EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (29 page)

Standing on the quay at Poole harbor before dawn, Kingston breathed a sigh of relief and glanced skyward, thankful that Zander hadn’t called Becker and to be safe on terra firma. He watched, as Stewart was carried off the boat by two crewmembers, and was transferred immediately to the ambulance. Standing at the rear of the ambulance’s open door, Kingston saluted Captain Becker, watching from the deck of the
Allegra.
The captain raised his pipe and smiled in return. Kingston climbed into the ambulance and sat next to Stewart, who was sleeping. In ten minutes they were at the hospital.

Stewart was wheeled off immediately for evaluation while Kingston met with the hospital administrator, an efficient woman named Laura Hargreaves. In the fifteen-minute meeting, he explained his relationship to Stewart and described the events that had taken place on the Allegra, telling her that Stewart was a kidnapping victim and that the Hampshire Constabulary and Inspector Carmichael had been working on the case for many weeks. The need for a round-the-clock watch over Stewart was paramount, he stressed. Not only by hospital personnel but also—because it was a criminal matter—by the police. The administrator assured him that the hospital would file a report immediately and inform the Poole police of Kingston’s concerns. In turn, Kingston said that he would be contacting Inspector Carmichael as soon as possible. He would also try to reach Stewart’s wife and give her the good news. Hargreaves assured Kingston that the hospital would also be contacting Rebecca Halliday immediately, as a matter of routine. Despite Kingston’s insistence that he wait at the hospital until Becky arrived, Hargreaves persuaded him otherwise. Stewart would be going through evaluation and a series of tests over the next several hours, she said, and it would be pointless for Kingston to wait.

The meeting over, Kingston provided his contact numbers and completed the admission papers. A few minutes later he was at a pay phone in the lobby. His first call, to Becky, went unanswered. He would try again the minute he got home. Likely she was doing her work for the auxiliary or was at her daughter’s house. Unfortunately, he didn’t have Sarah’s unlisted number with him. Next he called Inspector Carmichael, to be told by the station operator that he was out for the day. Kingston left his name, number, and a message asking that Carmichael call him immediately and informing him that Stewart Halliday was alive and had been admitted to Poole General Hospital. As an afterthought, he voiced his concern that when Blake found out—and he probably had by now—he might try to pull something at the hospital. At the hospital taxi rank, he got a cab to Poole station, where he bought a one-way ticket to Waterloo and a copy of
The Times
. The journey was a little over two hours, which would give him time to read the newspaper and maybe get a start on the crossword. As it was, he slept most of the way.

TWENTY-THREE

K
ingston closed his front door and picked up the mail from the mat. Holding his takeaway dinner bag, he went straight to the living room to check his phone messages. There were none. He picked up his address book, found Sarah’s listing, and punched in the numbers. Four rings and the answerphone came on. He left a message for Becky saying that Stewart was safe in Poole General and to call Kingston as soon as she could.

Leaving the mail on the coffee table, he went to the kitchen where he set the paper bag on the chopping block and withdrew the contents: fresh ricotta and mushroom ravioli and a tub of pasta sauce. Filling a stainless-steel saucepan with water, he placed it on the range and turned on the burner to LOW. At last, now he could pour a drink and relax—if that were possible.

He took a soothing sip of Macallan, gave a silent toast to Stewart, and leaned back on the sofa. It was the first chance he’d had to take stock of things since disembarking from the
Allegra
—to speculate on what might happen now that Stewart was in safe hands. What would Blake and Zander do now? He tried putting himself in their place. The evidence against Blake was indisputable. If and when he was brought to justice, he would go away for a long time. Not that Kingston knew how the system worked, but he felt that the case against Zander might be hard to prove. It would depend on whether a direct relationship between him and Blake could be substantiated, if Zander was privy to everything that Blake had been doing. At the very least, Zander would be charged as an accessory, Kingston figured. The use of his house and boat alone would be incriminating enough. Tracking him down should not present a problem, but Blake might not be so easy to apprehend. He had much more to lose and had already proved dangerous. There was no predicting what he might do, if cornered. Where in hell was Carmichael, anyway? Surely he must have got Kingston’s message by now. Maybe the hospital was having better luck.

