EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  A few seconds passed, then, through the crack in the door, he heard an exchange of voices inside. In short order, the man was back, opening the door again. With a nod over his shoulder, he said, “Come on in.”

  Inside, the lace curtains were drawn, and though it was sunny outside, the interior was gloomy. Kingston was starting to wonder what he was getting himself into. He was beginning to wish he’d asked Andrew to accompany him, something that he’d considered. He entered a small living room, Mr. Talkative following. The space was untidy and sparsely furnished. In a corner by the window, a small television was on but with no sound. An open beer can sat on the coffee table. The place was musty and stank of cigarettes.

  The man said nothing. He stood by the window silently watching Kingston, presumably waiting for Hobbs. Kingston wondered if he should sit, but seeing the clutter of magazines and newspapers on the couch, and the clothes draped over the back of the only easy chair, he decided to stand and wait.

  “Dr. Kingston.”

  The voice came from behind. Hobbs had entered from the stairway that led upstairs. Kingston turned to face him. At first he didn’t recognize Hobbs. For one thing, he wasn’t wearing glasses, and he was dressed in a leather jacket, gray silk shirt, and black slacks, a far cry from the ill-fitting house man’s jacket he’d worn at Audleigh. His hair was cropped, making him look younger than Kingston remembered. A carry-on bag hung from his shoulder. By the looks of it, he was about to leave.

  “It wasn’t a good idea, coming here, Doctor,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Not a good idea at all.”

  Kingston ignored the remark. “Since it looks like you’re leaving,” he said, “I’ll make it brief. I was at Audleigh when your employer, Spenser Graves, killed himself. But then, you would know that, wouldn’t you?”

  Both men stood silent and expressionless, looking at him. Kingston was starting to feel uneasy. “He wanted me to tell you how much he appreciated all the things you’d done for him.” As he was talking, Kingston realized how lame the words sounded, what a pitiful excuse it was for his arriving unannounced on Hobbs’s doorstep. His mind was racing, trying to come up with something, anything, that would sound more convincing, to get Hobbs’s attention.

  “I pegged you as trouble right from the beginning,” Hobbs sneered. “Wandering around the halls, eavesdropping, asking a lot of questions. Still working for the police?”

  “I’m not, no.”

  “Then what did you hope to achieve by coming here?”

  “Just as I said. To tell you that your boss wanted to thank you, and tell you that he was sorry for what he’d done.”

  “You expect me to believe that rubbish?” he said, eyes narrowing. “I should deal with you right here and now.”

  He looked across the room to the other man, then back to Kingston.

  “But I’m not going to—not yet, anyway. We’ll have to save that for later. In the meantime, you’ll be in Ben’s care.”

  What exactly did that mean? Kingston wondered, as Hobbs crossed the room to Ben. A few whispered words passed between them; then, with a light pat on Ben’s shoulder, Hobbs left the room. The front door slammed loudly and Kingston caught a glimpse of him through the lace curtains, heading down the street.

  Kingston looked at Ben, who had now moved closer. “Do you know what your friend has done?” he asked.

  “Friend? You mean brother.”

  Only then did Kingston realize the resemblance. Same height, not many years separating them in age—two or three at most. If anything Ben was a little heavier. The beer, maybe, he thought.

  Kingston was thinking quickly. It was all starting to make sense. The fragmented pieces that he’d been trying so hard to fit together all these weeks were suddenly falling into place. Coming to the house hadn’t been a waste of time, after all. To the contrary. He now knew—or was almost certain—how one of the murders had taken place. He had to get out of the house and go after Hobbs. And he had to do it quickly or, like Julian Bell, Hobbs was going to do a disappearing act. He started toward the door.

  In the narrow entry hall, Ben blocked his way. No more than two paces apart, they stood facing each other, one waiting for the other to make the first move. Kingston was taller by a good three or four inches, but Ben was a few years younger and looked like he could handle himself in a fight.

  “Get out of my way,” said Kingston calmly.

  “Didn’t you understand what Art said, you big git? You’re going to stay here, with me,” he snarled, stabbing a finger at Kingston.

