Lynda La Plante - Royal Heist

“To David, God rest him.”

There was a moment’s silence as they began to eat.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Perfect.” He felt the warmth of the fire on his back as he broke off a piece of bread and buttered it.

“I wasn’t referring to the dinner. Tell me about David’s financial troubles.”

“He’s made some foolish investments. Not sure exactly how much he’s frittered away of mine.”

“Yours? What do you mean?” Christina asked anxiously.

“Oh, nothing I can’t take care of. Don’t worry about it.”

“But is it going to be a worry for you? Did Helen know anything about this?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Was he already in trouble when he came to Ascot?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to review all the records yet.” He was two people: one quietly enjoying his meal with his beloved wife, the other white with rage. He had trusted David and his judgment. He was not prepared to lose all of this, but he had never felt so impotent in his life.

With dinner over and Christina clearing the table, he sat preoccupied, tapping a dessertspoon.

“Should I call her?” asked Christina.

“Up to you,” de Jersey said offhandedly.

“Well, do you think it would be appropriate?”

“How should I know?” he said and stood.

“I hate it when you behave like this.” She pulled off the tablecloth.

“How am I behaving?”

She glared at him. “Like that! Shutting me out and snapping at me. I’m only trying to find out what’s happened. David has killed himself, for God’s sake, and you say he frittered money away. Well, I would just like to know-”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know the full extent of what David has or hasn’t done,” de Jersey said, softening his tone. “It’s difficult. Twenty-five years is a long time to know and trust someone. Now, I’m sorry I’ve been abrupt, but I really must go try to sort out the facts.”

Back in his office, de Jersey was forced to accept the reality of what had occurred. He had a terrible feeling that the gamble he had taken with David might now cause him to lose everything. He would not be the only loser: he had drawn in Wilcox and Driscoll, his two oldest friends. Earlier in the year, when de Jersey’s share had trebled in value, he’d called them both and advised them to invest. He knew that he should contact them but couldn’t bring himself to do it yet.

Someone would pay for this.

De Jersey’s chest was tight with anger. Christina had lit the fire and left a bottle of port with some cheese and crackers on the table. In the dark, womblike room, with its heavy oak furniture and dark red velvet curtains, he sucked tensely at a cigar as he slotted a disk into the computer. Why had he been so foolish as to invest so much money in an Internet company? “Never get involved in anything you don’t understand,” his father had always told him.

De Jersey closed his eyes. He had not just got into something he didn’t understand; he had walked blindly into a nightmare. Then he had become greedy and poured in more money and, even worse, had encouraged his friends to do the same.

Driscoll and Wilcox were the only living souls who knew how de Jersey had acquired his original wealth. Together the three men had staged some of the greatest robberies in British history, and they had never been caught. After their final heist they had agreed to a strict set of rules, which included not contacting each other again. But when David Lyons had started the investment bonanza, de Jersey couldn’t resist breaking their agreement to encourage his old friends to jump onto the gravy train. He just hoped they had not acted as rashly as he had.

The snow that had been forecast was not yet falling, though the ground was hardened with frost. De Jersey, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his breath steaming out in front of him, had walked for miles.

He leaned against the white fence round the paddock. Christmas was always financially draining, and without liquid funds de Jersey knew he was in dire trouble. If he did not come up with a lucrative solution, he would soon be forced to start selling off his horses. He had to find a way of recouping his losses-fast. He tossed his cigar down and ground it out with his heel. He knew he was going to have to contact Driscoll and Wilcox, and it wouldn’t be to wish them a happy new year.

“I’m going to see a specialist, maybe try this Viagra stuff,” Tony Driscoll said in a depressed tone as he switched off the bedside lamp.

“Don’t worry about it.” Liz tried to pretend it wasn’t important.

“That’s the fourth time this month. Something’s got to be wrong-I’ve never not been able to get it up.”

Liz sighed.

“I’ve put on weight too.” Driscoll rubbed his hairy chest, then let his hand slip down to the rolls of his belly. “You think it’s something to do with my liver?” he asked.

“More likely it’s just the traveling or the heat.”

“We’ve been to Florida five times, so why should it suddenly affect me now?”

Liz sat up and bashed her pillow; he was not going to let her sleep. She snapped on the bedside lamp, got out of bed, and slipped a silk robe around her shoulders. At forty-seven she was in good shape, much better than her husband. But then the only thing she had to fill her time was exercise.

“Do you want a cup of tea or something?”

“Maybe a glass of water,” he muttered.

Liz padded across the wide expanse of oyster-pink carpet to the fridge and poured some Perrier water into a tumbler. “I’ll have to call down for some ice.”

“Don’t bother.” Driscoll leaned back on the pillows. The hair on his chest was flecked with gray, as was the thick, bushy thatch on his head. At least there were no signs of baldness.

Liz returned to his side of the bed with the water. “I think I might spend the day at the hotel spa tomorrow. Have you got anything arranged?”

“Golf,” he muttered.

“Shall I meet you at the clubhouse when I’m through?”

“Yeah, we’ll have a drive around, then book somewhere nice for dinner. What do you think of the restaurant here?”

“I’ve not even looked at it yet, just read the leaflets. After that long plane trip, I could do with a stretch and a massage. I might have my hair and nails done too. Shall we meet up at about five?”

“I’m not playing golf all bloody day.”

“Well, why don’t you meet me back here, then? And don’t get so shirty. It’s not my fault you’re impotent.”

“I’m not fucking impotent,” he snapped.

Her smirk turned into a laugh; he knew she was teasing him.

“Get off,” he said as she tickled him but couldn’t help smiling. She cuddled him and kissed his chest.

“I think I’ll go to sleep now.” He turned away before she could make another attempt. He couldn’t stand the thought of failure twice in the same night.

Liz walked over to the dressing table and gave her long blond tresses a flick. She admired herself for a moment, then leaned closer to check her face. “I hate this light,” she muttered, tracing the lines at the sides of her mouth. They seemed deeper, even though they had been injected recently. She pursed her lips; they too had been “fluffed up” with collagen injections.

“Are you coming back to bed?” Driscoll asked.

Liz was now studying the lines between her eyes. She was not supposed to be able to frown; her brow should have been frozen. “I don’t think these Botox injections work, Tony.”

“Well, I think you’re crazy to have anything done, let alone stick poison into your face.”

Liz pouted. At least her new lips looked great. She went into the bathroom.