“Who did?”
“David Lyons, the business adviser.”
“Do I know him?”
“No, but he handled an investment of mine.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, pouring some power juice ingredients into the mixer.
“Do you?” he snapped.
“Yes, anything concerning money is a mood swinger with you. Bad news was it?” The mixer whirred noisily.
“Yeah, but nothing I can’t take care of.”
“I know, darling, but what’s she doing calling you at home? Was it an emergency?”
“No.”
“So was it about this guy topping himself?”
“Yes,” he hissed.
“Why did he do it?”
He hesitated, then prepared to face the music. He rested both hands on the marble worktop. “I just lost a bundle on what I was told was a surefire investment.”
“Oh, Tony. How much?” she said sipping her drink.
He simply shrugged. When he avoided eye contact with her, she became worried.
“Tony, answer me. How much did you lose?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“Cos I hate fucking losing, all right?”
“Don’t you swear at me. I knew something was up. I just knew it. It started in Florida, didn’t it? You were told about this then.” He nodded. “Why don’t you talk to me, Tony? Worried myself sick wondering, is it me? Isn’t he enjoying his holiday or is something up with the kids? Tony, all these things go through my mind when you get this way. I was worried all holiday. Look at me. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
When he walked out of the room, she followed. “Tony, tell me. Have you got yourself into real financial difficulty with this? I need to know, especially now.”
“What do you mean especially now?”
“I was going to tell you tonight. It’s Michelle. She wants to marry that Hamilton boy, you know the one who plays polo with Prince Charles?”
“What?”
“She’s been keen on him for months. Blond with nice blue eyes. He’s been around here, Tony, loads of times. They met at the Dunhill polo match at Windsor last summer, and she was with him over Christmas in France.”
“She’s only seventeen!” he blustered.
“So? I was only eighteen when we married.”
“That’s different. She’s my daughter.”
“He’s coming over with his family for dinner Thursday.”
“Thursday? I might have to go into town to get this stuff ironed out.”
“What stuff?”
“I told you. I done a bad investment, got to catch up on the finances.” Under pressure he always lost his grasp of grammar, even his old accent returned.
“How much have you lost then?” she asked, frightened. She had already started planning a sumptuous wedding. What they lacked in class she intended to make up for in expenditure.
“Not enough for you to worry about.”
“I hope not. He’s a sweetheart, you know, and his family are all titled. It’ll take me three months to plan and prepare, and they want to do it as soon as possible. Where are we going to hold the reception? What about her dress? I was going to see about getting Stella McCartney to do it. You know, have a real fairy-tale wedding.”
“Sweetheart, if my baby wants to get married in a palace I’ll arrange it, you know that. She’ll have the wedding of her dreams, that’s a promise. But why the rush? She’s not up the spout, is she?”
“No, she bloody isn’t! Oh, Tony, you’ve got me all worried now.”
“When have I ever let you down?” He kissed her.
“Never. I love you, Tony,” she said.
Driscoll plodded across the bedroom and fell flat on the bed. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He stuffed two antacid tablets in his mouth and chewed them like peppermints. A fucking wedding was all he needed. Then there was the call from Sylvia Hewitt to worry about. The three men had never been linked together like that, and he didn’t like it one bit. Finally, he was really concerned about de Jersey’s financial situation. He could never recall feeling sorry for de Jersey before, but though Driscoll had lost most of his own savings, he could still find nearly a quarter of a million, while, if what Sylvia said was true, de Jersey had lost everything. Driscoll, probably more than anyone, knew what the stud farm meant to de Jersey. He could remember old Ronnie Jersey’s words: “I once owned a leg in a horse. I cried when he won a little race at Plumpton. I loved that horse, Tony.” Sometimes Ronnie had fantasized about owning his own racing stables. “It’s a mugs’ game for the rich nobs, though,” he’d said. “You can’t win. It’s all payout. Gotta have more money than sense.” His son had achieved all Ronnie had ever dreamed of, and it made Driscoll sad that the old man had never known of Edward’s success. Truth be told, he’d been a bit overawed by it himself. In many ways Driscoll was more like Ronnie than his own son was.
