The Blue Rose (19 page)

‘Now, get the hell out of here,' the man shouted.

Alex recovered and glared back, sizing up his chances in a fight. Deciding they were not good, he turned, opened the door and walked out, slamming it behind him as hard as he could.

Gripping a large suitcase in one hand, a holdall in the other, a bulky camera case dangling from his shoulder and a wooden tennis racquet tucked under his arm, Kingston returned to The Parsonage late on Wednesday evening to find Alex more despondent than ever.

The moment Alex had opened the door, Kingston could see that the events of the past days were starting to have a marked physical effect on him. His eyes were dark-circled and lacklustre from worry and, no doubt, loss of sleep. Even his posture seemed to be bowing under the weight of his frustration and despair. His clothes reflected his resignation, too. He was wearing a badly stained Oxford University sweatshirt, blue jeans frayed to the point of exposing one of his kneecaps, and no shoes.

In the sitting room, Kingston poured himself a generous scotch, then walked over and settled his tall frame into the ample seat of
his
chair. Alex was slumped on the sofa opposite. Asp was curled up next to him. Only one lamp was lit, making the mood even more gloomy.

‘So, how are you holding up, Alex?' he asked.

Alex's answer was slow in coming, his voice listless. ‘Not very well,' he answered.

Kingston looked into Alex's red-rimmed eyes, then across to the side table and the amber dregs in a heavily fingerprinted crystal glass. ‘You're not overdoing it on the sauce, are you, Alex?'

‘No, don't worry, Lawrence, I'm not drinking myself into oblivion – if that's what you're thinking. Not yet, anyway.'

Alex looked down for a long moment, then back to Kingston. ‘Wolff has given us forty-eight hours to come up with the rose or the bastards are going to hurt Kate.' He let out a long sigh. ‘I don't think I can take it much more, Lawrence.'

Kingston swirled the ice in the glass held in his lap. The sound heightened the tension in the room. ‘Maybe there's a way we can prove to Wolff that we don't have the rose, that you've been telling the truth.'

‘How do we do that?'

Kingston took a sip of scotch. ‘I don't have a quick answer but anything's worth a try right now.'

Alex got up. ‘Come on, Asp, I forgot to feed you again. Sorry, old chap.' Asp followed Alex into the kitchen.

In a couple of minutes he returned and sat down opposite Kingston.

‘So, tell me more about what happened in Oxford,' Kingston inquired, sipping his scotch.

‘There's not much to tell. It was just as we thought. I ended up signing an agreement transferring ownership of the rose.'

‘A rose you don't have.'

‘Exactly.'

‘You did tell them that you didn't have it – that it was questionable whether you even owned it?'

‘Christ, Lawrence, of course I did. And it didn't make a bloody bit of difference. The guy went ballistic when I told him. The bastard shoved me into the door.' He rubbed his shoulder. ‘It still hurts,' he said, grimacing.

‘I should have come with you,' Kingston said, more just for something to say.

Alex said nothing, plainly lost in agonizing thought.

‘So, this man – was he a lawyer?'

Alex sneered. ‘Lawyer? He looked more like a pimp.'

‘Well, whose office was it, then?'

Alex bowed his head and massaged his temples. ‘Some solicitor's called Lithgow.'

‘Well, you can be damned sure they borrowed the place for a couple of hours. Wolff would never leave tracks like that. Easiest thing in the world to get somebody out of their office for a few hours.'

‘Lawrence, these people are evil. It wouldn't surprise me if they had Lithgow locked and bound in a closet somewhere in the back.'

A drawn-out silence suggested that Alex wanted no further discussion about the morning's encounter.

Kingston got up, stretched his legs, went over to the standard lamp by the windows and turned it on. He wanted to talk more about the rose, only in the hope that by doing so it would offer up even the slenderest clue as who might have taken it or where it may be. But he could see that Alex had had enough for one day. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you,' he said, in an upbeat tone, hoping that it might help lift Alex out of his despondency. ‘I got a call from Cardwell today.'

‘Cardwell?'

‘Yes, you know – the head cryptographer, the chap at DSSS Chicksands. He phoned to let me know that he'd made some more inquiries on the matter of Graham's journal that they decrypted. Well, it turns out that the cryptographer did make file copies of the decoded pages after all, but Graham must have quietly snaffled them while the chap's back was turned.'

