6.The Alcatraz Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  The Mercedes’s turn signal was blinking.

  Kingston pulled out, ready to start on the next phase of his surveillance.

  24

  MAINTAINING A COMFORTABLY safe distance behind the Mercedes, Kingston saw the Chalfont St. Peter exit sign and knew that it was only a matter of minutes before they arrived at what was now, without question, their destination: Coleshill.

  About a half mile on the west side of the village, the Mercedes began to slow, the left-hand turn signal flashing. From where he was, some twenty yards behind, he couldn’t see a road on the left, guessing that it was likely a private drive. This was convenient because Kingston could take his time passing, to determine if his supposition was right. The Mercedes made its turn, and a few seconds later Kingston slowed as he passed a narrow paved driveway, flanked by stubby white pillars. Each bore the name GREYSHILL LODGE on a bronze plaque. He could see his quarry disappearing at the far end of the straight drive, but no house was visible.

  Knowing that villages like Coleshill and the Chalfonts would still be fast asleep at this time of morning—it was only just past six thirty—Kingston decided to press on to Amersham, a larger town about five miles away. With luck he’d find a café or service station open and a much-needed bathroom, where he could get a cup of tea and something to eat while he decided what to do next. High on that list was a call to Emma. By nature decisive, one to tackle situations head on, he was starting to feel the need to talk to someone about what was unfolding. Despite this, he resisted the urge, knowing full well that he would get no sympathy whatsoever; she would tell him, in no polite terms, to return home immediately and report everything to the police. Until now he hadn’t had a confrontation with her, but were that to happen, he suspected he would find himself on the losing end.

  At seven forty-five, in Seasons Café-Deli on Amersham High Street, Kingston had just finished a full English breakfast. Now on his third cup of Darjeeling tea, he’d spent most of the last forty-five minutes dwelling on the morning’s escapade. One side of his brain was telling him to just give up and go home; the other was egging him on to find out more about the house and who lived there. It was too early in the day to employ his favorite ploy of visiting the local pub to ferret out information about people and places in the vicinity. The only other possibility was to spin some cock-and-bull story to a local estate agent, claiming that he was researching properties for sale in the area, but he’d tried this once before with disastrous results. In any case, it would be at least two hours before the agents opened up.

  Picking up his check, he looked up to see a woman enter the café. She was tall, notably skinny, with angular features, a pale complexion, and gray hair. In a dark turtleneck, with a hat that cast a shadow over her eyes, she reminded him of Grace Williams.

  As the woman walked across the room to sit down, he realized he was frowning. It took him a moment to figure out why. It was the hat.

  He thought back to the scene in Primrose Hill: the foursome waiting to get in the car. He closed his eyes and tried to recapture it in detail.

  He had missed something, Kingston realized. Had been so preoccupied trying to get a good look at the person in the wheelchair, convinced that it was Grace Williams, when all the time . . .

  He tried to picture the woman and man, her standing beside the chair, him holding her hand. It was odd. That gesture of affection was out of character with what was happening at the time. Then it dawned on him that there was another explanation for what he’d seen. The two weren’t holding hands; the man was gripping her wrist. Or worse, the woman had been handcuffed.

  He was now convinced that it had been Grace Williams. He should have taken a closer look at her face. That was probably the reason for the hat, too.

  Leaving the café, he walked back to the Land Rover, parked a few doors down the street. He knew it was still speculation, but it felt right—sufficiently so to justify his staying in the area, killing a couple of hours, then visiting an estate agent’s office he’d spotted coming in. Even if he found out who owned or lived at Greyshill, he had no idea of its significance or how it might change anything. But while he was on the doorstep, he could think of no good reasons not to make the effort.

  Sitting in the car, he decided to call Andrew. He at least deserved to know that everything was going well and no harm had befallen his car, or Kingston, for that matter.

  He took out his mobile and thumbed in Andrew’s number. Barely three rings and he answered.

  “It’s Lawrence. Thought I’d check in and let you know what’s going on.”

  “I appreciate that. I was going to give you until noon before I called Scotland Yard.”

  “No need to worry. Everything went according to Hoyle, as far as my guess about the Primrose Hill house and their going to Bucks for the weekend. I had to sit in the Rover twiddling my thumbs until dawn this morning before anything happened, though. Three men and a woman took off in a big Mercedes.”

  “Was the woman Grace Williams?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but I believe so. I followed them to Coleshill, where I gave up when they turned into the driveway of Greyshill Lodge, the house listed on the Land Registry site. It’s a bit complicated. I’ll tell you all about it before the day’s over. Right now I’m in Amersham. I just had breakfast and I’m headed back there.”

  “Why? Aren’t you running the risk of someone recognizing the car?”

  “The risk is about zero. The house is at the end of a long drive, about a mile outside the village, and I plan to be there for ten minutes at the outside.”

  “To do what?”

  “Try to find out who these people are. To get names. The eldest man was in a wheelchair.”

  “Whatever that means. I’m not going to ask you how you plan to get that information, but for God’s sake, Lawrence, be bloody careful, that’s all.”

  “I will, don’t worry. All being well, I should be back after lunch, to give you a full report. I’ll call you when I leave Coleshill.”

