EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (22 page)

Kingston was well prepared. The night before, he had spent the best part of an hour going over his first summary, adding notes, listing all his conversations, meetings, and the incidents of the last several weeks, each appended with as-best-he-could-remember dates.

With Kingston and the inspector seated on opposite sides of the desk, each with a mug of coffee, and the constable to one side with the tape recorder turned on, the meeting commenced. Kingston took a sip of the hot milky coffee, placed his notes in an orderly stack on the desk, leaned back, and started to relate how he became involved with Stewart’s disappearance, beginning with the phone call from Rebecca Halliday’s daughter. During a brief break, when Carmichael left the room to answer a personal phone call, Kingston glanced at his watch, surprised to see the time. He’d been talking, almost nonstop, for close to forty minutes. Five minutes after the inspector returned, the meeting was adjourned and the constable dismissed, leaving Kingston facing a stern-looking Carmichael.

The inspector folded his arms, swiveling his chair to and fro. “Dammit, Kingston. Why on earth did you keep all this to yourself? I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but should I decide to press the issue, you could face legal proceedings for jeopardizing a police investigation. Withholding information the likes of which you just reported is a chargeable offence.” He stopped abruptly and so did his chair, as he looked straight at Kingston. “Not only that, but by the sounds of it you have placed yourself in considerable danger. You were damned lucky. You could easily have suffered serious bodily harm or even been killed,” he said, cracking his knuckles, which made Kingston wince.

“You got my message about the incident at the reservoir, then?”

“I did, yes. Lymington station followed up on that. They found nothing out of the ordinary, apparently.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

Carmichael scowled. “What
were
you thinking of, man? Getting mixed up in all this?”

Kingston straightened up in the wooden chair, trying to put on a good face before choosing to answer. He knew that he had no defense whatsoever and could only throw himself on the mercy of the policeman with the best apology he could summon.

“I have no excuse,” he said, purposely leaving the four words hanging longer than necessary. “In doing what I thought best for Rebecca—trying to find her husband—I simply deluded myself into thinking I could solve the case alone. I now realize—and I have for a while now—that this was a terrible mistake. After I got whacked on the head and received the warning, I knew it was far too risky to go on.” He made an effort to smile and added, “I recognized I wouldn’t be much help to Becky propped up in a hospital bed or in the morgue.”

Carmichael leaned back, a look of exasperation on his face, and sighed. “Look, I’m letting you off the hook this time. Despite the seriousness of your actions, I don’t want to see someone as intelligent as you made an example of. From now on, if you want to help or you receive any information that may be germane to the case, you call
me.
Is that clearly understood, Doctor?”

Kingston nodded. “It is. And thank you for understanding—if you’ll excuse the cliché—and for giving me the benefit of the doubt.” As he spoke, he was wondering whether this was the right time to introduce the matter of Viktor Zander and the house. If he did, he ran the risk of getting Carmichael even angrier, after everything he’d said in the last minute or so. As he was debating the point, there was knock on the door. “Come in,” Carmichael shouted. The door opened partway and Constable Marsh poked his head in, coffee pot in one hand. “Fresh coffee?” he inquired. Kingston and the Inspector both nodded.

After taking a sip of the fresh coffee and almost burning his tongue, Kingston spoke. “There’s one more thing you need to know before I leave,” he said. “It just struck me that I hadn’t mentioned it before.” He smiled apologetically. “A senior moment.”

“Oh,” Carmichael said, swiveling his chair, and giving Kingston a stony look. “And what is that?”

“There’s also a house on the property where the reservoir is located. It’s well hidden from the road.”

Carmichael was still eyeing him as if he’d enough for one day and just wanted Kingston out of his sight. “
And,
” he said.

“I’ve reason to believe that that’s where Stewart Halliday is or was being held.”

“You do, do you? What makes you think that? And why didn’t you bring this up while we were taping?”

“As I said, I had every intention of doing so. I believe it’s a huge break.”

Carmichael still looked irritated but said nothing.

“It belongs to a man named Viktor Zander, a businessman and a dodgy one, to say the least. Owns a company in the East End named Conway-Anderson. I think it’s a front.”

