EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (7 page)

Immediately, Chris was on the radio reporting the shooting, their crash landing, and their location to air traffic control. The information would then be dispatched to the police control room at Netley Support H.Q., Southampton. They would take it from there. Signing off, Chris released his harness, opened the cockpit door, and started to climb out. “You okay?” he asked. Kingston nodded then followed the pilot out into the fresh air, gripping the laptop and his bag.

Outside, legs a little unsteady, he looked up at the sky, closed his eyes, took a long breath, then exhaled loudly. “Had me worried there for a minute,” he said. “Thanks, Chris. Hell of a landing.”

By then, the pilot was busy inspecting the camera and removing the digital tape.

Following Norton’s radio call, the police control room had immediately dispatched two ARVs (armed response vehicles), each with two armed officers, to check out the area where the shooting took place. In addition, uniformed patrols would soon take up static points within the general area to observe and note down vehicle movements and registrations if they felt it necessary. A police Air Support, Britten-Norman Defender turboprop surveillance aircraft would also over fly the area transmitting digital video to the police control room. On landing the digital tapes would be bagged and tagged as evidence and working copies made.

Simultaneously, two police area cars under the command of a uniformed inspector had been dispatched from Lymington to the crash site. After briefly questioning Norton and Kingston and making sure they were not injured, they had taken initial command of the site, setting up a taped inner crime-scene cordon to preserve the scene for forensic examination, then a second outer cordon to keep the public and press back and to allow police a safe working area outside the inner cordon. Soon thereafter, Kingston and Norton had been taken by police car to nearby Lymington.

Kingston and Chris Norton sat in an office at Lymington Police Station, one of six that make up the New Forest Basic Command Unit, which was part of the Hampshire and Isle of Wight Constabulary. Norton was describing the shooting and the ensuing crash to the senior C.I.D Officer, Detective Inspector Chisholm, and his deputy, Sergeant Jennings. In the coming hours, as Chisholm explained, a chief detective forensics inspector from the Major Crime Team, based in nearby Southampton, would also be assigned to the case.

“Well,” said Inspector Chisholm, “it looks like we’ve got two possibilities. Either someone didn’t want you snooping around or some lunatic simply decided to single you out for target practice. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say it was the former.”

“It’s quite likely that whoever did the shooting saw the camera and decided that they didn’t want their picture taken,” said Sergeant Jennings. “That thing sticks out like a bloody sore thumb.”

“At our altitude, they couldn’t miss it, that’s for sure,” Chris replied.

“You checked out the area where the gunfire took place?” asked Kingston.

“We did and still are,” Chisholm replied. “But if there
was
something that they didn’t want you to see from the air, more likely it would have been somewhere else in the vicinity. I doubt very much if they’d be that careless in drawing attention to the actual location.” He paused. “I forgot to ask. Was your camera running when the shots occurred?”

“I’m almost certain it was off by that time,” Kingston replied.

“Nevertheless, it might be a good idea for us to make a copy before you leave.”

After a moment of silence, Sergeant Jennings spoke up. “And you’re sure you saw nothing else unusual? Nothing that would warrant someone firing at you?” Norton shook his head and smiled. “I was kind of busy at the time.”

The sergeant looked at Kingston.

Kingston shook his head. Other than a marijuana farming operation, what could be so unusual? He was having difficulty trying to imagine what on earth could justify such a drastic, potentially deadly action. “Nothing,” he answered.

Several more minutes of conversation followed before Chisholm thanked them both and got up, ready to leave. “There are some real nutters out there,” he observed shaking his head. Anyway,” he said with a sniff, “we’ll let you know the minute we find anything. If air support comes up with anything on video we’ll let you know.”

“At one point, could I take a look at their tape?” asked Kingston.

“Very doubtful, I would think. It’ll be considered part of an ongoing criminal investigation. If they deem it nonsensitive, I suppose there might be a chance of seeing a vetted working copy.” He shook his head. “Truthfully, I don’t know. I’ve never been asked that question before.”

