EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (14 page)

Meeting with Alison Greer was starting to look like a wasted trip. Why in heaven’s name had she dragged him all the way down to Hampshire? Surely not to tell him what little she had thus far. Was there something she had forgotten? Something that may seem insignificant to her but could, at the least, give him a lead to pursue? He was out of ideas. On the phone, she had said “Stewart and Walsh were friends or in business together.” What made her think it might have been business? Five minutes ago, she’d been vague about Stewart and Walsh. Was she holding something back? And if so, why? Another thing—though it might be immaterial—was her relationship with Walsh. Was it more than she had led him to believe? When she came back he would try to find the answers. He glanced down at the magazine and started leafing through the pages.

Hearing the rattle of china, he looked up see Alison carrying a tray with tea and what looked like a plate of chocolate-covered digestive biscuits—his favorites. As a small boy he’d called them “suggestives.” She placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down. Right away, he spotted the Twinings Assam teabag label dangling from the white teapot, relieved that it wasn’t mint or herbal.

“If you like it strong you may want to wait a minute,” she said, picking up the teapot and swirling it.

“Now is fine,” said Kingston, shifting forward on the sofa.

“Milk and sugar?”

He thought about asking for lemon but let it pass. “Please,” he said, waiting while she did the honors.

Kingston broke off a piece of biscuit and popped it in his mouth. “On the phone, you said that you thought Stewart and Walsh might be in business. What made you think that?”

She took a sip of tea, looking at him over the gold rim of her teacup. Kingston couldn’t recall having seen anyone with eyes as blue as hers. “Yes,” she said. “I should have explained the reason for my saying that. If it were just the two of them, it would be reasonable to assume that they met purely for gardening’s sake—as you said, to exchange plants and ideas. But a third person was involved.”

Kingston wanted to say,
Why the hell didn’t you mention this earlier, woman?
What he said was, “A third person?”

She nodded, putting down her cup. “I was going to mention it earlier but we seem to have got sidetracked.”

The editorial “we” didn’t escape his attention. He was tempted to remind Alison of the old catchphrase that “we” should only be used by poets, kings, and people with tapeworm, but chose to remain silent.

She continued. “Yes, another man, somewhat younger than Adrian. We were introduced the first time he was there.”

“How did you know it was his first visit?”

“Adrian was pointing things out in the house and in the garden. He was taken with Adrian’s art collection, particularly the pre-Raphaelite paintings—the Rossetti, Burne-Jones, and Waterhouse. They discussed them for some time.”

“Sounds like they both had good taste in art. What was he like, this man?”

“He was tall and thin—not quite as tall as you—and intimidating. I don’t often say that of people, but he made me feel uneasy. Frankly, I didn’t take to him at all.”

“Why was that?”

“The way he stared at me when we were talking, as if he were sizing me up. I don’t think he smiled the whole time he was there. I found that very strange.” She sighed, closed her eyes briefly and massaged her forehead again, as if she’d rather not think about their meeting. Regaining her composure, she continued. “And when he shook my hand, he squeezed so hard it hurt. He knew it, too. I could read it in his eyes.”

“Sounds like a misogynist. Did you tell Adrian about your dislike for him?”

“I didn’t.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t, really—not if he and Adrian were about to join forces in a new business venture, which is what I took the meetings to be all about. It’s not my place to like or dislike the people he does business with.”

“I can understand. What’s this fellow’s name?”

“Everard.”

“Is that the first or last?”

“The last. His first name is Miles.”

“What kind of business is he in?”

“Also construction. There hasn’t been much correspondence between them—not that’s crossed my desk, anyway. I know only what Adrian has mentioned, and that’s not much.”

“Do you know his company’s name?”

“Yes, it’s called Paramus—Paramus Partners International. The company’s much bigger than Adrian’s—engineering, project development and management, that sort of thing.”

“So they would subcontract construction work to Adrian’s company.”

She nodded. “That’s how I read it—specialized projects, jobs that were too small for Paramus.”

“But as far as you know, a deal has not yet been struck between Walsh’s company and Everard’s?”

“Not that I know of, unless it was all conducted strictly between the two of them. Adrian had an office at Swallowfield and he spent a lot of time there, so I couldn’t rule that out.”

In the pause that followed, Kingston was pulling on his earlobe. “Tell me something, Alison. In recent months, has the subject of desalination come up in connection with any of Adrian’s dealings?”

