De Jersey walked toward the winner’s enclosure. It was cooler now, and thousands of race goers were streaming out of the gates. He went to the number-one post and stood there—it had felt so good to lead Royal Flush into the winner’s position. Then he headed toward the helipad. His was the only helicopter left. He walked slowly, breathing in the scent of the grass, and remembered how his father had opened his betting shop. After placing a winning bet on an outsider, he made enough to open his own betting shop. He never laid another bet. “It’s a fool’s game, but sometimes the fool wins. And luck runs out, so I’m not takin’ any chances,” he had said.
Ronnie Jersey’s luck had run out months after he opened his second betting shop. Cancer was diagnosed. Shortly before his death he told his son, “Eddy, you run those shops for me. Take care of your mother. I know it’s not what you wanted, but you can earn a good living, an’ there’s a good kid that works for me. You know Tony Driscoll.” Tony was the illegitimate son of the woman who cleaned the shops. He had been just a toddler when Ronnie took them under his wing, and they owed everything to him. De Jersey had trouble remembering Mrs. Driscoll’s first name. What he did remember was how they both wept at his father’s funeral. Ronnie had been a surrogate dad to Tony and had even left him a few hundred pounds. The boys had not been that close as youngsters, but years later, when de Jersey needed him, Tony Driscoll, like James Wilcox, was one of the few men he trusted.
“I was hopin’ I’d see you.”
It was Smedley. By the tilt of him he’d had more than a few beers.
“What a win, eh? Clean as a whistle! I nearly had heart failure—I’d put those two fifties you give me on him!”
“Really?” De Jersey moved away, wanting to avoid another conversation.
“All the lads was on him, I tipped them off.” Smedley bumped against the fence, then ducked beneath it. There was no getting away from him. “You got anythin’ running tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Ah, well, maybe not push your luck too far, eh? You goin’ down the track? I’ll walk wiv you. I need to sober up. Been in the stewards’ lounge.”
De Jersey made no reply but strode off, leaving Smedley, swaying slightly, a hurt expression on his red face. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” he said loudly.
De Jersey stopped. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I have to get a move on—don’t like flying at night.”
“Oh, understandable,” Smedley said, trotting after him. When he approached the helipad, de Jersey could hear Smedley wheezing behind him. As de Jersey opened the cockpit door, Smedley gasped. “You’d never get me up in one of them.” De Jersey climbed aboard, and Smedley held up his square rough hand. “I’d like to shake your hand, sir.”
De Jersey bent down to grasp it. He was beginning to find the man unbearably irritating. “I’ll tell my grandson about it, me and you being at the same school. You got any?”
De Jersey looked down into the gnomelike face. “Just two daughters.”
“Ah, well, we can’t all be blessed. I got four lads, three grandsons and …”
The engine started up, and de Jersey slid the door shut. He waited for Smedley to scuttle away to a safe distance; the blades began to turn. As the helicopter lifted into the air, de Jersey saw the man grow smaller, and he felt an odd mixture of emotions. Most of his life had been spent escaping his past, but despite his massive wealth, the Smedleys of the world proved that he could never let his guard down. He had far too much to lose, having acquired, by various means, everything he ever wanted in life. However, Smedley did have something he coveted, a son … in fact, four of them. De Jersey’s good humor returned. He had Royal Flush. Today had been just the beginning. He would fulfill his dream to win the Derby, and if he did, he would kiss the track, like his dad had done the day he’d made the twenty-five-to-one bet on the Derby outsider.
The light was fading as the helicopter flew over his vast estate. He couldn’t help smiling at what lay below, which included a racing stable, just twenty-five miles from Newmarket and its famous racetrack, and close to the famous Tattersalls bloodstock auctions; a stud farm at a separate holding, ten miles from the stables; vast tracts of land for training; and separate yards and paddocks for the brood mares.
