He stood up, pushed back his chair, and went to the meeting room where the twenty male and two female officers on the inquiry sat waiting for him. He entered with a scowl on his face and stood in front of the rows of photographs assembled on one wall. “Well, I’m going to have the rug pulled out from under my feet if we don’t make some bloody arrests,” he snapped. “They’re still at large, and anyone with any bright ideas, now’s the time to spill them out.”
Sara Redmond, a small, pretty, blond detective, raised her hand. “It strikes me, gov, that the one lead we do have is this name, Philip Simmons. Why did he use that name? Maybe there’s some historical reason, some link to his past. Or perhaps he’s used it in other crimes. It’s worth a—”
The phone rang. Rodgers picked it up and listened, his face changing from drawn gray to deep red. As he hung up, he hit the table with the flat of his hand. “We’ve got a guy held in Newcastle, brought in after a burglary went belly-up. He’s asking for a deal.” They looked on in anticipation. “He’s admitted to being in the heist.”
The room erupted with a cheer, and they scrambled to their feet. Sara Redmond’s comment was forgotten.
In exchange for a reduced sentence, Kenneth Short had given a statement in which he admitted to being one of the bikers on the raid. At first he had denied knowing his partner, but eventually he gave the second name and the police picked up Brian Hall from the farm in Dorset where he had been hiding out. Short had been paid in cash by a man he knew only as Philip Simmons, twenty thousand up-front with a second twenty thousand to come after the stones had been sold. After reading in the press that the jewels had been recovered, he knew he would never see the second payment, but he had already got himself into debt on the strength of it. He had arranged to burgle a factory office, but he had been caught by a security guard with a dog.
Hall and Short described how they had used the boats as getaway vehicles, then set fire to the boathouse. Both motorbikes were recovered from where the men had left them. They also took the police to the barn, which still housed the second Daimler. In addition to providing the team with fresh evidence, the two men’s arrest put the robbery back on the front pages, and the police hoped for further developments.
Neither of the men arrested could give details of the setup for the robbery, but they told the police that they had been brought in by Tony Driscoll. Hall had worked for Driscoll years back but had met him again when he was hired to work at his daughter’s wedding. Both men identified Wilcox as the driver. Now the hunt for Driscoll and Wilcox intensified.
Wilcox and Driscoll were forced to sweat it out. Spain was crowded with British holidaymakers, and photographs of the two were placed in every Spanish police station, in bus shelters and airports, with REWARD in red letters printed above their faces.
The next lucky break came from a prisoner who also wanted to make a deal. He said he had heard a rumor that a guy in Franklyn had had something to do with it, a Gregory Jones.
Jones was unforthcoming. He was in for life and knew he would not get a more lenient sentence, even if he cooperated. He agreed to talk only when they promised to put in a good word for his transfer to an open prison. From Jones the team learned how he had told Edward de Jersey, posing as a solicitor named Philip Simmons, about the Royal household’s security procedures. Jones did not indicate that he had been paid.
Reviewing the outcome of the work, Rodgers was back on form, his energy renewed. And his officers were more confident now. They felt they knew both Wilcox and Driscoll, having spent hours interviewing Liz Driscoll and Wilcox’s live-in girlfriend and his ex-wife. Trudy Grainger and Sara Redmond, the two women attached to the team, had both been very visible when they and Christina de Jersey had been interviewed.
“We may be getting to know Driscoll and Wilcox, but Edward de Jersey remains an enigma,” Trudy said as she checked over the recent statements.
“What do you mean?” Sara asked.
“Well, he doesn’t fit into the same pattern as either Wilcox or Driscoll. He’s a different kind of man, and you can almost understand why the press make such a meal of him, of all three of them. I mean, they didn’t use any violence during the robbery. Nobody got hurt.”
“You want to bet?” Sara said.
Trudy continued, “They didn’t use violence. It’s a fact. All right, they put the fear of God into the security guard at D’Ancona, ditto the staff, but in the long run it’s benefited that Queen look-alike. She’s getting a lot of mileage out of the kidnapping. She’s in the News of the World every week, and her husband is acting as her manager! Last Sunday they gave her a full-page spread in the magazine section on how to wear twinsets or some such crap. Like I said, nobody got hurt and they got the jewels back, so that’s why the public doesn’t give a toss.”
