Royal Heist Part 40

She approached him and cupped his face in her hands. "Let me think. If that's what you want, we'll work it out somehow."

She left the flat and returned shortly with a wheelchair borrowed from one of the elderly tenants. "It's a long walk, but we'll make it. So roll up your joints and let's get moving."

Westbrook allowed her to shave him and give him a s.h.i.+rt left by a long-gone lover. He wore a polo-neck sweater over it, and she wrapped a blanket around him. She put a hat on his head and pulled it down low.

At eight she set off to walk the two miles to the railway station. Emaciated though he was, Westbrook was heavy to push, and she had to stop for a breather every now and then. His head bobbed up and down on his chest as she eased the chair across the pavements.

There was a train to Waterloo in fifteen minutes, so she bought a one-way ticket and wheeled him onto the platform. She didn't want to think about how he would get on and off the train. They sat together, saying little. To her astonishment, when the train headed into the platform he found enough strength to stand unaided.

"This is good-bye, fair Pamela. Take care of yourself. I adore you and cannot thank you enough for your care. Now, please go and don't look back. Just walk out before I blubber like a schoolboy. I never had much control over my emotions. Reminds me of saying good-bye to my mother when I went back to boarding school."

Pamela kissed his wet, yellow cheek and fussed with the chair to hide her own tears. She knew she would never see him again.

She returned to her room and began to clean up. When she had folded the soiled sheets and Hoovered around the sofa, she sat down and broke into sobs, partly out of relief that he had gone and partly because she would miss him. Then she heated the ready-made meal and poured a large brandy. She couldn't bring herself to switch on the television, fearing she might hear a report of his capture at Waterloo. When she found his unused plane tickets, with two thousand pounds that he had left for her, she broke down again.

Westbrook huddled in a corner of the train compartment and slept for the entire journey. No one paid him any attention. When the train arrived at Waterloo, he mustered the strength to walk the length of the platform toward the taxi rank. Pain forced him to sit down for fifteen minutes. Then, sweating profusely, he rose and hailed a taxi. He asked to be driven to Andover, a good two hours away. At first the driver refused to take him; then he saw Westbrook's cash and helped him into the car.

"You sick?" he asked.

"You could say that. I just had my appendix out." Westbrook rested against the seat, amazed he had managed to come this far. "When we get there, squire, wake me up and I'll direct you to the lodge." He closed his eyes. He knew that from the lodge he could get through the keeper's gate and possibly manage the quarter of a mile to the house. He was too exhausted to open his eyes but pa.s.sed the time in counting how many steps it would take him to get from the lodge to the kitchens, into the main hall, and from there up the stairs to his bedroom.

His mind drifted back to the room he had known as a boy. He had always been terrified of the dark, shut up in the east wing. He had never received much attention from either of his parents. He could not recall his father showing him any form of warmth or understanding. His mother had tried, when she was sober, but when he had needed her most she was always at some society event. The one great love of his life had been the wondrous building to which he was on his way-the halls, the ballroom, the library, and the vaulted, hand-painted ceiling in his room, with round pink cherubs beckoning him to the clouds on which they rested. All his ventures had been disasters, but with the money from his last enterprise, he was going to make sure his son and heir, living far out of his reach, could return to his rightful home. It was a fantasy, but it kept Westbrook alive for the duration of the taxi ride.

He gave the driver a generous tip and watched him leave, then used the stone wall as an aid to make his way toward the lodge gates. The magnificent house loomed dark and silent as he walked to the kitchens, counting each step. He made it into the house and up to his bedroom, then lay down on the French quilt, his head resting on the rolled satin cus.h.i.+ons with their gold ta.s.sels. The pink cherubs danced on the ceiling above him, their fingers outstretched. A white marble bust of his great-great-great-grandfather stood at the window. Lord Alexander Westbrook, his periwig curling to his shoulders, stared down at him with his sightless eyes. Westbrook gave a soft sigh of satisfaction. He was home, just in time to die.

Westbrook's body was discovered the next day by an elderly cleaning lady. By the time the doctor was called, two family retainers, now hired as cleaners by the commercial ice-cream company who rented the estate, had removed his soiled clothes and washed his body. They had called the police, who arrived with sirens screaming, as the doctor finished his examination.

The body was taken to the mortuary and an autopsy performed. The cancer that had been seeping through him had rendered his heart and lungs useless. When the body was released, one of the old retainers provided the funeral home with his lords.h.i.+p's uniform and sword. They felt it only fitting that he should be laid out in his uniform, even though he had been disowned by his regiment. He was Lord Westbrook, after all. His dress uniform had been on display in the hall for visitors. His family was summoned to England for the funeral. His soiled garments were taken by the police to be examined, and the retainers were questioned but released without charge.

