It startled them both.
‘It would drive me nuts to have that going off every fifteen minutes in my house!’ Branson said.
‘They have their uses.’ Grace gave a knowing smile, which Branson didn’t pick up on.
‘Cuckoo clocks? Yeah, well, each to their own.’
Grace clapped his hands. ‘OK, let’s focus on where Sir Tommy and Lady Magellan-Lacey might be going.’
‘Somewhere that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the UK?’
‘Move to the top of the class.’
‘Where do we find out which countries those are?’
‘I know them,’ Grace said. ‘There aren’t many. Currently, Russia, China, North Korea, the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia. There may be a few more that I can’t think of.’
‘So we’re going to have to find out all the flights leaving this afternoon to all those countries?’
‘No, we haven’t time, we’re going to need to eliminate some. North Korea for starters. Tell me, which would be your country of preference, if you were heading off with a big stash?’
Branson shrugged. ‘The Emirates would be top of my list. Sunshine and bling — what’s not to like?’
‘Mine too,’ Grace agreed, glancing at his watch again. ‘But if we are right about Sir Tommy — and I’m increasingly sure we are — I don’t think he’d be dumb enough to travel with his wife under their real names.’
‘I agree.’
The cat prowled into the room and miaowed again.
‘Maybe we can narrow it down,’ Grace said.
‘How?’
Grace locked eyes with him. ‘You need a new ID, fake passport, fake everything. You’re going to go for a common surname and not one that sticks out, right?’
‘You mean like Smith or Jones or Williams or Brown or—’
Grace looked pointedly down at the cat.
Branson’s eyes widened. ‘George? Is that what you’re suggesting?’
Grace shrugged. ‘Good as any and it’s right under your nose. We have to start somewhere.’ He picked up the phone and called Luke Stanstead. When the researcher answered, Grace gave him his instructions: to extremely urgently get onto the London Heathrow Terminal 5 police, and request the passenger lists for all flights leaving this afternoon for Dubai, and any parts of Russia, China and Saudi Arabia. He was to look in particular for common surnames, and he was to call him back immediately if there was a Mr and Mrs George booked on any flight. Also, just in case the Magellan-Laceys were travelling under their real names, he told Luke to check for those too.
As he ended the call, the cat miaowed again, very plaintively.
‘Let’s find some food for him,’ Grace said. ‘You never know, he might just have earned himself a slap-up dinner.’
Branson knelt and began opening cupboard doors.
107
Thursday 30 November 2023
Tommy Magellan-Lacey was feeling pretty damned pleased with himself. A couple of glasses of the perfectly acceptable pink champagne British Airways provided in their Gold lounge had added to his well-being. And equally importantly to his wife’s.
‘Cheers, my darling! To our rather rosy — or should I say rosé — future.’ He lay back in his comfortable seat and clinked glasses with his wife.
‘A rosy future, indeed!’ Fiona replied.
They were both so pleasantly woozy.
With all the money they had, as well as the treasures in their luggage, for which he already had buyers lined up, he was never going to have to work a day in his life, ever again. Nor Fiona.
He kept a watchful eye on the flight departure board. Theirs was still showing on time. The sooner they were away the better. He wouldn’t fully relax until they were in the air. But he was chilled enough now. That rather beady detective, Roy Grace, would be focusing his attentions on Rose Cadoret — and Tommy had enough on her to ensure her ongoing silence. And thanks to the crazy bitch’s actions, he was guaranteed Smoke’s silence. That thought made him smile.
Happy days!
And if the balloon did go up — well, hey — by then he and Fiona would have long left Dubai and be safely ensconced in beautiful Georgia where he had a couple of very interested buyers for some of the merchandise they had stored in their warehouse. It was another country that had no extradition treaty with the UK. But also a very nice place to live. Until they decided where, in the world that was now their oyster, to buy their forever home.
He stood up, a little unsteadily, clutching his and Fiona’s glasses, and topped them up again. As he did so he felt a sudden burst of exuberance like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
I’m a millionaire! He felt like shouting it out across the packed lounge. I’m a millionaire! No, correction! I’m a MULTI-MILLIONAIRE!
It was all in his phone. In Bitcoins.
Oh my God!
He handed Fiona her glass. Then clinked his against hers. ‘To the future, my darling!’
‘To our future!’ she said.
‘Indeed!’
Champagne spilled over the rim of his glass as he sat — almost falling — back down, the seat lower than he had remembered. Instantly he felt a damp sensation on his lap and he peered down, seeing a dark patch. It looked like he had peed himself.
‘Bugger,’ he said.
Then he saw the change on the Departures screen to Boarding. Gate B14.
Clutching his very precious briefcase, he said, ‘We should go, darling.’
‘Let’s finish our champagne,’ she said. ‘They’re not going to take off without us, not with all the luggage we have on board!’
He grinned. ‘Good point.’
Five minutes later they rode the escalator down. He was now a totally different persona to the old Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey, Master of the Royal Household, who was always attired in a Huntsman suit, Hilditch and Key shirt and conservative old Marlburian or Athenaeum Club tie. Now he wore a Panama hat at a jaunty angle, Ray-Ban sunglasses, a white Paul Smith jacket over a pink linen shirt, his damp-lapped chinos and, sockless, Todd loafers.
Fiona too looked pretty different to her past twinset and pearls persona. Her brown hair bunched up inside a blonde wig, to match her new passport, she wore an emerald Versace trouser suit and Prada sandals.
The pair strode, a little light-headedly and somewhat unsteadily, against what seemed an endless tide of travellers flowing towards them. They negotiated, in their boozed-up carefree haze of happiness, the oncoming barrage of wheely bags, wheelchairs, mobile phoners, loose children and dodderers, passing some of the fancy shops — nothing in the windows out of their price range now — and then another escalator down to the shuttle platform.
A few minutes later they emerged from the train and took the two long escalators up. Tommy held his beloved wife’s hand as they walked on, at the top, towards Gate B14, their flight to Dubai, towards freedom and the start of their new life.
He felt so incredibly excited. It had worked! They’d done it, got away with it! They were rich beyond their wildest dreams!
And beyond the reach of the British law!
Gate B14 was ahead. The electronic sign said, BA 2971 Dubai.
Just a few more minutes!
They joined the Priority Boarding queue.
An announcement was made. Boarding had started for all passengers with a 0 or a 1 on their boarding cards. They had a 1 on theirs, of course!
A few people in wheelchairs were pushed through. Then a bunch of parents with annoyingly shouty sprogs. Then he and Fiona held their printed cards as they approached the automatic gate. A man in front was struggling with his boarding card on his phone, which the machine didn’t seem to want to accept. He was about to turn away when it finally went green and the gates opened. The light went red, then green again and Fiona went through. And a few moments later he was through too.