Once through customs at Luton airport I rang Paul King. I told him I had the final manuscript and some items that might provide some DNA. I intended to get a taxi and drop everything off at his home. Paul said that would be brilliant. That he was keen to finalise matters but could not pay me the rest of my money as the newspaper would not part with the remainder of the agreed fee until they were in receipt of the whole manuscript and were happy with it.
I told him I was not overly concerned, that he could pay me if, and when, the newspaper were satisfied with the story and the DNA was checked out. I also mentioned that because of reasons he was fully aware, the manuscript was not signed. I did not feel it necessary to tell him I had typed the last few words on the document.
Arriving in Fulham, I asked the taxi to wait outside Paul’s house while I handed over these ghostly items and had a quick chat with him. He told me the anticipation of reading the final part of this bizarre story had been giving him sleepless nights. He promised to contact me as soon as he had sorted affairs with the newspaper.
On the way to Paul’s home in Fulham, I had pondered that not many would have thought Lucan escaped to Beirut. If all this were true – and surely it had to be – it would seem his friends were not only rich and powerful, but were also very canny.
That Sidney Ainsworth really was Lord Lucan might soon be proved beyond a shadow of doubt if some DNA could be extracted from items I had grabbed from his bathroom and a match surreptitiously obtained from one of his children.
Nevertheless, it was time to put this strange and dark man out of my life. I had done all I could, but now it was over. The end game had been played out.
I was glad to have handed over everything to Paul King and freed myself from the final remnants of this freaky and dangerous escapade.
Now it was time to get on with my own life. To put all this behind me.
I spent some time in my beloved garden. October had turned cold and wet and now it was time to put the garden away for the winter. I moved all the pot plants to a sheltered location and stacked away the garden furniture. Then it was clearing up masses of leaves and cleaning the pond from just about everything that had fallen into it. I had long chats with my wife and daughter and made arrangements for us to meet up for dinner when my daughter was next in London.
My tennis club had, at long last, called an EGM and the vote was overwhelmingly to sell the place. Swan Park Tennis Club, for which I had been a member for thirty years would be no more.
I met friends at the pub and did a couple of muddy walks in the country. I told nobody of the strange events that had so consumed me during the preceding eight months. It was too dangerous to discuss with anyone. When the story broke, the police would want to know who supplied Paul King with that astonishing manuscript.
I had, quite serenely, removed Sidney Ainsworth from my thoughts. This strange encounter, this strange adventure, would have to remain my secret for a long time – perhaps forever. It felt good this bizarre episode in my life was over and done with.
However, a couple of weeks after delivering the final manuscript to Paul King, he rang me and asked that I meet him at the Russell Square Hotel the following day.
I arrived before him and ordered two Bloody Mary’s. He soon showed up and waved to me happily as he entered the bar. I pointed at the drink on the table that I had ordered for him.
He settled himself beside me on the leather bench seat and pushed a brown parcel towards me. ‘That’s for you, and well done,’ he said brightly. ‘You now have £100,000 and I don’t want to know what you intend to do with it.’
‘Thank you,’ I said slowly.
‘We should tie-up loose ends Adam,’ he said, reaching for his drink and taking a good slug. ‘Have you been using a pay-as-you-go mobile?’
I nodded.
‘Can you destroy the sim, remove any link with me? I will do the same for you. Remove your number from my phone. Basically, it must be that we have never met. We have to protect each other.’
‘Of course, I’ll do that,’ I said softly. ‘Also I have got rid of the mobile I gave to Sidney, so we should have eliminated all links.’
‘Good show Adam.’ he said, taking another swig of his Bloody Mary.
‘When will the story get printed?’ I asked.
‘Well that’s just it,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘It may never happen.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, shooting him a puzzled expression.
‘The paper may just hold on to it. Keep it locked in a safe with few people knowing of its existence.’
‘Hold on,’ I said, my voice rising a little. ‘They’ve paid a quarter of a million quid for the story of a lifetime.’
‘Listen Adam, if you knew who the proprietor was you would understand. That money is nothing to him. The same as you putting a tenner on a horse. The money is inconsequential.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ I said tetchily. ‘All this effort and it may never see the light of day. That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Look Adam,’ he said talking purposefully. ‘We have all been paid. You, myself and Warren. Don’t you see it’s best this way. No threat the paper risks being sued. No police from Scotland Yard knocking on my door wanting to know who the person was that handed over the manuscript. You have done a great job Adam. I can’t tell you how impressed I am with the way you have handled all this. I couldn’t have done any better myself.’
‘He wanted his story told, that was the whole idea,’ I said morosely.
‘And you have done that Adam,’ he said warming to his argument. ‘He died in the knowledge that he had at last come clean. To write his story. To tell the whole world. You helped him in the one thing he wanted to do before he died. It’s as though he knew that as soon as he finished his story he would pop off. Don’t beat yourself up about it. He was very lucky to have taken a chance on you; to fulfil the one good deed he felt was left to him. Not many people would have helped him like you did.’
