Royal Heist (44 page)

After his last meeting with Dulay, de Jersey headed back to Ireland using the passport in the name of Michael Shaughnessy. He owned a smallholding in that name, which was managed by a local Irish horse breeder. De Jersey had visited whenever he was in Ireland, but always in disguise. It had been his little secret. Bandit Queen, now in foal, was there.

The mare had cost 125,000 pounds and had been purchased from Tattersalls in 1999. She had raced only three times in the de Jersey colors. While the hysterical manhunt for Edward de Jersey continued, he was calmly arranging to send Bandit Queen to America. First he chartered a flight and paid shipping agency and export testing fees. He arranged the Weatherbys papers, listing Royal Flush’s brother, a stallion called Royal Livery, as the sire. He did everything he could to conceal that Royal Flush had been put to stud illegally. Bandit Queen, in foal by Royal Flush, was transported in a horse box to the airport. She would be held in quarantine in America, for which he had also paid, then taken to East Hampton. De Jersey hired a boy to travel with the horse and paid him well to make sure he took the greatest care of his precious cargo. De Jersey, as Shaughnessy, then flew from Ireland to Virginia. From there he took a flight to New York.

After arriving at JFK, de Jersey traveled on, still as Shaughnessy, to East Hampton on the jitney bus. He had only one suitcase and stayed at the Huntting Inn. He checked that Bandit Queen had traveled well and was undergoing tests at Cornell. He was certain they would find no discrepancies with her papers or blood tests. As with everything, he had covered his tracks well. He rented a cottage near Gardiners Bay in Springs, East Hampton. He rarely left the property but ordered anything he needed over the Internet as he planned how to regain ownership of Moreno’s property. He was careful, knowing that by now the U.K. police might have traced his connection to it, but he was not prepared to walk away from millions of dollars.

The hands at the Cornell quarantine stables led Bandit Queen down from the trailer, impressed by her size and obvious quality. She had a smallish head, almost Arab, with a powerful neck and a strong, muscular body. The foal she was carrying was not showing to a great extent. She was checked by a vet, who found that the long journey had not upset her, and she ate her first feed hungrily. Her coat gleamed in the late-afternoon sun.

By the end of May, de Jersey, now comfortable with his new name, contacted the law firm to which he had sent the crate of paintings, saying he would collect it personally. He drove there in a rented Jeep, walked into their offices, handed over his documents, and paid for the delivery. Then he drove to a warehouse they used for storage of their clients’ possessions. This was not an unusual transaction; the nomadic nature of many homeowners in the Hamptons meant that lawyers acted as “house carers,” paying bills and monitoring properties during the winter months, when they were vacant. De Jersey put the crate into the Jeep and returned to his house. He took out twenty thousand dollars, then hid the rest in waterproof plastic bags beneath the floorboards.

Over the last month he had aged considerably and lost a substantial amount of weight. Like Driscoll and Wilcox, he now had a full beard. He hardly went out unless to buy groceries. He bought from the local farmers’ markets and ate good, fresh food, trying to build up his strength, and every day he called to check on his unborn foal. At the quarantine stables they became used to the soft-toned voice of the man they had never met. “Hello, this is Michael Shaughnessy. How’s my lady?” he’d ask. He said he was hoping to leave Ireland shortly and gave no indication that he was already living in East Hampton.

De Jersey looked around for a property where he could eventually stable the mare and foal. Beneath the floorboards he had more than enough to keep him for many years, and when he eventually discovered a way to get his hands on the Moreno property, he would retire in luxury. His long-term plan was to open a racing stable in Virginia. Until then he was content to bide his time. The locals were aware that there was a new resident along the bay, but they made no approach. That was part of the joy of the Hamptons, the privacy: you could be social if you liked, or remain incognito. It was an artists’ colony, too, and the gaunt man with the long coat and beard fitted in. The beaches were always empty, and he took early-morning walks to watch the sun rise. He clambered over the rocks and sat contemplating his life, his future, and thinking of Christina, of his daughters, wishing that it had turned out differently. This, however, was the only way he could stay free, if lonely.

