However, both Driscoll and Wilcox needed cash injections. Driscoll decided to put his house on the market, unaware that Wilcox was contemplating the same thing.
Jon Fuller and his P.C. now made the journey to de Jersey’s estate. If Fuller had been impressed by the properties owned by Driscoll and Wilcox, de Jersey’s took his breath away. The patrol car drew up beside the west wing stables. Fuller asked a boy if he could tell them where they would find de Jersey and was pointed to a vast, semicovered arena with a horseshoe-shaped swimming pool for exercising the horses.
De Jersey was watching Royal Flush swimming around the perimeter of the pool. He had seen the patrol car enter the yard and paid it no attention. As the officers approached, he continued to call out instructions. “Keep him going. Give him another two half circles.”
“Good morning, sir.” Fuller showed his card and introduced his companion.
“This is my pride and joy, Royal Flush,” de Jersey said, gesturing to the swimming stallion. “Put your money on him for the Derby,” he advised and gave the officers a charming smile.
He walked with them back to the house, where he told them he had met Sylvia Hewitt twice, once at her brother-in-law’s house and a second time when he had visited her at her apartment in St. John’s Wood.
“Miss Hewitt was found dead in her apartment,” Fuller said.
“My God! When did this happen?” De Jersey stopped in his tracks.
“Two weeks ago. We believe it was suicide, sir.”
“Well, that’s dreadful, but I fail to see how I can be of any help. I didn’t really know her.” He added that he was surprised Sylvia would contemplate suicide. Then he paused. “I don’t know if I should go into this, but her brother-in-law, as you must know, also committed suicide quite recently. The reason I am hesitant to say anything derogatory about Sylvia is that I had a great affection for David and his poor wife.” He paused again. “I believe Sylvia and David had been lovers for some time.” He sighed. “I am deeply sorry this has happened. In some ways I wish I had known her better. The loss of certain investments was deeply disturbing for me, but in comparison …”
“Did you ever think of taking legal action?” asked the detective.
“Well, my father always used to say, ‘Never invest in anything you don’t understand,’ and I wish to God I had taken his advice. This chap Moreno ran off with whatever he salvaged out of the mess.”
“Did you ever approach Moreno?”
“Good heavens, no. Sylvia was trying to find him. She wanted me to help, but private detectives can’t be trusted, and I just felt it was best to forgive and forget. David was dead, and that was the end of it as far as I was concerned.”
“And you do not know an Anthony Driscoll or a James Wilcox?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Have you ever met a man called Philip Simmons?”
At this moment Christina appeared in the doorway with a tray of coffee.
“Darling, do come in.” De Jersey rose and made the introductions. She put down the tray and shook their hands. De Jersey handed round the coffee as he explained the reason for the officers’ visit.
Christina sat down, shocked. “Good heavens. How terrible. I must call Helen,” she said.
De Jersey put his arm round her. “Yes, of course, we should.”
She gazed at him a moment, then smiled at the officers. “Excuse me,” she said and left the room.
Outside the study door Christina waited to hear her husband tell the police whether he knew Philip Simmons. “I don’t think I do. Was he one of David’s clients?” she heard him say.
“We’re not sure,” replied Fuller. “It’s just that there are various notes in Miss Hewitt’s diary with regard to this man and, according to the detective in New York, she felt that he was connected to Alex Moreno.”
“I can’t recall meeting someone of that name, but then I do meet a lot of people at the racetracks.”
“Have you been to New York yourself recently?”
“No, I have not.”
Christina remained listening until they began to discuss racing. Then she went slowly up to her bedroom. She could understand why he had lied. He had done something illegal in New York, he had told her that. But how on earth could it be connected to Sylvia Hewitt? She went to the window to see de Jersey ushering the officers out and watched as they walked to their parked patrol car.
A few moments later de Jersey came into the bedroom. “I wasn’t expecting you home for a while,” he said.
