Royal Heist

by Lynda La Plante

  De Jersey caught a train back to his estate. He needed to unwind; the tranquillity of the house soothed him as he wandered from room to room.

  He was sitting at his desk when Christina called. Her mother had died that afternoon. She spoke incoherently through her tears. Her mother had been only sixty-two. De Jersey was gentle and understanding. After he hung up, he contacted Driscoll to say the plans would be halted for a few days. Driscoll seemed relieved that the funeral would take place over the same weekend as his daughter’s wedding. Then de Jersey phoned Wilcox, now really sick with flu and unable to move. He too was relieved that de Jersey was taking time away. Neither man mentioned the heist, and de Jersey wondered if they were still having doubts.

  The truth was, he had lost confidence that they would be able to pull this off. After his meeting with Marsh, all he could see were the holes, and what a weird mix his team members were: Driscoll, the cocaine addict Wilcox, the cancer-riddled Lord Westbrook, the pockmarked Gregory Jones, the egotistical Raymond Marsh, and the nervous Paul Dulay. Add to that the cost to date, and he felt sick.

  Throughout the flight to Sweden the next day, de Jersey sat with his eyes closed, going over details that were now so familiar it was like turning the pages of a book he knew by heart. He was interrupted by the flight attendant offering refreshments and the newspapers. He took The Times, the Express, and the Daily Mail. In the Express, an article caught his eye. Two elderly spinsters had conned the equestrian circuit out of thousands of pounds. A picture showing them beaming into the camera, holding a winner’s cup and rosette, triggered a memory. He tried to calculate how old Pamela Kenworthy-Wright must be now. They had met in the seventies through a mutual friend. Pamela had been a RADA-trained actress and married a wealthy stockbroker, whom she had later divorced for his infidelity with a manservant. Afterward she had tried to resurrect her acting career and appeared in a couple of TV series, but in the late eighties she was arrested for shoplifting in Harrods, which resulted in a stint in Holloway women’s prison for credit-card fraud. He smiled to himself. Pamela might be just the woman he needed, but first he had to find her.

  The funeral was a small affair with just the widower, Christina’s siblings, and their children in attendance. Though Christina was pale, she maintained her composure, apart from shedding a few tears. De Jersey was attentive and caring, and father and daughter were grateful for his support. When de Jersey proposed that Christina stay on to deal with her mother’s belongings and to help settle her father in a smaller house, both deemed it a thoughtful suggestion. He even offered to remain with her, but she knew he had pressing business in London and, as de Jersey had hoped, refused his offer. He loved Christina, but time was moving on. His team was still incomplete, and most important, he still did not have the layout for the safe house.

  It was after midnight. Driscoll’s daughter was safely on her way to her honeymoon while her father sat by one of the specially installed outdoor heaters near his lily pond. It was full of streamers, confetti, and cigarette stubs, but he could have cared less. His head throbbed—he’d had too much to drink, though he didn’t feel drunk—and his gut was on fire.

  “It’s Tony, isn’t it?” said the burly figure in the green security uniform.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Been twenty years, maybe more. I’m Brian Hall.”

  Driscoll didn’t recognize the guy.

  “Used to work for you, long time ago, when you had that waste-disposal company. You did me a big favor. I was on parole, needed work; you gave me a job, even though you knew I had a criminal record.”

  “Sure. So, how’re things?” Driscoll asked, not really caring.

  “I get a bit of work here and there. Been with this company for a few years, but I’m a reserve. They pull me in when they need extra hands, like for this kind of gig.” He gestured to the wedding remnants around him.

  “Did you stay clean?” Driscoll asked.

  Hall shook his head, laughing softly. “I tried for a while, but when you’ve got a wife and three kids, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do, know what I mean? I got my fingers burnt a few times more. I’ve only been out ten months.”

  Driscoll reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Hall laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, no, I’m not looking for a handout. I just wanted to thank you.”

  “Fancy a drink?” Driscoll asked.

  “Not while I’m on duty.”

