EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (25 page)

Whenever Kingston felt hemmed in by London’s gray walls and jostling throngs, he knew that in Chelsea Physic’s sensual embrace he would always find solace and time for purging inconsequential thoughts from his mind; a respite to focus on the problem at hand. In short, it had become “his” garden.

He had taken his customary stroll through the garden, his keen eye observing, admiring, and noting changes from his last visit three months ago. He was in no hurry—one never should be in a garden—and had reached the place on the pathway where it had become his custom to take a break. He sat on the wooden bench, crossed his legs, and gazed up at the imposing statue of Sir Hans Sloane. More than three hundred years ago, Sloane, a noted physician, scientist and collector, had leased the garden its land for the generous sum of £5 per year in perpetuity.

What would Sloane, and all the other botanical trailblazers that followed say if they were told that a water lily had been discovered that could extract salt from the water in which it grew? On further thought, he decided that, compared to some of the wonders that they had encountered and discovered in remote parts of the world in the last several centuries, the water lily might not raise eyebrows that high.

He looked at his watch: almost four. He got up and headed along the path toward the exit. Walking with a lighter step and a smile in his heart, he passed the perfumery border, inhaling the bewitching fragrances, the murmuring and droning of the insects loud in the air. He recalled Thomas Hill’s words, written more than four hundred years ago: “The garden is a ground plot for the mind.” How true, he thought. Once again, Chelsea Physic had worked its magic.

Turning the key in his front door, Kingston could hear the faint ringing of the phone. Closing the door behind him, he hurried across the living room and picked it up. “Hello,” he said, expecting it to be Andrew, whom he was meeting that evening.

“Mr. Kingston? Lawrence Kingston?”

“It is,” Kingston replied, not recognizing the man’s voice.

“This is Chelsea Police Station, Sergeant Jarvis.”

Why on earth would the local police be calling? “Yes,” he said, uneasily.

“We just received a report from one of our patrol cars that a garage on Waverley Mews had been broken into. A neighbor discovered it and told us you park your car there, a Triumph TR4. Is that correct, sir?”

“It is, yes.”

“We’d like you come down to the garage, if you would. We have a unit waiting there.”

“What about my car? Has it been stolen?”

“It looks that way, I’m afraid, sir.”

“I’m on my way,” said Kingston, putting down the phone.

Kingston managed the normal ten-minute walk to his garage in almost half the time. He’d already prepared himself for the worst, but when he turned the corner into the mews, perspiring and out of breath, seeing the gaping double doors and the empty garage, he had a hard time stifling his anger.

So much for the jimmy-proof deadbolt, he thought, examining the damaged lock. At least the alarm system had functioned—otherwise the police wouldn’t have been called. Or had it? It suddenly struck him—where was the police patrol car?

Kingston looked around the dark, deserted mews. The only sound came from an unseen open window: the distant harmonies of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair.” Four streetlights cast angular shadows on the narrow street, as he stood, despondent, at a loss to know what to do next. Calling the police station would have been the obvious, but in his hurry to leave, he’d left his mobile on the coffee table. Clearly nothing could be achieved by waiting. Not much choice but to go back home, he decided.

As he turned to leave, the high beams of a passing car bounced off the rear reflectors of a car parked farther down the mews and lit up the NO PARKING sign next to him. The sudden illumination lasted barely a second or so but long enough for Kingston to see that it was his car. Either that or it was an extraordinary coincidence that another dark-colored Triumph would be parked illegally in Waverley Mews. With quickening steps, he took off down the mews, almost to its end where the TR4 was parked flush against a brick building. “What in hell,” he muttered, looking the car over, fully expecting parts to be missing or other vandalism. It was untouched. He reached for the driver’s-side door and opened it, glancing around the interior. It, too, was as he’d left it when he had parked it two days earlier. Instinctively, he looked up and down the mews, not knowing what he expected to see. A tabby cat skittered across the cobbles, up and over a wall in one graceful movement, the only sign of life.

