Lynda La Plante: Royal Heist

Christina turned to see her husband standing, as if frozen, his hands at his sides. Then she was shouting at the top of her voice: “Come on ...Come on. Yes, Yes. Come on! ”

Suddenly Royal Flush seemed to get a second wind. The horse flew, his stride never faltering as he moved up from fourth to third, and then he was unstoppable. He passed the winning post two lengths ahead of the field. Mickey, high in the saddle, turned to look behind as he raised his whip in victory.

Fleming and de Jersey looked at each other, speechless for a moment, then Fleming gasped. “He’s done it, just like you knew he would.” De Jersey blinked back tears. Then Christina was in his arms, and his girls were hugging him. There were congratulations from everywhere, but he could hear nothing, his heart was pounding fit to burst.

They hurried to the winner’s enclosure. Mickey rode in to cheers. De Jersey and Fleming took the reins as the jockey slid off Royal Flush and wrapped his arms around the sweating horse’s neck. Then he removed the saddle. As he loosened his chin strap, Mickey said, “He’s got a lot more under the bonnet. I’ve never felt anything like it. I hardly had to touch him.”

De Jersey held the horse’s head. “Next year it’s the Derby, my boy.”

Fleming laughed. “Give him a break! He’s just won the Chesham. That’s good enough for now.”

The prize giving was a blur. De Jersey forced himself to keep calm, though he wanted to shout out that he had found it, a champion of champions! The dream of every trainer and owner, the fulfillment of twenty years’ hard work. It was his!

Moments later, Fleming was being interviewed by the television sports team, but de Jersey sidestepped them. He avoided publicity and always left the interviews to his trainer.

After seeing that Royal Flush was hosed down and made ready to be driven home, de Jersey returned jubilantly to his box. The guests had all bet on Royal Flush. David was standing on a chair waving a fistful of fifty-pound notes, singing, “We’re in the money!” They celebrated well into the afternoon, and David and Helen Lyons were the last to leave. After monitoring him drinking numerous cups of black coffee, Helen assured Christina that David was sober enough to drive.

“Don’t worry, it’ll take us a good hour to get out of the car park,” David said and then clasped de Jersey’s hand. “This has been one of the best days of my life. Delicious food, the best champagne and… and… I’m going to get that photograph of you with the Queen framed. I’ll have it on my desk!”

“It was a special day, David, and I am glad you were here to share it. If it wasn’t for you I probably wouldn’t have been able to afford it!” de Jersey said, shaking David’s hand. His financial adviser’s mood suddenly deflated. He looked as if he wanted to say something but decided against it, saying instead, rather briskly to his wife, “Let’s go, Helen, we don’t want to overstay our welcome or we won’t be invited next year.”

Then dropping his voice, David said soberly to de Jersey, “Everything is going to be all right.” They were gone before a puzzled de Jersey could reply.

De Jersey sat down, exhausted, watching while Christina marshaled the girls. “Will you be all right to fly the helicopter?” she asked.

He made no reply. As she repeated the question, he reached out and brought her hand to his lips. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you at home. Thank you for today. It was a good idea to invite David and Helen. I think it meant a great deal to them.”

She laughed softly. “I don’t know if it was such a good idea to invite the vicar. Donald’s had to drive him home. He could hardly stand up.”

De Jersey blew his daughters a kiss, then stood up. “Drive carefully. I won’t be too late.” He picked up his top hat and walked to the door. “There’s something for you on the table,” he said to his wife over his shoulder. Then he left.

De Jersey walked toward the winner’s enclosure. It was cooler now, and thousands of race goers were streaming out of the gates. He went to the number-one post and stood there-it had felt so good to lead Royal Flush into the winner’s position. Then he headed toward the helipad. His was the only helicopter left. He walked slowly, breathing in the scent of the grass, and remembered how his father had opened his betting shop. After placing a winning bet on an outsider, he made enough to open his own betting shop. He never laid another bet. “It’s a fool’s game, but sometimes the fool wins. And luck runs out, so I’m not takin’ any chances,” he had said.

Ronnie Jersey’s luck had run out months after he opened his second betting shop. Cancer was diagnosed. Shortly before his death he told his son, “Eddy, you run those shops for me. Take care of your mother. I know it’s not what you wanted, but you can earn a good living, an’ there’s a good kid that works for me. You know Tony Driscoll.” Tony was the illegitimate son of the woman who cleaned the shops. He had been just a toddler when Ronnie took them under his wing, and they owed everything to him. De Jersey had trouble remembering Mrs. Driscoll’s first name. What he did remember was how they both wept at his father’s funeral. Ronnie had been a surrogate dad to Tony and had even left him a few hundred pounds. The boys had not been that close as youngsters, but years later, when de Jersey needed him, Tony Driscoll, like James Wilcox, was one of the few men he trusted.

“I was hopin’ I’d see you.”

It was Smedley. By the tilt of him he’d had more than a few beers.

“What a win, eh? Clean as a whistle! I nearly had heart failure-I’d put those two fifties you give me on him!”

“Really?” De Jersey moved away, wanting to avoid another conversation.

“All the lads was on him, I tipped them off.” Smedley bumped against the fence, then ducked beneath it. There was no getting away from him. “You got anythin’ running tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Ah, well, maybe not push your luck too far, eh? You goin’ down the track? I’ll walk wiv you. I need to sober up. Been in the stewards’ lounge.”

De Jersey made no reply but strode off, leaving Smedley, swaying slightly, a hurt expression on his red face. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” he said loudly.

De Jersey stopped. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I have to get a move on-don’t like flying at night.”

“Oh, understandable,” Smedley said, trotting after him. When he approached the helipad, de Jersey could hear Smedley wheezing behind him. As de Jersey opened the cockpit door, Smedley gasped. “You’d never get me up in one of them.” De Jersey climbed aboard, and Smedley held up his square rough hand. “I’d like to shake your hand, sir.”

De Jersey bent down to grasp it. He was beginning to find the man unbearably irritating. “I’ll tell my grandson about it, me and you being at the same school. You got any?”

De Jersey looked down into the gnomelike face. “Just two daughters.”

“Ah, well, we can’t all be blessed. I got four lads, three grandsons and…”

The engine started up, and de Jersey slid the door shut. He waited for Smedley to scuttle away to a safe distance; the blades began to turn. As the helicopter lifted into the air, de Jersey saw the man grow smaller, and he felt an odd mixture of emotions. Most of his life had been spent escaping his past, but despite his massive wealth, the Smedleys of the world proved that he could never let his guard down. He had far too much to lose, having acquired, by various means, everything he ever wanted in life. However, Smedley did have something he coveted, a son… in fact, four of them. De Jersey’s good humor returned. He had Royal Flush. Today had been just the beginning. He would fulfill his dream to win the Derby, and if he did, he would kiss the track, like his dad had done the day he’d made the twenty-five-to-one bet on the Derby outsider.