“I don’t agree about nobody getting hurt. Ask the wives—in particular Christina de Jersey—how they feel. They were lying bastards all of them, especially Edward de Jersey. He didn’t give a damn for his wife or his two kids. How do you think they’re coping?”
“Probably loving it,” snapped Trudy, irritated because she knew Sara was right.
“Loving it?” Sara asked. “No way. He walked out on them, and got away with millions. He’s not a hero to me. He’s a lying, two-faced son of a bitch, and I hope we catch the bastard.”
“Okay, you made your point. But for all his faults we can’t seem to get a single person to say anything bad about him.”
Sara leaned against Trudy’s desk. “No, that’s not quite right. It’s not that no one will say anything bad about him, it’s that they don’t want to say anything at all. Maybe because they’re afraid. But someone’s got to know him, got to be able to lead us to him.”
Trudy smiled. “Well, maybe you’ll find them now. I’ve got to take these in to the gov, so excuse me.”
Sara returned to her desk and sat doodling on a notepad. All the men arrested had spoken freely about Driscoll and Wilcox but seemed reluctant or unable to divulge much about Edward de Jersey. They said he spoke little, was always polite yet acted like an army officer. They had never seen him angry: he had always been pleasant, well dressed, and courteous. Brian Hall had said Wilcox and Driscoll hung out together, rarely talking to anyone but de Jersey; both men always referred to him as the Colonel. Sara drew a pin man with a big head and a curling mustache and printed under it THE COLONEL. Then she tore it into fragments and concentrated on looking over all the statements from Brian Hall.
Sara was not the only person who had picked up on Hall’s reference to Edward de Jersey’s nickname. When he was receiving all of the other information, Rodgers had not paid it much attention. But now it intrigued him, and he stepped out of his cubicle. “Sara, can you print up Brian Hall’s statements for me?”
“Sure, just going over them myself, gov.”
Rodgers sat down again in his swivel chair, his desk empty but for a telephone and a notepad. He detested clutter as much as he loathed computers. He was hemmed in by boxes and filing cabinets. It was as if the hunt for the jewel thieves had been going on for years instead of weeks.
Sara placed the statements on his desk and watched as he thumbed through them. “You looking for something specific?” she asked.
“Yep. It was something Hall said. It’s lodged in my brain. Did he say that Driscoll and Wilcox called de Jersey by a nickname, something like the Colonel?”
“Yes, gov. It’s on page four, about five lines in.”
Rodgers looked up, surprised. “Thanks. That’s all for now.”
She walked out, and he frowned, rereading the sentence in Hall’s interview as a bell rang in his mind. He closed his eyes and thought back to his days as a rookie officer, days when stories abounded about a mythical, untouchable robber known only as the Colonel. Could de Jersey have been that mastermind? He was the right age. Suddenly Sara Redmond’s suggestion that de Jersey had used the name Philip Simmons for a historical reason came flooding back to him. Could it be that if he
looked again at the robberies attributed to the Colonel—the Gold Bullion Raid and the Great Train Robbery—the name Philip Simmons would crop up there too?
Rodgers walked into the main incident room. “I need a car. I want to go to Edward de Jersey’s place. Is Trudy around?”
“No, sir. She’s just left to check out Gregory Jones’s bank statements. She’s going to interview his mother and—”
“Never mind. You come with me. Right now.”
Rodgers headed out to the estate again. This time he wanted to talk at greater length with those who worked there, those who had been in day-to-day contact with de Jersey. Up until now Rodgers had concentrated on the physical evidence and myriad leads, but now he knew he would have to understand the man. One thing everyone mentioned fascinated Rodgers: de Jersey was obsessed with Royal Flush. He had treated the stallion like a son, they said, had given him more attention than his own daughters.
At the estate, Rodgers was surprised to see so few people. But there were heavy cement trucks and building equipment: the new owner had begun renovations. In the stables Rodgers went from one empty stall to another, and Sara trailed after him. It was obvious that the staff, or most of them, had left. Rodgers came across Fleming talking to the vet.
