EG03 - The Water Lily Cross

by Anthony Eglin

  Kingston words had hit their mark and Carmichael’s attitude suddenly changed. “When can you come down here?” he asked bluntly.

  “Tomorrow, if it suits you.”

  “It does suit me. The sooner the better, I might add.”

  In the pause that followed Kingston was wondering if this was where he was about to get a royal wigging. The sober-voiced inspector continued, as though he’d had occasion to use the words many times before.

  “If what you’ve been saying has relevance, you must be aware that withholding information in a police homicide investigation is serious business. I suggest you arrive tomorrow fully prepared and ready to come clean.”

  “That is my intention,” Kingston replied, knowing that the less he said from now on, the better. “What time?”

  “Let me check,” said Carmichael. Kingston waited. “How about eleven o’clock?”

  “All right. Where do I find you?”

  “Large white building with red chimneys, Christchurch Road. Hard to miss.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Inspector.”

  Kingston put the phone down and sighed. It had gone as well as expected. At least Carmichael hadn’t read him the riot act.

  Kingston got up to make a pot of coffee. Sitting in the kitchen while waiting for it to percolate, he leafed through the current issue of Country Life. The subscription had been a Christmas gift from Andrew. Turning a page, his eyes went immediately to a picture of a thatched, flint and brick cottage. It looked exactly like Pennyroyal Cottage, where he’d met the so-called Alison Greer. He read the caption, disappointed to discover that it wasn’t Pennyroyal. Now that he thought about it, Pennyroyal’s front door had been a lighter blue with a dolphin knocker, and the door of the cottage in the picture had no knocker.

  He sat drinking his coffee staring into space, thinking of Marian Taylor. What a fool he’d been. Suckered into believing her. Infatuated by her fastidious looks and seemingly ingenuous nature. And all the time she had been lying through her teeth. She was a clever one all right, using the cottage that couldn’t be traced back to her, staging it with photographs of herself. He was about to take a sip of his coffee but left the cup suspended inches from his lips. Those photographs? He tried to think back to when he had first entered the room. How many were there? He recalled two on the mahogany table, the larger taken when she was in her teens. An older woman was with her in that photo. The one next to it was a smiling close-up. He remembered thinking at the time that it resembled a film-star fan photo. She looked uncharacteristically glamorous. A third photo had been on the mantelpiece. How did that one portray her? Just as he was congratulating himself on his excellent memory, he drew a blank. “Come on … think,” he muttered.

  He stared out of the window, across to leafy Cadogan Square, neatly skirted with black railings, its familiar shrubs, and mature trees. Watching the usual parade of pedestrians, schoolchildren, and pram-pushing nannies, a yellow-jacketed mounted policeman on a gray horse came trotting into view. Kingston’s eyes followed him as he rode, straight-backed, out of sight.

  “That’s it!” he said, slapping his knee. In the third picture she was with a horse. It was an almost full-figure pose: a smiling Alison, wearing a riding jacket, holding the bridle of a chestnut horse. Her hair, tied in a ponytail, was brown, much lighter than when they had met. Was there anything in the background? Damned if he could remember. He tried harder to visualize the photo. Now it was coming back to him. Her traditional riding jacket was black, with high buttons and nipped in at the waist. Yes. And he remembered the jodhpurs being tan. He smiled. She hadn’t struck him at the time as being the horsy type.

  He sipped his coffee, oblivious to its tepidity. Maybe, just maybe, he’d found a way to track down the elusive Marian Taylor and thrash it out with her. It was the riding jacket. It suggested only one thing: Marian Taylor was serious about matters equestrian. Chances were that she belonged to a riding stables or a hunt club—more likely the former.

  In his office at the iMac, he did a search for “Hampshire riding stables.” Expecting a dozen or so, he was surprised to find that there were forty-plus in the county. He printed the list. Next, he took a four-miles-to-the-inch AA Road Atlas off a nearby bookshelf and turned to the Hampshire page. His logic: Marian Taylor had worked in Farnborough and used Walsh’s cottage in Hartley Wintney, little more than ten miles away. This suggested that most likely she lived—or had lived—within an arbitrary twenty-mile radius of Farnborough.