He was already formulating a plan. He would get the TR out of there immediately, into a secure, monitored garage where it would be safe until such time as he could replace the garage lock with something more impregnable. He reached in his pocket, took out his car keys, slipped behind the wheel, inserted the key in the ignition and turned it. To his relief, the engine started.

In first gear, hand brake off, about to let the clutch out, Kingston glanced up into the rearview mirror. “Damn,” he muttered. A piece of newspaper was stuck to the rear window, obstructing his vision. He yanked the hand brake on, put the gearshift lever back into neutral, got out, walked to the back of the car, and started to remove the paper. It didn’t look or feel right—almost as if it had been glued on. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sudden movement, a shadowy figure in the darkness. He turned—too late. The man had slipped behind the wheel, jammed the car in gear and, with tires screeching like banshees, had fishtailed out of the mews. Kingston stood there holding the scrap of newspaper, smelling burnt rubber. He took a deep breath, stamped hard on the cobbles and yelled “Sonofabitch!”

Suddenly the mews was lit up like a stage set. Kingston turned to see the dazzling headlights of a car entering the mews from the opposite direction the carjacker had taken. He put a hand up to shield his eyes. If it was the police, it might not be too late to chase his car. The vehicle slowed to a stop in front of him. Stepping from the center of the mews, out of the glare of the headlights, Kingston could see now that it wasn’t a patrol car. It looked like a Range Rover or one of the big Jeeps. The passenger-side window slid down and he looked in, meeting the driver’s eyes.

“What was that all about?” the driver asked, leaning forward, one hand on the passenger seat. Though the man was in partial shade, Kingston could see he was clean-shaven, wearing a brown leather jacket and black turtleneck. “Left a lot of rubber, by the sound of it,” he said.

“I’ve just been carjacked,” said Kingston.

“Jesus. Hop in,” the driver said nodding, releasing the door lock. “Maybe it’s not too late. Let’s give it a go?”

“Thanks,” said Kingston, as he got in, closed the door, and cinched his seat belt.

“What kind of car?”

“TR4, green, tan top.”

The vehicle’s big engine growled as they left the mews and slipped out onto the adjoining street in the direction the carjacker had taken. A few seconds later, Kingston glanced at the speedometer and was surprised to see that they were already doing fifty. The small green logo in the center of the steering wheel confirmed that it was a Range Rover. A newish one at that.

“I’ll call 999,” the man said, pulling a mobile from his inside jacket pocket. “We’ll take Brompton to Cromwell Road, in the hope he’ll be heading west. It’s the nearest main road out of town,” he added.

Buoyed by the man’s confidence, Kingston was beginning to feel that there might be a sliver of hope after all, but he realized that in the minute or so since the carjacking, the TR4 could have put a lot of distance between them. It would depend on traffic lights and the long shot that they would be following the same route, toward the M4.

His eyes fixed mostly on the traffic ahead, glancing occasionally down side streets, Kingston caught snatches of the man’s conversation with the emergency dispatcher. He was amazed at the driver’s skill in handling the big car with one hand on the wheel, navigating the maze of streets to Brompton Road, dodging nimbly in and out of traffic, timing the lights. He’d always abhorred the use of mobiles while driving but this time he had to admit it had its advantages. The man was a damned good driver. They were now passing the Victoria and Albert Museum, heading west on Cromwell Road in heavy traffic.

Eyes peeled for any signs of his car, it took him a few seconds before he realized that they had turned right, off Cromwell Road onto Exhibition Road, running north toward Hyde Park. Why hadn’t they continued on the main road, heading west out of London, he wondered. He saw why the minute the car slowed. Up ahead on the grass, inside the park, the TR4 was parked with no lights on.

Curious at this amazing stroke of luck or what could have been keen eyesight on the driver’s part, Kingston unbuckled his seat belt and glanced at the driver. The driver turned to Kingston. “Wait a moment,” he said. No sooner had the words left his mouth, Kingston watched dumbstruck as the TR4’s door opened and a man got out. He slammed the door shut, walked the half-dozen paces to the Range Rover, opened the rear door, and climbed in. It had all happened in a matter of seconds.

