Maureen produced one from her handbag. “Never without! These shoots are so boring. They always get you here far too early, don’t you think?”
Wilcox and Driscoll returned in plenty of time. Wilcox couldn’t help but admire the Daimlers, which were polished like mirrors. The bikes stood beside them. He turned sharply as the gate opened and the two bikers entered. Hall and Short gave him a cool nod, but Wilcox kept his distance from them. To all intents and purposes, they were hired villains and to Wilcox the most dangerous to security, but de Jersey and Driscoll had assured him they were reliable. They went to change into their police uniforms, leaving Wilcox to continue checking the Daimlers. He looked up as Driscoll appeared with coffee.
“You can’t get them any cleaner,” Driscoll said. He noticed the two bikers. “Nice to see they’re on time.” He moved closer to Wilcox. “The one on the right did twelve years for that Asprey and Garrard jewel heist. The one on the left was inside for fifteen. Same kind of gig but got out over the wall about a year ago.”
Wilcox changed the subject. “The Colonel told me he was straight with that Hewitt woman.” He tossed the duster aside.
“What do you think he meant by that?”
Wilcox gave a shrug. “Well, he paid her off, I guess.”
“This has sure cost him a bundle.”
Wilcox nodded. Then he smiled. “But what a payout we’re in line for!”
They grinned and slapped hands, each man as tense as the other but refusing to admit it.
Westbrook arrived in a navy blue pin-striped suit, a blue shirt with a starched white collar and cuffs, his old Eton school tie with a pearl pin, and a rose in his lapel. He had washed his hair and combed it back from his high forehead. Even his teeth appeared whiter. His pallor, however, was sickly, and his luminous eyes were far too bright. He had taken his first hit of speed.
“Morning, Colonel,” he chirped in the familiar upper-crust drawl. He executed a small pivot turn on the heels of his new Gucci loafers. “How do I look?”
“Good.” De Jersey glanced down at his socks: no holes. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, thank you. Is H.M. installed yet?” He fiddled with his kid gloves.
“She’s in the dressing room with Pamela. She’s not been told her script yet, so take care what you say to her and remind Pamela not to remove her gloves. That goes for you too. The place has been cleaned.”
“Fine. Any coffee on?”
“Help yourself.” De Jersey looked at his watch. It was coming up to eight o’clock. They would leave the warehouse at ten twenty-five exactly. He watched Westbrook stroll across to the coffeepot, and his heart went out to him. He was so well dressed it was hard to believe that he was the same messed-up creature de Jersey had been worried about. He just hoped to God that his lordship could keep up the pretense.
Westbrook tapped on the door and entered the dressing room, and de Jersey heard Pamela shriek at how gorgeous he looked. So far, so good. Everything and everyone was on time. De Jersey changed into a cheap polyester suit, black shoes and socks, a white shirt and black tie. He used a nasty silver tiepin and tucked a handkerchief into his breast pocket. He stared at himself. He looked every inch the private security guard, down to his large frame. He sat down, opened his briefcase, and removed an expensive wig of fine reddish hair. It was the one he had worn in the Hamptons, along with matching mustache and eyebrows. He spent some time carefully gluing the mustache into place and even longer adjusting the eyebrows and wig. Satisfied, he peeled off the surgical gloves, replacing them with soft black leather ones.
He spent another half hour spraying every surface that might reveal fingerprints or DNA. He had already sprayed and cleaned the coffee mugs and food area. The trash had been collected in a black bin liner, which he would incinerate. He wanted to be sure that there wasn’t a single print or clue left to identify him or anyone else in the team. He put down his briefcase and clicked it open. It contained his cell phone-the vital link to Raymond Marsh. Now all Marsh had to do was get the right code word. If he didn’t come up with the goods, they were screwed.
At ten to nine, he went into the dressing room. He gave Pamela and Westbrook a nod to leave him alone with Maureen. He apologized for breaking up the party and explained it was time to leave for the location.
“Well, I can’t say it’s not before time.” Maureen started to gather her things. “What do you want me to wear? You’re the director, aren’t you? I’ve been here since just after six and I haven’t even been shown a script yet!”
De Jersey stared at her. “I think the coat you’re wearing would be perfect, if that’s okay with you. Do you think you should wear a hat or a head scarf?”
“Well, that depends on the script. I mean, is it interior or exterior? She doesn’t wear a hat all the time, but I’ve brought a selection.”
“It’s exterior moving to interior.”
Maureen displayed her hats, but he chose a pale blue head scarf that matched her coat and gave the right casual feel for the occasion. He asked her not to wear it until they reached the set. Then he chose a large brooch for her to wear on the coat lapel before hurrying her to get into the car.
“It’s just typical this, you know,” Maureen complained. “I’ve been here since after six, and now it’s all hurry-hurry. I’ve not even had my makeup checked. I need at least to freshen my lipstick. Will we rehearse?”
“Yes. I’d like you to come to the car.”
She chattered on as he guided her to it. His lordship was seated in the front, and Pamela was waiting in the rear passenger seat with the door open. Maureen got in beside her, remarking on how unusual it was to be driven with the director.
“Oh, we’re not moving yet. We just want to rehearse getting in and out of the Daimler.”
“Well, I’ve certainly done that many times,” Maureen said. She and Pamela got in and out as Westbrook oversaw the rehearsal.
De Jersey checked his watch and looked at Pamela. “I need to have a chat with the artist.” Then to Maureen he said, “Would you please get back into the Daimler?” Maureen hesitated and looked at Pamela, then climbed in. De Jersey got in beside her, leaned back, and took a deep breath. He could smell the glue he had used to stick his wig and mustache in place. “Do you love your husband?” he asked quietly.
“Pardon?” Maureen said.
“I asked if you loved your husband,” he repeated.
“Of course! We’ve been married forty-two years.”
“Good. Now, I want you to remain as calm as possible and pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. Your husband is being held at gunpoint. He’s perfectly safe and will not be harmed if you do exactly as I tell you. If you do not, he will be shot.”
She stared, her mouth open. She blinked rapidly.
“Do you understand? It is up to you whether or not you see your husband again. If you cry out or give any indication that we are holding him captive, you will never see him alive again. If you obey to the letter what I am going to tell you to do, if you value your husband’s life, you do exactly as I say, no harm will come to him or you. Do you understand?” de Jersey asked. “This is not a game. This is not a film. This is happening, right now. Give me your hand.”
Maureen lifted it as if she were a robot, and he clasped it tightly. “We are all about to commit a dangerous robbery, and we need you to portray Her Majesty the Queen.”
Driscoll glanced at the Daimler. They had been in it for ten minutes. He had heard no sound but the low murmur of de Jersey’s voice. It was now almost nine o’clock. He reckoned they were taking one hell of a risk with the woman. What if she fell apart and couldn’t keep up the act? He began to feel sick.
The car door opened, and de Jersey got out. He closed the door again, leaving the woman inside, and crossed to Pamela. “Go in and sit with her. Go through the routine.” He nodded to Westbrook, who stood up. Wilcox looked at him nervously.