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. Wilcox 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 goddamned window!”
He strode to the window, and she ran after him. “No, don’t! I am sorry.”
“Yeah, well, you ruined the surprise. I’m getting sick of this, Rika.”
She started to cry, and he wrapped his arms around her. After they kissed, she slipped on the ring.
“Can I finish my sauna now?” he asked.
“Yes, I make breakfast. I so sorry. I just love you so much.”
He walked into the sauna and closed the door. It was all a lie, of course. He’d bought it for Cameron, his mistress in England. He had just poured pine essence over the coals when the door opened again. “A call for you.”
“Who?” he snapped.
“I not know. You want me to bring it in here?”
“Yeah.”
She returned a minute later and passed him the cell phone, then backed out and closed the door.
“Wilcox,” he said.
“Hello, Jimmy,” came the soft reply. “It’s the Colonel.”
His stomach lurched.
“Listen, this isn’t a social call, it’s bad news, so I’ll give it to you straight.”
Wilcox listened without interruption as de Jersey outlined the Internet crash. “But I don’t understand. Can’t David Lyons sort this out?”
“’Fraid not, Jimmy. He’s dead. He topped himself.”
Wilcox was meticulous about how his food should be served, and Rika had it down to a fine art. Fresh white linen napkins lay next to the fine bone-china plates and coffee cups. She had changed into a navy ski suit. “I’m meeting the boys on da slopes. Will you see later?”
“I have a few things to do. Maybe we could meet for lunch, take the boys to the hamburger joint.”
“But you no like dat place.”
“I know, but they love it. Tonight I’ll arrange a nice place for us to go and eat, maybe dance. What do you think?”
She curled her arms around him. “Vatever you vant. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She cupped his chin in her hands. “You vould tell Rika somethink happen if it’s not good, yes?” she asked.
“Of course. Go on, now, see you later.”
She paused at the door. She was seeing something in Wilcox that she had never seen before. Something was weighing him down.
He smiled. “Now, go on, go meet the kids.”
This time she left, and he closed his eyes. His entire fortune, bar a few hundred thousand, had gone. David Lyons had killed himself and, as he sliced the top off his egg, Wilcox wished he had done it for him. He did not blame de Jersey; it had been his own decision to bankroll the Internet company. And he still trusted de Jersey to get them out of the mess. Deep down, though, he was afraid. He wondered if de Jersey would have to resurrect the Colonel.
CHAPTER
3
De Jersey sat at his desk jotting notes. An opened newspaper had an article ringed in red about the falling prices of Internet stocks. Some compared it to the Wall Street crash. The headline screamed, TYCOONS WHO LOST A BILLION OVERNIGHT and THE STARS WHO SAW THEIR INTERNET FORTUNES CRASH. Five British investors had lost a billion in less than a year; five others had lost more than half a billion. The only compensation for de Jersey was that his name was not mentioned in any of the press reports.
Leadingleisurewear.com had grown into one of Europe’s largest Internet retailers as well, but it had now been confirmed that they had brought in liquidators. The company had spent nearly 230 million pounds since its inception eighteen months previously. Staff at its New York headquarters learned that the fledgling enterprise had collapsed, taking with it the entire backing of its investors. The founder, Alex Moreno, admitted that the company had failed to control costs.
De Jersey wrote and underlined the man’s name on his pad. He turned back to his computer, took out one disk, and slotted in another. He continued scrolling through David’s reports, which detailed previous companies started by Moreno. Apparently, he had successfully launched four companies on the Internet over the past six years. In a lengthy article, Moreno expressed his deep regret but said he still believed leadingleisurewear had been on the right track in aiming to become the largest Internet retail clothing business in the world. He admitted they had spent money too freely opening lavish foreign offices in Britain, Germany, and Sweden, and offering perks to lure the best employees.
De Jersey almost bit through his cigar. Management had purchased fleets of cars and enjoyed first-class hotel accommodations as well as luxurious apartments and houses. The article identified the big losers in leadingleisurewear as “an English aristocrat and two other British businessmen.” As the controlling shareholder, de Jersey had suffered the biggest loss: nearly a hundred million pounds.
It was almost five o’clock in the morning when he finished assessing the documentation David had compiled for him. His losses were far greater than he had at first anticipated. All that remained was the three million he had stashed in his offshore account in the Caymans, and with David gone, he would now have to gain access to this money personally.
