Sergeant Evans took Kingston’s name, address, and phone number and bade him good day.
Kingston was relieved that Grace was still at Amersham. He took that as a good sign. Now all he could do was wait.
Early the next morning, Kingston had just returned to the kitchen with the Times, about to make tea, when the phone rang. It could be Emma, he thought. He was planning to call her to ask if she could try, through her contacts, to get more information about the status of Grace Williams’s arrest: namely, how much longer she could be detained without being granted bail. He picked it up half expecting her cheery voice.
“Dr. Kingston? This is Grace Williams. I’m calling from Amersham police station.”
For a moment he couldn’t think how to answer without sounding as pleased as punch or, worse, nonchalant.
“Thank you for calling back,” he said, with just enough sincerity to keep it from sounding like a cliché. “You’re well?”
“Yes, I’m doing all right, thanks.”
“When are they releasing you? They seem to have held you longer than normal without granting bail.”
“I know. It’s because of what they’re calling extenuating circumstances. I’ve been told that it’ll be resolved any day now, but the legal mumbo jumbo is holding it up. It has as much or more to do with my providing information proving that Hillier was the brains behind the robbery and was guilty of two murders as it has with what happened at Greyshill and my behavior there. That now seems to be a lesser issue, apparently. Particularly since I didn’t threaten to harm or kill him—just pointed the damned thing. Anyway, my lawyer’s dealing with it.”
“That all sounds like good news, Grace,” he said, realizing that it was the first time he’d addressed her by her first name.
“It is. The problem is, as with Reggie’s murder, I don’t have proof for the American man’s, either—the one whose body was found in the river. But I’ve given the police and the CID all the information. It’ll be up to them to come up with the evidence. Finding Mike Dempsey will be a big help in proving that.”
“Right. I want to hear the rest of that story.”
She paused, and he heard her draw a long breath. “It’s far more complicated than you might think—which brings me to the point.
“If,” she continued. “No—change that to when they release me, I plan to return to Canada as soon as possible. My attorney is close to putting Beechwood on the market, and once it’s sold, it will sever my ties here.” She paused again. “Doctor, the reason I’m telling you all this is that time is very short. I would like you to visit me before I leave, if you would? I feel an obligation to finish up where I left off with this wretched mess. Fill in the blanks for you as best I can.”
“I’d like that as well, Grace. I’ll come this afternoon, if that’s not too soon.”
“That would be good. Let’s say two o’clock. I’ll make sure you’re on the visitor list.”
“I’ll be there, don’t you worry.”
Hanging up, he felt more ebullient, more optimistic than he had in weeks. If Emma were there, he would have given her a high five. Thinking back on how long the drive to Amersham had taken in the Land Rover, and what time he should leave, he picked up the newspaper, unfolded it, and scanned the headlines.
About to take a sip of tea, he held the cup suspended in midair.
Allen Jay Hillier, Possible Suicide
Police were called to the London residence of prominent businessman and philanthropist Allen Jay Hillier yesterday, after a staff member reported finding him dead in his bedroom. A brief statement made by his personal assistant, Jeremy Highsmith, confirmed the discovery, saying that evidence found in the bedroom and earlier statements by Hillier led the police to believe that he took his own life. They have not yet issued a formal statement, awaiting pathology findings from the Home Office.
Eight days ago police were summoned to Hillier’s country residence in Buckinghamshire after receiving reports of gunfire. Two persons were taken into custody that day . . .
“Good grief,” he muttered. “Grace has got her wish.”
34
Bourne End, two days later
IT WAS SEVEN o’clock in the evening at Andrew’s house on the river, and though the sun was still high on the horizon, what could well have been one of the hottest the days of the year was about to become just another weather statistic. A soft breeze had picked up in the last half hour, teasing the leaves in the upper branches of the graceful weeping willows that straddled this peaceful stretch of the Thames.
