“Why don’t you put us out of our misery and tell us—how come you have the gun?”
Blake leveled the gun at Marian. “Why don’t you tell the doctor?”
Kingston switched his gaze to Marian. Even in the low light, he could tell that Blake’s words had hit the mark. She stood as if paralyzed, staring not at Blake but at the gun. It seemed that even the wind outside had sensed the gravity of the moment. Everything was still.
“He’s lying,” she said finally.
“Why would I bother?”
“You bastard!”
Coming from her, the word surprised Kingston, who was flustered by the dramatic turn of events. Maybe Blake wasn’t going to dispatch them both in cold blood after all.
Blake smiled. “You dropped it, didn’t you?”
“No, I’ve never seen it,” she shot back angrily.
“You’re the one who’s lying. You dropped it as you were leaving Walsh’s house the day of the fire.”
Marian looked at Kingston. He had never seen such a look of abject fear, her eyes imploring, penetrating his as if he were her only hope of salvation.
“Damn you, Blake. Why not just get on with what you came here for?”
“We’re getting to that. You see, Doctor, if this gun were to fall into the hands of the police, they’ll find Marian Taylor’s fingerprints all over it. You understand the significance, I’m sure?”
“You’re suggesting that she killed Walsh?”
“Murdered is more like it. She killed him. Then, to cover it up, set fire to his house. Unfortunately, in her haste to leave she dropped the gun on the terrace outside the door to his study.” He looked at Marian. “When you got to the car and realized this, you couldn’t go back for it, could you? By then, the fire had taken hold and your only hope was that it would be destroyed in the fire. If nothing else, the fingerprints would be obliterated. Wrong!”
“How the hell do you know all this?” asked Kingston.
“Because I was there. As I drove in, she was leaving—in one hell of a hurry, I might add.”
Kingston looked at Marian. “Good God! Is what he’s saying true?”
“It was an accident,” she whimpered. “I didn’t murder Adrian. I loved him.”
“This isn’t your gun?” asked Blake. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“It’s not. It belonged to Walsh.”
While Blake and Marian were arguing, Kingston was trying to figure out what Blake was planning—what the end game might be. It would be Machiavellian to think that Blake would shoot her and then him with the same gun that she’d used to kill Walsh, then leave it for the police to find. Her fingerprints, along with a ballistics test, would prove beyond all doubt that Marian Taylor had killed Walsh and now him, too. That would confuse the hell out of the police.
“Now you know all about Marian Taylor, Doctor. Quite a piece of work, wouldn’t you say?”
“So that’s how you got her to do your con jobs. Threaten to expose her if she didn’t do what you demanded. Pretend to be Alison Greer—was that her idea or yours?” As Kingston was talking, buying time, he was desperately trying to think of how to forestall what was starting to look like the inevitable. He was surprised that Blake hadn’t shut down the conversation long before now.
Blake waved the pistol at Marian. “Get over there by him,” he said. “That’s enough talking …”
Suddenly, the room was bathed in white light. In seconds, it was gone. A crunching of tires on the gravel driveway followed, then silence. A car door slammed shut, then another.
“Stay where you are,” said Blake, moving briskly to the window. Covering them with the pistol, he drew the curtain aside a few inches and looked outside. “Shit,” he muttered. He turned back to Kingston and Marian. “Big mistake, Kingston. You’re going to pay for it.”
The doorbell rang.
“Listen to me,” Blake snapped, grabbing Marian’s arm, pulling her toward the door. “There’re two cops out there. Answer the door and leave the chain on. Tell them that Becky Halliday is away for a few days and that you’re a friend, housesitting for her. If they want to come in, tell them no. I doubt they’ll have a warrant. They’ll have seen the car in the driveway and assume it’s yours. It’s a BMW.”
The doorbell rang again.
“If you screw up, Kingston’s dead.You understand? He’s dead!”
Marian walked out of the room into the hallway. She was a good actress, thought Kingston, but if she could pull this off, it would be a bloody miracle.
