6.The Alcatraz Rose (22 page)

It was Andrew.

“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you,” Kingston said. “I’ve been back for three days now.”

“I know. And I apologize. I went away for a couple of days. To Provence.”

“Provence?”

“Right. Avignon. It was a last-minute thing—a wine-appreciation tour.”

“Lucky you. Where are you now?”

“On your doorstep, actually—holding a bottle of 1985 Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

By six o’clock, the bottle was empty and Andrew knew everything there was to know about Julie, Brandon, Seattle, Kingston’s side trip to San Francisco, his lunch with Andy Harris, and his tour of Alcatraz. At the point where Kingston was about to tell him about Kaminski’s
story and his recent conversation with Emma and postulating his theory that Butler might be Fiona’s father, they both announced that they were starving and should continue the conversation over steak frites and a vin ordinaire at the Antelope.

An hour and a half later, back at his flat, Kingston was feeling the effects of the wine and the fatigue that had dogged him since his return. He was debating whether to watch the news on TV or simply go to bed and read until he dropped off. He’d chosen the latter and was tidying up the kitchen, washing the wineglasses and a couple of plates, when the phone rang. He dried his hands quickly and went to the phone in the living room.

“Dr. Kingston?” The woman’s voice was faint.

Emma, was his first thought. No—she wouldn’t call him ‘Doctor.’

“This is he.”

“It’s Sophie Williams again. I’m sorry to bother you so late. I just left the police station and need someone to talk to. I don’t know what to do.”

“Why? What’s happened, Sophie?”

Her words came quickly. “It’s what I was afraid of. It’s mum—she’s disappeared.”

“Are you at home?”

“No. I’m in London, in a café.” Her voice was trembling.

“London? Tell me what happened.”

“I followed her up here this morning—to this big house in a fancy neighborhood. I watched from across the street. A man let her in, but she never came out. I tried calling her mobile several times and there was no answer. That really scared me. After waiting for ten minutes, I decided to find out what was going on, so I went over and rang the doorbell. A man answered—I couldn’t tell if it was the same one or not. Anyway, I told him I needed to talk with my mother, that I’d seen her go in and it was important. He insisted that no one had entered the house all morning and that she’d never been there.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes. They came twenty minutes later and talked to someone on the staff—the owner was away, apparently. Whoever that person was assured the police that no one had entered the house that morning. He or she
did admit that earlier that morning a distraught woman—meaning me—had rung the doorbell, insisting that her mother was there. The infuriating thing was that the police seemed to believe the explanation that it could have been a mistaken address. I insisted to the officers that the people were lying and that I’d seen my mother enter the house with my own eyes. No mistake. The red door, the two planters on either side—everything. They were polite but wouldn’t believe me. I finally gave up and went with them to the police station and filed a report. That’s where it stands right now.”

“Do you remember the name of the street?”

“Er, Chiltern Terrace.”

“In Primrose Hill. I know where it is. Here’s what I want you to do. Get a cab and come to my flat. Do you have enough money?”

“Yes.”

“All right. One last question: Does your mobile have a camera?”

“Yes.”

“Then have the cabbie drive by the house on the way here, take a picture of it, and note the street number.”

“I will.”

Kingston gave her his address and put down the phone. His first instinct was to call Emma immediately—she had obviously not reached Sophie in time. He stared into space. What Sophie had just told him could either represent a seismic shift in their investigation, or could simply be a misunderstanding, a miscalculation on Sophie’s part, suspicious circumstances that could be readily explained. He decided to wait until he’d heard her full account. Meanwhile, he thought more about Sophie, how little he knew about her. It hadn’t occurred to him before, there’d been no good reason to check on her. But now it seemed clear her mother had never told her about what happened way back in the fifties, long before Sophie was born—that her uncle was one of the country’s most infamous robbers who’d lived in hiding all these years under a false name.

Twenty minutes later his doorbell rang, and he ushered Sophie in.

“Thanks, Doctor,” she said, feigning an apologetic smile, as they went into the living room.

