Also in her office diary were the names and contact numbers of certain clients of David Lyons who had suffered similar losses. Among them were Anthony Driscoll, James Wilcox, and Edward de Jersey. These three were underlined, so Fuller decided to concentrate on them.
The first of the threesome to be interviewed was Tony Driscoll. He almost had heart failure when his wife came into his study to tell him a police officer wanted to talk to him.
“Sorry to bother you, sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Jon Fuller, and this is Police Constable Margaret Kilshaw. I am here concerning a woman named Sylvia Hewitt. I believe you were a business associate.” Driscoll hesitated, but Fuller continued, “You should know that Miss Hewitt is dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, but I didn’t know her.”
“Miss Hewitt recently suffered financial losses due to her involvement with an Internet company, and your name was listed in her diary.”
“Ah, yes. Now I know who she is, but I never met her. I think she got my number from David Lyons, who advised me to invest in the same company.”
“Could you tell me why she contacted you?”
“I suffered substantial losses in the same company, and Miss Hewitt asked if I would be willing to hire someone to help trace the man she believed was responsible. I was rather annoyed that she had got hold of my personal details, which I pointed out to her was illegal.”
“And you never met her?”
“No, I did not. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“Just one more thing. Do you know someone named Edward de Jersey?”
“No.”
“Do you know someone called James Wilcox?”
“No.”
“Philip Simmons?”
Driscoll’s heart was fit to burst through his chest. “No. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I only spoke to the woman once on the phone.” He hesitated, then decided he had said enough.
Wilcox was tipped off fast by Driscoll.
“I warned everyone about that bloody woman,” Wilcox said tightly.
“Yes, I know, but we’ve no problem. She’s dead.”
There was a pause as Wilcox took this in. “How come they came to you?”
“The bitch had my details in her fucking diary, so she must have yours and the Colonel’s. I’ll warn him too.” Driscoll paused. “So far so good, huh?” he said.
“Yeah. Let’s hope it stays that way,” Wilcox replied.
When Detective Sergeant Fuller visited that afternoon, Wilcox denied knowing Sylvia Hewitt, Driscoll, or de Jersey. “Did you know that David Lyons committed suicide?” Wilcox asked the sergeant innocently.
“Yes, we are aware of that. Just one more thing, do you know a Philip Simmons?”
“No. I didn’t mix with Lyons socially, so I didn’t know any of his other clients. All I do know is we all lost a considerable amount in this Internet company we invested in. Maybe he was one of the losers.”
“Via a Mr. Alex Moreno?”
“I believe so. But I think he did a runner. I know we have little hope of recovering any money.”
As he had said he would, Driscoll made a short warning call to de Jersey, who was abrupt and noncommittal. When he replaced the phone, Driscoll was aware of a dull sensation in the pit of his stomach. He was sure that de Jersey had played some part in Miss Hewitt’s demise, but as with Moreno, he hadn’t asked and he didn’t want to know. He was just relieved that she was no longer a problem.
However, both Driscoll and Wilcox needed cash injections. Driscoll decided to put his house on the market, unaware that Wilcox was contemplating the same thing.
Jon Fuller and his P.C. now made the journey to de Jersey’s estate. If Fuller had been impressed by the properties owned by Driscoll and Wilcox, de Jersey’s took his breath away. The patrol car drew up beside the west wing stables. Fuller asked a boy if he could tell them where they would find de Jersey and was pointed to a vast, semicovered arena with a horseshoe-shaped swimming pool for exercising the horses.
De Jersey was watching Royal Flush swimming around the perimeter of the pool. He had seen the patrol car enter the yard and paid it no attention. As the officers approached, he continued to call out instructions. “Keep him going. Give him another two half circles.”
“Good morning, sir.” Fuller showed his card and introduced his companion.
“This is my pride and joy, Royal Flush,” de Jersey said, gesturing to the swimming stallion. “Put your money on him for the Derby,” he advised and gave the officers a charming smile.
He walked with them back to the house, where he told them he had met Sylvia Hewitt twice, once at her brother-in-law’s house and a second time when he had visited her at her apartment in St. John’s Wood.
“Miss Hewitt was found dead in her apartment,” Fuller said.
“My God! When did this happen?” De Jersey stopped in his tracks.
“Two weeks ago. We believe it was suicide, sir.”
“Well, that’s dreadful, but I fail to see how I can be of any help. I didn’t really know her.” He added that he was surprised Sylvia would contemplate suicide. Then he paused. “I don’t know if I should go into this, but her brother-in-law, as you must know, also committed suicide quite recently. The reason I am hesitant to say anything derogatory about Sylvia is that I had a great affection for David and his poor wife.” He paused again. “I believe Sylvia and David had been lovers for some time.” He sighed. “I am deeply sorry this has happened. In some ways I wish I had known her better. The loss of certain investments was deeply disturbing for me, but in comparison…”
“Did you ever think of taking legal action?” asked the detective.
“Well, my father always used to say, ‘Never invest in anything you don’t understand,’ and I wish to God I had taken his advice. This chap Moreno ran off with whatever he salvaged out of the mess.”
“Did you ever approach Moreno?”
“Good heavens, no. Sylvia was trying to find him. She wanted me to help, but private detectives can’t be trusted, and I just felt it was best to forgive and forget. David was dead, and that was the end of it as far as I was concerned.”
“And you do not know an Anthony Driscoll or a James Wilcox?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Have you ever met a man called Philip Simmons?”
At this moment Christina appeared in the doorway with a tray of coffee.
“Darling, do come in.” De Jersey rose and made the introductions. She put down the tray and shook their hands. De Jersey handed round the coffee as he explained the reason for the officers’ visit.
Christina sat down, shocked. “Good heavens. How terrible. I must call Helen,” she said.
De Jersey put his arm round her. “Yes, of course, we should.”
She gazed at him a moment, then smiled at the officers. “Excuse me,” she said and left the room.
Outside the study door Christina waited to hear her husband tell the police whether he knew Philip Simmons. “I don’t think I do. Was he one of David’s clients?” she heard him say.
“We’re not sure,” replied Fuller. “It’s just that there are various notes in Miss Hewitt’s diary with regard to this man and, according to the detective in New York, she felt that he was connected to Alex Moreno.”
“I can’t recall meeting someone of that name, but then I do meet a lot of people at the racetracks.”
“Have you been to New York yourself recently?”
“No, I have not.”
Christina remained listening until they began to discuss racing. Then she went slowly up to her bedroom. She could understand why he had lied. He had done something illegal in New York, he had told her that. But how on earth could it be connected to Sylvia Hewitt? She went to the window to see de Jersey ushering the officers out and watched as they walked to their parked patrol car.