Royal Heist

by Lynda La Plante

  By the time she discovered from the staff what had happened, she was too upset to talk to anyone. She returned to the house and ran to the sink to throw up.

  Christina could not admit that, along with everyone else, she had not been privy to her husband’s intentions. At first she had expected him to return and explain everything to her. By mid-afternoon, still shocked, she called her daughters’ school, only to be told by the headmistress that the girls’ fees were outstanding. If there was a problem, perhaps Mrs. de Jersey would arrange a meeting to discuss her daughters’ future. Christina, at a loss, asked if she could speak to her elder daughter. She kept control of her emotions as she told Natasha that she would like her and Leonie to catch the next train home and she would collect them at the station. She told her she could not discuss the reasons over the phone.

  When Christina called the bank to discuss paying her daughters’ school fees, she learned that the joint bank account was virtually empty, and payments on certain loans had not been made. She also discovered outstanding bills from the grocery and wine merchants, as well as those for horse feed and veterinary visits. The phone rang constantly until she took it off the hook, unable to listen to any more queries about unpaid accounts. The papers she’d found in her husband’s desk revealed only a fraction of the truth about their debts.

  Drawing on what little energy she had left, she went to see Donald Fleming. He was as shocked as she was. Now she discovered that wages were owed to most of the staff. She felt so ashamed that she couldn’t continue talking to Fleming, who broke down in front of her. “How could he have done this? Not to even discuss it with me,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry,” she replied. “I’m so very sorry.”

  He looked at her, shaking his head. “I can’t believe he’d do this, not take me into his confidence. It’s just … I worked for almost twenty years alongside him,” he said.

  “I was married to him for that long and …” She felt her chin tremble. “I’ll come back later. We’ll talk. I’m sorry, I can’t think straight right now.”

  She ran from the office. Entering the house, she couldn’t even find the strength to take off her coat. The more she began to understand the severity of her situation the more it forced the realization of what her husband had done. She was forced to face the probability that he had planned his departure for a considerable time and it was doubtful that he intended to return. She couldn’t bring herself to think about the previous night and how he had made love to her. She sat at the kitchen table sobbing. Every time she dried her eyes, the tears flowed again.

  Christina forced herself to go upstairs and get ready to face her daughters. But when she entered the bedroom, her loss swamped her again, and she lay facedown on the bed, where she could still smell her husband’s scent. The sobs tore upward from her belly.

  When Christina finally stopped weeping, she changed and drove to collect her daughters. She was calm. She didn’t tell the girls what had happened until they were back at the house. Then she said that it was possible their father had not just left home but left them too. She found herself in an awkward position. If he did intend to come back and take them away, as he had promised, the less the girls knew the better. She went over and over in her mind their conversation of the previous night: his promises, his protestation of love. But she also knew that he had drugged her.

  Christina was unable to tell her daughters everything she knew, but she tried to soften the blow by saying that their father had been in dire financial trouble and had been unable to deal with it. Their confused, sad faces broke Christina’s tight hold on herself, and she was again unable to stop the tears.

  Twenty-four hours later, de Jersey had still made no contact. Christina began to earmark anything of value to sell, but her husband’s betrayal hung over her like a dark cloud. It was while she was in this vulnerable state that two patrol cars entered the drive. It had been decided that the uniformed officers would start questioning the staff around the stables while Chief Superintendent Rodgers, with Detective Constable Trudy Grainger, interviewed Edward de Jersey. At the same time, Rodgers had allocated officers to interview Driscoll and Wilcox at their homes.

  As they pulled up, Rodgers saw the furniture-removal vans outside the house. “I don’t like the look of this,” he murmured, getting out of the car and stretching his legs. He walked flat-footed, his feet pointing outward, his head jutting forward like a turtle’s, but he had one redeeming feature: incredibly bright blue eyes. Eyes that didn’t seem to miss anything, eyes that could feel like they were boring into your head, eyes that crinkled up when he smiled and made him appear to be a jovial, kindly man. In many ways he was, but underneath it he was as tough as they came.

  Rodgers knocked at the open door. When he received no reply, he walked into the hallway, bypassing cardboard packing cases, some open and some waiting to be made up.

  “Hello,” he called. He went into the drawing room. The radio was tuned to Classic FM, and Christina was wrapping crystal glasses in newspaper.

  Rodgers knocked loudly on the door.

  “If you’ve come for the silver, I’m not ready,” she said.

  Then he showed her his ID. “I am Chief Superintendent Rodgers,” he said, “and this is D.C. Grainger.”

  “Have you come about my husband?” she stuttered.

  “I’d like to speak to him,” Rodgers replied.

  “So would I, but I’m afraid he’s not here and I’ve no idea where he is.” She wiped her newsprint-stained hands on her apron.

  “Could I talk to you?”

  “Yes, but I have no idea where he is. He sold the farm and the house, so as you can see, I’m moving out. I have no other option. The new owner has given me only a week.”

  Rodgers smiled, trying to calm her. “Mrs. de Jersey, do you mind if I turn down the radio?”

  “Not at all.” She took off her apron and burst into tears. Two teenage girls appeared, carrying silver candlesticks, and Christina almost shouted at them, “Just leave those where they are.”