  After a five-minute search, Kingston located a compass and with a pencil inscribed a five-inch-radius circle around Farnborough. Putting the map aside he started down the list of riding clubs, checking off those that fell inside or close to the penciled line. Within a couple of minutes he had narrowed the list to eight. He intended to call each stable and equestrian center, asking if they knew of Marian Taylor. Fifteen minutes and five calls later, he came up empty-handed. By this time, he had established a pat introduction and line of questioning.

  Next on the list was Rookshill Farm Stables. He dialed the number and waited. As he anticipated, the phone rang for some time. This he’d found was the norm, and understandable, considering that stables workers are outdoors ninety percent of the time. Waiting for an answer, he read Rookshill’s Web site printout: SMALL RIDING SCHOOL AND LIVERY YARD SET IN THE HEART OF THE COUNTRYSIDE NEAR THE VILLAGE OF ABBOT’S CROSS, HAMPSHIRE.

  “Rookshill, Peggy speaking.” She sounded like a teenager.

  “Yes, good morning. My name’s Kingston, Doctor Kingston. I’d like to speak with the stables’ owner or manager.”

  “That would be Jill Merryweather.” A horse whinnied in the background. “You’re in luck, she’s just leaving but I think I can catch her. Hold on a jiffy.”

  Kingston waited, wondering if he was really clutching at straws, calling the stables. He smiled at the unintended play on words.

  “Jill Merryweather here. How may I help you?”

  Even though she’d uttered only a few words, she sounded as if she were from central casting. Her clipped “county” accent and stereotypical verbal mannerisms were spot on. Kingston went into his routine. “I’m helping the police find a woman named Marian Taylor. She’s also been known to use the name Alison Greer. We know that she is a keen horsewoman and may have belonged to a stables or equestrian center. Any chance she might have had an affiliation with Rookshill?”

  “Marian Taylor, Yes. She was with us for quite a while. I remember her quite well.”

  Kingston tried to hold back his jubilation. “How long ago was it?”

  “Perhaps a year, thereabouts.”

  “And you haven’t seen her since that time?”

  “I haven’t, no. What’s this about, Doctor? Has she done something wrong?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just that she may have knowledge of a person who’s gone missing. A friend of mine, actually.”

  “I see. I’m afraid I’m not going to be of much help, then.”

  “Do you happen to know if she lived near Abbot’s Cross?”

  “I don’t. Even if I did, I can’t divulge personal information about our clients. I’m sure you understand, Doctor.”

  “Yes, I do,” Kingston mumbled.

  “There is the possibility, of course, that I could provide her with your phone number—if I can contact her, that is.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” he said, giving her his number.

  “If I’m unable to reach Marian, I’ll let you know.”

  Disappointed that his bright idea hadn’t resulted in establishing Marian Taylor’s whereabouts, Kingston put the phone down. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was still early. For the remainder of the day, he would try to shut Marian Taylor, Zander, and Inspector Carmichael out of his mind.

  The meeting, which started the following morning at eleven sharp, was held in Detective Inspector Carmichael’s office at Ringwood police station, an older two-story building that could easily be mistaken for a
pub by a passing motorist. A young policeman, introduced as Constable Marsh, was also in attendance. His job, as evidenced by the tape recorder in front of him, was to take notes and record the conversation.

  Kingston was well prepared. The night before, he had spent the best part of an hour going over his first summary, adding notes, listing all his conversations, meetings, and the incidents of the last several weeks, each appended with as-best-he-could-remember dates.

  With Kingston and the inspector seated on opposite sides of the desk, each with a mug of coffee, and the constable to one side with the tape recorder turned on, the meeting commenced. Kingston took a sip of the hot milky coffee, placed his notes in an orderly stack on the desk, leaned back, and started to relate how he became involved with Stewart’s disappearance, beginning with the phone call from Rebecca Halliday’s daughter. During a brief break, when Carmichael left the room to answer a personal phone call, Kingston glanced at his watch, surprised to see the time. He’d been talking, almost nonstop, for close to forty minutes. Five minutes after the inspector returned, the meeting was adjourned and the constable dismissed, leaving Kingston facing a stern-looking Carmichael.

