EG03 - The Water Lily Cross

by Anthony Eglin

  What was Marian Taylor running from—something else from her shadowy past? He knew so little about her and in a perverse way that bothered him. Why should he be so concerned about her well-being? And how about Zander? Somehow Kingston couldn’t picture him and Marian in cahoots. Were that the case, however, it wouldn’t surprise him—nothing would anymore. Would that be the last he would ever see of her? Somehow he doubted it.

  Conscious of still wearing Stewart’s ill-fitting clothes, he showered and changed into comfortable clothes. A half hour later he was seated in the Antelope’s downstairs bar savoring a pint of Fuller’s London Pride.

  The next morning, rested and looking forward to getting his life back to normal, Kingston finally caught up with Carmichael. The inspector was in one of his standoffish moods. No sooner had Kingston uttered good morning, than Carmichael started castigating him for going to The Willows alone, never mind that Becky’s life was being threatened. “Damned foolish thing to do,” he said. When pressed, he conceded that Blake was being turned over to the London Metropolitan police in connection with the murder of Miles Everard and the kidnapping of Stewart Halliday.

  “Everard was murdered then?” said Kingston.

  “That’s what the Met are saying. From what little I know, telling the difference between ‘did he fall’ or ‘was he pushed’is a tough call. Not to say that it can’t be determined sometimes.”

  Kingston decided not to ask how. It was irrelevant and given Carmichael’s stroppy attitude, he probably wouldn’t explain anyway.

  When Kingston inquired about Viktor Zander and Marian Taylor, he was less forthcoming. The only information he proffered was that neither had been located.

  In the days following, Kingston’s abandoned TR4 was discovered by a Royal Parks patrol car. It had been towed to a Chelsea Police garage and stored until the owner could be located. When Kingston picked it up, much to his surprise and relief, the car had not been vandalized as he had feared it might be, and was none the worse for wear. Two days later, he found an unexpected bonus—an expensive pair of sunglasses wedged in the crease of the passenger seat.

  Stewart Halliday was discharged from Poole General Hospital eight days after he had been admitted. Ironically, Kingston’s diagnosis had been remarkably accurate: Stewart had suffered a mild stroke from which he was expected to recover fully. Additionally, blood and urological tests had revealed traces of an anxiolytic drug commonly used for sedation. On the phone, Becky had told Kingston that Stewart’s physician confirmed that a regular dosage of such a sedative would be consistent with the objectives of Stewart’s captors. Moderate sedation, he’d said, would induce depressed consciousness in which the patient could respond to external verbal or tactile stimuli. In this state, normal airway reflexes, spontaneous ventilation, and cardiovascular function would be maintained.

  After Stewart’s discharge, he and Kingston spoke on the phone often. At first, for obvious reasons, Kingston was careful not to press Stewart too hard, and resisted quizzing him about his experiences at the hands of Blake and company. But inchmeal, like pixels falling into place on a slow-loading computer image, a chronology of Stewart’s weeks in captivity unfolded.

  Stewart started by telling Kingston about his experiments—first on his own, then with Adrian Walsh—cross-hybridizing water lilies at Walsh’s lake at Swallowfield. It had all begun as an amusing pastime, he said, after reading an article on desalination, which postulated that future wars would be fought over water, not oil. He told Walsh about his “zany” idea of a water plant capable of desalination. Walsh, who was well-off, was intrigued and agreed to go along for the ride and help underwrite most of the costs.

  Introducing salt into the lake at Swallowfield led to many failures, wasted time, and money. The toll of dead lilies kept mounting. The two men were about to admit defeat and give up their crackpot scheme when Stewart suggested they give it a last try by cross-hybridizing the giant water lily Victoria amazonica. The only drawback was that this genus of water lily was native to equatorial Brazil, growing in calm waters along the Amazon River. This required their building a makeshift greenhouse environment. Hundreds of crosses and eighteen months later, they hit pay dirt.

