“But she’s not too big?” he asked, with concern.
“He says there’s no worries, and we had her scanned as you wanted.”
“I’ll come by this afternoon,” he said abruptly.
The staff at the quarantine stables were somewhat surprised by the tall, gaunt man in his old overcoat. He drove up in an equally decrepit Jeep, covered in mud. He wore thick boots and looked as if he’d not had a good meal for a while, but his manner didn’t match his appearance. He was authoritative when he asked to be left alone to view his mare.
The word went round that Shaughnessy was at the stables, and they watched as he entered the manager’s office. There was a lengthy conversation, after which Shaughnessy returned to his Jeep, and drove off. The manager walked out, shaking his head. “He wants the mare and the foal shipped back to England when it’s born.”
“Where’s he living? Is he local?”
“Says he’s leased a house on Gardiners Bay up in the Springs, but he’s going back to London.” He checked his watch. “He’s cutting it fine. He’ll only just make it. Says he’s going back for the Derby.”
The Derby always drew a massive crowd. The Royal Family’s own security was tight. Their Daimlers and Rolls-Royces drew up, and the occupants were ushered out and into the Royal Enclosure. Their boxes were hemmed in by security guards and police. The same amount of security would be present in all the car parks surrounding Epsom, and extra officials had been hired to check and double-check all the passes. All major parties hiring buses and other means of transport were to be checked out, as were the gates, though monitoring the thousands entering the track would be difficult.
The Queen had a horse running. It was the second favorite. The favorite, with days to go, was still Royal Flush. It was hardly ever mentioned that the horse was now owned by the Sheikh. It was always referred to as the Royal Thief’s Horse.
The bookies would have a field day if Royal Flush didn’t win. The punters were betting on him frantically, and the bookies had been asked by the police if they would tip off any single bet that might have been laid by de Jersey. They retorted that it was against the privacy laws to disclose a private gambler’s bets, and any card-carrying member of Ladbrokes or any member of any of the established betting brokers would adhere to the code. The police did, however, gain possible confirmation from the United States that any substantial-size bet placed on Royal Flush from that side of the ocean would be reported.
Christina came from Sweden to stay at the Dorchester, giving herself time to purchase a new outfit. She had traveled alone and was met by officers at the airport in case she was pestered by journalists, but none were there. She moved into her suite. Alone in London, she felt a terrible sense of loss. If she saw de Jersey, she had no notion of how she would react. And if he did show, she was expected to give him up. Now she did not know if she could do it.
The officers were ready. It was still only an outside bet that de Jersey would turn up, but it was one on which Rodgers was risking his career. The cost of the investigation and the massive surveillance operation to take place at the racecourse were under review, as were his actions. He had rented his morning suit with his gray silk top hat. At least he would go down looking like a gent, or up looking like one, depending on the outcome of the day.
At last it was Saturday, June 8—Derby Day. The Derby was the fourth race. The first race had been over for twenty minutes, and the horses for the second were cantering to the start. There had been no sighting of de Jersey, but there was a bigger crowd this year than ever before, swelled by the press’s anticipation of a win by Royal Flush and the fact that everyone felt sure the most wanted man in Britain would be there. Some hoped to see a dramatic arrest. Others hoped he would be seen but get away.
De Jersey walked up to a rather drunken reveler and offered him two hundred pounds to exchange suits with him. When the man hesitated, he upped it to three hundred. They went into the men’s cloakroom, and while they switched clothes the flushed boy asked why he hadn’t got a suit already.
“Because I’m Edward de Jersey,” he said and walked out. He disappeared into the crowds.
The boy became hysterical. He forgot to do up his flies because he was so eager to find someone to tell and grabbed a uniformed officer, who tried to fight him off. “He’s here, that man they want, the guy from the jewel robbery!”
“What?”
“What about the reward? Will I get the reward? I’ve just seen him!”
“Oh, yeah, right, you and two hundred others, mate,” said the copper.
“I’m telling you the truth. He’s wearing my bloody suit.”
