6.The Alcatraz Rose (26 page)

And lurking around every corner, of course, was the damned rose.

Despite what he’d learned from Andy Harris and Darrell Kaminski, Kingston was nowhere near solving that riddle, either, though the likelihood that Jennings was implicated—solely or in part—now seemed overwhelming. His remarkable accomplishment with the garden at
Beechwood showed he was the only person in this entire affair with an expert knowledge of gardening—and roses.

His thoughts turned again to Grace. He wondered if she, too, was locked up in a room somewhere nearby. What exactly was her role was in this drama? How much had she known about the robbery? Why had she been carrying a gun? To avenge her brother’s murder? And what about Sophie? He was lying on this bed because her story and how she’d told it had never raised the slightest doubt in his mind. For her to make it up would have been difficult or fiendishly clever. And why would she? Kingston supposed it was remotely possible that she’d been confused, distracted, or somehow mistaken that her mother had entered the house at Primrose Hill, never to come out. Or had Grace Williams entered expecting to stay for a while? For dinner or a meeting? There could be many reasons. Was it all part of a more Machiavellian scheme?

As Kingston pondered the imponderable, he heard a key turning in the door lock.

At last, it seemed, he was going to get some answers.

28

T
HE DOOR SWUNG
open, and Kingston stood.

Facing him was the tall thug who’d driven off in the Land Rover. The man’s expression was no different from their last encounter: surly and hostile, the only look he knew, Kingston suspected. He was now wearing a black suit with an open-neck silk shirt, causing Kingston an inward smile.

With one hand on the doorknob, he beckoned with the other for Kingston to come out, stepping aside to allow plenty of space between them. One side of his jacket was pulled aside just enough to reveal a holstered gun. Kingston took it as a not-so-subtle hint.

With the man close on his heels, they walked along the corridor, down the staircase, and across the spacious marble entry hall where, following curt instructions from behind, he entered a high-ceilinged drawing room–cum-library. It, too, had the stamp and sympathetic touches of a highly paid interior decorator: comfortable clublike furniture, laddered bookshelves across two paneled walls, a soft-hued Tabriz carpet covering most of the cherrywood floor, double French doors at one end, and a huge limestone fireplace at the other.

Kingston was surprised when his escort retreated, leaving him alone. He occupied himself for the next few minutes examining the library. Mixed in with historical works were books on politics, law, business management, social sciences, and biographies, mostly of notable British and foreign political figures. The remainder of the volumes appeared to have been supplied by the decorator as space fillers: used books by the yard.

Kingston crossed to the French doors that looked out onto a small cloisterlike garden with a center fountain, a teak Chippendale-style bench, and jasmine and other vines greening the high-walled surround. As he expected, the doors were locked. A gate set in the far wall was slightly ajar, with no greenery beyond. He had no idea which direction it faced but guessed that it led to the front of the house and the parking area.

He backtracked and sat in one of the leather chairs, picked up a copy of the
Spectator
from a stack of magazines on the coffee table, and started to read. Less than five minutes had passed when an almost imperceptible breeze wafted across the room. He was about to get up to see if someone had opened the doors to the garden, when he heard a rustle behind him. He stood and turned. Facing him, standing motionless inside the open French door twenty feet away, was a fashionably dressed, slender woman, holding a silk scarf and a book—a novel, by the looks of it. Backlit by the setting sun, it was hard to distinguish her features. He squinted for several seconds before it registered whom he was looking at.

Grace Williams.

“Dr. Kingston,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

She appeared oddly calm and self-possessed, her expression showing neither surprise nor concern.

“I didn’t plan to, I can assure you. I was . . . uh . . . encouraged, shall we say,” he said, gingerly touching his cheek.

“Yes. I saw you arrive. I’m sorry.”

Kingston frowned. “Then perhaps you could explain. I’m confused. I was certain that you were being kept at the house in Primrose Hill against your will. Locked up. And here you are with free run of this place by the looks of it.”

