EG03 - The Water Lily Cross

by Anthony Eglin

  Escape had clearly been impossible for Stewart. One alternative that Kingston had mulled over earlier was that he might not want to escape. If so, why would he help Zander of his own volition? Had he been promised vast sums of money if the desalination process proved practical on a large scale, and if he cooperated willingly? If that were the case, why would Stewart have gone to the trouble of leaving the clues? It didn’t make sense. What else? Coercion seemed unlikely given the duration of his captivity. The only other explanation Kingston could think of, diabolical as it might be, was that Stewart could be sedated constantly, kept in a drugged state, yet still able to function for their purposes. On further thought, he dismissed that scenario as being far too “Hollywood.”

  Since being locked in, the only sound he had heard was the roll-up door being raised and lowered. He sat up and reached for the bagel, unwrapped it, and peeked at the filling: smoked salmon, with cream cheese and capers. He devoured it along with half the water in less than a minute. He glanced at his watch: ten thirty. Might as well try to get some kip, he said to himself. He removed his jacket, switched off the light, pulled aside the sheet, and climbed into the small bed. Lying there, staring at the shadowy ceiling, he felt mummified between the snug blankets and head-to-toe fit of the bed.

  He kept staring at the acoustic ceiling panels. Was this section of the warehouse the only part of the building with a false ceiling? From what he recalled, most of the warehouse was open-beamed. Was this a way of escape—crawling along ventilation ducts? He knew it was wishful thinking but he got up anyway and stood on the bed. He was tall enough to reach one of the panels easily and tried to push it up. At first, it didn’t budge but after a second try, it loosened and popped up. He slid it to one side and looked up into the empty space above. It was a typical T-bar frame installation, suspended from the existing roof, rigid and sturdy enough to support the tiles but by no means a man of his weight. Disappointed, he replaced the tile and crawled back into bed. It always looked so damned easy in the films, he thought.

  He closed his eyes. Unable to sleep, his thoughts prowled back and forth like a caged animal searching for a way of escape. Until now he had been subconsciously avoiding it but he started to think about his own imprisonment and what the coming day might bring. Another fifteen minutes of tossing and turning produced not a glimmer of optimism. Eventually, he managed to steer his mind to more encouraging thoughts and finally dozed off.

  The room was dark when Kingston woke. For a moment he couldn’t recall where he was, then it all rushed back. He held his watch up close to his face and could just make out the luminescent hands: eight fifteen. Surprisingly, he had slept quite well, and longer than he expected. He switched the light on, got out of bed, and went into the bathroom. With no razor or toothbrush, he did the best he could to make himself presentable for whatever was about to happen. He wasn’t going to speculate on that, though. Right now his mind was on a pot of tea or at least a cup of coffee. Returning from the bathroom, he sat on the sofa and checked out the magazines on the coffee table, pleasantly surprised to find a recent issue of Autosport. Leafing through it, reading the Monaco Grand Prix results, he realized how out of touch he was with the sport. The only driver names he recognized were Michael Schumacher, Jacques Villeneuve, and Jenson Button. Back in the seventies and eighties, Kingston had followed the Grand Prix circuit, making annual trips to Europe. He and Megan had attended Monaco, the German, Spanish, and French races, and had been regulars at Silverstone for the British Grand Prix. He had owned more than a dozen sports cars and collector cars over the years, including a Jaguar, Bristol, Morgan and his favorite, a 1934, 4.5-liter Lagonda Sports Tourer.

  Kingston’s mind flashed back to his prized TR4. Surely the police would have found it by now and would have tried to reach him. It might be too early for him to be considered a missing person but that would surely be the case in the coming hours. With luck, his car hadn’t been vandalized and was now locked safely in a police garage. In turn, he thought about Carmichael, wondering whether the inspector had made any progress questioning Blake and Zander. Then he remembered that Carmichael had said “the case would most certainly involve the Metropolitan Police.” Perhaps Inspector Crosbie would be in charge. He was with the Met and the connection with Kingston—the rainy day interview—was already established, as he was the officer investigating Everard’s death. Kingston put down the magazine, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Why worry about all that now, he said to himself. He was in serious trouble and his prospects were dimming by the minute.