  “Take care.”

  “Oh, could you do me a favor? In about an hour, could you call Emma for me? She should know what’s going on. Tell her I’ll call the minute I return, when I have more information. Whatever you say, don’t make it sound risky—you know what I mean.”

  “You’re a little late. She already called a half hour ago. I told her what you were doing, and while she didn’t come right out and say so, there was no question that she took a dim view. Exasperated might be the right word.”

  “I’m not surprised. Don’t worry, I’ll call you when I’m heading back.”

  Kingston turned the phone off, thinking. Just maybe, before the day was over, he might have some news that would cheer her up a little, change her exasperation to something resembling approval. Gratitude would be even better.

  25

  TWO HOURS LATER, Kingston backed into a parking space on a quiet side street about a half mile north of Coleshill. Greyshill Lodge was a mile away on the other side of the village, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Sanderson’s Estate Agents, a five-minute walk on the main road, was situated in a Victorian brick building, amid a short row of shops, a café, and a beauty shop. He’d spotted the sign earlier, on his way to Amersham.

  Before leaving the café, he’d spent five minutes in the gents’, washing and tidying up to put on a reasonably presentable appearance. Even with a five o’clock shadow, nobody would ever guess that he’d spent the night in a car with little or no sleep. The odds of his being able to pry personal information out of an estate agent were long, but worn cliché as it was, there was nothing to be lost and everything to be gained.

  As he opened Sanderson’s glass-paneled front door, he heard the faint dingdong of a bell somewhere in the back. With no one in sight, he waited and looked around, not that there was anything special to look at, only a tidy office with a dozen or so framed photos of Bucks scenery on the walls, a couple of passable Oriental carpets, and four modern-
style desks. He heard the clip-clop of heels on hardwood flooring, and a woman appeared through a rear door.

  “Good morning,” she said chirpily as she crossed the office. She was fashionably dressed, slender, and looked as if she’d just spent several hours in a beauty salon.

  “Please sit down,” she said, pulling out a chair for Kingston and going around to the other side of the desk. “I’m Zandra Olson, estate marketing associate. How may I help you?”

  Kingston detected a vestigial trace of a foreign accent, as she extended a hand with rings on three fingers.

  “Lawrence Kingston,” he said, shaking her silky hand.

  “So what brings you here so early today, Mr. Kingston? Are you looking for property in the area?”

  “I’m not, but a close friend is. He’s retired and he’s set his mind on this part of Bucks. I’m beginning to see why,” he said, glancing around at the photos. “He spent a lot of time here as a child, at the home of friends of his parents. Quite a lovely old, rambling house, from what he remembers. As we get older, I suppose those memories take on more meaning. Anyway, he wanted to come with me today but couldn’t make it. He’s been out of sorts these last couple of weeks. So I promised him that while I was here for the day, I’d try to contact a local agent to set the ball rolling, as it were. He’s been doing a lot of research on the Internet, but he’s smart enough to know that working with an agent in or near the Chalfonts is far better—the only way to go.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. May I ask where he lives now?”

  “We both live in London, in Chelsea. We’ve known each other for about a dozen years.”

  “Will he be selling or looking for a second home?”

  “Probably selling—not necessarily right away, though.”

  “What sort of property is he looking for?”

  “Nothing too large, three or four bedrooms at the most.”

  “Is he thinking of country property or a house situated in one of the villages?”

  “Country, one or two acres, perhaps. An established garden isn’t a prerequisite but could be a big plus. He’s an excellent gardener.” He smiled. “At our age we don’t have time to sit and watch trees grow.”

  She returned the smile and nodded. “What kind of price range does he have in mind?”

  “He’s researched the market thoroughly and tells me that somewhere in the neighborhood of one to one and a half million should buy a suitable property. I can’t speak for him, of course, but if he found just the right place he might be willing to inch it up a little.”

  “Good.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a folder, and handed him a couple of sheets of paper. “Let’s do this. Why don’t you have your friend fill out this form and mail or e-mail it back to me? It’s quite straightforward. In the meantime, I can start looking at inventory and pull together a list of available properties for him to view. You can assure him that, at the price range you mentioned, there’s no question that we can find him the right property. As a matter of fact, I can already think of two or three that he might like. Here’s my card and a brochure on our company,” she added, sliding them across the desktop.

  Kingston picked them up and stood. “Thank you very much,” he said. “You’ve been a great help. I’ll see that my friend, Alex, gets the form back to you ASAP, and when you’re both ready I hope to come up with him. Nothing I enjoy more than looking at country houses. Who knows, maybe I’ll do the same one day.”

  “Excellent,” she said, rising and coming around the desk to see him out.

  Near the front door, Kingston stopped. “I almost forgot. That house I mentioned, the one that Alex visited as a child. He asked me, if I had the time, to drive by and see what it looks like today. I wonder if you might know of it.”

  “It’s quite possible. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know, for sure, but it’s called Greyshill.”

  “Greyshill.”

  From the deliberate way she’d said the name, Kingston knew that the house was more than familiar to her.