“Afternoon,” Rodgers said. “Could I just ask you a few questions?”
They returned to Fleming’s old office, stripped now although the photograph of de Jersey with the Queen remained on the desk. The vet told Rodgers that de Jersey had been beside himself when Royal Flush was injured and ill. He said that de Jersey himself had tended the horse’s injured leg. Fleming told Rodgers that de Jersey seemed able to communicate with the horse better than anyone else. He recalled de Jersey’s outright refusal when it had been suggested they geld Royal Flush due to the vicious temperament that might destroy the horse’s concentration on the racetrack. Fleming decided not to mention the “arrangement” he had had with de Jersey or his payment of ten thousand pounds. He was too ashamed of it and knew it would not help the inquiry. As much as de Jersey loved the horse, he had risked his performance in the Derby. But Fleming now understood why de Jersey had used the stallion illegally to cover his champion dam. He had known that he might lose him and wanted the chance to own another racehorse as great as Royal Flush.
The vet left, and Rodgers with Sara, who had not said a word, remained in the office. Fleming was uneasy.
“Nobody wants this, then,” Rodgers said, picking up the silver-framed photograph of de Jersey with the Queen.
“I do,” Fleming said softly. He gave a glum smile. “The Derby was the race he always wanted to win. He had entered many of his horses over the years. It was something to do with his father.”
“What about his father?” Rodgers asked. “Did Edward de Jersey inherit this from him?”
Fleming looked surprised. “No. His father was an East End bookie.”
Rodgers was stunned. “A bookie?”
“Yes. I think his first name was Ronald, not that he ever said much to me about him. The boss wasn’t the kind of man you had lengthy personal conversations with. He went to Sandhurst, but I only knew him as a racehorse owner. He hired me over twenty years ago.”
“Did you like him?” Rodgers asked. He waited as Fleming hesitated, then repeated the question.
“Did I like him?”
“As a man,” Rodgers persisted.
“I don’t know how to answer that. It’s hard to, after what’s happened. They were a special couple, though. Ask my wife.”
“I’m asking you.” Rodgers stared hard at Fleming.
“Well, I just answered your question, didn’t I? You don’t work for a man for twenty years and feel nothing for him. I respected him and …”
“And?” persisted Rodgers.
“If he did what he’s accused of, then I must never have really known him, because he was always on the level with me, until right at the end. But I put that down to him having money troubles. Listen, I’ve got nothing more to add, and I’d like to get on with things, if you don’t mind. Still got some loose ends to tie up for the new owner.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate you talking to me. I need to get to know the man I’m trying to track down.”
“I gathered that, but I don’t wish you all that much luck. I hope he stays free.”
Rodgers stood up, looking angry, and nodded to Sara, who had still not said a word. “Well, I hope he doesn’t. When it boils down to it, he’s a thief. A cheap con man. And he’s not going to get away with it.” He walked out. Sara gave a nod to Fleming and followed.
Alone now, Fleming picked up the silver-framed photograph his old boss had been so proud of. He did have more to say about de Jersey, but he couldn’t because it would implicate himself. Right now he and his wife were looking for a new place to live. He had discussed working for the Sheikh and had been offered a job in their offices. It was a comedown, but it would pay the rent and also provided accommodation. His retirement would be a considerable time off, and now he had no bonus or pension. When de Jersey had hit his financial troubles, he had stopped paying the pension scheme for his staff. Suddenly anger welled up inside him. Fleming wondered where de Jersey was hiding out and felt a rush of fury that he had put so much trust in his old boss. He smashed the photograph against the desk.
After his last meeting with Dulay, de Jersey headed back to Ireland using the passport in the name of Michael Shaughnessy. He owned a smallholding in that name, which was managed by a local Irish horse breeder. De Jersey had visited whenever he was in Ireland, but always in disguise. It had been his little secret. Bandit Queen, now in foal, was there.
