EG03 - The Water Lily Cross Page 16

  Further searching provided an alternative. In the absence of an address, a scaled Ordnance Survey plan could be submitted by mail, showing the extent of the property outlined in color with its position in relation to nearby roads and other landmarks.

  Fifteen minutes later, Kingston walked out of his local copy shop with a same-size copy of the page in question from his large-scale Ordnance Survey map. Taking it home, he had inked in make-believe boundaries of what he guessed would be those of the land on which the reservoir was located. Sealing the map inside an envelope along with a copy of the completed application form he’d downloaded from the Web site, plus a check to cover the fee, he walked to the post office in the Kings Road and mailed it.

  The next few days were remarkably quiet. After the string of unsettling events of the last several weeks and now, to cap it all, the news of Everard’s death, Kingston looked upon this time as a blessing of sorts. For the first time since he undertaken his search for Stewart he was finding the opportunity to devote himself enthusiastically to the vicissitudes of daily life as a bachelor. There were numerous things that had been neglected while he had been tooling around the Hampshire countryside and traipsing to East London on what now had all the earmarks of a futile exercise.

  Mrs. Tripp, the lady who came in once a week to houseclean, do his laundry, and iron, was on holiday in Spain, so a few hours of each day were taken up with housekeeping. The laundry, changing the bed, and ironing could wait, but Kingston could not abide a house that was unclean and disorderly. The days went by unnoticed and soon he found himself back in his old routine, reading, renting movies, lunching at the Antelope and cooking proper meals in the evening.

  Thursday had come and gone with no word from Martin Davis about the video. Lord knows what had happened to Desmond. Kingston had called him several times, leaving messages, but with no response. That surprised him. Knowing Desmond, Kingston thought he would be itching to know what the police were doing at Kingston’s flat the day they’d last spoken.

  Tomorrow, he was taking a much anticipated visit to see Becky. When he had called her to confirm, there was a noticeable change in her voice and mood. For the first time since Stewart’s disappearance, she sounded almost upbeat. He even detected a hint of optimism as they talked—so much so that he wondered if anything had triggered the change. She assured him nothing had, and that she was simply following Sarah’s and his earlier advice: to think positively and not waste time dwelling on what might or might not have happened. The answers she was seeking would not come any sooner with her continually fretting. It would only result in making her more despondent, at the risk of impairing her health. As if to underscore her newfound attitude, she said that she was planning to cook dinner for him. “Nothing fancy, mind you,” she said, “but it’ll save us going out again. The restaurants are so expensive these days.”

  “Nothing could please me more,” Kingston said, ending the conversation.

  After he had put the phone down, he contemplated whether the time had come to tell Becky about his investigation. Should he do so, it would mean, among other things, having to tell her that Stewart was involved with some extremely dangerous people. That was out of the question. Frightening her and dashing what little hope was left would almost certainly send her into another tailspin.

  On the more cheerful side, he had got a call from Andrew who was back from his New Zealand trip and couldn’t wait to tell Kingston all about it over dinner at a “brilliant” new restaurant he’d just discovered in Westbourne Grove. Kingston made a mental note to call him later. At this moment, he couldn’t deal with such mundane matters as new restaurants. He could only think of one thing: Where the hell was Stewart?

  The morning’s post contained a surprise: a reply from the Land Registry. He opened the manila envelope and withdrew the contents. He read the cover letter followed by the report. The land on which the reservoir was located was owned by Conway-Anderson Ltd., 384 Neville Street, London, E14. The date purchased was November 1992 and the price paid for the fifteen-acre parcel: £1,250,000. There were no restrictive covenants or easements of any kind, and no mortgage lender.

  As he looked at the accompanying Title Plan and Ordnance Survey detail, a smile spread slowly over his face. In addition to the reservoir and the outbuildings, it showed the existence of a house. This was more than he’d hoped for.

  With the letter in his hand, Kingston walked over to the window and gazed out at the square below. He watched absently as a meter maid made her way up the street checking the parked cars for permits. His mind wasn’t on her, though, it was on two things: first, the postal code of Conway-Anderson’s address: E14. He was willing to bet that was the same code as Bakers Landing. Was that just a coincidence? The second disclosure was the existence of a house. Presumably, but not necessarily, it was also owned by Conway-Anderson. He didn’t quite know what to make of that. After the episode at the reservoir, he’d speculated that Stewart might have been living in the building at the reservoir. Now he was starting to wonder if it wasn’t a much more likely scenario that Stewart would have been held captive at the house and not the makeshift living quarters where Kingston had been bashed on the head. As he thought about it, that building more likely served as a home away from home for others involved in the project.

