EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (20 page)

The garden on the west side of the house is less formal. The center feature is a large circular lily pool with an elaborate fountain. In the summer, the beds that are cut out of the grass walks are crammed with a hodge-podge of multi-colored perennials.

Flanking the Privy Garden is the Old Palace, the childhood home of Elizabeth I. In front of the medieval brick façade is the Knot Garden, planted with three knots of low box and a foot maze around a central fountain. Such gardens were designed for viewing from the upper windows of the house, from which position a greater appreciation of the patterns is possible.

Hatfield also boasts a scented garden, a kitchen garden, an orchard, a pool garden, and a wilderness garden.

Kingston was looking forward to seeing, and capturing it all from the air. He sat for a moment, thinking back to the day he’d been at Hatfield to interview Lady Salisbury for a story in
The English Garden
magazine. It was yet another day he had tucked away in his memory bank, for keeps.

Kingston’s idea of doing an aerial search for the reservoir on Google Earth—not that he knew what it would prove—had been unsuccessful. He had mentioned this to Desmond—telling a white lie as to why he had been doing it—who had suggested an alternative: to try Land Registry. He said that he had used the government department’s Web site, Land Register Online, on one occasion and was confident that Kingston would find it helpful.

Forsaking thoughts of gardens, Kinston turned on his computer and quickly located the site. It was as Desmond described it, and looked promising. He found that, for a modest fee, the service enabled the general public to obtain and download the title register and title plan of registered properties in England and Wales, simply by providing a postal address. The title register would show who owns the land, and or property, price paid information, and any rights of way or restrictions. There was only one problem: he had no address.

Further searching provided an alternative. In the absence of an address, a scaled Ordnance Survey plan could be submitted by mail, showing the extent of the property outlined in color with its position in relation to nearby roads and other landmarks.

Fifteen minutes later, Kingston walked out of his local copy shop with a same-size copy of the page in question from his large-scale Ordnance Survey map. Taking it home, he had inked in make-believe boundaries of what he guessed would be those of the land on which the reservoir was located. Sealing the map inside an envelope along with a copy of the completed application form he’d downloaded from the Web site, plus a check to cover the fee, he walked to the post office in the Kings Road and mailed it.

The next few days were remarkably quiet. After the string of unsettling events of the last several weeks and now, to cap it all, the news of Everard’s death, Kingston looked upon this time as a blessing of sorts. For the first time since he undertaken his search for Stewart he was finding the opportunity to devote himself enthusiastically to the vicissitudes of daily life as a bachelor. There were numerous things that had been neglected while he had been tooling around the Hampshire countryside and traipsing to East London on what now had all the earmarks of a futile exercise.

Mrs. Tripp, the lady who came in once a week to houseclean, do his laundry, and iron, was on holiday in Spain, so a few hours of each day were taken up with housekeeping. The laundry, changing the bed, and ironing could wait, but Kingston could not abide a house that was unclean and disorderly. The days went by unnoticed and soon he found himself back in his old routine, reading, renting movies, lunching at the Antelope and cooking proper meals in the evening.

Thursday had come and gone with no word from Martin Davis about the video. Lord knows what had happened to Desmond. Kingston had called him several times, leaving messages, but with no response. That surprised him. Knowing Desmond, Kingston thought he would be itching to know what the police were doing at Kingston’s flat the day they’d last spoken.

Tomorrow, he was taking a much anticipated visit to see Becky. When he had called her to confirm, there was a noticeable change in her voice and mood. For the first time since Stewart’s disappearance, she sounded almost upbeat. He even detected a hint of optimism as they talked—so much so that he wondered if anything had triggered the change. She assured him nothing had, and that she was simply following Sarah’s and his earlier advice: to think positively and not waste time dwelling on what might or might not have happened. The answers she was seeking would not come any sooner with her continually fretting. It would only result in making her more despondent, at the risk of impairing her health. As if to underscore her newfound attitude, she said that she was planning to cook dinner for him. “Nothing fancy, mind you,” she said, “but it’ll save us going out again. The restaurants are so expensive these days.”

