At last, after some coffee and a cigarette, she seemed more in control. “I need to ask you some questions.” he said.
“Is it about debts? He owes money everywhere. In fact, I had to take the phone off the hook. As soon as it became known that the estate was sold, it’s not stopped ringing.”
“I am not here about debts,” Rodgers said and waited while she dried her eyes again. She couldn’t meet his steady gaze.
“Do you know Sylvia Hewitt?” he asked.
Christina nodded and said that she also knew she was dead. “She was the sister-in-law of my husband’s financial adviser.”
“We had been treating her death as a suicide, but certain matters have arisen,” he said and opened a notebook. He asked if Christina knew Anthony Driscoll or James Wilcox, but she shook her head. Then she paused and said that, if she remembered correctly, they had also been clients of David Lyons.
“How well did your husband know Miss Hewitt?” he asked.
Christina shrugged. “I think he did know her but not well,” she said flatly.
“Do you know if he ever visited her at her St. John’s Wood flat?” Rodgers asked.
“No,” she said, averting her eyes.
“So he might have been to see her, if only to discuss the loss of his investments?”
Christina didn’t reply.
“Miss Hewitt also lost a considerable amount, I understand,” Rodgers continued.
“I believe so, but not as much as my husband. In fact, he was always very dismissive of her. I don’t think he liked her.”
“Do you know where your husband was on the night Sylvia died?”
“Yes, I do,” she said. Rodgers was taken aback by the abruptness of her reply. “He was staying at his club, the St. James’s. He said he was there all night.”
“You seem very sure about that.”
She kept her eyes on her hands in her lap. “We just happened to discuss it.”
“Why was that?”
“No real reason.” She reached for her coffee cup. He saw that her hand was shaking.
Rodgers tapped his teeth with his pencil. “Did you ask him about her death?”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Why do you remember where your husband was on that specific night?”
Christina was silent.
“Mrs. de Jersey, could you answer the question, please?”
“Well, I had tried to contact him, and he hadn’t returned my calls, so I called the club. I just remember it was that night.”
“Do you know where your husband was on the second of May?”
She frowned and twisted a sodden piece of tissue. “Why that date?” When she looked up, her eyes reminded Rodgers of those of a frightened animal caught in a trap.
“Well, Mrs. de Jersey, if you need a reminder, it was the day the Crown Jewels were stolen,” he said pleasantly and waited.
“If you’ll just hold on, I’ll fetch our diary.” She rose and went into the hall. She stood with her hands pressed to her eyes, her whole body shaking. She had to take deep breaths before she returned with the book. “I know he was in Brighton racing in the afternoon, but he was back here by early evening. Our daughters were performing in a school play, and we both went from here at around five o’clock.”
“Do you know anyone named Philip Simmons?” Rodgers caught the quick intake of breath and watched Christina closely. “Philip Simmons,” he repeated.
“I know the name,” she said and looked up, her eyes now bright and clear. “I watched the TV program about the jewel robbery, and I know the police want to question him.”
“And that is how you know the name?” Rodgers asked.
Christina reached for his pack of Silk Cut and took one out. He leaned forward to light it for her.
“They mentioned it on the program,” she said.
“So where do you think your husband is?” Rodgers asked.
Christina shrugged and turned away. “I have no idea.” She inhaled deeply, then turned back to him. He noticed yet another swift change of mood. The trapped animal was fighting back. “My husband left me. I have to leave the house. He’s sold everything. He took off in his helicopter. He left no note. I have not stopped working since then. Anything to keep my mind off the way he… I discovered he had sold our home from a note left to me by the new owner. My husband has also left me in tremendous debt, so if you do find him, be sure to let me know.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and sat back in her chair, clasping her hands tightly. “Why are you here? If it isn’t about Sylvia Hewitt, what is it about? Why do you want to see him?”
Rodgers turned over the cigarette packet. “It is about Miss Hewitt. I’m speaking to whoever knew her.” Although he was being polite, he was watching her like a hawk.
“No other reason?” she asked.
“Possibly. I am also trying to trace Philip Simmons.”
“So you believe this man is involved in Sylvia Hewitt’s death?”
“Possibly.”
“I thought she committed suicide. Helen, her sister, told me it was suicide,” Christina said.
“Possibly.” He gave nothing away. “I would like the details of your husband’s helicopter,” he said, tapping his notebook. “And if you have any thoughts about where he might have gone, I would be grateful to hear them.”
Christina remained silent.
“So you don’t expect him to return?” Rodgers said.
Christina’s eyes filled with tears. She sprang to her feet and fetched another tissue.
Rodgers gave her his card. “Call me anytime if you think of anything that would help me.”
“I will.”
He left her looking drained and defeated. He felt sorry for her, but he was sure she was holding something back. He was not finished with her yet.
Christina watched the officers from the kitchen window, saw them moving across the yard, stopping the stable girls, conferring with the jockeys, then entering the manager’s office. Apart from the faint hope that de Jersey would get in touch, she hadn’t said anything because she was afraid that what she knew might endanger not only him but herself and her daughters. She decided to leave as soon as possible for Sweden. They would be safer there than in England.
Rodgers sat in Fleming’s office looking at the lists of forthcoming race meetings, the array of cups and awards the yard had won, and the largest photograph hanging on the wall. It was of de Jersey standing by his beloved Royal Flush. He then glanced over the other photographs of de Jersey with various champions and of de Jersey close to the Queen at Royal Ascot.
“He’s a big chap,” Rodgers stated quietly.
“Yes, over sixteen hands,” said Fleming.
“No, I meant Mr. de Jersey,” Rodgers said, pointing to the photograph.
“Yes, about six four.” Fleming sighed and joined Rodgers, who stood looking closely at one photograph after another.
“Did Her Majesty ever come to the stables?” he asked, peering closer at one photo.
“Good heavens, no! That was taken last year at Royal Ascot.”
“Did anyone from the Royal household ever come here?” he asked.
“Not that I am aware of. Like someone from the Queen’s racing stables?”
“Anyone, really, who was connected to Her Majesty’s household.”
“I doubt it, and I’ve worked here for almost twenty years. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. It’s quite a place,” he said, changing the subject. As Fleming returned to his desk, Rodgers removed one of the photographs and slipped it beneath his coat. He was taken aback by the emotion in the man’s voice.
“I’ll never understand how he could just walk away from this stallion in particular.” Fleming pointed at a picture of Royal Flush. “He was his pride and joy, and we reckon he’ll win the Derby. He’s an extraordinary horse.” Fleming swallowed.
“Why do you think he’s done a runner?” Rodgers asked conversationally.