These words were a comfort but I had an empty feeling in my stomach. I took a big gulp of my drink.
‘What about the handwriting?’ I asked mildly.
‘Inconclusive,’ he said casually.
‘And the fingerprints?’ I asked.
‘No definitive match,’ Paul answered matter-of-factly.
‘The DNA?’
‘The newspaper made no comment,’ Paul said, staring at a mahogany clock above the bar.
‘So we don’t know for sure if it was him?’
‘Not really,’ he murmured slowly. Paul drained the last of his drink. ‘Look,’ he said brightly, ‘I reckon it was him, but that’s just my opinion.’
Paul rose and pointed at the parcel that rested beside me. ‘Be very careful with that Adam. Don’t get mugged on the way home.’
I rose, and we shook hands, both offering each other a smile and a nod of the head that signalled that this would be farewell forever.
‘It’s been a pleasure meeting and working with you Adam. But sadly, we now have to go our separate ways.’ He looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments. There was little more to say. ‘Good luck Adam. Take care.’
I watched Paul disappear out of the bar and into Russell Square. He did not look back.
I sat down and placed the parcel inside my raincoat. I felt a little giddy and dispirited. Had all this been a fantasy I wondered? Was it all for nothing? Then maybe not I thought. Perhaps Sidney had heard me in his hospital bed when I told him I would do all I could to see his story was told. It was possible he passed away happy in that knowledge. I could only hope so. Anyway, I would tell myself that was the case.
I was lost in these thoughts, when suddenly an elderly gentleman approached me seemingly from nowhere. The man was smartly dressed, probably in his late seventies. He sported a bright cravat inside a smart sports jacket and was clutching a West End theatre guide.
‘I wonder if you might help me?’ he said in a somewhat refined voice. He tapped his theatre guide. ‘Have you seen a show you might be kind enough to recommend?’
I looked at him carefully for a moment. ‘I’m most sorry,’ I said solemnly. ‘I’ve made a new resolution not to talk to strangers.’ He stared at me stunned, as though not quite sure whether he had heard me correctly. I got up and made to move. I gave him a cheeky smile. ‘You never know where it might lead,’ I said wickedly. His face was a picture as his mouth fell open. I suddenly felt awful for being so unkind. ‘I was only joking,’ I said. He looked at me uncertainly. I told him to see Phantom of the Opera which seemed to please him. He left me waving his theatre guide and casting doubtful eyes back at me.
I stood in the hotel doorway, my hand pressed against the parcel resting inside my coat as I waited for a black cab.
Back home I unpacked the parcel and did another sorting act with the cash. When I had some neat parcels bound up with masking tape I removed my secret floorboard in the cupboard under the stairs and put the packages with the others down in the dust.
One hundred thousand pounds, thanks to a dapper old boy who had grabbed my ear at the Café Plaza in Mallorca eight months earlier, having introduced himself as a certain Sidney Ainsworth. I had no idea what I would do with the money. Charities Perhaps. Might Sidney have chosen the Injured Jockeys Fund had he lived a little longer?
No matter now. Whether Sidney really was Lord Lucan or a gifted imposter was not the story. Nor was it about John Aspinall, Jimmy Goldsmith or the Clermont Set.
There can only be one story – that of Sandra Rivett, an innocent young woman who made two, easy-to-make, mistakes. The first was to apply for a position as a nanny at 46 Lower Belgrave Street and get the job, unaware she would be caring for the children of aristocratic parents locked in a bitter war. The second mistake was to change her usual night off from Thursday to the previous Wednesday. She was not expected to be in the house and paid the ultimate penalty. Sandra is the story. She is the tragic figure in this tragic tale.
To work as a nanny is a caring profession. To love and look after others. She was almost certainly a sweet woman. A woman who found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. These thoughts flashed through my mind as I slid the floorboard back into place and got up from my knees. I had to hurry. A race would soon be off at Ascot and I was going to have a big bet on a certain horse. The nag had little chance but I was going to lump on it all the same. It was called: ‘Take A Chance On Me.’
FOR SANDRA
In February 2016, one year after the Presumption
of Death Act came into effect, and amid much
publicity in the media, George Bingham, Lord
Lucan’s son was, at long last, granted a death
certificate for his father.
George Bingham can now inherit his fathers title,
thus becoming the Eighth Earl of Lucan.
Sidney Ainsworth died at the University Hospital
Son Dureta, Mallorca, 12 October 2014.
He is buried at Palma Municipal Cemetery.
In the summer of 2015, at a Christie’s auction in
New York, a Rolex Cosmograph Daytona, Oyster
Albino, watch came up for sale.
The inscription on the back ‘BE LUCKY J.A.’
meant nothing to the auction house or the seller.
The watch went under the hammer to an anonymous
buyer for a near world record of $1.2 million.