“Go on.”

“It’s a known fact that he has or had ties to the Russian ‘Mafia.’”

The inspector’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious, Doctor?”

“Very.”

“What are you proposing?”

“As I mentioned, he also owns the land on which the reservoir is located. So if Stewart Halliday was supervising the desalination experiments from there, Zander has to be involved, wouldn’t you think? It’s doubtful any of this could have taken place without his knowledge. It’s a guess, but I think Zander knew Everard. I can’t be certain but the odds are good.”

“But a half an hour ago you went to great lengths to explain that Everard was not involved in Halliday’s or Walsh’s affairs. Tell me, how did you find out that Zander owned the house and the reservoir buildings and has mob connections?”

“It was remarkably easy: Land Register online and the internet.

Carmichael shook his head. “I don’t know what do with you, Kingston. You want me to march up to that house and ask if they’re holding a missing person hostage? Is that what you’re getting at?”

Kingston pulled on his earlobe—to those who knew him, a sign that he was thinking hard, choosing his words carefully before opening his mouth. Carmichael sat back, holding his coffee mug in both hands, waiting for Kingston to reply.

“What I’d like to propose is that when you go to search the house, that I be allowed to go with you.”

By the look on the inspector’s face, Kingston knew immediately that Carmichael didn’t think it a brilliant idea. This was borne out when he spoke.

“Doctor, if we’re to follow your suggestion and check out this house—which we certainly will, by the way—we will have to do it without your presence, I’m afraid. We can’t run the risk of allowing civilians to accompany the police on a warrant of this sort.” He shook his head. “We can’t assume the liability. It’s simply not allowed, it’s out of the question.”

“I understand,” Kingston replied. “However, let me explain my reason for asking.”

Carmichael nodded with a half smile. “Go ahead,” he said, his expression and body language indicating that it wouldn’t make any difference anyway.

Kingston ignored the poorly disguised inference and continued. “Well, you see, there may well be things in the house that I would recognize and you might not. The same goes for certain people who might be in residence, too. So your going in—the police, that is—would, in all probability, be a wasted effort. A missed opportunity that could have blown the case wide open, as the saying goes. Make sense?”

Carmichael interrupted, the smile gone. “If you’re talking about identifying Stewart Halliday, that’s a non-issue. We have recent photographs provided by the family.” He paused, cracking his knuckles again. “And what are these ‘other things’that might be in the house that you would spot and we wouldn’t?”

This was where Kingston was walking on eggs. Carmichael was already aware of Stewart’s cryptic messages. Now introducing the idea that Stewart could have left more messages in the house could give Carmichael the impression that Kingston had read
The Da Vinci Code
one time too many.

“Signs,” said Kingston. “A sign or clue of some kind that would prove beyond doubt that Stewart had been there. If there were, wouldn’t that be more than sufficient reason to undertake a full investigation and bring in the owner for questioning?”

Carmichael was shaking his head again. “You and I live in different worlds, Doctor. Nevertheless, if I were not to take some sort of action based on the information you’ve just provided, I wouldn’t be doing my job.” He took a last sip of coffee and put the mug on the table with a thump that also served as a punctuation mark. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. I’ll make up an affidavit showing probable cause and see if I can convince a magistrate to grant what’s known as an s8 PACE warrant, one that will permit you to accompany us as reasonable and necessary, given the circumstances we’ve discussed. I’m not promising it’ll happen but I’ll do my best.” He got up and came round to shake hands with Kingston. “If you ever decide to give up what it is you’re doing, Kingston, maybe there’s a place for you in law enforcement.” He grinned. “Only one thing—don’t look for employment in Hampshire, please.”

Kingston chuckled and thanked him. He was beginning to like the inspector.

Two days later, Kingston got a phone call from Carmichael saying that he had the search warrant and asking Kingston to meet him and another policemen at ten o’clock the following morning at Ringwood station. They would drive together from there to Viktor Zander’s house. Kingston would receive further instructions about the warrant and procedure at that time.