Kingston took another sip of scotch, this time toasting his own good fortune. He’d dodged a proverbial bullet—meeting an inglorious end in a strange faraway land. He cringed as Blake’s last words came back to him. It had been some time since he felt this good. He planned to call the hospital first thing in the morning and get an update on Stewart’s condition. With luck, Becky would have received the good news by then and would be at her husband’s bedside.

He polished off the whisky and checked the mail: three bills and an envelope with LAWRENCE scrawled on it in pencil. The note inside was from Desmond.

Stopped by on the off chance. But you’re obviously out chasing the bad guys again. I’m in town only for the day but I’ll call later in the week. All being well, I’m opening the Finchley nursery in about two weeks. Too bad you missed a free lunch.

Cheers,

Desmond.

Kingston smiled. It would take two or three lunches, minimum, to bring Desmond up to speed on all that had happened since they’d last met.

He picked up his glass and stood, about to head for the kitchen, when the phone rang. “Finally,” he muttered. Becky or Carmichael?

Kingston picked up the phone. It was neither. A man spoke.

“Kingston. I have someone here who wants to talk with you. A friend of yours.”

Kingston tightened his grip on the phone. He couldn’t be certain. Was it Blake?

“Who is this?” Kingston asked.

“You know damned well who it is. Shut up and just listen.”

Kingston felt his flesh creep, his body tense. Blake wouldn’t be calling to ask whether it was daylight saving time.

“Are you with me?”

“What’s this about, Blake? More of Zander’s dirty work, is that it?”

“Nice try. You might like to know he’s extremely unhappy about what happened on the boat.”

Kingston waited. In the pause that followed, he heard a woman’s voice in the background.

“Here she is,” said Blake. “She’s only going to say it once, so listen carefully.”

Another pause, then a woman spoke. “Lawrence?” she said faintly.

“Yes, who is this?” He had difficulty recognizing the voice.

“You have to … you must come down here … . to The Willows, Lawrence. He’s serious … please do as he says. I’m scared.” Her voice, no more than a whisper, was quavering so much he was hard pressed to hear her, to grasp what she was saying.

“I can barely hear you. To The Willows? Is this … Becky?”

“Yes.”

“Are you alone with him?”

“Yes.”

Kingston expected her to start crying any moment. He struggled to control his rage. “The man that’s with you. I know who he is. Let me talk to him.”

“That’s enough,” he heard Blake say, obviously to Becky.

“Are you still there?” Kingston said, straining to remain calm, hoping she was still on the line. “Give him the phone. Tell him I want to speak to him.”

Another pause. “Jesus!” Kingston whispered to himself. Had Blake told her about Stewart?

Blake came on again. “I think you’d better do what the lady asks.”

“You bastard! Why involve her? Don’t you think she’s suffered enough? Have you told her about her husband?”

“This is not Q-and-A, doctor. You heard her, Kingston. What don’t you understand?”

“Tell her—”

“I’m telling her nothing, you fool. I’ll spell it out for you one last time. It’s almost eight o’clock. Be here by midnight and don’t come armed. If you’re not here by then … well, you can draw your own picture—
Doctor
. And one thing more—if you’re thinking of calling the police,
don’t
. That’ll be a death warrant. And I don’t mean yours—that will come later.”

Kingston mind was a dizzying whirlpool of questions. Was it Becky? Was Blake lying? How did he know they were calling from the house? He needed to know more.

“I want some kind of proof, Blake. Let me talk to her again.”

“Proof? Proof of what?”

“How do I know you’re at the Halliday’s house and that Becky is with you? This could be another of Zander’s tricks. Like when you stole my car.”

“Just be here. That’s all.”

“Ask Becky what the drummer boy is.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Just ask her, dammit.”

“I told you, this isn’t a quiz show, Kingston.”

“Ask her what it means, or I’m hanging up.”

A long silence followed. “Come on,” said Kingston under his breath.

“She says it’s a porcelain figurine.”

Momentarily, Kingston was at a loss for words. He felt cheated, a loathing welling up inside. He put a hand on the table to steady himself. “Damn you, Blake,” he shouted.

