The Blue Rose (16 page)

Graham's body lay face down on the oriental carpet, his head close to the tiled hearth of the fireplace. A small table had been knocked over and a lamp, a framed photo, and miscellaneous books and magazines were strewn over the floor. Otherwise the room was undisturbed.

Kingston was on one knee, feeling for Graham's pulse. Alex hovered over him wishing they'd never come round the back in the first place.

After a few more seconds that seemed like minutes to Alex, Kingston lowered Graham's wrist to the floor and looked up to Alex. ‘He's dead, I'm afraid.'

‘Bloody hell!'

Kingston stood, looking down at Graham's body. For a moment he massaged his chin with thumb and forefinger, thinking. ‘Alex, go and find the phone and call the police. Tell them what's happened.' It was more of an order than a request. ‘While you're doing that, I'll take a quick look around to see if there's any sign of the missing journal.'

‘God, Lawrence. The man's dead and you're worrying about the journal? In any case Graham's not stupid enough to have it just lying around the house. It would be locked up somewhere. You just can't go around ransacking the bloody place. We have enough explaining to do as it is.'

‘Calm down, Alex,' Kingston said, his eyes searching the room. ‘You never know – and I'm not going to
ransack
the place – just have a quick look-see, that's all.'

With an angry shake of his head, Alex left to find the phone.

 

The Coach and Horses, five miles outside Bath, proved as pleasantly hospitable inside as it was inviting on the outside. Sitting in the cosy comfort of the saloon bar with glasses of best bitter in front of them, they were both still reeling from the grisly shock of finding Graham's body. Within minutes after Alex's emergency phone call, the police had arrived at Manor Close and cordoned off the alley. An ambulance arrived a minute later. After being questioned at length by the sergeant in charge, giving him Mrs Cooke's address, and tendering their respective addresses and phone numbers, Alex and Kingston were allowed to leave.

The wall clock behind the bar chimed six.

‘Poor chap,' Kingston said, for about the third or fourth time, shaking his head and taking another draught of beer. ‘I wonder how his aunt's taking it.'

‘Poor Graham is right. In spite of everything, I'd never have wished that on him.'

‘I wonder what happened? Beyond the obvious, of course,' Kingston said.

With his index finger, Alex traced a question mark in the thin slick of beer on the polished oak table. ‘Who knows?' he mumbled.

‘We were fortunate the sergeant believed our story.'

‘I know. For a while there I was certain we would be thrown in the paddy wagon and taken down to the station. Kate would have loved that. Coming home to find us both in the nick!'

‘You know, Alex, we may not be completely in the clear, yet.' He paused, then said, ‘Well, you, that is.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, if the police ferret out a copy of Stanhope's letter – which is highly likely – and put two and two together–'

‘I'm a prime bloody suspect.'

‘Of course. What better motive.'

Alex stared glumly into the foam on his beer. ‘I'm wondering if the police really did believe us. I'm surprised they didn't ask us why we didn't just leave the books under the porch, which would have been the obvious thing to do.'

‘Hard to say. At least we were able to show them the journals in the boot and we did tell them that they were important to Graham.' He looked at Alex squarely. ‘If it turns out that Graham was murdered, they'll certainly want to question us again.' Kingston reached for his glass and took a gulp of beer. ‘But let's not jump to conclusions that somebody bumped him off. Poor bugger could've simply had a heart attack.'

‘There's always that possibility, I suppose.' Alex cleared his throat and paused, as if preferring not having to utter the next words. ‘But let's not kid ourselves, it's far more likely that this has something to do with the rose,' he said.

‘I have to agree,' said Kingston, tipping back his head and swallowing the last of his beer. ‘That being the case, the most likely scenario is that someone was at the house before us and either got into a fight with Graham and accidentally killed him, or simply did him in.'

‘Yes, but why – and who?'

‘The only two people who come to mind are Wolff and Tanaka.'

‘But we have nothing whatsoever to connect them to Graham.'