The electronically controlled gates gave access to a three-mile drive leading to his mansion overlooking a lake. The drive branched off from the house toward the stables. There were garages set back from the house with living quarters above for the chauffeur. De Jersey owned a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce, a Mercedes convertible, a Range Rover, two Aston Martins, three motorbikes, and four golf carts, all in the same dark navy as the stable colors. His personal favorite was his Mercedes, whose registration plate read CHAMPION.
The stable lads in the yard shaded their eyes when they saw de Jersey’s helicopter. They waved their caps as he flew over the neat row of outbuildings that had been converted into their living quarters. Beyond was a complex of cottages for the jockeys, a sauna, swimming pool, and gymnasium. The estate and its occupants were valued at over a hundred million pounds. De Jersey employed head lads, yardmen, work riders, two assistant trainers, a head trainer, stable lads, and traveling head lads, and he contracted two top jockeys in addition to Mickey Rowland. There were three large stable yards, and Donald Fleming’s house was on the northern side of the old yard. The office, in the newest yard, was manned by a personal assistant, a racing secretary, and two managers.
The stable lads were yelling as De Jersey landed, and when he jumped down from the helicopter there were cheers from his staff. “Champagne all round!” he shouted.
De Jersey had naturally a rather off-putting, steely manner, but if you got to know him it was soon dissipated when he gave one of his shy smiles. The trust, admiration, and respect he demanded from his staff were returned threefold. He was, as his wife knew, a very reserved man. He had never raised his voice to anyone at the stables. He’d never needed to. With the adroit management, competent secretaries, and loyal employees, there was little to criticize. De Jersey actually detested losing his temper; to him doing so was a sign of weakness. He had tight control of his emotions, but his charm made his employees guard his privacy ferociously. There was not a single member of staff’s wife, husband, child, or grandchild whose name he couldn’t recall, and now, surrounded by them all as the champagne corks popped, he toasted his success and was blissfully happy.
He raised his glass. “To Royal Flush and to next year—the Derby!”
The cheers intensified with the arrival of the horse box. As Royal Flush was led down, they grouped around him, and de Jersey cupped some champagne into his hand and patted the horse’s head with it. Then he led the horse back to his stable and watched over him like a doting father. The traveling stable lads brought his feed, and de Jersey was pleased when Royal Flush couldn’t wait to get at it. It was always a good sign when a young horse was not put off his feed after a race.
“You’ll wear it out,” Christina said, putting down a tray of sandwiches and tea as de Jersey rewound the tape of the race.
The oak-paneled drawing room was comfortable, with polished pine floors and exquisite Persian rugs. Soft throws and cushions covered the sofa, and a fire blazed in the grate.
De Jersey pressed play and prepared to glory once more in Royal Flush’s victory.
“I’m going to keep him under wraps for the rest of the season,” he said. He ate the sandwiches hungrily. “Just some light training before he rests for the winter.”
“Thank you for my beautiful earrings,” Christina drew back her hair to show him she was wearing them.
He kissed her neck. “I’d give you the world if I could,” he said. His eyes strayed back to the TV screen and the moment Royal Flush passed the winning post.
Christina switched off the television. “Can we go to bed so I can thank you properly?” she asked. Now she had his attention. As they kissed, he scooped her up into his arms, but they didn’t make it to the bedroom. Later, as
she nestled beside him in front of the fire, wearing nothing but the earrings, de Jersey sighed. “I’m a lucky man,” he murmured.
CHAPTER
2
Royal Flush enjoyed the rest he deserved in the months after the flat season, while de Jersey was still busy. He entered many horses in international races during the winter, and there were frequent trips to Dubai and Hong Kong. By November the horse’s program had consisted of walking and trotting, but after Christmas it would build up for a couple of preparation races. It was planned that he would run the Thresher Trial at Sandown in April and then the Lingfield Derby trial.
