“Money. He lost a fortune on some Internet company. He never picked himself up from it, and running a place this size costs thousands a week. He just couldn’t get out of the hole he’d dug for himself. But it still doesn’t make sense to me. I thought he’d at least have told me, if not the rest of the yard.”
“Apparently he never even told his wife,” Rodgers said.
“Yeah, so I hear, and he doted on her. But the love of his life was Royal Flush. He was obsessed with him. That’s what doesn’t make sense. I can understand flogging the rest, but selling that horse off must have broken his heart.”
“Did you like him?”
“Who? The boss?” Fleming asked, more in control.
“Yes. What kind of a man was he?”
“Well, I’d have given him my life savings. He’s a man you thought you could trust one hundred percent. A man of his word, until now that is. But at least most of us will still be employed. Maybe that was part of his deal.”
“Deal?” asked Rodgers.
“He’s sold up lock, stock, and barrel to a sheikh, but we’ll all apparently have work if we want it. He saw to that.”
“How much do you think he would have got for the place?”
“The stables?” Fleming asked warily and moved papers around his desk. “Well, I dunno how much he owed on it. I think he’d mortgaged it to the hilt. Who knows? Either way, I’d say the farm and his horses were worth about forty million. Royal Flush alone cost over a million, but he’d been selling off some of his best for months, along with his cars. He’d already let a lot of staff go.”
“Do you know a Philip Simmons?”
Fleming shook his head. “No.”
“Do you know a James Wilcox?”
“No.”
Rodgers shifted his weight. The photograph was still hidden beneath his coat. “Have you ever met a man named Anthony Driscoll?”
“No, I’ve never heard of any of them. You know, there’s a lot I should be doing. Is there something you need from me? I would like to get on with things.”
“On May second of this year, do you know where Mr. de Jersey was?”
“Well, not all of the time, but for part of the day he was at the races with me. We had a runner in the three o’clock at Brighton. He had to leave straight after the race as his daughters were in some play.”
“How did Mr. de Jersey travel to Brighton?”
“By helicopter. He flies it himself now. He used to have a pilot, but he went months ago.”
“What make of helicopter is it?”
“Erm… I don’t really know. A small one, I think,” Fleming said, looking pointedly at his watch.
“Where do you think he is?” Rodgers asked, his hand on the door.
“I have no idea, I’m sorry.”
Rodgers smiled and thanked him for his time. Just as he stepped out, Fleming said, “I’ll give you a tip, though. I know where he will be.”
Rodgers turned back.
“The Derby. No way will he miss seeing Royal Flush win that race. Back the horse now and you’ll get a good price.” Four more uniformed officers remained to question the entire staff from the stables.
Rodgers returned to his car, patiently awaiting D.C. Grainger. They drove out in silence, with Rodgers flicking through his notebook, which was resting on the photograph of de Jersey.
“He’s either done a bunk with the cash he got from the sale or he’s holed up somewhere with a bottle of pills,” he said flatly.
“Or he’s run off with the Crown Jewels,” said the driver, but Rodgers gave him an icy stare.
After another lengthy silence, Rodgers flicked through his notebook again. “Mrs. de Jersey was covering something.” He tapped the book and suggested they check out de Jersey’s alibi for the night Sylvia Hewitt had died. Then he rested back on the seat and shut his eyes. “Something stinks in this, and it’s not horse manure. We’ll put out an interest report on PNC on him, see if we can pull him in, if only for his wife’s sake. She’s quite a looker. It must have been difficult to walk out on her.” He opened his eyes. “Unless he hasn’t and she was covering for him.” He glared through the window and ground his teeth. “What if the man we want is de Jersey? I reckon he could be. The descriptions we’ve got of Philip Simmons resemble de Jersey.” He balanced the photograph on his knee. “Would a man with his face in the papers at every race meeting-a man who mixed with the Queen, for Christ’s sake-risk pulling off the biggest heist in history?”
Rodgers stared at the photograph and fished in his pocket for a tin of peppermints. His cell phone rang. “Well, we’ll soon know if Maureen Stanley recognizes him.”
“Rodgers,” he snapped and listened, chewing a peppermint. When he was told that both Driscoll and Wilcox had left the country the previous day, he swore. He should have hauled them in the moment he’d had the tip-off. This was going to look bad.
De Jersey knew that time was running out. He had flown to Paris using Shaughnessy’s passport and booked into a small pension. From a call box he contacted Dulay to say that they needed to meet. He wanted the buyer’s down payment.
Paul Dulay, still under surveillance, drove to Paris. Leaving the car, he went on foot and public transport until he felt certain he had lost his tail. He was an hour late for his meeting with de Jersey in a small bar across from Hôtel de la Tremouille. He had brought half of the million dollars with him in a small leather holdall, retaining the other half for himself.
“If you knew the runaround I’ve had to go through to get this cash-and I got it with those arseholes on my butt.”
“What did Kitamo have to say?”
“Well, he never says a lot, but he knows what must have gone down and he’s asking when he’s gonna see his goods.”
De Jersey instructed Dulay not to attempt to haul up the loot. It was to remain attached to the marked lobster pot. It could stay there for months, if necessary.
“How long do we expect Kitamo to wait?” Dulay asked.
“However long it takes. Don’t give him the Koh-i-noor until the heat has died down. As for the other stones, tell him he’ll get them in dribs and drabs. You don’t go near that crate.”
“How will I give him the diamond if I can’t go near the crate?”
De Jersey answered by taking it out of his pocket and covertly handing it over.
Dulay was speechless. “Holy Christ, is it. Where in Christ’s name am I gonna put it?”
“Stay calm and lower your voice. Hold on to it until I give the word, and let him know that he’ll be transferring the next payment via the Internet. The day it clears we pass over the stone. Not until then.”
“I like your use of the word we,” snapped Dulay. “It’s me who’s gonna be carrying the fucking thing around.” Dulay was scared and he was drinking heavily, but de Jersey remained calm. “Where the hell do I stash it? They’ve been over my shop and my home like a goddamned rash!”
De Jersey laughed and leaned in close. “I’ll tell you exactly where you’re going to stash it.”
De Jersey returned to his hotel and stacked in a large wooden crate the money from Dulay alongside the cash he had received after the mortgage for the estate had been redeemed. The rest he had instructed to be placed in two banking facilities he’d arranged over the Internet in New York. On top of the false bottom of the crate were three large paintings from a small gallery close to the Hôtel de la Tremouille. They were individually wrapped in oilskins and thick rolls of bubble wrap. It was then nailed down and was to be sent by sea to New York with the gallery’s name and a valuation of the contents clearly posted on the side. The paintings were to be dispatched to the Hamptons, to be stored by his solicitors until his arrival. It was too risky to return to his helicopter, and he’d arranged storage for it at Orly airport. He knew his chances of escape depended on a solitary run. He could not afford to speak to or contact anyone. He was hoping that Christina had not divulged the names on his fake passports, because he intended to use them both.