  After a long pause, she said, “Yes, I know it. It’s about a mile from here, but you won’t be able to see it from the road, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s too bad. He was also wondering if the same family owned it. Would you know by chance who owns Greyshill now?”

  Her smile was enigmatic. “I do, Mr. Kingston, but as a professional courtesy we’re not permitted to provide information of a personal nature concerning local residents. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  They shook hands and Kingston left, disappointed at coming away empty-handed. While he’d been careful not to reveal Andrew’s identity, he was now wondering if he had been wise to give his real name

  Back behind the wheel of the Rover, he snapped the seat-belt buckle closed and stared out the windscreen, weighing his options. Three came to mind. The first was to return to Greyshill, park somewhere out of sight and wait, hoping that a delivery person or the postman would show up, then try to get him to part with the name of the owner or the people living there. The more he thought about the idea, the more unrealistic it became. He couldn’t even come up with a question or plausible reason for inquiring that wouldn’t risk raising suspicion. Regardless, the response would doubtless be much the same as Zandra Olson’s. And what would happen if he were chatting up the postman and someone from the house emerged from the driveway wanting to know what was going on?

  The second option was the pub, but it relied on luck to a great extent. This time, though, it would carry an added element of risk, inasmuch that he’d already made one inquiry in a very small village. News traveled fast in these tight-knit, Midsomer-like communities. He’d also have to wait until the pubs opened, usually eleven o’clock at the earliest.

  The third option was simply to go home. Something in him rebelled at the idea, but all things considered—his assurances to Andrew, his agreement with Emma—perhaps that was the best choice.

  He started the Land Rover, then hesitated. He remembered his promise to call Andrew when he was heading back. He took out his mobile and punched in Andrew’s number. The answerphone intercepted.

  “It’s Lawrence.” Kingston glanced at his watch. “It’s almost ten thirty and I’m leaving Coleshill and heading home. There’s nothing more I can do here, and you’ll be pleased to know that I’m still in one piece, likewise your car. See you in an hour or thereabouts. Cheers.”

  26

  KINGSTON DROVE OFF mulling over what had happened in the last nine hours or so, disappointed more than anything that he’d been unable to identify any of the people who had sneaked out of the house at Primrose Hill at the crack of dawn. That alone suggested they had something to hide. What was it about the driver, and the man in the overcoat, too? They hardly looked like domestic staff. On the plus side, he was now more convinced than ever that the woman in the hat was indeed Grace Williams and that he was right about the hand-holding masquerade.

  There were few cars on the road, and the weather was pleasant. All around, puffy domes of “Constable” clouds dawdled across the mostly blue sky, imbuing a feeling of contentment, even through the windscreen of a car. Following the gentle curves of the country road at a leisurely pace—there would come time to ratchet up the speed when he joined the A413 in a couple of miles—he was relaxed and feeling better about things, generally.

  Then he glanced in his rearview mirror. What he saw spelled trouble: A large SUV was closing in at breakneck speed for such a narrow and winding road. Any moment he expected the impatient blast of a horn, forcing him to speed up or pull aside so the lunatic could pass. Kingston eased over to the left as far as the grassy verge would allow. Another glance in his mirror and he could see the SUV alongside, about to pass. He couldn’t resist taking a quick look out his half-open window to see who the driver was.

  It was a man, whose expression and demeanor signaled serious trouble. The instant their eyes met, the SUV swerved hard left. There wou
ld have been a nasty collision if not for Kingston’s swift reaction, accelerating and lurching off the road onto the lumpy grass.

  This was more than just a road rage incident in the making, he realized, struggling to keep the Rover under control as the SUV maintained its position alongside, inching ever closer. Ahead, the road took a shallow curve, and Kingston was alarmed to see that the verge ended, replaced by a low drystone wall.

  There was no escape. Now all he could think of was self-p reservation. He kept tapping the brakes, praying that he could coax the Rover to rest on the slippery grass before the verge ended. With a dozen or so feet to spare, it finally bounced to a stop, the engine stalling. He took a deep breath and let it out noisily, cursing and swearing at the maniacal driver. As he opened the door to assess the situation and clear his head, his heart skipped a beat.

  The SUV had stopped on the verge thirty feet behind him. Two men were walking purposefully toward him, and by the looks on their faces they weren’t about to tell him that his brake light wasn’t working.

  His mind flashed on Andrew’s bruised and swollen face. Was Kingston about to get the same treatment? How had they found out about him? It had to be from Zandra Olson; there was nobody else. These and other questions flashed through his mind as the two drew closer.

  Kingston recognized one of them as the driver of the Mercedes: the same shaved head, height, and build, only now he wore a leather bomber jacket and jeans. The other was foreign looking—Slavic, maybe—tall and square jawed.

  They stopped a few feet away, and then, for a few seconds, simply stared at him. No words, no menacing gestures.

  All at once, with lightning speed, a stinging backhand slammed into Kingston’s cheek, setting him back on his heels. His hand went to his face and came away bloody.

  “Your luck just ran out, Mr. Kingston,” the man in the leather jacket snarled. Before Kingston could get out a word, the other man grasped his forearm with numbing force and started dragging him to the SUV.