For twenty minutes Kingston had been sitting alone on the lichen-splotched flagstone terrace that overlooked an uninterrupted expanse of lawn that sloped to the river, reflecting on this therapeutic vision. His handwritten notes and a near-empty glass of Macallan were on the table. Up until now, he’d picked up only the latter. He hadn’t felt this ease and contentment for months, and he hoped it could linger, even if only for a little longer, before he had to deal with more serious, worldly matters wrought by greedy and pitiless men.
Emma was in the kitchen, helping Andrew put the finishing touches to dinner. Occasionally, Kingston could hear their laughter through the open French doors and windows—and not once in that time had he given a thought to the Great Highway Robbery, Greyshill, Beechwood, or even Alcatraz. This was even more noteworthy because that was why they were here in the first place: to discuss Kingston’s final interview with Grace Williams.
That session, two days ago, had been an altogether depressing few hours. Though outwardly claiming to be satisfied by the turn of events, Grace had showed signs of denial over Hillier’s suicide, and her role in it. Kingston didn’t know her well enough to be a true judge of her character, but perhaps she had gotten exactly what she wanted. Perhaps she was happy—though she certainly hadn’t seemed that way to him.
Grace’s lawyers were confident that if her case were to go to trial, it would end in an acquittal. The minute it was over, she and Sophie planned to return to Canada, each determined to forgive and forget and resume their lives. For Grace, in particular, things would never be the same, he knew. She was now internationally notorious, and the larger-than-life stories and photos of her years in the arms of Britain’s most celebrated crime figure of the century, coupled with her brother’s role in the robbery and his inauspicious end, had been front-page news every day. He had a feeling they would continue to be news for a long time to come.
At dinner, he did most of the talking, relating to Emma and Andrew what Grace had told him during their meeting at Amersham, and also his discussion with Sophie. After dessert, still with a lot more to discuss, they took their drinks into the airy living room, where Corbusier armchairs were arranged around a low travertine coffee table that squatted on pale bamboo flooring.
Kingston took a sip of wine and leaned back, stretching out his legs under the table.
“Wonderful meal, Andrew. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. You should thank Emma, too—she was quite the sous-chef.”
Kingston placed his glass on the table. “So where were we?”
Andrew frowned. “You were telling us what Grace told you about the conversation she overheard—the deal with the diamonds.”
Kingston nodded. “Of course. Well, we know it was Hillier who had converted both Jennings and Butler’s shares of the banknotes into diamonds. And we know that Jennings ended up penniless. But until now we had no idea what happened to Butler’s diamonds—other than that he hid them. Now we do.”
“Really?” Emma murmured.
Kingston nodded again. “Hillier rarely made mistakes. As Grace said, he covered his tracks by hiring people to do his dirty work and negotiate his deals. This time, however, he made a big error by hiring the wrong man. Hillier didn’t know that the man—Mike Dempsey, whom I’ve already alluded to—was an old acquaintance of Grace’s.”
Kingston drew in a deep breath. “Here’s what happened, according to Grace. A couple of days after sh
e’d eavesdropped on Hillier’s conversation with Mark Slater, the American chap, Dempsey showed up at the house to meet with Hillier. Grace was surprised because his was a face from the past. She’d met him—to her regret—several times when she was younger, before the robbery. He was a low-life lecher who hadn’t changed much over the years—‘just as obnoxious as ever,’ were her words.
“By this time she’d figured out that something big was coming down, and she decided to exploit Dempsey’s womanizing ways to find out what it was. Dempsey was still infatuated with her and more eager than ever to impress. A clandestine meeting in a local pub, a revealing dress, lots of charm, drinks—it didn’t take long to loosen his tongue.”
“Not quite the innocent, see-no-evil Grace we’d been led to believe,” Andrew remarked.
“No question about that anymore. Back then I would imagine she could be quite a femme fatale.” Kingston picked up the notes he’d made and thumbed through them. After a moment’s checking, he looked up.
“Slater, the American, had contacted Hillier, saying that he was working on behalf of an unnamed client in the U.S. He claimed to possess a large quantity of diamonds, part of an estate, an inheritance to be passed on to the daughter of his client.”
