Royal Heist Part 39

"She's called every other day. She's trying to get me to contact her sister for her."

"Why?" He looked over the banister rail to the hall table below, where the phone still rang.

"Because when she found out David and Sylvia were having an affair, she said she was never going to speak to her again. She asked me to call her on her behalf. Did you know about it?"

"What?"

"That Sylvia was seeing David, for years apparently."

"Good G.o.d! No, of course I didn't. What did she want? Is it to do with David or what?"

"It's the insurance money. Apparently Sylvia was handling all the claims, and now Helen is running short of cash."

The phone had stopped ringing.

"Did you speak to Sylvia?"

"No. I even called her office, but they said she was away. New York, I think. But when Helen called again, just before you got home, I couldn't contain myself any longer. I told her that, considering what David had done to us, she could d.a.m.ned well call Sylvia herself!"

Christina's mood changed. "I have felt very lonely while you've been away, Edward."

"I'm sorry, but I didn't have any choice." He stroked her face and kissed her gently.

"But is everything all right? I mean, truthfully. Please, no more lies. I hated prizing open the drawers like some demented, jealous woman, and then when it all became clear how badly off we are financially, I almost hated you for being so dishonest with me."

"The truth is that we're out of trouble now, and with the expectation I have for Royal Flush . . . If he wins the Derby, it'll put this place on the map. He'll be worth millions." He kissed her again. "We're almost in the clear, sweetheart."

"And you didn't have to remortgage the farm?"

"Nope. I got away without having to do that by the skin of my teeth. We're safe."

She leaned against him as they continued up the stairs. "Things have to change between us," she said quietly. "From now on, don't lie to me anymore."

"I won't. h.e.l.l, you might take a screwdriver to me next, never mind my desk!" He drew her close to him, and they walked up to their bedroom. He gave silent thanks that he had taken Philip Simmons's pa.s.sport with him to Paris. If he hadn't, Christina would have found it with the others.

They left for their daughters' school an hour later and sat through a lengthy production of The Taming of the Shrew. Both girls were delighted that their father was there, but Christina did not tell them he had slept through most of the last act. They had wine and cheese with the other parents, then left. They listened to cla.s.sical music on the car stereo rather than the news, and it was almost one in the morning by the time they reached home.

De Jersey was so exhausted he went straight to bed and fell into a deep sleep. Christina lay next to him, her eyes wide open, wondering how many other lies her husband had told her. She was so naive, she realized, and this was the first time she had ever questioned their relationship or his past. She had never felt their age difference until now and wondered what he had done in the years before he met her. She looked at him now, sleeping like a baby, and felt intensely irritated. They hardly made love anymore, and he had not even kissed her good night. She flopped back on her pillow, the seeds of discontent continuing to grow.

Driscoll sat in the TV room with a large gin and tonic. He had been watching the news flashes, partly in amus.e.m.e.nt and partly in denial. They were not in the clear by any means. The biggest plus was that neither he nor Wilc.o.x had been in trouble with the law before, so even if Maureen could describe them, she could look at mug shots until the cows came home: they were not in the books. The news flashes described the missing vehicles, and requests for information were repeated with numbers to call if anyone had information. A warrant had been issued for Westbrook's arrest. A parade of debs and his a.s.sociates were interviewed on the news, telling tales of his womanizing and dealings in high society. His face was becoming as familiar as Lord Lucan's.

"What the h.e.l.l were you doing all day?" Liz asked, setting down a bowl of raw carrots.

"Touting for business," he said, then looked at her as she started to crunch a carrot.

"Christ, do you have to do that?" he asked.

"I'm on a diet."

"Well, I'm hungry. I didn't have time for lunch."

She stood up. "What do you want?"

"Omelet. Nothing too rich. My gut's giving me h.e.l.l."

"You should see another specialist. You want anything in the omelet or just plain?"

"Bit of cheese."

"That's fattening."

"I don't give a f.u.c.k!"

"Tony!"

"I'm sorry, but I'm trying to listen to the news." Suddenly he felt gleeful. "You seen it?"

"I only just got in. I've been having a mud bath at the new hydro clinic."

"Well, there's been a big robbery."

"Oh, I know about that. Sandra had the TV on. Do you want a side salad with your omelet?"

"Sure." He watched her walk out of the room. He wondered how Sandra would feel if she knew her last customer's husband had been in on the robbery of the Crown Jewels.

Shortly after Westbrook and Pamela arrived home, Pamela dyed her hair back to its usual auburn. Westbrook was on her sofa bed and continued to apologize for imposing on her, swearing that as soon as he recovered he'd make his own arrangements. He had a fake pa.s.sport and cash to leave the country, but until he could stand up travel was out of the question. He watched the television all that day and night, but even the news flashes could not hold his attention and he dozed fitfully. Where on earth had they managed to get so many photographs of him, let alone of his so-called a.s.sociates? He wondered where these close friends had been for the past year.

