EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (16 page)

The constable smiled. “I’ll tell the sergeant, his wife’ll be right chuffed,” he said.

In the car, Kingston called Becky at The Willows but there was no reply.

Two days later, with the top down, Kingston drove through the New Forest headed toward the village of Woolstead on its southwest edge. This was the village with the Norman church that he’d seen on the videotape.

Much to his surprise, he’d received an e-mail from Inspector Chisholm the day after he’d viewed the tape. Air Support had come up with answers to Kingston’s questions. The Sony 3-chip digital camera, they said in their forwarded e-mail, was linked to an onboard GPS tracking system that interfaced with all the other data on the tape including the time-code. This meant that Air Support had been able to provide latitude and longitude and GPS coordinates for the two time-codes Kingston had given to Chisholm. He now knew exactly where on the Ordnance Survey map sitting beside him on the passenger seat the reservoir and the church were located.

It was a day that sports car owners lust after: blue skies with Constable-like clouds, not a breath of wind, and a steady 22 degrees. With the balmy weather and no need for haste, he had chosen a leisurely route to get to Woolstead. The small roads of the New Forest crossed great stretches of heath, covered with gorse, purple-flowered heather, hawthorn, and blackthorn; winding their way through grazing lands and farms, past bogs and ponds, thatched cottages and little old churches. The forest was home to several varieties of deer, wild ponies, and donkeys, and it was a rare pleasure having to stop now and then to watch the native ponies amble across the road in front of him. Here the animals had the right of way.

Just before leaving home, he’d called Becky but there was no answer. He would try a little later after he’d checked out the reservoir. Being in that part of Hampshire made him think about the garden at Cranborne Manor, which in turn reminded him about the aerial videotape they’d shot of the other two gardens, Leven’s Hall and Powis Castle. That was some time ago, and he was surprised that he hadn’t heard from Martin at New Eden. There was obviously some explanation for it. Perhaps it was a good sign. If the video had been bad, he would have undoubtedly heard about it right away. He made a mental note to give Martin a call in the morning.

Fifteen minutes later, he was out of the forest passing through Woolstead. The village was remarkably pretty, a mixture of Norman and Early English architecture. Kingston had found out that the church, named St. Andrew’s, was the oldest documented building thereabouts—mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086. It also had “pretty gardens,” according to one of the guidebooks. Kingston decided that he would stop on the way back for a pit stop and a cup of tea. Afterward, time permitting, he would take a walk around the village and visit the church. Once out of Woolstead, he pulled over to check the map again. If his map reading was right, the reservoir was only six miles away.

A few minutes later, he spied the row of conifers he’d seen on the tape. He slowed down, aware that the lane leading to the reservoir was small and it would be easy for him to overshoot it. He couldn’t remember from the tape if it was gated or not. With no cars behind him, he stopped alongside the lane. There was a gate. It was metal and looked new. He pulled over onto the grass verge, left the engine running, got out of the car and walked across to the gate, which he fully expected to be padlocked. To his surprise, it wasn’t. Lifting the iron strap, he opened the gate, went back to the car, and drove through. Remembering the countryside code—leave gates as you found them—he stopped, got out again, and closed the gate behind him. Passing a sign warning against trespassing, the reservoir came into view. The site was bigger than it appeared from the air, with five buildings of varying size, the largest a double-door barnlike structure of galvanized metal. Farther along, he could see the pumping station. He pulled up alongside one of the buildings and got out, standing for a moment, sizing the place up. No vehicles in sight, which he assumed meant that there was nobody around. It certainly looked deserted. He walked toward the bank of the reservoir. The long side facing him was at least the length of a football field. Looking around, he could appreciate even more why it would be the ideal place for Stewart and his partners to conduct their experiments at industrial-strength level.

The sky was now clouding and a slight wind was picking up. For the first time, he sensed an eerie silence about the place. He headed toward a flight of steps cut into the reservoir bank. Gripping the rail on one side, he climbed the eight or so metal steps and reached the top. What he saw made him smile.

