Royal Heist (28 page)

“Live with my mum?” Her pale face clouded and she started to cry.

Nikki was twenty-nine years old. He’d met her in the perfumery department at Harrods several years ago. For a while his wife received more gifts of perfume and cosmetics than most women would need in a lifetime. Three months later Nikki agreed to move into the apartment. They had been lovers ever since, on and off. He knew she probably dated other guys, but if so he never saw any sign of them and she never mentioned any other person being in her life. She simply focused on him when he arranged to see her. He paid money into a bank account for her every month, but now he had to tell her that he couldn’t do that any longer either.

Driscoll managed to make love to Nikki. It was not a majestic performance by any standard, but as always, she made him feel as if he was the greatest stud in the world. They had some lunch and a bottle of champagne, and with a few more tears, she showed him out, promising that she would leave the apartment by the end of the month. She also promised she would show any potential buyers round when they called.

As the door closed behind him, she swore under her breath and went to the phone. She dialed her brother first, telling him to get a van round ASAP. She wasn’t going to leave a single stick of furniture behind. Then she called her boyfriend and asked whether she could move in with him. Driscoll had been a “nice little earner” for Nikki, nothing more. She was just angry that she hadn’t persuaded him to put the apartment in her name! She had a good mind to call his wife and give her an earful, but she didn’t bother. Besides, she didn’t want to tip the idiot off that she was doing a moonlight flit.

Driscoll met up with Wilcox at Kingston boat yard for some “shopping” for the heist. Wilcox was checking over a secondhand two-seater speedboat for sale. It had seen better days and smelt of mildew as he hauled the tarpaulin off the trailer.

“It’s been knocked around a bit. It’s had a shoddy repaint job. How much are they asking?” Wilcox asked, looking at the For Sale card stuck on the windscreen. “I suppose we won’t do better for this price,” he said, but Driscoll was miles away, still deep in thought about Nikki.

“I mean, I couldn’t say anything,” Driscoll said. “But you know, if we pull this off, I’m gonna make sure Nikki does all right, take her abroad with me.”

“What, leave the wife?” Wilcox asked, still more interested in the boat.

“Yeah, she nags all day. Caught her with her legs akimbo in the sauna today with her one-on-one trainer!” Driscoll said.

“How long have you had her?” Wilcox asked.

“Who, the wife?”

“No, the little girlfriend,” Wilcox said as he bent down to check out all the rust. “This hasn’t been under cover for a few years, never mind in the water,” he said.

“She’s been a fixture for four or five years,” Driscoll said. “She’s a lovely redhead. Tall, lovely long legs. You know, she’s always there for me, makes me feel good, and she’s great in the sack. Used to work in Harrods.”

“You’ve been keeping her then?”

“Yeah, nice pad she arranged. Very tasteful. I used to love going to see her when I could. Needed her, know what I mean?”

“Yep, this is a real old boat. We do the business then torch it.”

“Okay, what about you? You got any little dollies stashed away? You always used to.”

“Nope. I had but they’ve been elbowed. Rika and I are on a good thing right now, and I don’t want her to get her knickers in a twist just when I need to be chilled out.”

“Right, yeah right. I don’t want any aggro either. I’m just sorry I’ve got to sell the apartment. And me and Nikki’ll get back together. She’s gonna move in with her mother.”

Wilcox nodded, not really interested. He fished in his pocket for some readies to deal with the boat owner. The bulbous-nosed elderly mechanic, wearing oil-streaked dungarees, had been hovering in the background, tinkering with another boat. Wilcox gestured for him to come over, and together they eased the boat off the trailer and down the few yards of slip road into the water. Wilcox started up the outboard, and he was surprised when it turned over quickly and appeared sound. He climbed out again as the old boy kept hold of the rope.

“Five hundred,” Wilcox said, counting the fifty-pound notes.

“Nah, no way. Thousand quid, pal,” the old boy insisted, winding the rope round a post, then wiping his filthy hands on an equally filthy rag.

“Six is my final offer,” repeated Wilcox, still counting.

“Na, I’ll go nine fifty and I’m doing myself an injury.”

“Six hundred, take it or leave it,” Wilcox said again. By this time he had the money stacked in a neat, tight wad.

“I can’t do that. I’m giving you a good price. This is a fast boat. I worked on it myself. Nice seats too.”

