While the bank assessed his details, de Jersey waited, and when everything was cleared, he rented a flat in Kilburn on-line. The company sent his keys to his post-office box, and de Jersey arranged for the domestic bills to be paid via the Net.
Two days later he returned to London, collected the keys, and traveled by bus, an experience he hadn’t had in years, to Philip Simmons’s new abode. The flat was two flights up and as seedy as he had expected for the price he was paying. It had that stale-food smell and orange-colored, foam-filled furniture. At least the bathroom and kitchen were clean and in working order. He had purchased two mobile phones in the name of Simmons, via the Internet, and another computer. The deliveries arrived within half an hour of each other. Now all de Jersey needed was a link to his own computer that could be destroyed at a moment’s notice. For this he would have to have more help from Raymond Marsh.
By the time de Jersey returned home, Christina was in bed. He got in and nuzzled her neck. “Sorry I’m so late. It’s been another day of meetings. David Lyons certainly left me in a mess.”
She turned sleepily. “Tell me about it in the morning.”
“I love you,” he whispered.
7
De Jersey played the perfect host to his in-laws. At the Tower of London, when they followed the guide into the main chamber where the jewels were on display, de Jersey was so eager to hear the guide’s description that he kept stepping on the man’s heels. Then he stopped dead. There, in all its glory, was the Queen Mother’s platinum crown with the dazzling Koh-i-noor Diamond. Ahead, he noticed an empty case and a small plaque stating “In Use.” A thought struck him: the jewels were occasionally taken out of the Tower. He hurried to ask the guide.
“The empty display back there, what’s the crown being used for?” he asked.
“The Queen has gone to Norway and will be wearing some of the jewels.”
“Could there be an occasion when they are all in use?”
“I doubt it. There’ll be a few cases empty for the Golden Jubilee celebrations, but if there’s not a good enough selection, we offer reductions.”
“What crown will Her Majesty be wearing for the Jubilee?”
The guide shuffled impatiently. “One of the smaller ones. That one”-he pointed to the crown with the Koh-i-noor Diamond-“weighs a ton. There’s over a hundred carats’ worth of diamond in that one big stone alone. Would you mind moving on now, sir? The next tour is coming through.” He moved on toward a display case. De Jersey barely glanced at the sumptuous crown as he walked away.
James Wilcox arrived at the Ritz early. He was wearing one of his designer suits. Over the years he had become fastidious about his clothes and accessories. He ordered a vodka martini at the bar. De Jersey had booked a suite on the second floor under the name of Simmons, as usual. Wilcox ate the cashew nuts provided and unwrapped a cigar.
“How you doing, my old son?” Driscoll said, plonking himself down on a stool next to him.
“I’ve been better. I’ve been over it all with that assistant at Lyons’s office.”
“Tell me about it.” Driscoll ordered a chilled glass of Chablis.
“I’m skint. You able to salvage anything?”
“I’ve got a few thousand here and there, own some property, but… yeah, bulk went into the leading fucking leisurewear.”
“Fuck me. Pair of us must have been crazy. I remember Ronnie Jersey saying to me once, ‘Tony, learn from these punters coming in day after day. You might get lucky once, but you’ll have ten nonrunners and it’s not worth throwing hard-earned money away.’ I kept on pouring everything I had into that damn company.”
“Schmucks the pair of us.” Wilcox drained his martini.
“I remember one day at Ronnie’s, we’d got a surefire winner. In those days there was none of the TV sets in the betting shops, and we listened to the radio.”
“Don’t start the Ronnie Jersey stories again,” Wilcox moaned.
“I’m not, I’m not, I am just saying-”
“I’m not in the mood.” Wilcox sucked on his olive.
“Oh, excuse me for living.”
They sat in silence a moment.
Driscoll looked at Wilcox’s suit. “What’s with the satin lining?”
“I like it.”
“Bit bright, isn’t it? Suit’s a good cut, though. Pity to ruin it with the cuffs turned back like that.”
“I ordered the cuffs that way!” Wilcox snapped.
“How much that suit set you back then? Go on.”
“With thirty-odd million, I wasn’t quibbling over how much a friggin’ suit was going to set me back. Change the subject.”
Driscoll took out a slim cigar. “You want one of these?”
“No. You want another drink?”
Driscoll nodded. Wilcox signaled the barman.
“You see that race then…”
“Tony, I don’t wanna hear about fucking Ronnie and-”
“I’m not talking about the old days. I’m talking about Ascot; the Colonel’s horse romped home. Royal Flush. It’s called Royal Flush.”
“You know something that you do,” Wilcox said. “You’ve always done it. You repeat things twice.”
“I do not. I don’t.”
“Yes you do, you just did it then.”
“I didn’t. No, I did not.”
“You just did it again!”
Driscoll then leaned in close. “He’s here. Shit, he looks good. See him talking to the doorman?”
De Jersey was a hard man to miss, in his brown trilby and a brown tweed suit. He looked very much the racing gentleman, right down to his checked shirt and brown brogues. He made his way to the restaurant and disappeared.
“What’s he doing? Isn’t he goin’ up to the suite?”
“Looks like he’s gonna have lunch.”
At the entrance to the Ritz restaurant, de Jersey was chatting with the maître d’. Then he returned to the lobby as if to leave the hotel. But instead of going toward the front door, he turned sharply and headed for the stairs.
“He’s putting himself about a bit, isn’t he?” Driscoll said softly.
“I reckon it’s time we went. Split up as usual, okay?”
Wilcox tapped on the door and entered. The spacious suite was furnished with elegant, Regency-style furniture and thick gold curtains. A polished mahogany table displayed salmon, cheese, and a large bowl of fruit salad with cream. De Jersey was opening a bottle of champagne.
“Tony’s coming up via the stairs,” Wilcox said, closing the door. “You look fit-all that riding, I suppose.”
“You’re in pretty good shape yourself,” de Jersey said. “I’m sorry about all this.”
“So am I.”
De Jersey popped the cork and placed the bottle in the ice bucket. “Good to see you, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, we go back a long way, you and me.” Wilcox crossed the room to hug him.
Driscoll came into the room as Wilcox was accepting a glass of champagne.
“Christ, my knees. I tell you, I’m falling apart. I got to the second floor and thought I was having a heart attack.” He shook hands with de Jersey. “Still holding up well. How do you think the years have treated me, then?” Of the three men, Driscoll showed his age the most.
De Jersey poured him a glass of champagne, then made a toast. “To meeting under better circumstances next time.”
When de Jersey sat down, they followed suit, chatting relaxedly about their families, then enjoying their meal. Driscoll remembered to congratulate de Jersey on his win at Royal Ascot.
“It’s the Derby next,” de Jersey enthused. “He’ll do it. He’s the best colt I’ve ever had. Oh, I meant to ask. Did you ever know someone called Harry Smedley? He came up to me at the racetrack. Said we were at school together, but I can’t for the life of me remember him.”
Driscoll was wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Yeah, I remember him. He was at the comprehensive with us-well, with me. He’d have been in the class below me. Little kid with a big head.”