  Rodgers nodded and moved toward Natasha. Before he could ask either girl anything, Christina put a protective arm around each of them. “These are my daughters, Natasha and Leonie. You won’t need to speak to them, will you?”

  “Not immediately,” Rodgers said and watched as Christina ushered the girls out of the room.

  “They have just got home from school,” she said. “They don’t know anything about”—she took a deep breath, catching herself—“the sale.”

  Rodgers led her into the kitchen, where he asked if his officer could brew some coffee.

  “Go ahead,” she replied, distracted.

  He sat at the kitchen table. Even in this room there were packing boxes and crates of china stacked and ready to be taken out.

  “I’ve decided to put what I have left into storage and go and stay with my father,” she said. “My daughters are very distressed. As I said, they have only just returned home and don’t know anything.” She took out a tissue and blew her nose. Rodgers bided his time, talking gently to her about the effects of moving. But from the few things she had said, he knew she was privy to something he needed to hear about her husband.

  At last, after some coffee and a cigarette, she seemed more in control. “I need to ask you some questions.” he said.

  “Is it about debts? He owes money everywhere. In fact, I had to take the phone off the hook. As soon as it became known that the estate was sold, it’s not stopped ringing.”

  “I am not here about debts,” Rodgers said and waited while she dried her eyes again. She couldn’t meet his steady gaze.

  “Do you know Sylvia Hewitt?” he asked.

  Christina nodded and said that she also knew she was dead. “She was the sister-in-law of my husband’s financial adviser.”

  “We had been treating her death as a suicide, but certain matters have arisen,” he said and opened a notebook. He asked if Christina knew Anthony Driscoll or James Wilcox, but sh
e shook her head. Then she paused and said that, if she remembered correctly, they had also been clients of David Lyons.

  “How well did your husband know Miss Hewitt?” he asked.

  Christina shrugged. “I think he did know her but not well,” she said flatly.

  “Do you know if he ever visited her at her St. John’s Wood flat?” Rodgers asked.

  “No,” she said, averting her eyes.

  “So he might have been to see her, if only to discuss the loss of his investments?”

  Christina didn’t reply.

  “Miss Hewitt also lost a considerable amount, I understand,” Rodgers continued.

  “I believe so, but not as much as my husband. In fact, he was always very dismissive of her. I don’t think he liked her.”

  “Do you know where your husband was on the night Sylvia died?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said. Rodgers was taken aback by the abruptness of her reply. “He was staying at his club, the St. James’s. He said he was there all night.”

  “You seem very sure about that.”

  She kept her eyes on her hands in her lap. “We just happened to discuss it.”

  “Why was that?”

  “No real reason.” She reached for her coffee cup. He saw that her hand was shaking.

  Rodgers tapped his teeth with his pencil. “Did you ask him about her death?”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “Why do you remember where your husband was on that specific night?”

  Christina was silent.

  “Mrs. de Jersey, could you answer the question, please?”

  “Well, I had tried to contact him, and he hadn’t returned my calls, so I called the club. I just remember it was that night.”

  “Do you know where your husband was on the second of May?”

  She frowned and twisted a sodden piece of tissue. “Why that date?” When she looked up, her eyes reminded Rodgers of those of a frightened animal caught in a trap.

  “Well, Mrs. de Jersey, if you need a reminder, it was the day the Crown Jewels were stolen,” he said pleasantly and waited.

  “If you’ll just hold on, I’ll fetch our diary.” She rose and went into the hall. She stood with her hands pressed to her eyes, her whole body shaking. She had to take deep breaths before she returned with the book. “I know he was in Brighton racing in the afternoon, but he was back here by early evening. Our daughters were performing in a school play, and we both went from here at around five o’clock.”

  “Do you know anyone named Philip Simmons?” Rodgers caught the quick intake of breath and watched Christina closely. “Philip Simmons,” he repeated.

  “I know the name,” she said and looked up, her eyes now bright and clear. “I watched the TV program about the jewel robbery, and I know the police want to question him.”

  “And that is how you know the name?” Rodgers asked.

  Christina reached for his pack of Silk Cut and took one out. He leaned forward to light it for her.

  “They mentioned it on the program,” she said.

  “So where do you think your husband is?” Rodgers asked.

  Christina shrugged and turned away. “I have no idea.” She inhaled deeply, then turned back to him. He noticed yet another swift change of mood. The trapped animal was fighting back. “My husband left me. I have to leave the house. He’s sold everything. He took off in his helicopter. He left no note. I have not stopped working since then. Anything to keep my mind off the way he … I discovered he had sold our home from a note left to me by the new owner. My husband has also left me in tremendous debt, so if you do find him, be sure to let me know.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and sat back in her chair, clasping her hands tightly. “Why are you here? If it isn’t about Sylvia Hewitt, what is it about? Why do you want to see him?”

  Rodgers turned over the cigarette packet. “It is about Miss Hewitt. I’m speaking to whoever knew her.” Although he was being polite, he was watching her like a hawk.

  “No other reason?” she asked.