De Jersey drove a golf cart into the yard. He wore a checked cap, jodhpurs, and a yellow cashmere polo-neck sweater beneath his Harris tweed jacket. His hand-stitched, brown leather riding boots were highly polished. He paid his first call of the day to Royal Flush. The horse had not outgrown his moody temperament, and he still had a bullyboy streak to him. He’d given a couple of the lads nasty bites. De Jersey had been worried that if he remained a stallion Royal Flush would be a danger to the other horses—he had already attacked a few in the yard. It would have been heartbreaking to geld him, but Royal Flush, perhaps sensing what was at stake, at three years old was finally settling down.
After a while de Jersey drove over to the east wing of the yard to inspect a new filly from Ireland. When he started the engine again, his cell phone rang. It was his wife.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Helen called.” Her Swedish accent was always more pronounced on the telephone. “She was very distressed. I think David is sick. You’d better call.”
Back at the house, de Jersey scraped his boots outside the kitchen door.
De Jersey walked into the kitchen. The table was set for him with grapefruit juice, black coffee, two slices of Christina’s homemade rye bread, and a lightly boiled egg. He picked up the phone, but David’s number was engaged so he decided to have breakfast before trying again. De Jersey had not seen David since Royal Ascot, preferring to leave the financial side of his business to his adviser. Recently he and David had discussed liquidating some of his investments. The cost of running the stables was astronomical, and the foot-and-mouth outbreak had meant a hefty loss for the adjoining farm. His cash resources were stretched to the limit.
Christina came in, her arms filled with holly and fir branches for the hall. The tree would not arrive until a few days before the girls returned from boarding school.
“The line was engaged. I’ll try again after I’ve had a look at the papers.”
Christina spread some old newspaper on the floor and began to spray the branches silver. “Helen was crying. For her to call so early, something must be wrong.”
“Okay, I’ll try again now. I hope to God I don’t have to go over there. I’ve got a hectic day ahead.”
Moments later, after having spoken to Helen’s sister, de Jersey was arranging to land the helicopter at the small airport close to David’s house in Radcliff, a particularly affluent London suburb.
“What’s the matter?” Christina asked.
“Not sure. I spoke to Helen’s sister. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” He kissed her cheek and was gone.
David Lyons’s house was set back from the road. The gates were open, so the taxi drove straight through. The white stucco house had fake Georgian pillars and latticed lead windows with Swiss-style shutters and a green slate roof. The front door was ajar.
De Jersey stepped into the hall and made for the lounge, a dreary sea of beige. It was eerily empty. “Helen?” he called.
Frustrated, he headed toward the ornate indoor swimming pool, returning to the hall just as a small, pale-faced woman appeared. After introducing himself, he asked where Helen was.
“I’m her sister, Sylvia Hewitt. I spoke to you earlier. Helen’s upstairs. Shall I get her for you?”
“I’d be grateful if you could tell me what’s going on. You just said that Helen had to see me. Is David all right?”
“No—no, he isn’t.” She started to cry.
“Has there been an accident?” De Jersey was worried now.
“I’ll get Helen. Please go and sit in the lounge.”
De Jersey sat on one of the overplump sofas and waited at least a quarter of an hour.
“Helen.” He rose to his feet. She closed the door.
“Edward.” Her face was drawn and her eyes red-rimmed.
“Helen, what on earth is wrong? Has David had an accident?”
She took out a tissue. “He’s dead,” she said, bursting into tears.
De Jersey was stunned. “I’m … so very sorry.”
She perched on the end of the sofa, blowing her nose. “I found him this morning. He was still wearing his pajamas. He must have done it in the middle of the night.”
“Found him?”
She nodded. “In the garage.”
De Jersey sat down slowly.
“The engine was running. The car was full of fumes. The doctor said he’d taken some sleeping tablets. He’d left me a note on the kitchen table, said for me to call you and not go into the garage. But I did.”
“Oh God.”
“I found another letter in the car, on the dashboard, addressed to you.” Helen took a blue envelope from her pocket and passed it to him. “The police took my letter, but I didn’t give them this one. I’d forgotten about it.”
