Lynda La Plante - Royal Heist

“What are you doing?” he shouted.

“Having a tiddle. Is that all right with you?” She shut the door and gave herself the satisfaction her husband had been unable to provide.

They were both in deep sleep when the phone rang. Driscoll sat up like a shot. “What the hell?… What time is it?”

Liz moaned. “It might be one of the kids.”

“If it is I’ll give ’em a mouthful. It’s only four o’clock.” He wrapped a robe around himself.

“Well, answer it, then,” Liz said, worried now.

“All right, all right.” He snatched up the phone. “Hello?”

“It’s the Colonel,” came the soft voice at the other end of the line. Driscoll pressed hold and put down the receiver. He glanced at Liz and said, “It’s okay, business. I’ll take it in the lounge.” He walked out.

“Business?” She flopped back, relieved that her children were not in trouble. They were in the south of France, staying with friends. They had grown out of accompanying their parents on holiday, even to Florida for Christmas. She wondered if they liked their gifts-they wouldn’t have waited until Christmas Day to open them. Michelle had a gold necklace with her name picked out in diamonds, a matching bracelet, and her own credit card with five thousand pounds’ spending money; she was seventeen years old and stunningly pretty, taking after her mother. Michael was the spitting image of his father, stocky, with dark eyes and thick, curly hair; he had been given the keys to a Lotus in a gold box; the car had been delivered to their home. He was nineteen and a first-year student of business studies at the University of Liverpool. He was very intelligent, and Liz doubted that a Lotus was the right kind of car for him; unlike his sister, he was quiet and studious. She worried about him much more than she did about her outgoing daughter, whose only real ambition was to be at the forefront of fashion and who was almost as obsessive about clothes as her mother. She could spend money just as fast too.

Liz knew that Michelle was spoiled, especially by her father, who doted on her. A good marriage with a nice, respectable boy was what they both wanted for her. At the moment, Michelle had a constant stream of boyfriends, all from wealthy families. Liz was determined, though, that her daughter wasn’t going to get pregnant and ensured that she took sensible precautions. This was their mother-daughter secret; she knew her husband would not approve of his princess being on the pill. She yawned and looked at the bedside clock. The red light on the phone was still lit, and Tony was supposed to be semiretired.

“Tony? What’s going on? Tony?”

“With you in a minute, sweetheart,” he called.

The phone pressed to his ear, Driscoll listened to the soft, clipped tone of de Jersey’s voice. The Colonel was the nickname he and Wilcox had given him, and only they used it. Driscoll’s heart was beating rapidly, and he had broken out in a sweat. He did not interrupt, just gave the occasional grunt to let de Jersey know he was still on the line.

“There’s nothing to be done before the Christmas break is over, but we’ll meet up after you get back,” said de Jersey. “The usual place, at the Ritz, but I’ll call again as soon as I have more details. Tony?”

“We’re due back mid-January.”

“Fine. I’ll contact James and pass on the news.”

“He’s in Aspen.”

“I know.”

Driscoll’s mouth was dry. “There couldn’t have been some fuckup, could there? I mean, are you sure?”

“Afraid so. David killed himself, that’s proof enough. It’s bad. I’ll need time to sort through everything. I am truly sorry, Tony. I feel it’s down to me, and I’ll try to think of some way to make good our losses.”

Driscoll closed his eyes. “I put all my eggs in.”

“We all did, but like I said, I feel responsible.”

“Hell, we’re all grown men. You never twisted my arm, but I would like to know exactly what’s gone down. We’re talking millions.”

“Try not to think about it. I’ll work this one out for us, and that’s a promise.”

The phone went dead, and Driscoll sat cradling the receiver in his hands. He was still unable to take it in. He had just lost his life savings.

Tony Driscoll had started out as a runner in Ronnie Jersey’s betting shops, but he was clever with his money. With the initial payoff from the Colonel, he had moved into the rubbish-collection industry, opening up big waste-disposal dumps and buying a fleet of trucks. In the mid-seventies he had married Liz, his secretary, and in the early eighties they had moved their children into a massive mock Tudor mansion just outside Guildford. Recently Driscoll had begun to play a big part in the local Labour Party, donating funds and attending functions. Driscoll glanced to the closed bedroom door. He still felt numb. He knew he couldn’t take part in another caper, not after all these years. His hand was shaking as he poured a shot of whiskey. He felt fear when he considered his agreement to meet up with the others. Whatever the Colonel suggested to get them out of trouble, he would refuse. He kept looking at the bedroom door, wondering how he could explain his financial predicament to Liz. He’d have to get rid of the girlfriend, sell the flat he’d provided her with. He reckoned he’d have to sell off property fast, including his villa in Spain. He returned to the bedroom. Thinking about the life of crime he used to lead made the adrenaline pump into his tired veins.

Liz woke to her husband stroking her breasts, and suddenly he was on top of her, like a man possessed. He went for her with a passion that made her climax with a scream.

“Well, that must have been some phone call,” she said, wide awake and smiling. “Whoever it was, you get him to call you just once a week. I couldn’t take this every night! Tony? Was it good news?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes. And now I’m knackered.” He turned over and fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.

Liz had no notion of her husband’s life before their marriage. None of his business associates had an air of being less than 100 percent legitimate. If anyone had hinted to Liz that her husband had been involved with some of the most daring robberies ever committed in England she would have laughed. Not her Tony. Tony had a fixation on honesty; he’d even had arguments with his accountant over a few offshore tax-dodging schemes the man had suggested. He was paranoid if they were late paying the milkman. She loved and trusted him totally and had never been unfaithful, though recently she’d been fantasizing about her new personal trainer, Kevin. Just like Christina, Liz had been cosseted and adored but kept in ignorance of her husband’s past activities. The three men had agreed: the less anyone knew about their past, the safer they would be. So their secrets were buried deep and covered with well-rehearsed lies. Liz had never heard her husband mention Edward de Jersey, just as Christina knew nothing about Tony Driscoll or James Wilcox.

The snowcapped mountains with the mellow light of sunrise streaming across their peaks made a wonderful sight. Aspen was not just great skiing country; its scenery was breathtaking. It also offered a fantastic social life, which was why James Wilcox and his present girlfriend, Rika, had booked their Christmas break there for two years in a row.

Rika had been the nanny. She’d arrived from the Ukraine hardly able to speak two words of English, a raw-boned, handsome blonde with a voluptuous figure. After six months, she moved into the master bedroom. Rika knew a good catch when she saw one, and born into poverty, she was determined to become Wilcox’s wife number five.

At fifty-nine, Wilcox was slender and muscular from his daily workouts. He ran about fifty miles every week, cycled, and played tennis in the summer. He was still handsome and had only recently taken on the slight puffiness associated with age and high living. Rika was only twenty-eight. He could hardly ever understand what she said as her English was still appalling, but he had no desire for meaningful conversations. She was a great fuck, kept the kids in order and his homes clean.