By eleven o’clock the City was wailing with sirens. No one could believe what had happened. It was one of the most audacious robberies in history. The first thing the police did was send up their helicopters to monitor the area. They were on the lookout for two Daimlers and two motorbikes.
The entire area surrounding the safe house was cordoned off. De Jersey was still driving the furniture van and was now passing Kingston, moving on toward the A3. He still had a way to go before he would reach his helicopter to lift the jewels away from London.
At the same time, two speedboats raced from separate moorings near Tower Bridge. Hall had dumped his motorbike and placed his helmet and leathers into a holdall. He now wore a thick cable-knit sweater and a baseball cap. He had walked to the first boat, which had been brought from the old boathouse in Putney. Before leaving he had tied weights to his holdall and dropped it into the river. He steered the boat toward Putney, intending to stash it in the boathouse and catch the tube back to his east London home from Putney Bridge.
Ten minutes later Short followed almost identical orders. He left his bike in a car park near Blackfriars and changed in the toilets. He walked down toward Temple, pulling his cap low over his face. When he reached his mooring, he had trouble with the engine. After a few false starts, however, he got the boat going and sped off after Hall just as the sirens started. Short had to drop the boat at the boathouse, then use a can of petrol to set light to the building and its contents. They hoped the fire would provide another distraction.
Short set a bunch of doused rags alight and exited quickly. He was a good fifty yards away when he saw the flames take hold. He was to continue on foot along the New King’s Road, catch a bus to Sloane Square, and from there take a tube to his flat.
Driscoll walked out of the tube station at Shepherd’s Bush and picked up his car from a car park. He drove home, calm now although his shirt was soaking. He wondered if de Jersey had made it. He wanted more than anything to call Wilcox, to know that everyone was home and free, but he resisted the urge and kept on driving.
De Jersey had parked his helicopter at Brooklands airfield. It was used mostly at the weekend, so it was deserted now, with just a small office in operation across the car park. Wilcox jumped down from the back of the van, climbed into the driving seat, and drove out of the airfield, catching de Jersey’s eye as he left. Both allowed themselves half-relieved smiles, but they were not in the clear yet.
An experienced pilot, de Jersey knew that there would be no problems with air traffic control. Contrary to popular belief, most low-level airspace in the United Kingdom is uncontrolled. He had used the Brooklands airfield a few times when he had horses racing at Epsom and Goodwood. Today he was expected at Brighton for a two-year-old’s maiden race. He used the airfield’s bathroom to wash off the wig glue, put on a camel overcoat and his brown trilby, stashed the rucksacks in two suitcases, and loaded them into the helicopter, which contained an incongruous-looking crate. It was watertight, lined with polystyrene squares held together with waterproof glue.
De Jersey saw only one person by the hangars, a man cleaning a glider who didn’t pay him any attention. As he left the washroom, the caretaker, who was sitting in his office eating his lunch, asked if he had a tip for the races. De Jersey laughed and said perhaps an each-way bet on his colt, Fan Dancer, but he wasn’t optimistic as it was his first time out.
As de Jersey started the engine and the propellers began to move, Wilcox was six miles away, heading toward the old barn. Once there he drove the furniture truck in through the large doors, drove the Daimler out, and removed the number plates. The registration number on the engine had already been removed. He used four cans of acid to destroy the seats, paintwork, and all the contents of the boot. He smashed every window with a hammer and attacked the dashboard. The exertion felt good. Then he stripped the stickers off the sides of the removal van to reveal its true identity. The “Double Your Time” rental company did not expect it back until later that afternoon. Their headquarters were in Leatherhead, so it was just a short drive back down the A3. Wilcox left the truck in a large car park and posted the keys into a box at the gates. Philip Simmons had hired it after seeing the company’s advert on the Internet and had paid for it. Then Wilcox caught a train home from Leatherhead.
De Jersey’s horse was running in the three o’clock at Brighton. It was the perfect opportunity to show his face and establish an alibi, but he had to do the drop first. As he headed for the coast, he looked down on the busy traffic heading in and out of the center of London. He wondered whether it was his imagination or there was a glint of flashing blue light in every direction. He didn’t dwell on it, knowing that by now every airport would be targeted as a possible getaway route, likewise the ports. It would take a long time to organize a full search, however, and by then he hoped they would be home and free.
Pamela and the now sickly Westbrook had traveled from the City Thameslink Station to Brighton. There they switched to a second train for Plymouth. Pamela was concerned by Westbrook’s depleted energy. He was sweating profusely and had twice staggered to the lavatory to vomit. His face was yellow, and sweat plastered his hair to his head. The journey would take at least five hours, and they would need a taxi to get them to the safety of her flat. De Jersey had instructed them to separate and Westbrook to return to London, but his Lordship was too unwell to be left alone.
When they reached the station, they flagged down a taxi. Pamela had constantly to feed Westbrook his painkillers so that he had enough energy to walk unaided to her flat. She had made the taxi stop two streets away, not wanting to give the driver her address. Westbrook hardly spoke, but when she opened her front door and helped him collapse onto the sofa, he gave a dry sob, his face twisted in pain. Her heart went out to him. “We made it,” she said softly.
The helicopter too was reaching its destination. The yacht was anchored almost nine miles off Brighton Marina, and as he flew overhead de Jersey used his cell phone to call Dulay. He put the engine on remote control, slid open the side door, and tossed out the crate. He didn’t wait to see it hit the water. Instead he did a wide arc, then headed for the helipad at Brighton racetrack.
Dulay watched the crate hit the water and bob to the surface. It was just a few yards off its marker. He gave the signal to start up the engines, and the big yacht moved majestically toward it. Dulay and two crew hauled the crate aboard, then they were on their way back to the Riviera. He spotted a small yacht a good distance away but realized he could do nothing about it and hoped to God that no one aboard had seen the drop.
Three boys were testing the little yacht for the nationals. They had taken it without their parents’ permission and were smoking a large joint when the helicopter flew overhead. Through binoculars they watched in amazement as the crate fell out. At first they were unsure what they had seen, and they passed the binoculars around, wondering if they had witnessed a drugs drop. They did not, however, have a radio, and as the large yacht turned to head out to sea, they reckoned they were wrong. If it had been drugs, surely the boat would be heading inland. Suddenly they felt a flurry of wind and galvanized themselves to set sail back to the marina.
At the racecourse de Jersey went into the weighing room to see Mickey Rowland, surprising him. The jockey was heading toward the locker rooms carrying de Jersey’s racing colors, ready to dress. He thought it was odd that his boss was here to see Fan Dancer when he hadn’t made it to Royal Flush’s race at Lingfield, but he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his business where and when the boss showed up.