“I made tea, if you’d like some,” Kingston offered.

“That would be nice.”

“Make yourself comfortable.” A few minutes later he returned, carrying a tray with the tea and a plate of digestive biscuits. He placed it on the coffee table and lowered himself into his leather wingback, facing Sophie, gesturing with an open hand for her to help herself. He waited until she had poured the tea and stirred in the milk and sugar.

“So,” he said in calming voice, as he leaned back and crossed his legs, “tell me, from the beginning, exactly what happened today.”

Sophie took a sip of tea and began.

“This morning I sensed something was going on because when I came down to the kitchen, Mom was all dressed up and checking her makeup. I asked her where she was going, and she said, ‘Shopping in Cheltenham.’ Right from the get-go, I knew she was lying.”

“Why? What is strange about her going shopping?”

“She rarely wears makeup, and certainly not to go shopping.”

“Did it occur to you that she might have the gun with her?”

“I was coming to that. Yes. Normally, she’s very casual about her purse, bags, keys, and so on, leaving them all over the house. But this morning she was keeping a close eye on her shoulder bag, picking it up when she went into the living room. At that point, I got kinda scared. Bells were going off in my head telling me that she could be about to do something seriously dangerous, both for her and perhaps to somebody else. I had to stop her somehow, but I didn’t know how. So I asked her, point-blank, did she have the gun in her bag and where was she really going.”

“How did she react?”

“She was very cool. Not the least bit surprised or upset. She said it was really none of my business; that it was her house, that I was essentially a guest, and that she could come and go as she pleased. When I pressed her about the gun, she accused me of being paranoid—but she didn’t deny it.” Sophie picked up her cup and took a longer sip of tea, her eyes still on Kingston’s. “I considered trying to wrestle it from her, but I don’t know anything about guns I didn’t want to risk it going off.”

“You did the right thing.”

“Perhaps.”

“So she left. What happened then?” he asked.

“Well, rather than call the police then and there—which I probably should have done—I decided to follow her. It was stupid, I know, but at the time it seemed like a reasonable option. Anyway, she’s not a fast driver and I am—as you know—and it didn’t take me long to catch up. I stayed a couple of cars behind and soon realized that we might be headed for Cheltenham after all and I could be totally wrong. Ten minutes later, we arrived at Cheltenham Spa train station. She parked the car in the lot. Now I had another problem. Should I keep going and possibly end up with egg on my face? Or should I give up? I had to move fast, so I parked my car and hurried into the station. By that time, the commuters were all gone and I could easily spot her on a seat, waiting on the eastbound platform.”

“Did you know it was the one in the direction to London?”

She nodded. “I did. So I went to the ticket office and bought an open return ticket using my credit card. I’d done it once before, so I knew the drill.”

Kingston placed his cup on the saucer, watching as she toyed nervously with the linen napkin. “So you ended up where?”

“Paddington. It was crowded but easy to follow her, and outside there was a row of cabs waiting. She took the first in line and I waited until it moved off before I grabbed the next one. I asked the driver to follow it. As we drove off, I mentioned that it was my mum we were following, but not why. I also told him that when she arrived at her destination, to drive past and let me off fifty feet or so beyond, so she wouldn’t spot me. All he said was, ‘Don’t you worry, luv, easy-peasy.’”

Kingston smiled. “London cab drivers never ask questions. Only if they concern the journey.”

“You’re right. It was as if he did this kind of thing every other day.” She gave a little sigh. “That’s about it. I told you the rest, what happened when we got there. Oh, wait—“ She reached in her jacket pocket and took out her mobile. “Here’s a picture of the house,” she said, fingers tapping the screen before handing it to Kingston.

“Very nice,” he said, studying the photo. “Chiltern Terrace, you said?”

“Right.”

“Number 236. Early Victorian stucco, I’d guess. 1850, thereabouts—exceptional wrought-ironwork—quite roomy by the looks of it. Must be at least a half dozen bedrooms. You don’t need me to tell you that it’s a very desirable area.”

