The Mercedes was owned by Wilcox but had fake number plates and would be driven to the crusher the minute they were done with it. Wilcox gave the thumbs-up, and Driscoll drove out of the warehouse. It was four fifteen in the morning on May 2. They left de Jersey alone to wait for the rest of the team to arrive. As they drove away, he looked at his watch. In a few hours the waiting would all be over.
“It’s five o’clock,” Eric Stanley said, a fraction before the alarm sounded. His wife, Maureen, lay next to him, her hair in pin curls. She sat bolt upright.
“Breakfast?” Eric asked, standing next to the bed with a tray that held a lightly boiled egg, two slices of buttered toast, and a cup of tea.
“You spoil me,” Maureen said.
By six, Eric had his wife’s little suitcase packed. She always took a few changes of clothes to advertisement shoots, because if they supplied them the skirts were always too long. For this one she had been asked to bring her own anyway. She had chosen a blue tweed coat with a velvet collar. She also had a hat in a box and a pleated skirt and blouse to go beneath the coat. Although they usually supplied a makeup artist, she made up her face carefully as she knew the exact shade of base and lipstick required. She must never look overly made-up. That would be a dead giveaway.
Eric helped her into a raincoat. Though it was still dark, he could see it was cloudy, and he handed her a small folding umbrella. “You all set, darling?” he asked.
“I am. Is the car here?”
“I’ll go and check.” Eric opened the front door, walked down the path, and stood at the gate. A Mercedes was heading down the road.
Eric returned to the house and called, “They’re here, dear, just coming to the drive.” He turned as the Mercedes drew up behind his own car.
The driver stepped out, his hat pulled low, almost hiding his face. “Morning, I’ve come to collect-” At that moment she came out of the house, carrying the suitcase, hatbox, and handbag.
“I’m ready,” said Maureen pleasantly and turned her cheek to her husband for a good-bye kiss. Another man stepped out and opened the rear door of the Mercedes, taking her case as he helped her inside. The driver asked Eric if he could use their bathroom. Eric gestured for him to follow him inside. In the car, the second man placed a rug around Maureen’s knees, then closed the door and got into the front passenger seat.
“What on earth are they doing?” she asked after five minutes had passed and the driver had still not returned.
“He’s had a bit of trouble with his prostate,” the man replied.
At last the driver came out, red in the face, and closed the front door. As they drove out, Maureen looked back toward the house. “That’s odd,” she said. “My husband always waves me off to work. It’s a little ritual we have. I’m a very lucky woman.” She settled back. Sometimes his undivided attention got on her nerves a little. But, as Eric said so many times, his queen was worth taking care of.
Maureen Stanley had made her career as Queen Elizabeth’s look-alike. She was almost the same age and, like the Queen, was cutting down on the amount of work she took on. Millennium year had been fantastic, and she had often had two engagements on the same night. She enjoyed the television work more, though, than the special appearances.
“Where are we filming?” she asked Driscoll.
“Close to the BBC radio studios.”
After about ten minutes, Driscoll saw that she had fallen asleep, her head lolling forward. He looked at her and smiled at Wilcox. “Dead ringer, isn’t she?” he said softly.
“Yeah. Did all go to plan back at the house?”
“Yep. He’s comfortable, can’t hurt himself. Tucked him up on the sofa.” He glanced again at Eric’s wife, who was unaware that her beloved husband had been drugged and tied up. Eric had been bending over the hall table looking at some leaflet that had been pushed through his letter box for window cleaning when Driscoll placed his left arm across the small man’s chest and injected his right buttock through his trousers. Eric had tried to fend him off, but the sedative had acted quickly and his body had sagged.
“What… what have you done?” he’d gasped.
“Put you to sleep for a few hours, pal, nothing to worry about. You’ll have a bit of a headache when you wake up, that’s all.”
At six thirty, the Mercedes arrived at the Aldersgate warehouse. As the doors closed behind it, Maureen woke up. “Are we here?” she asked, looking around the large warehouse in surprise. “This isn’t the BBC, is it?”
Driscoll turned and smiled. “No, ma’am, it isn’t. Would you like to get out of the car? There’s coffee and doughnuts.”
“Thank you, I’ve had my breakfast.” She glanced around the vast warehouse.
“I’ll take you to your dressing room, then.” Driscoll opened the door for her. By the time she was settled, Wilcox was driving the Mercedes across London to be destroyed. Driscoll then set off again to pick up a rented furniture-removal van. It would play a major role in the getaway, and the team had prepared stickers to cover the name of the rental company and the number plate.
The dressing room was a small room off the main warehouse space, previously used for storing clothes and accessories. It contained a dressing table with a mirror, a comfortable chair, and a heater. Maureen was ushered inside and told to wait for someone to come and see to her hair and makeup. She nodded and put down her suitcase. She opened it to take out her clothes. A few items were already hanging on a rail. They were all expensive, with Aquascutum and Harrods labels, but she could see at a glance that they were too long. Why don’t they get their facts right? she thought. The Queen is tiny.
Outside the dressing room, there was a lot of movement. The Daimlers were ready and being given a final polish. Pamela was next to arrive, and de Jersey gestured for her to join him at the back of the warehouse. He told her their Queen was in the dressing room still unaware of her role, and he wanted her kept in the dark for as long as possible.
Pamela seemed relaxed but was chain-smoking. She poured herself a coffee. “I’ll go and get changed, keep her company.” She surveyed the warehouse. “Westbrook here yet?”
De Jersey checked his watch. “He’s due at eight. You all set?”
“Yes, of course. It’s rather like opening night at the theater.” She chortled.
De Jersey smiled. Pamela had been a great choice. “You’re a special lady,” he said softly.
“I know, darling. Pity I can’t find a decent fella who thinks so too.” She raised an eyebrow and sipped her coffee. “Maybe with all the loot I’ll get from this I’ll find me a nice boy-toy.” Then she went to the dressing room, knocked, and entered.
Even though she had been prepared to see her coartist, Pamela was taken aback by Maureen’s eerie likeness to the Queen.
“Morning, darling,” she said. “I’m your lady-in-waiting. We’ve got to shack up in here for a while before they take us to the location.” She plonked down her coffee and drew up the only hard-backed chair.
“Do you have the script?” Maureen asked, still fussing with her clothes.
“No, sweetheart, I don’t. The director will let us know what we have to do.”
Maureen nodded. She always liked to have the script well before they filmed so she knew what would be required.
“Did you want a coffee?” Pamela asked, taking out another cigarette.
“No, thank you.”
As Pamela held the lighter to the end of the cigarette, she saw that her hands were shaking. For all her bravado, she was nervous. She knew she had to ignore the butterflies starting in the pit of her stomach. She had come too far to back out now.
“Do you play cards?” Maureen asked hopefully.
“I do, darling! Have you got a pack with you?”