“Sophie. She put you up to it. I was worried about that—clever of her to follow me but a stupid mistake. It was an even bigger mistake on your part to listen to her,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard his question. “You realize you’re in terrible danger here?”

“It had occurred to me. Why don’t you just tell me what you’re doing here and who owns this house?” he replied, trying not to show his impatience.

“I’m sorry for you, Doctor, I really am. You shouldn’t have got mixed up in this business, but this is hardly the time or place to explain. It’s too late for all that, I’m afraid,” she said, tenseness creeping into her voice.

“Who are these people, Grace? Why won’t you tell me?”

She crossed the room, stopping briefly halfway, resting a hand on the back of one of the leather chairs, and placing her scarf and book on the seat. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said, weariness in her voice. “Your showing up changes everything, but I’m just going to have to deal with it as best I can.”

Kingston was starting to believe that he had made a huge mistake in trusting Sophie. Far from being a victim, it seemed Grace Williams had never been kidnapped or even endangered. Was she one of them? It seemed the only answer.

He was thinking of what to say or do next when the awkward silence was broken by the sound of car doors slamming shut, coming from the open French doors. Grace’s demeanor changed abruptly.

“Your questions will soon be answered, Doctor. Your being here is unfortunate and inconvenient, but you brought it upon yourself, and I’m sorry I can’t change that. I know you meant well. It’s too late for explanations now, though. This is far more complicated than you think—far more serious and dangerous.”

“Forget all that. It’s irrelevant now. What about the gun? Do you still have it?”

“If you’re thinking of making a run for it, forget it. You wouldn’t even make it to the front door. These people don’t need to find an excuse to kill you.”

“So whose side are you on?” Kingston snapped.

“You’re going to find out any—”

They both looked toward the creaking door as it swung open slowly.

An overweight, elderly man in a wheelchair appeared first—the person Kingston had seen at Primrose Hill. His thinning white hair was
neatly combed, and his milky-blue, watery eyes chose to ignore them as he was wheeled into the room by the bald thug.

The man pointed toward the fireplace. “Over there will do,” he said in a commanding voice that belied his feeble appearance. A few seconds later, satisfied with his positioning, he tilted his head to his bodyguard. “No need for you to stay, Victor. I’ll call if I need you.”

Now in visual command of the room, beefy, livid hands grasping the arms of the wheelchair, he took measure of Kingston and Williams, his teary eyes moving from one to the other like a judge about to don the black cap.

“Dr. Kingston,” he rumbled, after a posturing silence. “First, perhaps you’ll explain why you followed me from London and tried to obtain information about me and Greyshill, under false pretences and illicitly, from Sanderson’s estate agents. You’re an intelligent man. Surely you must know this type of deception is criminal and could lead to your facing charges.”

Kingston nodded. “I’ve no doubt you can arrange for that. I also know that forcible abduction, physical assault, and imprisonment are indictable offenses.”

“Not when it can be proved, beyond doubt, that you came here armed and with intent to do bodily harm to me and my staff,” he shot back with a supercilious smile. “Your word against mine. Who do you think they’re more likely to believe?”

“Please let’s dispense with the lies and threats. Since you seem to know all about me, why don’t you tell me who you are and, more important, why you think I pose a threat to you. You might also explain—”

“He’s Allen Jay Hillier,” Grace Williams interjected.

Kingston’s eyes widened.

“You recognize the name, I see,” she said. “Not a surprise. It’s in the papers regularly. Allen is chairman of VirTex Group, Britain’s fifteenth-biggest corporation. Along with a half dozen other companies, they own Alcor Pharmaceuticals, Symonds Biotech, and Metafor Systems. To salve his conscience, there’s his charitable group, the philanthropic Hillier Foundation.” She paused for breath. “Oh, I forgot to mention his majority stake in a Premier League football club and partnership in a
Formula One racing team. He’s also a major political donor—both local and national—and is on the board of a half dozen other companies. In addition to this house and the one in London, he owns a villa in Cap Ferrat.” She paused again. “Concise but accurate, I believe, is it not?”