“Nicer than Paddington, that’s for sure.”

“When I first moved to London, I looked naïvely at a couple of properties in that area. Nowadays, I would guess that a house like this in Primrose Hill would sell in the neighborhood of five million.” He handed her back the phone.

“The man I spoke to must have been one of the staff because he didn’t look like a wealthy banker or diplomat. Far from it.”

Kingston nodded. “Probably. Many families in that part of London have live-in staff. I believe there’re a couple of consulates in the area, too; certainly a lot of high-profile personalities, corporate bigwigs, celebrities, and the like live there.”

Sophie leaned back in the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve gone over this a dozen times and I keep coming back to the same conclusion: Whoever is living in that house knows my mother and is holding her hostage. What other explanation can there be?”

“It certainly looks that way. But don’t forget, she has the gun, so she’s not completely at their mercy.”

“But if they did know her they could’ve been expecting that she’d come to make trouble, then they could have easily taken her bag by force. Where would she be then?”

Kingston nodded. “Anything’s possible. There’s a lot we don’t know, too.”

An awkward pause followed, Sophie’s eyes downcast. When she finally looked up, he could see that all vestiges of hope—if there had been any before—were gone. He stood, placing their cups and saucers on the tray, thinking hard, as he tidied up the table. Further discussion of Grace’s alleged abduction would serve no purpose. The pressing question was what to do about Sophie.

“You’ll be going back to Beechwood, I take it,” he said.

“I suppose so,” she replied with a defeated sigh.

“You’re more than welcome to stay here overnight—I have a very comfortable guest room—though I doubt that the police will have further news by morning. I’d be more than happy to communicate with them on your behalf, if you think that’s a good idea?”

“No, I’d best go back.”

“Would you like something to eat before you leave? I can easily make you an omelet.”

“No, I should be on my way,” she said, standing. “But thanks for your kind offer. It’s a two-hour journey, and I’d prefer not getting back too late. I seem to have lost my appetite, anyway.”

“I’ll call for a cab, then,” Kingston said. “But before I do, I’d like you to answer a simple question. Because what happened today is, I think, related to events that took place many years ago, before you were born.”

She looked puzzled. “What’s the question?”

“It’s about your mother—what she did before she moved to Canada, when she was living in England, in the fifties. Has she ever told you about her life then?”

Sophie shrugged. “Yes, of course. It was nothing that special, though. Why are you asking?”

“I’m going to level with you. I’ve been trying to find out more about her brother. What he did back then. That was the reason Emma and I went to see your mum at Beechwood.”

“Her brother? Reggie?”

“Yes.” Kingston nodded. Should he tell her or not, that Reggie was really Brian Jennings? That the money that bought Beechwood had been stolen?

No, he decided. The less she knew right now, the better.

“What about Reggie?” she asked.

“Have you any idea who would have wanted to kill him?”

She frowned, looking perplexed. “Why on earth would I?”

“I don’t know. I was just wondering, perhaps, if your mum knew something and didn’t want you to know, that’s all.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her one bit. I told you how secretive she is.”

Kingston gave a little smile of encouragement. “I thought that might be the case. I hope you didn’t mind my asking.”

“No.” she shrugged. “Why don’t you ask her, again?”

“When we find her I will,” he said, walking to the phone to call for a cab.

22

A
T THE FRONT
door, Kingston wished Sophie a safe journey home, telling her to call him immediately if she received any news of her mother. In turn, he promised to get back to her if he came across more information on the house and its owners. This was a white lie—he already knew how to obtain this information: an online resource that had helped him solve a case about a missing colleague, several years ago. He purposely hadn’t mentioned it. In her present state of mind, Sophie could easily take it upon herself to find out who owned the house and, on impulse, do something foolhardy that could endanger both herself and her mother. That could slam the door on what appeared to a viable line of inquiry, the chance of a break of some sort. As she went down the steps to the waiting cab, he gave a long sigh of relief.