The Blue Rose (18 page)

Holland turned, as if ready to leave, then swivelled his head back to Alex. ‘You mentioned that your wife was away. Where was she yesterday?'

‘My God! Are you serious? You're not suggesting–'

Holland stopped Alex short. ‘No, no. Just curious, that's all.'

‘She was up in Market Drayton, staying with a friend,' Alex said. He came perilously close to blurting out that Kate had been kidnapped. If there ever was a time to bring it all out into the open, this was it. The words were about to spew forth when the recollection of Wolff 's threat smothered them.

‘Ask her to call us when she gets back, will you? We may need to talk to her.'

Alex nodded. ‘Of course,' he said.

‘Well, I think that's all for now, Mr Sheppard. If you think of anything else that might help in our investigation, we'd be most appreciative if you'd let us know.'

Taylor handed Alex his card. Alex shook hands with both of them at the front door and watched in a state of stupor as they walked to their car, got in and drove off.

Alex was at the kitchen table staring at a bowl of uneaten cereal when Kingston entered. Less than ten minutes had passed since the detectives left. The unopened
Times
was on the table.

Kingston pulled up a chair and sat facing him. ‘How are you feeling, old chap?' he asked.

‘Bloody awful, Lawrence. Where have you been?'

‘For my morning constitutional. Walked down to the village. Spent twenty minutes advising a lady how to take care of mildew on her roses. Most of the time I thought about yesterday, though.'

‘Come up with any answers?'

‘No answers, I'm afraid. Have some ideas, though.' A look of concern clouded Kingston's face. ‘You look odd, Alex. Has something happened since I left? What's been going on?'

‘Not much really. Only the CID interrogating me as a likely murder suspect.'

‘The police were here? Murder?'

‘An inspector and a detective sergeant. They left only ten minutes ago. Graham may have died of a heart attack but they're saying it was brought on during a struggle. They found bruises on his body.'

Kingston frowned. ‘Interesting. What else did they say?'

‘They asked a lot of questions and advised me not to leave town. They even asked about Kate's whereabouts yesterday. That scared the hell out of me, Lawrence. I can't tell you how close I came to telling them about Kate being kidnapped.' He picked up the spoon by the side of his plate and started toying with the cereal. ‘They'll probably call you, too.'

‘Well, it's easy to see why you and Kate would be considered suspect. They know you stood to lose a hell of a lot of money – it's the perfect motive.' He started pulling on his earlobe. ‘It's too much of a coincidence, though,' he muttered.

‘What is?'

‘For Graham's death not to be connected to the formula.'

‘Christ, Lawrence. On top of everything else, now we have to find out who killed Graham? Forget it. It's
Kate
we have to worry about right now. I'm scared as hell about tomorrow.'

‘Alex, I understand–'

‘I know and I appreciate what you're doing, Lawrence. But let's talk about tomorrow. Everything hangs on that meeting now. It's a sure bet they're going to ask me to sign over a rose we haven't got – one that we may not even own. That's what's going to happen, isn't it?'

‘I would imagine that's what Wolff has in mind, yes. I can't think of any other reason.'

‘But what if he's since found out that we
don't
have it and
don't
own it?' He looked straight at Kingston. ‘So what do I do then, Lawrence?'

Kingston looked down, weighing his reply. After several seconds, he looked up into Alex's tired eyes. ‘I know you're not going to like this,' he said, ‘but we have to tell the police. It's not too late and they can accompany you tomorrow.'

‘For Christ's sake!' Alex almost shouted.

Kingston shrugged. ‘Okay, then you'll just have to tell this person – whoever he is – the whole story and hope to hell he believes you, which I doubt very much.'

Alex sighed. ‘A lot of help you are, Lawrence.'

‘Well, at least you'll be talking to someone face to face, even if it is a go-between.'

‘It would have to be. Somehow I don't think Wolff would show his miserable face.'

‘I wonder where it is you're meeting this person. Surely Wolff wouldn't have you meet in a solicitor's office. He wouldn't expose himself like that. It would be too easy for police to follow the trail.'

‘Lawrence, please don't bring up the police again. I'm not going to call them and neither are you. You know already how I feel about that.' He stood up and rubbed his chin. ‘Look, I need to pull myself together, shave, and have a shower. Why don't you take a walk in the garden? Looks nice out there right now.'