Christina watched him. He frightened her.
“How much did you overhear?” he asked.
“Well, I heard them ask you about being in New York.”
“And I was not likely to admit I was there, and you know why,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed.
“But they’ll find out, surely.” She avoided his eyes.
“Why should they? I’ll destroy those passports if you like.”
“I would if I were you, but I don’t understand why all this subterfuge is necessary.”
“I explained it to you.”
“I know you did, but why did Sylvia Hewitt have notes in her diary about this man you went to see?”
“Because, sweetheart, she was trying to trace him to get her own money back. I’ve told you this. In fact, it was David who suggested I use a pseudonym when traveling to buy racehorses. He even got the passports for me. As soon as sellers know my name, they put up the price. I would say the reason she kept on calling here was that she might have found out and wanted to squeeze money out of me. She really was a very unpleasant woman.”
“She’s dead, for God’s sake.”
“I know, and by her own hand. She was not a nice woman at all, carrying on with David behind Helen’s back. Her own sister!”
“Suddenly you’re coming over all moralistic,” she said in disbelief.
“Not really, but she was only concerned about getting her money back. She had probably discovered that she didn’t have a hope in hell of seeing any of it again, and it must have been too much for her.”
“How did she do it?”
“I have no idea. We didn’t get into those kind of details.”
“Did you go and see her, then?”
“What?”
“I said, Did you go and see her after she kept calling?”
“No, I put it off. I had enough to think about—and considering that that son of a bitch David has virtually bankrupted me, I would think you could understand my reasons for not wanting anything to do with her.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Have anything to do with her?”
“Why on earth are you asking me that? I just told you I didn’t go to see her. I don’t want to discuss this any further. It’s finished.” He walked out, slamming the door.
De Jersey was treading on dangerous ground, and now the person he cared most deeply for might also be the most dangerous to him. He was angry with himself for having left the passports to be found, angry that the one area he had felt was secure was now vulnerable. He had to find a way to sort it out quickly and efficiently.
Raymond Marsh, unaware that he was under investigation, had arrived in Rio de Janeiro without a hitch. Almost immediately he had a reaction to something in the climate that gave him blinding headaches and a rash all over his body. His wife and daughter booked into a hotel with him, but he decided he wanted to move on. South America was not to his liking. He called his friend Robbie with instructions on where to send his packing cases. When he was told that cops were swarming around his old house and his face was plastered all over the newspapers and on television, he slammed the phone down. It was imperative to get out of Brazil. The police might have discovered from Robbie where he was. He paced up and down the hotel room, itching and sweating, trying to think where they should go, when his wife walked in with their screaming child.
“She’s got a rash too. It’s the heat.”
&nbs
p; Marsh looked at her and grinned. “Let’s get out of here then. Tell you what, why don’t we visit your place?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, sticking a pacifier into the baby’s mouth.
“New Zealand,” he said.
Anything can be bought in Rio, and within one afternoon Raymond Marsh had new passports. At ten in the evening, he, his wife, and his daughter flew out on tickets booked through their illegal credit cards. During the flight he began to feel worse, and by the time they landed he had a high temperature. They moved into the best hotel in Auckland, and a doctor was called. Marsh’s allergy subsided, but the fever and aches persisted. He was diagnosed with a virulent form of shingles. He remained in a darkened room under sedation for two days. He felt so ill that he didn’t even watch TV.
His quick exodus from Rio meant there was no clue as to his present whereabouts. When the detectives traced the poste restante address on his boxes to Rio, they set off with a warrant for his arrest but returned empty-handed.
In London, the headlines now blasted on about the police’s failure to capture Marsh or to trace Philip Simmons. The articles made their way to the hotel where Marsh was staying. By the time he saw the papers, the story was a week old.
Marsh read the coverage with relief. It was believed that he was still at large in Rio. He was amazed at the photographs they had used of him, which had been taken from his packing boxes. Some were in Elvis mode, others showed him in school uniform. He knew he must not use any of the credit-card numbers from the United Kingdom.
