Royal Heist
Page 42
Rodgers turned back.
“The Derby. No way will he miss seeing Royal Flush win that race. Back the horse now and you’ll get a good price.” Four more uniformed officers remained to question the entire staff from the stables.
Rodgers returned to his car, patiently awaiting D.C. Grainger. They drove out in silence, with Rodgers flicking through his notebook, which was resting on the photograph of de Jersey.
“He’s either done a bunk with the cash he got from the sale or he’s holed up somewhere with a bottle of pills,” he said flatly.
“Or he’s run off with the Crown Jewels,” said the driver, but Rodgers gave him an icy stare.
After another lengthy silence, Rodgers flicked through his notebook again. “Mrs. de Jersey was covering something.” He tapped the book and suggested they check out de Jersey’s alibi for the night Sylvia Hewitt had died. Then he rested back on the seat and shut his eyes. “Something stinks in this, and it’s not horse manure. We’ll put out an interest report on PNC on him, see if we can pull him in, if only for his wife’s sake. She’s quite a looker. It must have been difficult to walk out on her.” He opened his eyes. “Unless he hasn’t and she was covering for him.” He glared through the window and ground his teeth. “What if the man we want is de Jersey? I reckon he could be. The descriptions we’ve got of Philip Simmons resemble de Jersey.” He balanced the photograph on his knee. “Would a man with his face in the papers at every race meeting—a man who mixed with the Queen, for Christ’s sake—risk pulling off the biggest heist in history?”
Rodgers stared at the photograph and fished in his pocket for a tin of peppermints. His cell phone rang. “Well, we’ll soon know if Maureen Stanley recognizes him.”
“Rodgers,” he snapped and listened, chewing a peppermint. When he was told that both Driscoll and Wilcox had left the country the previous day, he swore. He should have hauled them in the moment he’d had the tip-off. This was going to look bad.
De Jersey knew that time was running out. He had flown to Paris using Shaughnessy’s passport and booked into a small pension. From a call box he contacted Dulay to say that they needed to meet. He wanted the buyer’s down payment.
Paul Dulay, still under surveillance, drove to Paris. Leaving the car, he went on foot and public transport until he felt certain he had lost his tail. He was an hour late for his meeting with de Jersey in a small bar across from Hôtel de la Tremouille. He had brought half of the million dollars with him in a small leather holdall, retaining the other half for himself.
“If you knew the runaround I’ve had to go through to get this cash—and I got it with those arseholes on my butt.”
“What did Kitamo have to say?”
“Well, he never says a lot, but he knows what must have gone down and he’s asking when he’s gonna see his goods.”
De Jersey instructed Dulay not to attempt to haul up the loot. It was to remain attached to the marked lobster pot. It could stay there for months, if necessary.
“How long do we expect Kitamo to wait?” Dulay asked.
“However long it takes. Don’t give him the Koh-i-noor until the heat has died down. As for the other stones, tell him he’ll get them in dribs and drabs. You don’t go near that crate.”
“How will I give him the diamond if I can’t go near the crate?”
De Jersey answered by taking it out of his pocket and covertly handing it over.
Dulay was speechless. “Holy Christ, is it. Where in Christ’s name am I gonna put it?”
“Stay calm and lower your voice. Hold on to it until I give the word, and let him know that he’ll be transferring the next payment via the Internet. The day it clears we pass over the stone. Not until then.”
“I like your use of the word we,” snapped Dulay. “It’s me who’s gonna be carrying the fucking thing around.” Dulay was scared and he was drinking heavily, but de Jersey remained calm. “Where the hell do I stash it? They’ve been over my shop and my home like a goddamned rash!”
De Jersey laughed and leaned in close. “I’ll tell you exactly where you’re going to stash it.”
De Jersey returned to his hotel and stacked in a large wooden crate the money from Dulay alongside the cash he had received after the mortgage for the estate had been redeemed. The rest he had instructed to be placed in two banking facilities he’d arranged over the Internet in New York. On top of the false bottom of the crate were three large paintings from a small gallery close to the Hôtel de la Tremouille. They were individually wrapped in oilskins and thick rolls of bubble wrap. It was then nailed down and was to be sent by sea to New York with the gallery’s name and a valuation of the contents clearly posted on the side. The paintings were to be dispatched to the Hamptons, to be stored by his solicitors until his arrival. It was too risky to return to his helicopter, and he’d arranged storage for it at Orly airport. He knew his chances of escape depended on a solitary run. He could not afford to speak to or contact anyone. He was hoping that Christina had not divulged the names on his fake passports, because he intended to use them both.
After the crate had been collected by the shipping company, labelled for Shaughnessy, he changed his identity and switched passports to become Edward Cummings, the English art dealer. He dyed his hair dark brown and put on a small goatee, tinted to match his hair. Last he added a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. As the plane left Paris for New York, he stared out the window. Somewhere below, bobbing on the sparkling sea, was a small lobster pot attached to a crate containing the Crown Jewels.