  “Who’s to see you? Besides, I hired you.”

  They walked back to the bar in the marquee. Driscoll found a half-full bottle of brandy, picked up two glasses, and made his way to the corner of the patio. “Brandy suit you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Driscoll divided the bottle between them, then proffered a cigar, and they lit up, sitting in the darkness with the music still banging away.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any work going?” Hall asked.

  “Not really. I’m semiretired,” Driscoll said, then gestured to the gardens and the house. “But don’t think all this is safe and secure. I’m skint. I made a bad business deal and got screwed out of all my savings.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hall said. “I’ve got a little sideline, though, if you need any heavy work—know what I mean? If these people that screwed you on this business deal need sorting, me and my pal Kenny Short, we do contracts. Not the really heavy stuff, but we certainly put some pressure on.”

  Driscoll remained silent.

  “Hope you don’t mind me asking. It was just a thought.”

  An idea slipped into Driscoll’s mind. It sat there for a while before he said quietly, “You know, I just might have a nice earner for you. Can this Kenny geezer be trusted?”

  “With my life!” Hall said.

  “Gimme a contact number and maybe I’ll be in touch. I’ll have to talk it over with a pal first, all right?”

  Back in England after the funeral, de Jersey turned his attention to tracking Pamela Kenworthy-Wright. He quickly established that she was no longer a member of Equity, then discovered in the telephone directory that three people had the same last name and initials. When he called the first, the phone was answered by an upper-crust military type: “Peter Kenworthy-Wright speaking.” De Jersey hung up and tried the second number. This time he spoke to an elderly lady, who said Miss Petal Kenworthy-Wright was out walking her dog. The third time, the phone rang twice.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Pamela Kenworthy-Wright?”

  “For my sins, yes, it is. Who is this?”

  “I’m doing a census inquiry for the government with regard to people living in your area and claiming unemployment benefits.”

  “Oh, God, this really is an invasion of one’s privacy.”

  “Do you own a computer?”

  “Yes, I do. I also vote Conservative, I smoke, and I’m divorced. Now piss off.”

  “Were you an actress?”

  “I still am.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  He hung up before she could start asking questions.

  De Jersey thought his run-down flat in Kilburn was a palace compared to Pamela’s bedsit in a converted fort in Plymouth. To gain access to the apartments you had to cross a drawbridge. The main courtyard was filled with boarded-up huts. Stray dogs and cats scuttled around stinking trash bags. Broken sinks, lavatories, and fridges littered the cold, damp corridors. The stench of urine pervaded the stairs and the second-floor corridor leading to number 20. There was a sign that read, “Do not disturb before eleven A.M., thank you.” De Jersey smiled and rapped on the door.

  “Who is it?” demanded an authoritative, aristocratic voice.

  “Philip Simmons.” De Jersey heard the lock slide back, and the door was edged open.

  “Are you from Social Services?”

  “No.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “To talk to you. I met you a long time ago.” He smiled pleasantly.

  “Well, I don’t recognize you and I’m v
ery busy right now.”

  “Please, Miss Kenworthy-Wright, this may prove lucrative for us both.”

  “Do you have identification?”

  He produced a driving license in the name of Simmons.

  “Come in. I need my reading glasses.”

  He followed her into the flat, which was better furnished than he had expected. There was a good-quality rug and comfortable leather armchairs, a computer, a large TV set, and a gas fire, which made the room very warm. A few large oil paintings of men in wigs and a dour-faced woman dominated the walls. A sofa bed with an orange duvet was dangerously close to the fire.

  Pamela was wearing a velvet dressing gown over her skinny frame with rabbit-fur slippers. She delved into a cloth bag for her glasses, held them to her nose, glanced at the license, and passed it back. “What do you want?”

  “May I sit down?”

  She shrugged, sitting in the chair opposite him. Her face was heavily wrinkled, and lipstick rivulets ran from her thin lips in rows of tiny red lines. Only her eyes, a wonderful china blue, retained a spark of brightness. Her hair, various shades of dark auburn tinged with gray, was dyed, probably by herself.