  Kingston stood still, not wanting to give Ben the slightest provocation or indication that he was prepared to put up a fight. He needed to buy time, to figure a way of escape by some other means. “How much did they pay you?” he asked evenly.

  “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

  Keep asking questions, Kingston said to himself. “You’re trying to tell me you don’t know what your brother’s done?”

  Ben’s expression had become less contentious but his stance hadn’t changed. He was still tense, hands at the ready should Kingston decide to make a move. He said nothing, simply glared.

  Kingston faked a sneeze, allowing him to lower and turn his head toward the wall on his left for a few seconds. Within arm’s reach was a hall stand. He hadn’t noticed it coming in. Not surprising. It was hardly noteworthy, and obviously the piece of furniture one would expect in such a location. Made of dark oak, it had a long vertical beveled mirror, below which was a closed storage area covered by a hinged bench seat. The arched top cleared the ceiling by a foot, and sundry articles of clothing hung from its several hooks.

  Kingston straightened and brought his eyes back to Ben’s. As he did so, he stumbled and grabbed the curved arm of the bench. In the same motion, using all the force he could summon, he pulled the hall stand crashing down.

  He leaped back as the top of the stand struck the opposite wall. Its top panel snapped off and cartwheeled down the hall. Immediately, the beveled mirror shattered. Ben reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. Seconds earlier, Kingston had gauged the man’s position, knowing there was a good chance that at least a part of the hall stand would strike him—disable him just long enough to give Kingston time to clamber over the back of it and escape.

  When the dust settled, it was the clothes as much as anything that had bought Kingston the time he needed. Ben was buried under a pile of raincoats, jackets, parkas, and scarves, plus the contents of the storage space. Kingston climbed over the heap and opened the front door. Just before slamming it behind him, he glanced back. He was sweating, covered in cobwebs and muck from the back of the hall stand, but couldn’t help breaking a smile. Ben was still trying to disentangle himself from the shambles.

  Kingston ran out of the house and down the street in the direction that Hobbs had taken, the same route that Kingston had taken to get to the house. There was always the chance that Hobbs would have a car, but, in London, Kingston figured the odds were against it. Not only that, but if Hobbs was doing a runner, a car would be a liability, too easy for the police to track and identify. That meant that wherever he was going, unless he could find a convenient taxi—rare on these quiet streets—he must travel by bus or the underground. Hobbs had about a minute’s lead, and it was going to take a stroke of luck to catch up with him.

  Still running, he’d reached the end of Evelyn Close, at the T junction. Turning right would take him back to Goldhawk Road and eventually the station. It seemed the only likely choice. If Hobbs had managed to hop on a bus, he would be long gone by now. Kingston was getting short of breath and slowed to a fast walk. Waiting for a pedestrian signal, breathing loudly, his heart thumping, a morbid thought crossed his mind. He’d never hear the last of it from Desmond and Andrew, let alone Sheffield, if he had a heart attack and ended up in the hospital. He quickly dismissed the thought and crossed on the green light. The Stamford Brook station was now only two blocks away.

  He entered the station and, usin
g his return ticket, passed through the automatic ticket barrier. He was reasonably familiar with the layout because Stamford Brook was only eight stops from Sloane Square, his local station. Both were on the District Line, and the station had only two platforms. The first was for westbound trains, heading out of London. The second platform was for eastbound trains, heading into central London, the West End, and, eventually, the East London suburbs.

  Without giving it a moment’s thought, Kingston took the steps up to platform 2. His reasoning was simple: Hobbs was carrying a bag, meaning he wasn’t going out for a stroll or to buy a pack of cigarettes; he was planning a more extended trip. If his purpose was to go into hiding or leave the country, he would head for one of the several big stations like Victoria, King’s Cross, or Waterloo, all easy connections by tube. Trains from those stations would take him almost anywhere in the country. If Hobbs was planning to leave the country, then Waterloo would probably be the one; he could catch the high-speed Eurostar train, connecting the UK with Paris and Brussels via the Chunnel. If he were in Hobbs’s shoes—given the ease, convenience, and relative anonymity of the train versus flying—he would take the train any day. Plus it terminated in the heart of Paris. In three hours, Hobbs could be dining at Chez Michel.