The wind eased in his belly, but that didn’t make Driscoll feel better. He wandered slowly around the vast upstairs part of his home, from the children’s bedrooms to the gym, where his wife was working out with a young instructor in tight Lycra shorts, then down the wide staircase to the baronial-size hall, where antique side tables and oil paintings decorated the circular, oak-paneled reception. The spacious drawing room had been copied from a Homes and Garden’s picture his wife had liked. Sitting at the grand piano, he lifted the lid, revealing the ivory keys in perfect condition. No one had ever played it. He looked over the array of large, silver-framed photographs of his family and their various dogs, his daughter’s horse and his son’s aviary.
He loved his family. He was proud of his own achievements. He reckoned that he was a good man. He’d certainly given enough to charities over the years. He had never been a violent person. He’d seen violence at close quarters, but he had never taken up a gun or taken a life. He drummed his fingers on the polished lid of the piano. The villa would have to go, plus the Chelsea Wharf apartment. All the trappings of wealth would need to be sold off, and this just as he had a massive tax bill coming in. Though he didn’t know what de Jersey’s scheme was, he knew that it would be planned down to the last detail. He slapped the piano lid hard with the flat of his hand and swore out loud at David Lyons. He should have refused to invest; he was almost bloody well retired. As he shook his head at his own stupidity, the pit of his stomach started to rumble again.
Wearing an oil-stained overall, Wilcox was leaning over the Ferrari Testarossa. His young mechanic was sitting inside the old car, revving it up. Wilcox spent hours in his garage, tinkering with his eight vintage sports cars. They were like much-beloved toys. He would race round and round the small racetrack he had built in his grounds, testing and reworking the engines. These were the only times he was totally content. His domestic life was clouded. He had always searched for the perfect union, but the reality was he had found it and it had four wheels. Today, however, he was unable to concentrate. The call from Sylvia Hewitt was nagging him like a hungry, mangy dog. He hated the fact that she knew so much about him and knew that she could be trouble. He was also rattled that de Jersey had not brought him or Driscoll into his plans to get rid of Moreno. It was, after all, very much their business. It was also very unlike de Jersey. He had never advocated violence, so why had he murdered the guy? It should not have been his decision alone.
Wilcox sat wiping the oil from his hands, perched on the bumper of a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce. He had let the mechanic go for a spin on the track. His financial situation had proven even worse than he had at first anticipated. He had left himself short, and he had various outstanding debts that needed to be paid. His drug dealer for one was screaming for his due. Wilcox had been shocked at how much he owed—two hundred thousand pounds to be exact. He couldn’t believe how much he was using. He had planned to cut back, though under this recent pressure he’d needed more. If de Jersey found out, he might consider him a security risk.
Wilcox tossed the oily rag into the bin. What if he trashed the entire garage and hangar and claimed on the cars’ insurance? He couldn’t bring himself to do it, even though the premiums were another vast expense. The days of running twenty garages were certainly over. He’d begun buying and selling cars at the age of forty, flush with the proceeds of the gold bullion robbery. Later, he had blithely and irrationally continued buying vintage vehicles without reselling them. By then he had grown tired of the business side and just wanted to race his cars and enjoy life. He truly did not want to be drawn back into crime, but he knew that he would feel obliged to go along with whatever the Colonel was putting together. The prospect scared and excited him, prompting him to take more cocaine. He needed the drug from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning and used it all day. That was more worrying than anything else. What had started out as a release from boredom had slowly taken over his life.
“I’ve got to kick the habit,” he muttered as he chopped four lines up in the back of the garage. After snorting all four of them, he called Driscoll.
“It’s me.”
“Yeah, I recognized your voice. You heard from the Colonel?”
“Only to warn me about that woman.”
“Oh, right, well that’s why I’m calling you.”
“We’re not supposed to make contact.”