Christina returned to the home she had loved, which was now stripped bare. She had admitted to her husband that she did not know him, and she remembered word for word what he had said. It was devastating to stand in rooms they had furnished together and realize the extent of his betrayal. She walked around the almost empty house until she reached their bedroom. She could hear him, his voice, his laugh. She remembered how he had said he loved her. It was torture, but she needed to feel the pain, the force of his lies, to do what she had in mind. If he had provided for her, shown some care that the love she had given him for twenty years meant something, it would have eased the hurt. But he had given her nothing and walked away with millions of pounds in cash.
Christina headed slowly down the stairs and into his study. All the furniture was gone, but his cigar smoke had left a tangy smell clinging to the walls and it made her feel as if he was there to witness what she was about to do. She bent down to the phone. It was still connected, and she took out the card given to her by Chief Superintendent Rodgers. She was calm and cold with anger. She dialed his direct number and waited.
“Rodgers.”
“It’s Christina de Jersey. I would like to speak to you with regard to my husband.”
CHAPTER
27
Maureen Stanley was not shown the picture removed from de Jersey’s office, but the police lab had blown up the section of the photograph that showed his face and shoulders. It was placed among seven other black-and-white photographs of men with similar build and hair coloring. They didn’t yet have photos of either Wilcox or Driscoll.
Chief Superintendent Rodgers waited as she stared at one photograph after another. She frowned and pursed her lips. She laid all eight in front of her as if she was playing patience. “I’ve got a good memory for faces.” She had now recovered from the kidnap ordeal, and bathing in the continued media interest, she was enjoying herself.
Rodgers interrupted her impatiently. “Mrs. Stanley, do you recognize the face of the man who held you captive? The man you claim to be the leader.”
“Oh, yes, without any doubt!”
“Could you please indicate to everyone here which of these eight photographs you believe to be this man?”
Maureen nodded, her hand poised over the photographs. “Without any doubt, that’s him!” she said triumphantly and held up the picture of George Ericson, one of the officers attached to the inquiry.
Rodgers closed his eyes.
He was preparing to return to England when he received a call from his wife. She was hysterical. The cops had been round. “They were asking all this stuff, Tony, about this woman Sylvia Hewitt. Then—oh, my God, Tony—they were asking about the Crown Jewels robbery. Where you were on the day, where you are now. They got a search warrant, they’re all over the house.”
“Get off the phone, Liz.”
“What do you mean, get off the phone? What the hell is going on, Tony? Tony?”
But Driscoll had slammed down the receiver. He went to find Wilcox on the patio. He sat down on the sun lounger beside him. “We’ve got trouble,” he said quietly. “The cops have been round to my place asking questions, and they’ve got a search warrant.” Wilcox’s eyes remained closed. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah.” Wilcox removed his shades.
“What do you think?” Driscoll asked.
Wilcox got up, reached for his towel, and slung it round his neck. “I’ll go down to the harbor and call Rika, see if they’ve been nosing around my place too.”
“Then what?”
“Well, we’ll have to think what we do next.”
“I know what I’m doing, pal. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Stupid cow told them I was here, so how long do you think it’s gonna take for them to come and pick me up? One call to the Spanish police and we’re nabbed.”
“What did they want?”
“They were asking about Hewitt, then slipped in the date of the fucking robbery. Not hard to put two and two together. They’re fucking on to us.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“Well, I tell you one thing, I ain’t going back to find out.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Move on, lie low, and wait, I guess.”
Wilcox kept his cool. “You mind waiting until I speak to Rika?”
“Sure, but get a move on. We should separate, fast.” Driscoll went back into the villa.
Wilcox drove Driscoll’s Jeep to Puerto Banus harbor. Once there, he went into a bar and called Rika. He said little but listened as she told him that not only had the police been round asking questions but they had also returned later with a search warrant.
“Vhat are they looking for, James? Vhy you leave me? Vhere are you? Tell me vhat you do.”
He hung up and dialed his ex-wife, Françoise. He could hear his kids shouting in the background as he said he would not be able to return to England for a while and the boys should stay with her. Françoise hit the roof. He hung up on her and walked out of the bar. He drove back to the villa, his nerves in shreds.
As he parked the Jeep in the drive, trying to think what his next move should be, Driscoll came out, his bags packed. “I’m out of here,” he said flatly.
“Where you going?”
“I dunno, but I’m not staying around to be picked up, and if you’ve got any sense you’ll get out too.”
“On what?” snapped Wilcox, slamming the car door.
Driscoll sighed. “Look, I’m not ditching you in the shit. I’ve left five hundred quid on the kitchen table.”
“Big deal. How far am I gonna get on that?”
“It’s not my problem, Jimmy. We can’t risk staying together.”
“Well, it’s all right for you. You just made a packet on this villa, but five hundred’s not gonna last me long, is it?”
“Take the Jeep—all the documents are in a drawer in the hall—then go visit one of the chicks you’ve been hanging out with. Leave the keys on the table in the hall. The agent’s got another set, but you can’t stay on here for much longer. The new tenants are moving in at the end of the month.” He walked away without a backward glance.