‘Makes sense. The crafty sod certainly wouldn't want extra copies of the formula lying around, would he? I'm surprised he was able to pull it off at all.'

‘Not when you think about it. Apparently, the name Major Jeffrey Cooke still opens doors there, even fifty years later. It seems that he's in the same league as Alan Turing, Sir Harry Hinsley, and some of other top wartime Bletchley cryptoanalysts. When the people at Chicksands learned that Graham was his nephew, they were only too happy to oblige in deciphering the missing journal.'

‘Well, it all becomes moot now, I suppose. I doubt very much that we'll ever see that rose again. We might as well face up to it.'

‘I wouldn't count it out altogether, Alex. Not just yet.'

‘I only wish I could believe that,' Alex mumbled.

Kingston tried another tack. ‘Did Adell ever get back to you – on Graham's claim?'

‘Damn! I meant to call him today. I'll do it tomorrow – the answer is no.'

‘About tomorrow, I take it you're not going in to the office?'

‘I don't think so. But if I sit around here all day long I'll go raving mad.'

‘From now on, Alex, we have to start brainstorming around the clock. We must find that damned rose. We'll start first thing tomorrow and we'll continue over lunch.'

‘I don't think so,' Alex protested. ‘Not lunch, that is. I really don't have the stomach for it right now.'

‘Come on, Alex. You haven't eaten a decent meal in days, I'll bet. It'll do you good. It's only an hour out of the day.'

Alex shook his head. ‘Lawrence, how can you be thinking of food at a time like this?'

Kingston held his hands up, palms facing Alex. ‘I'm going to insist on it,' he said. ‘What difference does it make
where
we are as long as we're trying to figure this bloody mess out?'

Alex sighed. ‘All right, Lawrence. Only an hour, okay?'

‘That's a promise?'

‘I suppose so,' Alex mumbled, with a limp shrug.

‘We have to keep trying, keep talking, that's all,' Kingston said in as comforting a tone as he could muster. He looked away from Alex to the leaded windows and beyond into the darkness of the gardens. He thought of the rose. Where was it, he wondered? For all they knew, it could be out of the country by now.

What an extraordinary discovery it was, and what misfortune it had brought with it. Like King Tut's curse. Had Major Cooke anticipated this sort of thing happening? He and Farrow – if, indeed, he was involved – must have thought a lot about the impact a blue rose would have globally on horticulture. Was it possible that they had the foresight to predict that there could be a dark side to such a beautiful creation? That greedy, unethical, even corrupt individuals and interests would try to acquire it by whatever means possible? Was this why they had used codes and not told a soul – even Mrs Cooke – of what they were doing? Did they intend all along never to reveal their secret? That appeared to be the case.

‘What are you thinking about, Lawrence?'

Kingston turned to see Alex standing by the sofa holding the two empty glasses, as if ready to leave. ‘Oh, just about Cooke and Farrow – trying to visualize how they must have reacted when they found out they'd achieved the impossible. I would dearly love to have witnessed that. Oh, I had another thought, too, related to Mrs Cooke. I won't saddle you with it now. I'll tell you about it tomorrow.'

Alex nodded.

Kingston got up from his chair, stretched and stifled a yawn with the back of his hand then headed through the door to the hallway, where he'd left his belongings. Alex flicked off the lights in the living room and helped Kingston take his bags upstairs.

On the landing, Kingston paused at the partially open door to his room and turned to Alex. ‘Thanks for asking me to stay, Alex,' he said. ‘By the way – you do play tennis, don't you?'

‘Yes. Not as often as I'd like, I'm afraid. But I'll bet you played with Rod Laver in your day – eh?'

‘That's extraordinary – how could you have known that?'

 

A few minutes after eight the following morning the two of them sat down at the kitchen table with pads and pens and – not for the first time – started to recreate a step-by-step replay of every single event and conversation that had occurred since Kate and Alex's discovery of the rose. By noon two dozen sheets were filled with notes but they were no nearer to breaking the impasse.

The small French restaurant Kingston had chosen was in a back street of Cirencester. Soon after they were seated, Kingston launched into an animated conversation in French with the waiter. Most of it was lost to Alex but there was no question that Kingston knew his Provençal cuisine.

