6.The Alcatraz Rose (24 page)

Almost fifteen minutes passed and Kingston was getting impatient, beginning to wonder yet again if he had been too hasty in supposing that something sinister was going on in the house. He had no hard evidence, and everything he knew was based solely on Sophie’s account of the incident. What was equally worrisome was that the police didn’t think the situation warranted immediate investigation, and they’d interviewed both Sophie and the people in the house. According to her, they’d even conducted a cursory search.

His funk evaporated when the door opened again. The same man he’d seen earlier was now pushing a wheelchair, easing it down the shallow single step from the house to the driveway. There, he opened the rear door of the car. Kingston grabbed the binoculars.

“Sod it,” he muttered. Whoever was in the chair was only partially visible, blocked by the open door. Was it Grace Williams? He wanted it to be, praying for a clearer look.

At that moment, a second man emerged from the house. He was tall and wore a dark overcoat. Alongside him holding his hand was a well-dressed woman wearing a floppy hat. After some hesitation and a few words with the man, she got in the car through the rear door. Kingston figured that when the invalid was helped upright, prior to being eased into the car, there was good chance that he would be able to see the face. He gripped his binoculars tighter. The man behind the wheelchair helped the invalid to a wobbly standing position and then partially lifted her or him into the rear car seat, next to the woman.

At that instant, Kingston got a clear view of the invalid’s face.

It was not Grace Williams. It was an elderly man.

In quick succession, the wheelchair was stowed in the boot, the heavyset man got in the driver’s seat, the man in the overcoat slipped into the passenger seat, the car doors slammed silently shut, and the Mercedes eased out of the driveway onto Chiltern Terrace.

Kingston put aside the binoculars and the newspaper, turned the key in the ignition, and waited. He wanted to see which way the Mercedes turned at the end of the road before pulling out behind it.

Shadowing the car at this time of day shouldn’t be too difficult. And if he lost sight of it, he would just head to Coleshill as fast as possible, with the hope of beating them there. He still had no way of knowing if Coleshill was their destination, but as the journey unfolded he had a gut feeling that he would be proved right.

The Mercedes’s turn signal was blinking.

Kingston pulled out, ready to start on the next phase of his surveillance.

24

M
AINTAINING A COMFORTABLY
safe distance behind the Mercedes, Kingston saw the Chalfont St. Peter exit sign and knew that it was only a matter of minutes before they arrived at what was now, without question, their destination: Coleshill.

About a half mile on the west side of the village, the Mercedes began to slow, the left-hand turn signal flashing. From where he was, some twenty yards behind, he couldn’t see a road on the left, guessing that it was likely a private drive. This was convenient because Kingston could take his time passing, to determine if his supposition was right. The Mercedes made its turn, and a few seconds later Kingston slowed as he passed a narrow paved driveway, flanked by stubby white pillars. Each bore the name
GREYSHILL LODGE
on a bronze plaque. He could see his quarry disappearing at the far end of the straight drive, but no house was visible.

Knowing that villages like Coleshill and the Chalfonts would still be fast asleep at this time of morning—it was only just past six thirty—Kingston decided to press on to Amersham, a larger town about five miles away. With luck he’d find a café or service station open and a much-needed bathroom, where he could get a cup of tea and something to eat while he decided what to do next. High on that list was a call to Emma. By nature decisive, one to tackle situations head on, he was starting to feel the need to talk to someone about what was unfolding. Despite this, he resisted the urge, knowing full well that he would get no sympathy whatsoever; she would tell him, in no polite terms, to return home immediately and report everything to the police. Until now he hadn’t
had a confrontation with her, but were that to happen, he suspected he would find himself on the losing end.

At seven forty-five, in Seasons Café-Deli on Amersham High Street, Kingston had just finished a full English breakfast. Now on his third cup of Darjeeling tea, he’d spent most of the last forty-five minutes dwelling on the morning’s escapade. One side of his brain was telling him to just give up and go home; the other was egging him on to find out more about the house and who lived there. It was too early in the day to employ his favorite ploy of visiting the local pub to ferret out information about people and places in the vicinity. The only other possibility was to spin some cock-and-bull story to a local estate agent, claiming that he was researching properties for sale in the area, but he’d tried this once before with disastrous results. In any case, it would be at least two hours before the agents opened up.

Picking up his check, he looked up to see a woman enter the café. She was tall, notably skinny, with angular features, a pale complexion, and gray hair. In a dark turtleneck, with a hat that cast a shadow over her eyes, she reminded him of Grace Williams.

As the woman walked across the room to sit down, he realized he was frowning. It took him a moment to figure out why. It was the hat.

He thought back to the scene in Primrose Hill: the foursome waiting to get in the car. He closed his eyes and tried to recapture it in detail.

He had missed something, Kingston realized. Had been so preoccupied trying to get a good look at the person in the wheelchair, convinced that it was Grace Williams, when all the time . . .

He tried to picture the woman and man, her standing beside the chair, him holding her hand. It was odd. That gesture of affection was out of character with what was happening at the time. Then it dawned on him that there was another explanation for what he’d seen. The two weren’t holding hands; the man was gripping her wrist. Or worse, the woman had been handcuffed.

