EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  “If you’re right, it would suggest that Hobbs has a criminal record.”

  “Very probable, I would say.”

  “With no paint samples, I doubt if we’ll find the car anyway.”

  “On that subject, did any DVLA transfer papers show up for Mayhew’s bike?”

  “No. The only explanation we came up with is that Mayhew had sold the bike to Lester and the completed transfer of ownership papers were in the tank-top bag or one of the saddlebags, ready to mail, and were destroyed in the fire.”

  Kingston nodded, not convinced. “You might want to check Mayhew’s bank statements, to see if he made a sizable deposit around that time.”

  “We did, and he didn’t,” Sheffield replied.

  “Going back to Hobbs, I doubt he’d be stupid enough to use his own car, or one from Audleigh. That car, wherever it came from, has probably been ditched or destroyed. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jenkins had supplied it and, after the accident, it was driven straight back to Cornwall, where it conveniently vanished or was taken apart.”

  Sheffield sighed, glancing at the clock as though he’d already heard enough for one day. “That brings us to Jenkins,” he said.

  “Yes. David Jenkins. If one must feel sorry for anyone in this damned mess—save for Mayhew, perhaps—it might be Jenkins. I’m now convinced that he became involved at the start in a lesser role and was never really a third partner in the scheme to steal the bowl. We know, from what Graves told me, that Jenkins’s job was to find someone who could make the replica. Remember, the scheme was hatched long before this last expedition—it started almost two years ago. I asked myself if Jenkins had become aware of the plot to steal the bowl, or whether Bell and Graves had come up with some cock-and-bull story as to why they wanted the bowl replicated. Given everything that followed, it is more likely the former. It’s possible, too, that Jenkins was promised payment for his services.”

  Sheffield was showing signs of impatience again. From his fixed stoical expression, he was clearly tiring and probably no longer considered it an interview but rather an amusing demonstration of Kingston’s amateur detective work. How much of what he had hypothesized thus far had already been concluded by Sheffield and his team? Kingston wondered. With all the resources available to them, they certainly hadn’t been wasting their time all these weeks, and had doubtless built a case of their own. Sheffield interrupted his thoughts.

  “Explain the letters that Jenkins wrote to you, and the one he sent to Mayhew.”

  Kingston was pleased the inspector had posed those questions, pleased that he’d been given a reprieve, even if only temporary. From now on he would keep his answers and explanations concise, or Sheffield would simply have the tape turned off.

  “Why he wrote them was perplexing, I must admit. Both letters—the one asking me to meet him at Lydiard Park, and the second, delivered by the schoolboy at the churchyard—indicate that he wanted to tell us everything he knew, but it had become too dangerous for him to risk doing so. The letters and the clipping suggest that his original arrangement with Graves and Bell—to find someone who could replicate the bowl—had escalated far beyond what he’d originally reckoned on. Helping with the bowl was one thing, but by agreeing—more likely being coerced—to set up an alibi for Bell, he had placed himself in jeopardy. Indeed, if he had prior knowledge of specifically why Bell needed the alibi, that would make him an accessory to Lester’s murder. Am I correct?”

  Sheffield nodded. “It would. Yes.”

  “He had to do something—anything—to distance himself from Bell and Graves, to somehow pin the crimes on them. He dare not go to you—the police—squealing on them, because, knowing what had happened to Lester, he feared for his life. So learning from the newspapers that I was helping in an advisory capacity, he chose me as the next best thing. By telling me, he could pretty much count on it getting back to you. The clipping about Mayhew’s accident and Samantha Bell’s death were also an attempt to place suspicion on Bell by providing a motive for his wanting Mayhew dead. It’s conjecture, but perhaps Jenkins thought that if Bell and Graves were arrested and charged with conspiracy to commit grand theft, he might be exonerated, or at least let off more lightly.”

  “So you think that the letter he delivered to Mayhew, urging that he reconsider going on the trip, was simply to call attention to Jenkins’s concern about Bell and Mayhew being on the expedition together?”

