Liz knew that Michelle was spoiled, especially by her father, who doted on her. A good marriage with a nice, respectable boy was what they both wanted for her. At the moment, Michelle had a constant stream of boyfriends, all from wealthy families. Liz was determined, though, that her daughter wasn’t going to get pregnant and ensured that she took sensible precautions. This was their mother-daughter secret; she knew her husband would not approve of his princess being on the pill. She yawned and looked at the bedside clock. The red light on the phone was still lit, and Tony was supposed to be semiretired.
“Tony? What’s going on? Tony?”
“With you in a minute, sweetheart,” he called.
The phone pressed to his ear, Driscoll listened to the soft, clipped tone of de Jersey’s voice. The Colonel was the nickname he and Wilcox had given him, and only they used it. Driscoll’s heart was beating rapidly, and he had broken out in a sweat. He did not interrupt, just gave the occasional grunt to let de Jersey know he was still on the line.
“There’s nothing to be done before the Christmas break is over, but we’ll meet up after you get back,” said de Jersey. “The usual place, at the Ritz, but I’ll call again as soon as I have more details. Tony?”
“We’re due back mid-January.”
“Fine. I’ll contact James and pass on the news.”
“He’s in Aspen.”
“I know.”
Driscoll’s mouth was dry. “There couldn’t have been some fuckup, could there? I mean, are you sure?”
“Afraid so. David killed himself, that’s proof enough. It’s bad. I’ll need time to sort through everything. I am truly sorry, Tony. I feel it’s down to me, and I’ll try to think of some way to make good our losses.”
Driscoll closed his eyes. “I put all my eggs in.”
“We all did, but like I said, I feel responsible.”
“Hell, we’re all grown men. You never twisted my arm, but I would like to know exactly what’s gone down. We’re talking millions.”
“Try not to think about it. I’ll work this one out for us, and that’s a promise.”
The phone went dead, and Driscoll sat cradling the receiver in his hands. He was still unable to take it in. He had just lost his life savings.
Tony Driscoll had started out as a runner in Ronnie Jersey’s betting shops, but he was clever with his money. With the initial payoff from the Colonel, he had moved into the rubbish-collection industry, opening up big waste-disposal dumps and buying a fleet of trucks. In the mid-seventies he had married Liz, his secretary, and in the early eighties they had moved their children into a massive mock Tudor mansion just outside Guildford. Recently Driscoll had begun to play a big part in the local Labour Party, donating funds and attending functions. Driscoll glanced to the closed bedroom door. He still felt numb. He knew he couldn’t take part in another caper, not after all these years. His hand was shaking as he poured a shot of whiskey. He felt fear when he considered his agreement to meet up with the others. Whatever the Colonel suggested to get them out of trouble, he would refuse. He kept looking at the bedroom door, wondering how he could explain his financial predicament to Liz. He’d have to get rid of the girlfriend, sell the flat he’d provided her with. He reckoned he’d have to sell off property fast, including his villa in Spain. He returned to the bedroom. Thinking about the life of crime he used to lead made the adrenaline pump into his tired veins.
Liz woke to her husband stroking her breasts, and suddenly he was on top of her, like a man possessed. He went for her with a passion that made her climax with a scream.
“Well, that must have been some phone call,” she said, wide awake and smiling. “Whoever it was, you get him to call you just once a week. I couldn’t take this every night! Tony? Was it good news?”
He closed his eyes. “Yes. And now I’m knackered.” He turned over and fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.
Liz had no notion of her husband’s life before their marriage. None of his business associates had an air of being less than 100 percent legitimate. If anyone had hinted to Liz that her husband had been involved with some of the most daring robberies ever committed in England she would have laughed. Not her Tony. Tony had a fixation on honesty; he’d even had arguments with his accountant over a few offshore tax-dodging schemes the man had suggested. He was paranoid if they were late paying the milkman. She loved and trusted him totally and had never been unfaithful, though recently she’d been fantasizing about her new personal trainer, Kevin. Just like Christina, Liz had been cosseted and adored but kept in ignorance of her husband’s past activities. The three men had agreed: the less anyone knew about their past, the safer they would be. So their secrets were buried deep and covered with well-rehearsed lies. Liz had never heard her husband mention Edward de Jersey, just as Christina knew nothing about Tony Driscoll or James Wilcox.
The snowcapped mountains with the mellow light of sunrise streaming across their peaks made a wonderful sight. Aspen was not just great skiing country; its scenery was breathtaking. It also offered a fantastic social life, which was why James Wilcox and his present girlfriend, Rika, had booked their Christmas break there for two years in a row.
Rika had been the nanny. She’d arrived from the Ukraine hardly able to speak two words of English, a raw-boned, handsome blonde with a voluptuous figure. After six months, she moved into the master bedroom. Rika knew a good catch when she saw one, and born into poverty, she was determined to become Wilcox’s wife number five.
At fifty-nine, Wilcox was slender and muscular from his daily workouts. He ran about fifty miles every week, cycled, and played tennis in the summer. He was still handsome and had only recently taken on the slight puffiness associated with age and high living. Rika was only twenty-eight. He could hardly ever understand what she said as her English was still appalling, but he had no desire for meaningful conversations. She was a great fuck, kept the kids in order and his homes clean.
Wilcox had stupendous energy and required only five hours’ sleep a night. He practically rattled with the vitamin pills he swallowed in handfuls every morning. He ate sparingly, drank little, and smoked only the occasional cigar. His one vice was cocaine; he snorted mountains of it and depended on it to kick him into gear every day.
Wilcox was not as wealthy as Driscoll or de Jersey, but through wise deals in the car trade he had turned his earnings from the robberies into a lucrative business. At one time he had owned restaurants and garages, but he had recently liquidated the majority of his holdings in favor of a semiretirement plan: he planned to pack up and live abroad. He had stayed on in England all these years only to educate his six kids. Since all of the older teenagers now either boarded at school or were heading for university, and only the twins still lived at home, it would be simple now to send them to boarding school, move to Geneva, and keep just a small house in England.