“Yeah, well, I just did, all right? I am really worried about this woman, Tony.”
“She called me at the house.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“I didn’t like it,” Driscoll said. “Are you on something?” Driscoll could tell Wilcox was unusually wired.
“I’m just looking out for us. Is that a bad thing? What’s got into you?”
Driscoll cut across the potential argument. “He’s lost the lot. Did she tell you? Reckons his stud will go down the tubes.”
Wilcox let out a long sigh. “Yeah, she said he’d lost his shirt. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“Yeah, he’s more broke than we reckoned.”
After a pause, Wilcox’s voice came back over the line sounding slightly muffled. “No, Tony, it means whatever he wants from me, he’s got.”
There was a long silence. “Me too, I suppose,” Driscoll said, resigned. Wilcox slapped the cell phone off and turned to see the young mechanic standing close enough to have overheard every word.
“What’s with you?” he snapped.
“Sorry, James. We broke down on the S bend, pouring smoke and oil. You wanna take a look?”
“Don’t go sneaking up on me like that,” Wilcox said angrily.
“Sorry, I did knock.”
Wilcox stared at the kid’s young, concerned face. He relaxed. “That’s okay, Dan, no problem. Let’s go check out the car.”
Rika was looking for Wilcox. She headed into the garage and, finding it empty, walked into his back room, where she found the mirror. She licked her finger and tasted the cocaine. She shook her head. It was bad enough him using it, but to leave it out in the open for the children to find was something she would not tolerate. Rika found him with his mechanic, leaning over the open bonnet of the smoking Ferrari on the track. She marched straight up to Wilcox and pushed him away from the car. “Ve got to talk.”
“Not right now, I’m busy.”
“You have to collect the twins from school. I told you diz morning, you are late for them now.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Because I have an appointment wid my dentist. I tell you diz.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll get them.”
“No you von’t.”
“What?”
She faced him, hands on her hips. “You look at yourself in the mirror you leave in ze garage?” she asked. She threw the mirror at his feet. “I’ll get them, but I von’t have diz near to de kids. You should be ashamed of yourself, a man of your age. Vat you think you are playing at? And vipe your nose, it’s running. You sicken me.”
Wilcox gripped her arm and frog-marched her to the side of the track. “You never speak to me that way, you hear me? Especially not in front of someone like Dan.”
“Why? Because he’d lose respect for you? Don’t kid yourself, James. Everyone around you knows vat you are doing; ve can’t miss it! You vant to kill yourself, I no watch you do it! I am leaving you and your kids.”
Rika stormed back across the field, and Wilcox wiped his nose with the sleeve of his overall. If he had felt shame before, he now felt it doubly, and upon his return he could not meet the eyes of the young mechanic, who tried hard to appear as if nothing had happened.
Wilcox patted the boy’s shoulder. “Can I leave you to finish up here?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied shyly.
Wilcox let himself into the house through the mudroom, which was cluttered with kids’ skates, Wellington boots, fishing rods, and skateboards. Racks of kids’ clothes hung in various sizes and lengths, along with overcoats, raincoats, riding hats. Wilcox kicked off his muddy shoes and stripped off his overall, adding it to the pile of clothes discarded in a corner. The phone rang as he passed the big pine table in the kitchen already set for tea. Four of the six kids were expected, and that meant their friends too. His house was always jammed with kids of every shape and size. They had an entire floor to themselves, with a big games room full of equipment, computers, and computer games, but seemed to prefer running wild, wrecking the place.
He snorted another couple of lines in the en suite bathroom upstairs, then lay down on the quilted bedspread. Deep down he knew the cause of his anguish; with de Jersey having lost so much money, his plans to regain it would be illegal. Wilcox knew he was already involved. Loyalty and need ran too deep to say no.
The swelling had gone down, but Royal Flush was still lame. The vet was observing him in the indoor exercise arena.
“What the hell is the matter with him?” De Jersey was beside himself with anxiety.
