Royal Heist

by Lynda La Plante

  The head representative, Mr. Saunders, a small and nervous man, took Westbrook aside. “The vaults are being opened. Her Majesty can view the jewels at her discretion.” Saunders bowed to Maureen, who was frozen-faced. Her manner made the man even more nervous.

  “If you would kindly follow me down to the lower level, Your Majesty, we have the vaults prepared for you.”

  Much to de Jersey’s relief, as soon as “the Queen” began to move down the second set of stairs to the vaults, most of the staff dispersed. The matron figure ushered the girls toward the stairs, and de Jersey watched them with bated breath: if they passed back into the entrance hall, they might see the security guard bound and gagged. They didn’t glance in his direction, however; instead they moved up a second flight of stairs to their offices.

  The inner reception area was now empty, the outer hallway guarded by Hall. Short and Wilcox were ready to act as backup.

  There were ten steps down to the vault with a polished brass rail on either side. They passed cameras poised at every corner and recess. None moved. Satisfied now that Hall had done his job, de Jersey hoped no one would notice that the cameras weren’t functioning.

  Maureen leaned heavily on the banister rail, Pamela close behind as she continued down. De Jersey and Westbrook kept her closely guarded. Saunders maintained a rather stuttering speech, detailing the security surrounding the vault. Fortunately he and the fitters kept their eyes directed deferentially on the Royal party. When they reached the basement, a man stood waiting beside a trolley laden with iced water, fruit, and coffee. Saunders suggested a pause for refreshments, but Westbrook smiled and tapped his watch.

  The party now approached the vault, with steel doors and two protective inner cages. The first thick steel door stood wide open, and the shining steel bars inside it were also open. Above the steel door was the edge of the grille that would slam down if an alarm button were pressed, protecting the contents of the vault and trapping anyone inside.

  Westbrook kept the tension to a minimum by maintaining a steady flow of conversation, which de Jersey hugely admired. He constantly referred to Her Majesty as he recalled anecdotes of when he had been a page at the coronation. Whether he had or not was immaterial.

  The vault was enormous, with banks of steel boxes surrounding the large central cage. Inside it was a massive steel-framed display case, lined with black velvet, where the spectacular jewels had been laid out for viewing. The sight stunned all of them into a strange silence, which was broken only when Westbrook exhaled audibly, then whispered, “Dear Lord above!”

  This quiet expression of awe somehow made it easier for de Jersey to continue in the same tone: “Ladies and gentlemen, do not call out, but remain silent and no one will be hurt.”

  Saunders half-turned, as if he had not heard correctly, and at that moment de Jersey revealed his automatic. “I need you all to lie facedown on the floor.” He pointed at Saunders. “You first. Do not make a sound.”

  Saunders looked in confusion at his assistants, and his face drained of color. Driscoll opened his jacket and pulled out his shotgun. “Obey every word or I won’t hesitate to shoot. Get down, facedown!”

  Maureen dropped to the floor, twitching. Her bag fell open, and cosmetics rolled across the vault. Pamela drew out a fake gun from her own bag and directed it at Maureen’s head. Driscoll ran back up the stairs, signaling to Hall to join them. He moved away from the door, and his position was taken up by Short.

  Inside the vault, Saunders raised his hands and shouted, “You can’t do this. For God’s sake, no!”

  “Down!” de Jersey commanded and took off his coat to reveal a large, lightweight rucksack. He tossed it to Westbrook. Driscoll and Hall held the staff at gunpoint as Westbrook lifted the platinum crown containing the Koh-i-noor Diamond and stashed it in the rucksack. De Jersey handed Westbrook the gun and began to drag more jewels from the display into a second rucksack, held open by Driscoll. When all the jewels were in the rucksacks, he gave the signal to move out.

  The team backed toward the stairs as Driscoll shut the heavy steel doors, leaving Saunders, Maureen, and the two terrified fitters captive. Then the gang walked boldly up the stairs, through the reception area, into the small hallway, and past the bound security guard.