He shut down his computer, then unlocked a drawer, slipping into it his notepad, which by now contained the names of the leadingleisurewear founders, their last known addresses, and details of their attempts to sell off what was left of the company. Moreno had already formed another company under a different name. This meant he could be traced, and de Jersey had every intention of doing just that.
It had snowed heavily during the night, and on Christmas Day the de Jersey home resembled a picture postcard of idyllic country life. Christina adored Christmas. She had decorated with bunting and arrangements of silver holly and fir branches. The tree in the hall reached the ceiling and was trimmed with silver ribbons and baubles. Under it the piles of gifts were wrapped in exquisite paper and ribbons. She loved the smells that wafted through the house. She’d baked for days, making baskets of Christmas puddings, cakes, and mince pies for the staff and the local church. Natasha and Leonie had arrived home yesterday after spending a few nights with classmates at their Swiss chalet. At seventeen and fifteen, the girls both enjoyed skiing. They were stunning, with the
ir mother’s crystal blue eyes and long, blond hair. De Jersey spoiled his daughters, but he was quite a strict father. Their friends were welcome to stay, as long as plenty of notice had been given. People were not encouraged to drop in; his family knew that he valued his privacy.
The annual Christmas Day party was in full swing. Christina distributed gifts to the staff and their families, and there was always a white envelope from the Boss, which contained a bonus.
De Jersey stood at the front door looking out with a lump in his throat. Royal Flush was walking sedately through the snow, carrying two baskets loaded with gifts from the staff to their employer. The horse was draped in a red velvet blanket with a sprig of holly in his forelock, and his breath steamed out in front of him. They surrounded de Jersey and sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” He approached his champion and stroked his nose. He was not about to lose all this, he thought. It was everything he had dreamed of possessing.
After receiving the gifts, de Jersey slipped away and was not missed for some time. Eventually, Christina sought him out in their bedroom and was surprised to find him changing into his jodhpurs. “Darling, what are you doing?”
“I need a ride. I won’t be long.”
“But lunch is soon. You said you wanted to sit down at four.”
“I’ll be back by then. Please, I’m sorry, I just need some air.”
He saddled up Royal Flush himself and rode toward the track on the outskirts of the farm, unmarked except for the footprints of foxes and birds. His lungs filled with the icy air as his thoughts turned to the problems he faced. He decided to leave first thing the following morning. He’d have his pilot arrange permission to fly into Heathrow’s private heliport and then take a flight to New York.
After lunch Christina carried in the blazing pudding and received great applause. Around her wrist was the delicate diamond bracelet that had been her husband’s present. He had given each of his daughters a special piece of jewelry too, as tasteful as their mother’s. He had received cigars, socks, and a flamboyant embroidered waistcoat from the girls. And Christina gave him a small oil painting of the stud farm circa 1910 that she had found.
They had coffee in the dining room and played word games in front of the roaring fire. At seven Natasha and Leonie went to change to go to a party. Christina curled up beside her husband, her arms loosely wrapped round his knees.
“I have to go to London tomorrow,” he told her. “I’m sorry, it’s business.”
“But it’s Boxing Day,” she exclaimed.
“I shouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”
She looked up into his face. “It’s to do with David, isn’t it?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, don’t do this. Since David’s death you’ve been acting so strangely. Please talk to me. Is it to do with him?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I’m meeting a banker who’s going to help me unravel the mess. I need to deal with it right away.”
“Okay. Do you want me to come with you?”
“You stay with the girls. The sooner I leave the sooner I can come home, but it might be three or four days.”
Christina threw a log onto the fire, then glanced at the mantelpiece; a Christmas card from the Queen was in pride of place. Her husband had been so pleased when he saw the crest on the envelope. He had always coveted acceptance in high-society circles, though she did not understand why. He had told her little of his past, and, not long before they met, his last relative, his mother, Florence, had died.
“Penny for them.” He kissed her neck.
“I was admiring the Queen’s Christmas card.”
De Jersey laughed.
“Why do you never talk about your family?” she asked suddenly.
“What brought this on?”
“You go away sometimes—inside yourself, I mean. I know this David business is on your mind, but you told me it’s not that serious. Then you have to go to see a banker on Boxing Day. It doesn’t make sense to me. If it is serious, why don’t you tell me, let me share it with you?”