She frowned while thinking. “You mean converting salt water into fresh water? I can’t say that it has, no. Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing,” Kingston replied, with a shrug. “Just a thought, that’s all.”

“More tea?” she asked. “I can make a new pot if you’d like.”

“No thanks. That was excellent,” he replied, getting up slowly. “You’ve been a wonderful host, Alison. I’ve taken far too much of your time already.”

After taking Kingston’s card and giving him her phone number, she walked him to the front door, where it had just started to spit rain.

“You will let me know if you find out more about Adrian or your friend?” she said.

“It’s a promise.”

“Safe drive home, then.”

“Thanks, Alison,” he said, starting up the path. He’d taken a few steps when he stopped and turned. “I forgot to ask you, are Paramus’s offices in London?”

“Yes. Bakers Landing. It’s in the East End.”

“Thanks.” Kingston closed the picket gate behind him and got into his car. With the TR4’s windscreen wipers squeaking noisily, he waved to Alison, still at the door, and drove off.

ELEVEN

T
he morning after his visit with Alison Greer Kingston had received a call back from an apologetic Inspector Carmichael, who admitted to being swamped with a greater than usual number of cases and problems. Kingston’s request to visit Swallowfield was granted right away, as if it were the easiest decision Carmichael had had to make all morning—not even as much as a “Why do you want to see it?” Someone from the station would call the security company that was now in charge of Swallowfield he said, and tell them of Kingston’s impending visit and to allow him entry to the gardens but not the house.

Three days later, checked in by the uniformed guard at the gate, Kingston drove between the brick pillars and up the gravel drive to Swallowfield. The sloping greens edging the drive could have shamed St. Andrew’s. At the back of the lawns on both sides, tall conifers formed a dark backdrop to a harmonious landscaping of shrubs, mostly huge rhododendrons. Making a left curve, the house came into sight—or what was left of it. The damage caused by the fire came as a shock. One entire wing was a charred skeleton. A red brick chimney was the only thing standing that wasn’t entirely black; few of the shrubs or trees bordering that part of the house had escaped the intensity of the blaze. Inside, a half-dozen workmen wearing safety masks were at work with power saws and sledgehammers, clearing the blackened lumber and debris, loading it into two dump trucks.

Kingston sized up the undamaged part of the house. He guessed it to be not more than twenty years old, a well-executed takeoff of a traditional Georgian country house. Its mantle of Virginia creeper and several years of weathering on the pale-colored stone facade would further deceive the untrained eye. Kevin’s “nouveau riche” description was obviously based on his paperboy days, when the house was new.

Kingston parked by the house, away from the trucks, and stepped from the car. The reek of smoke was still in the air. As instructed by the guard, he headed toward the main entrance to the garden—a scrolled wrought iron gate set between brick pillars, centered in an eight-foot-high yew hedge. Once inside, he stopped to take in the sight. For a moment, he imagined he was at Sissinghurst, the scene facing him was so moving. A dozen or so low box hedges corralled deep beds chock-a-block with old roses, delphinium, penstemon, euphorbia, hardy geraniums, and other herbaceous perennials, all in full bloom. The air was perfumed and alive with the industrious drone of pollinating bees.

A central stone and worn brick path led to another opening in the surrounding yew hedge, through which Kingston could see wide stone steps leading up to a lawn. Beyond the lawn, his eye was led to an antique white statue—a goddess of some sort—on a plinth, artfully positioned against a dark hedge that looked like holly. Walking slowly up the path, letting the sights and smells sink in, he entered another disciplined enclosure, this one larger. It was surrounded by old brick walls—at least, they looked old—all hosts to rambling roses and vines. In the center of the lawn the dolphin-mouth jet of an octagonal-based, Portland stone fountain sent plumes of water high in the air, misting the sleeve of Kingston’s jacket as he passed. Off to his right was a small orchard. Under the trees the grass had been left to grow tall, the paths formed by mowing. Up another shallow flight of steps and there it was—the lake, tranquil and idyllic. Instantly, he could see why Alison had likened it to Monet’s garden at Giverny. Encircled by lawns and sandy gravel paths, the shore closest to him was edged with random-sized stone slabs separated by clumps of white iris. A long Japanese-style bridge with a high rail spanned a stretch of water from the shore to a small island, on which clumps of bamboo and grasses undulated in the soft breeze like graceful Hawaiian dancers. Water lilies of varying sizes were concentrated in colonies here and there.

