Royal Heist (25 page)

“Did you really want me to tell you the truth? How would it have made a difference, you knowing once he was dead? You certainly never suspected when he was alive. And I let him use all my savings and he lost the lot! So much for good, dependable, honest David. He was a fool!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling you the truth. I’ve lost over two hundred thousand, all my savings. That’s something else I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. Whatever happened between me and David is history now and—”

Helen didn’t wait to hear any more. She picked up her coat and her suitcases and made for the door. She glanced back at her sister. “That explains the real reason why he went with you. He was using you for your money.” With that, she slammed the door.

Sylvia was incensed by Helen’s insult, which also reminded her of Edward de Jersey’s accusation. How dare de Jersey suggest she had been involved with David’s frauds? She walked around the flat kicking the furniture. Her bedroom was littered with torn photographs of her and David together. She picked them up, then let them fall from her hands like confetti and started to cry. She had loved David, and now she had lost everything—lover, money, sister. She wondered what had happened to de Jersey, whether he had held on to his estate. It had been weeks since she had spoken to him.

The phone rang and she picked it up. “Hello.”

“Is this Sylvia Hewitt?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Victor Matheson, Miss Hewitt, the private detective you hired. Remember me?”

“Yes, of course.” She was puzzled: she’d told him weeks ago his services were no longer required.

“A strange coincidence has just happened. I think it would be worth us meeting up.”

Sylvia listened as Matheson explained that he had met another private investigator and discovered that he had been hired to trace Alex Moreno by Philip Simmons. “I have to arrange time off from work,” she told him, “but it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll fly out as soon as I can and meet you in New York.”

“Good.” He hung up.

She gave no thought to the fact that she had promised de Jersey she would not take her inquiries any further. In fact, she was determined to prove that David Lyons did not commit any fraud. She called her boss and told him that urgent family business had cropped up and she needed to take the week off.

De Jersey outlined “rehearsal” days for the team to meet at the barn. They had moved another step closer to the plans being completed. Driscoll had booked “the Queen.” She was to be collected at 8:00
A.M.
for a day’s commercial shoot. The agent did not query the name of the company but seemed more interested in the fee, which was substantially more than usual.

Far from being a big risk, Westbrook proved invaluable. He was getting sicker by the day, but he remained in good humor and the team admired his determination. Pamela was highly professional and a constant source of humorous stories during coffee breaks. She provided cakes and biscuits too, which they devoured hungrily. She was having a wonderful time. She had always enjoyed the company of men, and it had been a long time since she had been surrounded by so many. She adored Westbrook, and they swapped stories about their time in the nick while smoking their way through packets of cigarettes, their conversation interspersed with coughing fits and shrieks of laughter.

De Jersey rarely joined in the banter. He was constantly checking his notes and plans. Dulay’s boat was now set to anchor six miles off the South Coast, near Brighton. The diversion helicopters were booked and false pickup points agreed on. De Jersey had arranged for one of his horses to be at the Brighton racetrack on the day of the raid. He had also marked in blue crosses on the floor of the barn the positions of the panic buttons in the safe house. Every one of the team was made to learn their exact locations.

“Darling, just a small point,” Pamela said one day, cigarette dangling out of her mouth. “We know where these thingies are, but what if one of the D’Ancona employees throws caution to the wind and stamps on one? Will we get out fast enough before the police show up?”

“What?”

“Well, darling, do we know how long we’ve got if someone inadvertently or deliberately steps on one? There’s going to be an awful lot of anxiety and”—she hopped from one blue cross to another—“they’re all over the place.”

De Jersey gave her a dismissive glance. “Hopefully we’ll have discovered a way to deactivate them. In the meantime, however, we should know exactly where they’re located.”

“Yes, but do you know how long it takes for the boys in blue to arrive if one goes off?”

“Pamela, why don’t you put the kettle on?” De Jersey crossed to Wilcox.

He kept his voice low. “We hit one and the lot of us will be in trouble. Steel trapdoors come down like a guillotine.”

Wilcox turned away. “So, we’ve got to deactivate the buggers.”

“I’ll work on it.”

