EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (21 page)

For a change, he’d made good time from London. Motorway construction workers must be on holiday or strike, he mused. Crossing the top corner of the New Forest, he was approaching Fordingbridge. Five minutes and he would be there. This time, when he arrived at The Willows, he would be the bearer of positive news for a change.

Except for the empty chair at the head of the table—a solemn reminder of Stewart’s absence—Becky’s dinner reminded Kingston of the old days at The Willows. Despite her assurance that it wouldn’t be fancy, he couldn’t help smiling when she entered the dining room carrying their main course: plates of roast local guinea fowl with port and orange sauce.

Earlier that afternoon, in the garden, he had told her about Zander and the house, without mentioning Zander’s mob connections. The news had brought the expected reaction: an initial rush of elation that gradually turned to anxiety as she weighed the implications. For five minutes, with eloquent logic buffed with the occasional white lie, he tried to convince Becky that the news could only be seen as positive. He knew, though, by her sentient look and reticence, that despite his all his efforts, she was also weighing the downside. She’d known him too long.

Kingston stayed overnight again, rising early to work in the garden, deadheading, pruning and tidying up. At lunchtime he brought in a bouquet of roses, arranging them in a vase and placing it on the kitchen table as a surprise for Becky, who had gone to the post office. Later that afternoon, after a hearty lunch of Cornish pasties and raspberries with clotted cream, Kingston left The Willows, to return to London.

By eight thirty the next morning Kingston had showered, dressed, and finished his breakfast of cereal and yogurt while leafing through
The Times
. He’d also called Becky, thanking her again for the “simple” meal and lodging. A solid seven hours of sleep had been made more restful by the decision he’d made the previous night after a third glass of Côtes du Rhone: not only to tell Inspector Carmichael about Viktor Zander, but also to divulge everything he had learned about Stewart’s activities in the weeks and months prior to his disappearance.

The night before, he had jotted down a summary of the events of his search and inquiries. He would have it on hand when he called Carmichael. It surprised him just how much explaining he would have to do.

That raised yet another concern: With so much to divulge, Carmichael could rightly accuse Kingston of withholding critical information in the police investigation, not only into Stewart’s disappearance, but also of a homicide and, with Everard’s death, of a suspected homicide, too. Coming up with an acceptable explanation of why he hadn’t long ago told the police about his involvement presented a real problem. He couldn’t think why he hadn’t done so a lot earlier. It had been damned foolish of him. He was supposed to be helping the police, not withholding information. There was no rational answer; he would simply have to take his lumps if and when Carmichael chose to press the issue.

The more Kingston thought about it, there was simply too much to discuss over the phone. Once the inspector heard what Kingston had to say, there would be no question that he would want Kingston to make an appearance at the station. Kingston wasn’t keen on the idea of driving down to the New Forest again, and even less enthusiastic about the confrontation that could leave him with a bloodied nose. But now he needed Carmichael in his corner because a plan had been swimming round in his head whereby he might be able to persuade the inspector to enlist Kingston’s help, physically. Be on the case officially.

He picked up the phone and punched in the direct number that Carmichael had given him. While the phone was ringing, he was reminded that their last conversation had been weeks ago. It wouldn’t surprise him if Carmichael had forgotten about him. His apprehension was groundless. Carmichael was on the line immediately.

“Doctor, an unexpected surprise. Nice to hear from you again.”

Kingston didn’t wait to be asked why he was calling. He was wondering how long Carmichael’s affable demeanor would last once he learned what Kingston had been up to.

“I’ll come right to the point, Inspector. Since we last talked, I’ve been carrying on—well, I suppose you’d call it an investigation of sorts, trying to find Stewart Halliday.”

“Yes, I remember you were close friends. How’s his wife doing? Rebecca. I haven’t spoken with her for some time. I wish I had encouraging news to report, something that would give her some hope. We’ve published appeals in just about every newspaper and TV news program in the country and gotten not one damned lead.”

“Holding up remarkably well. She’s been staying with her daughter on and off but she’s back home now. As a matter of fact I just got back from visiting with her. She’s in a much more positive frame of mind.” Kingston was about to get to the point of his call when Carmichael interrupted.

