Royal Heist Part 3

"I wasn't referring to the dinner. Tell me about David's financial troubles."

"He's made some foolish investments. Not sure exactly how much he's frittered away of mine."

"Yours? What do you mean?" Christina asked anxiously.

"Oh, nothing I can't take care of. Don't worry about it."

"But is it going to be a worry for you? Did Helen know anything about this?"

"I don't think so."

"Was he already in trouble when he came to Ascot?"

"I don't know. I haven't had time to review all the records yet." He was two people: one quietly enjoying his meal with his beloved wife, the other white with rage. He had trusted David and his judgment. He was not prepared to lose all of this, but he had never felt so impotent in his life.

With dinner over and Christina clearing the table, he sat preoccupied, tapping a dessertspoon.

"Should I call her?" asked Christina.

"Up to you," de Jersey said offhandedly.

"Well, do you think it would be appropriate?"

"How should I know?" he said and stood.

"I hate it when you behave like this." She pulled off the tablecloth.

"How am I behaving?"

She glared at him. "Like that! Shutting me out and snapping at me. I'm only trying to find out what's happened. David has killed himself, for G.o.d's sake, and you say he frittered money away. Well, I would just like to know-"

"Sweetheart, I don't know the full extent of what David has or hasn't done," de Jersey said, softening his tone. "It's difficult. Twenty-five years is a long time to know and trust someone. Now, I'm sorry I've been abrupt, but I really must go try to sort out the facts."

Back in his office, de Jersey was forced to accept the reality of what had occurred. He had a terrible feeling that the gamble he had taken with David might now cause him to lose everything. He would not be the only loser: he had drawn in Wilc.o.x and Driscoll, his two oldest friends. Earlier in the year, when de Jersey's share had trebled in value, he'd called them both and advised them to invest. He knew that he should contact them but couldn't bring himself to do it yet.

Someone would pay for this.

De Jersey's chest was tight with anger. Christina had lit the fire and left a bottle of port with some cheese and crackers on the table. In the dark, womblike room, with its heavy oak furniture and dark red velvet curtains, he sucked tensely at a cigar as he slotted a disk into the computer. Why had he been so foolish as to invest so much money in an Internet company? "Never get involved in anything you don't understand," his father had always told him.

De Jersey closed his eyes. He had not just got into something he didn't understand; he had walked blindly into a nightmare. Then he had become greedy and poured in more money and, even worse, had encouraged his friends to do the same.

Driscoll and Wilc.o.x were the only living souls who knew how de Jersey had acquired his original wealth. Together the three men had staged some of the greatest robberies in British history, and they had never been caught. After their final heist they had agreed to a strict set of rules, which included not contacting each other again. But when David Lyons had started the investment bonanza, de Jersey couldn't resist breaking their agreement to encourage his old friends to jump onto the gravy train. He just hoped they had not acted as rashly as he had.

The snow that had been forecast was not yet falling, though the ground was hardened with frost. De Jersey, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his breath steaming out in front of him, had walked for miles.

He leaned against the white fence round the paddock. Christmas was always financially draining, and without liquid funds de Jersey knew he was in dire trouble. If he did not come up with a lucrative solution, he would soon be forced to start selling off his horses. He had to find a way of recouping his losses-fast. He tossed his cigar down and ground it out with his heel. He knew he was going to have to contact Driscoll and Wilc.o.x, and it wouldn't be to wish them a happy new year.

"I'm going to see a specialist, maybe try this v.i.a.g.r.a stuff," Tony Driscoll said in a depressed tone as he switched off the bedside lamp.

"Don't worry about it." Liz tried to pretend it wasn't important.

"That's the fourth time this month. Something's got to be wrong-I've never not been able to get it up."

Liz sighed.

"I've put on weight too." Driscoll rubbed his hairy chest, then let his hand slip down to the rolls of his belly. "You think it's something to do with my liver?" he asked.

"More likely it's just the traveling or the heat."

"We've been to Florida five times, so why should it suddenly affect me now?"

Liz sat up and bashed her pillow; he was not going to let her sleep. She snapped on the bedside lamp, got out of bed, and slipped a silk robe around her shoulders. At forty-seven she was in good shape, much better than her husband. But then the only thing she had to fill her time was exercise.

