

He gave the driver a generous tip and watched him leave, then used the stone wall as an aid to make his way toward the lodge gates. The magnificent house loomed dark and silent as he walked to the kitchens, counting each step. He made it into the house and up to his bedroom, then lay down on the French quilt, his head resting on the rolled satin cushions with their gold tassels. The pink cherubs danced on the ceiling above him, their fingers outstretched. A white marble bust of his great-great-great-grandfather stood at the window. Lord Alexander Westbrook, his periwig curling to his shoulders, stared down at him with his sightless eyes. Westbrook gave a soft sigh of satisfaction. He was home, just in time to die.

Westbrook’s body was discovered the next day by an elderly cleaning lady. By the time the doctor was called, two family retainers, now hired as cleaners by the commercial ice-cream company who rented the estate, had removed his soiled clothes and washed his body. They had called the police, who arrived with sirens screaming, as the doctor finished his examination.

The body was taken to the mortuary and an autopsy performed. The cancer that had been seeping through him had rendered his heart and lungs useless. When the body was released, one of the old retainers provided the funeral home with his lordship’s uniform and sword. They felt it only fitting that he should be laid out in his uniform, even though he had been disowned by his regiment. He was Lord Westbrook, after all. His dress uniform had been on display in the hall for visitors. His family was summoned to England for the funeral. His soiled garments were taken by the police to be examined, and the retainers were questioned but released without charge.

Westbrook made headlines again, but he had left the police without clues. He had thrown away anything that might link him to the robbery or to Pamela. He died knowing that the Colonel would be impressed by his tenacity and care. But then he had always been a true gentleman.

De Jersey lowered
The Times
and allowed himself an appreciative smile. The article stated that Westbrook had died of natural causes, and his death was not being treated as suspicious. He had heard no word of Sylvia Hewitt, and nothing had appeared about her in any of the papers. He took this as a good sign. In fact, although the newspapers still carried front-page articles about the hunt, he sensed that they might be in the clear. He was not stupid enough to think everything the police uncovered would be handed to the journalists, but at the same time, five days after the robbery, they had not arrested anyone and did not appear close to doing so. Still, the daily requests for information regarding Philip Simmons, the artists’ sketches and computer pictures posed some risk to him. He just hoped that all links between him and Simmons had been destroyed.