The meeting over, Kingston provided his contact numbers and completed the admission papers. A few minutes later he was at a pay phone in the lobby. His first call, to Becky, went unanswered. He would try again the minute he got home. Likely she was doing her work for the auxiliary or was at her daughter’s house. Unfortunately, he didn’t have Sarah’s unlisted number with him. Next he called Inspector Carmichael, to be told by the station operator that he was out for the day. Kingston left his name, number, and a message asking that Carmichael call him immediately and informing him that Stewart Halliday was alive and had been admitted to Poole General Hospital. As an afterthought, he voiced his concern that when Blake found out—and he probably had by now—he might try to pull something at the hospital. At the hospital taxi rank, he got a cab to Poole station, where he bought a one-way ticket to Waterloo and a copy of The Times. The journey was a little over two hours, which would give him time to read the newspaper and maybe get a start on the crossword. As it was, he slept most of the way.
TWENTY-THREE
Kingston closed his front door and picked up the mail from the mat. Holding his takeaway dinner bag, he went straight to the living room to check his phone messages. There were none. He picked up his address book, found Sarah’s listing, and punched in the numbers. Four rings and the answerphone came on. He left a message for Becky saying that Stewart was safe in Poole General and to call Kingston as soon as she could.
Leaving the mail on the coffee table, he went to the kitchen where he set the paper bag on the chopping block and withdrew the contents: fresh ricotta and mushroom ravioli and a tub of pasta sauce. Filling a stainless-steel saucepan with water, he placed it on the range and turned on the burner to LOW. At last, now he could pour a drink and relax—if that were possible.
He took a soothing sip of Macallan, gave a silent toast to Stewart, and leaned back on the sofa. It was the first chance he’d had to take stock of things since disembarking from the Allegra—to speculate on what might happen now that Stewart was in safe hands. What would Blake and Zander do now? He tried putting himself in their place. The evidence against Blake was indisputable. If and when he was brought to justice, he would go away for a long time. Not that Kingston knew how the system worked, but he felt that the case against Zander might be hard to prove. It would depend on whether a direct relationship between him and Blake could be substantiated, if Zander was privy to everything that Blake had been doing. At the very least, Zander would be charged as an accessory, Kingston figured. The use of his house and boat alone would be incriminating enough. Tracking him down should not present a problem, but Blake might not be so easy to apprehend. He had much more to lose and had already proved dangerous. There was no predicting what he might do, if cornered. Where in hell was Carmichael, anyway? Surely he must have got Kingston’s message by now. Maybe the hospital was having better luck.
Kingston took another sip of scotch, this time toasting his own good fortune. He’d dodged a proverbial bullet—meeting an inglorious end in a strange faraway land. He cringed as Blake’s last words came back to him. It had been some time since he felt this good. He planned to call the hospital first thing in the morning and get an update on Stewart’s condition. With luck, Becky would have received the good news by then and would be at her husband’s bedside.
He polished off the whisky and checked the mail: three bills and an envelope with LAWRENCE scrawled on it in pencil. The note inside was from Desmond.
Stopped by on the off chance. But you’re obviously out chasing the bad guys again. I’m in town only for the day but I’ll call later in the week. All being well, I’m opening the Finchley nursery in about two weeks. Too bad you missed a free lunch.
Cheers,
Desmond.
Kingston smiled. It would take two or three lunches, minimum, to bring Desmond up to speed on all that had happened since they’d last met.
He picked up his glass and stood, about to head for the kitchen, when the phone rang. “Finally,” he muttered. Becky or Carmichael?
Kingston picked up the phone. It was neither. A man spoke.
“Kingston. I have someone here who wants to talk with you. A friend of yours.”
Kingston tightened his grip on the phone. He couldn’t be certain. Was it Blake?
“Who is this?” Kingston asked.
“You know damned well who it is. Shut up and just listen.”
Kingston felt his flesh creep, his body tense. Blake wouldn’t be calling to ask whether it was daylight saving time.
“Are you with me?”
“What’s this about, Blake? More of Zander’s dirty work, is that it?”
“Nice try. You might like to know he’s extremely unhappy about what happened on the boat.”
Kingston waited. In the pause that followed, he heard a woman’s voice in the background.
“Here she is,” said Blake. “She’s only going to say it once, so listen carefully.”
Another pause, then a woman spoke. “Lawrence?” she said faintly.
“Yes, who is this?” He had difficulty recognizing the voice.
“You have to … you must come down here … . to The Willows, Lawrence. He’s serious … please do as he says. I’m scared.” Her voice, no more than a whisper, was quavering so much he was hard pressed to hear her, to grasp what she was saying.
“I can barely hear you. To The Willows? Is this … Becky?”
“Yes.”
“Are you alone with him?”
“Yes.”
Kingston expected her to start crying any moment. He struggled to control his rage. “The man that’s with you. I know who he is. Let me talk to him.”