"Do you want a cup of tea or something?"

"Maybe a gla.s.s of water," he muttered.

Liz padded across the wide expanse of oyster-pink carpet to the fridge and poured some Perrier water into a tumbler. "I'll have to call down for some ice."

"Don't bother." Driscoll leaned back on the pillows. The hair on his chest was flecked with gray, as was the thick, bushy thatch on his head. At least there were no signs of baldness.

Liz returned to his side of the bed with the water. "I think I might spend the day at the hotel spa tomorrow. Have you got anything arranged?"

"Golf," he muttered.

"Shall I meet you at the clubhouse when I'm through?"

"Yeah, we'll have a drive around, then book somewhere nice for dinner. What do you think of the restaurant here?"

"I've not even looked at it yet, just read the leaflets. After that long plane trip, I could do with a stretch and a ma.s.sage. I might have my hair and nails done too. Shall we meet up at about five?"

"I'm not playing golf all b.l.o.o.d.y day."

"Well, why don't you meet me back here, then? And don't get so shirty. It's not my fault you're impotent."

"I'm not f.u.c.king impotent," he snapped.

Her smirk turned into a laugh; he knew she was teasing him.

"Get off," he said as she tickled him but couldn't help smiling. She cuddled him and kissed his chest.

"I think I'll go to sleep now." He turned away before she could make another attempt. He couldn't stand the thought of failure twice in the same night.

Liz walked over to the dressing table and gave her long blond tresses a flick. She admired herself for a moment, then leaned closer to check her face. "I hate this light," she muttered, tracing the lines at the sides of her mouth. They seemed deeper, even though they had been injected recently. She pursed her lips; they too had been "fluffed up" with collagen injections.

"Are you coming back to bed?" Driscoll asked.

Liz was now studying the lines between her eyes. She was not supposed to be able to frown; her brow should have been frozen. "I don't think these Botox injections work, Tony."

"Well, I think you're crazy to have anything done, let alone stick poison into your face."

Liz pouted. At least her new lips looked great. She went into the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" he shouted.

"Having a tiddle. Is that all right with you?" She shut the door and gave herself the satisfaction her husband had been unable to provide.

They were both in deep sleep when the phone rang. Driscoll sat up like a shot. "What the h.e.l.l? . . . What time is it?"

Liz moaned. "It might be one of the kids."

"If it is I'll give 'em a mouthful. It's only four o'clock." He wrapped a robe around himself.

"Well, answer it, then," Liz said, worried now.

"All right, all right." He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone. "h.e.l.lo?"

"It's the Colonel," came the soft voice at the other end of the line. Driscoll pressed hold and put down the receiver. He glanced at Liz and said, "It's okay, business. I'll take it in the lounge." He walked out.

"Business?" She flopped back, relieved that her children were not in trouble. They were in the south of France, staying with friends. They had grown out of accompanying their parents on holiday, even to Florida for Christmas. She wondered if they liked their gifts-they wouldn't have waited until Christmas Day to open them. Mich.e.l.le had a gold necklace with her name picked out in diamonds, a matching bracelet, and her own credit card with five thousand pounds' spending money; she was seventeen years old and stunningly pretty, taking after her mother. Michael was the spitting image of his father, stocky, with dark eyes and thick, curly hair; he had been given the keys to a Lotus in a gold box; the car had been delivered to their home. He was nineteen and a first-year student of business studies at the University of Liverpool. He was very intelligent, and Liz doubted that a Lotus was the right kind of car for him; unlike his sister, he was quiet and studious. She worried about him much more than she did about her outgoing daughter, whose only real ambition was to be at the forefront of fashion and who was almost as obsessive about clothes as her mother. She could spend money just as fast too.

Liz knew that Mich.e.l.le was spoiled, especially by her father, who doted on her. A good marriage with a nice, respectable boy was what they both wanted for her. At the moment, Mich.e.l.le had a constant stream of boyfriends, all from wealthy families. Liz was determined, though, that her daughter wasn't going to get pregnant and ensured that she took sensible precautions. This was their mother-daughter secret; she knew her husband would not approve of his princess being on the pill. She yawned and looked at the bedside clock. The red light on the phone was still lit, and Tony was supposed to be semiretired.