De Jersey slipped the envelope into his pocket. “Helen, is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head, then broke down into shuddering sobs.
De Jersey walked to the waiting taxi and headed back to the local airport. David and Helen had been a childless but loving couple for thirty years. What on earth had possessed him to kill himself? De Jersey regarded the single sheet inside the blue envelope:
My dear Edward,
I am so sorry. It ran out of control and I was unable to do anything about it. You will find all the documentation in the second drawer of my office desk. Yours, David.
De Jersey arranged for the helicopter to land in London, at the Battersea heliport. He was met at David’s office in the City by two shocked, weepy secretaries and David’s longtime assistant, Daniel Gatley, who was white-faced and trembling. “So dreadful, and just before Christmas too,” he whispered.
David’s oval desk bore a bank of telephones, a computer, and a large silver-framed photo of de Jersey talking to the Queen.
“David was so proud to have been at Royal Ascot. He talked of nothing else for weeks after,” Gatley said.
“He said something about the second drawer and some documents?”
Gatley took out a bunch of keys and opened the drawer. It contained a thin file and a small, square box. De Jersey’s name was printed on both. “That’s all. The box contains computer disks, and these are contracts that I believe you have copies of anyway.” Gatley passed them to him.
De Jersey flipped open the file. “What’s all this about?”
“He didn’t tell me much, but I knew he was in big trouble. He has been here most nights for the past few months.”
“Financial?” asked de Jersey crisply.
“Two days ago he gave everyone here a month’s notice.”
“Embezzlement, or what?”
“Good heavens, no. David was one of the most honest men I’ve ever met.”
De Jersey opened the box to find four unlabeled disks. “What are these?”
“I don’t know. His drawer was always locked.”
“But you have a key.”
“Only since this morning, and I hadn’t opened the drawer until now. I’ve been calling his clients and his friends.”
“So, you have no idea what is on these?” de Jersey asked, holding up the disks.
“No, but I can open them for you and print them out.”
“I can just about manage that.” De Jersey attempted to make light of the situation, but he knew that something was very wrong. He wanted to leave so that he could find out what it
was.
Christina was as stunned as her husband. David was so dependable. For him to have committed suicide was unthinkable.
“No, I don’t know why he did it, but I’ve got to go over some disks he left me. They may give me the answer,” de Jersey told her.
“What time would you like dinner?” she asked. “I’m cooking shank of lamb the way you like it.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it, me thinking of what to cook for dinner and—”
“Eight thirty will be about right,” he said.
“Eight thirty it is, then,” Christina said softly. “Had you seen David since Royal Ascot?”
“It must be a couple months since we’ve spoken,” he told her. “I wanted to sell off some shares.”
“How did he sound then?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He was …” De Jersey frowned.
“He was what?”
“I don’t know … a bit short with me.”
In his office, de Jersey poured himself a small whiskey, added soda and ice, then sat down at his computer. He decided to start with the documents and tackle the disks later. He perched his half-moon glasses on his nose and peered at the first wad of papers. It was six thirty-five.
Two hours later he was still flicking through the documents. His wife popped her head in the door. “You almost done, darling?”
He swiveled round in his leather chair. “Almost.”
“Dinner’s ready and I’ve lit a fire.”
“Good. Just let me close down my computer.”
“Did you find out what David’s problems were?”
“He’d got himself into rather deep financial trouble—not worth topping himself for, though.”
“Too late to do anything about it now,” she said sadly.
“I’ll be right with you.”
David had actually been in deeper water than de Jersey said, and it looked as if de Jersey was about to plunge into it too. An Internet company in which they had both invested had gone bankrupt, and David had lost all of his savings. All he had ever implied to de Jersey was that there were “problems” with the Web site. He had said, “Just leave it to me,” and foolishly, that was exactly what de Jersey had done. Arranging for the horses to race abroad during the winter had forced him to leave London for weeks on end.
Royal Heist Page 3