The mare had cost 125,000 pounds and had been purchased from Tattersalls in 1999. She had raced only three times in the de Jersey colors. While the hysterical manhunt for Edward de Jersey continued, he was calmly arranging to send Bandit Queen to America. First he chartered a flight and paid shipping agency and export testing fees. He arranged the Weatherbys papers, listing Royal Flush’s brother, a stallion called Royal Livery, as the sire. He did everything he could to conceal that Royal Flush had been put to stud illegally. Bandit Queen, in foal by Royal Flush, was transported in a horse box to the airport. She would be held in quarantine in America, for which he had also paid, then taken to East Hampton. De Jersey hired a boy to travel with the horse and paid him well to make sure he took the greatest care of his precious cargo. De Jersey, as Shaughnessy, then flew from Ireland to Virginia. From there he took a flight to New York.
After arriving at JFK, de Jersey traveled on, still as Shaughnessy, to East Hampton on the jitney bus. He had only one suitcase and stayed at the Huntting Inn. He checked that Bandit Queen had traveled well and was undergoing tests at Cornell. He was certain they would find no discrepancies with her papers or blood tests. As with everything, he had covered his tracks well. He rented a cottage near Gardiners Bay in Springs, East Hampton. He rarely left the property but ordered anything he needed over the Internet as he planned how to regain ownership of Moreno’s property. He was careful, knowing that by now the U.K. police might have traced his connection to it, but he was not prepared to walk away from millions of dollars.
The hands at the Cornell quarantine stables led Bandit Queen down from the trailer, impressed by her size and obvious quality. She had a smallish head, almost Arab, with a powerful neck and a strong, muscular body. The foal she was carrying was not showing to a great extent. She was checked by a vet, who found that the long journey had not upset her, and she ate her first feed hungrily. Her coat gleamed in the late-afternoon sun.
By the end of May, de Jersey, now comfortable with his new name, contacted the law firm to which he had sent the crate of paintings, saying he would collect it personally. He drove there in a rented Jeep, walked into their offices, handed over his documents, and paid for the delivery. Then he drove to a warehouse they used for storage of their clients’ possessions. This was not an unusual transaction; the nomadic nature of many homeowners in the Ha
mptons meant that lawyers acted as “house carers,” paying bills and monitoring properties during the winter months, when they were vacant. De Jersey put the crate into the Jeep and returned to his house. He took out twenty thousand dollars, then hid the rest in waterproof plastic bags beneath the floorboards.
Over the last month he had aged considerably and lost a substantial amount of weight. Like Driscoll and Wilcox, he now had a full beard. He hardly went out unless to buy groceries. He bought from the local farmers’ markets and ate good, fresh food, trying to build up his strength, and every day he called to check on his unborn foal. At the quarantine stables they became used to the soft-toned voice of the man they had never met. “Hello, this is Michael Shaughnessy. How’s my lady?” he’d ask. He said he was hoping to leave Ireland shortly and gave no indication that he was already living in East Hampton.
De Jersey looked around for a property where he could eventually stable the mare and foal. Beneath the floorboards he had more than enough to keep him for many years, and when he eventually discovered a way to get his hands on the Moreno property, he would retire in luxury. His long-term plan was to open a racing stable in Virginia. Until then he was content to bide his time. The locals were aware that there was a new resident along the bay, but they made no approach. That was part of the joy of the Hamptons, the privacy: you could be social if you liked, or remain incognito. It was an artists’ colony, too, and the gaunt man with the long coat and beard fitted in. The beaches were always empty, and he took early-morning walks to watch the sun rise. He clambered over the rocks and sat contemplating his life, his future, and thinking of Christina, of his daughters, wishing that it had turned out differently. This, however, was the only way he could stay free, if lonely.
De Jersey had plenty of time to think about Driscoll and Wilcox, but there was no remorse. In fact, he had none for anything he had done, except perhaps Sylvia Hewitt, but that had been necessary. Believing that helped him come to terms with her death. He had no intention of returning to England, or watching the Derby, whatever anyone hunting for him might think. He had no need to go home. Bandit Queen was expecting his champion’s foal. He was certain that he had got away with it and that one day he would win the Derby with Royal Flush’s foal.
Royal Heist Page 44