Two feet above the surface of the water, metal tracks spanned the reservoir about every twenty feet. On closer inspection of the inside wall, Kingston could see the edges of glass-covered frames that were designed to run on the tracks. Without question, they were operated electrically, much like a garage-door opener, turning the reservoir into a huge retractable greenhouse. Just below the water level, gauges set in the wall measured the water temperature. He kneeled to get a closer look into the water. There they were, approximately a foot beneath the surface: the spent leaves of
Victoria
hybrid water lilies.

Curious to see if the pumping system did, indeed, import seawater, he walked past the outbuildings and the barn to the pump house. Built of breeze blocks with a heavy padlocked door and galvanized roof, it was not much to look at—nothing more than a few large and small gauge pipes projecting from the structure. What Kingston was looking for was evidence of new pipes: a pipeline from the pumps all the way to a source of seawater. He found it quickly. A few yards from the pump house a new eight-inch pipe made a right-angled turn and headed south, across the end of the reservoir and out of sight. There was not much point in his following its path any farther; it couldn’t serve any other purpose that he could think of.

He retraced his steps past the barn to check the outbuildings. The first door he tried was locked, as were the second and third. The fourth and smallest of the buildings also had a padlock but it was open. Lifting the padlock off the latch, he pushed the metal door open and entered. Enough light came from the high clerestory windows for him to see the interior. He took a few paces and looked around at the makeshift living quarters. A full kitchen took up one corner. Next to it was a rectangular table covered with a red-and-white checked tablecloth, surrounded by four chairs. On the table several upturned glasses and cups were set alongside condiment containers. Two single beds, one unmade, were pushed up against one wall. The facing wall was the “entertainment” center: crudely fashioned shelves with the usual VCR, DVD player, tape deck, et cetera, and a large TV as the centerpiece. A partly open, hinged dartboard case with three darts stuck in the center of the board was positioned on the last wall, alongside a couple of cheap art prints, in frames but with no glass.

He sensed, rather than heard, somebody behind him. The blow to his head was excruciating but only for an instant. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Kingston got up, easing himself into a half-sitting position, leaning on one arm. The headache came in waves, each one more intense than the last. He put a hand up and touched his scalp. The hair was matted with congealed blood where he’d been struck and the bump was a snorter. Thank God, he said to himself, his vision wasn’t blurred and he wasn’t vomiting. Then he noticed his wallet on the floor, a few feet away. Surely robbery couldn’t have been the motive, he asked himself. After resting for a couple of minutes, fighting back the nausea, he got slowly to his feet, picked up his wallet and made his way to the sink. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and soaked it under the cold tap for a compress. Applying it over the next few minutes helped ease the pain. He checked his watch, wondering how long he’d been out. It was not quite noon. Guessing that he’d arrived at the reservoir about 11:45 meant that he’d been unconscious for ten minutes or so.

Wanting to be sure he was okay to drive, he sat at the table for about five minutes nursing his injury, staring around the room. If Stewart had been living here at any time or even if he had simply been using the room while supervising the experiments, there was certainly no evidence of it. Not that Kingston was expecting a note pinned to the wall with his name on it. If Stewart had left any clue, it would be subtle, yet evident right away to Kingston or anyone who was adept at solving cryptic messages; something along the lines of the one he’d left in his stapler. But as far as Kingston could tell, there was nothing. On top of being in considerable pain, he was disappointed.

He’d been through his wallet and nothing appeared missing. The sixty-five pounds was still there, as was his license and credit cards. He could only think that whoever had taken the wallet out of his back pocket must have done so to establish his identity. He was loath to call 999 as he no longer considered his condition an emergency. He would seek medical treatment, though—just in case. One never knew with head trauma. He didn’t know the area at all but remembered that New Milton on the coast was close by. It was quite a large town and he was sure to find someone there to look at his injury. There was no point in dwelling on
who
it was that had knocked him out.
Why
, was rather obvious. Desmond’s words came back to him again: “They’re not people you want to mess with.” He would also have report the assault to the police. He would wait on that until after he’d had his injury examined.

