Kingston turned on a light in the living room, put down his leather bag containing the tape and the laptop, and rewound the answerphone tape. He played back the messages while he poured his drink: two fingers of malt whisky (never measured) and an equal amount of Malvern water. The first two messages were of no importance. The third was from Martin Davis at New Eden. Typical of him, the message was brief: “It’s Martin, Lawrence—Milly gave me your message. What a nasty mess. Glad you’re all in one piece, though. Give me a call on my mobile when you feel up to it. Here’s the number.” Kingston jotted it down. He was about to reach for the phone when he paused, looking at his watch. It was by no means too late to call Martin back but he decided he’d had enough Q&A for one day.
Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant Kingston would have to wait until Monday before he could review the footage. First thing in the morning, he would call Transmedia, New Eden’s post-production studio, to book an appointment, with any luck, for Monday. Being Saturday, though, he doubted they’d be open.
Kingston had a full weekend coming up. Saturday, he had tickets for a symphony concert at Barbican Hall and Sunday was also spoken for, with lunch in Hampstead with a bohemian artist friend, Henrietta, followed by a visit to the Tate Modern to view an exhibition of naturalistic and abstract paintings by Kandinsky. He had accepted the “date” reluctantly, knowing that he would be subject to Henrietta’s brazen amorous overtures, added to which, modernist painting, in particular, was hardly his cuppa. However, Hussy Henrietta—as he called her—was not one to take “no” easily.
Kingston flicked on the television and reached for his whisky.
The bedroom was already awash with light when Kingston awoke on Monday morning. No sooner than his toes touched the carpet, the phone started ringing in the living room. Grabbing his robe, putting it on as he loped down the hall, he managed to get to the phone just before the answerphone kicked in.
“Lawrence Kingston?” a man’s voice inquired.
“This is he,” Kingston mumbled, running a hand through his tangled hair.
“My name’s Patrick, I work for Martin Davis at New Eden.”
“Oh, yes, good morning.”
“Milly’s out sick and Martin wanted to know if you shot any footage on Friday. If you did, he’d like to take a look at it—mainly for quality.”
Kingston thought for a moment. Hadn’t he told Milly that they got at least twenty minutes of good footage of the two gardens? Now he couldn’t be sure. From what he was hearing, he hadn’t, or why would they be calling? “We did, yes, about twenty minutes, I would guess,” he replied. “Tell Martin I’ll be taking a look at it at Transmedia, in Hammersmith, hopefully later this morning, if they can squeak me in—then I’ll send it over. We’re going to reschedule the rest of the shoot, in the next couple of days, while this good weather is still around.”
“Excellent.”
Kingston paused expecting him to go on but he said no more.
“Well, then—Patrick—as soon as I know when that is, I’ll let him know.”
“Thank you Mr. Kingston. I’ll pass the message on.” Then he hung up.
Not yet fully awake, Kingston thought nothing more of the call. He fetched The Times from the front doorstep, returned to the kitchen, and plugged in the electric kettle. Tea was always the first order of the day, Earl Grey with a slice of lemon. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he glanced over the headlines and took a quick look at the race cards for Sandown and Chepstow. The crossword came next, once tea was poured.
An hour and a half later, after two slices of toast and marmalade and ten solutions penciled in, Kingston was ready to face the day. First on the list was the call to Transmedia, to book a time to review the footage. He would look a right berk if, for some reason, the tape were blank.
The footage? He thought back to the phone call from Patrick. There was something not quite right about it. What was it? He tried reconstructing the conversation. He got to the end where Patrick had said “Excellent,” but nothing more. Then, suddenly, he knew what was missing. Why hadn’t he asked to see the tape, to pick it up for Martin? Now he knew that something was wrong.
Kingston dialed the number Martin had given him. Martin answered right away.
“Hello, Lawrence. Good to hear from you. That must have been one scary experience. Milly told me all about it. Are you all right?”
“I am now, sure. As a matter of fact I’m taking another shot at it in the next few days.”
Martin either missed or ignored Kingston’s dubious choice of words. “You know, Lawrence, if you’d rather, we can always hire a photographer. I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
“It’s not a problem, Martin. Like I told Milly, lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.”
Martin chuckled. “Yes, she told me your little joke.”
“How is she feeling by the way?”
“Fine—as far as I’m aware.”
“Your chap Patrick who called earlier this morning said she was out sick.”
“Patrick?”
“Yes. He said you wanted to know if we shot any footage on Friday.”
An unusually long pause followed, then Martin said, “There’s no one named Patrick working here, Lawrence.”
SIX
Kingston got off the number 10 bus at the Latymer Court stop in Hammersmith. From there, according to the personable young woman at the studio who had given him directions earlier that morning, it was only a short walk to the studio. With the digital tape, a lightweight windbreaker, and a few other bits and pieces in a black leather bag slung from his shoulder, he set off to find 23 Ovesden Terrace.
He found the address with no trouble, but wasn’t prepared for a handsome three-story Victorian house. He had been expecting something more commercial for a recording studio—a storefront maybe. He checked his note to make sure he had the right address—then he spotted the discreet stainless-steel Transmedia Studios plaque on the brick wall to the right of the shiny black door. He pressed the doorbell below the plaque and waited.
