David Lyons was still in Sylvia’s thoughts, and her sister was still living with her. Helen had recovered somewhat from the trauma of losing her husband, but she talked about David all the time. Some nights Sylvia didn’t want to return home and wished Helen would find her own place to live.
On the day de Jersey had brought together the key team, Sylvia had just got home, later than usual as she had dined with a client.
“I’m in here” came Helen’s high-pitched voice. She sounded angry.
Sylvia felt annoyed that her sister would undoubtedly ask her where she had been. “Give me a minute,” she called back and took off her coat. She hadn’t had time to hang it up before Helen marched out of the drawing room carrying a bundle of photographs. “I wasn’t prying. I was looking for a needle. I knew you used to keep a sewing kit in your bedside table drawer. I found these.” Helen thrust the pictures at her. One showed Sylvia and David kissing.
“Oh, it was some office party,” Sylvia said lamely.
“No, it wasn’t. How do you explain the beach and palm trees? What was going on between you and my husband?”
“He’s dead, Helen. What does it matter now?”
“It matters to me. I want to know the truth. Look at me, Sylvia. Tell me what was going on.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Helen, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t. I want you to tell me.”
Sylvia sighed. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Tell me what was going on between you and my husband!” Helen shrieked.
“We were lovers,” Sylvia said at last. It all came out: how long it had gone on, all the times they had been together. She felt wretched, and so sorry for Helen that she burst into tears.
“Sylvia, you disgust me. My own sister!”
Helen walked into her bedroom and shut the door.
The following morning Sylvia tried to speak to Helen again, but she remained in her locked room. When Sylvia returned that evening, two suitcases stood in the hall and Helen’s coat lay over them. She was waiting, her face drawn and chalk white. “I’m leaving. I can’t talk about it. I don’t know if I ever want to speak to you again. I trusted you, and you went behind my back and took the only thing in my life I have ever felt proud of. My marriage is now just some terrible sham, and you are despicable for letting me stay here with you. I was pleased to have you at my side at his funeral, and now I discover that all the time you’ve been lying to me.”
“Did you really want me to tell you the truth? How would it have made a difference, you knowing once he was dead? You certainly never suspected when he was alive. And I let him use all my savings and he lost the lot! So much for good, dependable, honest David. He was a fool!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I’ve lost over two hundred thousand, all my savings. That’s something else I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. Whatever happened between me and David is history now and-”
Helen didn’t wait to hear any more. She picked up her coat and her suitcases and made for the door. She glanced back at her sister. “That explains the real reason why he went with you. He was using you for your money.” With that, she slammed the door.
Sylvia was incensed by Helen’s insult, which also reminded her of Edward de Jersey’s accusation. How dare de Jersey suggest she had been involved with David’s frauds? She walked around the flat kicking the furniture. Her bedroom was littered with torn photographs of her and David together. She picked them up, then let them fall from her hands like confetti and started to cry. She had loved David, and now she had lost everything-lover, money, sister. She wondered what had happened to de Jersey, whether he had held on to his estate. It had been weeks since she had spoken to him.
The phone rang and she picked it up. “Hello.”
“Is this Sylvia Hewitt?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Victor Matheson, Miss Hewitt, the private detective you hired. Remember me?”
“Yes, of course.” She was puzzled: she’d told him weeks ago his services were no longer required.
“A strange coincidence has just happened. I think it would be worth us meeting up.”
Sylvia listened as Matheson explained that he had met another private investigator and discovered that he had been hired to trace Alex Moreno by Philip Simmons. “I have to arrange time off from work,” she told him, “but it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll fly out as soon as I can and meet you in New York.”
“Good.” He hung up.
She gave no thought to the fact that she had promised de Jersey she would not take her inquiries any further. In fact, she was determined to prove that David Lyons did not commit any fraud. She called her boss and told him that urgent family business had cropped up and she needed to take the week off.
De Jersey outlined “rehearsal” days for the team to meet at the barn. They had moved another step closer to the plans being completed. Driscoll had booked “the Queen.” She was to be collected at 8:00 A.M. for a day’s commercial shoot. The agent did not query the name of the company but seemed more interested in the fee, which was substantially more than usual.
Far from being a big risk, Westbrook proved invaluable. He was getting sicker by the day, but he remained in good humor and the team admired his determination. Pamela was highly professional and a constant source of humorous stories during coffee breaks. She provided cakes and biscuits too, which they devoured hungrily. She was having a wonderful time. She had always enjoyed the company of men, and it had been a long time since she had been surrounded by so many. She adored Westbrook, and they swapped stories about their time in the nick while smoking their way through packets of cigarettes, their conversation interspersed with coughing fits and shrieks of laughter.
De Jersey rarely joined in the banter. He was constantly checking his notes and plans. Dulay’s boat was now set to anchor six miles off the South Coast, near Brighton. The diversion helicopters were booked and false pickup points agreed on. De Jersey had arranged for one of his horses to be at the Brighton racetrack on the day of the raid. He had also marked in blue crosses on the floor of the barn the positions of the panic buttons in the safe house. Every one of the team was made to learn their exact locations.
“Darling, just a small point,” Pamela said one day, cigarette dangling out of her mouth. “We know where these thingies are, but what if one of the D’Ancona employees throws caution to the wind and stamps on one? Will we get out fast enough before the police show up?”
“What?”
“Well, darling, do we know how long we’ve got if someone inadvertently or deliberately steps on one? There’s going to be an awful lot of anxiety and”-she hopped from one blue cross to another-“they’re all over the place.”
De Jersey gave her a dismissive glance. “Hopefully we’ll have discovered a way to deactivate them. In the meantime, however, we should know exactly where they’re located.”
“Yes, but do you know how long it takes for the boys in blue to arrive if one goes off?”
“Pamela, why don’t you put the kettle on?” De Jersey crossed to Wilcox.
He kept his voice low. “We hit one and the lot of us will be in trouble. Steel trapdoors come down like a guillotine.”
Wilcox turned away. “So, we’ve got to deactivate the buggers.”
“I’ll work on it.”
The two bikers were scheduled to arrive that afternoon, and de Jersey wanted everyone out of the way except Driscoll, who knew them. Brian Hall arrived first. He parked his motorbike as instructed in the yard at the back of the barn. Kenny Short turned up in an old Mini five minutes later.