Hand resting on the table, Kingston stood, took a deep breath, and walked gingerly to the door. As he passed the dartboard, still a bit wobbly, his shoulder caught the edge of the case. It swung back to reveal a black chalk scoreboard inside. He had no idea what prompted him but he opened the other side of the case. He stepped back a couple of paces and looked at the two chalkboards, now flat against the wall with the dartboard in the center. The result of the last game was still on the board: the vertical rows of chalk scores for each player crossed out as they were deducted from the beginning score of 301. The name Keith was scrawled at the top of the left board. The name of the player on the right side was Hal. Kingston stared at the right-hand board. Hal had won the game by going out with a double 19. “Good going, Stewart,” he muttered, smiling. “Damned good score, too.” He turned away from the dartboard, his pain and sullen mood gone for a fleeting moment. Hal was Stewart’s nickname when they were at university together. It was hard to abbreviate Stewart—“Stew” was unacceptable—so someone, somewhere along the way, had shortened his second name instead.

Outside, Kingston stopped and took a deep breath. A drizzle had set in, dampening all sound; it was so still, he could hear himself breathing. He walked to the car, cursing that he hadn’t put the top up when it had started clouding over. In a minute, he had the vinyl soft top up and had wiped the seats dry with an old towel kept in the boot. Checking that everything was locked down, he slipped behind the wheel. Propped up on the hub of the three-spoke steering wheel was one of his business cards, He picked it up and turned it over. On the back was written in capital letters: STOP INTERFERING
NOW
–OR ELSE!

FOURTEEN

A
fter leaving the reservoir Kingston went straight to New Milton where he found a sports injury clinic and a doctor who examined and cleaned his wound and gave him some medication to ease the pain. The diagnosis: nothing more serious than a mild concussion. When he had been asked by the office nurse upon arrival how he sustained the wound, he gave a more or less accurate account of what happened, omitting the fact that he had been trespassing on private property and searching for giant water lilies that consumed salt. Before leaving the clinic, head still throbbing, he called Ringwood police station on his mobile, to learn that Carmichael was not in the office. Kingston told the sergeant on duty that he was helping Inspector Carmichael in connection with a missing persons case and reported what had happened at the reservoir. When finished, Kingston was told that the report would be filed and that a patrol car would be sent to investigate, albeit it was “rather late in the day,” as the sergeant put it. Ending the conversation, he took Kingston’s address and phone numbers and told him that Inspector Carmichael would be given a copy of the report as soon as he returned.

Next, he called Becky. This time the phone rang a half-dozen times before she picked it up. “This is Rebecca,” she said, panting.

“It’s Lawrence, he said. “Were you in the garden? You sound out of breath.”

“No, I was upstairs, sorry. How are you, Lawrence?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Never mind about me. How are you?”

“Coping as best as I can. You know—stiff upper lip and all that.”

“Any more from the police?”

“They called once when I was with Sarah. But no news, really. Nothing’s changed, I’m afraid.”

He was tempted to tell her that he was in New Milton but that would mean having to tell quite a few white lies or do an awful lot of explaining. There was really no point in telling her what he’d been up to, about his probing into Walsh’s death and the other unexplained incidents, until he had some tangible proof or solid evidence. The very last thing he wanted was for Becky to have to start worrying about him, too. “I have a question,” he said, before she could ask him where he was or what he had been doing while she was gone.

“What’s that?”

“A few days ago, I got a phone call from a woman named Alison Greer. She said that she’d spoken to you about Stewart.”

“Alison Greer? Oh, that’s right. She did, yes. We had quite a long chat on the phone.”

“She said that you referred her to me.”

“No. Why would I? I might have mentioned you, told her you were helping me. I really don’t recall now.”

“Hmm, that’s odd. What did you talk about?”