“You don’t drive the seats though, do you? And with the amount of rust it’s got, I’ll be lucky if it stays afloat.”

“Look, I’ll come down to seven fifty, but that’s it, that’s my final price.”

“Okay, thanks. Sorry not to be able to do business with you.”

Wilcox opened his wallet, about to replace the money when the dirty hand made a grab for it.

“Six hundred, you bastards. Go on, take it!”

Wilcox climbed into the boat followed by Driscoll, who almost overbalanced and fell into the water. He then started the outboard and they set off up the river toward Richmond.

“We got moorings for this?” Driscoll yelled above the noise of the engine, his hair standing on end.

“Yeah, the Colonel’s arranged it. Plus we’ve got another speedboat to check over. It’s already at the boathouse.”

It was blisteringly cold as they sped past Bucklands Wharf, then on toward Chiswick. Just past Teddington Lock the outboard coughed and spluttered, then cut out. Wilcox managed to get it going again, and they turned round, back up the river toward Putney.

“What a piece of fucking junk,” Wilcox said, as they made it past the Putney rowing club and puttered on toward a boathouse a quarter of a mile away.

“We only need it for a few hours and, besides, it won’t be us using it,” Driscoll said, rubbing his hands.

“Right, but if it screws up they’re fucked.”

They passed beneath a willow tree. Wilcox maneuvered the boat into the boathouse, then switched off the engine. The boathouse was at the end of a garden. The house was up for lease, and the owners had let the boathouse and their speedboat for six months to a Mr. Philip Simmons. They had advertised it in the property pages on the agent’s Internet site. The other boat was moored inside, covered with a tarpaulin. Driscoll stepped out onto some broken steps, then climbed up to the garden path. “I’ll see you later,” he said. “I’m going to get us some food—I’m starving.”

In the boathouse there were gaps between the floorboards and holes in the roof. The water was murky and clogged with weeds and debris. Wilcox eased the doors shut and put on an overall to start work.

When Driscoll returned he was carrying two takeaway hamburgers, two cartons of soup, and coffee.

“You took your bloody time. This other one’s rusted to hell and back too,” Wilcox muttered, as he scraped then peered under the speedboat’s steering column.

“I got you a cheeseburger,” Driscoll said, handing him one, then sitting on an old orange box.

“This engine’s been hammered into the ground, but I’m tuning it and it’s sounding better.” Wilcox opened his cheeseburger box, then looked at Driscoll slumped on the crate.

“You okay? Tony?”

Driscoll shook his head.

“What’s happened? You get bad news?”

“No more than five hours; no, six. I only told her six fucking hours ago. It’s unbelievable. She’s even taken the fucking toilet-roll holder. The kitchen’s like a war zone, all these fucking wires hanging out. I was selling it fucking furnished!”

“What are you talking about?” Wilcox asked as he stuffed the food into his mouth.

“Nikki. I went back by the apartment. I just wanted to make sure she was okay. She must have got a bloody furniture removal van there before I got the bleeding front door shut. She’s cleaned the place out, the bitch!”

Wilcox couldn’t help grinning, and Driscoll became irate. “What’s so funny?”

“Well, you going on about this lovely redhead and now she’s a bitch. Maybe she’s gone with it all to her mother’s.”

“What? With a whole furniture van full of gear?”

Wilcox made his face straight and went over and patted Driscoll’s shoulder. “Good riddance and better you find out now. If she had been around when you got the cut from this little job, she’d have screwed you over even worse, right? Best it happened now.”

Driscoll sighed. He felt foolish and totally humiliated. It had been bad enough finding his wife with her trainer, now Nikki had betrayed him too.

“I tell you something, next woman I get is gonna be one hundred percent special.”

“Hello?” Pamela’s throaty, theatrical voice floated in to them, and she appeared at the door. In an oatmeal-colored coat, low-heeled fawn shoes, and a white silk shirt, she was looking much smarter than usual.

“What are you doing here?” Driscoll asked.

“Bringing you the mooring permits from our lord and master.” She tossed over a large manila envelope.

“You look different,” Wilcox said as he sipped his soup.

“I’ve been buying my wardrobe for the opening performance. I’m the perfect lady-in-waiting.”

“Apart from the fag hanging out of your mouth,” Wilcox joked, and she laughed, turning to leave.

