Royal Heist (16 page)

Westbrook watched as de Jersey picked up his cashmere overcoat. “If you decide not to go ahead, will you still pay me?”

“Of course, per week for however long it takes to accomplish your part of the heist.”

“How much?”

“One thousand cash every week and a cut of the jewels once they’ve been broken up.”

Westbrook took another cigarette.

De Jersey struck the match to light it. Their eyes met. “You should get enough to leave your son and heir his rightful inheritance.”

Westbrook stared into de Jersey’s cold blue eyes. He did not flinch; de Jersey was impressed.

Westbrook said, “I put my trust in you. God only knows why—it’s a gut feeling. This morning I really didn’t care how long I had to live, but now I do. I want to live long enough to pull this bloody thing off, and if I die in the process it doesn’t matter. But if we do it, I’ll leave my son more than an empty title. I’d like that.”

Back at the flat in Kilburn, de Jersey logged onto the computer and began to search. When “The Golden Jubilee Program Pages” came up, he scanned them for details of the Royal calendar. Since the festivities would begin in early May and continue through June and July, he reasoned that the crown and the jewels which were to be in use would have to be removed from the Tower some time before then. But where would they be held for safekeeping? With the jeweler appointed to the Queen? A plan was finally forming. He closed down his computer and leaned back in his chair, smiling. Just then his cell phone rang.

“It’s me, Eddy,” Driscoll said. “Me and Jimmy. We want to meet up again, the sooner the better.”

“Tomorrow,” de Jersey said calmly. “There’s a pub by Robin Hood Gate in Richmond Park. See you both there at twelve.” He hung up confident. His team was coming together.

CHAPTER

13

T
he public house chosen for the meeting was in Kingston, far enough from their homes for them not to be recognized, and full enough for them not to stand out. A large family-style dining room was next to the bar. The pub meals were home-cooked and cheap, the atmosphere friendly. Driscoll’s dog had accompanied the threesome.

They sat in a booth and ordered beer and sandwiches. They exchanged pleasantries as the drinks and food were put before them, then got down to business.

“It’s this fucking Sylvia Hewitt,” Wilcox said.

“She’s called us both at home.” Driscoll peered at his sandwich. He’d had stomach trouble for days and was apprehensive about eating.

“What’s she on about now?” de Jersey asked, sipping his pint. She hadn’t called him.

“Well, for one thing, I don’t like her having my private number,” Driscoll said.

“Goes for me too,” Wilcox said. “Rika’s on edge now. She thinks I’m having an affair with any woman who calls the house.” He gestured to de Jersey’s untouched plate. “You want yours?”

“No.” He pushed his plate forward. “Change your numbers.”

“The wife’s in the middle of organizing our daughter’s wedding; she’d go apeshit if we changed the number now. And this Hewitt bitch having my phone number is the least of our worries. She’s on to Philip Simmons,” Driscoll said.

This caught de Jersey off guard. “What?”

“She’ll be on to you. Any second.”

De Jersey placed his beer on the mat. “Shit.”

Wilcox took over. “You need to be careful. What if she discovers you went to New York? Airport security is tighter than it’s ever been. Do you think you can be identified?”

“I should be okay. Simmons only facilitated the house sale. When she can’t get hold of him, she’ll start pursuing other avenues to track down Moreno.” De Jersey tried to make light of a difficult situation, but he recognized a major headache in the works. “All anyone over there knows is that Simmons is a redheaded Canadian business adviser.”

“Listen,” Wilcox interjected. He stared at the beer mat in front of him, as if afraid to face de Jersey. “Tony and I still have some collateral. This Hewitt woman told us how much you lost, and we know how much cash those horses of yours eat up. Why don’t you get shot of the Hampton property and use the money until you get something worked out?”

“You can pay us later,” Driscoll chipped in.

“I have something worked out.”

There was a pause. Wilcox didn’t look up from the beer mat. Driscoll chewed a nail.

“A plan?” Driscoll said at last.

Wilcox wiped his mouth. “You’re not still on about the Crown Jewels. I mean, that was a gag, right?”

“It was no joke.”

“Sweet Jesus, he’s serious!” Driscoll said incredulously.

“It can work. It’ll take a lot of time and preparation. We can’t afford to make any mistakes.”

“Oh,
we
can’t, huh?”

“Just listen. The items we’re going to take will not be in the Tower. We’re going after the jewels the Queen wears for the Golden Jubilee. They’ll be taken off-site for preparation, and that’s where we’ll pick them up.”

“Where will they go?” asked Driscoll.

“Possibly to one of the jewelers in Hatton Garden,” de Jersey replied. “I’ll find out soon enough. I’ve been gathering the people we’ll need on our side. There’s an equerry, who was close to the Royal Family for years and knows the protocol. We need a substitute for the Queen, some motors, a lady-in-waiting, and two more heavies.”