  The inspector folded his arms, swiveling his chair to and fro. “Dammit, Kingston. Why on earth did you keep all this to yourself? I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but should I decide to press the issue, you could face legal proceedings for jeopardizing a police investigation. Withholding information the likes of which you just reported is a chargeable offence.” He stopped abruptly and so did his chair, as he looked straight at Kingston. “Not only that, but by the sounds of it you have placed yourself in considerable danger. You were damned lucky. You could easily have suffered serious bodily harm or even been killed,” he said, cracking his knuckles, which made Kingston wince.

  “You got my message about the incident at the reservoir, then?”

  “I did, yes. Lymington station followed up on that. They found nothing out of the ordinary, apparently.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  Carmichael scowled. “What were you thinking of, man? Getting mixed up in all this?”

  Kingston straightened up in the wooden chair, trying to put on a good face before choosing to answer. He knew that he had no defense whatsoever and could only throw himself on the mercy of the policeman with the best apology he could summon.

  “I have no excuse,” he said, purposely leaving the four words hanging longer than necessary. “In doing what I thought best for Rebecca—trying to find her husband—I simply deluded myself into thinking I could solve the case alone. I now realize—and I have for a while now—that this was a terrible mistake. After I got whacked on the head and received the warning, I knew it was far too risky to go on.” He made an effort to smile and added, “I recognized I wouldn’t be much help to Becky propped up in a hospital bed or in the morgue.”

  Carmichael leaned back, a look of exasperation on his face, and sighed. “Look, I’m letting you off the hook this time. Despite the seriousness of your actions, I don’t want to see someone as intelligent as you made an example of. From now on, if you want to help or you receive any information that may be germane to the case, you call me. Is that clearly understood, Doctor?”

  Kingston nodded. “It is. And thank you for understanding—if you’ll excuse the cliché—and for giving me the benefit of the doubt.” As he spoke, he was wondering whether this was the right time to introduce the matter of Viktor Zander and the house. If he did, he ran the risk of getting Carmichael even angrier, after everything he’d said in the last minute or so. As he was debating the point, there was knock on the door. “Come in,” Carmichael shouted. The door opened partway and Constable Marsh poked his head in, coffee pot in one hand. “Fresh coffee?” he inquired. Kingston and the Inspector both nodded.

  After taking a sip of the fresh coffee and almost burning his tongue, Kingston spoke. “There’s one more thing you need to know before I leave,” he said. “It just struck me that I hadn’t mentioned it before.” He smiled apologetically. “A senior moment.”

  “Oh,” Carmichael said, swiveling his chair, and giving Kingston a stony look. “And what is that?”

  “There’s also a house on the property where the reservoir is located. It’s well hidden from the road.”

  Carmichael was still eyeing him as if he’d enough for one day and just wanted Kingston out of his sight. “And,” he said.

  “I’ve reason to believe that that’s where Stewart Halliday is or was being held.”

  “You do, do you? What makes you think that? And why didn’t you bring this up while we were taping?”

  “As I said, I had every intention of doing so. I believe it’s a huge break.”

  Carmichael still looked irritated but said nothing.

  “It belongs to a man named Viktor Zander, a businessman and a dodgy one, to say the least. Owns a company in the East End named Conway-Anderson. I think it’s a front.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s a known fact that he has or had ties to the Russian ‘Mafia.’”

  The inspector’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious, Doctor?”

  “Very.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “As I mentioned, he also owns the land on which the reservoir is located. So if Stewart Halliday was supervising the desalination experiments from there, Zander has to be involved, wouldn’t you think? It’s doubtful any of this could have taken place without his knowledge. It’s a guess, but I think Zander knew Everard. I can’t be certain but the odds are good.”

  “But a half an hour ago you went to great lengths to explain that Everard was not involved in Halliday’s or Walsh’s affairs. Tell me, how did you find out that Zander owned the house and the reservoir buildings and has mob connections?”