The vet was at a loss. “I’ve X-rayed him, checked and double-checked, but I can find nothing that would stop him putting weight on that leg. It might be psychosomatic—he avoids using the leg because he remembers the pain it caused.”
“So what do we do?”
“Encourage him until he forgets. Next time he does a good run, make a fuss of him.”
De Jersey stroked the horse’s head. “You old so-and-so. Need a bit of love, do you?”
The horse pushed his head into de Jersey’s chest. He was after peppermints, and de Jersey slipped him one.
De Jersey went to Fleming’s office in a darkened mood. The vet had apologetically requested that he cover his quarterly bill; the usual check had bounced.
When de Jersey expressed his indignation to the bank manager, inquiring why he had not been contacted about this refusal of payment, the man suggested they discuss the matter in his office. De Jersey persisted and was horrified to hear how far his account was into the red. Of course all he had to do was transfer funds from his other major account, but the incident demonstrated just how quickly money was draining away.
He still had his account in the Caymans, and he could keep the yard running, with a few cost-cutting exercises, for another six to eight months, but he would have to prepare for the money running dry altogether.
When Fleming came back to the office, de Jersey dropped the bombshell. “Sell off the east wing,” he said. “Contact Tattersalls and add our entries to the next catalog. I’d like you to contact some bloodstock agents about selling privately. I made a bad investment, but I should recoup my losses shortly,” he said, feigning confidence.
“Is there anything I can do?” Fleming asked tentatively. “I’ve got a few thousand saved, and if it’s just a short-term problem …”
De Jersey put his arm around him. “It is, but I want to be careful. I don’t want to get into real financial difficulties. We just have to ease the strain for a few months until I can release some more investments.”
“When you said to sell off the ea
st wing,” Fleming said, “you didn’t mean that Cute Queenie should go too, did you?” He was referring to the old gray mare de Jersey always rode himself.
“Yes, let her go. Get whatever you can for her.” He clenched his fist, wanting to punch something, anything.
“Whatever you say.”
Christina had hardly seen her husband recently; he spent more and more time in the City. So she was happy when he suggested they go to Monaco for a week. For de Jersey, the trip meant they would be away when the east wing horses were led away. Christina would not be privy to what was going on. While in Monaco he planned to attend a race meeting, check on the state of his offshore accounts, and touch base with Paul Dulay, alias Philip Christian, alias Gérard Laroque, alias Jay Marriot, alias Fredrik Marceau.
De Jersey and Christina flew to Monaco in a private plane. A suite at the Hôtel de Paris had been booked. De Jersey had been a regular customer over the years, and champagne, caviar, fresh fruit, and large bowls of glorious flowers welcomed them.
They hoped the weather would be mild, but it was almost as cold and wet as London. Christina had to unpack. They were going to the casinos that evening, so she needed to press her evening wear. She had also booked hair and manicure appointments and a massage. She felt like being cosseted, and de Jersey encouraged her to enjoy herself.
Telling her he would take a walk, he headed straight for the exclusive shopping malls not a hundred yards from the hotel. He carried an umbrella and, in his immaculate gray pin-striped suit and brogues, looked every inch the wealthy Englishman. He paused by Paul Dulay’s small, elegant jewelry shop in a corner of the arcade. The main window displayed a diamond tiara and matching necklace. A smaller display at the side boasted an array of emerald rings and earrings.
There was a camera positioned to observe the arrival of each customer at the entrance to the shop. De Jersey pressed the bell once, and the door buzzed open. The sales assistant asked if she could help him.
“Is Paul Dulay here?”
“Oui, Monsieur. May I ask who wishes to see him?”
“Philip Simmons.”
The assistant disappeared through a mahogany-paneled door. De Jersey wandered around the reception area. A velvet-covered chair stood close to a Louis XIV table on which lay a black leather visitors’ book, a white telephone, and a credit-card machine. A few display cases were visible, exhibiting even more opulent jewels than were in the window. De Jersey took note of the security cameras swiveling to keep him in focus.
Royal Heist Page 13