Marsh studied himself in the mirror. Since he had been ill he’d not had time to fix his hair, and it was stuck together in unattractive clumps. He went into the bathroom, put his head under the shower, and shampooed it three times to get the grease and old mousse out. It had taken years of practice to style his hair into a teddy boy quiff, but now it was receding badly and hung limply to his chin. He picked up a pair of nail scissors and chopped it short. He was near tears. It wasn’t just his hair he had lost but all his memorabilia. The crates containing his hero’s guitars and his autographed pictures were now in the hands of the Metropolitan Police.
His wife barged in with a dirty nappy and had to sit on the edge of the bath, she was laughing so hard. When she stopped giggling, she wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Christ, Raymond, you don’t half look different!”
“I’ll get a transplant,” he snapped.
Marsh calculated they would have real financial problems soon, but he knew that to contact Philip Simmons was tantamount to suicide. He would have to monitor the papers and lie low. He moved his family into a small apartment in Wellington and applied for a job with a local computer company. It was a far cry from the life he had hoped for, but at least he was free.
Sylvia Hewitt’s funeral took place within days of Lord Westbrook’s. The latter was a more public occasion, with press and photographers lining the streets outside the family estate. His ex-wife, his son and heir, and his two daughters had returned to England for the occasion. The ice-cream company now running the house and grounds allowed them to use the chapel and crypt, and the mourners were old family friends and various distant relatives. Displays of lilies sat on either side of his photograph. The police officers seated at the rear of the tiny chapel looked on with disgust: this man had been a petty criminal and then part of a robbery that still stunned the nation.
Lord Westbrook had dreamed of his son returning to the ancestral seat. The boy stood beside his mother in a gray suit. Neither he nor his mother knew of Westbrook’s dream. More distant relations told the press they were appalled by his actions.
De Jersey was relieved to see the funeral on the news. It meant one major risk was gone, but he would honor his promise. When payday came, Westbrook’s son would receive his father’s cut. Whatever else de Jersey was, he was an honorable man. He had still not seen anything in the papers about Sylvia Hewitt’s “suicide” and hoped to God they had closed the inquiry.
Pamela saw the televised snippet of Westbrook’s funeral and sobbed. She wished she could have been there. She had sent flowers with a card that simply said, “From your lady-in-waiting, with love and fond memories.” She paid for the bouquet in cash.
The police filmed the entire funeral, hoping that people linked to the robbery might show their faces, but no one did. They also examined the flowers. Pamela’s message was obscure, perhaps from a mistress or a lover, though “lady-in-waiting” seemed to refer to the robbery. The florist was contacted and remembered that a bedraggled, red-haired lady with a refined voice and sophisticated manner had placed the order. Unfortunately she had not left an address or contact number. When shown the computer pictures of Pamela from Maureen Stanley’s description, the florist gasped. “Oh, my God, this is the woman wanted for the Crown Jewels robbery. I don’t believe it.” She took another look at the photo fit and shook her head. “No, it wasn’t her. The woman I met was much older.”
The police were at yet another dead end, and the robbery was dropping out of the headlines. They felt their next best move was to have it profiled on a television crime program. The Crime Show had given over an entire fifty-minute episode to the case, and a private benefactor had offered 25,000 pounds for information leading to a conviction. As the program closed, the phones were ringing. The following morning, the calls were still being followed up.
Chief Superintendent Dom Rodgers, the officer overseeing Operation Crown, was feeling ill. He had been coughing for a couple of days and feared he had caught a virus. Now he felt red-hot, and he took himself to his G.P.’s surgery in Maida Vale. The waiting room was chilly and uninviting, and the two patients ahead of him both had streaming colds. He sat feeling wretched, wishing he had remembered to bring his morning paper. His cell phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. “Rodgers,” he answered, then listened. “What?” he said in amazement. “Look, I’m not far from their station. I’ll get right over there.”