The two bikers were scheduled to arrive that afternoon, and de Jersey wanted everyone out of the way except Driscoll, who knew them. Brian Hall arrived first. He parked his motorbike as instructed in the yard at the back of the barn. Kenny Short turned up in an old Mini five minutes later.

De Jersey had watched them arrive. He opened the door almost immediately and handed them pairs of surgical gloves. The two men followed him toward the table, and he gestured for them to sit. Driscoll sat to one side. De Jersey took them through their duties and the getaway details. They listened attentively, asking relevant questions, to which de Jersey always had answers. They knew the risks they were taking, but the authoritative manner of the Colonel eased their fears, and after the instructions were clarified both men tried on their uniforms and tested the bikes. If they had any doubts they did not voice them.

De Jersey took pains to ensure that the men realized their importance. They were all dependent on each other to pull it off, he told them. Every one of them was an essential part of the heist, and one mistake could bring the rest down. When the two left, he turned to Driscoll. “What do you think?”

“They’ll do the business. It’s just his lordship we’ve got to watch out for. He’s very jittery and well drugged up.”

“I know. If he gets to be too much of a liability, we might have to lose him.”

Driscoll licked his lips and changed the subject. “What about deactivating those panic buttons?”

“Working on it.”

“Want to look over the guns?”

They had been under pressure for a considerable time now, so de Jersey suggested they take a few days’ break. Christina was expected home from Sweden, and he was worn out; they all needed time to recharge their batteries. It was March 15; they could stand back and review the plan for any weak spots they had missed—there was still time.

De Jersey returned home, but although he needed a rest he didn’t take one. Things at the estate needed his supervision, for although his staff worked diligently when he was absent, some issues had to be solved by the boss. There was a stack of paperwork that needed his attention, but the financial pressure was uppermost. He wondered if he could sell the Moreno house yet. He was still in the office after midnight when Fleming tapped and entered.

“Brandy?” de Jersey asked.

Fleming shook his head no. “You owe me the cash we agreed on,” he said softly, not meeting de Jersey’s eyes.

There was a long pause. De Jersey unscrewed the top from the brandy bottle, opened a drawer, and took out a glass.

“My son and an old lad helped me out. They’re both trustworthy. My son won’t say anything, and if the lad had a notion of what we were up to, he didn’t let on. I gave him a couple hundred quid.”

De Jersey gulped the brandy. “How did my boy do?”

“Fine. So now we wait. I’ve put him in the far stall. We’ll push his training up and see how he behaves, but we’ve risked a hell of a lot.”

“I know.” De Jersey was hardly able to speak.

Fleming changed his mind about the brandy, and the two men sat drinking quietly. They were both ashamed of the subterfuge and worried that they might have damaged Royal Flush’s concentration and thus his chance of winning the biggest race of his life. Eventually Fleming stood up and buttoned his coat. He nodded to the racing diary displayed on the office wall. “We’ll see what effect it’s had when he races at Lingfield.”

Two days later Christina arrived home, and de Jersey took her in his arms. “I’ve missed you so much,” she said, as they hugged.

“I’ve missed you too, darling. Let me carry your cases upstairs.”

“No, they can wait but I can’t. Let’s just go upstairs,” she said coyly.

He smiled. “Whatever you say.”

“How’s everything been?” she asked.

“Not too bad. I’ve had to sell a few more horses, but Royal Flush is in great shape. It’s been very quiet here without you,” he said.

“It’s such a comfort to be back here with you. This place is so precious to me,” Christina said.

De Jersey didn’t reply as he followed her up the stairs. So much was riding on him pulling off the heist.

CHAPTER

19

S
ylvia had taken a taxi straight from JFK Airport to the InterContinental Hotel because of its proximity to Central Park and easy walking distance to Moreno’s apartment block. She had decided that since she had time to kill before her appointment with Matheson, she would do some research of her own. She’d taken Matheson off the case before he had had a chance to check out Moreno’s apartment. Maybe she could discover something there that would help them. She had slept badly on the plane, so she decided to have a nap until midday, but she was still sound asleep when the chambermaid woke her at three. She showered and changed, and left the hotel at four.