“That’s enough,” he heard Blake say, obviously to Becky.
“Are you still there?” Kingston said, straining to remain calm, hoping she was still on the line. “Give him the phone. Tell him I want to speak to him.”
Another pause. “Jesus!” Kingston whispered to himself. Had Blake told her about Stewart?
Blake came on again. “I think you’d better do what the lady asks.”
“You bastard! Why involve her? Don’t you think she’s suffered enough? Have you told her about her husband?”
“This is not Q-and-A, doctor. You heard her, Kingston. What don’t you understand?”
“Tell her—”
“I’m telling her nothing, you fool. I’ll spell it out for you one last time. It’s almost eight o’clock. Be here by midnight and don’t come armed. If you’re not here by then … well, you can draw your own picture—Doctor. And one thing more—if you’re thinking of calling the police, don’t. That’ll be a death warrant. And I don’t mean yours—that will come later.”
Kingston mind was a dizzying whirlpool of questions. Was it Becky? Was Blake lying? How did he know they were calling from the house? He needed to know more.
“I want some kind of proof, Blake. Let me talk to her again.”
“Proof? Proof of what?”
“How do I know you’re at the Halliday’s house and that Becky is with you? This could be another of Zander’s tricks. Like when you stole my car.”
“Just be here. That’s all.”
“Ask Becky what the drummer boy is.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Just ask her, dammit.”
“I told you, this isn’t a quiz show, Kingston.”
“Ask her what it means, or I’m hanging up.”
A long silence followed. “Come on,” said Kingston under his breath.
“She says it’s a porcelain figurine.”
Momentarily, Kingston was at a loss for words. He felt cheated, a loathing welling up inside. He put a hand on the table to steady himself. “Damn you, Blake,” he shouted.
Blake said nothing.
“All right,” he said, reining in his revulsion and frustration. “I’ll do as you say. But you lay a hand on Becky and I swear I’ll kill you.”
“Before midnight.”
; “You’re forgetting. I don’t have a car. You stole it, remember?”
“I don’t give a toss. Get a cab. Unless you don’t think she’s worth it.”
The line went dead.
Kingston put down the phone, leaned back, and covered his face with both hands. “Oh God!” was all he could say.
Ten minutes later, a cab pulled up outside 346 Cadogan Square. Kingston was waiting at the front door. With Becky’s life in the balance, he couldn’t risk wasting a minute longer than necessary. It was raining, but traffic shouldn’t be a problem, particularly at this time of night, he thought. He got into the cab and slammed the door.
The cab driver slid the separating glass window open a few inches and turned to Kingston. “Fordingbridge? Right, Guv.”
Kingston nodded. “Yes.”
“Nasty night. Shouldn’t be a problem though. Long drive, so you might as well sit back and relax.” He closed the window and drove off.
If you only knew, thought Kingston. If you only knew.
As the cab rounded the corner at Pont Street, the phone rang in Kingston’s flat. After a half-dozen rings, right before the answerphone could kick in, Inspector Carmichael gave up.
TWENTY-FOUR
At the front gate of The Willows, Kingston paid the cab driver, pulled his jacket collar up and watched the cab’s taillights disappear. He’d checked his watch a dozen times on the journey but checked it again: ten fifty. The rain had stopped, replaced by a boisterous south wind that rattled the trees and spun the drying leaves on the lawn into the air, swirling like Catherine wheels, caught in the amber light from the gatepost lamp. He passed under the arbor, the white iceberg roses visible despite the dark, and started up the brick path that curved to the front door. The only light came from the porch and living room windows. He rang the doorbell and waited. Would Becky or Blake open it, he wondered.
The door opened. Blake stood there. Dressed in a black Windbreaker, his face looked paler than Kingston remembered. He said nothing and, as usual, his expression gave no clue to his mood. “Come in,” he said, standing well back from Kingston.
“Where’s Becky?” asked Kingston, stepping into the hallway.
“The living room.” He gestured for Kingston to go first.
On the drive, Kingston had tried to second-guess what might happen when he got to the house. He could come up with only one motive for Blake’s actions, and that didn’t bear thinking about. Blake was out for revenge—Zander, too, no doubt. In a struggle, could he overpower Blake? With the element of surprise, he might prevail but Blake was much younger and probably quicker. It could be a mistake to underestimate him. It was all moot because Blake would certainly be armed. It wasn’t the first time in his life that Kingston had been scared, but the thought of what he was about to face made the hackles rise on the back of his neck.
Kingston entered the living room and glanced around. The only illumination came from a table lamp by the window, leaving parts of the room in shadow. Where was she, he wondered? Then he saw her, huddled in a large wingback in a corner by the conservatory. She got up, but surprisingly made no attempt to go to him. He started toward her then stopped. The hair? The clothes? He caught the frisson of recognition in her eye and then the penny dropped.
“You two have met before,” said Blake, who had moved to one side.