TWENTY-FIVE
Kingston grimaced as Blake’s pistol jabbed his side. “Get going, you bastard,” Blake snarled. “Into the kitchen and out the back door—quick.”
They stepped into the garden, Blake closing the door behind him. The wind hadn’t let up and Kingston knew that even if he shouted for help—which could be suicidal—it wouldn’t be heard on the other side of the house. A gunshot might, however. He wondered if Marian could pull it off. If she could convince the policemen to leave, what would she do then? Was he about to find out what price she put on his life?
With no lights on in the back of the house, Blake was staying close to make sure Kingston wouldn’t try to give him the slip.
The wind and chill had cleared Kingston’s head and sharpened his faculties. He was trying to recall the layout of the garden as the two of them stumbled in the pitch darkness across a wide perennial border, trampling plants and sprinkler heads before reaching the lawn. If he could, it would give him a slight advantage, should he get lucky enough to separate himself from Blake. He tried to visualize the garden, as it had been on that somber day he and Becky had strolled through it, soon after Stewart went missing. The tool shed, he knew, was off to their left; the long wisteria pergola and the shallow flight of stone steps leading to the lower lawn were ahead of them. Beyond that, the pond, then a pasture used by a local farmer for grazing—usually sheep but occasionally horses. What else? The greenhouse, the potting shed, and the small orchard—yes, they were on the right side.
With Blake hard on his heels, muttering the occasional obscenity, they stumbled across the lawn. The farther from the house the darker it seemed to get. Kingston slowed to a walk, anticipating the stone steps. The pergola loomed overhead and he knew his guesstimate was right. He wondered when Blake would stop—they were running out of garden. The pond and pasture were all that remained. The high brick wall circling the garden was off to the right and beyond that, the road. Since they’d been in the garden, no cars had passed, not surprising considering the time of night and the fact that The Willows had been chosen by Stewart and Becky in part because of its seclusion. Did that mean that the police were still there? That, of course, would depend on which direction they would head when leaving. As if on cue, a car passed by on the other side of the wall, the high beams lighting the trees and marginally illuminating the lower part of the garden, the willow-fringed pond and the pasture. Don’t let it be the police car, Kingston said to himself under his breath.
“Stop,” said Blake. As the wind dropped momentarily, Kingston could hear that Blake was breathing heavily. Odd, thought Kingston. Their scramble across the garden had hardly been strenuous. Maybe Blake had a medical problem. Emphysema? They stood, barely eight feet separating them, Blake with the pistol at his side, Kingston facing him, tremulous. Was this it? The irony didn’t escape Kingston. Was he going to end up facedown alongside the pond where Stewart had made his discovery? Instinctively he started edging back, despite knowing the futility of it. Blake couldn’t miss at this range. Regardless, he kept shuffling backward. What was Blake waiting for? Then he saw the pistol raised and closed his eyes.
“Too bad, Kingston.” Blake’s words were carried off in the wind. The nearby willows rustled as if in protest.
Kingston stepped back, lost his balance, and fell sideways, disappearing before Blake’s eyes. It took him a fraction of a second to realize what had happened. He had fallen into the ha-ha, the long, deep di
tch used to keep livestock from straying into the garden—commonplace in the English countryside for centuries. He’d completely forgotten that The Willows had one. He remembered seeing it the day he and Becky had walked through the garden.
This was divine intervention and without even realizing it, he was offering up a silent prayer. He had to take advantage of it, move quickly. The expected shot never came. He rolled onto his belly and started to wriggle in the muddy water along the bottom of the three-foot ditch. It would be only a matter of seconds before Blake realized what had happened. Between now and then—seconds at the most—Kingston had to squirm far enough along the ditch to be out of Blake’s sight—in the dark, not too far, fortunately.
Crack! Kingston recoiled at the sound of the gunshot, plunging his head facedown in the mud, instinctively covering his head with his hands. He heard the bullet thump into the side of the ditch several feet behind him, the report echoing off the walls of the house. In his blind rage, Blake must have fired wildly.
