6.The Alcatraz Rose (14 page)

“Don’t worry, I will. Thanks.”

Kingston put down the phone, muttering “Brian Jennings. That can’t be.” Was it possible that Walters’s memory was faulty? Grace Williams had been so sure—and why not? But what other explanation could there be?

One came to mind immediately. He decided to call Emma and run it by her.

“Let me get this straight, Lawrence,” she said, after they’d exchanged greetings. “What you’re saying is that Reginald Payne started off life as Brian Jennings?”

“Unless Mr. Walters is mistaken, which, as I said, I doubt very much. I distinctly remember Grace Williams saying that, with different fathers, she and her brother had different surnames. I assumed all along that she meant Williams and Payne.”

“That’s how I understood it, too.”

“Which may mean that she was lying.”

“Certainly looks that way. I wonder why?”

“The only answer is that she knows something about her brother that she wants kept secret.”

“Right. And the usual reasons people have for changing their names is either vanity—they can no longer live with the surname Crapper—or to hide something unsavory from their past. Occasionally, that something is criminal in nature.”

“Grace also said that he owned a company that dealt with the financial markets and that he’d made a lot of money investing. Maybe he’d been indicted for fraud or something like that and decided to start over with a new name. Every time you open a newspaper these days, another executive is off to jail for financial malfeasance of one kind or another.”

“If she lied about his name, she could have made all that up, too. Anything’s possible, I suppose. For that matter, he could have done time, for all we know.”

“If he had, could you find out?”

“When I was on the force I could. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“What do you suggest we do next, then?”

“Let’s think about it a bit. Another chat with Grace might be in order. I’ll see if I can’t pull a few strings to find out if there’s a sheet on Brian Jennings. If there is, it might clear up a lot of things.”

“An arrest record?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“Would you like me to talk to Grace Williams?”

“Why not. You’re good with the ladies. And I’ll work on Jennings.”

It wasn’t until the following morning that Kingston was able to reach Grace Williams. At first, she seemed pleased that he called again, but her tone of voice changed markedly when he started to ask about Reggie having played in the band. He hadn’t told her that he now believed Reggie’s real name was Jennings and soon realized that not only wasn’t she prepared to discuss the matter further, she was also determined to end the call as quickly as she could.

Her last words were, “Thank you for calling, Dr. Kingston, but the matter is now closed, and I wish to hear no further from you or your companion. It was obviously a mistake to allow you into my home, asking
personal questions that are none of your concern. I hope you solve your rose riddle—but I seriously doubt that was the real reason why you came to Beechwood in the first place. Goodbye,” she said curtly.

Kingston was disappointed but, in retrospect, he’d doubted that she’d have admitted to lying and would have tried to find a way to cover up or explain why she’d mentioned the band in the first place.

The thought crossed his mind then that her antagonism could have something to do with the inheritance: She didn’t want suspicions of any sort becoming public that could affect the outcome of Reggie’s last will and testament. And if it were to surface that Reggie had made his money fraudulently . . .

Well. There was a lot of money at stake.

People did a lot worse than lying when it came to those sorts of things.

13

F
RIDAY EVENING IN
the upstairs dining room at the Antelope, it was almost seven thirty, and still no Andrew. Kingston had arrived promptly at seven—the time they’d agreed on—and his first pint of London Pride ale was no more than a half-inch of froth circling the bottom of the glass. Kingston had a simple rule when it came to punctuality: Fifteen minutes late, with a plausible excuse, was acceptable; anything over thirty minutes, without an explanatory phone call, was either rude or suggested something out of the ordinary, or a mishap of some kind. Andrew was always on time and by now would certainly have called Kingston’s mobile or left a message with the landlady or bartender. Now anxious, he was about to call Andrew when his phone rang. It was Andrew.

“Lawrence, I’m sorry about the no-show. Have you eaten yet?”

“No. I was thinking about it, though. Are you all right? I mean, it’s unlike you to be this late and I’d figured that there was good reason—something important.”

“There is a good reason. A bad reason, more like it. I’m at home. I’ll explain when you get here.”

“You want me to come now?”

“If you don’t mind. And if it doesn’t take too long, could you have Zoe fix a quick takeaway for both us. I probably won’t eat much, though. I’ll leave the front door open.”

“Are you sick?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’m more pissed-off than sick. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here.”

“I’m on my way.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Kingston entered Andrew’s living room, not knowing what to expect. The room was softly lit and Andrew was stretched out on his leather Corbusier sofa with a blanket over his legs. On the glass-topped coffee table was a half-filled glass of whisky alongside the bottle it came from. He raised a hand when he saw Kingston and let it flop lethargically to his side. “Thanks for buying dinner,” he said, with a wincing half smile.

“Not a problem.” Kingston placed the paper bag with the food on the table, and sat down to face Andrew. It was only now, in the light from the nearby floor lamp, that he was able to see why Andrew hadn’t made it to the Antelope. There was a nasty abrasion on his nearside cheek and a livid bruise on the opposite cheekbone. His lower lip was red and grotesquely swollen.

“Good God, Andrew. What an earth happened?”

“I was mugged.”

“You what?”

“Well, not mugged in the regular sense. Done over, I guess.”

“Did you report this? Get medical attention?”

Andrew nodded. “The works. A bloke walking a dog saw the whole thing and called the cops, who arrived with an ambulance in tow.”

“They didn’t take you in to be checked out?”

“They were going to at first, but after a thorough going over by the paramedics, they decided that I was none the worse for wear and let me go home. It’s painful, all right, but it looks worse than it is.”

“You weren’t robbed?”

