6.The Alcatraz Rose (2 page)

“You mean, who are they?”

Kingston nodded. “Yes.”

“They’re Richie and Molly Collins, friends of my mum and dad. Uncle Richie—that’s what I call him now—used to work with my dad a long time ago. Auntie Molly used to babysit me.”

“And you’ve lived with them since your mum disappeared, I take it? In Cheltenham?”

She nodded.

“I’m curious why you chose to seek me out,” Kingston said. “Why do you think that I might be able to help? After eight years, surely the police must have done everything in their power to find her.”

“They have. But they came to a dead end a long while ago. They told us that unless they come across new information or new witnesses, the chances of finding out what happened to her are next to none. My foster parents even hired a private detective for a while. I believe it cost them a lot of money. But that went nowhere, too.”

“What about the Missing Persons Bureau?”

Letty shook her head again. “We’ve pretty much given up on them. There’s been no change since the case was first reported.”

“What about your aunt and uncle? What do they think, after all this time?”

“They say I shouldn’t give up hope. But I know they’re just trying to be nice.” She shrugged.

“So how did you learn about me?” Kingston asked, sipping his wine.

“The
Gazette
, our local paper. There was an article about you and the Science Festival. At first, Molly didn’t think it was a good idea for me to come here, particularly by myself.” She paused, gave a quick smile. “But I finally persuaded her.”

“It seems that you’re quite good at persuasion.”

“Sometimes,” she replied, wrinkling her nose again. “Anyway, in the article it said that you were a famous professor and had also solved several crimes that the police couldn’t.” She sucked on the straw of her Coke. “Molly said that you’re not a real detective. But I think she said that just to put me off.”

Not a real detective
. At those words, Kingston exchanged a glance with Andrew, who was finally taking an interest in the conversation. And Kingston knew why.

His friend had never entirely approved of Kingston’s amateur sleuthing. Andrew, in fact, had spent a great deal of time trying to deter him from “playing detective.” But a year ago, when Kingston was involved in an investigation that threatened to become dangerous—and, indeed, at the end Kingston received a serious gunshot wound—Andrew insisted that in the future—should Kingston consider any more ventures or inquiries—he would take a more active role in what he described as Kingston’s “ill-advised activities.”

Kingston was glad to agree and promised to take Andrew’s opinion and advice more seriously. And he would try, as best he could, to curb his tendency to jump into any future such situation without considering the ramifications. In turn, Andrew assured his friend that he would do his best to collaborate and to find ways to help Kingston instead of treating him like a bullying nanny and second-guessing.

That was why Kingston was glad that Letty was talking to both of them. He could see by the look in Andrew’s eyes that he, too, was taken in by the girl’s story; her composure and tenacity for one so young were irresistible. Even after eight years, Letty was determined not to accept that her mum was lost forever. That was much longer than most adults would persevere.

“Letty,” Kingston began in the most avuncular tone he could muster, “your aunt Molly is not entirely wrong about the detective thing. Let me
explain. After I retired from teaching in Scotland and went to live in London, I fell into solving crimes more by accident than by design. Over the last few years, my reputation has been blown way out of proportion.” He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not making excuses and I do want to help you, but you need to realize that my influence is not as far-reaching as you might have been led to believe. Not anymore, anyway. I mention this because trying to find out what happened to your mum will require working with the police, trying to persuade them to part with information that they’ve gathered on the case over the years. It will be essential for us to know, exactly, not only what they’ve done in the course of their investigation, who they’ve interviewed, et cetera, but more important, what they might not have done.”

Letty nodded and remained silently attentive.

“Here’s what I’m going to suggest as a start,” Kingston said. “Before I do, it’s only fair to tell you that I no longer have the time or the energy to conduct a full-blown independent inquiry into your mum’s disappearance. Furthermore, it’s what the police call a cold case, which makes it even more difficult.” He paused, returning her steady gaze. “That said, let me tell you what I will do. Collaborating with the police over the last few years, I’ve got to know a number of high-ranking officers and I’m prepared to write a letter to one of them asking if he will help on the case. I’ll also ask the Gloucestershire police about the standing of the case and learn as much as I can about why it remains unsolved: anything and everything about her disappearance. This doesn’t mean they’ll cooperate, though. I don’t expect for one moment that they’ll hand over their files, or anything like that, but whatever I can get my hands on, I promise to comb through it, to see if there are instances where a second look, a fresh inquiry, would be justified. I don’t want to raise your hopes, Letty, but sometimes it’s the little, seemingly inconsequential, things that are overlooked in these cases. As thorough as the police are—and they don’t miss much—they’re not infallible.”

For the next ten minutes, Letty told them everything that had happened leading up to and following her mum’s disappearance. For one so young, she was unexpectedly composed and lucid. When she finished, she took a small envelope from her pocket and handed it to Kingston.

“These are photos of Mum and a couple of Dad. Molly put dates on the back so you’ll know when they were taken.”

“Excellent. I was going to ask if you could find some,” Kingston said, impressed with her preparedness.

Andrew produced a pen and a folded program and proceeded to jot down notes on the blank back page as Letty gave them her mother’s first name—Fiona—her address, her home and mobile phone numbers, and her e-mail address. She also remembered the name of the senior investigating officer on the Gloucestershire Police in charge of the case, another indication of her resolve.

Looking satisfied and animated for the first time, Letty pulled out her mobile and called her foster mum, asking for a lift. The three walked to the hotel’s entrance, where they said brief goodbyes. Kingston and Andrew offered to stay until Molly showed up, but Letty insisted that she was okay waiting for the five or so minutes it would take, so they parted company. A few moments later, heading for the car park with Andrew, Kingston glanced back. Letty was still standing there, waiting patiently for her ride.