De Jersey had plenty of time to think about Driscoll and Wilcox, but there was no remorse. In fact, he had none for anything he had done, except perhaps Sylvia Hewitt, but that had been necessary. Believing that helped him come to terms with her death. He had no intention of returning to England, or watching the Derby, whatever anyone hunting for him might think. He had no need to go home. Bandit Queen was expecting his champion’s foal. He was certain that he had got away with it and that one day he would win the Derby with Royal Flush’s foal.

His conversation with Fleming and the vet was further confirmation to Chief Superintendent Rodgers that he was dealing with a complex man in Edward de Jersey. His father had been a bookie, yet de Jersey was able to mix with Royalty at one moment and steal the Crown Jewels at the next. As the squad car drove away from the estate, he looked at Sara. “What do you think?”

She gave a rueful smile. “I don’t think anyone really knew him.”

“Well, I’m damn well going to, because I’m gonna catch the bugger. Then I’m gonna retire.”

Rodgers decided he had to go back into the past to find out what made de Jersey tick. De Jersey had no previous criminal record, but Rodgers found old news coverage and articles on his father’s betting shops and the feuds between rival East End gangs. There was little information about either father or son, but there had been a memorial service for the well-liked bookie. He had asked for his ashes to be spread over the Epsom racecourse on Derby Day, but permission had been denied.

Rodgers, again with Sara’s assistance, now checked out births, marriages, and deaths, and discovered de Jersey’s birth certificate. He was older than Rodgers had believed, which fueled him to unearth even more about the man. He checked medical and school records. He checked Fleming’s comment that de Jersey had been at Sandhurst and found out that he had been discharged due to a complex knee injury that had required delicate surgery. It was Sara who discovered that James Wilcox had been at Sandhurst at the same time as de Jersey and, like him, had been forced to leave, although for different reasons.

At night, in the privacy of his home, Rodgers pieced together the paper trail; it fascinated him. Sara helped to uncover further details of de Jersey’s past on the computer, and Rodgers studied his career in the estate business. Sara acquired tax records, which showed his growing affluence, but nothing told them how he had acquired wealth enough to buy the luxurious estate. Now Rodgers concentrated on finding a past link between de Jersey and Driscoll. After hours of checking and cross-referencing, he was certain he was on to something: both Driscoll’s and Wilcox’s affluence coincided with de Jersey’s, all shortly after the Gold Bullion Robbery. Before he discussed his findings with his team, Rodgers instructed Sara to try to find when de Jersey had acquired the “de” in his name. She produced details of his first wife, Gail, whom he had married when he was still called Eddie Jersey. Remarried twice, she was now divorced and living in a mews house in Chelsea. Sara gave Rodgers her phone number.

The ex–Mrs. Jersey did not at first agree to be interviewed but eventually acquiesced. Rodgers hung up and looked at Sara. He would take her with him. After all, it was she who had put the idea of tracing de Jersey’s history of crime into his head. “You busy?” he asked.

“I was just about to type up the interview statement from the farmer who leased de Jersey the barn,” Sara said. “The forensic team is still at work, though it’s looking like their efforts aren’t producing much.”

“Trudy, can you take that over? Sara, I want you with me.”

Trudy pulled a face. “I can,” she told Rodgers, “but I’ve got information that Philip Simmons, a.k.a. Edward de Jersey, paid money into Gregory Jones’s mother’s account. Fifty grand!”

“Good work, and if that lying bastard thinks he’s going to a cushy open prison, he’s got another think coming.” He turned to Sara. “I need you for maybe a couple of hours, okay?” he said, and she closed down her computer. “Order a car for us, will you?”

Sara hurried out after Rodgers, who was pressing the lift button. “I need you to come and interview de Jersey’s first wife with me. She’s agreed to see us.”

“Why? You think she knows where he is?”

“I just want a clearer picture of the man.”

The small but expensive house was in Glebe Place, and Gail Raynor herself opened the front door. She was rather brittle and unforthcoming as she led them into a pleasant sitting room. She did not wait to be asked but went into a terse speech, saying that she realized they had come about her ex-husband but that she had not seen or had any contact with him for over twenty-five years. She had read the news coverage regarding his connection to the robbery, so she had thought they might want to speak to her, but she was not harboring him, she assured them. “And if he did make contact, I would waste no time in calling the police. It was a despicable crime, and I’m glad it failed. The stolen gems are now back, I hope, in safer hands than they were before.”

