Later that day, Paul Dulay phoned. He had an appointment in London several days hence, so they arranged to meet. Things were starting to pick up pace.
Philip Simmons, Solicitor, pinned a visitor’s pass to his jacket. His briefcase was searched but contained only documents from the firm of Hunting and Letheby. He was ushered into a booth next to the main visiting hall, security cameras monitoring his every move.
After ten minutes, the door opened and Gregory Jones, wearing a yellow striped bib, was led in by two officers. They stood by the door as he sat down in front of de Jersey, then moved outside.
Once the door was closed, Jones, a surly-faced man with an athletic build, took out his tobacco and cigarette papers. His face was pockmarked, with two fresh scars down one cheek, like thin tramlines, where he had been cut with a razor. It was a typical prison injury, no doubt caused by a pair of razor blades stuck so close together in a nailbrush that the wound would be difficult to stitch. Jones rolled a thin cigarette, took a box of matches from his pocket, and placed it on the table. Then he broke the silence. “You had no trouble getting in, then?”
“No. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“You intrigued me.” His voice was coarse with a trace of the West Country. His teeth were stained. “There’s no hope of an appeal, so I know you aren’t from my solicitors.”
“Do they tape these meetings?” de Jersey asked.
“Invasion of privacy, pal.” Jones leaned back in the chair. “They’re supposed to monitor the odd phone call, but they don’t bother. Too much aggravation. Imagine the fucking nonsense they’d have to wade through.”
De Jersey looked down at the papers. “Your two daughters live with a relative in America?”
“California. One wrote for a while, then stopped. Why do-”
“You must want to see them again.”
“They’ll be married with kids of their own by the time I get out, if I ever do.” He sighed. “I’d like to see them. It’d be a light at the end of the tunnel.”
“How are your finances?”
“The savings I had disappeared with the legal costs. Like the wife.” He sucked in his breath. De Jersey could feel the man’s pent-up bitterness. “So, let’s get to the point, Mr. Simmons. You got the visitor’s pass. I’m here. What do you want?”
“Information.”
“I thought as much. Who are you?”
De Jersey glanced at his watch. “I have a proposition for you.”
Jones stared at the ceiling. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”
De Jersey took out a file. “I need certain information, and it is imperative that the details you supply are legit.” He passed over a sheet of typed questions.
Jones took a long time reading it. He flicked ash from his roll-up a couple of times but did not look up until he slid the paper back to de Jersey. “What’s the deal?”
“Fifty thousand. Any bank account, any name, any country.”
“But I’m in here and you’re out there, so how can I trust you to do what you say?”
De Jersey leaned forward. “You can’t, but how about putting faith in the old saying ‘My word is my bond’?”
“I suppose I’ve not got much to lose,” Jones said.
De Jersey began to pack his briefcase. “You interested?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you have the information?”
“You know I do. That was my job, but how do I know you’re not setting me up?”
“Not much point. As you said, you’re in here already.”
“I need more information.”
“The less you know the better. But I mean no harm to the Royal Family.”
De Jersey clicked his briefcase shut.
“You want me to phone you with the info or what?”
“Too risky, even if they’re too bored to tape calls. I think the best way is another face-to-face. Before then you can phone me with your account details… I gather you are interested?”
Jones lit up. “Bet your arse-and I’ll tell you something for nothing. I know a lot more than what’s on that page. The security there is archaic.”
A bell rang to indicate that time was up. De Jersey said, “I do not intend to break in. As I stated, I have no desire to harm the Royals or put them in jeopardy.”
Jones’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “You’re not the fucking IRA, then? Cos I draw the line there, pal.”
“I am not connected to them.” De Jersey leaned close, his voice hardly audible. “I can give you the light at the end of the tunnel, but no more questions. I need answers, understand me?”
Jones nodded. Their eyes locked, then the door opened.
Jones stood up. “Mr. Simmons, can we shake on it?”
De Jersey grasped the prisoner’s hand.
“I’ll call you just to arrange payment, all right?” Jones said softly.
De Jersey felt Jones grip tightly. “Yes, but I don’t want answers. Not then. After I hear from you, we’ll organize another visit.”
After Jones was led out, de Jersey waited for an officer to take him back to the gates. Next visit, Prisoner 445A should have all the answers he needed.
Raymond Marsh seemed even odder-looking than previously. His hair shimmered as if it had been sprayed with crystallized sugar. “Can’t stay long. Taking the wife out. There’s an Elvis at a pub that’s shit-hot. He’s Chinese, but he’s got an amazing voice.”
He sat in the chair in front of de Jersey’s computer and swiveled toward him. “You’ve been spreading yourself around the chat rooms. You’re getting quite good, but I was disappointed you were checking out other hackers when you’ve got the best right here.”
De Jersey smiled. “Prove it. I need some information.”
“What’s it for this time?” When de Jersey didn’t reply, Marsh gave him a sideways glance. “Novel, right? I read your messages. What do you want?”
“I need to know the Queen’s diary movements. I am writing about the Golden Jubilee. Can you do that?”
“Do what exactly?”
“Gain access to the Royal household’s computer and check out the Queen’s diary dates, especially for her fitting of the Crown Jewels. I know it should be in May sometime, but I want the exact date and time. It should be listed.”
Marsh chewed his lip. “That’s a bit dodgy, mate.”
“I’ll pay you well.”
Marsh nodded. “A grand?”
“Five hundred, cash.”
“Okay, I’ll have a go. It’d be easier to read it in The Times. They list her comings and goings next to the births, deaths, and marriages.”
“By the time it’s public, it’ll be too late for what I have in mind.”
“And you’re writing a book.” Marsh grinned. “I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.”
De Jersey went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He could hear the click of the keyboard as Marsh moved through cyberspace, inching closer to his destination. After about half an hour he laughed. “I’m in! I’m fucking in!”
De Jersey leaned against the table.
“You’re in luck, pal,” Marsh said.
De Jersey read over his shoulder while Marsh printed out the lists as they appeared on the screen. Finally, he passed the pages to de Jersey with a flourish. “Her Majesty’s diary.”
De Jersey glanced down the list of all the Royal Family’s current engagements. He flicked to the May-June dates: June 1, Princess Royal takes salute at the Centenary Parade; June 3, Duke of Kent to open the Montgomery Exhibition; June 4, Duke of Edinburgh as Master of the Corporation of Trinity House attends the Outward Bound Charity Golf match; June 5, the Queen holds an Investiture at Buckingham Palace. There was no mention of the jewels fitting, no mention of Jubilee celebrations at all.
“This isn’t any good. It’s from the Royal Web site. I could have got it myself,” he said frustratedly.
Marsh dangled two sheets of paper in front of him. “Not these, though. For an extra two hundred, they’re yours.”