The rumors started, and the police were galvanized into searching the men’s cloakroom and surrounding areas, but by this time de Jersey had made his way over to the saddling area. He approached his former trainer. “Hello, Donald, it’s me.”
Fleming turned and almost dropped the saddle. “You’re crazy. The place is crawling with cops.”
“I know, but I wanted to give you this. It’s ownership of a certain horse. She’s in the States, Donald, in quarantine, and the foal’s doing well. The foal is yours and Mickey’s. It’s gonna make you both rich.”
Fleming didn’t know how to react or what to say. Suddenly he was close to tears. “I’ll tell Mickey. His wife’s pregnant and—”
De Jersey moved off without another word. Fleming had not even had time to shake his hand.
They had de Jersey on camera, heading out of the saddling area, but when they got there he had disappeared. The next sighting was at a booth selling cockles and mussels. He bought some and paid with a fifty-pound note, telling the vendor to keep the change. Rodgers, accompanied by Sara Redmond, was apoplectic.
The Derby runners were now being paraded in the ring as the jockeys came out to meet the owners and trainers. There was uproar as Royal Flush’s jockey walked out. No matter what he thought about his former boss being a jewel thief, de Jersey had secured him the ride as part of the contract, and Mickey wanted to show his respect. He rode out carrying de Jersey’s colors, holding the silk shirt high above his head. He waved it around madly before it was wrenched away from him by the Sheikh’s bodyguard, but it had been caught on camera, seen by the crowd and by TV viewers around the country.
The police continued searching for de Jersey, but it was like hunting for the Scarlet Pimpernel. He was sighted virtually all over the track as the riders assembled at the start.
Christina, in a box belonging to a major racing family, watched the television broadcast. It was obvious that de Jersey was there, but where? Very distressed, she sat down by the TV screen as an officer entered the box and asked if she had seen her husband.
“No, I haven’t. Please, leave me alone.”
He left, but two officers were positioned outside. If Christina walked out, they would be right on her tail, but she remained seated, holding an untouched glass of champagne, her eyes on the screen. When she had seen Mickey Rowland wave her husband’s colors, she had almost dropped the glass. The owners of the box had given up attempting to make her feel part of their celebrations. To some extent her presence made everyone anxious, and the thought that her husband might appear heightened their excitement to fever pitch. In the end Christina excused herself and said she was going to the cloakroom.
She knew she was being followed, and when she got to the ladies’ room she turned to the officers and gave them a charming smile. “I won’t be a moment, but I don’t think it would be in order for you to join me in here.”
She went into one of the cubicles, closed the door, and leaned against it. The tension was unbearable. She talked herself calm and walked out to look in the mirror. The face that gazed back at her was pale, and her eyes seemed overlarge. Her hands shook as she reapplied her makeup and adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. She took a deep breath and walked out. The two officers stood aside as she joined them. “I think I’d like to go and watch the race in the owners’ and trainers’ stand.”
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“Okay, Mrs. de Jersey, but we will have to accompany you.”
“I understand.”
They moved off, and the crowds knew something was up. Even if they didn’t recognize the beautiful woman with two uniformed officers at either side of her, they moved aside to allow the three to pass. A steward tried to bar their entry, but the officers showed their ID. One used a walkie-talkie to report that Mrs. de Jersey had requested to watch the race close to the fence.
The horses were under starter’s orders, and the police now had twenty-five sightings of de Jersey. What they didn’t know was that he wasn’t in the boxes or on the balconies. Instead, he had made his way toward Gypsy Hill, where the buses, the funfair, and all the East End families were gathered. He stuck out like a sore thumb. No one else there was in top hat and tails, and folks started to call his name as they ushered him closer and closer to the rails to watch the race. Among his own people he felt at home, and they gathered around him in an almost protective circle.
One man pushed, shoved, and elbowed his way toward the tall figure. He had broken out in a sweat in his eagerness to get to de Jersey, to touch him, to let him know he was there.