‘Good idea. Haven't seen it for a while.' He got up and started towards the door. At the threshold he stopped and turned. ‘Alex,' he said, ‘we'll find a way of getting Kate back, I know damned well we will.' Then he walked out the door.

Alex watched through the kitchen window as Kingston strode into the garden as though it was his very own. ‘I only wish I could feel as confident,' he murmured to himself, turning away.

 

That night after a sandwich and a Mackeson's that served for dinner Alex and Kingston went over, for the umpteenth time, the events of the last few weeks, searching for the slightest clue that they may have overlooked. As the evening wore on, Alex found himself saying less and less, being satisfied simply to listen to Kingston. In doing so, he found himself subconsciously trying to pick up on anything that Kingston might say to suggest – as Kate had put it – that he knew a little more than he was telling. After a while, he gave up, dismissing the whole idea as being too fanciful. Besides, he was coming to appreciate Kingston – even to like him.

By the time they were ready to call it a night, it was agreed that Kingston would stay on for a few more days. Alex had proposed the idea but he knew that sooner or later Kingston would have suggested it himself.

The following morning Kingston left to go up to his flat in London to pick up some clothes and other essentials. He would drive back in the evening, to be there when Alex returned from his appointment in Oxford.

 

It was seven thirty in the morning and Alex was about to step into the shower when the phone downstairs started ringing. He turned off the taps, slipped a towel around his waist, and hurried down the staircase. ‘Why don't I just have the bloody thing disconnected?' he muttered to himself. ‘These days it always means bad news, anyway.'

He picked up the phone.

‘Mr Sheppard?'

Alex's mouth was suddenly dry. It was the American again. He tried to calm himself. ‘What is it now?'

‘I'm calling to remind you of your appointment this morning.'

‘It had hardly slipped my mind, if that's what you're thinking.'

‘Good. Just make sure that you go alone.'

‘How is Kate? I want to know how she is.'

‘Don't start that again, Sheppard. We've been over this before. As of now, your wife is fine. She's enjoying a pleasant rest. You just sign those papers this morning – then you get your wife back. In one piece,' he added.

‘For Christ's sake, you really think you're going to get away with this?'

The man didn't answer right away.

Alex decided to take a gamble. ‘How do you know I won't show up with the police?'

The man's voice had no emotion, no threatening tone. ‘Do you love your wife?'

Alex didn't answer.

‘I take it that your answer is yes.' He paused for a moment.

Alex said nothing.

‘All right. I'll say this just once, Mr Sheppard. Do not mention this conversation to anyone. If there's the slightest indication that you have made contact with the police or any other law enforcement agency, you will see your wife again. You will see her but you won't recognize her. Do I make myself clear?'

‘You cruel bastard.'

‘Good. Well, that's settled, then.'

Alex swallowed hard, trying to suppress the bile rising in his throat. His mind was racing. It had been the plan for him to tell the man in Oxford that the rose had been stolen and that a hybridizing formula now existed, that the rose could be cloned. Should he wait or tell this man now? He took a deep breath. ‘There's one small problem,' he said.

‘Problem?'

‘We don't have the rose,' Alex said. ‘What's more, I haven't a sodding clue where it is or who took it. So let Kate go. There's no point in keeping her any more.'

The man laughed. His cynicism was undisguised.

‘It's the goddamned truth,' Alex snapped.

‘What do you take me for, Sheppard – a fucking hillbilly? You have the balls to tell me that somebody just walked into your garden, dug up the rose, and made off with it?'

‘I'm telling you, I don't have it. I'm not lying,' he shouted.

‘Bullshit! This conversation is over. You sign those papers this morning. That's all.'

‘How many times do I have to tell you, I don't have the bloody rose!'

‘Well, you'd better damn well get it!' the man shouted back.

Before Alex could say anything further, the line was dead.

 

When Alex arrived in Oxford it was beginning to drizzle. A damp greyness cloaked the city, muffling the sound of the crawling traffic and omnipresent pneumatic drilling. Umbrellas crowded the busy streets as the rush-hour jostle showed no signs of waning. Alex had left The Parsonage well before nine, allowing plenty of time to get to Oxford. Luckily, he found a two-hour parking space within easy walking distance of the address he had been given. He checked the directions again, to make sure, and replaced the paper in his pocket.