EIGHTEEN

A
t thirty-five minutes past ten, under sullen skies and light rain, an unmarked Rover 45 police car made a left turn a half-mile past the small road that led to the reservoir and proceeded up the gravel lane leading to Foxwood House, the property of Viktor Zander. Detective Inspector Carmichael sat next to the driver, a burly, leather-jacketed DS named Winters. Kingston sat in the backseat, the legroom appreciated. At the outset of the journey, Carmichael had briefed Kingston on how the search warrant would be conducted, stressing that he, and only he, would ask questions and do the talking. Kingston would be introduced as a private citizen helping in their inquiries. He was, Carmichael emphasized, to remain a silent observer throughout.

The sergeant parked in the curved drive in front of the house and the three got out to a loud slamming of doors. No need for a doorbell or knocker, Kingston mused. Facing them Foxwood House loomed large and gray in the drizzle. Built of weathered brick with stone quoins, it was three stories, rectangular and unpretentious. A row of seven symmetrically placed windows looked out from the first-floor rooms mirrored by seven on the second floor. Four dormer windows were set in the gray slate mansard roof. A wide, shallow flight of steps led to the shiny painted black door, sheltered under a substantial portico supported by quadripartite square pillars. A dense canopy of wisteria spilled over the porch, the gnarly twisting vines braiding the outermost pillars. Except for patches of lawn and box hedging, Kingston could see no signs of garden interest. On a sunny day, the house and its surroundings were no doubt pleasant but unremarkable. In the shroud of drizzle the prospect came across as a trifle forbidding. Carmichael pressed the buzzer on the doorjamb and they waited.

Before long, the large paneled door swung open partway. Facing them was a tall woman with high cheekbones and sharp features. She had graying hair tied up in a braided bun and a no-nonsense air about her. A plain black dress, white blouse, and mouse-gray cardigan gave her a semblance of severity. She matched the weather, was Kingston’s first thought. Her darting eyes looked the three men up and down.

“May I help you?” she asked, as if they were door-to-door salesmen.

Carmichael offered his card. “I’m Detective Inspector Carmichael, Hampshire Constabulary. This is Sergeant Winters,” he said, nodding, “and Doctor Lawrence Kingston who is assisting us in our inquiry.” He reached in his inside pocket and pulled out the folded warrant. “We have a warrant to search this house and would like to speak with everybody present at this time. Particularly Mr. Viktor Zander, whom, I’m given to understand, is the owner of the property.” He paused. “By the way, that includes all staff: cooks, maids, gardeners—everyone.”

The woman showed not the slightest sign of surprise. She took Carmichael’s card without even looking at it and opened the door wide with a curt “You’d better come in, then.” As they passed her, she closed the door and said, “I’m Mrs. Murdoch, by the way—the housekeeper. Please follow me.”

She led them into a spacious high-ceilinged room lined with book-filled shelves on three walls. In the center of the fourth wall, handsome floor-to-ceiling French doors looked out to a long garden. Kingston went to the doors to take a closer look. Unlike the front of the house, the plantings here were plentiful and had been chosen with skillfully planned harmony in the restrained use of color. The design—a series of terraces flanked by high hedges—was orderly and pleasing to the eye. It was certainly not the work of an amateur. Kingston could see quite a few roses, all in full bloom. Some of the old climbers and ramblers were trained over curved pergolas and treillage, others spread across rust-colored brick walls. Close to the house he recognized one of his favorite roses, Albertine, unmistakable with its coral buds and blowsy old-fashioned dusky pink blossoms, curling at the edges. The sight cheered him. For a fleeting moment he forgot where he was and why he was there.

“If you’ll be seated, gentlemen, I’ll fetch Gavin. He’ll be the one you’ll want to talk to.”

“What about Mr. Zander?” Carmichael inquired.

Hearing the conversation, Kingston walked over to join them.

“Oh, Mr. Zander. He’s hardly ever here, sir. Only a half-dozen times a year at most.”

“I see,” said Carmichael. “Other than you and this other fellow you mentioned, are any other people present or staying in the house?”

“No. It’s just the two of us at this time.”

“I see. When you find this fellow, would you return with him, please?”

“Yes,” she nodded then turned and left.