As the door opened, he felt a slight tug at his shoulder. A young woman faced him, holding the door open. She put a hand up to her mouth as if she were about to scream, shock registered on her face. Then Kingston realized what had happened. His bag was gone. Turning, he saw a man racing down the empty street, the bag tucked under his arm. Kingston watched helplessly as the man disappeared round the corner. There was no earthly hope of catching up with the thief. The tape was gone.
Kingston went inside and called the police. Then, taking the advice of the duty policewoman, he took off down the street in the direction the man had fled. Chances were, she had said, that if the thief found nothing of value in the bag, then he would soon dump it. And she was right. About twenty yards from the corner, Kingston spotted his bag lying under some black-spotted roses behind an iron railing. Retrieving it, he saw that the shoulder strap was cleanly cut. A box cutter, he guessed, as he checked the contents. As he suspected, the tape was gone but everything else was intact.
Kingston walked back to Hammersmith Road and hopped on another number 10 bus headed for home. Sitting on the bus, thinking about the unlikely turn of events of the last twenty minutes, he made a snap decision to make a short detour. If he got off at the Natural History Museum stop he could walk to Old Brompton Street and Atkinson’s, the luggage shop where he had purchased the bag a year ago. A half hour later he was back at his flat, a new strap on the bag. Right away he called Martin to give him the bad news about the tape, but he wasn’t in. Leaving a message for Martin to call, he then called Becky in Shrewsbury, only to get the answering machine.
Kingston had some thinking to do. Too many disturbing things were happening, and all in the space of a few days. But first, he had to have something to eat. He’d never been one to think too well on an empty stomach. Knowing that there was nothing in the fridge that had the makings of a half-decent lunch, he decided he might just as well do his thinking over a pub l
unch and a pint of London Pride bitter. Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in the upstairs bar of the Antelope, a genteel 175-year-old pub with oak floors and photos of the pub cricket team covering the downstairs wood-paneled walls. The room exuded an aroma that was hard to pin down—an impossible to describe or replicate coalescing of food, beer, spirits, and conviviality, aged over a century and a half. It now permeated the very bones of the room and its contents. Kingston found it comforting. He had chosen the Antelope as his “local” shortly after moving to Chelsea.
As luck would have it, the bar was quieter than usual. An elderly couple, hunched silently in a corner over half pints, and a small group of young business types—who seemed more intent on talking than eating—were the only other patrons. Kingston took a sip of beer, looked over the menu, and made a quick decision what to order: scampi with peas, tartar sauce and lemon. It came with chips, one of his few dietary weaknesses but, like ice cream and chocolate, nowadays he only indulged once in a while.
He leaned back, staring absently at a sepia-toned photo of legendary nineteenth-century English cricketer, W. G. Grace. In his mind, he was replaying the helicopter shooting. Not a word from the Lymington police, which he took to mean that their search and reconnaissance hadn’t turned up anything worth reporting. Neither had he heard back from Chris Norton or anybody from Henley Air about rescheduling the photo shoot. He and Chris had gone over every single detail of the shooting, first with Inspector Chisholm and afterward at the pub in Lymington, without coming up with a single clue that might shed at least some light on the case. Had they all overlooked something? If they had, he couldn’t think what on earth it could be. The other thing—and they’d belabored this, too: What could possibly be so important, worth keeping from the eyes of strangers, that would warrant taking down a helicopter at the risk of killing two people? He kept coming up with all questions and no answers.
What with the helicopter downing, the phony “Patrick” call, and now this morning’s episode with the tape, Kingston had had little or no time to give much more thought to Stewart’s disappearance. The last thing he wanted was to give Becky the impression that he had forgotten her. And what about Stewart? So far, that was a dead end, too. He thought back to his conversation with Desmond and the idea that Stewart might have been kidnapped. Taking another sip of beer, he mulled over that scenario. If that were the case then what was the reason? A couple came to mind. The most obvious—also the flimsiest—was that someone had found out about Stewart’s discovery and had abducted him to get the desalination formula, at the same time preventing him from approaching other interested parties with his ecological breakthrough. But if Stewart was working with others—as Kingston and Desmond figured was the case—this theory became even less plausible.
The only other reason Kingston could come up with was that Stewart had got in over his head and wanted out. If so and Stewart wanted off the team, his partners or associates might find themselves in a sticky situation. One way of dealing with this turn of events—a little extreme, granted—would be for them to hold Stewart against his will until they could sort it out or until he came round to their way of thinking. In either case the guilty parties would know that when Stewart didn’t show up after a few days, it would become a missing-persons case and the police would be looking for them, too.
He finished the scampi but not the chips. Leaving a few on the plate somehow made him feel a little less guilty, though he knew he was kidding himself. Reaching in his pocket for his wallet, another thought occurred to him. How did the thief know he had the tape? And, come to think of it, how did the Patrick bloke know that Kingston had shot the footage? He must have got the information from Henley Air. Their name was on the helicopter. Where else would he have got it? He must have called New Eden, too. Otherwise how would he have known Martin’s name? Kingston made a note to call Martin and then Henley to ask whether anyone had been making inquiries and to talk about picking up his car.