Andrew sighed. “No. I simply asked the wrong question, obviously to the wrong guy—a mistake on my part. Could have been a lot worse, I guess.”

“What an earth did you ask him? I’m confused.”

“Pour yourself a drink, Lawrence, and get a couple of plates and some cutlery and I’ll tell you while we have supper. What is it, by the way? Nothing too chewy, I hope?”

“Two mini steak-and-ale pies and peach crumble with crème fraîche. Will that do?”

“Good choice. And get a bottle of whatever you want from the wine case.”

A few minutes later with the pies and mashed potatoes on the coffee table alongside two glasses of Côtes du Rhône, Andrew elaborated on his misfortune.

“I was just leaving to meet you when I saw this chap ringing your doorbell. He was wearing a suit and tie and was empty-handed—not as if he were peddling anything. I asked him who he was looking for. He turned round and looked down at me—he was on the porch, and I was at the bottom of the steps. ‘None of your bloody business,’ he said, starting to come down the steps toward me. He didn’t look threatening, or anything like that, but I decided not to say anything more, just in case. He was about my size, but I could tell by his tight-fitting suit that he was very muscular. Anyway, by this time he was on the bottom step and I was about move aside to let him go on his way, when he jabbed me on the side of my face. I was so taken by surprise that I couldn’t defend myself quickly enough. He was very fast. I tried to dodge his next punch but couldn’t and ended up on the pavement, twisting my ankle.” Andrew paused to take a sip of wine and forced a smile. “I hope I’m not boring you.”

Kingston shook his head. “From the way you describe it, he could quite easily have inflicted serious damage if he’d wanted to.”

Andrew put the glass down. “I was coming to that. While I was seeing stars, curled up on the pavement, my face hurting like hell and praying he wasn’t about to give me a farewell boot, he looked down at me and said, ‘Tell your friend to mind his own business, too. He’ll know what I mean.’”

For what seemed a long time, Kingston stared at Andrew in disbelief. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered, at last. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why?”

“It makes perfect sense. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You, of all people . . .” He paused, as if waiting for a response. Kingston said nothing, still shocked by what he’d just heard.

“Someone—or some people—is starting to get nervous about this new investigation of yours,” Andrew continued. “This was a shot across the bow. These kinds of people know damned well that threatening to
harm friends and loved ones can be far more effective than going after you. It’s one of the oldest methods of persuasion in the book.”

“Yes, I know all that. But it can’t possibly have anything to do with what Emma and I have been doing these last couple of weeks. All of our efforts have been directed solely toward helping Letty, and a harmless search for a damned rose.” He shook his head. “There’s been nobody to intimidate or threaten.”

Andrew rested his fork and looked up at Kingston. Perhaps it was the swollen lip, but Kingston thought he caught a wincing smile when Andrew spoke.

“That’s what you think. But they—whoever ‘they’ are—obviously think differently. You’ve unwittingly struck a nerve somewhere.”

“It would appear so.”

“I’m not blaming you, Lawrence, if that’s what you’re thinking. In a couple of weeks I’ll be none the worse for wear and let’s hope that’ll be the end of it. It’s you that worries me.”

“I don’t think—”

“Let me finish, because there’s one more thing worth mentioning.”

“What’s that?”

“Lately, I’ve noticed a car that’s been cruising or parked in our neighborhood. A silver Volvo XC90, newish. At first, I thought nothing of it—a new resident, probably. But now I’m wondering if I should have been more suspicious—made note of the license plate. I’m thinking that I might have been right.”

“Meaning that they were watching us?”

“You, more likely. This means that they could’ve followed you and Emma down to Gloucestershire, to Payne’s house, for whatever that’s worth.”

Kingston reached for the Côtes du Rhône and topped up their wineglasses. He knew that Andrew was closer to the truth than he wanted to admit and had decided that further discussion along these lines would serve no purpose.

“I must tell Emma right away,” he said. “She has to know.”

Andrew nodded.

“You’ll be okay, for tonight?”

“Sure. I can move around slowly. I’ll take some more codeine before I hit the sack.”

“Would you like me to have Mrs. Tripp come in tomorrow? She could fix you lunch and dinner.”

“No, thanks. She’s a wonderful woman, but all her fussing will give me the collywobbles. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ll give you a call in the morning. Let me know what Emma says. I’d like to see her again one of these days.”

Kingston nodded. “I’ll work on that.”

“Oh, and by the way, do please thank Mrs. Tripp for the scones.”

Ten minutes later, in his office, he had Emma on the phone.

“Hello, Lawrence. Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. What’s up?”

“Sorry to call so late. Something nasty happened tonight that you should know about.”

He told her about Andrew getting roughed up, and the threat by the man who’d attacked him. She listened without interrupting, a characteristic that he had come to appreciate.

“Is this the point when we turn the whole thing over to your people?” he asked, when finished.

Emma hesitated before answering. “From what you just told me, the Met is already involved. But chances are that unless they start asking more questions about the veiled threat and your indirect involvement, it will be shelved as just another altercation in a city that has thousands a week. On the more serious side, the fact that someone has a tail on you—and me, too, probably—moves things up a notch or two. Someone’s obviously getting a little more than fidgety about our sniffing around and wants to put a stop to it.”

“What do you suggest we do, then? Call the whole thing off ?”

“If we ignore the threat and keep digging, we run a real risk of getting the same or worse treatment. If the information that this person, or persons, is trying to protect is such that it could destroy his reputation or his life, then he’s not going to stop now. You may be right, Lawrence. We may have reached the point where we have to tell my former boss or your friend Inspector Sheffield what’s going on.”

“Do you want to do that? I mean, make the call?”