The doorman at Moreno’s apartment was none too friendly until Sylvia slipped him twenty dollars. Then he told her he remembered Moreno well, a pleasant enough man, but he’d kept to himself.

“Did he warn you that he was leaving?”

“No. One minute he lived here, the next he didn’t.”

“But did you see him leave?”

“No. He might have gone when I wasn’t on duty. All I know is, the apartment changed hands. You need to talk to the agents. They handle the leases. The guy living there now is German, but I don’t see much of him either.”

“Is he at home?”

“No. Leaves early, comes back late. Days can go by and I don’t see him, but he uses a limo company.” He passed her a card. “They’re good. I know one of the drivers. Mr. Goldberg is a regular customer, like I said.”

“You’ve been most helpful, but I really did need to speak to Mr. Moreno. It looks like I’m out of luck, though.”

“Afraid so.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a nice evening.” He hovered for another twenty dollars, but she pulled her collar up around her face and walked off.

She had gone no more than twenty yards when she saw a limousine draw up. An immaculate gentleman climbed out of the backseat. He was wearing dark glasses and carried a slim briefcase. She heard the doorman address him. As he headed into the apartments, she hurried after him. “Mr. Goldberg! Excuse me.” He turned and stared at her. “I wonder if I could possibly have a few moments of your time?”

“Do I know you?”

“I’m trying to trace Mr. Moreno. He lived in your apartment before you.”

“I’m sorry I cannot help. I did not know him. He has nothing to do with me. Excuse me.”

“Please—if I could just ask you a few things?” she persisted.

“I did not know Mr. Moreno. If you want any details about him, I suggest you contact the agents for the property. Excuse me.”

She stood helplessly as the door swung closed after him and the doorman took up his position outside again. “If you want the agents, they’ve got an office in the next block up across Eighty-sixth Street. Dugdale and Martin. Mr. Dugdale handles this place.” Sylvia handed him another twenty-dollar bill and headed for the Gothic-style block he had indicated.

Dugdale and Martin had a small office on the ground floor of the plush apartment block. The thickset doorman said he thought she might be too late; their office closed at four thirty. He hovered at her side as she tapped on the door and waited. She was about to walk away when it opened.

“Good evening, my name is Sylvia Hewitt. I wondered if I could speak to someone concerning Mr. Moreno’s apartment?”

“He’s no longer a tenant there,” said a stern, white-haired man.

“Yes, I know, but perhaps I could tell you my reasons for contacting you. I’ve come all the way from England.”

“Come in.” He opened the door wider. He was already wearing his overcoat. “I’m off home, Jacob. Can I leave this with you?” he said to another man, then walked out and closed the door.

Sylvia took out one of her business cards as the man at the window turned. “Sylvia Hewitt. I’m an accountant. I’m inquiring about a Mr. Moreno, who lived in—”

“Come in and sit down. I’m Jacob Martin. So, you are Mr. Moreno’s accountant?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “He had various interests in London but I’ve not been able to contact him since before Christmas.”

“Well, he just disappeared, and we have no forwarding address.”

“But you must have arranged the changeover of his apartment. There’s a new owner, a German gentleman.”

“Yes, he purchased the lease.”

“From you?”

“Yes, we handle the property, but we did the transaction with a lawyer acting on behalf of Mr. Moreno. All the documents were in order, so we had no reason to query the sale.”

“So Mr. Moreno never discussed leaving the apartment with you?”

“No. He left without notice, but that’s not unusual. The only thing unusual was . . .” He hesitated. Sylvia waited. “He left a lot of personal items, which we removed before the next tenant moved in. He seemed to have departed in quite a hurry.”

“Can you tell me what he left?”

“Clothing, stuff like that. We kept it weeks in storage. The new owner bought all the furniture and fittings.”

“He just bought everything?”

“Well, not everything. There were items like videos, books. He didn’t want those.”

“Who took all that?”

