6.The Alcatraz Rose (25 page)

“Probably selling—not necessarily right away, though.”

“What sort of property is he looking for?”

“Nothing too large, three or four bedrooms at the most.”

“Is he thinking of country property or a house situated in one of the villages?”

“Country, one or two acres, perhaps. An established garden isn’t a prerequisite but could be a big plus. He’s an excellent gardener.” He smiled. “At our age we don’t have time to sit and watch trees grow.”

She returned the smile and nodded. “What kind of price range does he have in mind?”

“He’s researched the market thoroughly and tells me that somewhere in the neighborhood of one to one and a half million should buy a suitable property. I can’t speak for him, of course, but if he found just the right place he might be willing to inch it up a little.”

“Good.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a folder, and handed him a couple of sheets of paper. “Let’s do this. Why don’t you have your friend fill out this form and mail or e-mail it back to me? It’s quite straightforward. In the meantime, I can start looking at inventory and pull together a list of available properties for him to view. You can assure him that, at the price range you mentioned, there’s no question that we can find him the right property. As a matter of fact, I can already think of two or three that he might like. Here’s my card and a brochure on our company,” she added, sliding them across the desktop.

Kingston picked them up and stood. “Thank you very much,” he said. “You’ve been a great help. I’ll see that my friend, Alex, gets the form back to you ASAP, and when you’re both ready I hope to come up with him. Nothing I enjoy more than looking at country houses. Who knows, maybe I’ll do the same one day.”

“Excellent,” she said, rising and coming around the desk to see him out.

Near the front door, Kingston stopped. “I almost forgot. That house I mentioned, the one that Alex visited as a child. He asked me, if I had the time, to drive by and see what it looks like today. I wonder if you might know of it.”

“It’s quite possible. Where is it?”

“I don’t know, for sure, but it’s called Greyshill.”

“Greyshill.”

From the deliberate way she’d said the name, Kingston knew that the house was more than familiar to her.

After a long pause, she said, “Yes, I know it. It’s about a mile from here, but you won’t be able to see it from the road, I’m afraid.”

“That’s too bad. He was also wondering if the same family owned it. Would you know by chance who owns Greyshill now?”

Her smile was enigmatic. “I do, Mr. Kingston, but as a professional courtesy we’re not permitted to provide information of a personal nature concerning local residents. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” he replied.

They shook hands and Kingston left, disappointed at coming away empty-handed. While he’d been careful not to reveal Andrew’s
identity, he was now wondering if he had been wise to give his real name

Back behind the wheel of the Rover, he snapped the seat-belt buckle closed and stared out the windscreen, weighing his options. Three came to mind. The first was to return to Greyshill, park somewhere out of sight and wait, hoping that a delivery person or the postman would show up, then try to get him to part with the name of the owner or the people living there. The more he thought about the idea, the more unrealistic it became. He couldn’t even come up with a question or plausible reason for inquiring that wouldn’t risk raising suspicion. Regardless, the response would doubtless be much the same as Zandra Olson’s. And what would happen if he were chatting up the postman and someone from the house emerged from the driveway wanting to know what was going on?

The second option was the pub, but it relied on luck to a great extent. This time, though, it would carry an added element of risk, inasmuch that he’d already made one inquiry in a very small village. News traveled fast in these tight-knit, Midsomer-like communities. He’d also have to wait until the pubs opened, usually eleven o’clock at the earliest.

The third option was simply to go home. Something in him rebelled at the idea, but all things considered—his assurances to Andrew, his agreement with Emma—perhaps that was the best choice.

He started the Land Rover, then hesitated. He remembered his promise to call Andrew when he was heading back. He took out his mobile and punched in Andrew’s number. The answerphone intercepted.

“It’s Lawrence.” Kingston glanced at his watch. “It’s almost ten thirty and I’m leaving Coleshill and heading home. There’s nothing more I can do here, and you’ll be pleased to know that I’m still in one piece, likewise your car. See you in an hour or thereabouts. Cheers.”

26

K
INGSTON DROVE OFF
mulling over what had happened in the last nine hours or so, disappointed more than anything that he’d been unable to identify any of the people who had sneaked out of the house at Primrose Hill at the crack of dawn. That alone suggested they had something to hide. What was it about the driver, and the man in the overcoat, too? They hardly looked like domestic staff. On the plus side, he was now more convinced than ever that the woman in the hat was indeed Grace Williams and that he was right about the hand-holding masquerade.

There were few cars on the road, and the weather was pleasant. All around, puffy domes of “Constable” clouds dawdled across the mostly blue sky, imbuing a feeling of contentment, even through the windscreen of a car. Following the gentle curves of the country road at a leisurely pace—there would come time to ratchet up the speed when he joined the A413 in a couple of miles—he was relaxed and feeling better about things, generally.

Then he glanced in his rearview mirror. What he saw spelled trouble: A large SUV was closing in at breakneck speed for such a narrow and winding road. Any moment he expected the impatient blast of a horn, forcing him to speed up or pull aside so the lunatic could pass. Kingston eased over to the left as far as the grassy verge would allow. Another glance in his mirror and he could see the SUV alongside, about to pass. He couldn’t resist taking a quick look out his half-open window to see who the driver was.

It was a man, whose expression and demeanor signaled serious trouble. The instant their eyes met, the SUV swerved hard left. There would
have been a nasty collision if not for Kingston’s swift reaction, accelerating and lurching off the road onto the lumpy grass.