"Tony? What's going on? Tony?"

"With you in a minute, sweetheart," he called.

The phone pressed to his ear, Driscoll listened to the soft, clipped tone of de Jersey's voice. The Colonel was the nickname he and Wilc.o.x had given him, and only they used it. Driscoll's heart was beating rapidly, and he had broken out in a sweat. He did not interrupt, just gave the occasional grunt to let de Jersey know he was still on the line.

"There's nothing to be done before the Christmas break is over, but we'll meet up after you get back," said de Jersey. "The usual place, at the Ritz, but I'll call again as soon as I have more details. Tony?"

"We're due back mid-January."

"Fine. I'll contact James and pa.s.s on the news."

"He's in Aspen."

"I know."

Driscoll's mouth was dry. "There couldn't have been some f.u.c.kup, could there? I mean, are you sure?"

"Afraid so. David killed himself, that's proof enough. It's bad. I'll need time to sort through everything. I am truly sorry, Tony. I feel it's down to me, and I'll try to think of some way to make good our losses."

Driscoll closed his eyes. "I put all my eggs in."

"We all did, but like I said, I feel responsible."

"h.e.l.l, we're all grown men. You never twisted my arm, but I would like to know exactly what's gone down. We're talking millions."

"Try not to think about it. I'll work this one out for us, and that's a promise."

The phone went dead, and Driscoll sat cradling the receiver in his hands. He was still unable to take it in. He had just lost his life savings.

Tony Driscoll had started out as a runner in Ronnie Jersey's betting shops, but he was clever with his money. With the initial payoff from the Colonel, he had moved into the rubbish-collection industry, opening up big waste-disposal dumps and buying a fleet of trucks. In the mid-seventies he had married Liz, his secretary, and in the early eighties they had moved their children into a ma.s.sive mock Tudor mansion just outside Guildford. Recently Driscoll had begun to play a big part in the local Labour Party, donating funds and attending functions. Driscoll glanced to the closed bedroom door. He still felt numb. He knew he couldn't take part in another caper, not after all these years. His hand was shaking as he poured a shot of whiskey. He felt fear when he considered his agreement to meet up with the others. Whatever the Colonel suggested to get them out of trouble, he would refuse. He kept looking at the bedroom door, wondering how he could explain his financial predicament to Liz. He'd have to get rid of the girlfriend, sell the flat he'd provided her with. He reckoned he'd have to sell off property fast, including his villa in Spain. He returned to the bedroom. Thinking about the life of crime he used to lead made the adrenaline pump into his tired veins.

Liz woke to her husband stroking her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and suddenly he was on top of her, like a man possessed. He went for her with a pa.s.sion that made her climax with a scream.

"Well, that must have been some phone call," she said, wide awake and smiling. "Whoever it was, you get him to call you just once a week. I couldn't take this every night! Tony? Was it good news?"

He closed his eyes. "Yes. And now I'm knackered." He turned over and fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.

Liz had no notion of her husband's life before their marriage. None of his business a.s.sociates had an air of being less than 100 percent legitimate. If anyone had hinted to Liz that her husband had been involved with some of the most daring robberies ever committed in England she would have laughed. Not her Tony. Tony had a fixation on honesty; he'd even had arguments with his accountant over a few offsh.o.r.e tax-dodging schemes the man had suggested. He was paranoid if they were late paying the milkman. She loved and trusted him totally and had never been unfaithful, though recently she'd been fantasizing about her new personal trainer, Kevin. Just like Christina, Liz had been cosseted and adored but kept in ignorance of her husband's past activities. The three men had agreed: the less anyone knew about their past, the safer they would be. So their secrets were buried deep and covered with well-rehea.r.s.ed lies. Liz had never heard her husband mention Edward de Jersey, just as Christina knew nothing about Tony Driscoll or James Wilc.o.x.

The snowcapped mountains with the mellow light of sunrise streaming across their peaks made a wonderful sight. Aspen was not just great skiing country; its scenery was breathtaking. It also offered a fantastic social life, which was why James Wilc.o.x and his present girlfriend, Rika, had booked their Christmas break there for two years in a row.