  “I can’t for the life of me think what I could have that would be of any interest to a nice strapping man like you. I like your shoes.”

  “You’re a technological lady?”

  “Yes. I had computer training in prison,” she said, without embarrassment. “I’m quite proficient. I’m writing a book about my life. It would be so nice if you were here about that. I did send off a first chapter to all and sundry, but I’ve not heard a squeak back.” She lit a cigarette.

  “I’m not here about your book.”

  “Pity, that was really why I let you in, but we all have these fantasies. You know, dreams of overnight success. Couple of small parts in The Avengers wasn’t going to take me to Hollywood, but at the time I believed it might. I was in it with Honor Blackman.”

  “I met you with Victor Markham, back in the seventies,” de Jersey said.

  “Did you? He’s been dead for years. Of course, after my problems I lost touch with a lot of the old crowd. You said something about … lucrative—was that the word you used? I’m running out of pleasantries, Mr. Simmons. I’m waiting with bated breath.”

  “I may have a proposition for you.”

  She laughed a smoker’s throaty laugh, revealing coffee-stained teeth. “Well, talk, dear boy. I’m in need of anything that’ll make me a bob or two.” She gave a sly smile. “It’s not legal, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone who knew Victor Markham was bent. So why are you here, Mr. Simmons?”

  “I need you to impersonate someone.”

  “And what would it be worth to me?”

  “More than you would get from any publishing deal. I’ll need you to stay in London. I have a place—it’s not very comfortable, but it would only be for a short time.”

  “Mmmm. I think I’d rather like a gin. Can I offer you one?”

  On his return to Kilburn, de Jersey rented a small studio in Maida Vale and arranged for the keys to be sent to his Kilburn address. His cell phone rang. It was Driscoll.

  “How are you doing?” de Jersey asked.

  “I think I’ve got your motorbike riders,” Driscoll said thickly.

  “You don’t sound like yourself,” de Jersey said warily.

  “Got a hangover, but I’d say these guys are the real thing. You wanna check them out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll arrange a meet. Tomorrow morning?”

  “Fine, what time?”

  “Lemme get back to you.”

  De Jersey switched off the phone.

  It rang again. This time it was Wilcox. “How we doing?” he asked, sounding perky.

  “I’m fine, and you sound a lot better.”

  “I am. Few days in bed sorted me out. I think we should meet at the barn so I can show you what I’ve been up to.”

  “Fine. Tomorrow?”

  “Let’s say seven, make it really early.”

  “Seven it is. See you there.”

  Driscoll and Wilcox were both moving things forward just like the old days. De Jersey liked that. They were starting to be more of a team.

  Just after seven the next morning, de Jersey met with Wilcox. He parked by a thick hedgerow and walked toward the large barn, which had huge double doors. Wilcox opened them and came out. “I saw you drawing up. It’s freezing in here, but we’re pretty secure.”

  De Jersey followed him in and closed the door. The vehicles, shrouded in big white sheets, were parked in the center of the barn. Beside them were the two bikes, also draped in sheets. Next to them was a trestle table with the weapons, the mascot for the Queen’s car, and so on.

  “This looks good. And the nearest farm is, what? Two miles north?” de Jersey queried.

  “The two houses at the top of the drive are empty, so we can come and go. Nobody’s gonna be around.”

  Wilcox pulled the sheet off one of the Daimlers, which gleamed. “I’m almost finished with the upholstery. I’ve got a guy making up the seats. He has no idea what they’re for, and I can collect them in a couple of weeks. The color is close enough. Dark maroon, right?”

  De Jersey walked around the car. “Tony says he thinks he’s got the bike riders. I’m going to meet them this morning.”

  They went to a small back room area, screened off from the main barn. Wilcox had collected a few chairs, a kettle, and coffee mugs.

  “We’ll need some heaters in here,” de Jersey said.

  “I’ll get one of those big ones they use on film sets.” Wilcox sniffed. His nose was running.

