Driscoll nodded, unconvinced.
De Jersey went on. “It means a lot to me that you’ve both offered to help.”
Driscoll sighed. “You’re worth it.”
“I’ll talk to James,” de Jersey said. “He won’t know it came from you. It’s obvious to me, too, when he’s high.”
Driscoll drove away, the dog staring out of the rear window. De Jersey watched the car go. He had suspected Wilcox of doing coke. He would have to keep an eye on him. Wilcox had always been a bit on the wild side, but in the end he delivered.
This time he would deliver even faster than de Jersey expected. That afternoon he got a call from Wilcox saying he might have located the vehicles. He’d seen an ad in Motor News, and he was going to check it out.
The following morning, Wilcox walked along the cobbled mews behind Leicester city center and paused outside a double garage. A peeling “Hudson’s Weddings and Funerals” plaque hung precariously from a rusty nail on the garage door. He had parked his Ferrari a good distance away, outside a large petrol station. He’d asked the proprietor to check the oil and fuel, telling him he would return soon.
The double garage appeared to be locked, and Wilcox stepped back, annoyed. But when he gave a really hard knock, there was the sound of footsteps. The door creaked open, and a short, wiry man with bifocal glasses peered out. He had iron gray hair in a spiky crew cut and was wearing oil-stained overalls. Ken Hudson was seventy and suffered from glaucoma. He gestured for Wilcox to follow him into the gloomy garage.
It was larger than it had appeared from the outside, with four covered vehicles parked in a square. Hudson switched on a yellowish light and launched into a monologue on his now defunct wedding and funeral business. He was selling everything, including the tools, the paint-spraying and car-cleaning equipment, the four vehicles. Wilcox poked around the small back office, which was home to a kettle and a small camping stove.
Hudson squinted at him through his thick glasses. “You wanna look at the vehicles?”
Wilcox smiled and shrugged. “Eh, Pops, I can shift the hearses, but they’re not what I’m after. I want to make this a paint shop, respray cars, stuff like that. I’ll take ’em, but it’s the premises I’m primarily interested in. What’s your asking price? It’ll be cash, so don’t play silly buggers.” Wilcox lifted a tarpaulin and discovered a Daimler.
“Ten thousand,” Hudson said.
“I’ll give you eight, cash.”
Hudson paused. “All right, but that’s a damn good price.”
The deal done, Hudson brought out the grubby documents, signed everything over to “Tom Hall,” and gave him a receipt for the cash. After another fifteen minutes of small talk, the old boy handed over the keys and left. When he was alone Wilcox dragged the tarpaulin off each of the Daimlers. They were exactly what de Jersey had requested. Two were hearses and two had been used for weddings, but not for some time. Mildew and cobwebs threaded across the seats. Wilcox inspected each vehicle’s engine. He would use two for parts, and it would take a lot of elbow grease to get that bodywork gleaming again.
Before driving back to London, he purchased a book on the Royals and, using a magnifying glass, checked out their Daimlers. He would need to make a copy of the mascot fitted to the Queen’s car. He also had to match the seat colors. It would take time, but he was in no hurry. It was still early days. In some ways it was good to have something to take his mind off his financial problems, and as the Colonel had said, if it didn’t work out and he wanted to walk away, he could. He was just carrying out orders, as he had in the past.
Later that day de Jersey arrived outside Sylvia Hewitt’s apartment block in St. John’s Wood. He had telephoned from a small café along the high street. Helen answered and told him that Sylvia was not at home but that she expected her at any moment.
“Would you like her to call you at home?”
“No, I’m in London. In fact, I’m not far from St. John’s Wood. May I come round tonight?”
“Of course,” Helen gushed.
“Good. I’ll see you shortly then.”
He snapped his cell phone shut and sat with his cappuccino, wondering how to approach the matter. He had to find out the private investigator’s name and, more important, if the PI had discovered anything that would lead Sylvia to him.
Helen opened the front door. She looked dreadful, even thinner than before. “Sylvia’s on her way. I called her office and she was just leaving.” She gestured for him to follow her into the drawing room. “Would you like some tea?”
“That would be nice,” he said. “I’ve had a long day.”
Helen clasped her hands. “I’ll just slip out to the high street. There’s a very good deli, wonderful cakes, unless…”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble but I’m a sucker for chocolate éclairs.”
Helen tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be two minutes. Would you like the television on?”
“No, thanks. It’ll be nice to sit here and relax.”
As soon as he heard the front door close, de Jersey was on his feet. He searched the room, then looked through the rest of the apartment, walking past the immaculate kitchen and bathroom to Sylvia’s bedroom. He was fast and careful, first her wardrobe, then her dressing table. Last he searched her bedside table and, in one of the drawers, discovered a photograph of her with David Lyons, several letters, and Sylvia’s birth certificate and driving license. He hurried from the bedroom into a small adjoining room she used as her office, where he uncovered the mail from Matheson in New York, his carefully listed expenses and updates of his investigation. Then he heard the front door open and was caught near the bedroom door. He smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, where’s the bathroom?”
Helen pointed to a door opposite as she made her way into the kitchen.
He went in and closed the door. Then he read one of the letters he’d taken from the bedroom. It was a love letter from David to Sylvia.
It was almost five thirty when Sylvia arrived. De Jersey stood up to shake her hand. Helen seemed as relieved as he was to see her. “If you two will excuse me, I think I’ll just go and have a lie-down. I hardly sleep at all these days,” she said.
“I’ll wake you for dinner,” Sylvia said.
She took off her coat and gestured for de Jersey to sit down. “I suppose you’ve heard all about her depression. I have to listen to it day and night, and it’s becoming a strain.” She tossed her coat over a chair and sat primly opposite him. “After everything is settled I think she’ll have enough to buy a small place of her own. These things take so much time, though. We’ve sold the house, or what was left of it after the fire, but poor David was in a dreadful mess. The house was in both their names, but he’d even remortgaged that. Helen just signed whatever he put in front of her.” She sipped her tea. “For a while the police and the fire specialist were suspicious of the way the fire had started, but in the end they couldn’t find anything, so the insurance company was forced to pay up. At least Helen has salvaged something from this mess.”
“Unlike you,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“I understand that you also invested money in the Internet company.”
“How did you find that out?” Sylvia asked, surprised.
“You aren’t the only one with access to information, Miss Hewitt.”
“Helen still doesn’t know I was one of the unlucky investors,” she said. “I’d prefer to keep it that way, at least for now. It has been a very sad business all round.” She took another sip of tea. “I have contacted the two other main investors, and they are surprisingly reticent about the matter. Although I haven’t lost as much as them or you, I’m not prepared to sit back and accept it.”