“Eddy, Eddy,” he shouted, standing on tiptoe. He bent down and tried to squeeze between the pressing bodies. “Eddy. Eddy!” He could just see his quarry through the crowd.
“Eddy, it’s me! I know him, let me through!”
De Jersey, hemmed in by men and women, some asking for his autograph, did a half turn and saw the round, sweating face of Harry Smedley. “Let my friend through,” he said and raised an arm as Smedley reached his side.
“It’s me, Harry Smedley,” he gasped. “We was at school together. Remember me?”
De Jersey looked down and smiled. He still had no recollection of the little man. “Of course. Come on, Harry, the race is about to start.”
This was to be the greatest day of Harry Smedley’s life, standing right next to the most wanted man in Britain. His wife was not going to believe it, or his sons and grandsons. “I got two hundred quid on the nose,” he yelled as he was jostled and pushed.
The crowds grew even more boisterous as de Jersey opened his wallet and threw fifty-pound notes to those around him. “Royal Flush is going to win,” he shouted, and they scrabbled for the money as they cheered.
On the other side of the track, the police telescopic cameras finally picked him out, but with the race about to start, it was impossible to get cars and officers across the track. All the officers positioned in and around Gypsy Hill were instructed to move in and arrest him. The newscasters and racing correspondents were having the day of their lives.
“Added to the excitement felt around this wonderful race is the news that the most wanted man in Britain is here, mixing with the crowds. His horse, Royal Flush, is now at the start, and until the race is over it seems that there is nothing anyone can do. And they are under starter’s orders, and they are off.”
Royal Flush came out of his stall badly, pushed to one side by the horse to his right. He took a while before he gathered his stride. Rounding the bend, he was in sixth position but holding the ground well. De Jersey stood, surrounded by men and women like those his father had known, his infamy forgotten as they concentrated on the race. Smedley cheered and shouted until what little voice he had left became a croak. Most of them had bet on Royal Flush, and the cheers and yells for the stallion to come forward were deafening. The horses rounded the bend, then faced the hill climb, but it was starting to look as if Royal Flush would be left far behind if he didn’t make his move.
Smedley was almost in tears. He looked up at de Jersey, who stood as if frozen. He was willing his boy to move up, willing him with his hands clenched at his sides. “Come on. Move him up, Mickey. Come on, my boy, come on, my son,” he whispered.
Then the big stallion eased forward, whipped on by the jockey; he was now lying third. As he took second position, the crowd roared their approval.
De Jersey stood immobile. Not until his beloved Royal Flush moved up into first position did he begin to yell with everyone else. Royal Flush was neck and neck, and then, there he was, out alone, winning easily and with such force that the roar of the crowd was deafening. It had been worth it. Seeing him cross the finish line would surpass anything that was to come.
Smedley was weeping, leaning over the rails. “He did it. He did it,” he said, but when he turned to de Jersey, it was as if he had disappeared into thin air.
De Jersey couldn’t have pushed his way back through the crowds behind them. They were twenty deep and, being so tall, he would easily have been seen. Smedley turned back in confusion, and then his heart stopped. “Oh, my God, he’s gone over the fence!”
“And the winner of the 2002 Derby is … Royal Flush.”
As the Sheikh entered the winner’s enclosure to be honored with the most coveted award horse racing could offer, a solitary figure was seen climbing over the barrier at Gypsy Hill, walking with his hat raised high. He swaggered along the track and was cheered almost as loudly as the winner.
“We got him,” said Rodgers, red-faced and sweating as he spoke orders into the radio microphone to pick de Jersey up.
“No, we didn’t,” Sara said, holding on to her flowered hat. “He gave himself up.” She sounded strangely close to tears. She turned to look at Christina de Jersey, still between the two officers. She was standing close to the rails by the winning post.
Rodgers had made sure his wife was visible, certain de Jersey would try to see her. He now watched her as de Jersey walked closer and closer. He crossed to ask her the unnecessary question. “Is that man Edward de Jersey?” he asked.