Martin gave an embarrassed shrug. There had actually been a hell of a lot that Mr. Goldberg had not purchased: the paintings, mirrors, ornaments, and so on. But after keeping them in storage for a short while, Martin and Dugdale had done a little filching for themselves. In fact, they had stripped the place of anything remotely valuable. Sylvia suspected this, but it was not why she was there. “Do you have the name of the lawyer who handled the transactions?” she asked.

Martin walked to a cabinet, flicked through a row of files, and withdrew the one with Moreno’s apartment number written on the front. “Mr. Philip Simmons. We have a phone number and”—he turned a page—“just a box number, which is unusual, and a further contact number for an address in the Hamptons.”

“Could you give me the number? I really would like to speak to him.”

Martin took one of his cards, copied down the number, and passed it to Sylvia. Then he walked back to the cabinet, still reading the file. He paused, frowning and turning pages. “I doubt you’ll have much luck. Seems we’ve attempted to contact him as various maintenance charges were left unpaid and we wanted to get the accounts settled. It was not a large amount, but our letters went unanswered.” He rested his elbow on top of the filing cabinet.

“Did you meet the lawyer?”

“No, I didn’t. This was all handled by the boss, Mr. Dugdale. You saw him as you left. . . . Ah, forgive me, I did meet him just once, when he came to sign over the lease to Mr. Goldberg. He went into Mr. Dugdale’s office.”

“Could you describe him?”

“He was well dressed, elegant, I’d say, and tall. A big man, much taller than me and I’m almost six feet. He had reddish hair, and a mustache.”

Sylvia stood up and shook his hand. “Thank you so much for your time. I really do appreciate it.”

Sylvia returned to her hotel and called the number for Simmons. As she expected, it was no longer in use. Later she called Matheson, who agreed to meet her in the hotel bar at nine. She asked what he looked like.

“I’m small, nothing special. I’ll have a big red and black scarf round my neck, glasses and thinning hair.”

“I’m dark-haired, and I’m wearing a tweed suit with a white blouse and pearls,” she said primly.

Sylvia entered the reasonably full bar and peered around until she spotted the investigator. Then she threaded her way through the low tables to join him. “How do you do?”

“Miss Hewitt, it’s nice to put a face to the voice. Can I get you a drink?”

“White wine, please.”

He signaled to a waiter as she sat down on one of the low seats opposite him. The man came over, and Matheson ordered a beer for himself and a chilled Chablis for her.

“It’s so noisy here,” Sylvia said. “They even have music in the lifts.”

“You get used to it,” he said and drew his chair closer to her. “Can I just get something straight? I mean, I don’t wanna sound pushy, but this is my livelihood and I’ll charge my hourly rate for tonight’s meeting. How’s that suit you?”

She nodded. “Fine.”

He sat back as the waiter put down a bowl of nuts and their drinks. She raised her glass and sipped. “Well, I’m here, Mr. Matheson. You did say you had some developments, and I’ve come a long way to hear them in person, as you suggested.”

“Like I said on the phone, I met up with an old friend. I want you to know straight up, I wasn’t being unethical in discussing your business with him. It just came up in conversation. I never mentioned your name.”

“Who is he?”

“An ex-cop, like me, from way back. He’s about the same age, works mostly on security now. Been on tour with this rock group. In fact, he’s with them now.”

“What’s his name?”

“Donny Baron. Nice guy. He says to me that he’s fed up with schlepping all over the country. I ask him if he’s doing any private work, and he says he had an interesting gig a few months ago. He ran an ad in
The New York Times
and this guy made contact, wanted him to do a bit of ducking and diving around town, checking out a guy that had done a little Internet fraud. And I said to him, ‘That’s a coincidence. Guy’s not called Moreno, is he?’ So he looks at me and he laughs and says he is. Said he’d been checking out Moreno’s apartment for his client.”

“When was this?”

“Just after Christmas. So I ask him about his client and he tells me he was a Canadian, flew from Los Angeles on the red-eye. Paid him a nice whack and that was it.”

“Did he say what this man’s name was?”

“Well, he was a bit edgy about that, but in the end he said it was Philip Simmons. Same guy we discovered. Donny’s met him.”

“So he was an investor?”

“Could have been. He’s obviously more than just Moreno’s financial adviser. I mean, if he was Moreno’s financial adviser, why did he need to hire Donny to find him?”