  The bikers started their engines and moved off in different directions, although their destination was the same: the speedboats at the Tower Bridge Marina. Pamela and Westbrook left Newbury Street on foot. Neither could speak, and their legs were wobbly, but they walked toward the City Thameslink Station, looking over their shoulders as often as they dared, trying not to be too conspicuous.

  Driscoll walked straight into Barbican Station and went down to the Hammersmith and City line. It seemed an interminable time before a train came, and he shook as he paced up and down. After three minutes he stepped into a carriage and cursed under his breath until the train’s doors finally closed and it left the station. He was dripping with sweat.

  Wilcox and de Jersey knew they needed to distance themselves from the crime scene as quickly as possible, but they couldn’t leave the Daimler behind. It was too risky and time-consuming to take it back to the warehouse, and they didn’t want to drive it through town. This was where the furniture van came into play. It was parked nearby on a meter.

  De Jersey climbed into the Daimler with both rucksacks. Wilcox slammed his foot down, and they screeched round the corner, sending the no-parking signs and cones flying.

  “Slowly!” de Jersey snapped. The last thing they needed was to be picked up for speeding. The tense Wilcox managed to slow down, and they drove through the back streets until they reached the van. De Jersey leaped out and opened the van’s driving side, threw in the rucksacks, and got in. At the same time, Wilcox opened the rear doors, dropped the tailgate, returned to the Daimler, and drove it in. There was so little space to move that he took a while to squeeze out of the car. He drew up the back and shut the doors with himself inside, then banged on the front of the van for de Jersey to move off.

  As de Jersey drove, he ripped off the wig, eyebrows, and mustache, keeping his speed to thirty miles an hour. It felt like a snail’s pace. He headed toward the river, crossed it, and turned right to drive toward Battersea.

  The getaway had taken only fifteen minutes so far, but he could already hear police sirens blasting in the distance. As they passed the heliport in Battersea, de Jersey saw his two decoy helicopters take off. He checked his watch: it was perfect timing. The confusion should provide cover for his own copter.

  The officials locked in the vault had screamed and shouted to no avail. They could not get out, and the lack of air was becoming asphyxiating. Maureen was hysterical, screaming that they had got her husband. The others in the vault had realized at last that she wasn’t talking about Prince Philip.

  The staff from the upper floors carried on working, unaware of what was taking place downstairs. However, when the secretaries entered the reception area at the time the Royal party was due to leave, they were confronted by an overturned plinth of lilies and the bound and gagged security guard. With trepidation one of them opened the outer vault doors.

  By eleven o’clock the City was wailing with sirens. No one could believe what had happened. It was one of the most audacious robberies in history. The first thing the police did was send up their helicopters to monitor the area. They were on the lookout for two Daimlers and two motorbikes.

  The entire area surrounding the safe house was cordoned off. De Jersey was still driving the furniture van and was now passing Kingston, moving on toward the A3. He still had a way to go before he would reach his helicopter to lift the jewels away from London.

  At the same time, two speedboats raced from separate moorings near Tower Bridge. Hall had dumped his motorbike and placed his helmet and leathers into a holdall. He now wore a thick cable-knit sweater and a baseball cap. He had walked to the first boat, which had been brought from the old boathouse in Putney. Before leaving he had tied
weights to his holdall and dropped it into the river. He steered the boat toward Putney, intending to stash it in the boathouse and catch the tube back to his east London home from Putney Bridge.

  Ten minutes later Short followed almost identical orders. He left his bike in a car park near Blackfriars and changed in the toilets. He walked down toward Temple, pulling his cap low over his face. When he reached his mooring, he had trouble with the engine. After a few false starts, however, he got the boat going and sped off after Hall just as the sirens started. Short had to drop the boat at the boathouse, then use a can of petrol to set light to the building and its contents. They hoped the fire would provide another distraction.

  Short set a bunch of doused rags alight and exited quickly. He was a good fifty yards away when he saw the flames take hold. He was to continue on foot along the New King’s Road, catch a bus to Sloane Square, and from there take a tube to his flat.