“That’s a determined young woman,” Andrew said, echoing Kingston’s own thoughts.

“Indeed. Determined, engaging, and resourceful.”

“Remind you of anyone?” Andrew asked.

Kingston smiled.

At that instant, he vowed to do his best not to let her down.

2

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON
in his study, Kingston sat tapping his fingers idly on the desktop alongside his iMac keyboard, looking at the spread-out photos that Letty had given him. When he’d first studied them, he was immediately taken by the attractiveness of her mother, Fiona. Letty had inherited her wide and mesmerizing eyes and affectionate smile. It wasn’t so much her pretty, photogenic quality, but more a natural warmth, a calm contentment and kindness that seeped from the oft-fingered photos. He looked away momentarily. An uneasy pause, stifling a fleeting thought that she was someone he might once have known, perhaps in a dream or another life. Not in just one or two photos, but in each and every one. He slid them aside gently, thinking nothing more of it.

He’d had plenty of time to think about the letter he’d promised to write, but he was now struggling to find not so much the right words but, more, the right tone. Of the several inspectors with whom he had collaborated, he’d decided to write to Detective Inspector Sheffield of the Thames Valley police. He’d chosen Sheffield because Oxfordshire bordered Gloucestershire, where Letty’s mum had disappeared. But despite what he’d told Letty, he knew it was highly unlikely that any letter, no matter how much bowing and scraping he did, or how persuasive he was, would result in reopening the case. After eight years, the odds of a break now were slim. Only new, compelling evidence would achieve that. He realized now that he had perhaps been far too indulgent and should have been more honest with her from the start.

Combing the Internet, he’d managed to find barely a handful of reports on the disappearance of Fiona McGuire, all brief and none
revealing anything worthy of note. Given the modest press coverage and the passage of time, he wondered if Sheffield would be familiar with the case. And even if he was, would he be able to recall any details? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that if his letter fell on deaf ears, his request politely dismissed, it might not be such a bad thing. To the best of his ability, he would have fulfilled his promise to Letty. Staring at his ghosted reflection in the blank screen, he realized how petty and self-serving the thought was. He shook his head and started typing.

Dear Inspector Sheffield
,

Recently, I had a chance meeting with a thirteen year-old named Letty McGuire. A bright child with an admirably persistent nature, she asked, innocently, if I would help to put her mind at rest by trying to find out what happened to her mother, who disappeared eight years ago. It grieved me to tell her that I was no longer active in such affairs and could not conduct an independent inquiry of any kind. However, in a moment of vulnerability in the company of one so young, distressed, and determined, I made a hasty promise: that I would break a self-imposed principle by contacting you, to ask for advice
.

I realize that the Fiona McGuire case (the mother’s name) was handled by the Gloucester police and will be filed by now. Nevertheless, I am bound to ask you for any help you could provide, no matter how trivial or inconsequential, that could shed more light on the case, if nothing else, to give Letty a thread of hope to cling to or, at worst, confirm my suspicions that no proverbial stone has been left unturned to solve the case and that nothing more can be done
.

The investigation started in the autumn of 2003, and the senior investigating officer on the case was Detective Inspector Endersby of the Gloucestershire Constabulary. If he is still on the force, and it doesn’t violate internal procedures, perhaps you could drop him a letter of inquiry, mentioning my request, asking his opinion, thoughts, and any advice that could be passed on to the child to bring closure, after all these years of uncertainty and grief
.

I wish you well and appreciate your collaboration and consideration in this matter
.

Sincerely
,

Lawrence Kingston

He read the letter twice, making a few minor changes. While he would have preferred it to convey a more earnest and overtly compassionate plea for help, he knew that such a request would be considered presumptuous. He was satisfied, however—knowing the inspector as he did—that, if nothing else, the child’s long struggle with grieving and frustration over the loss of her mother would appeal to Sheffield’s sense of decency and justice. He checked it one last time, signed it, and tucked it into an addressed envelope ready for posting.

The days that followed continued in much the same predictable, though agreeable, pattern as they had since Kingston’s release from the hospital in Staffordshire almost a year earlier, after his brush with death in his last escapade. Outside the usual household chores, home maintenance and day-to-day demands of a domesticated existence, the tedium was relieved by the occasional lunch at the Antelope, and dinner now and then with Andrew, usually at the new restaurant du jour. One warm and cloudless afternoon a week ago, he took off alone on a spur-of-the-moment midweek walk through Kensington Gardens, and attended a West End play with his friend Henrietta—a bohemian artist type who had a habit of becoming brazenly amorous after a couple of gin and tonics—who had “scored” the tickets. He hadn’t asked how.

On this particular morning, a former student of his, one Evelyn Cotter, in London for two days, had called unexpectedly and, even though Kingston had no recollection of her, he agreed to meet her for a late lunch. He spent the entire meal regretting his decision. Barely stopping for a breath—even while eating—she droned on and on about her children, dragging out awful photos of them—her children, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t seem much older than a child herself. Kingston was shocked to learn she had just celebrated her fortieth birthday and relieved when, after more than two hours, she ran out of banal conversation. Never again, he swore to himself, as he walked home.

Back at the apartment, he found a stack of e-mails waiting for him, including one from his daughter, Julie, confirming details of his upcoming trip to America: that she would pick him up at SeaTac airport, advising him of how to dress for the weather in Seattle, et cetera, which
reminded him to send her a note later that evening confirming the arrival of the plane tickets and thanking her again for the gift. He continued to scroll down his messages, finding next a notification from one of the online journals he still subscribed to: news of an unusual chance discovery of a new plant species in Costa Rica, which he flagged for further investigation. Following, were four e-mails from friends and, of course, the usual spate of junk mail.