Leaving a larger-than-called-for tip, Kingston left the Antelope and walked back through the drizzle to Cadogan Square, glad he’d thought to tuck a folding umbrella in his jacket pocket.
His answerphone displayed two messages. The first was from Chris Norton at Henley Air, wanting to know if the coming Monday would be okay for Kingston to reschedule and reassuring Kingston that his TR4 was safely locked in one of the hangers. The second message was from a pleasant-sounding Detective Inspector Carmichael, Ringwood police station, leaving a number and asking for Kingston to return his call. Kingston’s first thought—hope, really—was that maybe there was a break in Stewart’s case. He picked up the phone, dialed the number, and was put through immediately.
“Yes, Doctor, thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I’m working on the Stewart Halliday case,” Carmichael said, all businesslike.
Kingston, hoping for positive news, didn’t interrupt.
“Becky Halliday tells me that you were once an associate of her husband and it was you who found his message. She told me all about it. Clever of you, by the way.”
“Thanks. I did, yes,” Kingston replied, wondering why it had taken them so long to call him.
“A bit unusual, his using cryptic messages, wouldn’t you say? Why was that, do you think?”
“The only explanation I could come up with, was that he wanted only me to read the messages. To tell me what he stumbled on.”
“Why not just pick up the phone and tell you?”
“I asked myself the same question. I can only assume that he did it in an awful hurry. At the last minute.”
“A premonition of some kind?”
“That’s what I concluded.”
“This discovery of his—I mean the notion that some kind of water plant can desalinate seawater—is this on the up and up? Is it possible?”
“Becky told you then?”
“She did, yes.”
Damn! Kingston muttered under his breath. He’d forgotten to impress upon Becky not to tell anyone about the desalination discovery, after she had suggested telling the police about it. He knew from past experience, with the discovery of the blue rose those many years ago, what a Pandora’s box that would open. The minute the media got wind of such an unprecedented scientific breakthrough the news would become global, overnight. It would be splashed across the front pages of newspapers, magazines and the Internet; trumpeted on TV and radio news programs, and dissected on every current affairs and talk show. The repercussions could be formidable, not the least of which would be the media frenzy that would descend on The Willows. Becky would become a hostage in her own home, and her life would become even more intolerable. That alone was reason enough for him to want Stewart’s message kept just between the two of them. He just hoped Carmichael’s knowing didn’t mean that the floodgates were soon to open. Too late now, he said to himself.
“I’m sorry, Inspector,” he said. “Your question: could this plant desalinate seawater?”
“Right.”
“That’s a tough one. If you were to have asked me that question a month ago, I would have said it wasn’t possible. But now, I’m not so sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“Last week I talked to a friend of mine who knows all there is worth knowing about aquatic plants. When I told him what had happened, he all but laughed in my face. But the more we talked about it, the more we both came to realize that it wasn’t totally science fiction. I won’t go into all the botanical rationale but the bottom line—well, our belief—is that the possibility can’t be ruled out.”
“I must say, it all sounds a bit iffy to me,” Carmichael sniffed. “Becky tells me you think he must have been working with other people on these experiments—whatever you call them.”
“Yes. That was based on the fact that there was nothing in the house or on the property to suggest Stewart was working at home. In order to reach such a discovery, one would need large amounts of salt water and a number of water lily plants, for starters. My friend an
d I think that the particular cross—new variety, that is—that Stewart had created could be quite large, as much as five feet across.”
“That’s what we have concluded—I don’t mean the size, which is hard to imagine—but the fact that he was carrying out his experiments elsewhere and as you suggest, in all likelihood, with others.”
Kingston decided to ask the all-important question. “You think he’s been kidnapped?”
“Let me put it this way. The longer it goes without his turning up, the more that becomes a possibility. Either that, or he’s no longer alive.”
An uncomfortable pause followed, after which Carmichael asked another question.
“If Halliday was able to desalinate seawater with these plants, this would be something that he—or I should say, they—would want to keep very much to themselves, I take it?”
“No doubt about it. When you consider how many countries in the world are lacking in supplies of potable water and water for irrigation, the ramifications are pretty obvious. Putting it mildly, it would be a huge scientific breakthrough. And, if—and it’s a big “if,” mind you—it could be put to practical use, it could be worth a small fortune over the long haul.”
After another longer-than-usual pause, Kingston asked, “I take it you haven’t had any breaks in the case, then?”
“I’m afraid not. That’s really the reason for my call. Knowing of your friendship with Halliday and your expertise in the subject, I wanted to see if you had anything to offer that we might have overlooked.”
“I wish I had but I keep coming up with blanks, too.”
Kingston heard a muffled sneeze followed by a pause and some nose blowing. “Gesundheit!” he said.
“Sorry. Bloody cold—can’t shake the damned thing. Anyway, where was I? Right. So I gather from what you’re saying, we should be looking for an expanse of water with lilies floating on it, correct?” There was the slightest trace of sarcasm in his tone.
EG03 - The Water Lily Cross Page 6