Wilc.o.x arrived home in time for the twins' birthday party, which he'd forgotten. It was a bit of a pain; all he wanted to do was relax and watch the news. But he blew up balloons and sat out with the kids as they ate sausages, eggs, and chips. He left the chaos for a while to go to the local video store. He returned, arms loaded with Mars bars, Smarties, cartoons, sci-fi films, and all the evening newspapers he could lay hands on. The headlines all told of the robbery, and everyone was talking about it, even in the video store. The public seemed to view it as sacrilege. Later in the evening he sneaked away to his bedroom to watch the late-night television news. The hunt for Westbrook was on, but as yet there seemed to be no clues as to the ident.i.ty of the rest of the team. Nevertheless, they gave out descriptions based on what little they had to go on. Wilc.o.x sighed with relief. He wanted to call Driscoll. He ached to hear how he was coping and became paranoid that the police had to be withholding evidence. He chopped up the last of his stash of cocaine, and Rika found him snorting it in the bathroom. They had a blistering row, which somehow eased his tension.

After they had made love, Rika lay beside him, her body glistening with sweat, and he leaned on his elbow, smiling at her. "The kids had a great day. Thank you. They get on really well with you, Rika. Dunno what I'd do without you, but they're gonna go to boarding school soon. Their mother suggested they go and stay over with her for the next holidays and-"

She turned toward him. "Vhat you saying? You don't need me no more?"

"No, I am not saying that at all."

"Then vhy you say it?"

"No reason. Why do you question everything I b.l.o.o.d.y say?"

"I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Vhy vere you so late coming home? I told you I needed things for the party."

"I hadda sell a car. In fact, I'm selling off most of them."

Rika pouted. "You still got no money."

"Yeah, but not for long."

"Ve get married then? You marry Rika?"

He closed his eyes. "Yeah, maybe . . . Just let me get some kip. I'm tired out."

Rika got off the bed and put on a robe. She tightened the belt and walked out. He sighed and picked up the remote control. He switched from one program to another and fell asleep with the remote still in his hand.

Not long after the robbery, the police discovered that the team had pulled the plugs on the panic alarms, and they backtracked through the coal chute to the warehouse base. It was two in the morning when they broke in with a search warrant. Now they had their next big lead. There, rotting in acid, was one of the Daimlers used in the heist. Fingerprint experts and twenty officers were shipped in to examine the warehouse inch by inch. They were also trying to find out who had rented the place, but it was a further five hours before they got the man's name: Philip Simmons.

The day after the robbery, Her Majesty made an unprecedented broadcast, asking for the public's a.s.sistance in apprehending the thieves who had taken the precious items of British heritage. The interview was followed by a doc.u.mentary about the Crown Jewels, watched by 10 million viewers. That led to another breakthrough. An elderly man believed the Daimlers used in the robbery might have been the ones he'd sold in Leicester. He informed the police there had been two, and a chap had bought the lease on his garage more than six months previously. When questioned, he gave the best description of Wilc.o.x his memory afforded him. The police matched the garage owner's description to that of the driver Maureen had given.

They had also discovered that Philip Simmons had rented the Aldersgate warehouse. After questioning the estate agents who had negotiated the transaction, they had yet another description of the man they now believed had led the gang. It was confusing, though. Most of the negotiations for the warehouse had been done by telephone, but the agent who had shown de Jersey the property was unable to verify that he had red hair as he had worn a hat. As far as he could recall, he had no mustache. Although the description was sketchy, he confirmed that the man was tall and well built, and spoke with an upper-cla.s.s accent.

Operation Crown's initial hype was starting to fade. The description of Pamela had yielded no response. The police knew their biggest card would be the capture of Westbrook. The inquiry now fielded a force of over a thousand officers, all sifting through statements and calls from the public. Fifty telephone operators were working round the clock.

There had been hundreds of sightings of Westbrook on the day of the robbery and after the event. Some were at Heathrow Airport, some at the ferry in Dover, and others at various railway stations in the south. One caller said she was sure she had seen him on a train going to Plymouth with a blond woman. She also said he looked drunk or sick. As it had not been disclosed to the public that Westbrook had cancer, this was a valuable piece of information that might lead to the discovery of the lady-in-waiting too.

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 anch.o.r.ed off the Suss.e.x 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 pa.s.sengers 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.

The 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 Wilc.o.x 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 a.s.sist 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 a.s.sist 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 a.s.sembled 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 a.s.sistance. 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 gra.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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."