“But I didn’t!” She started to sob. “I loved him, but whatever I say won’t help. I know how it must look, but I had no idea he was involved in such terrible frauds. I’m sure most of it was unintentional. He always spoke so highly of you.”
“Miss Hewitt, I am not interested in hearing sad stories about David,” he snapped, and this time he moved very close to her. “I will not hesitate to make sure your sister knows the truth, and I won’t be sorry to drag you through the courts if that’s what it takes to stop you invading my privacy. Do you understand?”
Fifteen minutes later de Jersey left the St. John’s Wood apartment, carrying disks and papers he had taken from Sylvia. She had called Matheson in New York and, in front of de Jersey, taken him off the case. She’d also signed a confidentiality agreement, promising not to divulge anything she had learned about his private affairs. She wept when he promised that he would reimburse her losses at some time in the future if she kept her word. He warned her against making any further calls to Wilcox or Driscoll or making his losses known to other investors.
It was after eleven when de Jersey arrived home. He went straight to his study and had just filed away the papers he had taken from Sylvia when Natasha walked in. “Daddy, we’ve been trying to contact you all day.”
He whipped round, startled. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Royal Flush. The vet’s taken swabs from his throat. He’s had a bad chest after his training session.”
“Thanks for telling me. I’ll go and have a look at him.” He threw on an overcoat and walked out into the yard. He let himself into the manager’s office and read the vet’s reports with a sinking heart.
After tests it had been surmised that Royal Flush had nothing more than a cold. But the mere fact that the horse had been off color worried him. First the leg injury, now the chest infection. If Royal Flush had trouble with his breathing, it was a sure sign of problems to come. As soon as the weather cleared the horse would begin training for the Derby, but fortunately there was still considerable time before June. He put the reports back in their place.
He was so deeply in thought he was startled to find Natasha standing over him. She had on an overcoat over her nightdress, and Wellington boots.
“Is he all right, Daddy?”
He reached out his arm to draw her to his side. “He’s doing fine.” Then he stood up and ruffled her hair. She buried her face in his chest, and he chuckled. “Still my little girl. But you should be in bed.”
“I was worried about Royal Flush.”
“So am I, but the vet says he’s just got a chest cold, and there’s plenty of time for him to recover before the season starts.”
He turned out the lights, and they walked out of the office past the back room. This was where the racing colors of his stable were kept. He switched the lights on and stood breathing in the smells he loved and touching the colors displayed on the wall alongside the plaques and pictures of past champions. So many races, so much of his life was here in this tack room. Next to his knee boots and weight cloth hung Royal Flush’s bridle. Laid out on the table was the grooming kit that the lads used with such care to maintain his beautiful coat. Natasha slipped her arm through his as he touched Royal Flush’s bridle.
“Your granddad, he would have been so proud. You missed a lot not knowing him and my mother. In fact, she looked a lot like you: tall, strong, knitting. Always knitting. And when I was a little boy she’d read to me. She could read and knit at the same time. Click click. She had a soft, warm voice. She read me all the classics. Sometimes I think she knew whole passages of them by heart. I owe her a lot. Shall we go and say good night to my boy, then?” he asked.
They went into the yard, and he opened the stable door. Royal Flush kicked out, then stared at de Jersey angrily.
“What’s up with you, my old son?” he said quietly and approached him.
The magnificent horse snorted and allowed de Jersey to stroke his neck. From his glossy coat and impressive presence, it was hard to believe there was anything wrong with the stallion.
De Jersey rested his head against the big beast’s neck and closed his eyes. Here was the jewel in his crown. Never before had he placed so much expectation in a horse. “Don’t let me down,” he whispered. He felt so close to Royal Flush that it was hard to drag himself away. As he shut the stable door, he took one last look.
“What is it, Daddy?”
He had almost forgotten Natasha was there. “Well, darling, I’ve never put my dreams on the line like this. Sometimes at night I close my eyes and I see him winning the Derby. I truly see every moment, and I feel the most extraordinary pride. That’s my boy coming out of the starting gate, and I know he’s going to win for me. Then, when he passes that winning post, I’m cheering and waving my hat in the air… But then I wake up and realize it was only a dream.”
She slipped her hand into his, and they walked back to the house in silence.
He had been thinking that he should come up with some kind of insurance in case the robbery was unsuccessful, whereupon not only would he lose the estate but any buyer for the yard would want Royal Flush. In the past he’d always had a backup plan in case a robbery failed. Now was the time to put in place a safety net.
14
The problems with Royal Flush continued, and it was decided that his throat should be scraped. Any inflammation caused by mucus might have repercussions. The next morning de Jersey gave the go-ahead for the operation and watched sadly as the horse was driven from the yard. It was not yet seven o’clock, so he had a lengthy workout in his gym. He pushed himself, first on the treadmill, then the rowing machine before moving on to the weights. By the time he was showered and changed, he felt clearheaded and hungry. Christina cooked him scrambled eggs and bacon.
He reached for her hand. “Got some business to do in London. If I have to stay over I’ll call you.”
“Say good-bye to the girls. They go back to school today.”
He drained his coffee cup just as Natasha and Leonie came in. He hugged and kissed them both. When the phone rang, his body went rigid. It might be the vet. He nodded for Christina to answer it, which she did, then held out the receiver to him.
“Darling, it’s the vet.”
De Jersey took the phone with trepidation. Then his face broke into a wide smile. “You’re kidding? Are you sure?”
“We’re certain,” the vet reassured him. “We don’t think the operation’s necessary after all. It was just a bit of a cold. His chest is clear, and although his throat is a bit rough, he’s in terrific shape compared to when we last examined him. It must have been the antibiotics.”
“Are you bringing him home?”
“We are. Give him a day or so, and then he can go back into training.”
It was just what de Jersey needed. He rushed to Christina and lifted her off her feet. “My boy’s coming home. They don’t need to operate!” He kissed her lips and bounded out the door without a backward glance. Now he could get on with preparing for the robbery without worry about his “boy.” Everything was back on track, and he knew he had to get moving. It was already late January.
De Jersey walked through the door of the Kilburn flat and straight to the computer. There was an e-mail from Elvis asking when he wanted his next tutoring session. Then checking the post he had brought in with him, he found a long-anticipated letter from Gregory Jones, responding to his fake solicitor’s letter. The blue notepaper was stamped “Franklyn Prison.”
Jones’s handwriting was looped and slanted backward, but the letter was well constructed. It said that a visitor’s pass would be allocated shortly, and he was looking forward to discussing the possibility of appeal. De Jersey wrote to confirm he would see Jones, signing himself Philip Simmons.