Royal Heist (31 page)

Christina said nothing.

“Well, as I said, I really don’t want to speak to her, and I was wondering if you would be kind enough to call her for me as you knew David so well.”

Christina sighed again. She could see no way out of it. “I’ll call her for you, Helen.”

“Oh, thank you. Please would you ask her to send me the details of the insurance policy. I’d be most grateful.”

Christina took down Sylvia’s number and Helen’s in Devon and said she would call her back as soon as she had contacted Sylvia. She hung up feeling irritated. She had no interest in Helen or her sister, especially when she considered what David Lyons had done to her husband. She lit a cigarette before she rang Sylvia. There was no reply. She made another call to Dublin, to the Westcliffe Hotel, where her husband usually stayed. She was told that Mr. de Jersey had not booked in, and they were not expecting him. This time she slammed the receiver down. Another lie! She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another immediately.

The phone rang, and she snatched it up. “Yes?”

“Christina, it’s Helen. Did you call her?”

“Yes, there was no reply.”

“Did you try her office? I did give you her work number as well, didn’t I?”

“No.”

Helen gave Christina Sylvia’s work number, thanked her profusely, and apologized again.

“Helen, I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve spoken to Sylvia. So there’s no need for you to ring me again. Good-bye now.”

Christina hung up. She felt like weeping. She sat smoking one cigarette after another, then forced herself to leave the kitchen. She’d change the beds and see to the laundry. After that she’d return to the study. She would go through every document she could find. When her husband returned home she would be ready for him, and this time she wanted answers, not lies.

Once everything had been transported to the warehouse, they cleared the barn. De Jersey and Driscoll spent hours cleaning up. They didn’t leave a scrap of evidence. The stove, the heaters, and the big lamps were all removed. They lit a bonfire to burn the waste, the paper cups, the rubber gloves. With only twenty-four hours to go, it was the calm before the storm.

De Jersey tapped the window of the Mercedes. In a chauffeur’s uniform behind the wheel, Driscoll lowered the window. “It’s time,” de Jersey said. “Let’s get the ball rolling.”

The Mercedes was owned by Wilcox but had fake number plates and would be driven to the crusher the minute they were done with it. Wilcox gave the thumbs-up, and Driscoll drove out of the warehouse. It was four fifteen in the morning on May 2. They left de Jersey alone to wait for the rest of the team to arrive. As they drove away, he looked at his watch. In a few hours the waiting would all be over.

“It’s five o’clock,” Eric Stanley said, a fraction before the alarm sounded. His wife, Maureen, lay next to him, her hair in pin curls. She sat bolt upright.

“Breakfast?” Eric asked, standing next to the bed with a tray that held a lightly boiled egg, two slices of buttered toast, and a cup of tea.

“You spoil me,” Maureen said.

By six, Eric had his wife’s little suitcase packed. She always took a few changes of clothes to advertisement shoots, because if they supplied them the skirts were always too long. For this one she had been asked to bring her own anyway. She had chosen a blue tweed coat with a velvet collar. She also had a hat in a box and a pleated skirt and blouse to go beneath the coat. Although they usually supplied a makeup artist, she made up her face carefully as she knew the exact shade of base and lipstick required. She must never look overly made-up. That would be a dead giveaway.

Eric helped her into a raincoat. Though it was still dark, he could see it was cloudy, and he handed her a small folding umbrella. “You all set, darling?” he asked.

“I am. Is the car here?”

“I’ll go and check.” Eric opened the front door, walked down the path, and stood at the gate. A Mercedes was heading down the road.

Eric returned to the house and called, “They’re here, dear, just coming to the drive.” He turned as the Mercedes drew up behind his own car.

The driver stepped out, his hat pulled low, almost hiding his face. “Morning, I’ve come to collect—” At that moment she came out of the house, carrying the suitcase, hatbox, and handbag.

“I’m ready,” said Maureen pleasantly and turned her cheek to her husband for a good-bye kiss. Another man stepped out and opened the rear door of the Mercedes, taking her case as he helped her inside. The driver asked Eric if he could use their bathroom. Eric gestured for him to follow him inside. In the car, the second man placed a rug around Maureen’s knees, then closed the door and got into the front passenger seat.