Kingston wriggled farther along the ditch, thankful that the wind buffeting the trees made enough noise to drown out the sloshing sounds. He stopped, got to his knees, raised his head slowly, and peered over the edge of the ditch.
His heart skipped several beats.
The blood was pulsing in his temples.
He was staring at the back of Blake’s muddy shoes.
He dug his hands into the hard earth at the top edge of the ditch,. Don’t turn around, don’t turn, he kept repeating to himself. But if Blake did, Kingston was ready to give everything he had, exert every last muscle, to grab Blake by the ankles and bring him down.
Kingston remained stock-still, holding his breath as long as he could, letting it out slowly and silently. When he saw one of Blake’s feet shift he tensed, ready to leap forward. Then he saw the dancing light.
Someone holding a flashlight was running across the lawn toward Blake. Close behind was another person. Kingston realized that it was the two policemen but stayed put. He was aware that they carried only batons and sometimes CS spray, to incapacitate aggressive customers. The first policeman stopped thirty or so feet from Blake. “Drop the gun, sir,” he ordered, his voice calm and steady. It was if Blake hadn’t heard him. “Once more,” he said, louder this time, “drop the bloody gun.”
The other policeman, taller and heavier, had circled to the left, leaving twenty feet between him and his partner. The flashlight was pointed directly at Blake as if he were standing center stage in a darkened theater, transfixed in the spotlight. The policeman gave another order. “It’s over. Drop the gun, keep your hands above your head, and walk toward me.”
The gun dropped on the grass within three feet of Kingston and Blake started walking. Only then did Kingston scramble out of the ha-ha, wiping his hands on his jacket. The burly policeman who had walked over to help him had a bemused look on his face. Then Kingston realized what a bizarre spectacle he must present, resembling the Creature from the Black Lagoon, covered head to foot in liver-colored sludge.
The policemen handcuffed Blake and took him into the house while Kingston headed for the bathroom to rinse the mud out of his hair and off his face, and to make himself look as presentable as possible. Later he would shower and look through Stewart’s wardrobe and borrow a couple of items. After several minutes, he entered the living room, not knowing what to expect or who to find there. The room was empty. He pulled aside the curtain and looked outside. He saw the rear of the blue-and-yellow police car and the back of Blake’s head through the rear window. No sign of either policeman. He was about to leave the room, to see where everybody had gone, when the shorter policeman entered. Awfully young for the job, was Kingston’s first impression. But people were looking younger to him every day.
“Looks like you had a close call, sir. I’m Constable Baverstock, by the way.” He pulled out a notepad and pen. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll ask you a few questions—if you’re up to it, that is.”
“I’m fine,” replied Kingston, sitting in the wingback that Marian Taylor had occupied, trying not to muddy it up too much. Where was she, he wondered? They apparently hadn’t arrested her. But why would they have let her leave the scene?
For the first two minutes, Kingston described his relationship with the Hallidays, telling Baverstock about Stewart’s kidnapping and what led him to The Willows. Then, step by step, he recounted what had occurred at the house since he’d arrived. When he was finished, Baverstock wrote down Kingston’s contact information, and informed him that a second patrol car would arrive shortly to drive him to a nearby hotel if he wished. Kingston declined, saying that he would stay at the house, and that if Becky hadn’t returned by midday the following morning he would take a train back to London.
The constable stood, about to leave. “You’ll be contacted soon to submit a full statement, which may require your coming down to Hampshire.”
Kingston smiled. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said.
Baverstock returned the smile. “Well, good luck sir, I’m glad—”
Kingston cut him short. “Where is Marian, the woman who answered the door?”
“We just did a thorough search and it appears that she’s gone.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. What exactly happened, then?”
“Like you, Dorset Police were unable to reach Rebecca Halliday and we were responding to their request to make a routine check of the property.”
“No, I mean when she answered the door.”
“She gave us her name and told us that she was housesitting for Mrs. Halliday and that she was alone in the house.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Well, yes.”
