He shook de Jersey’s hand and told him that Fleming was heading over to the saddling enclosure. He watched de Jersey stroll out, smiling and acknowledging a few of the jockeys he knew. He also saw him pause by the Sheikh’s jockey and take him to one side. He wondered if his boss would go back on his word about his ride in the Derby.
De Jersey walked into the owners’ and trainers’ bar, acknowledging a few people he knew. He bought a gin and tonic but hardly touched it and, moments later, crossed to the saddling stalls. He stopped beside the Sheikh’s trainer. They discussed a few race meetings, and the conversation came round to Royal Flush. Evidently the horse’s progress was being monitored by everyone in the business. De Jersey felt a rush of pride and said casually to the trainer that it was his turn for the Derby. He paused as the trainer’s quiet, almost lisping voice said, “Yours, Mr. de Jersey, or Royal Flush’s?” It was an odd statement, and he would have replied to it but he saw Fleming waving to him.
He excused himself and joined his trainer. “Seen him fishing around. Any money he was asking you about Royal Flush. He’s got his eyes on him, you know,” Fleming said.
“So would I if I had his money and history of success.” De Jersey was referring to the Sheikh’s domination of the racetracks and his record of breeding champions. He had the finest stud in England, if not the world. The Arabs were well known for their love of the races. Their animals were kept in luxurious surroundings with the finest trainers and jockeys under million-pound contracts to race exclusively for them. One of their studs was not far from de Jersey’s.
“What brings you here?” Fleming asked as they headed across the green toward their allocated stall.
“I missed my boy’s last race, so I felt I should make an appearance. Don’t want the gossipmongers spreading it around that I’m not taking an interest anymore.”
Fleming saddled Fan Dancer, and together they went to the ring to watch him being led out to wait for the jockey. There were ten horses racing, so nine other owners and trainers stood waiting as well. Mickey walked out, fixing his helmet strap beneath his chin. He stood with de Jersey and Fleming for a few moments, listening to last-minute instructions, which were to give Fan Dancer an easy race. He was helped into the saddle, and they went out of the parade ring to watch him canter up to the starting gates.
De Jersey and Fleming stood side by side in the owners’ and trainers’ stand. Fleming had to lend his boss his binoculars.
“I can’t stay too long. Christina and I are due to watch the girls in The Taming of the Shrew,” de Jersey said, monitoring Fan Dancer. “After the race I’m going to have to shift myself to make it.” Then he focused the binoculars on the Sheikh’s trainer, who stood nearby studying the racing form.
The horses were under starter’s orders, and then they were off. Fan Dancer ran a good race but seemed to get boxed in early at the rails. De Jersey watched Mickey move him out, but the horse didn’t like pushing his way between two others. Then Mickey moved him through a nice gap and, hardly touching Fan Dancer with the whip, rode him into fifth position. He dropped back to sixth, then moved up again to remain in fifth as they crossed the finishing line.
“He’s no Royal Flush,” de Jersey said, returning Fleming’s binoculars to him.
“Few are” came the reply as they turned to walk back to the stables. De Jersey excused himself, asking Fleming to tell Mickey he’d ridden a good race.
De Jersey left the Brighton track at four o’clock and did not relax until he was alone. He gave his pocket an involuntary pat and felt the object cushioned against his leg. He knew the exact weight was 105.6 carats, but it had felt even heavier when he had prized it out of the crown. If they lost the bulk of the jewels he had dropped for Dulay, he would still retain the prize Koh-i-noor Diamond.
The City of London learned that the most daring robbery in history had been pulled off through numerous news flashes that interrupted TV programming for that day. The Evening Standard ran the story on the front page, and the police were stunned at the audacity of the raiders. They gave away little about the robbery, but Maureen was pictured on the front page dressed as Her Majesty with a fake crown and a frozen smile. She was currently under sedation and unable to speak coherently. Her husband, she had been told, was safe if badly shaken. Though she was hysterical, she had been able to tell the police how she had been kidnapped and her husband’s life threatened. She had also given a description of the man she said headed the robbery. Although she had never heard his name, she described de Jersey as a “military kind of man.” He was in his mid-fifties, she said, had red hair and a mustache, and was very tall.
The public marveled at the robbery, but most were confident that the culprits would be caught. The Metropolitan Police Special Branch and the Army announced that they would join forces to recover the jewels. Operation Crown began immediately.
Quickly the police processed the section of the security film that had been recorded just moments before Hall had forced the guard to pull the plugs. The team were caught on film entering the hallway and heading toward the reception. But when they got the film back from the labs they saw that there was a clear shot of Maureen but no single frame in which her lady-in-waiting could be seen because of the large hat the woman had worn. They could see only a partial profile of Driscoll and a shoulder and body shot of de Jersey, his face obscured by the only member of the team caught fully on camera. Lord Henry Westbrook was shown smiling and talking before the screen went blank. It was only a few hours before he was identified by a police officer who had been involved in his fraud case.
At a press conference, reporters were informed that progress had been made. There was a warrant out for the arrest of Lord Henry Westbrook. Meanwhile the staff at the safe house were all asked for detailed descriptions of the men and the woman involved in the heist. Their descriptions of Pamela varied, so the police were relying on Maureen for details. She was still sedated and in hospital, her husband at her side. He gave a description of the driver of the Mercedes that had picked up his wife. He could offer only vague details of the man’s companion.
No one could provide a decent description of the two bikers as their attention had been focused on the “Queen.” The sketches depicting the tall man hardly seen on the videotapes were confusing. All agreed that he had red hair and a mustache, but none could give a clear description of his face. Saunders maintained that this man was the leader. His voice was cultured, and he had a military manner. He had been the first to leave the vault.
A massive search for the cars was mounted, and witnesses were asked to come forward if they had seen the convoy driving toward the safe house, but no one called.
Christina was selecting what to wear for her daughters’ school play when the phone rang. She pursed her lips, sure it would be her husband making some excuse.
But it was Helen Lyons. “Have you been able to contact Sylvia yet?” she asked.
“I’ve called her home and her office, who told me she’s taking some time off in America. I told you this last time we spoke. I got no reply from her flat, so she must still be away.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m really worried about my money situation. I’m not broke, but David always took care of all our finances.”
“He certainly took care of ours,” Christina snapped. “I’ve called your sister for you, and I don’t want to get involved any further. I’m sorry, we have money problems too, thanks to your husband’s misappropriation of our finances. The more I discover about how much David stole from us, the more I find these calls tedious. Now, I really have to go, please don’t call me again!”