Rika had been the nanny. She'd arrived from the Ukraine hardly able to speak two words of English, a raw-boned, handsome blonde with a voluptuous figure. After six months, she moved into the master bedroom. Rika knew a good catch when she saw one, and born into poverty, she was determined to become Wilc.o.x's wife number five.

At fifty-nine, Wilc.o.x was slender and muscular from his daily workouts. He ran about fifty miles every week, cycled, and played tennis in the summer. He was still handsome and had only recently taken on the slight puffiness a.s.sociated with age and high living. Rika was only twenty-eight. He could hardly ever understand what she said as her English was still appalling, but he had no desire for meaningful conversations. She was a great f.u.c.k, kept the kids in order and his homes clean.

Wilc.o.x had stupendous energy and required only five hours' sleep a night. He practically rattled with the vitamin pills he swallowed in handfuls every morning. He ate sparingly, drank little, and smoked only the occasional cigar. His one vice was cocaine; he snorted mountains of it and depended on it to kick him into gear every day.

Wilc.o.x was not as wealthy as Driscoll or de Jersey, but through wise deals in the car trade he had turned his earnings from the robberies into a lucrative business. At one time he had owned restaurants and garages, but he had recently liquidated the majority of his holdings in favor of a semiretirement plan: he planned to pack up and live abroad. He had stayed on in England all these years only to educate his six kids. Since all of the older teenagers now either boarded at school or were heading for university, and only the twins still lived at home, it would be simple now to send them to boarding school, move to Geneva, and keep just a small house in England.

Wilc.o.x and de Jersey had left Sandhurst at around the same time. Wilc.o.x, though, had been thrown out for punching an officer. He had been enjoying his semiretirement, content to buy and sell expensive cars. The last robbery the three had pulled off had set him up for life. Like his hero de Jersey, Wilc.o.x was legitimate now, but over the past few years he had overstretched his finances, unable to resist women and top-of-the-range motors. So when de Jersey had suggested the Internet venture, he had agreed to join in. At first, Wilc.o.x had been uneasy about what de Jersey was going to propose. He discovered that Driscoll too was loath to get involved in any further criminal activity. But de Jersey had soon eased their worries. In fact he had laughed. He wasn't in any way going to suggest another robbery, far from it. "The Colonel's retired, my friends," de Jersey said. "I am about to offer you the chance to double your savings, no risk, nothing illegal."

He explained in detail. The investment was a new Internet company with its main base in the United States. He had inside information that, if they invested now, they would become billionaires within six months. De Jersey had seen his investment treble. So the three of them had become the main investors in leadingleisurewear.com. They released millions, and their shares doubled, then trebled, then skyrocketed. The company's Web site became one of the most popular in the country, and the press heralded the enterprise as a major success. Wilc.o.x even remortgaged his house to invest more.

He was leaning back drenched in sweat in the chalet sauna when Rika opened the door. She was wearing a silk wrap, her long blond hair was in a braid, and her face was taut with anger. "I fund dis inda luggage!" she snapped.

"What?" He wrapped a small towel round his waist.

"I'm nut stupid, Jimmy," she shouted. "I bring ta Aspen da Christmas presents you give me, the ones from you to me and to da children. So who is diss for?" She wafted a ring box in front of his nose.

He stood up, towering over her, then walked out.

"Don't turn da back on me. I hate you!" she screamed.

He sighed, taking the box and flicking it open. "Don't you recognize it, Rika?"

"No, I do not."

"Well, you should. Go back to last Christmas, to that charity dinner. Sylvester Stallone was there. We were at the same table as Goldie Hawn."

"Vat about it?" she said, her hands on her hips.

"Well, this ring is identical to the one Goldie Hawn was wearing, which you admired. She said it was from a local jeweler, so I ordered one for you last year but it wasn't ready in time. I paid for it and asked them to keep it for me. Yesterday I picked it up. It's three diamonds on platinum and yellow gold. You don't want it? Fine, I'll chuck it out of the G.o.dd.a.m.ned window!"

He strode to the window, and she ran after him. "No, don't! I am sorry."