Driscoll and Wilcox stared at him, speechless.

“We’ll need to get into the Royal household’s diary of events to figure out the security measures, and I’ll need to find myself a computer hacker.”

Driscoll’s dog yawned and shifted position under the table.

Wilcox broke the silence. “Say you get this organized and pull it off. How much do you think we’re looking at?”

“The Koh-i-noor Diamond should fetch us millions. Then there’s diamonds, rubies, pearls. . . .”

“Fuck me,” Wilcox said, frowning.

“But until it’s firmed up, it’s just work in progress.”

Driscoll drained his beer. “What do you want from me?” he asked quietly.

“The name and address of the actress who does the TV ad for royal jelly.”

“What?” Wilcox was unsure he had heard right.

“Why not?” Driscoll said. “It’s just a few phone calls.”

“You line up the vehicles,” de Jersey said to Wilcox. “We need two Daimlers spruced up. Copy the badges, Royal coat of arms. But don’t leave traces. Spread the work. The automobiles must never be connected to any of us.” De Jersey drained his glass. “Another drink?” he asked casually.

Driscoll asked for tonic water.

“I’ll get this round, you paid for the last.” Wilcox headed for the bar.

“You feeling all right?” de Jersey asked Driscoll.

“My nerves are shot. I can’t take this all in. I didn’t come here to discuss a fucking heist, Eddy. I told you I wasn’t up for it. Him neither.” Driscoll jerked his head toward the bar.

De Jersey ignored what he had said. “Wait till you see the commercial. Then you’ll understand why I want the actress.”

“Fine, right, I’ll check it out.”

As Wilcox was returning with the drinks, Driscoll leaned in close to de Jersey. “What’s the time span we’re looking at?”

“It’ll be May. According to my contact, the crown fittings will be held three or four weeks before the Jubilee celebrations, which take place on the fourth of June,” de Jersey said, lighting a cigar. “So it looks like early May. From now on, contact me only on my cell phone—no calls to the house.”

“Hang on!” Wilcox said. “I only went to get a round and now you’re talking as if this is all agreed to. Good job I didn’t go for a slash too or I’d have no idea what was going on.”

De Jersey gave him a half smile. “It’s work in progress. Decision time is still way off. Right now I just need the pair of you to help me with the setting up. That’s all.”

Wilcox raised his glass to de Jersey. “It looks like early May then,” he said.

De Jersey glanced at them. “So it’s agreed. You’ll help me set it up?”

They nodded, and de Jersey raised his glass to both.

De Jersey and Driscoll walked into the park with the dog. They headed for a Toyota Estate belonging to Driscoll’s wife. After Driscoll opened the door for the dog to hop in, De Jersey watched him swing the door back and forth absentmindedly. “What’s up with you?” he asked. “You worried?”

“Well, for starters, you’re not on your toes. Not like you used to be. And this Hewitt woman could be trouble.” Driscoll closed the door. “Also, I worry about Jimmy. He’s doing too much coke. I’ve told him that to his face but—”

De Jersey put his arm around Driscoll’s shoulders. “I’ve never taken unnecessary risks with you or James and I’m not going to start now. If this caper looks like a no-win situation, or if one of you isn’t up to the job, I’ll be the first to pull out.”

Driscoll nodded, unconvinced.

De Jersey went on. “It means a lot to me that you’ve both offered to help.”

Driscoll sighed. “You’re worth it.”

“I’ll talk to James,” de Jersey said. “He won’t know it came from you. It’s obvious to me, too, when he’s high.”

Driscoll drove away, the dog staring out of the rear window. De Jersey watched the car go. He had suspected Wilcox of doing coke. He would have to keep an eye on him. Wilcox had always been a bit on the wild side, but in the end he delivered.

This time he would deliver even faster than de Jersey expected. That afternoon he got a call from Wilcox saying he might have located the vehicles. He’d seen an ad in
Motor News,
and he was going to check it out.

The following morning, Wilcox walked along the cobbled mews behind Leicester city center and paused outside a double garage. A peeling “Hudson’s Weddings and Funerals” plaque hung precariously from a rusty nail on the garage door. He had parked his Ferrari a good distance away, outside a large petrol station. He’d asked the proprietor to check the oil and fuel, telling him he would return soon.

The double garage appeared to be locked, and Wilcox stepped back, annoyed. But when he gave a really hard knock, there was the sound of footsteps. The door creaked open, and a short, wiry man with bifocal glasses peered out. He had iron gray hair in a spiky crew cut and was wearing oil-stained overalls. Ken Hudson was seventy and suffered from glaucoma. He gestured for Wilcox to follow him into the gloomy garage.

