The hands at the Cornell quarantine stables led Bandit Queen down from the trailer, impressed by her size and obvious quality. She had a smallish head, almost Arab, with a powerful neck and a strong, muscular body. The foal she was carrying was not showing to a great extent. She was checked by a vet, who found that the long journey had not upset her, and she ate her first feed hungrily. Her coat gleamed in the late-afternoon sun.
By the end of May, de Jersey, now comfortable with his new name, contacted the law firm to which he had sent the crate of paintings, saying he would collect it personally. He drove there in a rented Jeep, walked into their offices, handed over his documents, and paid for the delivery. Then he drove to a warehouse they used for storage of their clients’ possessions. This was not an unusual transaction; the nomadic nature of many homeowners in the Hamptons meant that lawyers acted as “house carers,” paying bills and monitoring properties during the winter months, when they were vacant. De Jersey put the crate into the Jeep and returned to his house. He took out twenty thousand dollars, then hid the rest in waterproof plastic bags beneath the floorboards.
Over the last month he had aged considerably and lost a substantial amount of weight. Like Driscoll and Wilcox, he now had a full beard. He hardly went out unless to buy groceries. He bought from the local farmers’ markets and ate good, fresh food, trying to build up his strength, and every day he called to check on his unborn foal. At the quarantine stables they became used to the soft-toned voice of the man they had never met. “Hello, this is Michael Shaughnessy. How’s my lady?” he’d ask. He said he was hoping to leave Ireland shortly and gave no indication that he was already living in East Hampton.
De Jersey looked around for a property where he could eventually stable the mare and foal. Beneath the floorboards he had more than enough to keep him for many years, and when he eventually discovered a way to get his hands on the Moreno property, he would retire in luxury. His long-term plan was to open a racing stable in Virginia. Until then he was content to bide his time. The locals were aware that there was a new resident along the bay, but they made no approach. That was part of the joy of the Hamptons, the privacy: you could be social if you liked, or remain incognito. It was an artists’ colony, too, and the gaunt man with the long coat and beard fitted in. The beaches were always empty, and he took early-morning walks to watch the sun rise. He clambered over the rocks and sat contemplating his life, his future, and thinking of Christina, of his daughters, wishing that it had turned out differently. This, however, was the only way he could stay free, if lonely.
De Jersey had plenty of time to think about Driscoll and Wilcox, but there was no remorse. In fact, he had none for anything he had done, except perhaps Sylvia Hewitt, but that had been necessary. Believing that helped him come to terms with her death. He had no intention of returning to England, or watching the Derby, whatever anyone hunting for him might think. He had no need to go home. Bandit Queen was expecting his champion’s foal. He was certain that he had got away with it and that one day he would win the Derby with Royal Flush’s foal.
His conversation with Fleming and the vet was further confirmation to Chief Superintendent Rodgers that he was dealing with a complex man in Edward de Jersey. His father had been a bookie, yet de Jersey was able to mix with Royalty at one moment and steal the Crown Jewels at the next. As the squad car drove away from the estate, he looked at Sara. “What do you think?”
She gave a rueful smile. “I don’t think anyone really knew him.”
“Well, I’m damn well going to, because I’m gonna catch the bugger. Then I’m gonna retire.”
Rodgers decided he had to go back into the past to find out what made de Jersey tick. De Jersey had no previous criminal record, but Rodgers found old news coverage and articles on his father’s betting shops and the feuds between rival East End gangs. There was little information about either father or son, but there had been a memorial service for the well-liked bookie. He had asked for his ashes to be spread over the Epsom racecourse on Derby Day, but permission had been denied.
Rodgers, again with Sara’s assistance, now checked out births, marriages, and deaths, and discovered de Jersey’s birth certificate. He was older than Rodgers had believed, which fueled him to unearth even more about the man. He checked medical and school records. He checked Fleming’s comment that de Jersey had been at Sandhurst and found out that he had been discharged due to a complex knee injury that had required delicate surgery. It was Sara who discovered that James Wilcox had been at Sandhurst at the same time as de Jersey and, like him, had been forced to leave, although for different reasons.
At night, in the privacy of his home, Rodgers pieced together the paper trail; it fascinated him. Sara helped to uncover further details of de Jersey’s past on the computer, and Rodgers studied his career in the estate business. Sara acquired tax records, which showed his growing affluence, but nothing told them how he had acquired wealth enough to buy the luxurious estate. Now Rodgers concentrated on finding a past link between de Jersey and Driscoll. After hours of checking and cross-referencing, he was certain he was on to something: both Driscoll’s and Wilcox’s affluence coincided with de Jersey’s, all shortly after the Gold Bullion Robbery. Before he discussed his findings with his team, Rodgers instructed Sara to try to find when de Jersey had acquired the “de” in his name. She produced details of his first wife, Gail, whom he had married when he was still called Eddie Jersey. Remarried twice, she was now divorced and living in a mews house in Chelsea. Sara gave Rodgers her phone number.
The ex-Mrs. Jersey did not at first agree to be interviewed but eventually acquiesced. Rodgers hung up and looked at Sara. He would take her with him. After all, it was she who had put the idea of tracing de Jersey’s history of crime into his head. “You busy?” he asked.
“I was just about to type up the interview statement from the farmer who leased de Jersey the barn,” Sara said. “The forensic team is still at work, though it’s looking like their efforts aren’t producing much.”
“Trudy, can you take that over? Sara, I want you with me.”
Trudy pulled a face. “I can,” she told Rodgers, “but I’ve got information that Philip Simmons, a.k.a. Edward de Jersey, paid money into Gregory Jones’s mother’s account. Fifty grand!”
“Good work, and if that lying bastard thinks he’s going to a cushy open prison, he’s got another think coming.” He turned to Sara. “I need you for maybe a couple of hours, okay?” he said, and she closed down her computer. “Order a car for us, will you?”
Sara hurried out after Rodgers, who was pressing the lift button. “I need you to come and interview de Jersey’s first wife with me. She’s agreed to see us.”
“Why? You think she knows where he is?”
“I just want a clearer picture of the man.”
The small but expensive house was in Glebe Place, and Gail Raynor herself opened the front door. She was rather brittle and unforthcoming as she led them into a pleasant sitting room. She did not wait to be asked but went into a terse speech, saying that she realized they had come about her ex-husband but that she had not seen or had any contact with him for over twenty-five years. She had read the news coverage regarding his connection to the robbery, so she had thought they might want to speak to her, but she was not harboring him, she assured them. “And if he did make contact, I would waste no time in calling the police. It was a despicable crime, and I’m glad it failed. The stolen gems are now back, I hope, in safer hands than they were before.”