“Nothing could please me more,” Kingston said, ending the conversation.

After he had put the phone down, he contemplated whether the time had come to tell Becky about his investigation. Should he do so, it would mean, among other things, having to tell her that Stewart was involved with some extremely dangerous people. That was out of the question. Frightening her and dashing what little hope was left would almost certainly send her into another tailspin.

On the more cheerful side, he had got a call from Andrew who was back from his New Zealand trip and couldn’t wait to tell Kingston all about it over dinner at a “brilliant” new restaurant he’d just discovered in Westbourne Grove. Kingston made a mental note to call him later. At this moment, he couldn’t deal with such mundane matters as new restaurants. He could only think of one thing: Where the hell was Stewart?

The morning’s post contained a surprise: a reply from the Land Registry. He opened the manila envelope and withdrew the contents. He read the cover letter followed by the report. The land on which the reservoir was located was owned by Conway-Anderson Ltd., 384 Neville Street, London, E14. The date purchased was November 1992 and the price paid for the fifteen-acre parcel: £1,250,000. There were no restrictive covenants or easements of any kind, and no mortgage lender.

As he looked at the accompanying Title Plan and Ordnance Survey detail, a smile spread slowly over his face. In addition to the reservoir and the outbuildings, it showed the existence of a house. This was more than he’d hoped for.

With the letter in his hand, Kingston walked over to the window and gazed out at the square below. He watched absently as a meter maid made her way up the street checking the parked cars for permits. His mind wasn’t on her, though, it was on two things: first, the postal code of Conway-Anderson’s address: E14. He was willing to bet that was the same code as Bakers Landing. Was that just a coincidence? The second disclosure was the existence of a house. Presumably, but not necessarily, it was also owned by Conway-Anderson. He didn’t quite know what to make of that. After the episode at the reservoir, he’d speculated that Stewart might have been living in the building at the reservoir. Now he was starting to wonder if it wasn’t a much more likely scenario that Stewart would have been held captive at the house and not the makeshift living quarters where Kingston had been bashed on the head. As he thought about it, that building more likely served as a home away from home for others involved in the project.

The house was certainly well hidden. He couldn’t recall having seen a driveway or even a path to suggest the existence of a house. It must be accessible from farther down the main road.

Still watching from the window, the meter maid had got into an argy-bargy with an arm-waving motorist who had arrived at his parked BMW the very second she had slipped a ticket under the windscreen wiper. Kingston smiled, knowing who would have the last word. He turned away from the window, crossed the room, put the letter on the coffee table and picked up the phone. Desmond’s line was busy. At least it indicated that he was back in circulation, thought Kingston.

SEVENTEEN

K
ingston’s preliminary search of Conway-Anderson revealed little. He was surprised to find that the company had no Web site. Not only that, but he found only two mentions of the company after scrolling through a dozen pages containing more than a hundred references. Neither provided a clear understanding of what the company did, or specified exactly what kind of services Conway-Anderson performed. In one case the company’s role was articulated vaguely as “Developing management, project organization, and people skills to increase productivity and profits.” Another description positioned them in the role of problem solvers, equipping companies with the tools to resolve manufacturing, productivity, management, and labor issues. No mention of history, clients, personnel, or contact numbers. To Kingston it was all business-speak. Conway-Anderson appeared to be a management firm that sought anonymity—most unusual. Six more pages and still no further mentions.

Kingston sat back and rocked in his chair. Earlier, he’d thought about visiting Conway-Anderson’s offices but he’d dismissed the idea—for the time being, anyway. His last corporate office visit and its grisly outcome—the word “fallout,” was inappropriate, he decided—was still very much on his mind.

What next? Give “Conway” a try? He typed in the single name in the search bar and tapped RETURN. He scrolled through a dozen pages of miscellaneous “Conway” sites and references without success. He was about to give up when he decided that thirteen might bring him luck. And it did. The result read:

Robert Conway 1914–1990. (Conway-Anderson Ltd.)