  “A little more than that, perhaps. To Jenkins, going on the record before the expedition meant that afterward—if things took a turn for the worse—he could legitimately point out that he had sensed, ahead of time, potential for serious trouble between Bell and Mayhew. It could be damning enough to make Bell a prime suspect in Mayhew’s death. Not only that, but Jenkins could prove that he’d tried to do something about it. At what point Jenkins knew that Bell had killed Lester, or whether he knew all along, is moot, I believe. With Lester’s murder, Jenkins rightfully feared a similar fate, if Bell got wind that he was going to squeal. The newspaper clipping about Mayhew’s acquittal in Samantha Bell’s death served the same purpose: Both would incriminate Bell, make it appear that he was responsible for Peter Mayhew’s death.”

  “Which you don’t believe to be the case.”

  “Correct.” Kingston glanced at his notes again, then leaned back, motioning with both hands that he was finished. “That’s about it,” he said. “Quite a few gaps, but until Bell surrenders or is captured, we may never know the full story.”

  Inspector Sheffield told DC Underwood that he was going to conclude the session and proceeded to sign off. Soon thereafter, Underwood departed with the recorder, leaving Sheffield and Kingston alone in the room.

  “Well, I must compliment you, Doctor,” said Sheffield. “I confess I hadn’t expected quite such a thorough and compelling presentation.” He granted a rare, thin smile. “At the same time, I think I’ll give myself a pat on the back for deciding to tape the session. I never would have been able to commit the details of your . . . rationalization to memory.”

  Kingston wasn’t quite sure if this was another one of the inspector’s sly digs at his prolixity. Sometimes it was hard to figure the man out. He was about to respond, when Sheffield continued.

  “Well, thanks, Doctor. I assure you that your insights, particularly where Hobbs is concerned, will be given serious consideration.”

  They talked for another five minutes before shaking hands, and then Kingston went on his way.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Back at his Chelsea flat, Kingston felt like a man who had just returned from a long and exotic vacation. Life over the next days seemed dull and sluggish. Even London, his happily adopted city, seemed grayer and more threadbare than usual. Andrew, whom he relied on more than he would like to admit to liven things up, was in France with a friend on a Champagne Rally or some such indulgence. His phone message had been customarily vague. Kingston did remember “tooling around, half plastered every day, in an XK150.” He hoped Andrew had meant as a passenger.

  Even the modest pleasures in which Kingston indulged occasionally lacked their usual rewards: visits to galleries, trawling for art and antiques at Camden Passage, Antiquarius in the Kings Road, Saturday mornings at Portobello Road, predawn Bermondsey— where a torch was advisable, taking in a new West End play, afternoons at Kempton Park racecourse, uninterrupted hours of reading, even something as simple as trying his hand at a new recipe. Rather than buck him up, they only succeeded in making him more apathetic. He knew what it was, of course. There was nothing to challenge him anymore. The Mayhew case was in the past, at least for now. He doubted that he would hear again from anyone at the Thames Valley Police—unless Bell was tracked down. Even then, it was more than likely that he would read about it in the papers. Sheffield’s farewell words, when they had parted in Oxford after the interview, had had a marked ring of finality to them. Perhaps what irked him most was that the case was unsolved. Thinking back on everything, as he did almost dai
ly, not one of the deaths could be laid at the feet of any one person. No proof, beyond doubt, existed for any of them. It was all speculation and hypotheses—for him, exasperation. Perhaps he should take a holiday? It had been a long time since he’d done so. He hadn’t heard from Sally Mayhew, not that he’d expected to so soon. He had to admit, a week in and around St. Émilion would be a pleasant change. As quickly as the thought came to mind, he dismissed it. He would think about it again tomorrow, he told himself. Find a way to contact her somehow.