Kingston walked to the water’s edge and looked down into the lake. Not much to see other than the expected. He walked farther along the shore. Still nothing. No evidence that Walsh’s lake had anything to do with Stewart’s experiments. He kept walking and was soon around the far side of the lake, hidden from view from anyone standing on the lawn. He spotted a narrow path. As he approached it, he could see that it led to a separate lake, somewhat smaller than the first. Walking thirty or so paces down the muddy path he reached the water’s edge. At first glance, nothing appeared unusual about it. Then, as he looked beyond the lake, to the dense stand of bamboo in the background, he saw something that looked out of place. Circling the lake, walking faster now, he came to the place he had spotted. On the ground was a pile of curved metal rods, each at least twenty feet long. Several paces off to one side, a tarpaulin staked to the ground concealed a rectilinear mound. Kingston walked over and with effort pulled out one of the iron stakes. Lifting the corner of the tarp, he bent to see what was underneath. It was as he expected: neat stacks of folded clear plastic sheets.

He stood and looked around. Now he could see the heavy circular anchor bolts buried in the ground at the precise angle to clamp on to the cross members that would span the lake. Each was set in concrete piers about eight feet apart to support the framework for the greenhouse that would cover the lake. Now there was virtually no doubt about it, this was where Stewart had started his aquatic plant experiments. It was Kingston’s educated guess that once Stewart had proven it possible to hybridize his water lily in a small, primitive environment such as this, the next logical step would be to graduate to a much larger and more sophisticated facility, using seawater. So how did Stewart salinate the water? Kingston was sure that if he looked around more closely, he would find empty drums or containers of salt, pumps, and other equipment. Either that or Stewart had insisted on using seawater. But that would have posed cumbersome logistical hurdles, not the least of which would be draining the lake and shipping thousands of gallons of seawater forty miles from the coast. Not likely.

He knelt by the lake and looked into the water. It looked remarkably clear. Cupping his hand, he scooped out some water and took a sip. There was no trace of salt.

Driving back to London, Kingston was pleased with the morning’s visit to Swallowfield. Now all doubt was removed about what Stewart and Walsh had been up to. When he got home, he would call Desmond and tell him what he’d found.

He turned down the volume of the Boccherini concerto on the radio and thought about tomorrow and another trip he planned, this one much closer to home. It was his hope that it could be equally revealing—though he doubted it. He was going to Bakers Landing in the East End of London to visit the offices of the enigmatic Miles Everard.

TWELVE

A
t ten thirty in the morning, there were few passengers on the Jubilee Line train as it pulled out of Westminster station heading toward Waterloo and Stratford, in East London.

Sitting opposite Kingston was young woman—no more than seventeen, he figured—with scarlet hair, black-lashed eyes, and lips the color of aubergine, the lower one pierced by a silver ring. Her complexion was unearthly, as if her face had been dusted with flour in a vain attempt to hide the pimples. He imagined her to be some nocturnal creature, venturing into daylight only when absolutely necessary, slithering back into her subterranean haunts at the soonest chance. Tapping a boot with five-inch soles, she stared at Kingston as she had since he sat down. Avoiding her vacant gaze, he found something less distracting in the band of adverts above her: the picture of a toothsome blonde promoting, of all things, a secretarial school.

After his visit with Alison Greer, Kingston had decided to pay Miles Everard a surprise visit. Knowing corporate mentality, he knew that trying to break through the protective wall of receptionists, secretaries, and personal assistants, by phone or writing, would not be easy. Most of all, it would require sound justification and, if a request were made by letter, the process would squander several days. Neither was he naïve enough to think that showing up on the doorstep would be any more successful. But at least he would see Paramus’s headquarters close up and get an idea of what kind of league Walsh, Stewart—and now he—were playing in. If it went well and he managed to meet Everard, he would have to play it by ear. He was adept at doing that. Earlier, he’d pondered how he would answer what would surely be Everard’s first question: “What is it you want to see me about?” He would simply tell the truth: that he was helping the police find his friend, Stewart Halliday. “Helping the police,” might be stretching it a bit but having been interviewed by two police inspectors—one having asked for his advice—he didn’t see why he shouldn’t use it as an opening gambit. The word “police” always got people’s attention.