Kingston ordered a glass of wine, Alex settled for mineral water. Soon, Niçoise salads were placed in front of them and for the next ten minutes they ate and talked without further interruption.

Kingston dabbed his mouth with the cloth napkin. ‘So, as I was saying, Alex, I think we should pay Mrs Cooke another visit – as soon as possible. I have a feeling it could prove productive. You have to give her back the Major's journals, anyway.'

‘Our condolences, too.'

‘That's right.'

‘Maybe we should go this afternoon?'

‘I think we should.'

‘I'll call her when we get back. I would imagine she's at home most of the time.'

Kingston leaned back. ‘There's another, more important reason a visit could prove worthwhile.'

‘What's that?'

‘Since it's likely that Mrs Cooke now has the missing journal, it would present the ideal opportunity to ask her about the Stanhope situation. To find out if she plans to go ahead with Graham's claim. There's even the long shot that we could get our hands on the missing journal.'

‘Now that she knows what it is, do you really think she'll give it up? If she has it, that is.'

‘I doubt it, but we have to find out, don't we? Is it possible that she didn't know what Graham was up to?'

‘Unlikely, I would say,' Alex replied, ‘but if she didn't know, she must do by now. You know damned well the police will have been in touch with her, too. That being the case, they will have told her about Graham's claim. They will also have shown her Stanhope's letter – you can bet on it.'

‘I'm sure you're right,' said Kingston, taking a sip of wine and studying the wineglass. ‘There's also the chance that the journal could have wound up in Stanhope's possession.'

‘That's a possibility.'

‘Yes, if we can get our hands on the missing journal – just borrow it for a while – we could prove to Wolff that, even if he gets the blue rose, he'll have competition.'

‘Exactly.'

They broke off their conversation while the waiter served the main course, a steaming Bouillabaisse.

Alex broke off a piece of the warm crusty baguette. ‘I wonder how Wolff will react when we tell him about the formula – if we get it, that is.'

‘Not too favourably, one would imagine. Though I doubt for one minute that he'll believe us.'

‘I don't think I would either, frankly. All this code crap.'

‘Regardless, at some point we have to tell him.'

‘We have no way of contacting him, though.'

‘Did the man in Oxford say when they would be back in touch with you?'

‘That tight-lipped bastard? No, he didn't. Just said we had forty-eight hours, that's all.'

‘Obviously they have to, Alex. Somehow I don't think they'll just turn Kate loose – just like that.'

‘God only knows what they'll do. As long as she's not harmed, I don't give a damn about anything else.'

Kingston said nothing, spooning up the last of his stew. Alex frowned. ‘I still wonder who would want to kill Graham.'

‘Hard to say, Alex, we don't have many suspects.'

‘According to you, Wolff is capable of doing something like that, isn't he?'

‘I suppose we can't rule him out. But if he did, that would undoubtedly mean that he knew about Graham having the formula. Is that possible?'

Alex shook his head. ‘God knows. Anything's possible,' he mumbled. ‘Look, let's not fool ourselves, we both know that Graham's death is connected somehow to the blue rose. It has to be. For it to be anything else would seem to be out of the question at this point.'

Kingston let out a sigh. ‘You're probably right. As much as I want to believe otherwise, it smacks of having everything to do with the blue rose.'

Alex toyed with his empty water glass, said nothing.

Kingston gestured to the waiter. ‘How about some dessert, Alex?'

‘Just coffee for me, thanks.'

Another ten minutes passed before they finally left the restaurant, stepping out on to a rain-blackened pavement shiny enough to reflect their shoes. ‘Well – back to the good old English summer,' Alex said, putting up his collar. ‘The umbrella's in the car, naturally.'

A sullen sky and whipping rain of a gusty afternoon storm instantly extinguished all further thoughts of sunny Provence.

 

Three nights had passed since Kate had been imprisoned. Thinking back, she was now certain that they had put something in the tea on that first day. Waking the next morning, she had had no idea how long she had slept. It just felt like a long time. Even then her eyes were heavy-lidded and she had a dull headache. Sitting on the bed in semi-darkness, it took some time before she even realized where she was. Then it all came rushing back.