  Aware of the inevitable fallout, should the press learn of their discovery, Stewart and Adrian decided to keep it secret until they were certain that it worked on a sustained basis. They also knew that if the process were to be industrially viable, larger scale trials under more rigorous and controlled conditions would have to be conducted. That meant finding a much larger expanse of water—ideally in a secluded location—the right people, and the substantial funding needed to mount such a project. Walsh told Stewart that he knew a man named Miles Everard, the owner of a large construction and engineering company, who might be persuaded to participate and take the experiments to the next big step. Walsh had never met the man but had once performed as subcontactor in one of Everard’s big projects. Soon thereafter, Walsh contacted Everard’s company in London by phone and spoke to Everard personally.

  According to Stewart, Everard visited Swallowfield twice. After those and subsequent meetings, Everard agreed to partner with them on a full-scale biological desalination project. Under the terms of the agreement, both Walsh and Halliday would receive substantial “sign-on” payments and generous royalties from future sales, once the project was up and running and proven to be viable. It wasn’t revealed until much later that the person Stewart and Walsh were dealing with was not Miles Everard, but his personal assistant, Gavin Blake, posing as Everard. Neither were they aware that, by then, Blake was on Viktor Zander’s payroll, nor that the wealthy Zander, who had migrated to Britain in the eighties, had ties to the Russian “Mafia” and was always just one step ahead of the law.

  Stewart related how he started working routinely at the new reservoir installation, keeping his and Walsh’s end of the bargain. More than once he’d considered telling Becky what he was doing but had been cautioned by “Everard”—with Walsh concurring—to keep the operation under wraps, safeguarded from the inevitable media frenzy, until they had proof positive that the process worked. Knowing her husband’s passion for gardening, his affiliation with the garden club, and his friendship with Walsh, Becky had no reason to suspect that Stewart wasn’t coming clean about his absences.

  For some time, Stewart worked at the reservoir by day, returning home each evening. As the weeks passed he became uneasy about the prison-like conditions and the conduct of some staff members. What worried him most was that some of the maintenance and security workers carried weapons—not just small arms but semi-automatic assault weapons. When he questioned the need for such extreme protection, he was told to mind his own business. On one occasion, he said, he heard automatic-weapons fire some distance from the reservoir. That was when Kingston told him about the ill-fated helicopter ride and the theft of the tape.

  When Kingston asked Stewart what had caused Blake—alias Everard—to resort to kidnapping, Stewart’s answer came right away: “When I heard about the tragedy at Swallowfield and told them I was going to quit.” He’d read about Adrian’s death in the paper and while he had no reason whatsoever to connect it with the desalination project or Blake, he suddenly felt alone, in a disturbing and potentially dangerous situation, not wanting to continue.

  When he confronted Blake and told him that he’d decided to bow out of the project, Blake’s reaction had confirmed all his suspicions. First, Blake tried to persuade Stewart otherwise, then resorted to coercion, threatening legal action. Stewart said he left the reservoir that day convinced that Blake would take drastic action. He thought about telling Becky but not wanting to alarm or frighten her about his well-being, decided to wait. He even considered calling Kingston, he said, but again, for whatever reason, opted to hold off. He was sure that if anything happened to him, one of the first people Becky would call would be Kingston. That was when he resolved, on the spur of the moment, the night before attending the conference and just before t
o going to bed, to leave the cryptic clues. In retrospect, he admitted to Kingston with a chuckle, that it felt a bit “cloak and daggerish” at the time and was a trifle clumsy but he was certain that Kingston would solve them.

  Kingston asked him how and exactly when he was kidnapped. Stewart reported that it happened on the way to the conference. He’d picked up the drummer boy figurine from the Salisbury antiques shop—Becky had already told him about the significance of the figurine—and was on an open stretch of the A36 east of Warminster, driving the Jag at a comfortable fifty-five miles per hour, when he was became concerned about a black Land Rover that had been sitting on his rear bumper for several miles, passing up opportunities to overtake him. Then the driver began flashing his headlights. Stewart said that he’d slowed and pulled over as far as he could, to let the Land Rover pass. Instead of passing, it came alongside, the driver shouting and pointing to the Jag’s right rear wheel. Stewart made out the word “loose,” and stopped on the grass verge. The Land Rover pulled in behind.