  On the platform, Kingston glanced around. There were few waiting passengers, normal for that time of day. If Hobbs was among them, Kingston would have spotted him by now. He was becoming resigned to the fact that the chase had been in vain; Hobbs had got too good a start. Now that he was here, he decided he might as well wait for the train. There was always the long shot that Hobbs had gone to the gents, or had stopped at the station’s newsagents. He cursed himself for not having looked in there.

  Kingston could hear the train now. In seconds, it appeared around the shallow curve, a hundred yards from the platform. People were picking up bags and preparing to board, but there was still no sign of Hobbs. That was it, then, he thought.

  The train doors opened and passengers started boarding. Kingston was about to turn and walk away when Hobbs suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, at the other end of the platform. He must have been sitting out of sight all this time on one of the station benches, thought Kingston. He watched as Hobbs boarded. So engrossed was he watching Hobbs and congratulating himself for tracking him down, that he almost forgot to board himself. He lunged for the doors as they were closing. He almost lost his footing but managed to hold the doors back and squeeze through them onto the train. Nobody noticed. Londoners did it all the time.

  Though there were plenty of seats, Kingston stood by the door, gripping the handrail. The distance between stations was short, and he had little time to think. As the train was approaching, the next station, he knew what he had to do.

  He guessed that the train had at least a half dozen separate carriages, and there was no way to go from carriage to carriage when the train was in motion. Hobbs was in the first carriage, and he was in the second to last. By now, he was betting all his chips that Hobbs was headed for Waterloo Station, twelve stops away. That meant Hobbs would have to change at Westminster, onto a Jubilee line train. Kingston had made the journey a number of times.

  The train pulled into the next stop, Ravenscourt Park. Kingston stepped onto the platform and quickly moved up to the next carriage. He waited on the platform, staying as close to the door as possible while still able to see passengers alighting. Satisfied that Hobbs hadn’t got off the train, he waited until he heard the “Mind the gap” and “Stand clear of the closing door” announcements. Only then did he step back onto the train. At the next two stations, Kingston repeated the procedure, each time moving up another carriage. Was Hobbs still on the train? Had he managed to slip off without Kingston’s noticing? He would know soon.

  At Westminster, Kingston was ready. As the train came to a stop and the doors opened, Kingston stepped onto the platform. The exit was close to the front of the train. This meant that if Hobbs got off, he would head away from Kingston but be close enough to be followed unseen. Kingston had to be extra careful not to lose him in the crowd. He also knew that more people would be disembarking, because of the Waterloo connection. It was the largest and busiest of all London’s stations.

  Sure enough, Hobbs stepped off the train and made for the exit amid the throng of other passengers, Kingston following at a safe distance. Leaving the tunnel from the platform, Hobbs took the escalator down to the interchange level. Then he took a second escalator leading to the Jubilee line, platform 3. There was no question now that he was heading for Waterloo. Once on the platform, Kingston stayed back, in cover of the entrance tunnel, until the train pulled in. Kingston watched as Hobbs boarded, then quickly walked to the next carriage and stepped onto the train. Waterloo was the next stop, so he remained standing.

  Up until now, he hadn’t given any thought to what he was going to do once they arrived at Waterloo. The twenty-one-platform station was humongous. Kingston remembered reading once that it covered twenty-four acres. The main concourse could be elbow-to-elbow with travelers, most in a hurry. Unless he stayed really close, he could easily lose Hobbs.

  With Kingston several paces back, Hobbs entered Waterloo Station’s main concourse. Kingston’s intuition had been right. Hobbs was indeed headed toward the two-level International Concourse ahead. That’s where the chase would end, Kingston knew.