“Investigation of sorts, eh? That reminds me, you never got back to me after your visit to Walsh’s garden. Did you go there?”

Kingston was surprised that Carmichael remembered the call, his being so overloaded at the time. “I did, and it proved worthwhile.” Kingston paused waiting for Carmichael’s response while he searched for the right words to launch into his “confession.”

“So, why exactly are you calling, Doctor?”

“I have a lot to tell you, not only concerning Stewart’s disappearance, but also about Adrian Walsh’s murder and the death of a City businessman named Miles Everard and—” He paused, debating whether he should tell Carmichael about Zander now or wait until he had a better sense of the inspector’s mood. He opted to hold off, for the moment, anyway.

After a long pause Carmichael responded. “You
have
been busy,” he said.

“I’ve every reason to believe the three are connected—but there’s more. Too much to discuss on the phone.”

Kingston words had hit their mark and Carmichael’s attitude suddenly changed. “When can you come down here?” he asked bluntly.

“Tomorrow, if it suits you.”

“It does suit me. The sooner the better, I might add.”

In the pause that followed Kingston was wondering if this was where he was about to get a royal wigging. The sober-voiced inspector continued, as though he’d had occasion to use the words many times before.

“If what you’ve been saying has relevance, you must be aware that withholding information in a police homicide investigation is serious business. I suggest you arrive tomorrow fully prepared and ready to come clean.”

“That is my intention,” Kingston replied, knowing that the less he said from now on, the better. “What time?”

“Let me check,” said Carmichael. Kingston waited. “How about eleven o’clock?”

“All right. Where do I find you?”

“Large white building with red chimneys, Christchurch Road. Hard to miss.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Inspector.”

Kingston put the phone down and sighed. It had gone as well as expected. At least Carmichael hadn’t read him the riot act.

Kingston got up to make a pot of coffee. Sitting in the kitchen while waiting for it to percolate, he leafed through the current issue of
Country Life
. The subscription had been a Christmas gift from Andrew. Turning a page, his eyes went immediately to a picture of a thatched, flint and brick cottage. It looked exactly like Pennyroyal Cottage, where he’d met the so-called Alison Greer. He read the caption, disappointed to discover that it wasn’t Pennyroyal. Now that he thought about it, Pennyroyal’s front door had been a lighter blue with a dolphin knocker, and the door of the cottage in the picture had no knocker.

He sat drinking his coffee staring into space, thinking of Marian Taylor. What a fool he’d been. Suckered into believing her. Infatuated by her fastidious looks and seemingly ingenuous nature. And all the time she had been lying through her teeth. She was a clever one all right, using the cottage that couldn’t be traced back to her, staging it with photographs of herself. He was about to take a sip of his coffee but left the cup suspended inches from his lips. Those photographs? He tried to think back to when he had first entered the room. How many were there? He recalled two on the mahogany table, the larger taken when she was in her teens. An older woman was with her in that photo. The one next to it was a smiling close-up. He remembered thinking at the time that it resembled a film-star fan photo. She looked uncharacteristically glamorous. A third photo had been on the mantelpiece. How did that one portray her? Just as he was congratulating himself on his excellent memory, he drew a blank. “Come on … think,” he muttered.

He stared out of the window, across to leafy Cadogan Square, neatly skirted with black railings, its familiar shrubs, and mature trees. Watching the usual parade of pedestrians, schoolchildren, and pram-pushing nannies, a yellow-jacketed mounted policeman on a gray horse came trotting into view. Kingston’s eyes followed him as he rode, straight-backed, out of sight.

“That’s it!” he said, slapping his knee. In the third picture she was with a horse. It was an almost full-figure pose: a smiling Alison, wearing a riding jacket, holding the bridle of a chestnut horse. Her hair, tied in a ponytail, was brown, much lighter than when they had met. Was there anything in the background? Damned if he could remember. He tried harder to visualize the photo. Now it was coming back to him. Her traditional riding jacket was black, with high buttons and nipped in at the waist. Yes. And he remembered the jodhpurs being tan. He smiled. She hadn’t struck him at the time as being the horsy type.