  When two men got out of the Land Rover, he realized that all was not right. They didn’t look a bit like good Samaritans. They opened the door and asked him politely to get out of the car but their expressions were anything but congenial. He did as they asked, leaving the key in the ignition, the engine running. No sooner was he out of the car than one of the men slipped behind the wheel, slammed the door, and drove off. The other man took his arm in a painful grip and muscled him into the Land Rover. They did a U-turn and took off back toward Salisbury. “Sounds all too familiar,” said Kingston.

  In their phone conversations after Stewart’s return, Kingston had been respectful of his and Becky’s need for privacy, recognizing that this was a time of healing for both of them. So Becky’s mailed invitation for Kingston to join them for lunch at The Willows was welcome news indeed. Most of all, it signaled Stewart’s return to good health and implied that they were ready to resume their salubrious life in the country. It also meant that, at long last, he would get to see Stewart.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Planning a successful al fresco lunch during an English summer requires two essentials, weatherwise: the luck of a lottery winner and an indoor backup plan. Stewart and Becky Halliday had been granted the first, thereby obviating the need for the second.

  The day had started with the sun rising unchallenged and kept improving by the hour. At noon on this agreeable Sunday, someone wandering by chance into the garden at The Willows might imagine that they had stepped onto the set of a Merchant Ivory film. With snowy clouds dawdling across a china-blue sky, the garden looked glorious. A round table with wicker chairs was centered on the upper lawn. Mown to putting-green perfection the day before, the grassy smell still lingered. Late-summer color from asters, Japanese anemones, rudbeckia, helenium, and sedum crowded the surrounding beds and borders. A cloak of sweet autumn clematis on a nearby wall perfumed the air.

  Underneath a cream-colored umbrella, a table setting for three was laid on antique linen. Crystal wineglasses and water goblets glinted in the sunlight. Before knives and forks were raised, Kingston proposed a simple toast, and afterward produced a small wrapped box from his pocket, handing it to Becky. “Inspector Carmichael asked that I give this to you,” he said. Becky and Stewart smiled, each knowing what the box contained. Becky removed the wrapping, opened the box, and pulled out the Meissen drummer boy. Becky examined it for a moment before passing it to Stewart. He took it, shaking his head. “Who could imagine a tiny thing like this playing a part in all of this.”

  “I’m surprised the police let you have it,” said Becky. “Surely it would be considered evidence?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Kingston replied. “But Carmichael talked to a couple of higher-ups and they agreed that with the overwhelming evidence they now had against Blake and Zander, it could be released. Whatever you do, though, don’t lose it, just in case.”

  Stewart placed the drummer boy on the table. “Anymore news of Zander?”

  “There is. I was coming to that, actually. I talked with Inspector Carmichael last week—he was uncharacteristically chatty. He said they caught up with Zander in Paris, of all places. Apparently, he was on his way back to England from Tunisia.”

  Stewart frowned. “Tunisia?”

  “That’s what I said, when Carmichael told me. It’s a guess but I bet that’s where Zander was probably negotiating the sale of the desalination plant.”

  “Where you and I were headed on the Allegra,” Stewart pointed out.

  “It all makes sense,” said Becky.

  “Anyway,” said Kingston, taking a sip of Sancerre. “He’s been arraigned and has pleaded not guilty as an accessory in your kidnapping. He was refused bail, so now he’s in Belmarsh awaiting a trial date.”

  “Is that where Blake is?” asked Stewart.

  “I don’t know. Carmichael didn’t say.”