Westbrook made headlines again, but he had left the police without clues. He had thrown away anything that might link him to the robbery or to Pamela. He died knowing that the Colonel would be impressed by his tenacity and care. But then he had always been a true gentleman.

De Jersey lowered The Times and allowed himself an appreciative smile. The article stated that Westbrook had died of natural causes, and his death was not being treated as suspicious. He had heard no word of Sylvia Hewitt, and nothing had appeared about her in any of the papers. He took this as a good sign. In fact, although the newspapers still carried front-page articles about the hunt, he sensed that they might be in the clear. He was not stupid enough to think everything the police uncovered would be handed to the journalists, but at the same time, five days after the robbery, they had not arrested anyone and did not appear close to doing so. Still, the daily requests for information regarding Philip Simmons, the artists' sketches and computer pictures posed some risk to him. He just hoped that all links between him and Simmons had been destroyed.

De Jersey continued his usual business on the estate, exercising the horses and discussing the future racing programs with Fleming. He was attentive to Christina, who seemed less anxious about their situation now that he was at home with her. As in the rest of the country, there were many discussions in the yard about the robbery, but eventually interest died down as the flat season got under way.

After going through a gamut of emotions, Helen Lyons had decided to telephone her sister. For all her faults, Sylvia was the only family she had, and Helen was lonely. Her friend in Devon had suggested that she try to sort out her finances and visit her sister, hinting that Helen had overstayed her welcome.

Sylvia, however, appeared to be away, or at least was not answering her phone. The office confirmed what Christina de Jersey had told her, that Sylvia was still possibly in New York. When she had not heard from her sister after a week, Helen caught a train from Devon, then took a taxi to St. John's Wood. She still had her own key to Sylvia's apartment. She unlocked the front door. "Sylvia," she called, ". . . it's Helen."

She entered the apartment and stepped over a stack of mail. As she walked into the drawing room, she noticed a pungent smell. Sylvia's body lay on the sofa. Helen ran to the caretaker's apartment. The caretaker didn't know what to do. Sylvia was obviously dead and had been so for some time, but they called the doctor anyway.

When the doctor turned up, he confirmed what they already knew and said that they would not know how she had died until a postmortem had been conducted. He called the police, and a young, uniformed officer took a statement from him and Helen. There was no sign of a break-in, and no items were missing or disturbed.

Helen had to wait for the body to be removed to the mortuary. She opened all the windows to get rid of the stench. There seemed no real reason for her to leave, and she discovered all the doc.u.ments regarding the insurance on her home neatly stacked in a drawer of Sylvia's desk. She also found Sylvia's will and learned that she was the main beneficiary. The apartment was now hers, but until she took it over legally she would stay in the spare room where she had slept before.

There were some unanswered questions in the police investigation into Sylvia Hewitt's death, and the case remained open. The suspicion of suicide seemed to be confirmed when the postmortem revealed a heavy presence of morphine. What perturbed the pathologist, however, was the additional presence of ketamine. Helen was dumbfounded by this and collapsed in tears. The young sergeant sitting opposite her had to wait a considerable time before he could continue to question her.

Helen told him that it was incomprehensible that anyone could have wanted Sylvia dead, but it was possible she had taken her own life. "In the last couple of days, before I left her, I've learned that she lost a considerable amount of money on a bad investment deal," she said. "It was connected to my husband." Then the story of the affair tumbled out. Perhaps Sylvia had taken her own life after losing David, her savings, and her sister. She had also told her employers that she would not be coming into work.

Helen was asked if she knew of anyone who had seen her sister during the past two weeks, but she did not. The police, still dissatisfied, began to check phone calls Sylvia had made or received on the evening of her death. They also questioned friends and work colleagues. No one else they spoke to felt that Sylvia would have taken her life, and they told the officers of her trip to New York. This tallied with the last phone call Sylvia had made, to a private detective named Matheson in New York City. When Detective Sergeant Jon Fuller contacted him, Matheson was shocked. He explained that he had been hired by Miss Hewitt to trace a man called Alex Moreno, who they believed was involved in a fraud. He was also aware she had lost a considerable amount of money.

"Did she sound depressed?" Fuller asked.

"No, far from it," he told them. "She was very positive because she had traced the man she believed could help her regain some of her losses."

"Did Miss Hewitt give this man's name?"

"Philip Simmons."

"Did you know him?"

"I never met him, but I knew he had been in New York recently. In fact, we thought he was still here. He was Moreno's business adviser. Miss Hewitt also said everything was going well and she no longer needed my services."

"Do you have any idea where Simmons would be?"

"No. As I said, I never met him, but I think he was Canadian."

Fuller's report was pa.s.sed to his superior and placed on file. He had concluded that, although it was probably suicide, Miss Hewitt's death still seemed suspicious. Why would a woman committing suicide with morphine and ketamine bother to clean her kitchen before she died, leaving no trace of how she had consumed the drugs? Why was there no suicide note? He also wanted to speak to the person who may have been the last to see her alive: Philip Simmons, the name entered and underlined three times in her desk diary for a 6:00 P.M. meeting on the day she died. As yet they had found no trace of him in her address books or office files.

