EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (30 page)

“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” Blake added.

“Put that damned thing away.” For the first time, Kingston noticed that Blake was wearing a tight-fitting cloth glove on the hand that gripped the pistol.

To Kingston’s relief, Blake lowered the pistol to his side,

“Before we get down to business, let’s talk about you first, Kingston.” He stepped back and leaned on the edge of a nearby library table, the same contemptuous look on his face. “I doubt if you’re even aware of the damage you’ve done or the amount of money that’s in jeopardy, all because of your stupidity, your death wish to be a bloody hero.”

Knowing Blake as he did, Kingston knew that interrupting now would serve no purpose. These were the most words he’d heard Blake string together in all their previous meetings combined. He wondered what would come next or if that was the end of Blake’s little speech.

Blake looked at Marian Taylor. “And you—you knew all along what he was up to and what did you do? You lied, you told him everything.” He shook his head. “But we’ll come back to you later, dear,” he said, turning his eyes back to Kingston again.

“You’re wrong,” said Kingston. He felt compelled to come to her defense, despite knowing that Blake’s accusation was justified.

“Really?”

Kingston flashed on a piece of advice from his younger days when, as an army captain, he had attended a course with Special Forces, a rigorous training regime in covert operations, survival training, and commando techniques. The advice concerned response to interrogation by the enemy. The cardinal rule was always to give only your name, rank and serial number. There were exceptions, however, and one of those applied to situations similar to the one in which he found himself now. The drill was to keep the interrogator talking as long as possible, even if you had to fabricate stuff. “Tell me about Miles Everard,” he asked. “Why did you have to dispose of him?”

“You’re delusional, Kingston.”

“Was
he
supposed to get the contract? What did he have on you or Zander that you had to get rid of him?”

“The contract? I’m glad you reminded me. Yes. Only fifty million pounds.” He shrugged, as if it were chicken feed. Then he shouted, “Fifty—bloody—million! That’s what the contract was worth. Now it’s all going to be pissed away because of you.”

“What difference does it make? When the police catch up with you and Zander—which will be very soon—it’ll all be over. You can read all about it from your jail cell.”

“I’ve had enough of your lip, Kingston.” He turned his attention to Marian.

Kingston was surprised that she hadn’t broken down by now, given the way things were headed. She knew that Blake hadn’t brought her along just for a drive to the country. He had a gun for good reason. From where he stood it was hard to read her expression in the dim light.

“As for you, bitch,” Blake snarled, “what do you think I should—”

Kingston cut him off. “Do you mean Marian Taylor or Alison Greer?”

Blake ignored the remark. “What would be suitable payback for what you’ve done? What do you think?” he said, looking at Marian Taylor, swinging the pistol lazily to and fro like a clock’s silent pendulum. “There’s no need to answer. I already have a solution. I think you’ll appreciate it. You, too, Kingston.”

The room fell silent save for the occasional susurration from the conservatory where the wind-whipped branches of a tree grazed the windows.

“Lost your tongue, have you?” said Blake.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Kingston retorted. “Give up while you can. It’s only a matter of time.”

The sardonic smile again. Blake’s next question surprised Kingston. “You remember the fire at Walsh’s house, Doctor?”

“I do, yes.” Kingston saw little point in telling Blake that he was there that day. “It was reported in the paper and on TV.”

“Right. Walsh killed by a gunshot wound to the head.”

Kingston nodded, wondering where Blake was going.

“The gun was never found, was it?”

“How would I know? Was that reported?”

“Not that I’m aware but I
know
the gun was never recovered.”

“How?”

“Because I’m holding it in my hand.”

Kingston noticed that Marian had retreated into the shadows. He could just make out the whites of her eyes pivoting about the room in dread, as if the jury was about to announce its verdict.

Blake continued. “Confusing eh? How could I be holding the gun that was used to murder Adrian Walsh?”

“You killed Walsh? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Kingston, give me more credit. Would I be dumb enough to admit that?”

“Why don’t you put us out of our misery and tell us—how come you have the gun?”

Blake leveled the gun at Marian. “Why don’t
you
tell the doctor?”