He snapped off his phone, left the surgery, and drove straight to the St. John’s Wood police station. His chest hurt and he was sweating beneath his overcoat, but his excitement put his ill health to the back of his mind. He asked to speak to the officers involved in the Sylvia Hewitt inquiry.
Detective Sergeant Jon Fuller’s hand shook as he spooned sugar into a beaker of tea. “I’m so sorry, sir, but we had a list of David Lyons’s clients Miss Hewitt had named as losing in the crash of the Internet company and—”
“Just get to the fucking point, Sergeant. Philip Simmons. You called the robbery squad and”—he banged down a small tape recorder, then gestured with his hand—“go on, you’ve lost me enough times already, son. Philip Simmons.”
Armed with the details of the Hewitt case, Rodgers returned to Scotland Yard, where his team was waiting, having received the call from St. John’s Wood station earlier that morning. He tossed over his tape recorder.
“Listen to this prick, then come into my office. We’ve had a development we could have had fucking days ago.”
CHAPTER
25
Other developments now materialized in the wake of the television program. A taxi driver was sure he had picked up Lord Westbrook from Waterloo Station just before he died. He said he had driven him to his family estate but at the time did not recognize him. He was unable to say what train Westbrook had alighted from, but they had the date and time, so they could begin checking which trains had arrived around then. A hotel barman was sure he had seen Westbrook in the company of a man similar to the one described in the program, but he was more dark blond than redheaded. He could not recall the exact day but knew it had been sometime in January. A railway porter recalled seeing someone fitting Westbrook’s description on Plymouth station and said that he had arrived in a wheelchair pushed by an elderly, red-haired woman. A train had left Plymouth to arrive at Waterloo just before Westbrook was picked up by the taxi driver. The description of the woman wheeling the chair matched that of the woman who had purchased the flo
wers for Westbrook’s funeral.
The inquiry was buzzing again. An estate agent said that a man named Philip Simmons had rented a boathouse close to Putney Bridge. The transaction had been done over the Internet, and he had never met Mr. Simmons. The boathouse had burned down on the day of the robbery.
Officers were sent with frogmen and equipment to drag the river in and around the boathouse. They hauled up the wreck of a small speedboat. An identical boat was photographed and appeared on the front page of the Evening Standard with a request for anyone with information about a boat of this description to contact the police directly. This produced the mechanic who had sold the boat to Wilcox. He gave a description of Wilcox, whom the police identified as one of the men who had picked up Maureen Stanley, and who had purchased the two Daimlers. The mechanic, however, had never met anyone by the name of Philip Simmons.
All of this information made it look as if the robbers had escaped via the river, and appeals were made for anyone who had seen these two boats on the Thames to come forward. More officers questioned the owners of the vast number of boats along the Thames. This investigation yielded the location of the mooring facility rented for the two speedboats, and the name materialized yet again: Philip Simmons.
The Operation Crown officers were certain that Philip Simmons was the cyber-identity of their number-one man. But the most vital clue to his real identity came as a result of the death of Sylvia Hewitt, which now became part of the inquiry. They had the names of the men who had suffered extensive losses in the fall of the Internet company: James Wilcox, Anthony Driscoll, and Edward de Jersey. Could these three be connected in some way to Philip Simmons?
Pamela became frightened by the headlines—POLICE ABOUT TO SWOOP—and holed up in her grimy apartment. She felt cut off and alone. She wore a head scarf and dark glasses when she left to buy a dark brown hair dye. Then she went to the nearest off-license and bought a large bottle of vodka. When she returned she locked and bolted the front door, put the rinse on her hair, and left it for half an hour. She began to drink the vodka and chain-smoked, watching television from her bed. Her recent adventure seemed a far-off fantasy, except that the six o’clock news had implied it was just a matter of time before the robbers were arrested.
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