Fuller was told to continue the inquiry, and Sylvia's body was released for burial. Even though the robbery squad had told the media that they were searching for a man called Philip Simmons, D.S. Fuller did not make the connection. The suicide of a woman in St. John's Wood was not the crime of the century. The name Philip Simmons was simply listed among many others they wished to interview in connection with Sylvia Hewitt's death.

The robbery squad took a big step forward when British customs, working with Interpol, traced a motorized yacht named the Hortensia Princess, owned by Paul Dulay and anch.o.r.ed in the south of France. They contacted their European counterparts, whose records showed that the Hortensia Princess had left Cannes four days before the sighting and returned four days later. They e-mailed a photograph of Dulay's boat.

The boys who had seen the yacht on the day of the robbery were questioned again by customs and asked if the boat they had seen bore any resemblance to the photograph of Dulay's vessel. They agreed without hesitation that it was the same one. Then the investigating team discovered that Dulay was a jeweler. Two detectives were sent to interview him and his crew.

The two crew members confirmed that they had picked up a box dropped by a helicopter off the English coast. When they hauled it aboard it had been full of junk, so they had tossed it back into the sea. They said a fault in the fuel gauge had occurred, which was why they were anch.o.r.ed off Brighton. They had been able to repair it themselves, then hauled up the anchor to return to France. When asked if the owner of the boat had been aboard, they said that he had and that he had instructed them to retrieve the package.

Paul Dulay was working in his shop when the officers questioned him about his trip. He kept his cool, saying that he had not been ash.o.r.e in England. He gave the names of three companies he had called from the yacht to ask for a.s.sistance with the fuel gauge before they had managed to repair it. He didn't flinch when asked about the crate.

"Oh, yes. We saw a helicopter flying overhead and watched it drop something into the water. I instructed my crew to haul it aboard." He gave a knowing look. "It might have been drugs-anything, you know. When we opened it, it was full of empty bottles, a couple of jackets, and some other clothing. We tossed it back into the water. It's probably still floating around out there."

The police asked about the helicopter, but Dulay shrugged. He couldn't remember, possibly a twin engine as it was quite large, and there were two or three people aboard. The officers left, only to return an hour later with a helicopter manual showing different designs. Dulay took a long, hard look, then pointed to a Sikorsky S-76. "This one."

"Would you mind if we searched your boat?"

"No, of course not."

"We'd also like to look over your premises."

"I don't see why this is necessary, but by all means."

The two officers left Dulay in a cold sweat. He called the captain of his boat and told him to reiterate the make of the helicopter he'd identified and to say that three people were on board.

The officers reported that they had searched Dulay's boat, home, and workplace but had found nothing incriminating. They did note that Dulay himself cut stones and had a very well appointed workroom at the rear of his shop. He also had a successful business with influential clients. They said he had been helpful in every way and that they were not suspicious.

They were told to stay away from him until further notice but not to return to England. They were to keep surveillance on him and to make it obvious. He might not have given them reason to doubt him, but the coincidence of his profession and his having been near England at the time of the robbery and the business with the crate made him a suspect.

The same photograph of the helicopter was subsequently shown to the boys, who knew nothing about helicopters and were unable to confirm if it was the same make.

The team began to inquire into who in the United Kingdom owned a Sikorsky helicopter. They also contacted the companies Dulay said he had asked for help. All remembered the inquiry, so his story could not be disproved. Launches were sent out to find the crate.

Dulay was sure he was being watched, and his nerves were getting the better of him. He wanted to contact de Jersey but was afraid to. However, a few days after he'd been interviewed he received a call from the man himself. The newspapers were full of details of the helicopter, stating it was likely to have been the getaway vehicle, so de Jersey had known Dulay would be unnerved. He called from a pay phone at Kempton Park racecourse. He had just watched Royal Flush sail home first with ease, ensuring his place in the Derby. He had congratulated Mickey, avoided posing for photographs, and watched his horse get rugged up.

He was still on a high when he rang Dulay. "How are you?" he asked.

"They're on to me, I'm sure," hissed Dulay.

"Not if you followed orders."

"There's some witness who saw the drop."

"But you kept to the story?"

"Yes. They searched the boat from top to bottom. My house, the shop-"

"But it's well hidden, so you've got nothing to worry about." De Jersey maintained his calm.

"Yeah, but you're not the one being tailed. Man, I am s.h.i.+tting myself."

"Just carry on as if nothing's happening. Don't go near the loot, just stick to the plans. We don't collect until the heat's off. Go about your business and see how Mr. Kitamo is. We want that down payment."