Sylvia sipped her wine again, then placed it carefully on the table. “He’s been posing as his solicitor too.”

“Really? Well, Donny told me that this guy’s accent was strange, said he sounded more like a Brit, so that was why I contacted you. The contractor in the Hamptons, he said he thought he was Canadian. There’s obviously something funny going on with this guy.”

Sylvia sighed. “I was a small investor in Moreno’s company. I was told not to interfere by someone who had lost a considerable amount more than myself. In fact, three people I know of lost millions, and they all said they were handling it. They also refused to help me pay your wages. I thought that when I told them about your investigation they would have been eager for you to continue, but they weren’t.”

“Maybe they’re getting a cut from Simmons. Who knows what’s going on? I just reckoned you’d want to know about him cropping up again.” He toyed with his empty beer glass. “I reckon you should go out to the Hamptons and check it out.”

“How far is it?”

“Train would be about two hours. If you drive it’s around the same; out of season there won’t be much traffic. I can go out there with you if you want me to.” Matheson was pushing to be rehired, but Sylvia was not prepared to pay out any more than she had to. He wrote down the address and passed it to her, then suggested she stay at the Maidstone Arms Hotel.

“I’ll go alone tomorrow.” She looked at the address and slipped it into her purse.

Matheson went on. “You mind if I say something? This Philip Simmons is, by my reckoning, somebody you should tread carefully with. If, as you say, that property in the Hamptons is worth millions, he might just have . . .” He took a deep breath.

“What?”

“Murdered for it.”

She was not taken aback. Quite the contrary, she was very calm. She leaned forward and conspiratorially lowered her voice. “I thought about that, even more so if he lost his savings. It’s a strong motive.” The wine was making her giddy. “I feel like throttling him myself,” she said.

“Yeah, well, feeling like doing something and actually doing it are two different things. This guy, whoever he is, seems like a real pro to me. He’s covered his tracks too well not to be.”

She beamed and gripped his shoulder. “But he
has
made mistakes. We can report this to the police and they can look for him. Or perhaps we can find this man, put pressure on him, and then I’m sure he’ll pay us off. That’s all I am interested in now, Mr. Matheson. I want my money back.”

“You lost a lot, huh?”

“Yes, I lost my lover because Moreno used him. Moreno lost my life savings, and I intend on getting them or part of them back. And after what you have told me, I think there’s a possibility of doing so.” She hesitated. “I’ve not been able to discover if Philip Simmons was an investor. His name isn’t on any of the documents I have, but he may have been investing in Moreno’s company through someone else. There’s something else I need to ask you, Mr. Matheson. During your inquiries, did you ever come across a David Lyons?”

“I don’t think so. Was he in on this Internet deal? Did he lose out too?”

“He lost out completely. He committed suicide. He was very dear to me.”

“He couldn’t take the loss, huh?”

“No, he couldn’t, but he was also responsible for encouraging people to invest with Moreno. He lost a lot of other people’s savings as well.”

“I see,” Matheson said.

“He was my sister’s husband.” She had tears in her eyes.

“Oh dear. Tragic all around,” he said.

“It was implied that he might have been involved in some kind of fraud with Moreno, but I know he wasn’t.” She took out a tissue and blew her nose. “I’m sorry.” She picked up her handbag, took out a wad of cash, and paid what she owed him.

“I’ve got one final invoice for you covering some miscellaneous expenses, but I forgot to bring it with me,” he said.

“Send it to me in London.”

“Good luck, Ms. Hewitt. I hope you find him.”

“I will,” she said softly and left the bar.

When she got back to her room, Sylvia was exhausted, but she sat down at the desk and added up how much she had paid Matheson. At least she had made progress. It was looking more and more as if Simmons, whether acting for Moreno or representing one of the investors, was collecting a lot of money, and she felt that at least some of it should be hers. Could it be that Simmons had killed Moreno for the money invested in his properties? Certainly Simmons was not all he seemed. He had asked Donny Baron to check out Moreno’s apartment. Why would a financial adviser use a PI to keep tabs on his own client?