He was now convinced that it had been Grace Williams. He should have taken a closer look at her face. That was probably the reason for the hat, too.

Leaving the café, he walked back to the Land Rover, parked a few doors down the street. He knew it was still speculation, but it felt right—sufficiently so to justify his staying in the area, killing a couple of hours, then visiting an estate agent’s office he’d spotted coming in. Even if he found out who owned or lived at Greyshill, he had no idea of its significance or how it might change anything. But while he was on the doorstep, he could think of no good reasons not to make the effort.

Sitting in the car, he decided to call Andrew. He at least deserved to know that everything was going well and no harm had befallen his car, or Kingston, for that matter.

He took out his mobile and thumbed in Andrew’s number. Barely three rings and he answered.

“It’s Lawrence. Thought I’d check in and let you know what’s going on.”

“I appreciate that. I was going to give you until noon before I called Scotland Yard.”

“No need to worry. Everything went according to Hoyle, as far as my guess about the Primrose Hill house and their going to Bucks for the weekend. I had to sit in the Rover twiddling my thumbs until dawn this morning before anything happened, though. Three men and a woman took off in a big Mercedes.”

“Was the woman Grace Williams?”

“Can’t say for sure, but I believe so. I followed them to Coleshill, where I gave up when they turned into the driveway of Greyshill Lodge, the house listed on the Land Registry site. It’s a bit complicated. I’ll tell you all about it before the day’s over. Right now I’m in Amersham. I just had breakfast and I’m headed back there.”

“Why? Aren’t you running the risk of someone recognizing the car?”

“The risk is about zero. The house is at the end of a long drive, about a mile outside the village, and I plan to be there for ten minutes at the outside.”

“To do what?”

“Try to find out who these people are. To get names. The eldest man was in a wheelchair.”

“Whatever that means. I’m not going to ask you how you plan to get that information, but for God’s sake, Lawrence, be bloody careful, that’s all.”

“I will, don’t worry. All being well, I should be back after lunch, to give you a full report. I’ll call you when I leave Coleshill.”

“Take care.”

“Oh, could you do me a favor? In about an hour, could you call Emma for me? She should know what’s going on. Tell her I’ll call the minute I return, when I have more information. Whatever you say, don’t make it sound risky—you know what I mean.”

“You’re a little late. She already called a half hour ago. I told her what you were doing, and while she didn’t come right out and say so, there was no question that she took a dim view. Exasperated might be the right word.”

“I’m not surprised. Don’t worry, I’ll call you when I’m heading back.”

Kingston turned the phone off, thinking. Just maybe, before the day was over, he might have some news that would cheer her up a little, change her exasperation to something resembling approval. Gratitude would be even better.

25

T
WO HOURS LATER
, Kingston backed into a parking space on a quiet side street about a half mile north of Coleshill. Greyshill Lodge was a mile away on the other side of the village, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Sanderson’s Estate Agents, a five-minute walk on the main road, was situated in a Victorian brick building, amid a short row of shops, a café, and a beauty shop. He’d spotted the sign earlier, on his way to Amersham.

Before leaving the café, he’d spent five minutes in the gents’, washing and tidying up to put on a reasonably presentable appearance. Even with a five o’clock shadow, nobody would ever guess that he’d spent the night in a car with little or no sleep. The odds of his being able to pry personal information out of an estate agent were long, but worn cliché as it was, there was nothing to be lost and everything to be gained.

As he opened Sanderson’s glass-paneled front door, he heard the faint dingdong of a bell somewhere in the back. With no one in sight, he waited and looked around, not that there was anything special to look at, only a tidy office with a dozen or so framed photos of Bucks scenery on the walls, a couple of passable Oriental carpets, and four modern-style desks. He heard the clip-clop of heels on hardwood flooring, and a woman appeared through a rear door.

“Good morning,” she said chirpily as she crossed the office. She was fashionably dressed, slender, and looked as if she’d just spent several hours in a beauty salon.

“Please sit down,” she said, pulling out a chair for Kingston and going around to the other side of the desk. “I’m Zandra Olson, estate marketing associate. How may I help you?”

Kingston detected a vestigial trace of a foreign accent, as she extended a hand with rings on three fingers.

“Lawrence Kingston,” he said, shaking her silky hand.

“So what brings you here so early today, Mr. Kingston? Are you looking for property in the area?”

“I’m not, but a close friend is. He’s retired and he’s set his mind on this part of Bucks. I’m beginning to see why,” he said, glancing around at the photos. “He spent a lot of time here as a child, at the home of friends of his parents. Quite a lovely old, rambling house, from what he remembers. As we get older, I suppose those memories take on more meaning. Anyway, he wanted to come with me today but couldn’t make it. He’s been out of sorts these last couple of weeks. So I promised him that while I was here for the day, I’d try to contact a local agent to set the ball rolling, as it were. He’s been doing a lot of research on the Internet, but he’s smart enough to know that working with an agent in or near the Chalfonts is far better—the only way to go.”

“I couldn’t agree more. May I ask where he lives now?”

“We both live in London, in Chelsea. We’ve known each other for about a dozen years.”

“Will he be selling or looking for a second home?”