Kingston switched his gaze to Marian. Even in the low light, he could tell that Blake’s words had hit the mark. She stood as if paralyzed, staring not at Blake but at the gun. It seemed that even the wind outside had sensed the gravity of the moment. Everything was still.

“He’s lying,” she said finally.

“Why would I bother?”

“You bastard!”

Coming from her, the word surprised Kingston, who was flustered by the dramatic turn of events. Maybe Blake wasn’t going to dispatch them both in cold blood after all.

Blake smiled. “You dropped it, didn’t you?”

“No, I’ve never seen it,” she shot back angrily.

“You’re the one who’s lying. You dropped it as you were leaving Walsh’s house the day of the fire.”

Marian looked at Kingston. He had never seen such a look of abject fear, her eyes imploring, penetrating his as if he were her only hope of salvation.

“Damn you, Blake. Why not just get on with what you came here for?”

“We’re getting to that. You see, Doctor, if this gun were to fall into the hands of the police, they’ll find Marian Taylor’s fingerprints all over it. You understand the significance, I’m sure?”

“You’re suggesting that
she
killed Walsh?”

“Murdered is more like it. She killed him. Then, to cover it up, set fire to his house. Unfortunately, in her haste to leave she dropped the gun on the terrace outside the door to his study.” He looked at Marian. “When you got to the car and realized this, you couldn’t go back for it, could you? By then, the fire had taken hold and your only hope was that it would be destroyed in the fire. If nothing else, the fingerprints would be obliterated. Wrong!”

“How the hell do you know all this?” asked Kingston.

“Because I was there. As I drove in, she was leaving—in one hell of a hurry, I might add.”

Kingston looked at Marian. “Good God! Is what he’s saying true?”

“It was an accident,” she whimpered. “I didn’t murder Adrian. I loved him.”

“This isn’t your gun?” asked Blake. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“It’s not. It belonged to Walsh.”

While Blake and Marian were arguing, Kingston was trying to figure out what Blake was planning—what the end game might be. It would be Machiavellian to think that Blake would shoot her and then him with the same gun that she’d used to kill Walsh, then leave it for the police to find. Her fingerprints, along with a ballistics test, would prove beyond all doubt that Marian Taylor had killed Walsh and now him, too. That would confuse the hell out of the police.

“Now you know all about Marian Taylor, Doctor. Quite a piece of work, wouldn’t you say?”

“So that’s how you got her to do your con jobs. Threaten to expose her if she didn’t do what you demanded. Pretend to be Alison Greer—was that her idea or yours?” As Kingston was talking, buying time, he was desperately trying to think of how to forestall what was starting to look like the inevitable. He was surprised that Blake hadn’t shut down the conversation long before now.

Blake waved the pistol at Marian. “Get over there by him,” he said. “That’s enough talking …”

Suddenly, the room was bathed in white light. In seconds, it was gone. A crunching of tires on the gravel driveway followed, then silence. A car door slammed shut, then another.

“Stay where you are,” said Blake, moving briskly to the window. Covering them with the pistol, he drew the curtain aside a few inches and looked outside. “Shit,” he muttered. He turned back to Kingston and Marian. “Big mistake, Kingston. You’re going to pay for it.”

The doorbell rang.

“Listen to me,” Blake snapped, grabbing Marian’s arm, pulling her toward the door. “There’re two cops out there. Answer the door and leave the chain on. Tell them that Becky Halliday is away for a few days and that you’re a friend, housesitting for her. If they want to come in, tell them no. I doubt they’ll have a warrant. They’ll have seen the car in the driveway and assume it’s yours. It’s a BMW.”

The doorbell rang again.

“If you screw up, Kingston’s dead.You understand? He’s
dead!
”

Marian walked out of the room into the hallway. She was a good actress, thought Kingston, but if she could pull this off, it would be a bloody miracle.

TWENTY-FIVE

K
ingston grimaced as Blake’s pistol jabbed his side. “Get going, you bastard,” Blake snarled. “Into the kitchen and out the back door—quick.”

They stepped into the garden, Blake closing the door behind him. The wind hadn’t let up and Kingston knew that even if he shouted for help—which could be suicidal—it wouldn’t be heard on the other side of the house. A gunshot might, however. He wondered if Marian could pull it off. If she could convince the policemen to leave, what would she do then? Was he about to find out what price she put on his life?