“She was lying, you know. That’s what Blake told her to say.”
“All I can say is that she’s a damned good actress.”
“You’re right about that.”
“She was well dressed and polite—the type of woman that would be housesitting—not like some squatter, that is. We asked if she was okay. Calm as a cucumber, she assured us she was, so we left. Outside, in the car, my partner, Graham, suggested we run a computer check on the BMW. It was a 2005 number plate, seven series—pricey set of wheels. He couldn’t picture her driving that kind of car, somehow, unless it were her husband’s.” He grinned. “A bit macho, old Graham. We waited a bit, then drove off. We were halfway down the street when the info came through. It wasn’t registered in her name, but to a leasing company in London. It was then that we heard the gunshot. We whipped around and came back.”
Kingston stroked his brow. “Not a moment too soon—thank God.”
“Right. We rang the doorbell and hammered on the door, with no joy. So we went round the side of the house, out to the garden.” The constable shrugged. “You know the rest.”
Kingston frowned, nodding to himself. “Seeing you come back, she must have hidden in the house until you went into the garden, then took off.”
“The only explanation, really. Probably walked to Fordingbridge and got a cab.”
“What will happen to her?”
“We’ve already reported her as missing and wanted as a material witness, so there’ll be a warrant issued for her arrest. I would imagine that Blake should corroborate what you told us about her killing Adrian Walsh. By the sound of it, she’ll need a good lawyer. So will he.”
The following morning, feeling conspicuous wearing a polo shirt, slacks—a couple of inches short—and a yellow golf jacket belonging to Stewart, Kingston took a cab to Salisbury station, where he bought a newspaper, coffee, and a ham and cheese sandwich. Ten minutes later he boarded the 10:45 two-coach train to Waterloo and home.
TWENTY-SIX
Becky’s message was the first on the answering machine. She sounded breathless, her words coming a mile a minute: “Wanted you to know I just got your message, Lawrence. Bless you. I’m leaving Sarah’s in the next five minutes for Poole. I still can’t believe it. Stewart’s safe, thank God
. I called the hospital and they said he’s doing fine.”
Kingston detected a quiet sob of joy as she paused, then went on: “I’ll call you later, when I get to the hospital, after I’ve seen Stewart. I have to go now. Sarah’s waiting for me outside. I love you. Bye.”
He sat back on the sofa trying to imagine what it must have been like for her getting his message. She was so overjoyed that she hadn’t even questioned how it was that Stewart ended up in Poole General Hospital. What did it matter anyway, right now? He was safe and in good hands and, from what she’d said, going to survive his ordeal. When they next met she was going to be flabbergasted to learn what had happened in her very own house and garden, of all places. He smiled and listened to the next two messages.
The first was unimportant, the second from Carmichael. The inspector could wait, Kingston decided. He was famished, the only food he’d had in the last twelve hours was the stale sandwich he’d bought at Salisbury station and eaten on the train. As far as Carmichael was concerned, he must have been informed by now about Stewart’s release and was no doubt preoccupied helping other law enforcement agencies chase down Viktor Zander and Marian Taylor on top of maintaining the peace in Ringwood. Maybe he was calling to say that they’d been apprehended. No, too early for that, he decided.
Marian Taylor? Kingston had spent most of the train ride thinking about her. If what she had said was true—that she had shot Walsh accidentally—why wouldn’t she have surrendered to the police at The Willows? The police now had the gun with her fingerprints on it—that is, providing Blake hadn’t been bluffing. There had to be more to it. She had clearly been terrified of Blake, to the point of doing whatever he asked. Could it be that he knew more about her than he was telling? Kingston tried putting himself in her position. Having done a runner from The Willows she wouldn’t be aware that Blake had been arrested or that he himself was very much alive. For all she knew, Blake might have carried out his threat. Kingston got cold shivers at the thought. He would never be able to expunge Blake’s words and the soulless look on his face when he had spat them out: “If you screw up, Kingston’s dead!”
EG03 - The Water Lily Cross Page 24
