Lynda La Plante: Royal Heist

De Jersey stepped into the hall and made for the lounge, a dreary sea of beige. It was eerily empty. “Helen?” he called.

Frustrated, he headed toward the ornate indoor swimming pool, returning to the hall just as a small, pale-faced woman appeared. After introducing himself, he asked where Helen was.

“I’m her sister, Sylvia Hewitt. I spoke to you earlier. Helen’s upstairs. Shall I get her for you?”

“I’d be grateful if you could tell me what’s going on. You just said that Helen had to see me. Is David all right?”

“No-no, he isn’t.” She started to cry.

“Has there been an accident?” De Jersey was worried now.

“I’ll get Helen. Please go and sit in the lounge.”

De Jersey sat on one of the overplump sofas and waited at least a quarter of an hour.

“Helen.” He rose to his feet. She closed the door.

“Edward.” Her face was drawn and her eyes red-rimmed.

“Helen, what on earth is wrong? Has David had an accident?”

She took out a tissue. “He’s dead,” she said, bursting into tears.

De Jersey was stunned. “I’m… so very sorry.”

She perched on the end of the sofa, blowing her nose. “I found him this morning. He was still wearing his pajamas. He must have done it in the middle of the night.”

“Found him?”

She nodded. “In the garage.”

De Jersey sat down slowly.

“The engine was running. The car was full of fumes. The doctor said he’d taken some sleeping tablets. He’d left me a note on the kitchen table, said for me to call you and not go into the garage. But I did.”

“Oh God.”

“I found another letter in the car, on the dashboard, addressed to you.” Helen took a blue envelope from her pocket and passed it to him. “The police took my letter, but I didn’t give them this one. I’d forgotten about it.”

De Jersey slipped the envelope into his pocket. “Helen, is there anything I can do?”

She shook her head, then broke down into shuddering sobs.

De Jersey walked to the waiting taxi and headed back to the local airport. David and Helen had been a childless but loving couple for thirty years. What on earth had possessed him to kill himself? De Jersey regarded the single sheet inside the blue envelope:

My dear Edward,

I am so sorry. It ran out of control and I was unable to do anything about it. You will find all the documentation in the second drawer of my office desk. Yours, David.

De Jersey arranged for the helicopter to land in London, at the Battersea heliport. He was met at David’s office in the City by two shocked, weepy secretaries and David’s longtime assistant, Daniel Gatley, who was white-faced and trembling. “So dreadful, and just before Christmas too,” he whispered.

David’s oval desk bore a bank of telephones, a computer, and a large silver-framed photo of de Jersey talking to the Queen.

“David was so proud to have been at Royal Ascot. He talked of nothing else for weeks after,” Gatley said.

“He said something about the second drawer and some documents?”

Gatley took out a bunch of keys and opened the drawer. It contained a thin file and a small, square box. De Jersey’s name was printed on both. “That’s all. The box contains computer disks, and these are contracts that I believe you have copies of anyway.” Gatley passed them to him.

De Jersey flipped open the file. “What’s all this about?”

“He didn’t tell me much, but I knew he was in big trouble. He has been here most nights for the past few months.”

“Financial?” asked de Jersey crisply.

“Two days ago he gave everyone here a month’s notice.”

“Embezzlement, or what?”

“Good heavens, no. David was one of the most honest men I’ve ever met.”

De Jersey opened the box to find four unlabeled disks. “What are these?”

“I don’t know. His drawer was always locked.”

“But you have a key.”

“Only since this morning, and I hadn’t opened the drawer until now. I’ve been calling his clients and his friends.”

“So, you have no idea what is on these?” de Jersey asked, holding up the disks.

“No, but I can open them for you and print them out.”

“I can just about manage that.” De Jersey attempted to make light of the situation, but he knew that something was very wrong. He wanted to leave so that he could find out what it was.

Christina was as stunned as her husband. David was so dependable. For him to have committed suicide was unthinkable.

“No, I don’t know why he did it, but I’ve got to go over some disks he left me. They may give me the answer,” de Jersey told her.

“What time would you like dinner?” she asked. “I’m cooking shank of lamb the way you like it.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it, me thinking of what to cook for dinner and-”

“Eight thirty will be about right,” he said.

“Eight thirty it is, then,” Christina said softly. “Had you seen David since Royal Ascot?”

“It must be a couple months since we’ve spoken,” he told her. “I wanted to sell off some shares.”

“How did he sound then?” she asked.

“I don’t know. He was…” De Jersey frowned.

“He was what?”

“I don’t know… a bit short with me.”

In his office, de Jersey poured himself a small whiskey, added soda and ice, then sat down at his computer. He decided to start with the documents and tackle the disks later. He perched his half-moon glasses on his nose and peered at the first wad of papers. It was six thirty-five.

Two hours later he was still flicking through the documents. His wife popped her head in the door. “You almost done, darling?”

He swiveled round in his leather chair. “Almost.”

“Dinner’s ready and I’ve lit a fire.”

“Good. Just let me close down my computer.”

“Did you find out what David’s problems were?”

“He’d got himself into rather deep financial trouble-not worth topping himself for, though.”

“Too late to do anything about it now,” she said sadly.

“I’ll be right with you.”

David had actually been in deeper water than de Jersey said, and it looked as if de Jersey was about to plunge into it too. An Internet company in which they had both invested had gone bankrupt, and David had lost all of his savings. All he had ever implied to de Jersey was that there were “problems” with the Web site. He had said, “Just leave it to me,” and foolishly, that was exactly what de Jersey had done. Arranging for the horses to race abroad during the winter had forced him to leave London for weeks on end.

David’s suggestion to invest in the Internet company had come at the right time. The stables and stud farm were in trouble, and with just over 2 million pounds left in various accounts, de Jersey had taken a risk and released that money to David to invest. Within six months de Jersey was worth 32 million on paper. His shares continued to rise faster in value than either man had anticipated, so eager to make more, de Jersey had remortgaged the stud farm and invested another 40 million. Now he was about to lose everything. No wonder David had attached the garden hose to his new Mercedes’ exhaust pipe and rammed it through the window.

Christina placed a large platter of crisp lamb on the candlelit table. The air was permeated with the scent of rosemary. De Jersey sat down as she poured him a glass of California red wine. He sipped and let it roll around his mouth before he swallowed. “Oh, it’s so good.”

“Especially with the lamb.” Christina handed him his plate. He leaned back, flipping his starched white napkin across his knee.

Christina raised her glass. “I want to make a toast,” she said. “To David.”