“What on earth are they doing?” she asked after five minutes had passed and the driver had still not returned.

“He’s had a bit of trouble with his prostate,” the man replied.

At last the driver came out, red in the face, and closed the front door. As they drove out, Maureen looked back toward the house. “That’s odd,” she said. “My husband always waves me off to work. It’s a little ritual we have. I’m a very lucky woman.” She settled back. Sometimes his undivided attention got on her nerves a little. But, as Eric said so many times, his queen was worth taking care of.

Maureen Stanley had made her career as Queen Elizabeth’s look-alike. She was almost the same age and, like the Queen, was cutting down on the amount of work she took on. Millennium year had been fantastic, and she had often had two engagements on the same night. She enjoyed the television work more, though, than the special appearances.

“Where are we filming?” she asked Driscoll.

“Close to the BBC radio studios.”

After about ten minutes, Driscoll saw that she had fallen asleep, her head lolling forward. He looked at her and smiled at Wilcox. “Dead ringer, isn’t she?” he said softly.

“Yeah. Did all go to plan back at the house?”

“Yep. He’s comfortable, can’t hurt himself. Tucked him up on the sofa.” He glanced again at Eric’s wife, who was unaware that her beloved husband had been drugged and tied up. Eric had been bending over the hall table looking at some leaflet that had been pushed through his letter box for window cleaning when Driscoll placed his left arm across the small man’s chest and injected his right buttock through his trousers. Eric had tried to fend him off, but the sedative had acted quickly and his body had sagged.

“What . . . what have you done?” he’d gasped.

“Put you to sleep for a few hours, pal, nothing to worry about. You’ll have a bit of a headache when you wake up, that’s all.”

At six thirty, the Mercedes arrived at the Aldersgate warehouse. As the doors closed behind it, Maureen woke up. “Are we here?” she asked, looking around the large warehouse in surprise. “This isn’t the BBC, is it?”

Driscoll turned and smiled. “No, ma’am, it isn’t. Would you like to get out of the car? There’s coffee and doughnuts.”

“Thank you, I’ve had my breakfast.” She glanced around the vast warehouse.

“I’ll take you to your dressing room, then.” Driscoll opened the door for her. By the time she was settled, Wilcox was driving the Mercedes across London to be destroyed. Driscoll then set off again to pick up a rented furniture-removal van. It would play a major role in the getaway, and the team had prepared stickers to cover the name of the rental company and the number plate.

The dressing room was a small room off the main warehouse space, previously used for storing clothes and accessories. It contained a dressing table with a mirror, a comfortable chair, and a heater. Maureen was ushered inside and told to wait for someone to come and see to her hair and makeup. She nodded and put down her suitcase. She opened it to take out her clothes. A few items were already hanging on a rail. They were all expensive, with Aquascutum and Harrods labels, but she could see at a glance that they were too long. Why don’t they get their facts right? she thought. The Queen is tiny.

Outside the dressing room, there was a lot of movement. The Daimlers were ready and being given a final polish. Pamela was next to arrive, and de Jersey gestured for her to join him at the back of the warehouse. He told her their Queen was in the dressing room still unaware of her role, and he wanted her kept in the dark for as long as possible.

Pamela seemed relaxed but was chain-smoking. She poured herself a coffee. “I’ll go and get changed, keep her company.” She surveyed the warehouse. “Westbrook here yet?”

De Jersey checked his watch. “He’s due at eight. You all set?”

“Yes, of course. It’s rather like opening night at the theater.” She chortled.

De Jersey smiled. Pamela had been a great choice. “You’re a special lady,” he said softly.

“I know, darling. Pity I can’t find a decent fella who thinks so too.” She raised an eyebrow and sipped her coffee. “Maybe with all the loot I’ll get from this I’ll find me a nice boy-toy.” Then she went to the dressing room, knocked, and entered.

Even though she had been prepared to see her coartist, Pamela was taken aback by Maureen’s eerie likeness to the Queen.

“Morning, darling,” she said. “I’m your lady-in-waiting. We’ve got to shack up in here for a while before they take us to the location.” She plonked down her coffee and drew up the only hard-backed chair.

“Do you have the script?” Maureen asked, still fussing with her clothes.

“No, sweetheart, I don’t. The director will let us know what we have to do.”