Driscoll walked down the green gravel drive, past the kidney-shaped swimming pool, and into the half-completed lane beyond. The authorities had been “finishing” the roadway to the plot of villas since he had purchased his fifteen years previously. At the end of the potholed road he turned right and headed toward a small row of shops where he called a local taxi to take him to the airport. He still had no plan, but he called his wife and told her to sell the house. He told her not to ask any questions but to wait for him to contact her. Driscoll said little to comfort her, just that he was unable to return to England. He didn’t know how long he would be away and told her that she was to buy herself a house and leave a contact number with the estate agent he had used to sell the villa. He felt wretched to leave her sobbing and scared, but he reckoned that if they were on to him they’d have tapped his phone. And they knew he was in Spain now.
Using a false name, he hired a private plane to take him to Palma, Majorca. It was the only place he could think to go without having to show his passport. Once there he rented a run-down apartment overlooking a pottery factory. Not until he was installed in it did he relax. At least without Wilcox he felt less vulnerable. He did some grocery shopping and hurried back to the apartment. Having spent many summers with his family in Spain, he had a good grasp of the language, but he still sounded like an Englishman, and worse, he knew he would stick out like a sore thumb if he didn’t change his appearance. He decided to grow a beard, get a good suntan, and hide out. He knew he had to use his cash sparingly; there had been no big payday yet, and there might never be one. After reading all the English newspapers from cover to cover, he felt sick. Most were a day old, but they made no mention of the robbery, which scared him more than big headlines. It was always that way before the police swooped in.
Wilcox took from the villa anything he could sell: bed linen, cutlery, and Driscoll’s clothing. He loaded up the Jeep, knowing it would have to be the first thing he sold as it was licensed in Driscoll’s name. His main problem was where he was going to hide out, and he had to resolve it fast. Taking Driscoll’s advice, he wondered about shacking up with one of the girls he’d met on his first night there. Sharon was a waitress in a cocktail bar down on the harbor. If not her, there was Daniella, a masseuse who worked at the Marbella Country Club. She’d come on to him in a big way, and he’d arranged a date for that night.
Wilcox drove toward Sharon’s villa in the hills, but at the last minute he decided against it as she shared with two other girls. He turned round and headed for Daniella’s. By that evening he had sold the Jeep to a rental company, signing it away as Anthony Driscoll, and bought an old Suzuki for cash. He drove to Daniella’s small apartment on the outskirts of Nueva Andalucia. Even though Daniella was unsure how she felt about her new houseguest, he was charming and persuasive, and she finally relented. She warned him, however, that if he messed around with her he would have her brothers to deal with. As it was, they wouldn’t like her cohabiting with him.
He gave her money toward the rent immediately to show that his intentions were honorable, and that night he was introduced to Daniella’s family. He did not mention that he had six children and an irate mistress in England but gave an elaborate story about falling in love and wanting to make a new life with Daniella, outlining his intentions to look for work the following day. One of Daniella’s brothers offered him a job in his holiday apartment block as a general handyman, painting, decorating, and cleaning up after the clients had gone home. It was a far cry from what he was used to, but at least he felt safe, for now.
Neither Wilcox nor Driscoll had attempted to contact de Jersey. Wilcox decided that he should not even contact Françoise or Rika for some considerable time. At least the boys were with their mother, and he felt sure that Rika would not stay solo for long.
Christina was nervous but so hurt and betrayed that she felt her salvation lay in what she was a
bout to do. Once confronted by Chief Superintendent Rodgers and three senior officers, however, she became flustered and tearful. She was offered tea or coffee but asked for water. She remained silent, head bowed, as Rodgers gently began trying to encourage her to talk. She agreed to the interview being tape-recorded.
“Why have you come to see us today?” he asked.
“I feel compelled to voice my suspicions of someone’s involvement in the robbery of the Crown Jewels and the death of Sylvia Hewitt,” she replied in a flat, unemotional voice.
Rodgers glanced at his officers. “Who are you referring to, Mrs. de Jersey? We have asked for the public’s assistance in many areas.”
“Philip Simmons.” She did not look up.
“Do you know who he is?”
“Yes, I think so.” They waited as she coughed and sipped the water, her head still bowed. “I think he’s my husband.” She looked up then and began to talk quickly, explaining how she thought she had recognized him from the television program but she had not wanted to believe it.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. de Jersey, but until you saw that program did you have any reason to believe your husband was Philip Simmons?”
“No, not really. He had been worried about money and—”
“Once you’d recognized him from the depictions on the TV program, what did you do?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, was he at home? Did you confront him?”
“Yes.”
“So you confronted your husband and accused him of being this man we are trying to contact, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You asked him if he was Philip Simmons?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he wasn’t.”
“He denied it, then?”
“Yes, to begin with, until …”
The tension in the room was almost palpable, and Christina hesitated. “Until … I found the diamond.”
Rodgers sat back in his chair with disbelief. “Mrs. de Jersey, are you saying you found the stolen jewels?”