  Another two hours dragged by during which time Kingston had read all the magazines. Stretched on the sofa, his catnap was interrupted by the sound of a key being inserted in the door lock. He turned and reached for his shoes—one had found its way under the bed. He felt foolish, standing in his socks, holding one shoe, about to confront one of his captors.

  The door opened a few inches, enough for whoever opened it, to place a cup of coffee and a napkin-wrapped pastry on the floor. As quickly as it had opened, the door closed. Kingston crossed the room and retrieved the coffee and pastry, returning to the sofa. Taking a bite of the pastry and washing it down with the hot coffee, he realized how ravenous he was. If this was breakfast, he hoped lunch would be more substantial.

  The morning dragged on into afternoon. Kingston, with nothing left to read or amuse him, stretched out on the bed and soon dozed off again. He had no idea how long he had been napping when he was awakened by the sound of the key in the lock once again, and a surly voice. “Get dressed and come with me,” the man said.

  “I’ll be right there,” Kingston replied.

  “Make it quick.”

  A few minutes later Kingston was walking along the same corridor as the previous night, the man close behind. Reaching the door at the end, they passed into the warehouse. Kingston held a hand up to shield his eyes. After the dark room and corridor, the bright sunlight slanting through the skylights high above temporarily blinded him. It struck him as being incongruously cheerful, considering the gravity of things.

  Moments later they left the warehouse and were headed along a path toward another, smaller building, about fifty yards away. Now in the open and considering a run for it, Kingston took a quick glance over his shoulder to size up his chances. As he did, the man spoke.

  “If you’re thinking of doing a runner, don’t.You won’t get more than ten feet and you’ll have a hole in your back.”

  Kingston kept walking, his stomach churning, sussing out the surroundings. The area was light industrial but the sight of cranes and ships’masts rising above the buildings to his left affirmed that it was also a shipyard. The snapping of nearby marine flags in the offshore breeze and the squeal of seagulls wheeling overhead left no doubt that they were near the sea. As they approached the low building where they were headed, he caught sight of the end of a quay and a row of iron bollards mooring an older boat. He recognized it as a navy tender, converted for private use. The bow of a motor yacht was visible behind it. Soon they reached the door of the whitewashed building over which the name JENSEN MARINE was affixed in gold painted, three-dimensional letters. The man opened the door and gestured for Kingston to enter.

  As the door closed behind him, Kingston heard the lock click into place. He turned to see that the thug had left and he was on his own. The room was spacious with a high ceiling crisscrossed with wooden trusses. Part living- and part workspace, it was surprisingly airy and light, decorated in shades of cream and beige, a confection that had the unmistakable stamp of an interior decorator. A bit twee for a marine business, he thought. Glancing around the room, his eyes came to rest on a large ship model in a mahogany-framed glass case. He walked over to the model and stood, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship. The sleek motor yacht was painted in dark blue and cream, every detail a miniature masterpiece. Kingston read the discreetly positioned plaque:

  ALLEGRA.

  A converted “Baltic” tugboat built in Germany i
n 1990 and completely rebuilt and refitted in France in 2001. Welded steel hull and aluminum superstructure. Length O.A. 110.0 feet. Beam 27.5 feet. Draft 10.5 feet. Main engine: SKL 6 cylinder turbo-charged diesel engine. Range: 2,000 nautical miles. Various cabins (all with bathrooms and showers), accommodating up to 16 passengers. Fully equipped galley with dining area. Communication and navigation equipment including Satcom C mobile earth stations satellite communications unit, a cellular system, VHF and SSB radiotelephones, radar, DGPS, magnetic and gyrocompasses, wind instruments, and echo depth sounder.