  “Possibly. I am also trying to trace Philip Simmons.”

  “So you believe this man is involved in Sylvia Hewitt’s death?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I thought she committed suicide. Helen, her sister, told me it was suicide,” Christina said.

  “Possibly.” He gave nothing away. “I would like the details of your husband’s helicopter,” he said, tapping his notebook. “And if you have any thoughts about where he might have gone, I would be grateful to hear them.”

  Christina remained silent.

  “So you don’t expect him to return?” Rodgers said.

  Christina’s eyes filled with tears. She sprang to her feet and fetched another tissue.

  Rodgers gave her his card. “Call me anytime if you think of anything that would help me.”

  “I will.”

  He left her looking drained and defeated. He felt sorry for her, but he was sure she was holding something back. He was not finished with her yet.

  Christina watched the officers from the kitchen window, saw them moving across the yard, stopping the stable girls, conferring with the jockeys, then entering the manager’s office. Apart from the faint hope that de Jersey would get in touch, she hadn’t said anything because she was afraid that what she knew might endanger not only him but herself and her daughters. She decided to leave as soon as possible for Sweden. They would be safer there than in England.

  Rodgers sat in Fleming’s office looking at the lists of forthcoming race meetings, the array of cups and awards the yard had won, and the largest photograph hanging on the wall. It was of de Jersey standing by his beloved Royal Flush. He then glanced over the other photographs of de Jersey with various champions and of de Jersey close to the Queen at Royal Ascot.

  “He’s a big chap,” Rodgers stated quietly.

  “Yes, over sixteen hands,” said Fleming.

  “No, I meant Mr. de Jersey,” Rodgers said, pointing to the photograph.

  “Yes, about six four.” Fleming sighed and joined Rodgers, who stood looking closely at one photograph after another.

  “Did Her Majesty ever come to the stables?” he asked, peering closer at one photo.

  “Good heavens, no! That was taken last year at Royal Ascot.”

  “Did anyone from the Royal household ever come here?” he asked.

  “Not that I am aware of. Like someone from the Queen’s racing stables?”

  “Anyone, really, who was connected to Her Majesty’s household.”

  “I doubt it, and I’ve worked here for almost twenty years. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. It’s quite a place,” he said, changing the subject. As Fleming returned to his desk, Rodgers removed one of the photographs and slipped it beneath his coat. He was taken aback by the emotion in the man’s voice.

  “I’ll never understand how he could just walk away from this stallion in particular.” Fleming pointed at a picture of Royal Flush. “He was his pride and joy, and we reckon he’ll win the Derby. He’s an extraordinary horse.” Fleming swallowed.

  “Why do you think he’s done a runner?” Rodgers asked conversationally.

  “Money. He lost a fortune on some Internet company. He never picked himself up from it, and running a place this size costs thousands a week. He just couldn’t get out of the hole he’d dug for himself. But it still doesn’t make sense to me. I thought he’d at least have told me, if not the rest of the yard.”

  “Apparently he never even told his wife,” Rodgers said.

  “Yeah, so I hear, and he doted on her. But the love of his life was Royal Flush. He was obsessed with him. That’s what doesn’t make sense. I can understand flogging the rest, but selling that horse off must have broken his heart.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Who? The boss?” Fleming asked, more in control.

  “Yes. What kind of a man was he?”

  “Well, I’d have given h
im my life savings. He’s a man you thought you could trust one hundred percent. A man of his word, until now that is. But at least most of us will still be employed. Maybe that was part of his deal.”

  “Deal?” asked Rodgers.

  “He’s sold up lock, stock, and barrel to a sheikh, but we’ll all apparently have work if we want it. He saw to that.”

  “How much do you think he would have got for the place?”

  “The stables?” Fleming asked warily and moved papers around his desk. “Well, I dunno how much he owed on it. I think he’d mortgaged it to the hilt. Who knows? Either way, I’d say the farm and his horses were worth about forty million. Royal Flush alone cost over a million, but he’d been selling off some of his best for months, along with his cars. He’d already let a lot of staff go.”

  “Do you know a Philip Simmons?”

  Fleming shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you know a James Wilcox?”

  “No.”

  Rodgers shifted his weight. The photograph was still hidden beneath his coat. “Have you ever met a man named Anthony Driscoll?”

  “No, I’ve never heard of any of them. You know, there’s a lot I should be doing. Is there something you need from me? I would like to get on with things.”

  “On May second of this year, do you know where Mr. de Jersey was?”

  “Well, not all of the time, but for part of the day he was at the races with me. We had a runner in the three o’clock at Brighton. He had to leave straight after the race as his daughters were in some play.”

  “How did Mr. de Jersey travel to Brighton?”

  “By helicopter. He flies it himself now. He used to have a pilot, but he went months ago.”

  “What make of helicopter is it?”

  “Erm … I don’t really know. A small one, I think,” Fleming said, looking pointedly at his watch.

  “Where do you think he is?” Rodgers asked, his hand on the door.

  “I have no idea, I’m sorry.”

  Rodgers smiled and thanked him for his time. Just as he stepped out, Fleming said, “I’ll give you a tip, though. I know where he will be.”