Before leaving the police station, Kingston put a call through to Martin Davis, the managing director of New Eden Productions, to learn that he was out for a couple of days. Kingston gave his secretary, Milly, a brief account of what had happened, saying that unless he heard to the contrary from Martin he would reschedule the remainder of the shoot as soon as he could get a new date from Henley Air—depending on the weather and most likely within the next several days.

“If that had happened to me, I’d be terrified to go up again. At least, so soon,” said Milly.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to insist on a different route,” Kingston replied with a chuckle. “Besides, as someone once said, the reason lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place, my dear, is that the same place isn’t there the second time,”

It was almost dark by the time Kingston turned the key in the front door of his flat. All he was thinking of by then was the welcome-home glass of Macallan waiting for him—that and kicking his shoes off and getting a good night’s sleep. On top of everything else his back was aching, not surprising when he thought about the crash landing.

The journey by train and taxi from Waterloo had taken more than three hours and he was thankful now that he and Chris had used the hour-and-a-half wait for the next train to grab a quick meal at the Bell, a pub close to the station recommended by the sergeant. Steak and ale and mushroom pies big enough to feed a small family, washed down with a pint of Courage best bitter, had put them both in a much better mood. As their empty plates were taken away, Chris had asked Kingston if he was sure he wanted to finish the photo shoot. “After what we went through, I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you want to opt out,” he said. Kingston assured him that he was up for it and would be all the better for it as a result of the practice run. They also discussed the question of Kingston’s car, which was parked at Henley Air. If the next shoot were within a few days, he would leave it there. If not, he told Chris he would try to bribe Andrew with a nice lunch, to drive Kingston to Oxford to pick it up. Before parting company it was left that the minute Chris got back to Oxford, he would have his people check the schedule for the next few days and let Kingston know when they could go up again to resume videotaping.

Kingston turned on a light in the living room, put down his leather bag containing the tape and the laptop, and rewound the answerphone tape. He played back the messages while he poured his drink: two fingers of malt whisky (never measured) and an equal amount of Malvern water. The first two messages were of no importance. The third was from Martin Davis at New Eden. Typical of him, the message was brief: “It’s Martin, Lawrence—Milly gave me your message. What a nasty mess. Glad you’re all in one piece, though. Give me a call on my mobile when you feel up to it. Here’s the number.” Kingston jotted it down. He was about to reach for the phone when he paused, looking at his watch. It was by no means too late to call Martin back but he decided he’d had enough Q&A for one day.

Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant Kingston would have to wait until Monday before he could review the footage. First thing in the morning, he would call Transmedia, New Eden’s post-production studio, to book an appointment, with any luck, for Monday. Being Saturday, though, he doubted they’d be open.

Kingston had a full weekend coming up. Saturday, he had tickets for a symphony concert at Barbican Hall and Sunday was also spoken for, with lunch in Hampstead with a bohemian artist friend, Henrietta, followed by a visit to the Tate Modern to view an exhibition of naturalistic and abstract paintings by Kandinsky. He had accepted the “date” reluctantly, knowing that he would be subject to Henrietta’s brazen amorous overtures, added to which, modernist painting, in particular, was hardly his cuppa. However, Hussy Henrietta—as he called her—was not one to take “no” easily.

Kingston flicked on the television and reached for his whisky.

The bedroom was already awash with light when Kingston awoke on Monday morning. No sooner than his toes touched the carpet, the phone started ringing in the living room. Grabbing his robe, putting it on as he loped down the hall, he managed to get to the phone just before the answerphone kicked in.

“Lawrence Kingston?” a man’s voice inquired.

“This is he,” Kingston mumbled, running a hand through his tangled hair.

“My name’s Patrick, I work for Martin Davis at New Eden.”

“Oh, yes, good morning.”

“Milly’s out sick and Martin wanted to know if you shot any footage on Friday. If you did, he’d like to take a look at it—mainly for quality.”