  Kingston turned away from the model. For a blissful minute or so, his mind had been taken off the present and his fate in the coming hours. He was transported back to happier times. He had always been fascinated with boats, having learned to sail as boy during summer holidays in Devon. In later years, he had bought a restored 1920s diesel-powered gaff-rigged cutter that he named Old Gaffer. Soon after, he joined the Cramond Boat Club, whose clubhouse and moorings were on the river Almond, only four miles from the center of Edinburgh. He, his wife, and daughter Julie had spent many memorable summers plying the waters of the Firth of Forth, picnicking on its numerous islands. It had been heartbreaking to have to let Old Gaffer go after his wife had died and he moved to London.

  His reminiscing was broken by a man’s voice. “So you like boats, do you, Doctor?” The voice sounded familiar.

  Kingston turned to see two men. He stared vacantly at the taller of the two for several seconds, numbed—as if he’d stubbed his toe on the furniture and was waiting for the throbbing to start.

  He was looking at Gavin Blake.

  It took no imagination to figure that the other man was a bodyguard or minder. Alongside the tall Blake with his mannerly looks and stylish casual clothes, the man looked like a latter-day Bill Sykes. By his stocky build, Kingston pegged him as the man who had filched his TR4—the Range Rover driver’s accomplice.

  “You look surprised,” said Blake. “Nice of you to join us.” His expression showed mild contempt, as if he were saddled with an obnoxious guest at a cocktail party. “I trust the accommodations and snack met with your approval,” he added.

  Kingston decided to go along with the “nice guy” opening, knowing full well by the look on the bodyguard’s face that it was merely a prelude to unpleasant news. “The Bordeaux was a nice touch, yes. Good taste,” he replied. “Pity it wasn’t chilled, though.”

  “Not my taste or my idea,” Blake countered. “If it had been up to me, you wouldn’t even be here now, Kingston. You’d have been taken care of long ago.”

  “You take your orders from Viktor Zander, then?”

  Blake’s eyes narrowed momentarily, then his expression became impenetrable.

  Kingston knew he’d hit a nerve but could tell right away that Blake wasn’t about to argue the toss. “You don’t want to discuss your boss?” He paused, meeting Blake’s icy stare. “How about Stewart Halliday, then?”

  Still no answer, but Kingston noticed the muscles in Blake’s jaw tighten.

  “We know he was at the reservoir and at Zander’s house. Where is he now?”

  “We? Meaning you and the police?”

  “You’re damned right. And it’s only a matter of time now before they catch up with you and Zander.”

  “Is that so?”

  Recovered from his confusion at being suddenly confronted by Blake, Kingston was thinking how naïve he had been not having seen through Blake when he showed up at Foxwood House. He’d put on a bravura performance. Good enough to convince Carmichael, too, despite his earlier suspicions. “I must admit, Blake,” he said. “You don’t look like the sort to be mixed up with organized crime.”

  “I’m getting damned tired of you, Kingston,” Blake snapped, his hazel eyes smoldering.

  “Really? Perhaps you’d prefer to talk about Miles Everard—that poor sod.”

  “Just shut your bloody mouth and go over there and sit down.” Blake turned to the bodyguard. “Go and see if they’re ready for us yet. Call me.”

  Kingston sat on the sofa and watched the bodyguard cross the room. He wondered who “they” were. At the door, the man reached for the doorknob. As he did, his jacket pulled aside, revealing the grip of a shoulder-holstered gun. The door closed behind him and a queasy tremor rumbled through Kingston’s belly. Forcing it back, he looked at Blake, who was now perched on the edge of a table studying his tank watch, seemingly content to wait. Judging by Blake’s aplomb, Kingston figured he was armed, too. Clearly there would be no further conversation until the bodyguard called.

  Several minutes passed before Blake’s mobile rang. He took it out, flipped it open and held it to his ear, all the time avoiding Kingston’s gaze. “Good,” he said after a few seconds. “We’ll meet you outside.” He closed the mobile and returned it to his pocket. “All right, let’s get this done with,” he said with a long chilling look at Kingston, then nodded toward the door. Kingston got up and, with Blake close behind, walked to the front door.

