Four days after the heist, led by their commander, the Operation Crown team assembled in their large office block. The press was now lampooning the inquiry as a failure. The culprits, who had once been vilified for stealing the Crown Jewels, were now lauded as antiestablishment heroes.
The police knew that the two Daimlers used in the robbery had initially been kept in the Leicester garage, but again a search by forensics teams had proved futile. The investigating officers were aware that the longer it took for them to sift through their findings, the more likely it was that the heist masterminds would evade them. Worse, however, was the possibility that the precious gems would be cut up and lost to the nation forever.
The most promising clue now seemed futile. Philip Simmons had organized his whole life over the Internet: setting up domestic bills, making numerous purchases, renting the warehouse and his flat. None of the apparently promising leads took them to the man.
The officers were instructed to spread their nets wider. The robbers had to have had a second, larger premises in which to prepare the vehicles and store them. Police press officers were instructed to continue to ask the public for assistance. They were looking for anyone in or around London who had leased a building large enough for the purpose. They still wished to question Philip Simmons, Lord Henry Westbrook, Raymond Marsh, and a blond woman possibly calling herself Pauline or Pamela. Sketches and computer images of Pamela and the other members of the gang were distributed widely and were continuously on the news.
Pamela was frightened. She watched the television updates like a hawk, and the computer image of her was closer than she had thought possible. Added to this, they now had her Christian name. She was also worried about Westbrook, who was dying but refused to allow her to call a doctor. His one fear was that, after all he had done, his son would not benefit. Pamela was adamant that, whatever the outcome, they could trust the Colonel. She knew his word was his bond. They had known it would take considerable time for the big payoff to come through. In the meantime the Colonel had given them all enough cash to live on well and safely. He had even arranged a flight for Westbrook. But this was of little use to his lordship now. Without medication, he was in agony.
Pamela bought some grass from a guy upstairs, and it seemed to ease Westbrook’s pain. One evening she returned from shopping to find him stoned but dressed and trying to tie his shoelaces. He was shaking badly, and his hair was plastered to his head, making him appear skinnier than ever. He had hardly been able to eat, sipping only watered brandy.
“Papers are still full of it,” she informed him.
“My face seems to be on every TV channel.” He grinned boyishly, and she could see that his gums were bleeding.
“I’ll put this through the mixer and see if you can keep it down.” She held up a ready-made meal and popped it into the oven.
“No, don’t. I’m leaving.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I’ve been here too long, and I don’t want to put you at further risk.”
She was relieved but ashamed to show it. “Where the hell will you go? It’s already six o’clock.”
“Home.” He tried to stand, but his long, thin legs shook violently.
“I’m sure you’ll make it in that state.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm.
“Sure I will, sweetheart. I’ll roll a joint, get a bit more energy up, and then you can call a taxi.”
“I can’t have you picked up from here, darling. That’s too much of a risk.”
“I know. Get it to pick me up at the station. I can make it that far.”
“You can’t even stand up.”
He straightened and gestured with his free hand. “Course I can.”
“But if you take a taxi to Pimlico, you’ll be picked up within minutes.”
“Not that home,” he said softly and eased himself back down. “My real home. My ancestral pile.”
“Are you joking? Isn’t it miles away?”
“Yes, maybe the taxi isn’t such a good idea. Just get me onto a train to Waterloo, and I’ll sort something out from there. Please, Pamela.”
She approached him and cupped his face in her hands. “Let me think. If that’s what you want, we’ll work it out somehow.”
She left the flat and returned shortly with a wheelchair borrowed from one of the elderly tenants. “It’s a long walk, but we’ll make it. So roll up your joints and let’s get moving.”
Westbrook allowed her to shave him and give him a shirt left by a long-gone lover. He wore a polo-neck sweater over it, and she wrapped a blanket around him. She put a hat on his head and pulled it down low.
At eight she set off to walk the two miles to the railway station. Emaciated though he was, Westbrook was heavy to push, and she had to stop for a breather every now and then. His head bobbed up and down on his chest as she eased the chair across the pavements.
There was a train to Waterloo in fifteen minutes, so she bought a one-way ticket and wheeled him onto the platform. She didn’t want to think about how he would get on and off the train. They sat together, saying little. To her astonishment, when the train headed into the platform he found enough strength to stand unaided.
“This is good-bye, fair Pamela. Take care of yourself. I adore you and cannot thank you enough for your care. Now, please go and don’t look back. Just walk out before I blubber like a schoolboy. I never had much control over my emotions. Reminds me of saying good-bye to my mother when I went back to boarding school.”
Pamela kissed his wet, yellow cheek and fussed with the chair to hide her own tears. She knew she would never see him again.
She returned to her room and began to clean up. When she had folded the soiled sheets and Hoovered around the sofa, she sat down and broke into sobs, partly out of relief that he had gone and partly because she would miss him. Then she heated the ready-made meal and poured a large brandy. She couldn’t bring herself to switch on the television, fearing she might hear a report of his capture at Waterloo. When she found his unused plane tickets, with two thousand pounds that he had left for her, she broke down again.
Westbrook huddled in a corner of the train compartment and slept for the entire journey. No one paid him any attention. When the train arrived at Waterloo, he mustered the strength to walk the length of the platform toward the taxi rank. Pain forced him to sit down for fifteen minutes. Then, sweating profusely, he rose and hailed a taxi. He asked to be driven to Andover, a good two hours away. At first the driver refused to take him; then he saw Westbrook’s cash and helped him into the car.
“You sick?” he asked.
“You could say that. I just had my appendix out.” Westbrook rested against the seat, amazed he had managed to come this far. “When we get there, squire, wake me up and I’ll direct you to the lodge.” He closed his eyes. He knew that from the lodge he could get through the keeper’s gate and possibly manage the quarter of a mile to the house. He was too exhausted to open his eyes but passed the time in counting how many steps it would take him to get from the lodge to the kitchens, into the main hall, and from there up the stairs to his bedroom.
His mind drifted back to the room he had known as a boy. He had always been terrified of the dark, shut up in the east wing. He had never received much attention from either of his parents. He could not recall his father showing him any form of warmth or understanding. His mother had tried, when she was sober, but when he had needed her most she was always at some society event. The one great love of his life had been the wondrous building to which he was on his way-the halls, the ballroom, the library, and the vaulted, hand-painted ceiling in his room, with round pink cherubs beckoning him to the clouds on which they rested. All his ventures had been disasters, but with the money from his last enterprise, he was going to make sure his son and heir, living far out of his reach, could return to his rightful home. It was a fantasy, but it kept Westbrook alive for the duration of the taxi ride.