Hillier said nothing. At first his expression had been one of modest approval, but it now betrayed a nervous uncertainty, wondering what she was leading up to.

“He’s also a fraud, a former crime-syndicate operative, a murderer . . . and my former lover. Accurate, too, Allen?”

Kingston couldn’t believe what he was hearing and watching. He scrutinized Hillier’s face for a reaction, wondering how he would respond.

Hillier remained surprisingly calm. “What’s got into you, Grace?” he asked. “Have I completely misjudged you? Surely this is not why you came to see me, to insult me and accuse me of these preposterous and unprovable crimes.” He turned to Kingston. “Did you put her up to this? Have you two been working together all this time?”

Kingston shook his head. “It really doesn’t matter, but for what it’s worth, no, we haven’t.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Grace bending, almost casually, to pick up her book from the leather chair. Hillier had noticed, too. In the midst of such a tense confrontation it seemed such an odd thing to do. Her action made sense when she he opened the book, reached inside and pulled out a handgun, and let the book tumble to the floor, exposing its hollowed-out center.

An eerie hush fell as Grace stood, feet apart, the gun leveled at Hillier with a two-handed grip. Kingston knew immediately that she knew how to use it.

“Put that damned thing down,” Hillier snapped finally, as if it would do any good.

Grace stepped two paces closer. She was now fewer than ten feet from the man. “You’re finished, Allen.” Her voice was remarkably calm. “I’ve sent a long letter addressed to Nicholas Cooper, a reporter at the
Daily Mail
, telling him everything about you and your despicable past. There’s no way now to stop it reaching its destination.” She paused, as if to let it sink in, then continued, the black-barreled gun steady in her hand. “I must congratulate you, though. How you’ve managed to keep it
a secret all these years is inconceivable, even if it meant removing people who stood in your way or threatened to expose you—my brother, for one. But soon the entire world will know who you really are and what you’ve done.”

“You’re mad,” Hillier shouted. “You think I can’t stop you?”

“Just try. You make the slightest move to call in your attack dogs, and you’re dead. I know how to use this and, from here, I can put a bullet right between your eyes.” She glanced at Kingston. “Same goes for you. Don’t try anything stupid.”

She looked back at Hillier. “Allen, I can live with my brother being a criminal and a robber, but unlike you, he never murdered anyone.”

All at once—looking from Grace to Hillier, thinking about what she’d said and what he knew—everything clicked into place for Kingston.

He stared at Hillier. “You’re the Manager. The one who put it all together—the mastermind behind the Great Highway Robbery.”

A crooked smile crossed Hillier’s lips.

“That’s him,” Grace said. “Enjoy your last few minutes of freedom, Allen, because you’re about to be charged with multiple capital crimes.”

“What do you want, Grace?” Hillier asked, showing remarkable composure. “This can all be worked out. You know as well I do that Brian Jennings, that pathetic brother of yours, was a criminal, an ungrateful swine, and a blackmailer.”

Grace shook her head. “It won’t wash, Allen. No more deals, no more lies, no more bribery—you’ve reached the end of the road. I should kill you right here and now. I’d be charged with murder, but it would be worth it. I don’t have that much longer to live, anyway.”

Hillier still wasn’t flinching. “Go ahead, then. Pull the trigger.” He stared at Grace Williams, eyes daring and unblinking. The room went deathly quiet, the tension so palpable that Kingston could hear the faintest ticking of a clock somewhere in the house.

“You can’t, can you?” Hillier taunted.

“It would be so easy,” she said, stretching out the last two words. “But then I wouldn’t get the chance to see you brought to justice, to watch you suffer, to see you humiliated and disgraced in public.” She
lowered the gun in the direction of Hillier’s paunch. “So you’d better listen carefully to what I’m going to say.”