Rika stormed back across the field, and Wilcox wiped his nose with the sleeve of his overall. If he had felt shame before, he now felt it doubly, and upon his return he could not meet the eyes of the young mechanic, who tried hard to appear as if nothing had happened.
Wilcox patted the boy’s shoulder. “Can I leave you to finish up here?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied shyly.
Wilcox let himself into the house through the mudroom, which was cluttered with kids’ skates, Wellington boots, fishing rods, and skateboards. Racks of kids’ clothes hung in various sizes and lengths, along with overcoats, raincoats, riding hats. Wilcox kicked off his muddy shoes and stripped off his overall, adding it to the pile of clothes discarded in a corner. The phone rang as he passed the big pine table in the kitchen already set for tea. Four of the six kids were expected, and that meant their friends too. His house was always jammed with kids of every shape and size. They had an entire floor to themselves, with a big games room full of equipment, computers, and computer games, but seemed to prefer running wild, wrecking the place.
He snorted another couple of lines in the en suite bathroom upstairs, then lay down on the quilted bedspread. Deep down he knew the cause of his anguish; with de Jersey having lost so much money, his plans to regain it would be illegal. Wilcox knew he was already involved. Loyalty and need ran too deep to say no.
The swelling had gone down, but Royal Flush was still lame. The vet was observing him in the indoor exercise arena.
“What the hell is the matter with him?” De Jersey was beside himself with anxiety.
The vet was at a loss. “I’ve X-rayed him, checked and double-checked, but I can find nothing that would stop him putting weight on that leg. It might be psychosomatic-he avoids using the leg because he remembers the pain it caused.”
“So what do we do?”
“Encourage him until he forgets. Next time he does a good run, make a fuss of him.”
De Jersey stroked the horse’s head. “You old so-and-so. Need a bit of love, do you?”
The horse pushed his head into de Jersey’s chest. He was after peppermints, and de Jersey slipped him one.
De Jersey went to Fleming’s office in a darkened mood. The vet had apologetically requested that he cover his quarterly bill; the usual check had bounced.
When de Jersey expressed his indignation to the bank manager, inquiring why he had not been contacted about this refusal of payment, the man suggested they discuss the matter in his office. De Jersey persisted and was horrified to hear how far his account was into the red. Of course all he had to do was transfer funds from his other major account, but the incident demonstrated just how quickly money was draining away.
He still had his account in the Caymans, and he could keep the yard running, with a few cost-cutting exercises, for another six to eight months, but he would have to prepare for the money running dry altogether.
When Fleming came back to the office, de Jersey dropped the bombshell. “Sell off the east wing,” he said. “Contact Tattersalls and add our entries to the next catalog. I’d like you to contact some bloodstock agents about selling privately. I made a bad investment, but I should recoup my losses shortly,” he said, feigning confidence.
“Is there anything I can do?” Fleming asked tentatively. “I’ve got a few thousand saved, and if it’s just a short-term problem…”
De Jersey put his arm around him. “It is, but I want to be careful. I don’t want to get into real financial difficulties. We just have to ease the strain for a few months until I can release some more investments.”
“When you said to sell off the east wing,” Fleming said, “you didn’t mean that Cute Queenie should go too, did you?” He was referring to the old gray mare de Jersey always rode himself.
“Yes, let her go. Get whatever you can for her.” He clenched his fist, wanting to punch something, anything.
“Whatever you say.”
Christina had hardly seen her husband recently; he spent more and more time in the City. So she was happy when he suggested they go to Monaco for a week. For de Jersey, the trip meant they would be away when the east wing horses were led away. Christina would not be privy to what was going on. While in Monaco he planned to attend a race meeting, check on the state of his offshore accounts, and touch base with Paul Dulay, alias Philip Christian, alias Gérard Laroque, alias Jay Marriot, alias Fredrik Marceau.
De Jersey and Christina flew to Monaco in a private plane. A suite at the Hôtel de Paris had been booked. De Jersey had been a regular customer over the years, and champagne, caviar, fresh fruit, and large bowls of glorious flowers welcomed them.
They hoped the weather would be mild, but it was almost as cold and wet as London. Christina had to unpack. They were going to the casinos that evening, so she needed to press her evening wear. She had also booked hair and manicure appointments and a massage. She felt like being cosseted, and de Jersey encouraged her to enjoy herself.
Telling her he would take a walk, he headed straight for the exclusive shopping malls not a hundred yards from the hotel. He carried an umbrella and, in his immaculate gray pin-striped suit and brogues, looked every inch the wealthy Englishman. He paused by Paul Dulay’s small, elegant jewelry shop in a corner of the arcade. The main window displayed a diamond tiara and matching necklace. A smaller display at the side boasted an array of emerald rings and earrings.
There was a camera positioned to observe the arrival of each customer at the entrance to the shop. De Jersey pressed the bell once, and the door buzzed open. The sales assistant asked if she could help him.
“Is Paul Dulay here?”
“Oui, Monsieur. May I ask who wishes to see him?”
“Philip Simmons.”
The assistant disappeared through a mahogany-paneled door. De Jersey wandered around the reception area. A velvet-covered chair stood close to a Louis XIV table on which lay a black leather visitors’ book, a white telephone, and a credit-card machine. A few display cases were visible, exhibiting even more opulent jewels than were in the window. De Jersey took note of the security cameras swiveling to keep him in focus.
In the back room, Dulay was selecting diamonds from a black velvet cloth. He used a jeweler’s magnifying glass and a pair of long, delicate tweezers.
“Monsieur, there is a gentleman to see you.”
He looked up, irritated.
“A Mr. Philip Simmons.”
Dulay removed the eyeglass. “Show him-” His breath caught in his chest. He found his voice and told her to take Mr. Simmons into the private showroom.
Sweat had broken out over his entire body. He packed away the stones, then gritted his teeth. He could not stop shaking. Approaching the inner door, he looked through the two-way glass and saw that it was indeed Simmons. His heart rate increased. Dulay took a deep breath and went in.
10
Paul Dulay, though no more than five foot nine, was broad-shouldered and had a large face. He had aged considerably since their last meeting in South Africa, where Dulay was buying stones for a top French jewelry design company. He had been at De Beers to negotiate for them. He and de Jersey had stayed at the same hotel in Pretoria. De Jersey was already using the name Philip Simmons and traveling on a fake passport. They had formed a loose friendship over a misunderstanding about their rooms. De Jersey’s purpose in South Africa was to make a contact who could move the stock of gold bullion he intended to steal. The confusion, however, benefited him.
One evening Dulay was in the hotel bar quite drunk, having just been fired by the Paris-based company. He refused to divulge reasons, just ranted at the bastards who would steal his designs. He rambled on morosely about his prowess with gold. Finally, gazing into his drink he said that, with a bad reputation, it would be hard for him to get into another legitimate company.