Christina intended to keep secret the money she had received. She did not ask the bank manager when or how her husband had accessed the deposit box. She preferred not to know. She asked her father to move in with her and the girls; then it might be thought that her father had bought the house or at least part of it. The police, she knew, were still monitoring her, perhaps hoping de Jersey would make contact. But now she was certain he would not.
She enrolled her daughters in the American school in Stockholm and began furnishing and decorating her new house.
It had been one of the coldest Mays on record, but Royal Flush was in peak condition, ready for the Derby on June eighth. The massive stallion had lost his frantic, often dangerous edge. He had been groomed until his coat looked like black patent leather. He left the other top-class horses a good furlong behind in training, and as the buildup to the flat-racing season started, Mickey Rowland became confident that, although the owner had changed, he would still have the ride of his life. It had been written into the deal de Jersey had struck, and for that Mickey could forgive his boss’s sudden departure and the salary he was still owed.
Royal Flush’s new owner kept his prowess under wraps. No spectators were allowed to watch his training sessions. Having won his two trial races with ease, he was the hot favorite for the Derby, even more so because he had been Edward de Jersey’s horse. The most wanted man in Britain was about to see taken from him the prize he had coveted.
To Chief Superintendent Rodgers, the lack of sightings and of public information regarding Driscoll and Wilcox, even with a large reward, was unfathomable. Clues to the whereabouts of Pamela Kenworthy-Wright had also borne no fruit until they received a call from Plymouth police. A woman had been badly burned in a fire at her flat in a run-down area known as the Fort. She had apparently fallen asleep while smoking and drinking. The neighbors had seen smoke coming from beneath her door and tried to break in. Unable to do so, they had called the fire brigade. Pamela was found in a sorry state on her bed, badly burned and suffering from smoke inhalation. When the paramedics had tried to take her to hospital she became hysterical, but by then she was sinking into a coma. Beneath her bed the police discovered a large tin box containing three thousand pounds in cash and a variety of articles that warranted suspicion. There was a shirt with Lord Westbrook’s monogram and a gold signet ring with his family crest on it.
Chief Superintendent Rodgers and two officers caught the train to Plymouth, and a squad car picked them up at the station. Within fifteen minutes of their arrival at the hospital, Pamela died. It was a bitter blow that they had been unable to interview her, though her part in the robbery was later confirmed by Maureen Stanley, who identified her as the lady-in-waiting.
They spent a considerable time sifting through Pamela’s belongings but came up with no further clues. She had been as diligent as de Jersey had instructed her to be, except for Westbrook’s ring, which he had left her along with the cash.
Alone, and with little contact from anyone, Pamela had taken to drinking heavily as she read the exploits of the police in their hunt for the raiders. But even that began to mean little to her as she drank more and ate less. Poor Pamela. She had died a horrible death, but she made front-page headlines, and the papers showed a photograph of her taken years ago in a touring production of The School for Scandal. In the photographs from her old scrapbook she looked beautiful, so at least she was saved the disgrace of anyone seeing her raddled, drink-blotched face and carrot red hair. She died as Lady Teazle, and even long-lost friends who had known her as an actress came forward to give eulogies about her talent and her wonderful nature and humor. She would at least have liked that part.
In Spain, Wilcox was tanned and had grown his hair and beard. He was still working for Daniella’s brothers. One positive outcome of his new modest lifestyle: he was getting his cocaine addiction under control. One lunch break, Daniella’s brother held up a Spanish newspaper. “There’s a horse here that was owned by the guy they say did the Crown Jewels robbery,” he said, stabbing at the paper. “It’s called Royal Flush.”
When the young man had gone, Wilcox read the story about Royal Flush. He turned the page to see a picture of Edward de Jersey, still at large, and yet another lengthy article about the jewel heist. He stared at de Jersey’s impassive face. It would be just like him, Wilcox thought, to turn up at the Derby, bold as brass, and watch his horse run. He wondered whether the police had thought the same thing. He could not resist touching the image of de Jersey’s face and sending up a silent prayer that he did not.
Driscoll was flicking through the U.K. satellite channels. Eventually he settled on one where they were discussing the forthcoming Derby. At first he paid little attention as he had never been a gambling man. When he had worked in Ronnie Jersey’s betting shops, the old boy had warned him to keep his money in his pocket and let the punters lose theirs. Driscoll had religiously followed his advice. Then the program focused on a horse called Royal Flush, once owned by Edward de Jersey, and he gave the TV his full attention. Driscoll had not allowed himself to think about de Jersey, but hearing his name brought it all back. He rarely left his apartment for fear of being recognized and had grown a full beard. He had lost a considerable amount of weight, partly as a result of living on his nerves and partly thanks to the fresh salads and vegetables he bought at the market. The stomach pains and indigestion he’d lived with for years had abated, and he was much fitter thanks to the nightly jogs he took to pick up newspapers left on the beaches by the tourists. Over the past couple of days he had been in a panic: his own face was plastered over the papers along with Wilcox’s. He sent up a silent prayer that for his sake, for Jimmy’s, for the old Three Musketeers, de Jersey would stay hidden.
By late May, Christina knew that the hype for the Derby would soon pick up, and this Derby would have special implications for her. She would not place a bet-she never had-but for de Jersey’s sake, she hoped Royal Flush would win. Like Wilcox, she wondered if he would risk watching his horse race. This was the race her husband had wanted so badly to win, with its connection to his long-dead father, though exactly what the connection was she did not know. All she hoped was that he would not surface.
28
The police were still maintaining a large team on the hunt for de Jersey and were armed with recent photographs of Wilcox and Driscoll. Liz Driscoll had no idea where her husband had been on the day of the robbery, and Rika said she was certain Wilcox had been at home because it had been his sons’ birthday party. Up to this point no physical evidence had connected either of the pair to the heist, but they had set themselves up for suspicion with their absence. The hunt for them was stepped up.
After nearly a month of wild-goose chases around Spain, the police came up with nothing. Chief Superintendent Rodgers was now looking into leadingleisurewear and Alex Moreno. But Moreno had disappeared off the face of the earth. Rodgers was feeling depressed when he called a meeting to update his top officers. He knew he had to remind the public that de Jersey was still at large-he needed their help-but even the press were no longer eager for bulletins. At his last weekly session with the big chiefs, they had hinted about bringing in a fresh team to review the situation.