"He's going to want to authenticate the Koh-i-noor, but I'm too hot right now to retrieve the jewels."

"Well, if he wants the diamond, he's just going to have to trust us. You tell him we want the million dollars before we'll let him see it. Unless he's completely out of touch, he knows by now there are some priceless gems to be had."

"I hear you. Anything happening at your end?"

"No. Still in the clear."

By the end of the call, de Jersey was edgy. He had not expected a problem so soon. Apart from the Koh-i-noor, the jewels were still in the crate, wrapped in tarpaulins and haversacks, hundreds of feet down in the ocean. A lobster pot marked the place where it had been dropped off the coast of Cannes, toward a small inlet and fis.h.i.+ng harbor. When it was time to collect, Dulay would go in single-handed with a speedboat: no crew, no witnesses.

The coast guard retrieved a large, old wooden crate. It contained boiler suits, boots, two jackets, and a pair of shoes. It provided the robbery squad with no further clues and made Dulay's explanation seem more credible.

Dulay read on the Internet that the crate had been recovered, but the news did little to ease his mind. He had been lucky so far, but how long would his luck hold out?

Sylvia Hewitt's death looked suspicious to D.S. Fuller. He had removed her business diary and personal papers from her office, plus letters and files from her St. John's Wood flat. He discovered from her office diary that she had had numerous appointments for the weeks after her death and had made dates for dental and medical checkups the next day. This was not the pattern of a woman contemplating suicide.

He called Matheson again; the PI felt certain that when he had last spoken to her in New York Sylvia was not suicidal but determined to trace Moreno in the hope of recouping her losses. Matheson added that Moreno had disappeared.

Also in her office diary were the names and contact numbers of certain clients of David Lyons who had suffered similar losses. Among them were Anthony Driscoll, James Wilc.o.x, and Edward de Jersey. These three were underlined, so Fuller decided to concentrate on them.

The first of the threesome to be interviewed was Tony Driscoll. He almost had heart failure when his wife came into his study to tell him a police officer wanted to talk to him.

"Sorry to bother you, sir. I'm Detective Sergeant Jon Fuller, and this is Police Constable Margaret Kilshaw. I am here concerning a woman named Sylvia Hewitt. I believe you were a business a.s.sociate." Driscoll hesitated, but Fuller continued, "You should know that Miss Hewitt is dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, but I didn't know her."

"Miss Hewitt recently suffered financial losses due to her involvement with an Internet company, and your name was listed in her diary."

"Ah, yes. Now I know who she is, but I never met her. I think she got my number from David Lyons, who advised me to invest in the same company."

"Could you tell me why she contacted you?"

"I suffered substantial losses in the same company, and Miss Hewitt asked if I would be willing to hire someone to help trace the man she believed was responsible. I was rather annoyed that she had got hold of my personal details, which I pointed out to her was illegal."

"And you never met her?"

"No, I did not. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful."

"Just one more thing. Do you know someone named Edward de Jersey?"

"No."

"Do you know someone called James Wilc.o.x?"

"No."

"Philip Simmons?"

Driscoll's heart was fit to burst through his chest. "No. I'm sorry I can't help you. I only spoke to the woman once on the phone." He hesitated, then decided he had said enough.

Wilc.o.x was tipped off fast by Driscoll.

"I warned everyone about that b.l.o.o.d.y woman," Wilc.o.x said tightly.

"Yes, I know, but we've no problem. She's dead."

There was a pause as Wilc.o.x took this in. "How come they came to you?"

"The b.i.t.c.h had my details in her f.u.c.king diary, so she must have yours and the Colonel's. I'll warn him too." Driscoll paused. "So far so good, huh?" he said.

"Yeah. Let's hope it stays that way," Wilc.o.x replied.

When Detective Sergeant Fuller visited that afternoon, Wilc.o.x denied knowing Sylvia Hewitt, Driscoll, or de Jersey. "Did you know that David Lyons committed suicide?" Wilc.o.x asked the sergeant innocently.

"Yes, we are aware of that. Just one more thing, do you know a Philip Simmons?"

"No. I didn't mix with Lyons socially, so I didn't know any of his other clients. All I do know is we all lost a considerable amount in this Internet company we invested in. Maybe he was one of the losers."

"Via a Mr. Alex Moreno?"

"I believe so. But I think he did a runner. I know we have little hope of recovering any money."

As he had said he would, Driscoll made a short warning call to de Jersey, who was abrupt and noncommittal. When he replaced the phone, Driscoll was aware of a dull sensation in the pit of his stomach. He was sure that de Jersey had played some part in Miss Hewitt's demise, but as with Moreno, he hadn't asked and he didn't want to know. He was just relieved that she was no longer a problem.

However, both Driscoll and Wilc.o.x needed cash injections. Driscoll decided to put his house on the market, unaware that Wilc.o.x 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 Wilc.o.x, 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.