  Becky rested her knife and fork. “What about Everard’s murder?” she inquired, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “You did say it was murder, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and Carmichael confirmed it. I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, but shortly after Everard was killed, the Metropolitan Police visited me—routine, they said. They knew I’d been to Everard’s office and that I’d met with Blake by going through the visitors’ book and interviewing the receptionist. I was unaware of it at the time, but according to Carmichael the Met had been keeping tabs on Blake for some time. Just prior to Everard’s death, his company was about to fire Blake and file embezzlement charges against him. Only now are they discovering the extent of Blake’s debt, and how much he had taken Paramus for. Apparently, it was well known among the employees that Blake and Everard were on a collision course.”

  Stewart twirled his wineglass. He looked confused. “What about the Blake-Zander partnership? When did that happen?”

  “I asked Carmichael the same question,” said Kingston. “The way the police see it, Blake knew his days with Everard’s company were numbered and that he was in big trouble—facing the reality of several years in jail. Then, by chance, he intercepts the all-important call from Adrian, and being the devious bastard he is, sees a possible way out. Taking Adrian’s word for it—that your desalination discovery could become a huge moneymaker—he makes the first trip to Swallowfield, posing as Everard. Not too difficult to do, when you consider he knows the company inside out and the two of you have never met Everard.”

  “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” said Stewart. “Blake knew that if Everard’s company were to partner with Adrian and me, he’d end up with nothing. But if he joins forces with Zander, who he knows has the wherewithal and the organization to fund and develop the project, he can negotiate a sizable chunk of the business—if the project proves to be a winner, of course.”

  “That’s about right,” said Kingston. “Many millions, I’m sure.” He took his napkin from his lap, folded it neatly, and placed it carefully on the tablecloth by his wineglass. It was like a metaphor for his next words. “The only thing standing in his way—the only person, I should say—was Everard. Poor bastard.”

  “So, how did they know it was Blake who shoved Everard off the balcony?” asked Becky.

  “He was clever—but not clever enough. Carmichael didn’t give me all the details, of course, but it seems that Blake had set up an alibi proving he was nowhere near the office building that evening. He knew that Everard had a habit of working long hours and, with the building virtually empty or possibly closed, the chances of his being seen and identified were slight. He had keys and passes and didn’t have to check in.”

  “He could have been disguised, too,” said Becky, now all ears.

  “I wouldn’t put anything past him,” said Kingston, slowly shaking his head. “There was one other thing Carmichael mentioned—a rotten irony. Everard’s headquarters were in the only building in Bakers Landing that had balconies and sliding doors to the office suites. All the other skyscrapers have no windows per se
—they’re all sealed in glass and climate controlled by HVAC. Brave new world.”

  Becky sighed. “Blake would have found another way, I’m sure,” she said.

  “So, how did they prove Blake did it?” asked Stewart.

  “Blake was the prime suspect, of course, and the police brought him in immediately for questioning. His alibi held up but meantime the police got a warrant and searched his flat, seizing his entire wardrobe, among other things, hoping that forensic tests on the fabrics might incriminate him. Examining one of Blake’s jackets, a sharp-eyed technician noticed that there were two small buttons on one sleeve and three on the other. Where the missing button would have been, the fabric was slightly torn.” Kingston paused to finish his wine. He was clearly enjoying the police procedural.

  “And they found the button in Everard’s closed fist, is that it?” said Becky.

  Kingston smiled and shook his head. “In a movie, maybe. But no, that’s not how it happened. It was the proverbial ‘needle in the haystack.’ From what I’ve learned, this is the way most crimes are eventually solved, by using patience and old-fashioned legwork. For two days, police personnel searched inch by inch a large area surrounding the spot where Everard’s body landed. Eventually, they found the button, complete with a minute shred of matching material.” Kingston smiled again. “Carmichael said they found it in—of all places—a bed of busy lizzies.”

  “That’s not funny, Lawrence,” said Becky. I feel very sorry for the poor man. It appears he did nothing to deserve such a horrible end.”

  Kingston nodded. “You’re right, Becky.”

  Becky looked pensive. “Lawrence, I know I’ve told you this before but I’ll say it again. You risked your life coming down here to save me that night. Or who you thought to be me, I should say. I’m still amazed that this Marian woman could have fooled you.”