  Friday morning, Kingston was driving home from Princes Risborough, Buckinghamshire, after dinner with the Conquests the night before. He smiled. Up until yesterday he’d reached the point where he’d almost put the Mayhew case behind him, getting on with day-to-day living; last night he’d had to resurrect it all. He couldn’t blame Penny and Bertie for wanting to know. Like the rest of the public, they’d been following it in the papers, and for him to not have given them the inside scoop on everything that had taken place would have brought howls of protest and a few choice words thrown in. This time at least he’d been spared a tour of the stables.

  On the outskirts of High Wycombe, he stopped at a traffic signal. Glancing at the car next to him, he saw two Asian men in the backseat. Immediately he thought of the Jeep he’d seen leaving Audleigh, with Bell at the wheel and the two Asian passengers. The light turned green, and Kingston headed for the Motorway. He was still thinking about that incident. Had he mentioned it to Sheffield? He couldn’t remember. At the time, he had assumed what he thought the most plausible explanation: The men had met with Graves and Bell to discuss the sale of the Chinese bowl. The more he thought about it afterward, however, the more he realized that there could have been any number of other reasons. Graves was, after all, a collector of Asian art. They could be collectors, too. They could be representatives of a museum, specialists of some kind—even nothing whatsoever to do with Asian art, perhaps botanists or horticulturists visiting the arboretum.

  On the M40, he stayed in the slow lane so as not to have to concentrate as much on the traffic. He was thinking, thinking about the real bowl. By now, it was no doubt in safekeeping. The blast of a horn jolted him into the here and now. Glancing in his mirror, he saw a truck’s gargantuan radiator only a few yards behind. He accelerated, realizing that while he’d been engrossed with the bowl and the temple, his speed had dropped below 40 mph.

  He moved over two lanes and was soon doing a shade over the speed limit. At that speed the TR4’s exhaust note was music to his ears. He was now intent on getting home as soon as possible. He had an idea, the kernel of a plan. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it might work. It was eminently simple, and he wondered why on earth it hadn’t occurred to him before. He debated pulling off at the next rest stop and calling Sheffield on his mobile but decided to press on. Now, at last, he was excited. With luck on their side, his plan, executed quickly, just might bring Bell to justice.

  Kingston and Sheffield connected that afternoon at four o’clock. The Inspector explained that he was in London for three days of ACPO South East Region meetings with other police forces. They were in a break, he said, and he couldn’t talk long. They arranged to meet the next morning, during a tea break, at ten forty-five. Kingston would have fifteen minutes to lay out his plan. Kingston was enthused that the inspector had obviously placed sufficient importance on his call to warrant the ad hoc meeting.

  Inspector Sheffield and Kingston sat at a small table in the far reaches of the Park West hotel’s coffee shop. The hotel was a five-minute walk from the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, which was located behind the St. James’s Park tube station. The inspector glanced at his watch, as if to signal go. “So what’s all this about?” he asked. Clearly, there was no time for niceties.

  “First, a couple of questions, if I may?” Kingston replied.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Your people still have the fake bowl, returned by the Percival David Foundation?”

  “Certainly. It’s tagged and bagged as evidence.”

  “What about the bowl in the temple? I take it that it’s in safekeeping by now?”

  “It is. The Chinese authorities were informed of the aborted scheme, and they contacted the temple, and the bowl was removed immediately. At least, that’s my understanding. I’d have to double-check with the Met. They dealt with all that.”

  “Good—”

  Kingston paused because the waitress had arrived with coffee for Sheffield and Earl Grey tea with lemon for Kingston.

  “Next,” said Kingston, “the success of what I’m about to propose rests entirely on how much Bell knows about was has happened since he did a bunk. By that, I mean, if he’s aware that we know all about their scheme to steal the bowl. Put another way, would he know that the bowl is no longer in the temple?”

  “I don’t see how he could.”

  “If he doesn’t, then the plan—which is more of a trap—might work. It will also depend on the cooperation of the Chinese police, which, one would assume, we can count on.”

  Sheffield frowned. “Are you saying that the possibility could still exist? That Bell might try to steal the bowl?”

  “Not himself.”

  “Kingston, give me credit, for Christ’s sake. To get there, he’d have to pass through all kinds of passport, immigration, and security checks. He’d be nabbed the minute he stepped into the Heathrow terminal.”