“See you later, I suspect. Have a lovely day out on the river, boys!”

Driscoll checked his watch. “We should be going to the barn soon. How long you gonna be?”

“As long as it takes to fix the engine and see what gears it’ll need. You go on ahead. I’ll see you there.”

When Driscoll entered the barn, he was still chilled from the river and blew into his hands. “Will somebody get those bloody heaters on?”

“You’re in a pleasant mood,” Pamela said, opening a bottle of water to fill the kettle.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a bad day.”

“Let’s have a cup of tea and maybe you’ll feel better.” She opened the box of tea bags and looked around. “Have you heard from his lordship? He was supposed to be here before me.” She lit a cigarette.

On cue the door opened and Westbrook entered. He smiled wanly, began to unbutton his coat, then keeled over onto the ground.

Driscoll stood above him. “Christ, is he pissed?”

“No, he’s sick. Help him up. He gets these headaches that make him faint.”

They assisted Westbrook to a chair. He sat down, shaking, and gripped his head. “I’m so sorry. Feel rather poorly today. Be okay in a while.”

Driscoll turned away. It was fucking ridiculous. What a choice for the heist!

Pamela fussed over Westbrook, fetching him water, searching his pockets for his pills, and standing over him as he sipped. Then she helped him to the back of the barn, where he lay down on some sacking. “Will you marry me?” His voice was racked with pain.

Pamela stroked his head, which was glistening with perspiration. “I would have done like a shot, dear, once, but I’m too old for all that now. The best thing for me now would be retirement in the Bahamas. You could always be my houseguest.”

“I’d like that,” he said, hardly audible. Pamela watched over him until he drifted off to sleep. He didn’t stir when Wilcox came in and banged the door. He was disheveled and freezing cold, and went straight to the heater to rub his hands.

Driscoll passed him his rubber gloves and nodded to Westbrook. “He fainted, flat on his face.”

“Is he gonna be all right?”

“He’s sleeping,” Pamela said, as she put the kettle on the burner.

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Wilcox said. “He’s a fucking liability.”

“Don’t you swear at me, Jimmy, because I won’t take it,” Pamela said. “Tony is popping antacid tablets like mad, and you’re not exactly a choirboy, so the pot’s calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”

Wilcox became irate. “I’m clean. What about
you
? Top yourself up with gin before you came, did you?”

“Stop it,” Driscoll snapped at Wilcox. “Just shut the fuck up! Any problems we’ve got, we put before the Colonel and let him sort them out. Bickering’s a waste of time and energy.”

De Jersey stood outside the door, listening, choosing his moment. Eventually, he stepped forward and they saw him. “Problems?”

Wilcox pointed to where Lord Westbrook was sleeping. “Did a pratfall when he came in. Couldn’t stand upright.”

De Jersey went to the back of the barn, sat on his heels, and looked at the sleeping man. Westbrook’s eyes opened. “I will not let you down,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll take the tablets before I go, not wait as I did today. It’s just that I have to test how long I can go between these wretched attacks.”

“What do they feel like?” de Jersey asked.

“Excruciating migraine, dizzy, sick. But my pills sort me out, really they do.”

De Jersey patted his shoulder. “Okay, old chap, I believe you. Just rest here a while, and when you feel up to it, come and join us.”

“Thank you.”

De Jersey began to confer with Wilcox and Driscoll about the look-alike. “We take her straight to the Aldersgate warehouse. Try to keep her calm, maybe even let her think that that’s where we’ll be filming. Not until we have her secure inside do we give her the details. We need her standing by earlier to be sure, I’m thinking now maybe six o’clock, seven at the latest, so we can prime her. Meanwhile we need to get to her husband fast. There’ll be no need for any rough stuff.”

Pamela broke in. “If the Queen becomes troublesome, what should I do?”

“She won’t if we’re threatening her husband.”

Driscoll snorted. “If it was me and you had my wife, I’d tell you to keep her!”

Later that evening, when everyone except Wilcox, Driscoll, and de Jersey had left, de Jersey asked them for their opinion. He believed he had come up with a solution to the panic alarms. He opened the diagrams he’d printed off from the CD. “The power source for the alarms is located here, in what would have been the old coal chute.” He pointed to a spot on the diagram. “The on-street chute access has been cemented over, so the only way into it is from inside the house.” De Jersey marked it as he spoke.