“Can’t sleep?”
De Jersey shook his head.
“Me neither,” Fleming said.
They walked in silence for a while, then stood against the fence that surrounded the grazing paddock.
“You have problems, haven’t you?”
De Jersey nodded.
“It’s obvious with the pick of your crop being sold off. It’s breaking my heart.”
“Mine too, but I’m in a deep hole.” He paused. “I have a friend in Ireland, Michael Shaughnessy, not a big breeder but a good man.”
“I don’t think I know him,” said Fleming.
“He keeps a low profile,” de Jersey said. He wondered how Fleming would react to what he was about to propose. He guessed that he’d have to make it worth his while with cash. It usually came down to that.
When he quietly suggested to the trainer what he had in mind, Fleming was so shocked he could hardly speak.
“We’d get a nice kickback-in fact, a blinding one. She’s the best filly I’ve ever had.”
“Sweet Jesus! He’s the best too. You know what this could do, sir. Illegally covering a mare is a terrible risk to take.”
“We keep him separated directly afterward, then push his training up.”
“It could be disastrous.”
De Jersey kicked at the ground. “You’re right, forget it.”
But Fleming put his hand on de Jersey’s arm. “We’ll need three of us. My son’ll help, but we have to keep this quiet. We’ll do it at night, when the yard’s silent. If it ever got out…”
De Jersey put his arm round Fleming’s shoulders. “Well, we hope something will come out, and I guarantee Shaughnessy will most definitely want something out of it.”
It was almost one in the morning. The two men talked for another half hour, then shook hands. Fleming would receive ten thousand in cash, but the mare had to be in foal or there was no deal. They would ship the filly out to Dublin for Shaughnessy to collect and stable, de Jersey said. No one would know. They shook hands a second time. Both men knew that what they were doing might spoil the chances of the greatest horse de Jersey had ever possessed. They returned to their beds, depressed.
Driscoll and Wilcox were now taking turns monitoring the safe house. Wilcox found it tedious, irritating work, but Driscoll didn’t mind; it gave him something other than the escalating wedding costs to think about.
When Wilcox was not on surveillance he had been scouting out other locations for the vehicles to be parked. They would not be placed in the Aldersgate warehouse until the day before the heist. He eventually found a disused barn in the Surrey countryside. This was also where the team would gather to complete preparations for the raid.
Wilcox had discovered various costumiers around the country where he could hire authentic police-motorcyclist uniforms. He would pretend to be employed by a film company when he needed them. He had also acquired two motorbikes, which he was respraying to match the Metropolitan Police ones. Driscoll was assigned to find two shotguns and several small handguns. As he had a personal arsenal, he decided he’d remove the numbers from some of his own licensed guns so they could not be traced back to him.
Raymond Marsh arrived at the Scotland Yard telephone exchange at eight forty-five, as he had every morning that week. He had arranged to do the regular maintenance check on the exchange’s telephone lines. He would spend the next two weeks there, checking the main systems, and return at regular intervals to do spot checks. Scotland Yard’s telephone exchange handled the lines for the Yard exclusively. Marsh had been provided with the password, security code, and an electronic card to allow him access to all areas of the building.
The basement held the batteries and the equipment, the middle floor housed the computer systems, and the administration was on the top floor. The day after his last meeting with de Jersey, Marsh had gained access to the master computer and had quickly located the twenty-four lines responsible for all incoming and outgoing calls to Royalty and Diplomatic Protection. Today would be the first opportunity for him to set up a tail on these lines; all calls made and received by the department would be logged, with incoming and outgoing numbers.
Once he had set up the tail, Marsh began to monitor and record the calls. If he was caught he would be fired, or worse. By the start of his second week at the exchange, Marsh had worked out who was responsible for liaising with the Palace and confirming that security measures were in place.
When de Jersey received an e-mail from Marsh informing him of his progress, he had an adrenaline rush. They were a step closer to executing the robbery, and it was time for his second meeting with Lord Westbrook. His lordship answered the phone and gave an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God. I was beginning to think you’d got cold feet.”
“You received payment, though, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“We need to meet. Do you know Shepperton?”
“Yes.”
“Go to Church Square. There’s a bench in front of a small waterfront mooring. We’ll meet there, then go to the pub for lunch.”
“Fine. When?”
“Tomorrow, midday.”
When de Jersey called, Wilcox was in bed with a bad cold. “I’ve got something I need checked out.”
“I’m sick.”
De Jersey continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “I want you to check out an address in Esher, but don’t approach the property, just monitor who’s coming and going. Mark it out, front and back, and ascertain if only the woman and her husband are living there. Then report back to me.”
“You want it done tonight, then?”
“Yes.” He gave the address.
“I’ve got a terrible cold. I’m in bed.”
“Then wrap up,” de Jersey snapped. Both Driscoll and Wilcox worried him, but he said no more and hung up. Then he went over his meticulous lists, ticking off each item he had dealt with. They still had no lady-in-waiting.
Wilcox was freezing. Number 23 was a neat house with a large pond in the front garden. A garage stood to one side with a clean red Toyota parked on the pink-and-white-squared drive. Wilcox walked past on the far side of the road first, making it look as if he was searching for a specific address. As he crossed the road to make his way back, the door opened at 23. A bald man was wrapping a scarf around his neck, shrugging on a camel coat, his car keys in his hand. Then a small woman, wearing a blue coat and a woolen hat, came out.
“Eric, did you lock the back door?” she called.
“Yes.”
She shut the front door and headed for the passenger door of the Toyota, which her husband held open for her. “I don’t want to stay too long,” she said. As she got into the car, her face was lit clearly by the streetlights. Wilcox’s jaw dropped, but he did not stop.
Eric started the engine, and they drove out past him. The woman was talking, looking ahead. He could hardly believe it; she was the Queen’s exact double.
Now, with the occupants gone, Wilcox was able to have a good look round. He headed up the path and rang the front doorbell, peering inside as if he expected someone to be at home. He even called, “Eric?” Then he went round to the back and did the same, checking the path, the kitchen, and the windows. He saw no one, so he returned to his car and called de Jersey.
De Jersey was alone, smoking, when his cell phone vibrated. He knew it was Wilcox from the hacking cough.
“It’s easy access both back and front, and I had a good look as the occupants left. Only the two of them live there. The back door’s hidden from the other houses by a big hedgerow. The front is visible to the neighbors.”
“Mmm, good. You still there?”
“On my way home.”
“You see her, then?”
Wilcox sneezed. “It’s freaky. She’s the image of her, identical.”