Maureen nodded. She always liked to have the script well before they filmed so she knew what would be required.

“Did you want a coffee?” Pamela asked, taking out another cigarette.

“No, thank you.”

As Pamela held the lighter to the end of the cigarette, she saw that her hands were shaking. For all her bravado, she was nervous. She knew she had to ignore the butterflies starting in the pit of her stomach. She had come too far to back out now.

“Do you play cards?” Maureen asked hopefully.

“I do, darling! Have you got a pack with you?”

Maureen produced one from her handbag. “Never without! These shoots are so boring. They always get you here far too early, don’t you think?”

Wilcox and Driscoll returned in plenty of time. Wilcox couldn’t help but admire the Daimlers, which were polished like mirrors. The bikes stood beside them. He turned sharply as the gate opened and the two bikers entered. Hall and Short gave him a cool nod, but Wilcox kept his distance from them. To all intents and purposes, they were hired villains and to Wilcox the most dangerous to security, but de Jersey and Driscoll had assured him they were reliable. They went to change into their police uniforms, leaving Wilcox to continue checking the Daimlers. He looked up as Driscoll appeared with coffee.

“You can’t get them any cleaner,” Driscoll said. He noticed the two bikers. “Nice to see they’re on time.” He moved closer to Wilcox. “The one on the right did twelve years for that Asprey and Garrard jewel heist. The one on the left was inside for fifteen. Same kind of gig but got out over the wall about a year ago.”

Wilcox changed the subject. “The Colonel told me he was straight with that Hewitt woman.” He tossed the duster aside.

“What do you think he meant by that?”

Wilcox gave a shrug. “Well, he paid her off, I guess.”

“This has sure cost him a bundle.”

Wilcox nodded. Then he smiled. “But what a payout we’re in line for!”

They grinned and slapped hands, each man as tense as the other but refusing to admit it.

Westbrook arrived in a navy blue pin-striped suit, a blue shirt with a starched white collar and cuffs, his old Eton school tie with a pearl pin, and a rose in his lapel. He had washed his hair and combed it back from his high forehead. Even his teeth appeared whiter. His pallor, however, was sickly, and his luminous eyes were far too bright. He had taken his first hit of speed.

“Morning, Colonel,” he chirped in the familiar upper-crust drawl. He executed a small pivot turn on the heels of his new Gucci loafers. “How do I look?”

“Good.” De Jersey glanced down at his socks: no holes. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thank you. Is H.M. installed yet?” He fiddled with his kid gloves.

“She’s in the dressing room with Pamela. She’s not been told her script yet, so take care what you say to her and remind Pamela not to remove her gloves. That goes for you too. The place has been cleaned.”

“Fine. Any coffee on?”

“Help yourself.” De Jersey looked at his watch. It was coming up to eight o’clock. They would leave the warehouse at ten twenty-five exactly. He watched Westbrook stroll across to the coffeepot, and his heart went out to him. He was so well dressed it was hard to believe that he was the same messed-up creature de Jersey had been worried about. He just hoped to God that his lordship could keep up the pretense.

Westbrook tapped on the door and entered the dressing room, and de Jersey heard Pamela shriek at how gorgeous he looked. So far, so good. Everything and everyone was on time. De Jersey changed into a cheap polyester suit, black shoes and socks, a white shirt and black tie. He used a nasty silver tiepin and tucked a handkerchief into his breast pocket. He stared at himself. He looked every inch the private security guard, down to his large frame. He sat down, opened his briefcase, and removed an expensive wig of fine reddish hair. It was the one he had worn in the Hamptons, along with matching mustache and eyebrows. He spent some time carefully gluing the mustache into place and even longer adjusting the eyebrows and wig. Satisfied, he peeled off the surgical gloves, replacing them with soft black leather ones.

He spent another half hour spraying every surface that might reveal fingerprints or DNA. He had already sprayed and cleaned the coffee mugs and food area. The trash had been collected in a black bin liner, which he would incinerate. He wanted to be sure that there wasn’t a single print or clue left to identify him or anyone else in the team. He put down his briefcase and clicked it open. It contained his cell phone—the vital link to Raymond Marsh. Now all Marsh had to do was get the right code word. If he didn’t come up with the goods, they were screwed.