She turned to face him, but he couldn’t meet her eyes. They were full of pain. “Yes, that is my husband,” she said.
They all turned back to the track to see the officers streaming from all sides toward de Jersey, who was still audaciously acknowledging the cheers.
De Jersey was arrested on the track, surrounded by plainclothes and uniformed officers. Once he had been cautioned, he was handcuffed and removed from the ground in a police van to be taken to Scotland Yard for questioning.
“Do you want to see him?” Rodgers asked Christina, but she shook her head.
“No. I want to go home.” She was led away, and he ordered the officers to shield her from the photographers. He felt such compassion for her, and admiration at the way she had behaved.
Her Majesty had also witnessed the arrest. She gave no indication of what she felt but seemed annoyed that her own horse had been placed fifth.
Edward de Jersey spent months in prison waiting for trial as bail was refused. He never named any of his associates and never spoke on his own behalf. He was not charged with Sylvia Hewitt’s murder as there was insufficient evidence. He was sentenced to twenty-five years.
EPILOGUE
ANTHONY DRISCOLL is still at large. He lives with a Spanish woman named Rosa. She works in a local restaurant, and he is employed as a night watchman for a local pottery factory.
JAMES WILCOX is also still at large. He is now married to Daniella and has a baby daughter. He continues to work for Daniella’s brothers, refurbishing holiday apartments.
CHRISTINA DE JERSEY divorced her husband after he was sentenced. He refused to see her or his daughters, encouraging them to start a new life. Christina subsequently discovered that he had placed $3 million in an account in the North Fork Bank in East Hampton, to be given to his daughters when they reached the age of twenty-one.
RAYMOND MARSH is still at large, now working for an IT consultancy company in New Zealand.
HARRY SMEDLEY was paid 10,000 pounds for his exclusive story in the News of the World based on his childhood memories of Eddy Jersey. His book was entitled My Friend Edward de Jersey.
ROYAL FLUSH went on to a stunning career, winning at Royal Ascot and Goodwood. He was then shipped out to Dubai, where he won the great Dubai championship. Returning to England, he suffered abdominal pain, swe
ating, and fine muscle tremors, and acute grass disease was diagnosed. He died never having been put to stud. Bandit Queen’s colt was Royal Flush’s only progeny.
BANDIT QUEEN’S colt was born safely in the United States. He was a healthy, magnificent foal and was later shipped to England to his new owners, Donald Fleming and Mickey Rowland. He was turned out to graze until he was ready to be trained. His photographs dominated the cell walls of the man who had bred him illegally, the man who, unlike most men, had seen his dream come true. That, in the end, had been the fulfillment he had always coveted.
CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT RODGERS retired from the Metropolitan Police after watching Edward de Jersey sentenced. He had spent many hours interrogating de Jersey and was pleased to see him go down, yet he remained dissatisfied that two of the robbery team members remained at large. As they were about to lead away the handcuffed de Jersey, Rodgers asked if he could have two minutes alone with him. He knew that even if de Jersey admitted it, there was little he could do with the information, but he asked him anyway. Was he the Mr. Big behind the Great Train Robbery and the Gold Bullion Raid? De Jersey looked Rodgers straight in the eye. After a long pause he smiled and held up his handcuffed hands. “You’ll have to wait for my autobiography.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the many people who helped research and authenticate much of the action in Royal Heist. Very special thanks go to John Gosden, Annette and Andy Dive, Emmanuel Coste, Peter Middleton, Clive Driver, Jessica Cobham, Ann Duggan, Dr. Ian Hill, Stephen Ross and Andrew Bennet-Smith, Matthew Tucker, and Steve Nicholls.
I would like to thank my steadfast team at La Plante Productions: my personal assistant, George Ryan, whose brains and beauty hold me together, and the boss of bosses, Liz Thorburn, who keeps us all in control with deft charm and wisdom. I also thank Lucy Hillard, who runs the research department at LPP and had the key job of coordinating the research contacts for me to meet. Thanks as well to the script editor Richard Dobbs.
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