“The same diamonds?” Emma asked. “Those Hillier had given Butler in exchange for his share of the money from the robbery?”
“It seems so, yes,” Kingston replied. “And when Slater mentioned that a daughter was the beneficiary and divulged the large quantity of diamonds involved, Hillier knew there could be no mistake—”
“He would likely have known about Butler’s child, too, Fiona,” Andrew completed the sentence.
“Exactly.”
Emma took a pad from her purse, jotted a note, then looked up. “You’re suggesting that Slater was either an ex-Alcatraz guard or con and Butler was doing time there? He was the ‘client’?”
“I am.” Kingston nodded. “So, seeing a golden opportunity, Hillier was all too eager to help. He promised to locate the mother and daughter—both of whom he claimed to know—and arrange for them to meet Slater to legally transfer the diamonds to Fiona McGuire, Fiona Doyle at that time. Hillier would certify the lawful exchange so that both parties had notarized legal documents to that effect.
“Hillier called Slater a few days later to say that he had located the mother, Caitlin Doyle, but the daughter, Fiona, was on holiday with friends. A lie, of course.
“But Hillier pulled it off. He informed Slater, truthfully, that legally the mother must represent the daughter, regardless—the child being a minor.”
“Fiona was, what—six or seven at the time?” Emma asked.
“That’s about right.” He paused. “Here’s where it gets complicated, though—devious, too. In the meantime, Hillier had hired a woman with acting experience, offering her a big payoff to pose as Caitlin. Provided with Caitlin’s personal data, history, and forged IDs, and coached on the conspiracy, she accompanied Hiller to the meeting and the transaction was completed without a hitch. She handed the diamonds over to Hillier, and Slater walked away with legal documents that would prove to his client—Butler—that his wish had been fulfilled. And Bob’s your uncle.”
Andrew raised a hand. “A question?”
“Of course.” Kingston was pleased and relieved that Andrew was (almost) back to his old self, taking an interest in Kingston’s adventures.
“Wasn’t the real Caitlin still alive?”
“She was, but according to Molly Collins, she was in and out of the hospital at that time. She died a few years later.”
“So what about Slater’s cut, his commission?” Emma asked.
“He’d already taken it, before even meeting with Hillier. Grace said that Slater had confided that information to Dempsey.” Kingston paused. “And then—doubtless part of Hillier’s plan all along—he had Dempsey get rid of Slater. That was the reason for Dempsey being there in the first place.”
“I’m curious,” Andrew said. “Did she tell you where Butler had hidden the jewels?”
Kingston nodded. “He had buried them beneath a stone memorial in the courtyard floor of an old village church in Wiltshire.”
“Ingenious hiding place,” Andrew commented.
“How did Grace learn all this?” Emma asked.
“From Dempsey. She was not only surprised at how much he knew, but also his willingness to divulge what he’d obviously learned from Hillier, maybe Slater, too, though we’ll never know. Not only that. As we know, two days after the transfer, Slater’s unmarked body washed up on a bank of the Thames estuary—the police classified it ‘an accidental drowning.’ Dempsey never directly admitted having dealt with Slater, she said, but what he did tell her left very little doubt. He was still the same braggart.”
“Interesting,” Emma said. “Jennings’s death was by drowning, too.”
Kingston nodded. “The man’s specialty, perhaps.”
“Wouldn’t it be easy to track Dempsey down?” Andrew asked.
“If he’s still alive,” she replied, hesitating. “You know, if Butler was sick, maybe dying, it might be possible to go through the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons archives and find out who in Alcatraz was hospitalized or near death at the time. That could give us the name he went by then.”
“Something you could look into later, maybe, Emma?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, making a note.
Andrew excused himself, saying coffee was ready and he’d be right back. In the meantime, Kingston and Emma continued chatting. After Andrew returned carrying a tray with a large cafetière, cups, and saucers. The coffee poured, he spoke first.