“I’ve told you all I know.” De Jersey had to control his temper. “And my family—you know that my parents died a long time ago, sweetheart. You know all there is to know.”
“No, I don’t,” Christina persisted.
“Yes, you do,” he snapped. “And you’ve had too much champagne.”
“No, I haven’t.” She leaned against the mantelpiece watching her husband. “What was your home like, Edward?” she asked stubbornly.
He blinked rapidly. “Clean, neat, and tidy. My mother always said you could eat your dinner off her kitchen floor. We always had a Christmas tree in the front room window and paper chains all over the hall. There was usually a big fire—well, it seemed big, but the fireplace was small. It had pinkish tiles and two brass animals on either side.”
Christina stared at him. “You make it sound …”
“Clean, neat, and tidy,” he said.
“No, friendly,” she said.
“Yes, it was. Everyone loved my father and mother. Now, as I’m leaving tomorrow, I thought maybe we could retire early,” he said, cupping her breasts with his hands. They kissed passionately until he picked her up in his arms and carried her toward the stairs.
As Christina lay sleeping peacefully beside him, de Jersey moved a wisp of hair from her cheek. Their marriage had been so happy; his previous one seemed a lifetime ago. He had met Gail at a nightclub. She was the worst kind of spoiled “daddy’s girl.” Her father was a wealthy real estate agent with offices all over London. She was educated at Roedean, a top British private school, and attended finishing school in Switzerland. De Jersey was not a man who frequented nightclubs. Wilcox, a regular at every West End club, had cajoled him into going. This was before their last robbery. Wilcox seemed to have an endless string of women. In fact, it was he who had first known Gail Raynor and introduced them.
When de Jersey saw her dancing in the dim lights of the Piccadilly Blue Elephant Club, she had looked like a tempting angel. The Blue Elephant was the in place to be and be seen, always full of celebrities and famous socialites. Gail was waiflike, with auburn hair down to her waist. She wore miniskirts that showed off her beautiful legs and high, white Courrèges boots. She had an annoying nasal twang and haughty manner worse than that of her aristocratic “debby” friends.
“Can’t you sleep?” Christina murmured, interrupting his thoughts.
“No, just thinking.”
“About what?” She sat up, leaning on her elbow.
“Gail,” he said.
“Do you think about her often?”
“No. Maybe it’s David’s death. I’ve been reflecting about a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Why I ever got involved with Gail. To be honest, I think I was more impressed by her successful father than by her.”
“Why?”
He wished he had not started the conversation. “Maybe because my own father was dead. I was not sure what to do with my life, and he gave me direction.”
“By marrying his daughter,” Christina said, yawning.
“Whatever. She was a mistake, but my friendship with her father wasn’t. He was a good man.”
She snuggled. “You hate talking about her.”
“I just don’t like wasting time thinking of her. She isn’t worth it. Hate has nothing to do with it. It was a mistake, and I got out as fast as I could.” He made no mention of divorcing Gail once her father had died, leaving him to run the business. It was also Gail’s father who had suggested that if he was selling property to top-level clients he might think about dropping the overly familiar Eddy. Raynor felt that Eddie Jersey wasn’t classy enough. But his son-in-law went one better, not only referring to himself as Edward but inserting the de. So it was that he became Edward de Jersey, and Gail’s father would never know the many other names his son-in-law would use by the end of his criminal career.
“What happened to
her?” Christina asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. When the firm went bust I sold up and …” He was moving into dangerous territory now. It was after the company fell apart that he’d started planning his final robbery. “I never saw her again,” he said, leaning on his elbow and smiling. “I met this woman, well, she was just a young slip of a thing, and I saw her photograph in a magazine and …”
Christina giggled. She always loved hearing him tell how he had cut out her picture and traced her through the model agency. He had even traveled to Sweden to find her when she was already living in London.
“She who made up for all the tedious years I’d been with Gail. And she is now my wife, the mother of my daughters, and …” He kissed her, trying to prevent a return to the subject of his ex-wife and, more important, not wanting to approach the time in his life when he, Wilcox, and Driscoll had pulled off the robbery that had been the foundation of their wealthy lifestyles.
What troubled de Jersey was that when he met Christina he had been immensely rich and had used his wealth to court her obsessively. “Do you regret anything?” he asked stroking her cheek.
“No. Well, yes there is one thing,” she said softly.
“What’s that?” he asked, kissing her neck.
“I would like to have given you a son.”
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