  “It was remarkably easy: Land Register online and the internet.

  Carmichael shook his head. “I don’t know what do with you, Kingston. You want me to march up to that house and ask if they’re holding a missing person hostage? Is that what you’re getting at?”

  Kingston pulled on his earlobe—to those who knew him, a sign that he was thinking hard, choosing his words carefully before opening his mouth. Carmichael sat back, holding his coffee mug in both hands, waiting for Kingston to reply.

  “What I’d like to propose is that when you go to search the house, that I be allowed to go with you.”

  By the look on the inspector’s face, Kingston knew immediately that Carmichael didn’t think it a brilliant idea. This was borne out when he spoke.

  “Doctor, if we’re to follow your suggestion and check out this house—which we certainly will, by the way—we will have to do it without your presence, I’m afraid. We can’t run the risk of allowing civilians to accompany the police on a warrant of this sort.” He shook his head. “We can’t assume the liability. It’s simply not allowed, it’s out of the question.”

  “I understand,” Kingston replied. “However, let me explain my reason for asking.”

  Carmichael nodded with a half smile. “Go ahead,” he said, his expression and body language indicating that it wouldn’t make any difference anyway.

  Kingston ignored the poorly disguised inference and continued. “Well, you see, there may well be things in the house that I would recognize and you might not. The same goes for certain people who might be in residence, too. So your going in—the police, that is—would, in all probability, be a wasted effort. A missed opportunity that could have blown the case wide open, as the saying goes. Make sense?”

  Carmichael interrupted, the smile gone. “If you’re talking about identifying Stewart Halliday, that’s a non-issue. We have recent photographs provided by the family.” He paused, cracking his knuckles again. “And what are these ‘other things’that might be in the house that you would spot and we wouldn’t?”

  This was where Kingston was walking on eggs. Carmichael was already aware of Stewart’s cryptic messages. Now introducing the idea
that Stewart could have left more messages in the house could give Carmichael the impression that Kingston had read The Da Vinci Code one time too many.

  “Signs,” said Kingston. “A sign or clue of some kind that would prove beyond doubt that Stewart had been there. If there were, wouldn’t that be more than sufficient reason to undertake a full investigation and bring in the owner for questioning?”

  Carmichael was shaking his head again. “You and I live in different worlds, Doctor. Nevertheless, if I were not to take some sort of action based on the information you’ve just provided, I wouldn’t be doing my job.” He took a last sip of coffee and put the mug on the table with a thump that also served as a punctuation mark. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. I’ll make up an affidavit showing probable cause and see if I can convince a magistrate to grant what’s known as an s8 PACE warrant, one that will permit you to accompany us as reasonable and necessary, given the circumstances we’ve discussed. I’m not promising it’ll happen but I’ll do my best.” He got up and came round to shake hands with Kingston. “If you ever decide to give up what it is you’re doing, Kingston, maybe there’s a place for you in law enforcement.” He grinned. “Only one thing—don’t look for employment in Hampshire, please.”

  Kingston chuckled and thanked him. He was beginning to like the inspector.

  Two days later, Kingston got a phone call from Carmichael saying that he had the search warrant and asking Kingston to meet him and another policemen at ten o’clock the following morning at Ringwood station. They would drive together from there to Viktor Zander’s house. Kingston would receive further instructions about the warrant and procedure at that time.

  EIGHTEEN

  At thirty-five minutes past ten, under sullen skies and light rain, an unmarked Rover 45 police car made a left turn a half-mile past the small road that led to the reservoir and proceeded up the gravel lane leading to Foxwood House, the property of Viktor Zander. Detective Inspector Carmichael sat next to the driver, a burly, leather-jacketed DS named Winters. Kingston sat in the backseat, the legroom appreciated. At the outset of the journey, Carmichael had briefed Kingston on how the search warrant would be conducted, stressing that he, and only he, would ask questions and do the talking. Kingston would be introduced as a private citizen helping in their inquiries. He was, Carmichael emphasized, to remain a silent observer throughout.