Lynda La Plante: Royal Heist

“I know, but those were the days, eh? We was at his funeral. Wanted his ashes sprinkled over the Epsom racetrack, great character he was. Did you do it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do like he wanted, with his ashes?”

“No, they wouldn’t give me permission. Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Mr. Smedley,” said de Jersey, turning away, but the man tapped his arm.

“It’s Harry, sir, eh? Funny old life, isn’t it? I heard you had to leave that military college. Hurt yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I injured my knee.”

“Fell off a horse, was it?”

“Playing polo.”

“It must have been fate. I mean, look at you now, eh? I hadda do National Service. Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is, Harry,” replied de Jersey.

“No one would believe it, you and I was at school together in the East End.”

“Well, not many people know,” said de Jersey. This time he took out two fifty-pound notes from his wallet, saying, “Have a flutter on Royal Flush for old time’s sake.” He tucked the notes into Smedley’s top pocket and, before the man could say any more, walked off.

“Good luck today, sir,” Smedley said and tipped his bowler hat.

As he walked back down the track, de Jersey thought of his dapper little father, Ronnie Jersey. The “de” had been acquired many years after his father’s death: de Jersey thought it gave his name more of an upper-class ring. Once he had acquired the deep, rather plummy tones of an aristocrat, it was hard to detect any East End in his speech.

The injury to which Smedley had referred destroyed any hope of an army career; perhaps it had been fate, although at the time it had broken his heart. The fall damaged his kneecap so severely that he still limped and was often in pain, though he never allowed it to interfere with his grueling daily rides.

Down the track, Smedley was regaling one of the other stewards about his “school pal” Edward de Jersey.

“His father ran a bookies’-in fact, two of ’em. Nice earners, but back in the fifties he had a lot of aggravation from the villains. Word was, he was forced out of business and his son took ’em over but sold them fast. Looks a real toff now, but we was at school together. I tell you one thing, I’d like a share of his life. He’s worth bloody millions!”

De Jersey headed past the winner’s enclosure and through the famous hole-in-the-wall archway toward the boxes. On the third floor he got out of the lift and walked to his double box, pausing only to look over the railing at the throng below. The crowds were in good humor, standing almost shoulder to shoulder around the bandstand, where the brass band played a medley of old-time music-hall songs. The crowd joined in with the chorus: “Ohhhhh, there ain’t a lady living in the world that I’d swap for my dear old dutch.” As he listened, de Jersey remembered his dad standing at the piano in the pub close to their terraced house. His dad only had the nerve to get up and sing after he’d downed several pints. He’d sing at the top of his voice, button eyes focusing on his beloved wife, Florence. De Jersey laughed softly as the past swept over him and he heard his mother say, “Eddy, get your dad’s hat. We’re goin’ home!”

Someone brushed against his shoulder, and he turned to find Lord Wilby offering his hand. “Hello, Edward, wonderful day for it.” Wilby introduced his wife.

“Charming as ever.” De Jersey gave her a small bow and tipped his hat.

“How do you rate your colt’s chances?” Wilby had two runners himself that day.

“Rather good, as long as he keeps his head.”

Wilby checked his race card. “Ah, Mickey Rowland, yes, he’s a good jockey. Handled well at Lingfield.” Then more owners were acknowledging de Jersey, and the conversation ended.

Christina had decorated the box navy and white, his racing colors, and had the table laid for twelve. On the balcony, rows of seats overlooked the track. De Jersey’s box faced the large screen that would televise the races, situated opposite the winning post. There were television screens inside the box, where some preferred to watch the action, especially if the weather was bad. Today, though, it was perfect.

Christina was arranging the flowers on the table when he entered. She wore little makeup and, like him, was lightly tanned. Even after twenty years of marriage, de Jersey continued to be amazed by how attractive he found her. She was tall, almost five ten, with long, naturally platinum blond hair, which she wore loose or caught up in a wide-toothed butterfly clip. De Jersey loved the delicate wisps that fell down to frame her perfect face, chiseled cheekbones and full mouth, though Christina’s eyes, a strikingly deep blue, were her best feature. She was de Jersey’s second wife; his first was merely a distant memory. Christina had two children, yet she still had the body of a young woman. She also retained the lilt of her Swedish accent.

She was wearing a white, wide-brimmed hat, with a black band and a large bow draped down one side, a tailored white jacket, tight black pencil skirt, and high-heeled black sling-back shoes. She still had a wonderfully voluptuous figure. She looked so cool and sophisticated; it was easy to tell that she had once been a model.

De Jersey encircled her waist and kissed her neck.

“Mind my hat,” she said, laughing.

“You look stunning,” he said.

She cocked her head to one side. “You’re quite appetizing yourself, Mr. de Jersey. Go, welcome your guests, there’s champagne open.”

“I was watching you and thinking what a lucky man I am. I do love you.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Did he travel well?”

“He did, and he’s behaving himself, but he’s got serious competition. I’ll be happy if he just gets placed.”

“He’s going to win,” Christina said with certainty. She did not share his passion for this colt, though she liked horses and enjoyed riding. De Jersey had been in property development when they met and was already a very rich man, the cultured voice honed to perfection. She still knew little of her husband’s past and would have been astonished to learn that he had come from London’s East End. Christina had been at his side throughout his career in racing, watching with pride as the stud farm grew to be one of the biggest in England. She took no part in the running of the racing yard but had an important role in de Jersey’s life, giving him a stability he had never previously believed possible.

She poured him a glass of champagne and prompted him to join his guests, watching him go. Their nineteen-year age difference had never been an issue. Christina was above all a contented woman. She knew that behind his extrovert image her husband was a private man and, at times, inadequate at small talk. She enjoyed entertaining and smoothing the way for him. They made a good team.

“We have a beautiful day for it.” He shook hands and opened another bottle of Krug. She knew he would prefer water until Royal Flush’s race was over. Aware that he would be totally focused on his horse, she had chosen her guests carefully. Donald Fleming’s wife was there, and their local vicar, who had leapt at the chance of going to the races, with his wife, a shy, retiring woman. After the racing they could spend time box hopping with the Sangsters and the Henry Cecils.

Leonie and Natasha stood close by their father as he discussed the racing form with the overeager vicar. “Here’s my tip: first race I’d say an each-way bet on Cold Stream and maybe a tenner on the outsider, Charcoal.” Before he could continue, David Lyons, his business and financial adviser arrived with his wife, Helen.

De Jersey gave him a bear hug, dwarfing David, who was no more than five feet seven. The financial adviser’s hired morning suit was a trifle large, and his prominent ears held up his top hat.