“What about the rose?” he asked. “How did that get to Alcatraz?”
“Well,” Kingston said, “this is where we get into the realm of speculation and probability. But now our connection between Alcatraz and the robbery may help matters.”
He paused and took a long sip of coffee, letting his eyes wander around the room, now softly lit by the lingering shafts of sun glinting off the beveled edges of the mirror over the fireplace.
“Let’s start by assuming that it was Brian Jennings who shipped the rose to Alcatraz. Logically, it would have been at the request of somebody at the prison. If so, it can be narrowed down to one of five people: a prisoner, a guard, a secretary, a warden, or one of the privileged inmate gardeners. The least likely are the first two. In the case of the warden, we know he had a garden and, according to Kaminski, his secretary had quite a big say in things horticultural, so either could have been involved. That leaves an inmate gardener.”
“You know more than any of us about the subtleties of these horticultural things, Lawrence. Whom do you think most likely?” Emma asked.
“Let me answer by first dealing with the only real physical clue we have about the rose mystery: the Graham Thomas book and its cryptic one-letter signature. All this time”—he paused, smiling at Emma—“I’ve speculated that the R could have stood for Reginald, and he had sent the book to someone on Alcatraz. But I now realize there could be another explanation I’d overlooked. I’m now convinced it’s more likely the other way around: The suggestions in the book were made by someone on Alcatraz and sent to Jennings—to find the rose and ship the cuttings back.” He smiled and pulled on his earlobe.
“I recognize that look,” Andrew said. “What else?”
“Another tiny clue—and I should have figured it out sooner. In the lengthy back-page note—the description of the Belmaris rose, Emma—you’ll remember that I described the person’s writing ability as impressive; an excellent feeling for the language.”
Emma nodded.
“At the time I was paying attention to the content and wasn’t sufficiently alert to the style. But something kept nagging at me, so I recently reread the note. This time I immediately noticed the spelling of the word ‘coloration’ without the ‘u’ as we Brits spell it. In addition, there was ‘inquiry’ beginning with ‘i’ rather than
‘e.’ These spellings are used almost exclusively in the U.S
Emma looked impressed. “So, do we have an R person on Alcatraz?”
“We do. The gardener who Kaminski referred to as highly intelligent, the inmate who’d worked for years on the gardens: Ryan Matthews. I think he was the one who made all those notes in the book.”
“I’m confused,” Andrew said. “Matthews sent the book to Jennings?”
Kingston shook his head. “No. Matthews wrote the notes, but I think it had to have been at Butler’s request and it was he who sent it to Jennings in England—”
Emma, who had stopped making notes but had been listening intently, interrupted. “You seem to be pretty sure of yourself.”
“When you think about it, Butler was the only one with something important to gain, and he was also the only person able to contact Jennings direct.”
“I was going to ask about that,” Andrew said. “How could they communicate?”
“I asked Andy Harris the same question. Letters between inmates and their families and their lawyers were permitted, but they were censored and retyped by guards to eliminate the possibility of secret messages conveyed either into or out of the prison. Apparently, prisoners had to submit a list of correspondents. In Butler’s case, the only person he would be permitted to communicate with would have been, his girlfriend, Caitlin, because she was mother of his child.”
“So Caitlin must have had a way to contact Jennings?” Emma said.
Kingston nodded. “He was Butler’s best friend, so it stands to reason that Caitlin knew him, too. She would have likely known how to get in touch with Jennings, while he and Butler were on the run. My guess is that this would have been arranged prior to the robbery.”
“So, contrary to the reports we read, she must have known something about Butler’s role in the robbery.”
Kingston nodded. It would seem so, Emma.”
Andrew leaned back and looked up at the ceiling in feigned exasperation, then looked at Kingston, shaking his head. “I still can’t possibly imagine an Alcatraz inmate trying to persuade a prison warden to grant special privileges simply in exchange for a rose—no matter how rare.”
6.The Alcatraz Rose Page 22