‘I know. Even if they've been following your every single move there's no way that they could have learned about Graham's having the formula, is there?'

‘I can't see how,' Alex replied, with a shake of the head.

There was a brief silence between them as a noisy young couple sat down at the next table.

Alex scraped his chair, making a point of turning sideways to them. ‘I wonder what will happen about Graham's claim to the rose, now? Do you think Mrs Cooke will pursue it?'

‘Hard to say. You're going to have to ask her, I suppose. Either that or call Stanhope. In either case, the decent thing to do is to wait a few days.'

The chatter and laughter from the bar was growing louder as more customers started to arrive.

‘Kate should be home soon,' Alex said, glancing at his watch.

‘You should give her a call.' Kingston tapped his glass. ‘Want another?' he asked.

‘No, this is it for me, thanks.' Alex yawned. ‘God, I'm almost afraid to go home these days. There's no knowing who'll call next.'

Kingston shifted his position on the hard seat and crossed his legs. ‘I promised I'd tell you more about this Wolff fellow, Alex.'

‘The American rose grower.'

‘Right.'

‘Let's have it, then,' said Alex.

‘Well, soon after you got that first call, I phoned an acquaintance who now lives in California. Bob Jackson's his name. He used to hold down a top management position with one of the largest garden supply companies in the States – on the West Coast. I asked Bob to do some sleuthing for me to see which companies – or individuals, for that matter – would have the wherewithal and also be the most likely to have interest, or the most to be gained, from acquiring a blue rose.

‘Well, Bob did a painstaking job. Not only contacted many of his old friends in the business but told me he spent countless hours on the Internet and in the library, poring over newspaper stories and trade magazine articles.'

‘And all roads led to Wolff, I take it?'

Kingston ignored the question. ‘That's the good news,' he said. ‘But you're not going to like what I'm about to tell you next because it's pretty heavy stuff.'

‘You make it sound like a bad movie.'

‘It could well be. First, let me make a quick comment about the world in which this man Wolff operates – the world of commercial horticulture. We all know it's all about nature, pretty flowers, beautiful gardens, seductive catalogues and nurseries – all that kind of stuff. But most of all, it's about money. It's a hard, tough, competitive business, where the big fish gobble up the little fish and the sharks devour the big fish. Believe me, Wolff is a shark. And right now, I wouldn't mind betting that he's circling The Parsonage waiting for the right moment to strike.'

‘Oh come on, Lawrence. This isn't
Jaws
, for Christ's sake!'

‘Don't dismiss this too lightly, Alex. Jackson's letter and clippings contain tangible evidence of a near pathological personality. They paint a very damning picture of our Mr Ira Wolff.'

Kingston then proceeded to recount what Jackson had told him about Wolff 's history of personal failures and dubious business enterprises.

It appeared that Wolff 's ascendancy in the business world of horticulture started with his acquisition of Baker-Reynolds. Jackson had been unable to find any news stories or dig up any gossip about Wolff 's activities prior to that time. It was as though, until he purchased Baker-Reynolds, Wolff hadn't existed. A front-page
Wall Street Journal
story on the B-R takeover was terse and objective. Other than the fact that the journalist in question had voiced his suspicions over the absurdly low price Wolff had paid, the story contained no overtones of improbity. Clippings from other sources supported the perception that the sale was nothing other than a straightforward transaction.

Comments and opinions from individuals within the industry, however, offered an opposing viewpoint. Among the contributors to Bob's explosive package of information there was nearly a consensus that Wolff had indeed employed underhanded tactics to acquire the company. One industry insider wrote that it was the general opinion, within B-R's top management at the time, that incriminating skeletons in the partnership's family closet – some, of a highly prurient nature – led to the forced sale of the company. Another offered an opinion that to acquire the company Wolff had orchestrated a diabolical scheme – partly based on fact, partly contrived – whereby he could substantiate repeated acts of blatant insider trading, stock manipulation and other fiscal chicanery. Rumour had it that more than one board director was implicated.