He sipped his coffee, oblivious to its tepidity. Maybe, just maybe, he’d found a way to track down the elusive Marian Taylor and thrash it out with her. It was the riding jacket. It suggested only one thing: Marian Taylor was serious about matters equestrian. Chances were that she belonged to a riding stables or a hunt club—more likely the former.

In his office at the iMac, he did a search for “Hampshire riding stables.” Expecting a dozen or so, he was surprised to find that there were forty-plus in the county. He printed the list. Next, he took a four-miles-to-the-inch
AA Road Atlas
off a nearby bookshelf and turned to the Hampshire page. His logic: Marian Taylor had worked in Farnborough and used Walsh’s cottage in Hartley Wintney, little more than ten miles away. This suggested that most likely she lived—or had lived—within an arbitrary twenty-mile radius of Farnborough.

After a five-minute search, Kingston located a compass and with a pencil inscribed a five-inch-radius circle around Farnborough. Putting the map aside he started down the list of riding clubs, checking off those that fell inside or close to the penciled line. Within a couple of minutes he had narrowed the list to eight. He intended to call each stable and equestrian center, asking if they knew of Marian Taylor. Fifteen minutes and five calls later, he came up empty-handed. By this time, he had established a pat introduction and line of questioning.

Next on the list was Rookshill Farm Stables. He dialed the number and waited. As he anticipated, the phone rang for some time. This he’d found was the norm, and understandable, considering that stables workers are outdoors ninety percent of the time. Waiting for an answer, he read Rookshill’s Web site printout: SMALL RIDING SCHOOL AND LIVERY YARD SET IN THE HEART OF THE COUNTRYSIDE NEAR THE VILLAGE OF ABBOT’S CROSS, HAMPSHIRE.

“Rookshill, Peggy speaking.” She sounded like a teenager.

“Yes, good morning. My name’s Kingston, Doctor Kingston. I’d like to speak with the stables’ owner or manager.”

“That would be Jill Merryweather.” A horse whinnied in the background. “You’re in luck, she’s just leaving but I think I can catch her. Hold on a jiffy.”

Kingston waited, wondering if he was really clutching at straws, calling the stables. He smiled at the unintended play on words.

“Jill Merryweather here. How may I help you?”

Even though she’d uttered only a few words, she sounded as if she were from central casting. Her clipped “county” accent and stereotypical verbal mannerisms were spot on. Kingston went into his routine. “I’m helping the police find a woman named Marian Taylor. She’s also been known to use the name Alison Greer. We know that she is a keen horsewoman and may have belonged to a stables or equestrian center. Any chance she might have had an affiliation with Rookshill?”

“Marian Taylor, Yes. She was with us for quite a while. I remember her quite well.”

Kingston tried to hold back his jubilation. “How long ago was it?”

“Perhaps a year, thereabouts.”

“And you haven’t seen her since that time?”

“I haven’t, no. What’s this about, Doctor? Has she done something wrong?”

“No, not at all. It’s just that she may have knowledge of a person who’s gone missing. A friend of mine, actually.”

“I see. I’m afraid I’m not going to be of much help, then.”

“Do you happen to know if she lived near Abbot’s Cross?”

“I don’t. Even if I did, I can’t divulge personal information about our clients. I’m sure you understand, Doctor.”

“Yes, I do,” Kingston mumbled.

“There is the possibility, of course, that I could provide her with your phone number—if I can contact her, that is.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he said, giving her his number.

“If I’m unable to reach Marian, I’ll let you know.”

Disappointed that his bright idea hadn’t resulted in establishing Marian Taylor’s whereabouts, Kingston put the phone down. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was still early. For the remainder of the day, he would try to shut Marian Taylor, Zander, and Inspector Carmichael out of his mind.

The meeting, which started the following morning at eleven sharp, was held in Detective Inspector Carmichael’s office at Ringwood police station, an older two-story building that could easily be mistaken for a pub by a passing motorist. A young policeman, introduced as Constable Marsh, was also in attendance. His job, as evidenced by the tape recorder in front of him, was to take notes and record the conversation.