As he reached for the door handle, Kingston heard the “thunk” of the automatic door lock. “Don’t bother,” the driver said.

“We’re going for a little ride, Doctor,” said an East End voice from the backseat.

The driver did a U-turn and headed back to Cromwell Road, made a right and continued west heading out of London. Kingston’s first thought hadn’t been for his own well-being but for the safety of his car. Leaving it unattended for long anywhere in London was asking for trouble—the park might prove to be one of the worst places. Vandals and thieves would get to it in short order. He decided that he didn’t even want to think what might happen to it before the police or park officials discovered it had been abandoned. That could take days. His priority was here and now.

He realized now that the call from Chelsea Police Station was phony, just a device to get him to the mews. Zander’s men—and it was a sure bet that was who they were—had been clever. Everything had obviously been well planned and executed. Nevertheless, it struck him as a hellishly complicated exercise just to get him into a car. The more he thought about it, the alternatives—grabbing him off the street or abducting him from the flat—invited failure or possible injury to any one of them. Despite his age, anyone confronting him would agree that, at six foot three and without an ounce of fat on him, he gave the impression of being physically powerful, a man who would not go down easily in a struggle.

Kingston sat in the passenger seat watching the road. Not a word had been uttered since they’d left the park. He knew there was no point in asking questions. They were hardly going to tell him where they were taking him or what they were planning to do with him once they got there. Saying nothing was much more intimidating. Looking out the window, he saw they were now on the Great West Road, on the stretch just before it hooked up with the M4 motorway. He knew the factory-lined thoroughfare well, having traveled it often since moving to London, and more recently on his excursions to see the elusive woman who was indirectly responsible for the mess he was in right now. It also happened to be the quickest route to Heathrow airport. Surely they weren’t going there?

His thoughts were interrupted by a low voice from behind. He didn’t need to glance back to know that the man behind him was talking on a mobile.

“We have the passenger.” A short pause followed. “Yes.” Another pause. “Almost on the M4.” Pause. “Right.” The conversation ended. Now Kingston knew others were involved, no doubt awaiting his arrival.

Fifteen minutes later, they had passed the airport exits and were in the center lane traveling a shade under the seventy-mile-per-hour speed limit. No way would the driver risk being pulled over by the police. Kingston had read in the paper last year that speed cameras were planned for stretches of the motorway in Wiltshire. If they were to go that far, and if the driver exceeded the speed limit, the Range Rover’s license plate might be recorded. But that was miles away and at this stage of the game, what would it amount to anyway? A speeding violation would hardly be associated in the minds of the police with an abduction. From the roadside exit signs, he knew they’d now left the M4 and were on the M3 motorway in Berkshire heading in the direction of Southampton.

After another half hour’s driving, they left the motorway onto an “A” road heading south. Ten minutes later they were on a smaller road, crossing hilly countryside. Now it was much darker and despite the occasional road sign it was nigh on impossible for him to fathom their direction, let alone location. Before long, he gave up trying. Lulled by the Rover’s smooth ride, he leaned back on the leather headrest and closed his eyes. What would the coming hours bring, he wondered? He preferred not to think about it. He’d already concluded—back in Hyde Park, when he had seen his cherished TR4 disappear from sight, perhaps forever—that whatever it was, would not be pleasant. He thought back to Walsh and Everard—and what had happened to them—and broke into a cold sweat.

He was jarred into the present by the thud of the car’s doors closing. His door opened and a voice in the darkness said, “Get out.”

He did so, immediately feeling the stiffness in his knees, another reminder that of late he hadn’t been exercising as much as he should. He zipped up his suede jacket, wishing that he’d put on a sweater before he left the house. It was damned cold and black as soot.

The driver, no more than a dark silhouette, stood several paces from Kingston. “Follow me,” he said, flicking on a foot-long black flashlight, aiming it at the ground and starting to walk.

Kingston followed, aware that the hefty flashlight could easily serve as a truncheon, if need be. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the other man—shorter but more muscular than his partner—had moved behind him as they started off.