Another writer recommended that a search of the records of the Washington State Attorney General's office be undertaken for the period during and after the sale of Baker-Reynolds. He maintained that the resulting evidence would prove that the sale was hotly contested, not only by suspicious B-R shareholders but also by many other concerned people close to the company and within the industry. Despite the flood of angry complaints, no legal or government action was ever taken to investigate the case or to hold up the sale. Later, there were even rumours that Wolff had bribed several officials high in the Attorney General's office.

The man's personal life read like a sensational tabloid. Wolff had been married – and divorced – four times. Each wife became more costly. In addition to a two million dollar spread on Mercer Island and several luxury automobiles, his first wife, Mary Jo, had walked away from the marriage with a cool twelve million dollars. Wife number two, who filed charges accusing Wolff of extreme physical abuse as part of her lawsuit, became fifteen million dollars richer overnight. She turned around, a month later, and married the owner of one of Seattle's most successful restaurants.

Two months later, that husband's mutilated body was fished out of Lake Washington. The case was never solved. Wives three and four further depleted Wolff 's bank balance by another thirty million dollars. A graphically written, one-column clipping, taken from the
Tacoma News Tribune
, reported Wolff 's involvement in an altercation in a local nightspot. After a heated exchange of words Wolff had severely beaten one of the other customers, who was incensed over Wolff 's inflammatory comments about his girlfriend. There were no clippings reporting the outcome of the case.

Kingston sighed. ‘Not a pretty picture, is it?'

Alex pushed away his empty beer mug. ‘Jesus, what a piece of work!'

‘Here's the worst part, though.'

‘I wouldn't have thought it could get much worse.'

‘It does. From all accounts, Wolff is in trouble right now. Short of a miracle, his company is about to go under. If it does – if it goes into bankruptcy – then a number of felony crimes perpetrated by Wolff will almost certainly be uncovered. According to Bob Jackson, Wolff could go up for a long, long time. In his words, “Wolff 's in a corner and he's very dangerous. He'll stop at nothing to get what he wants to save his skin.”'

‘Lawrence, if you're trying to scare the shit out of me, you're succeeding.'

‘I just want you to be aware of what kind of man you're dealing with, Alex. That's all. The man's pathological and unstable.'

‘I won't be dealing with him, thank God. That's for certain.'

Before they left the Coach and Horses, Alex called home. There was no answer.

‘She'll probably be there by the time we get back,' Alex said, as they got into the car. Within twenty minutes they were back at The Parsonage.

As Alex stepped out of the TR4 on to the gravel drive, he could hear the faint ringing of the telephone in the hallway.

‘That's Kate, I bet,' he said to Kingston. He ran to the front door, unlocked it, and dashed down the hall to the phone.

‘Hello,' he said, a little short of breath.

‘Alex Sheppard?'

A hollow feeling gripped him. It was the American man.

‘I asked you not to call again,' Alex said.

‘That's hardly a polite English greeting now, is it, Mr Sheppard? Not what I would call exactly friendly.'

‘I'm not feeling in a friendly mood.'

‘That's most unfortunate – particularly since we have some business to take care of.'

‘I have no business with you. I thought I'd made that clear before. So, if you'll excuse me–'

‘You do have business with me, Sheppard,' the man countered. ‘You have something we want – the rose. And we have something you want.'

‘Really?' Alex shook his head. ‘I don't think so. I don't think–'

‘We have your wife.'

‘You what?' Alex screamed.

‘We have your wife. Now if you want her back–'

‘Where is she? What have you done with her?'

‘Just calm down.'

‘What – what kind of lunatic are you? You've actually kidnapped my wife?' Alex's mind was spinning uncontrollably. Everything that Kingston had just told him came rushing back.

‘Calm down and listen, Sheppard. Get a pen and paper because I want you to write this down.'

‘You go to hell! I'm not going–'

‘Do as I say, Sheppard, or it will just make it harder on your wife. Much harder.'