Lynda La Plante: Royal Heist

The light was fading as the helicopter flew over his vast estate. He couldn’t help smiling at what lay below, which included a racing stable, just twenty-five miles from Newmarket and its famous racetrack, and close to the famous Tattersalls bloodstock auctions; a stud farm at a separate holding, ten miles from the stables; vast tracts of land for training; and separate yards and paddocks for the brood mares.

The electronically controlled gates gave access to a three-mile drive leading to his mansion overlooking a lake. The drive branched off from the house toward the stables. There were garages set back from the house with living quarters above for the chauffeur. De Jersey owned a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce, a Mercedes convertible, a Range Rover, two Aston Martins, three motorbikes, and four golf carts, all in the same dark navy as the stable colors. His personal favorite was his Mercedes, whose registration plate read CHAMPION.

The stable lads in the yard shaded their eyes when they saw de Jersey’s helicopter. They waved their caps as he flew over the neat row of outbuildings that had been converted into their living quarters. Beyond was a complex of cottages for the jockeys, a sauna, swimming pool, and gymnasium. The estate and its occupants were valued at over a hundred million pounds. De Jersey employed head lads, yardmen, work riders, two assistant trainers, a head trainer, stable lads, and traveling head lads, and he contracted two top jockeys in addition to Mickey Rowland. There were three large stable yards, and Donald Fleming’s house was on the northern side of the old yard. The office, in the newest yard, was manned by a personal assistant, a racing secretary, and two managers.

The stable lads were yelling as De Jersey landed, and when he jumped down from the helicopter there were cheers from his staff. “Champagne all round!” he shouted.

De Jersey had naturally a rather off-putting, steely manner, but if you got to know him it was soon dissipated when he gave one of his shy smiles. The trust, admiration, and respect he demanded from his staff were returned threefold. He was, as his wife knew, a very reserved man. He had never raised his voice to anyone at the stables. He’d never needed to. With the adroit management, competent secretaries, and loyal employees, there was little to criticize. De Jersey actually detested losing his temper; to him doing so was a sign of weakness. He had tight control of his emotions, but his charm made his employees guard his privacy ferociously. There was not a single member of staff’s wife, husband, child, or grandchild whose name he couldn’t recall, and now, surrounded by them all as the champagne corks popped, he toasted his success and was blissfully happy.

He raised his glass. “To Royal Flush and to next year-the Derby!”

The cheers intensified with the arrival of the horse box. As Royal Flush was led down, they grouped around him, and de Jersey cupped some champagne into his hand and patted the horse’s head with it. Then he led the horse back to his stable and watched over him like a doting father. The traveling stable lads brought his feed, and de Jersey was pleased when Royal Flush couldn’t wait to get at it. It was always a good sign when a young horse was not put off his feed after a race.

“You’ll wear it out,” Christina said, putting down a tray of sandwiches and tea as de Jersey rewound the tape of the race.

The oak-paneled drawing room was comfortable, with polished pine floors and exquisite Persian rugs. Soft throws and cushions covered the sofa, and a fire blazed in the grate.

De Jersey pressed play and prepared to glory once more in Royal Flush’s victory.

“I’m going to keep him under wraps for the rest of the season,” he said. He ate the sandwiches hungrily. “Just some light training before he rests for the winter.”

“Thank you for my beautiful earrings,” Christina drew back her hair to show him she was wearing them.

He kissed her neck. “I’d give you the world if I could,” he said. His eyes strayed back to the TV screen and the moment Royal Flush passed the winning post.

Christina switched off the television. “Can we go to bed so I can thank you properly?” she asked. Now she had his attention. As they kissed, he scooped her up into his arms, but they didn’t make it to the bedroom. Later, as she nestled beside him in front of the fire, wearing nothing but the earrings, de Jersey sighed. “I’m a lucky man,” he murmured.

Royal Flush enjoyed the rest he deserved in the months after the flat season, while de Jersey was still busy. He entered many horses in international races during the winter, and there were frequent trips to Dubai and Hong Kong. By November the horse’s program had consisted of walking and trotting, but after Christmas it would build up for a couple of preparation races. It was planned that he would run the Thresher Trial at Sandown in April and then the Lingfield Derby trial.

De Jersey drove a golf cart into the yard. He wore a checked cap, jodhpurs, and a yellow cashmere polo-neck sweater beneath his Harris tweed jacket. His hand-stitched, brown leather riding boots were highly polished. He paid his first call of the day to Royal Flush. The horse had not outgrown his moody temperament, and he still had a bullyboy streak to him. He’d given a couple of the lads nasty bites. De Jersey had been worried that if he remained a stallion Royal Flush would be a danger to the other horses-he had already attacked a few in the yard. It would have been heartbreaking to geld him, but Royal Flush, perhaps sensing what was at stake, at three years old was finally settling down.

After a while de Jersey drove over to the east wing of the yard to inspect a new filly from Ireland. When he started the engine again, his cell phone rang. It was his wife.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Helen called.” Her Swedish accent was always more pronounced on the telephone. “She was very distressed. I think David is sick. You’d better call.”

Back at the house, de Jersey scraped his boots outside the kitchen door.

De Jersey walked into the kitchen. The table was set for him with grapefruit juice, black coffee, two slices of Christina’s homemade rye bread, and a lightly boiled egg. He picked up the phone, but David’s number was engaged so he decided to have breakfast before trying again. De Jersey had not seen David since Royal Ascot, preferring to leave the financial side of his business to his adviser. Recently he and David had discussed liquidating some of his investments. The cost of running the stables was astronomical, and the foot-and-mouth outbreak had meant a hefty loss for the adjoining farm. His cash resources were stretched to the limit.

Christina came in, her arms filled with holly and fir branches for the hall. The tree would not arrive until a few days before the girls returned from boarding school.

“The line was engaged. I’ll try again after I’ve had a look at the papers.”

Christina spread some old newspaper on the floor and began to spray the branches silver. “Helen was crying. For her to call so early, something must be wrong.”

“Okay, I’ll try again now. I hope to God I don’t have to go over there. I’ve got a hectic day ahead.”

Moments later, after having spoken to Helen’s sister, de Jersey was arranging to land the helicopter at the small airport close to David’s house in Radcliff, a particularly affluent London suburb.

“What’s the matter?” Christina asked.

“Not sure. I spoke to Helen’s sister. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” He kissed her cheek and was gone.

David Lyons’s house was set back from the road. The gates were open, so the taxi drove straight through. The white stucco house had fake Georgian pillars and latticed lead windows with Swiss-style shutters and a green slate roof. The front door was ajar.