  Outside the sun was warm on their backs, the breeze tousling Kingston’s already unruly hair as they headed toward the quay. A half minute later, they were joined by the bodyguard who was waiting by the navy tender Kingston had seen earlier. Considering the number of boats moored alongside the quay there were few, if any, people around. The innocuous-looking threesome passed an old racing sloop with a young couple, on their hands and knees, working on the deck but they were too preoccupied with varnishing to notice them go by. When he’d first caught sight of the couple, Kingston considered making a scene, shouting for the couple to call the police. But knowing that the bodyguard was armed, he feared such action would put them all in harm’s way.

  Kingston saw the boat ahead. He recognized it from the model. This was the real thing and just as impressive. The name Allegra was on the stern. As they walked alongside the boat, Kingston made note of the telescopic boat cranes and davits with Zodiac life rafts and an inflatable tender with outboard engine—all the very latest and most impressive. At midpoint along the hull, the bodyguard motioned for Kingston to board across the gangway. Blake followed, leaving the bodyguard on the quay. On the deck, they were met by a shaven-headed crewmember in a spotless white T-shirt and jeans. Kingston caught snatches of the brief conversation, something to do with cabin locations. The man pointed toward the stern. “The captain should be here soon,” he said, as they made their way along the deck. Kingston noticed that the bodyguard had remained on the quay and was keeping pace with them, obviously making sure that Kingston didn’t decide to jump off and make a run for it.

  Blake paused at the second cabin they came to. No words were exchanged as the crewman opened the cabin door and Blake gestured for Kingston to enter. He stepped in, expecting to hear the door close behind him. It didn’t. He turned to see Blake standing by the door, the sun backlighting him, his face a black shadow. “Well, Lawrence Kingston, your journey’s almost at an end. Enjoy what’s left of it.” He closed the door with unnecessary force and Kingston heard the lock slip into place with an ominous click.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Kingston sat on the edge of the boxed double bed and surveyed the cabin, surprised by its spaciousness. The interior reflected everything else he’d observed about the yacht since boarding—first class and no expense spared. The cabinetry wall facing him—rosewood, he figured—had an LCD television, DVD player, and AM/FM radio built into a center panel. On either side, two other panels recessed into the wood surround displayed gold-framed abstract paintings. Below, a row of custom-designed cabinets spanned the wall. Louvered shutters covered the long window next to the bed on his right. A built-in vanity with matching framed mirror filled most of the third wall. Through an open door, a mirror-walled corridor led to a bathroom. From where he sat, the counter appeared to be marble or granite, the fixtures, gold finish. Kingston was gaining new respect for Victor Zander—if indeed he owned the Allegra. Foxwood House, with its precious library and elegant trappings, had been impressi
ve, but the yacht left no doubt that lack of cash flow was not keeping Zander awake at night. Kingston was starting to understand why he would be the sort to broker a deal for Stewart’s desalination process. He visualized Zander as businesslike, polished, and erudite—the kind that could sell ice to Eskimos.

  He stood, looked down at the Berber carpet, then glanced around the cabin again. The only escape was through the door or window. He went to the window to find that it was double-pane, apparently tempered glass—difficult or impossible to shatter—and that, not surprisingly, it would slide open only enough to provide ventilation. Though he knew the door was locked, he tried the handle anyway. As he had reckoned, there was no other way out of the cabin.

  Trying to size up his predicament, attempting to second-guess what might come next, he was brought to his senses by the sudden hum of the big diesel engine starting. Even if he could get out of the cabin, there would be no escaping the Allegra at sea, save for the inflatable. “What a bloody mess,” he mumbled to himself.

  Kingston had often professed that some of his best ideas bubbled to the surface when he was horizontal. He had solved many a crossword clue or vexing problem in the moments before dozing off into the arms of Morpheus. Feeling powerless, while waiting for what he was coming to accept as his fate, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes, still wide awake, listening to the steady throb of the engine.