  “I understand that. It’ll obviously be someone whom Bell recruits. To answer your question; do I think he might try it? Yes, I do. Two or three million pounds is mighty tempting.” Kingston picked up his cup and gave the inspector a long look over its rim. “That’s where your bowl comes in,” he said, taking a sip of tea.

  “I think I’m starting to get your drift.”

  “Good. We place your bowl in the temple, in exactly the same spot where the original was. Even discounting the dim light, anyone switching the bowls won’t know that the one he’s stealing isn’t the real thing. And here’s where we need the help of the Chinese. The bowl has to be rigged with a silent alarm, and the temple must be installed with twenty-four/seven electronic surveillance. I’m the last person to know how all this MI6 stuff works, but setting up a concealed CCTV camera, with a monitor in a nearby building, plus a silent alarm, should be sufficient to nab anyone who attempts to pick up the bowl.”

  Sheffield nodded. “Not a problem. All that stuff is standard procedure these days. Wouldn’t surprise me if there was a camera trained on us right now.”

  Kingston found his comment vaguely disturbing but knew that the inspector was right. Kingston had read somewhere that—because of soaring incidents of crime and increasing acts of terrorism—four and a half million cameras were watching people and places in Britain. Dismissing the Orwellian thought, he bided his time, sipping his tea, waiting for a sign of acquiescence, an indication that Sheffield approved of his idea. The inspector put down his cup, then looked at Kingston—more of a stare, actually.

  “I can’t think of any reason why we shouldn’t try it,” he said at last. “Let’s just hope it’s not too late and someone’s been there already.”

  “That’s a real possibility, and that’s why we have to move quickly.”

  “Right. Let me discuss it with my people and I’ll let you know if and when it will be instigated.”

  They shook hands and went their respective ways.

  Late in the next afternoon, Sheffield called. He’d been given the green light, and the Chinese police had informed the priests what was taking place. A team of police surveillance specialists was now in the village, setting up their equipment in the temple and in a nearby house, and had advised the local police and temple workers what the plan was and what was expected of them. “From now on, all we can do is wait,” said Sheffield. Where have I heard that before? Kingston said to himself.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Kingston set aside the newspaper, took a sip of Macallan, leaned back into the sofa
, and thought back on Sheffield’s parting words. “All we can do is wait” was clearly a platitude, a way to close the conversation. Their search for Bell certainly wouldn’t have been abandoned. One thing was clear, though the inspector hadn’t mentioned it in so many words: They’d had no success tracking him down. In retrospect, Kingston had to admit that it would be doubly difficult to find Bell if he’d left the country. How would they go about it? he wondered. How would he go about it? He got up and poured himself another whisky.

  He mulled over the problem. He doubted that Clifford Attenborough at Kew would be of help. Perhaps Bell had relatives or friends who might provide a clue, something that the police had overlooked. Obviously those people would have been first in line for questioning. After considerable thought, he could come up with only one idea. Hardly a brilliant one, but at least it was better than sitting on his duff waiting. He would go back to Bell’s farm and talk to the house keeper. If she was no longer there—which was likely—it shouldn’t be hard to find her. Failing that, perhaps there might be a worker or neighbor who knew something about Bell’s habits and travels. He had nothing planned for the next few days, and the weather forecast was good. A spin down to Dorset with a pub lunch thrown in was as good a way of spending the day as any other that came to mind. At least he was doing something.

  Driving slowly along the now familiar gravel road to Magpie Farm, Kingston saw the thatched roof of the house come into view over the trees. Seconds later, as the front of the house was revealed, he slammed his foot on the brake. Parked by the front door was a blue and yellow BMW police car. “Damn,” he said under his breath. Should he proceed, having to explain to the police what he was doing there? Or try to sneak behind one of the out-buildings and park until the police left? He decided on the latter. Explaining what he was doing at the farm could be a problem. Word could easily get back to Inspector Sheffield. He preferred to avoid that possibility.