With no lights on in the back of the house, Blake was staying close to make sure Kingston wouldn’t try to give him the slip.

The wind and chill had cleared Kingston’s head and sharpened his faculties. He was trying to recall the layout of the garden as the two of them stumbled in the pitch darkness across a wide perennial border, trampling plants and sprinkler heads before reaching the lawn. If he could, it would give him a slight advantage, should he get lucky enough to separate himself from Blake. He tried to visualize the garden, as it had been on that somber day he and Becky had strolled through it, soon after Stewart went missing. The tool shed, he knew, was off to their left; the long wisteria pergola and the shallow flight of stone steps leading to the lower lawn were ahead of them. Beyond that, the pond, then a pasture used by a local farmer for grazing—usually sheep but occasionally horses. What else? The greenhouse, the potting shed, and the small orchard—yes, they were on the right side.

With Blake hard on his heels, muttering the occasional obscenity, they stumbled across the lawn. The farther from the house the darker it seemed to get. Kingston slowed to a walk, anticipating the stone steps. The pergola loomed overhead and he knew his guesstimate was right. He wondered when Blake would stop—they were running out of garden. The pond and pasture were all that remained. The high brick wall circling the garden was off to the right and beyond that, the road. Since they’d been in the garden, no cars had passed, not surprising considering the time of night and the fact that The Willows had been chosen by Stewart and Becky in part because of its seclusion. Did that mean that the police were still there? That, of course, would depend on which direction they would head when leaving. As if on cue, a car passed by on the other side of the wall, the high beams lighting the trees and marginally illuminating the lower part of the garden, the willow-fringed pond and the pasture. Don’t let it be the police car, Kingston said to himself under his breath.

“Stop,” said Blake. As the wind dropped momentarily, Kingston could hear that Blake was breathing heavily. Odd, thought Kingston. Their scramble across the garden had hardly been strenuous. Maybe Blake had a medical problem. Emphysema? They stood, barely eight feet separating them, Blake with the pistol at his side, Kingston facing him, tremulous. Was this it? The irony didn’t escape Kingston. Was he going to end up facedown alongside the pond where Stewart had made his discovery? Instinctively he started edging back, despite knowing the futility of it. Blake couldn’t miss at this range. Regardless, he kept shuffling backward. What was Blake waiting for? Then he saw the pistol raised and closed his eyes.

“Too bad, Kingston.” Blake’s words were carried off in the wind. The nearby willows rustled as if in protest.

Kingston stepped back, lost his balance, and fell sideways, disappearing before Blake’s eyes. It took him a fraction of a second to realize what had happened. He had fallen into the ha-ha, the long, deep ditch used to keep livestock from straying into the garden—commonplace in the English countryside for centuries. He’d completely forgotten that The Willows had one. He remembered seeing it the day he and Becky had walked through the garden.

This was divine intervention and without even realizing it, he was offering up a silent prayer. He had to take advantage of it, move quickly. The expected shot never came. He rolled onto his belly and started to wriggle in the muddy water along the bottom of the three-foot ditch. It would be only a matter of seconds before Blake realized what had happened. Between now and then—seconds at the most—Kingston had to squirm far enough along the ditch to be out of Blake’s sight—in the dark, not too far, fortunately.

Crack!
Kingston recoiled at the sound of the gunshot, plunging his head facedown in the mud, instinctively covering his head with his hands. He heard the bullet thump into the side of the ditch several feet behind him, the report echoing off the walls of the house. In his blind rage, Blake must have fired wildly.

Kingston wriggled farther along the ditch, thankful that the wind buffeting the trees made enough noise to drown out the sloshing sounds. He stopped, got to his knees, raised his head slowly, and peered over the edge of the ditch.

His heart skipped several beats.

The blood was pulsing in his temples.

He was staring at the back of Blake’s muddy shoes.

He dug his hands into the hard earth at the top edge of the ditch,. Don’t turn around, don’t turn, he kept repeating to himself. But if Blake did, Kingston was ready to give everything he had, exert every last muscle, to grab Blake by the ankles and bring him down.