It was obvious that at one time she had been beautiful, but she had not aged well. She had tinted blond hair, arched eyebrows, and vivid blue eyes. She seemed to prefer to talk about herself rather than her connection with de Jersey. She had married young and soon realized that he wanted her more for her contacts than for love. Her father had owned estate agencies around Chelsea and Fulham, and de Jersey had taken over the running of them. Following the death of her father, he had control of the business. She was still disgruntled, despite the generous divorce settlement she had received.

“Did he buy the estate then?” Rodgers asked.

Gail shrugged.

“It was worth forty million,” he said softly, and her jaw dropped.

“The lying son of a bitch. Forty million! Jesus Christ.” She ran her fingers through her hair.

“Can you tell me anything about his background, his family?” asked Rodgers.

“His father was a bookie. He apparently made a killing on Derby Day, which enabled him to open his first betting shop, but apart from that I know nothing. In fact, oddly enough, Eddy didn’t have many friends. Forty million! I know the estate must have increased in value since he bought it, but it’s just unbelievable. He told me he only earned fifty thousand a year from Daddy’s business.”

Rodgers’s theory that de Jersey had acquired the estate using illegally procured funds seemed to hold water, and a knot of excitement formed in his belly. “So where do you think he got the finance to purchase it?” he asked, tentatively.

“I have no idea. He sold all Daddy’s agencies, so probably from them. I really don’t know. He always had money, though, very good at investments. He remarried some model young enough to be his daughter.”

“Did you ever hear anyone refer to him as the Colonel?” he asked.

“The Colonel?” Gail repeated. “He went to Sandhurst for a while but got kicked out. Injured his knee or something. He was always complaining about it, but that was his only Army experience. He was never a colonel. Though, knowing him, I wouldn’t put it past him to say he was. He may have played one once, I don’t really know.”

“Played one?” Rodgers asked.

“His mother was in some amateur dramatic society, and he used to be in their productions when he was a kid. I don’t know much about it, but he had some photographs of himself in costumes and wigs. He didn’t do it when he was married to me. Too keen to get on Daddy’s good side.” She stood up and looked toward a small antique desk. “I’ve got a photograph, I think. I’m sure I have.”

She opened a drawer and began searching for a photograph album. “I’m sure I had it somewhere.” She looked around the room, then crossed to a bookcase.

“Did you ever meet James Wilcox?”

“James?” Gail asked. “Yes, I knew him from the days we used to hang out in the clubs. He introduced me to Eddy.”

“Tony Driscoll?”

“I read about him in the papers, but I never met him.” She continued searching along the shelves, then pointed to a row of books. “There it is.”

Sara, who was taller than Gail, reached up and took down a leather-bound album. She handed it to Gail, who began to turn the pages.

“Maybe I’m wrong. After he left I made a point of throwing out anything connected to him. Ah! I’ve no idea why I kept this, but here it is.” She lifted the plastic covering off three black-and-white photographs. “It’s a production he was in when he was a kid. See for yourself. He’s standing at the end of the row.”

Rodgers looked at the picture.

“They did
A Christmas Carol.
He’s the one next to the little boy on crutches.”

Rodgers could see no resemblance to the man he was hunting in the tall, thin boy standing shyly to one side. He turned the picture over, and scrawled on the back were the names of the actors in the show. He passed it to Sara. The one listed as playing Tiny Tim was H. Smedley, and de Jersey had written “Me” for himself. She gave the photograph back to Gail. “Thank you.”

Rodgers knew instinctively that Gail didn’t have any more useful information so he stood to leave and thanked her for her time. But she hadn’t finished her tirade. “He walked out on me, you know. He never had the guts to say to my face that he was leaving. I woke up and found he’d packed and gone. The worst part was that he’d been preparing to leave me for ages. My lawyers said he must have spent at least six months arranging it all. That’s what kind of person he is, a devious liar.”

Rodgers murmured his thanks again, then said, “Well, I hope we catch him this time.”