This was more than just a road rage incident in the making, he realized, struggling to keep the Rover under control as the SUV maintained its position alongside, inching ever closer. Ahead, the road took a shallow curve, and Kingston was alarmed to see that the verge ended, replaced by a low drystone wall.

There was no escape. Now all he could think of was self-p reservation. He kept tapping the brakes, praying that he could coax the Rover to rest on the slippery grass before the verge ended. With a dozen or so feet to spare, it finally bounced to a stop, the engine stalling. He took a deep breath and let it out noisily, cursing and swearing at the maniacal driver. As he opened the door to assess the situation and clear his head, his heart skipped a beat.

The SUV had stopped on the verge thirty feet behind him. Two men were walking purposefully toward him, and by the looks on their faces they weren’t about to tell him that his brake light wasn’t working.

His mind flashed on Andrew’s bruised and swollen face. Was Kingston about to get the same treatment? How had they found out about him? It had to be from Zandra Olson; there was nobody else. These and other questions flashed through his mind as the two drew closer.

Kingston recognized one of them as the driver of the Mercedes: the same shaved head, height, and build, only now he wore a leather bomber jacket and jeans. The other was foreign looking—Slavic, maybe—tall and square jawed.

They stopped a few feet away, and then, for a few seconds, simply stared at him. No words, no menacing gestures.

All at once, with lightning speed, a stinging backhand slammed into Kingston’s cheek, setting him back on his heels. His hand went to his face and came away bloody.

“Your luck just ran out, Mr. Kingston,” the man in the leather jacket snarled. Before Kingston could get out a word, the other man grasped his forearm with numbing force and started dragging him to the SUV.

“We’re going for a little ride,” he said with the trace of a foreign accent and a sadistic leer. Kingston knew it would be costly, and in the end futile, to put up a fight; these were professional thugs. Seconds later he was hustled into the backseat of the SUV, hands secured behind his back with a nylon cable tie, and the doors locked.

The man who’d struck Kingston walked to the Land Rover and got behind the wheel. He backed onto the road and drove off. The other man, now at the wheel of the SUV, made a U-turn and took off back in the direction of Coleshill.

By now, Kingston’s was sure of their destination. Perversely, it appeared that he was about to get his wish: to find out who was living at Greyshill.

27

K
INGSTON SAT ON
the edge of a queen-size bed, staring out of tall windows that overlooked a garden of an acre or more. He’d spent the first few minutes in the bathroom, bathing his cheek, which had an angry three-inch gash on it from a ring on the bald man’s hand. It was superficial, but still painful. A fencing scar might not look all that bad, he thought optimistically.

The sight of the garden took his mind off the stinging discomfort. The foreground was all lawn, with a checkerboard pattern of fresh mower marks. On either side, high brick walls were backdrop to deep flower beds containing shrubs—roses, of course—and the requisite perennials. At the lower end was a green-surfaced tennis court. On the opposite side, a large wall-enclosed kitchen garden included what appeared to be a chicken run and rows of beehives, backed by a stand of towering copper beech trees. Beyond, in the distance, were green pastures white-speckled with grazing sheep. This peaceful and innocuous-looking setting was a sharp contrast to the serious and potentially threatening situation he faced.

There was no doubt that this was Greyshill. He’d recognized the two white pillars on the way in. When the house had first come into sight, it was far beyond anything he’d expected. By his reckoning, it was certainly classified as of architectural and/or historic interest, early 1800s. In addition to the sprawling two-story white-brick house, with its gray slate roof and wisteria-draped porte cochère and walls, several outbuildings ringed a circular courtyard large enough to park at least thirty cars. These
he guessed to be a small guesthouse, stables, and various workshops. Greyshill reeked gentility, scrupulous taste, and a great deal of money.

On arrival, he’d been relieved of his mobile, marched straight through the house and up a wide double-arched staircase to the spacious bedroom where he now sat pondering his precarious future. In those few seconds, he’d got to see enough of the interior to confirm his first impressions. Everything about the décor was pluperfect: inlaid marble flooring, room-size old Oriental carpets, superb antique furniture, and crystal chandeliers—clearly no expense had been spared.

An hour had passed; obviously whoever was calling the shots was in no hurry to deal with him. He’d had plenty of time to contemplate his plight, and he took cold comfort in knowing that, if nothing else, he might face the person or people who had arranged for Andrew’s beating and perhaps had a hand in Brian Jennings’s murder.

Despite the uncertainty of what lay ahead—now knowing what these people could do—he felt surprisingly sanguine about his prospects. The very worst-case scenario—one he preferred not to dwell on—was that they would dispose of him, making it appear to be an accident of some sort. That eventuality was unlikely, he hastily persuaded himself, because his captors would realize that others would know of his whereabouts as well as his reason for being in Coleshill. Given the opportunity, he would warn them that both Andrew and the police were aware of his activities, and if he wasn’t back in London by the end of the day they would come looking for him at Greyshill.

Lying on the bed, head propped up on a silk pillow, staring at the intricate crown molding on the coved ceiling, he started to make a mental accounting of what had brought him to this dénouement: The events of the last few weeks that had started in Cheltenham with Letty McGuire and her missing mother had led him to Emma and to Reginald Payne, aka Brian Jennings, and now to Grace Williams and Greyshill.