After no more than a five-minute walk he arrived at his destination, a honey-coloured old stone building on Beaumont Street, across from the new quarters of the Ashmolean Museum. Alex knew the museum well. He had visited it many times. He stood for a moment and contemplated the façade of the elegant building. How ironic, he thought. The museum was first established to house curiosities collected by seventeenth-century botanist, plant hunter and gardener, John Tradescant the Elder, and here he was about to sign away the rights to the botanical discovery of the century. He turned away and walked up the steps into the four-storey Georgian building in front of him. Running his eyes down the directory in the dimly lit lobby, he determined that Suite 36 was occupied by Alexander Lithgow, Solicitor. That figured, he thought, as he got into the self-operated lift. On the third floor, he followed the fading numbered arrows on the wall to number 36. He knocked sharply on the frosted glass window, turned the dented brass doorknob and entered.

The outer office was almost Dickensian. Stacks of books and bulging folders and papers were piled with seeming abandon on desks, in chairs and on the floor. On the wall to his left, a quartet of yellowing diplomas was displayed, unquestionably a fixture of many years. The clock on another wall showed 9.55.

A man appeared from a door in the back. For a moment Alex was taken aback. The man was not at all what Alex was expecting. He was over six feet tall, with military-style cropped hair and a square jaw. His face was evenly tanned, eyes concealed behind tinted sunglasses. He was wearing a loose-fitting black suit and a black shirt, open at the collar. In one hand he held a manila folder.

‘Alexander Lithgow?' Alex inquired.

‘No, he's not here right now,' the man said in a brusque manner.

For whatever reason Alex had taken him for an American but the man had an English accent. ‘Who are you, then?' he asked.

‘Never mind. I take it you're Alex Sheppard.'

‘I am.'

The man gestured to the large partner's desk that half-filled the space. ‘Sit down,' he said.

Alex dragged a wooden chair out from beside the desk, sat down and folded his arms. The man seated himself on the opposite side of the desk facing Alex. He placed the folder on the desk and opened it to reveal a thin sheaf of papers. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket, took out a pen and slid it across the desk to Alex.

Alex watched in silence.

‘All right,' he said, placing his hands palm down each side of the open folder. ‘This is a sales agreement. A legal document, that transfers ownership of the rose presently in your possession to another party. It's not necessary for you to read it, just sign on the line on the last page, where it's marked with an X, and write in today's date. Do the same on the two copies underneath.' He turned the folder around and slid it across to Alex.

‘If I sign, when do I get Kate back?'

‘Sorry. I'm not here to answer questions. My job is just to make sure you sign these papers.' He started to tap his fingers on the desktop.

Alex stared at the man for a moment, then looked down at the pen in front of him.

‘Well, come on.'

‘It's not going to work. You're wasting your time. I tried to tell your friend, but he wouldn't listen.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We don't have the rose. It's been stolen.'

Alex expected surprise to register on the man's face, but it didn't. His look of exasperation turned into one of anger, instead. Because of the tinted glasses, Alex couldn't see the expression in his eyes but knew they were boring into his. The man's lips tightened and with an index finger resting on either side of his glasses, he adjusted them, unnecessarily.

Still nothing was said.

He pushed the folder a few inches closer to Alex. ‘Just sign the papers, dammit.'

Alex picked up the pen. ‘Is Ira Wolff behind all this?'

The man ignored his question.

‘You know bloody well what's going on, don't you? You know all about my wife.'

The man nodded towards the folder. ‘Sign it,' he snapped.

‘If I do, when do I get her back?'

The man's fist moved with frightening speed as it crashed down on the top of the desk. ‘Sign the fuckin' paper,' he yelled.

Alex signed and dated the original and two copies, closed the folder and shoved it roughly across the desk. It was the only thing he could do. He stood up, almost knocking over the chair. ‘You bastards.' His voice was breaking, his fists clenched so tight they hurt. ‘You'll never get away with this.'

The man stood and spun around the desk. Before Alex could raise his fists, the man was up against him, his two hands grasping Alex's jacket lapels. With a fierce jerk he pulled Alex close to him, so close that Alex could see his eyes reflected in the man's glasses. ‘Get this straight,' he said, drawing a long breath. ‘I'm not going to repeat myself. You want your wife back in one piece – you have that rose ready for delivery in forty-eight hours. You got it? Forty-eight hours, that's two days from now.' On the ‘now', the man released his grip and pushed Alex away so hard that he stumbled back and crashed into the door.