  Driscoll walked out of the tube station at Shepherd’s Bush and picked up his car from a car park. He drove home, calm now although his shirt was soaking. He wondered if de Jersey had made it. He wanted more than anything to call Wilcox, to know that everyone was home and free, but he resisted the urge and kept on driving.

  De Jersey had parked his helicopter at Brooklands airfield. It was used mostly at the weekend, so it was deserted now, with just a small office in operation across the car park. Wilcox jumped down from the back of the van, climbed into the driving seat, and drove out of the airfield, catching de Jersey’s eye as he left. Both allowed themselves half-relieved smiles, but they were not in the clear yet.

  An experienced pilot, de Jersey knew that there would be no problems with air traffic control. Contrary to popular belief, most low-level airspace in the United Kingdom is uncontrolled. He had used the Brooklands airfield a few times when he had horses racing at Epsom and Goodwood. Today he was expected at Brighton for a two-year-old’s maiden race. He used the airfield’s bathroom to wash off the wig glue, put on a camel overcoat and his brown trilby, stashed the rucksacks in two suitcases, and loaded them into the helicopter, which contained an incongruous-looking crate. It was watertight, lined with polystyrene squares held together with waterproof glue.

  De Jersey saw only one person by the hangars, a man cleaning a glider who didn’t pay him any attention. As he left the washroom, the caretaker, who was sitting in his office eating his lunch, asked if he had a tip for the races. De Jersey laughed and said perhaps an each-way bet on his colt, Fan Dancer, but he wasn’t optimistic as it was his first time out.

  As de Jersey started the engine and the propellers began to move, Wilcox was six miles away, heading toward the old barn. Once there he drove the furniture truck in through the large doors, drove the Daimler out, and removed the number plates. The registration number on the engine had already been removed. He used four cans of acid to destroy the seats, paintwork, and all the contents of the boot. He smashed every window with a hammer and attacked the dashboard. The exertion felt good. Then he stripped the stickers off the sides of the removal van to reveal its true identity. The “Double Your Time” rental company did not expect it back until later that afternoon. Their headquarters were in Leatherhead, so it was just a short drive back down the A3. Wilcox left the truck in a large car park and posted the keys into a box at the gates. Philip Simmons had hired it after seeing the company’s advert on the Internet and had paid for it. Then Wilcox caught a train home from Leatherhead.

  De Jersey’s horse was running in the three o’clock at Brighton. It was the perfect opportunity to show his face and establish an alibi, but he had to do the drop first. As he headed for the coast, he looked down on the busy traffic heading in and out of the center of London. He wondered whether it was his imagination or there was a glint of flashing blue light in every direction. He didn’t dwell on it, knowing that by now every airport would be targeted as a possible getaway route, likewise the ports. It would take a long time to organize a full search, however, and by then he hoped they would be home and free.

  Pamela and the now sickly Westbrook had traveled from the City Thameslink Station to Brighton. There they switched to a second train for Plymouth. Pamela was concerned by Westbrook’s depleted energy. He was sweating profusely and had twice staggered to the lavatory to vomit. His face was yellow, and sweat plastered his hair to his head. The journey would take at least five hours, and they would need a taxi to get them to the safety of her flat. De Jersey had instructed them to separate and Westbrook to return to London, but his Lordship was too unwell to be left alone.

  When they reached the station, they flagged down a taxi. Pamela had constantly to feed Westbrook his painkillers so that he had enough energy to walk unaided to her flat. She had made the taxi stop two streets away, not wanting to give the driver her address. Westbrook hardly spoke, but when she opened her front door and helped him collapse onto the sofa, he gave a dry sob, his face twisted in pain. Her heart went out to him. “We made it,” she said softly.

  The helicopter too was reaching its destination. The yacht was anchored almost nine miles off Brighton Marina, and as he flew overhead de Jersey used his cell phone to call Dulay. He put the engine on remote control, slid open the side door, and tossed out the crate. He didn’t wait to see it hit the water. Instead he did a wide arc, then headed for the helipad at Brighton racetrack.