  De Jersey wondered if this newfound energy was not a return to health but, in fact, chemically fueled.

  “You want the surveillance details me and Tony have been working on?” Wilcox asked.

  “Fire away.”

  “We’ve been taking turns monitoring the safe house, and we’ve got the following regular workers and visitors. Two females, one about twenty-five, the other middle-aged. Three males, mid-thirties, and two white-haired men. Four security guards. Two come on early morning, two at night. Four other men turned up, but they weren’t regulars.” Wilcox laid out photographs of each one. Even if he was still doing coke, de Jersey could not fault his preparations. If anything, he himself was lagging. He felt uneasy when Wilcox pressed him for details about the interior of the safe house.

  “We’ll discuss all that at the first big meet. I need a few days. Good work, James.”

  “Not got it together yet, then?”

  “Almost, but it’s taking more time than I thought. I’m getting there, though.”

  “I sincerely hope so, old chap. Time’s moving on.” They gave each other a brotherly hug. “So, what’s next for me?” Wilcox asked.

  “Just get the vehicles ready.”

  “We’re on course, are we?”

  De Jersey hesitated a beat before he answered. “Yeah, we’re on course, James.”

  Later that morning, de Jersey met with Driscoll and Brian Hall and Kenny Short. De Jersey suggested they take a ride on an open-top bus, and the four men were the only occupants of the top deck. As they stared out at the sights of London, de Jersey—as Simmons—questioned Hall, then Short. When they parted, he tapped Driscoll’s arm and said softly, “Nice work. They seem steady guys.”

  Driscoll nodded. “I reckon we’ll have no problems. They agreed to the fee, and I trust them. I have to, cos Hall knows where I live.”

  “Right,” de Jersey said. In the old days, Tony Driscoll would have moved house. Fortunately de Jersey did not have to. No one new coming into the team had the slightest notion who he was.

  When de Jersey called to say he was arranging a meeting for the following week, Westbrook had been having migraines that left him so weak he could hardly lift a cigarette to his lips. De Jersey’s call lifted the pain and cleared his head abruptly. He didn’t know if it was terror
or having something else to think about. He wasn’t scared; there was nothing to be scared of. He was dying anyway.

  Pamela Kenworthy-Wright agreed to travel to London. She didn’t ask questions except where she would find the keys to the apartment she’d be staying in.

  Just as de Jersey was beginning to feel he was making good progress, Raymond Marsh called and dropped a bombshell.

  “This is hot off the Buck House telephone wires. She’s snuffed it.”

  De Jersey took a deep breath. “What are you talking about?”

  “She was rushed to hospital last night and died early this morning. It’ll be front-page news by tonight, so—”

  De Jersey clenched his teeth. “She’s dead?”

  “Yeah. Be a big funeral, they’ll be lowering the flags and stuff.”

  “Dear God. Are you sure?”

  “I’m certain. My gran always said she should have been allowed to marry Peter Townsend.”

  “Wait, you’re talking about Princess Margaret?”

  “Yeah. Who did you think? It means that H.M. might not be keeping to her diary.”

  De Jersey’s heart rate dropped slightly. For a moment he had believed the Queen was dead. “How soon can you find out?”

  “All I can do is keep you posted. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Yes, thank you.” He hung up.

  De Jersey sat stunned. This could throw a major spanner in the works. A few days later, however, after the media had run coverage of the Princess’s death virtually into the ground, Marsh called again. He said he needed to talk to de Jersey urgently.

  “Is this about the funeral?”

  “Nope. As far as I can tell that’ll all be over soon. The diary hasn’t changed for May. Busy this month, though. Not sure I’d fancy being cremated myself, but—”

  “What did you call to talk about then?” de Jersey asked, cutting Marsh off.

  Marsh refused to say over the phone, so they arranged to meet in a coffee shop a stone’s throw from the entrance to Buckingham Palace. It was Marsh’s morning break, and a long line of tourists was waiting for the Changing of the Guard, their umbrellas up against the cold February drizzle and their coats buffeted by the brisk wind.