Kingston thought for a moment. Hadn’t he told Milly that they got at least twenty minutes of good footage of the two gardens? Now he couldn’t be sure. From what he was hearing, he hadn’t, or why would they be calling? “We did, yes, about twenty minutes, I would guess,” he replied. “Tell Martin I’ll be taking a look at it at Transmedia, in Hammersmith, hopefully later this morning, if they can squeak me in—then I’ll send it over. We’re going to reschedule the rest of the shoot, in the next couple of days, while this good weather is still around.”

“Excellent.”

Kingston paused expecting him to go on but he said no more.

“Well, then—Patrick—as soon as I know when that is, I’ll let him know.”

“Thank you Mr. Kingston. I’ll pass the message on.” Then he hung up.

Not yet fully awake, Kingston thought nothing more of the call. He fetched
The Times
from the front doorstep, returned to the kitchen, and plugged in the electric kettle. Tea was always the first order of the day, Earl Grey with a slice of lemon. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he glanced over the headlines and took a quick look at the race cards for Sandown and Chepstow. The crossword came next, once tea was poured.

An hour and a half later, after two slices of toast and marmalade and ten solutions penciled in, Kingston was ready to face the day. First on the list was the call to Transmedia, to book a time to review the footage. He would look a right berk if, for some reason, the tape were blank.

The footage? He thought back to the phone call from Patrick. There was something not quite right about it. What was it? He tried reconstructing the conversation. He got to the end where Patrick had said “Excellent,” but nothing more. Then, suddenly, he knew what was missing. Why hadn’t he asked to see the tape, to pick it up for Martin? Now he
knew
that something was wrong.

Kingston dialed the number Martin had given him. Martin answered right away.

“Hello, Lawrence. Good to hear from you. That must have been one scary experience. Milly told me all about it. Are you all right?”

“I am now, sure. As a matter of fact I’m taking another shot at it in the next few days.”

Martin either missed or ignored Kingston’s dubious choice of words. “You know, Lawrence, if you’d rather, we can always hire a photographer. I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“It’s not a problem, Martin. Like I told Milly, lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.”

Martin chuckled. “Yes, she told me your little joke.”

“How is she feeling by the way?”

“Fine—as far as I’m aware.”

“Your chap Patrick who called earlier this morning said she was out sick.”

“Patrick?”

“Yes. He said you wanted to know if we shot any footage on Friday.”

An unusually long pause followed, then Martin said, “There’s no one named Patrick working here, Lawrence.”

SIX

K
ingston got off the number 10 bus at the Latymer Court stop in Hammersmith. From there, according to the personable young woman at the studio who had given him directions earlier that morning, it was only a short walk to the studio. With the digital tape, a lightweight windbreaker, and a few other bits and pieces in a black leather bag slung from his shoulder, he set off to find 23 Ovesden Terrace.

He found the address with no trouble, but wasn’t prepared for a handsome three-story Victorian house. He had been expecting something more commercial for a recording studio—a storefront maybe. He checked his note to make sure he had the right address—then he spotted the discreet stainless-steel Transmedia Studios plaque on the brick wall to the right of the shiny black door. He pressed the doorbell below the plaque and waited.

As the door opened, he felt a slight tug at his shoulder. A young woman faced him, holding the door open. She put a hand up to her mouth as if she were about to scream, shock registered on her face. Then Kingston realized what had happened. His bag was gone. Turning, he saw a man racing down the empty street, the bag tucked under his arm. Kingston watched helplessly as the man disappeared round the corner. There was no earthly hope of catching up with the thief. The tape was gone.

Kingston went inside and called the police. Then, taking the advice of the duty policewoman, he took off down the street in the direction the man had fled. Chances were, she had said, that if the thief found nothing of value in the bag, then he would soon dump it. And she was right. About twenty yards from the corner, Kingston spotted his bag lying under some black-spotted roses behind an iron railing. Retrieving it, he saw that the shoulder strap was cleanly cut. A box cutter, he guessed, as he checked the contents. As he suspected, the tape was gone but everything else was intact.