  At the concourse entrance, Kingston watched, powerless and dejected, as Hobbs passed through the automatic ticket barrier and disappeared into the Eurostar terminal. He’d obviously purchased a ticket in advance. Kingston thought briefly about hunting down one of the yellow flak-jacketed transport police who patrol the station but quickly realized how futile that would be. What would he tell them? Certainly nothing that would persuade them to apprehend Hobbs. If Kingston could provide tangible, credible proof that he was pursuing a man who had committed a murder, or could convince the police that Hobbs was armed and dangerous, that would be another matter. As it was, it looked as though Hobbs was going to get away, scot-free. Kingston stood at the International Concourse entrance for a few seconds more, checking the departure monitor to see that the next train departed in twenty minutes, at one forty-one, direct to Paris.

  Quickly, he sized up his options. There was still plenty of time for him to buy a ticket and board the train, but he didn’t have his passport. He couldn’t get through the ticket and customs inspection without it. Even if he could, doing so would run the risk of Hobbs spotting him, either in the terminal or on the train. If he boarded, he would have to stay out of sight and wait until it arrived in Paris—and then what could he do? Nothing. Once on the train, the only practical thing would be to call Inspector Sheffield on his mobile and have him call the police in Paris, who hopefully would arrive in time to apprehend Hobbs. So why get on the train at all? He could call Sheffield right now.

  He walked back to the main concourse to find somewhere to sit down—not easy at Waterloo—and make the call.

  Kingston punched in 999 and, within seconds, was talking to an emergency operator. Quickly, he explained who he was, where he was, and why he was calling, asking that a call be placed immediately to Detective Inspector Sheffield of Thames Valley Police. Stressing the urgency of the situation, and speaking as calmly as he could—hoping that the operator took him seriously and didn’t consider it a crank call—he asked that Sheffield be located as quickly as possible and told to call Kingston. He left his mobile number, closed the phone, and went in search of a cup of tea and a sandwich.

  Having made the trip to Paris on several occasions, Kingston knew that Hobbs would arrive at Gare du Nord in approximately three hours. That should give Sheffield plenty of time to call back. When he did, Kingston would tell him what had transpired that morning and that he now knew—or thought he did—how the murders were committed, at least Jenkins’s. He would also urge that Ben Hobbs be arrested as an accessory. If everything went according to plan, Hobbs would be having dinner that night in a Paris jail cell. />
  TWENTY-SIX

  Kingston’s mobile rang just as he got off the train at Sloane Square tube station. It was Sheffield returning his call. For a moment it was impossible to hear the inspector over the sound of the departing train. He stood, staring at a Guinness poster on the wall opposite, until the train disappeared through the tunnel. Without wasting words, he told the inspector how he’d obtained Hobbs’s address and what had happened at the house that morning and on the underground chase.

  “I’ve got no proof, but I’m positive that Hobbs is mixed up in all this,” he said.

  “Give me a brief description.”

  “About five ten, slim, short-cut graying hair. He’s wearing a black leather bomber jacket, gray shirt, black pants, and carrying a black shoulder bag.”

  “Good. We’ll let the Paris police know immediately. We’ve still got plenty of time. They should have a welcoming committee waiting for him when he arrives.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’ve got to go, Kingston. I’ll let you know what happens. I’ll have a lot of questions to ask you then,” he added, before hanging up.

  The veiled reprimand in the inspector’s last comment didn’t sit too well with Kingston. I go to all this trouble to help Sheffield solve the case, and a lot of thanks I’m likely to get, he thought. His conscience was clear, though, and he was pleased with his day’s work. He also took comfort in knowing that policemen generally—admittedly for good reason—do not look too kindly on citizens who take matters into their own hands where police matters are concerned. Thinking on it, perhaps he had crossed the line yet again. Not by much, though.

  On the way back to his apartment, Kingston stopped at Partridge’s deli and picked up a generous slice of veal, ham, and egg pie and a jar of pickled onions. He was reminded that six hours had passed since he’d last eaten. The Eurostar was scheduled to arrive in Paris at roughly four thirty London time, so it would be a while before Kingston could expect a call back from Inspector Sheffield, if at all today. He would go home, have a leisurely lunch with a half-pint of London Pride, and try to finish the crossword. After that, he should be in a more receptive mood to worry about the rest of the day—or not worry about it.