It was larger than it had appeared from the outside, with four covered vehicles parked in a square. Hudson switched on a yellowish light and launched into a monologue on his now defunct wedding and funeral business. He was selling everything, including the tools, the paint-spraying and car-cleaning equipment, the four vehicles. Wilcox poked around the small back office, which was home to a kettle and a small camping stove.

Hudson squinted at him through his thick glasses. “You wanna look at the vehicles?”

Wilcox smiled and shrugged. “Eh, Pops, I can shift the hearses, but they’re not what I’m after. I want to make this a paint shop, respray cars, stuff like that. I’ll take ’em, but it’s the premises I’m primarily interested in. What’s your asking price? It’ll be cash, so don’t play silly buggers.” Wilcox lifted a tarpaulin and discovered a Daimler.

“Ten thousand,” Hudson said.

“I’ll give you eight, cash.”

Hudson paused. “All right, but that’s a damn good price.”

The deal done, Hudson brought out the grubby documents, signed everything over to “Tom Hall,” and gave him a receipt for the cash. After another fifteen minutes of small talk, the old boy handed over the keys and left. When he was alone Wilcox dragged the tarpaulin off each of the Daimlers. They were exactly what de Jersey had requested. Two were hearses and two had been used for weddings, but not for some time. Mildew and cobwebs threaded across the seats. Wilcox inspected each vehicle’s engine. He would use two for parts, and it would take a lot of elbow grease to get that bodywork gleaming again.

Before driving back to London, he purchased a book on the Royals and, using a magnifying glass, checked out their Daimlers. He would need to make a copy of the mascot fitted to the Queen’s car. He also had to match the seat colors. It would take time, but he was in no hurry. It was still early days. In some ways it was good to have something to take his mind off his financial problems, and as the Colonel had said, if it didn’t work out and he wanted to walk away, he could. He was just carrying out orders, as he had in the past.

Later that day de Jersey arrived outside Sylvia Hewitt’s apartment block in St. John’s Wood. He had telephoned from a small café along the high street. Helen answered and told him that Sylvia was not at home but that she expected her at any moment.

“Would you like her to call you at home?”

“No, I’m in London. In fact, I’m not far from St. John’s Wood. May I come round tonight?”

“Of course,” Helen gushed.

“Good. I’ll see you shortly then.”

He snapped his cell phone shut and sat with his cappuccino, wondering how to approach the matter. He had to find out the private investigator’s name and, more important, if the PI had discovered anything that would lead Sylvia to him.

Helen opened the front door. She looked dreadful, even thinner than before. “Sylvia’s on her way. I called her office and she was just leaving.” She gestured for him to follow her into the drawing room. “Would you like some tea?”

“That would be nice,” he said. “I’ve had a long day.”

Helen clasped her hands. “I’ll just slip out to the high street. There’s a very good deli, wonderful cakes, unless . . .”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble but I’m a sucker for chocolate éclairs.”

Helen tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be two minutes. Would you like the television on?”

“No, thanks. It’ll be nice to sit here and relax.”

As soon as he heard the front door close, de Jersey was on his feet. He searched the room, then looked through the rest of the apartment, walking past the immaculate kitchen and bathroom to Sylvia’s bedroom. He was fast and careful, first her wardrobe, then her dressing table. Last he searched her bedside table and, in one of the drawers, discovered a photograph of her with David Lyons, several letters, and Sylvia’s birth certificate and driving license. He hurried from the bedroom into a small adjoining room she used as her office, where he uncovered the mail from Matheson in New York, his carefully listed expenses and updates of his investigation. Then he heard the front door open and was caught near the bedroom door. He smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, where’s the bathroom?”

Helen pointed to a door opposite as she made her way into the kitchen.

He went in and closed the door. Then he read one of the letters he’d taken from the bedroom. It was a love letter from David to Sylvia.

It was almost five thirty when Sylvia arrived. De Jersey stood up to shake her hand. Helen seemed as relieved as he was to see her. “If you two will excuse me, I think I’ll just go and have a lie-down. I hardly sleep at all these days,” she said.

“I’ll wake you for dinner,” Sylvia said.

She took off her coat and gestured for de Jersey to sit down. “I suppose you’ve heard all about her depression. I have to listen to it day and night, and it’s becoming a strain.” She tossed her coat over a chair and sat primly opposite him. “After everything is settled I think she’ll have enough to buy a small place of her own. These things take so much time, though. We’ve sold the house, or what was left of it after the fire, but poor David was in a dreadful mess. The house was in both their names, but he’d even remortgaged that. Helen just signed whatever he put in front of her.” She sipped her tea. “For a while the police and the fire specialist were suspicious of the way the fire had started, but in the end they couldn’t find anything, so the insurance company was forced to pay up. At least Helen has salvaged something from this mess.”

“Unlike you,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“I understand that you also invested money in the Internet company.”