Reigate, Surrey

Robert Conway, surviving founder of Conway-Anderson Ltd., a London-based management and consulting company, died last month at his home in Surrey. Conway and his partner, Nathaniel Anderson, who died in 1987, started the company in 1942. During the war years, Anderson, who was partially disabled, ran the company while Conway enlisted in the Middlesex Regiment and fought in North Africa, and later in the European campaign. As a lieutenant, Conway was awarded several medals, including a Military Cross. Conway later served two terms as a Reigate town counsilor and was active in several community organizations including the Arts Council and the Rotary Club. Prior to Conway’s death, negotiations had been under way to sell Conway-Anderson. The prospective buyer is Viktor Zander, a Russian-born businessman with interests in Britain and Asia.

Reigate Times
© August 2, 2001

Kingston read the article twice. The question was: Did the sale go through? Did Viktor Zander now own Conway-Anderson? Without, thinking, Kingston typed Zander’s name in the search bar. For ten minutes he scoured the results, reading page after page, line by line. Nothing. For a man who had bought a management company—if indeed he had—Zander had certainly kept a low profile. Why? Kingston wondered. It was certainly an unorthodox way to run a business. Close to accepting defeat, he continued through four more pages. Then, finally, Zander’s name came up, not in a headline but buried in the middle of a five-page article titled “American Banks Linked to Russian ‘Mafia’ Money Laundering.”

The story reported that two American banks were under investigation for their involvement in a massive money-laundering scheme operated by Russian organized crime. Involving as much $8 billion, the case was being handled by the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s Office in collaboration with British, Swiss, and Russian authorities. Later in the story, it was stated that British inquiries had focused on a Russian businessman named Vasily Banovich. Banovich had reportedly been involved in racketeering, extortion, and selling weaponry looted from the Russian army. For several years, Banovich spent his time moving between Britain and Bulgaria, eventually returning to Russia where he disappeared, evading prosecution. The story went on to reveal that as much as $2 billion was thought to have passed through Sentinel World Marketing, an import-export company, headquartered in a three-room office in London’s East End. From there, the trail led to a network of other shell companies implicated in the sting.

The story went on to describe how the U.S. investigations started with suspicions and tips about a manufacturing company, ALM Partco in Scranton, Pennsylvania. ALM had registered the company in the Channel Islands in 1989. The subsequent circuitous search that followed led investigators on an international treasure hunt involving companies, financial institutions, law firms, and private individuals in six European and Asian countries.

On the fourth page, Zander’s name came up in a list of people under investigation at the time. He and several other persons had been questioned by U.S., British, and Russian authorities but for reasons that were not quoted, had never been indicted. It was also stated that one of Zander’s companies based in England did business worldwide, specifically in Russia and former Soviet Republic countries. No wonder Zander and Conway-Anderson stayed under the radar, Kingston thought, as he waited for the pages to print.

He turned off the printer, got up and stretched, pleased with his research, awed once again at the avalanche of information accessible through the Internet at the click of a mouse. Carmichael was certainly going to be impressed with this development. The equation was simple: Conway-Anderson owned the house and reservoir; Zander owned Conway-Anderson; Stewart had been working at the reservoir and was possibly being held captive at the house. Ergo: Zander was the individual they should be looking for, and in all probability, he was the man directly or indirectly responsible for Stewart’s kidnapping.

Under gray skies, Kingston drove out of London headed for Fordingbridge. Merging onto the M4, gradually working his way over to the fast lane, he was trying to recall the number of times during the last several weeks that he had made the same journey to Hampshire: Becky, Alison Greer, Inspector Carmichael, the reservoir. Thinking back on them, the cavalcade of incidents, conversations, highs and mostly lows, were becoming blurred. But now, for the first time since that fateful day Stewart went missing, he had what appeared to be the makings of a huge break. Finding out about Zander was one thing, but knowing that he once had ties to organized crime made him even more suspect.