  Dulay watched the crate hit the water and bob to the surface. It was just a few yards off its marker. He gave the signal to start up the engines, and the big yacht moved majestically toward it. Dulay and two crew hauled the crate aboard, then they were on their way back to the Riviera. He spotted a small yacht a good distance away but realized he could do nothing about it and hoped to God that no one aboard had seen the drop.

  Three boys were testing the little yacht for the nationals. They had taken it without their parents’ permission and were smoking a large joint when the helicopter flew overhead. Through binoculars they watched in amazement as the crate fell out. At first they were unsure what they had seen, and they passed the binoculars around, wondering if they had witnessed a drugs drop. They did not, however, have a radio, and as the large yacht turned to head out to sea, they reckoned they were wrong. If it had been drugs, surely the boat would be heading inland. Suddenly they felt a flurry of wind and galvanized themselves to set sail back to the marina.

  At the racecourse de Jersey went into the weighing room to see Mickey Rowland, surprising him. The jockey was heading toward the locker rooms carrying de Jersey’s racing colors, ready to dress. He thought it was odd that his boss was here to see Fan Dancer when he hadn’t made it to Royal Flush’s race at Lingfield, but he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his business where and when the boss showed up.

  He shook de Jersey’s hand and told him that Fleming was heading over to the saddling enclosure. He watched de Jersey stroll out, smiling and acknowledging a few of the jockeys he knew. He also saw him pause by the Sheikh’s jockey and take him to one side. He wondered if his boss would go back on his word about his ride in the Derby.

  De Jersey walked into the owners’ and trainers’ bar, acknowledging a few people he knew. He bought a gin and tonic but hardly touched it and, moments later, crossed to the saddling stalls. He stopped beside the Sheikh’s trainer. They discussed a few race meetings, and the conversation came round to Royal Flush. Evidently the horse’s progress was being monitored by everyone in the business. De Jersey felt a rush of pride and said casually to the trainer that it was his turn for the Derby. He paused as the trainer’s quiet, almost lisping voice said, “Yours, Mr. de Jersey, or Royal Flush’s?” It was an odd statement, and he would have replied to it but he saw Fleming waving to him.

  He excused himself and joined his trainer. “Seen him fishing around. Any money he was asking you about Royal Flush. He’s got his eyes on him, you know,” Fleming said.

  “So would I if I had his money and history of success.” De Jersey was referring to the Sheikh’s domination of the racetracks and hi
s record of breeding champions. He had the finest stud in England, if not the world. The Arabs were well known for their love of the races. Their animals were kept in luxurious surroundings with the finest trainers and jockeys under million-pound contracts to race exclusively for them. One of their studs was not far from de Jersey’s.

  “What brings you here?” Fleming asked as they headed across the green toward their allocated stall.

  “I missed my boy’s last race, so I felt I should make an appearance. Don’t want the gossipmongers spreading it around that I’m not taking an interest anymore.”

  Fleming saddled Fan Dancer, and together they went to the ring to watch him being led out to wait for the jockey. There were ten horses racing, so nine other owners and trainers stood waiting as well. Mickey walked out, fixing his helmet strap beneath his chin. He stood with de Jersey and Fleming for a few moments, listening to last-minute instructions, which were to give Fan Dancer an easy race. He was helped into the saddle, and they went out of the parade ring to watch him canter up to the starting gates.

  De Jersey and Fleming stood side by side in the owners’ and trainers’ stand. Fleming had to lend his boss his binoculars.

  “I can’t stay too long. Christina and I are due to watch the girls in The Taming of the Shrew,” de Jersey said, monitoring Fan Dancer. “After the race I’m going to have to shift myself to make it.” Then he focused the binoculars on the Sheikh’s trainer, who stood nearby studying the racing form.

  The horses were under starter’s orders, and then they were off. Fan Dancer ran a good race but seemed to get boxed in early at the rails. De Jersey watched Mickey move him out, but the horse didn’t like pushing his way between two others. Then Mickey moved him through a nice gap and, hardly touching Fan Dancer with the whip, rode him into fifth position. He dropped back to sixth, then moved up again to remain in fifth as they crossed the finishing line.