Kingston’s stomach heaved. He stood transfixed, staring at Marian Taylor. Now he realized why the strained voice had seemed unfamiliar.
“I’m sorry,” she said, biting her lip. “I had no choice.”
Blake smiled, sardonically. “I’m surprised you fell for it. Maybe I’ve been giving you too much credit, Doctor.” He shrugged. “But then again, we both know what a good actress she is, don’t we?”
“Where’s Becky, damn you!”
“She’s not home. It made it all the easier. Just the three of us, nice and cozy.”
Kingston looked at Marian Taylor. “You’re with them, then?”
Her eyes darted to Blake, then back to Kingston. “No, I’m not. You’ve every right—”
“Shut up!” Blake snapped, pulling a black pistol from his jacket pocket, leveling it at Kingston. Kingston felt the acid rising in his throat, a tingling at the back of his neck. Though he had handled pistols and rifles in his army days and witnessed their destructive powers many times, he still abhorred the use of guns for anything but hunting.
“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” Blake added.
“Put that damned thing away.” For the first time, Kingston noticed that Blake was wearing a tight-fitting cloth glove on the hand that gripped the pistol.
To Kingston’s relief, Blake lowered the pistol to his side,
“Before we get down to business, let’s talk about you first, Kingston.” He stepped back and leaned on the edge of a nearby library table, the same contemptuous look on his face. “I doubt if you’re even aware of the damage you’ve done or the amount of money that’s in jeopardy, all because of your stupidity, your death wish to be a bloody hero.”
Knowing Blake as he did, Kingston knew that interrupting now would serve no purpose. These were the most words he’d heard Blake string together in all their previous meetings combined. He wondered what would come next or if that was the end of Blake’s little speech.
Blake looked at Marian Taylor. “And you—you knew all along what he was up to and what did you do? You lied, you told him everything.” He shook his head. “But we’ll come back to you later, dear,” he said, turning his eyes back to Kingston again.
“You’re wrong,” said Kingston. He felt compelled to come to her defense, despite knowing that Blake’s accusation was justified.
“Really?”
Kingston flashed on a piece of advice from his younger days when, as an army captain, he had attended a course with Special Forces, a rigorous training regime in covert operations, survival training, and commando techniques. The advice concerned response to interrogation by the enemy. The cardinal rule was always to give only your name, rank and serial number. There were exceptions, however, and one of those applied to situations similar to the one in which he found himself now. The drill was to keep the interrogator talking as long as possible, even if you had to fabricate stuff. “Tell me about Miles Everard,” he asked. “Why did you have to dispose of him?”
“You’re delusional, Kingston.”
“Was he supposed to get the contract? What did he have on you or Zander that you had to get rid of him?”
“The contract? I’m glad you reminded me. Yes. Only fifty million pounds.” He shrugged, as if it were chicken feed. Then he shouted, “Fifty—bloody—million! That’s what the contract was worth. Now it’s all going to be pissed away because of you.”
“What difference does it make? When the police catch up with you and Zander—which will be very soon—it’ll all be over. You can read all about it from your jail cell.”
“I’ve had enough of your lip, Kingston.” He turned his attention to Marian.
Kingston was surprised that she hadn’t broken down by now, given the way things were headed. She knew that Blake hadn’t brought her along just for a drive to the country. He had a gun for good reason. From where he stood it was hard to read her expression in the dim light.
“As for you, bitch,” Blake snarled, “what do you think I should—”
Kingston cut him off. “Do you mean Marian Taylor or Alison Greer?”
Blake ignored the remark. “What would be suitable payback for what you’ve done? What do you think?” he said, looking at Marian Taylor, swinging the pistol lazily to and fro like a clock’s silent pendulum. “There’s no need to answer. I already have a solution. I think you’ll appreciate it. You, too, Kingston.”
The room fell silent save for the occasional susurration from the conservatory where the wind-whipped branches of a tree grazed the windows.
“Lost your tongue, have you?” said Blake.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Kingston r
etorted. “Give up while you can. It’s only a matter of time.”
The sardonic smile again. Blake’s next question surprised Kingston. “You remember the fire at Walsh’s house, Doctor?”
“I do, yes.” Kingston saw little point in telling Blake that he was there that day. “It was reported in the paper and on TV.”
“Right. Walsh killed by a gunshot wound to the head.”
Kingston nodded, wondering where Blake was going.
“The gun was never found, was it?”
“How would I know? Was that reported?”
“Not that I’m aware but I know the gun was never recovered.”
“How?”
“Because I’m holding it in my hand.”
Kingston noticed that Marian had retreated into the shadows. He could just make out the whites of her eyes pivoting about the room in dread, as if the jury was about to announce its verdict.
Blake continued. “Confusing eh? How could I be holding the gun that was used to murder Adrian Walsh?”
“You killed Walsh? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Kingston, give me more credit. Would I be dumb enough to admit that?”
EG03 - The Water Lily Cross Page 23