After the crate had been collected by the shipping company, labelled for Shaughnessy, he changed his identity and switched passports to become Edward Cummings, the English art dealer. He dyed his hair dark brown and put on a small goatee, tinted to match his hair. Last he added a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. As the plane left Paris for New York, he stared out the window. Somewhere below, bobbing on the sparkling sea, was a small lobster pot attached to a crate containing the Crown Jewels.
Christina returned to the home she had loved, which was now stripped bare. She had admitted to her husband that she did not know him, and she remembered word for word what he had said. It was devastating to stand in rooms they had furnished together and realize the extent of his betrayal. She walked around the almost empty house until she reached their bedroom. She could hear him, his voice, his laugh. She remembered how he had said he loved her. It was torture, but she needed to feel the pain, the force of his lies, to do what she had in mind. If he had provided for her, shown some care that the love she had given him for twenty years meant something, it would have eased the hurt. But he had given her nothing and walked away with millions of pounds in cash.
Christina headed slowly down the stairs and into his study. All the furniture was gone, but his cigar smoke had left a tangy smell clinging to the walls and it made her feel as if he was there to witness what she was about to do. She bent down to the phone. It was still connected, and she took out the card given to her by Chief Superintendent Rodgers. She was calm and cold with anger. She dialed his direct number and waited.
“Rodgers.”
“It’s Christina de Jersey. I would like to speak to you with regard to my husband.”
27
Maureen Stanley was not shown the picture removed from de Jersey’s office, but the police lab had blown up the section of the photograph that showed his face and shoulders. It was placed among seven other black-and-white photographs of men with similar build and hair coloring. They didn’t yet have photos of either Wilcox or Driscoll.
Chief Superintendent Rodgers waited as she stared at one photograph after another. She frowned and pursed her lips. She laid all eight in front of her as if she was playing patience. “I’ve got a good memory for faces.” She had now recovered from the kidnap ordeal, and bathing in the continued media interest, she was enjoying herself.
Rodgers interrupted her impatiently. “Mrs. Stanley, do you recognize the face of the man who held you captive? The man you claim to be the leader.”
“Oh, yes, without any doubt!”
“Could you please indicate to everyone here which of these eight photographs you believe to be this man?”
Maureen nodded, her hand poised over the photographs. “Without any doubt, that’s him!” she said triumphantly and held up the picture of George Ericson, one of the officers attached to the inquiry.
Rodgers closed his eyes.
Tony Driscoll signed the papers for the sale of his villa in Marbella. The estate agent was a glamorous blonde with an all-over tan and plunging neckline. The villa was going to a dapper Italian, who had agreed to pay cash. That, minus the agent’s cut, plus all the contents, left him with 130,000 pounds. Driscoll knew it was worth more, but for the sake of being paid in cash, he accepted the loss.
He was preparing to return to England when he received a call from his wife. She was hysterical. The cops had been round. “They were asking all this stuff, Tony, about this woman Sylvia Hewitt. Then-oh, my God, Tony-they were asking about the Crown Jewels robbery. Where you were on the day, where you are now. They got a search warrant, they’re all over the house.”
“Get off the phone, Liz.”
“What do you mean, get off the phone? What the hell is going on, Tony? Tony?”
But Driscoll had slammed down the receiver. He went to find Wilcox on the patio. He sat down on the sun lounger beside him. “We’ve got trouble,” he said quietly. “The cops have been round to my place asking questions, and they’ve got a search warrant.” Wilcox’s eyes remained closed. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah.” Wilcox removed his shades.
“What do you think?” Driscoll asked.
Wilcox got up, reached for his towel, and slung it round his neck. “I’ll go down to the harbor and call Rika, see if they’ve been nosing around my place too.”
“Then what?”
“Well, we’ll have to think what we do next.”
“I know what I’m doing, pal. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Stupid cow told them I was here, so how long do you think it’s gonna take for them to come and pick me up? One call to the Spanish police and we’re nabbed.”
“What did they want?”
“They were asking about Hewitt, then slipped in the date of the fucking robbery. Not hard to put two and two together. They’re fucking on to us.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“Well, I tell you one thing, I ain’t going back to find out.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Move on, lie low, and wait, I guess.”
Wilcox kept his cool. “You mind waiting until I speak to Rika?”
“Sure, but get a move on. We should separate, fast.” Driscoll went back into the villa.
Wilcox drove Driscoll’s Jeep to Puerto Banus harbor. Once there, he went into a bar and called Rika. He said little but listened as she told him that not only had the police been round asking questions but they had also returned later with a search warrant.
“Vhat are they looking for, James? Vhy you leave me? Vhere are you? Tell me vhat you do.”
He hung up and dialed his ex-wife, Françoise. He could hear his kids shouting in the background as he said he would not be able to return to England for a while and the boys should stay with her. Françoise hit the roof. He hung up on her and walked out of the bar. He drove back to the villa, his nerves in shreds.
As he parked the Jeep in the drive, trying to think what his next move should be, Driscoll came out, his bags packed. “I’m out of here,” he said flatly.
“Where you going?”
“I dunno, but I’m not staying around to be picked up, and if you’ve got any sense you’ll get out too.”
“On what?” snapped Wilcox, slamming the car door.
Driscoll sighed. “Look, I’m not ditching you in the shit. I’ve left five hundred quid on the kitchen table.”
“Big deal. How far am I gonna get on that?”
“It’s not my problem, Jimmy. We can’t risk staying together.”
“Well, it’s all right for you. You just made a packet on this villa, but five hundred’s not gonna last me long, is it?”
“Take the Jeep-all the documents are in a drawer in the hall-then go visit one of the chicks you’ve been hanging out with. Leave the keys on the table in the hall. The agent’s got another set, but you can’t stay on here for much longer. The new tenants are moving in at the end of the month.” He walked away without a backward glance.
Driscoll walked down the green gravel drive, past the kidney-shaped swimming pool, and into the half-completed lane beyond. The authorities had been “finishing” the roadway to the plot of villas since he had purchased his fifteen years previously. At the end of the potholed road he turned right and headed toward a small row of shops where he called a local taxi to take him to the airport. He still had no plan, but he called his wife and told her to sell the house. He told her not to ask any questions but to wait for him to contact her. Driscoll said little to comfort her, just that he was unable to return to England. He didn’t know how long he would be away and told her that she was to buy herself a house and leave a contact number with the estate agent he had used to sell the villa. He felt wretched to leave her sobbing and scared, but he reckoned that if they were on to him they’d have tapped his phone. And they knew he was in Spain now.