Blake said nothing.

“All right,” he said, reining in his revulsion and frustration. “I’ll do as you say. But you lay a hand on Becky and I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Before midnight.”

“You’re forgetting. I don’t have a car. You stole it, remember?”

“I don’t give a toss. Get a cab. Unless you don’t think she’s worth it.”

The line went dead.

Kingston put down the phone, leaned back, and covered his face with both hands. “Oh God!” was all he could say.

Ten minutes later, a cab pulled up outside 346 Cadogan Square. Kingston was waiting at the front door. With Becky’s life in the balance, he couldn’t risk wasting a minute longer than necessary. It was raining, but traffic shouldn’t be a problem, particularly at this time of night, he thought. He got into the cab and slammed the door.

The cab driver slid the separating glass window open a few inches and turned to Kingston. “Fordingbridge? Right, Guv.”

Kingston nodded. “Yes.”

“Nasty night. Shouldn’t be a problem though. Long drive, so you might as well sit back and relax.” He closed the window and drove off.

If you only knew, thought Kingston. If you only knew.

As the cab rounded the corner at Pont Street, the phone rang in Kingston’s flat. After a half-dozen rings, right before the answerphone could kick in, Inspector Carmichael gave up.

TWENTY-FOUR

A
t the front gate of The Willows, Kingston paid the cab driver, pulled his jacket collar up and watched the cab’s taillights disappear. He’d checked his watch a dozen times on the journey but checked it again: ten fifty. The rain had stopped, replaced by a boisterous south wind that rattled the trees and spun the drying leaves on the lawn into the air, swirling like Catherine wheels, caught in the amber light from the gatepost lamp. He passed under the arbor, the white iceberg roses visible despite the dark, and started up the brick path that curved to the front door. The only light came from the porch and living room windows. He rang the doorbell and waited. Would Becky or Blake open it, he wondered.

The door opened. Blake stood there. Dressed in a black Windbreaker, his face looked paler than Kingston remembered. He said nothing and, as usual, his expression gave no clue to his mood. “Come in,” he said, standing well back from Kingston.

“Where’s Becky?” asked Kingston, stepping into the hallway.

“The living room.” He gestured for Kingston to go first.

On the drive, Kingston had tried to second-guess what might happen when he got to the house. He could come up with only one motive for Blake’s actions, and that didn’t bear thinking about. Blake was out for revenge—Zander, too, no doubt. In a struggle, could he overpower Blake? With the element of surprise, he might prevail but Blake was much younger and probably quicker. It could be a mistake to underestimate him. It was all moot because Blake would certainly be armed. It wasn’t the first time in his life that Kingston had been scared, but the thought of what he was about to face made the hackles rise on the back of his neck.

Kingston entered the living room and glanced around. The only illumination came from a table lamp by the window, leaving parts of the room in shadow. Where was she, he wondered? Then he saw her, huddled in a large wingback in a corner by the conservatory. She got up, but surprisingly made no attempt to go to him. He started toward her then stopped. The hair? The clothes? He caught the frisson of recognition in her eye and then the penny dropped.

“You two have met before,” said Blake, who had moved to one side.

Kingston’s stomach heaved. He stood transfixed, staring at Marian Taylor. Now he realized why the strained voice had seemed unfamiliar.

“I’m sorry,” she said, biting her lip. “I had no choice.”

Blake smiled, sardonically. “I’m surprised you fell for it. Maybe I’ve been giving you too much credit, Doctor.” He shrugged. “But then again, we both know what a good actress she is, don’t we?”

“Where’s Becky, damn you!”

“She’s not home. It made it all the easier. Just the three of us, nice and cozy.”

Kingston looked at Marian Taylor. “You’re with them, then?”

Her eyes darted to Blake, then back to Kingston. “No, I’m not. You’ve every right—”

“Shut up!” Blake snapped, pulling a black pistol from his jacket pocket, leveling it at Kingston. Kingston felt the acid rising in his throat, a tingling at the back of his neck. Though he had handled pistols and rifles in his army days and witnessed their destructive powers many times, he still abhorred the use of guns for anything but hunting.