  The house was certainly well hidden. He couldn’t recall having seen a driveway or even a path to suggest the existence of a house. It must be accessible from farther down the main road.

  Still watching from the window, the meter maid had got into an argy-bargy with an arm-waving motorist who had arrived at his parked BMW the very second she had slipped a ticket under the windscreen wiper. Kingston smiled, knowing who would have the last word. He turned away from the window, crossed the room, put the letter on the coffee table and picked up the phone. Desmond’s line was busy. At least it indicated that he was back in circulation, thought Kingston.

  SEVENTEEN

  Kingston’s preliminary search of Conway-Anderson revealed little. He was surprised to find that the company had no Web site. Not only that, but he found only two mentions of the company after scrolling through a dozen pages containing more than a hundred references. Neither provided a clear understanding of what the company did, or specified exactly what kind of services Conway-Anderson performed. In one case the company’s role was articulated vaguely as “Developing management, project organization, and people skills to increase productivity and profits.” Another description positioned them in the role of problem solvers, equipping companies with the tools to resolve manufacturing, productivity, management, and labor issues. No mention of history, clients, personnel, or contact numbers. To Kingston it was all business-speak. Conway-Anderson appeared to be a management firm that sought anonymity—most unusual. Six more pages and still no further mentions.

  Kingston sat back and rocked in his chair. Earlier, he’d thought about visiting Conway-Anderson’s offices but he’d dismissed the idea—for the time being, anyway. His last corporate office visit and its grisly outcome—the word “fallout,” was inappropriate, he decided—was still very much on his mind.

  What next? Give “Conway” a try? He typed in the single name in the search bar and tapped RETURN. He scrolled through a dozen pages of miscellaneous “Conway” sites and references without success. He was about to give up when he decided that thirteen might bring him luck. And it did. The result read:

  Robert Conway 1914–1990. (Conway-Anderson Ltd.)

  Reigate, Surrey

  Robert Conway, surviving founder of Conway-Anderson Ltd., a London-based management and consulting company, died last month at his home in Surrey. Conway and his partner, Nathaniel Anderson, who died in 1987, started the company in 1942. During the war years, Anderson, who was partially disabled, ran the company while Conway enlisted in the Middlesex Regiment and fought in North Africa, and later in the European campaign. As a lieutenant, Conway was awarded several medals, including a Military Cross. Conway later served two
terms as a Reigate town counsilor and was active in several community organizations including the Arts Council and the Rotary Club. Prior to Conway’s death, negotiations had been under way to sell Conway-Anderson. The prospective buyer is Viktor Zander, a Russian-born businessman with interests in Britain and Asia.

  Reigate Times © August 2, 2001

  Kingston read the article twice. The question was: Did the sale go through? Did Viktor Zander now own Conway-Anderson? Without, thinking, Kingston typed Zander’s name in the search bar. For ten minutes he scoured the results, reading page after page, line by line. Nothing. For a man who had bought a management company—if indeed he had—Zander had certainly kept a low profile. Why? Kingston wondered. It was certainly an unorthodox way to run a business. Close to accepting defeat, he continued through four more pages. Then, finally, Zander’s name came up, not in a headline but buried in the middle of a five-page article titled “American Banks Linked to Russian ‘Mafia’ Money Laundering.”

  The story reported that two American banks were under investigation for their involvement in a massive money-laundering scheme operated by Russian organized crime. Involving as much $8 billion, the case was being handled by the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s Office in collaboration with British, Swiss, and Russian authorities. Later in the story, it was stated that British inquiries had focused on a Russian businessman named Vasily Banovich. Banovich had reportedly been involved in racketeering, extortion, and selling weaponry looted from the Russian army. For several years, Banovich spent his time moving between Britain and Bulgaria, eventually returning to Russia where he disappeared, evading prosecution. The story went on to reveal that as much as $2 billion was thought to have passed through Sentinel World Marketing, an import-export company, headquartered in a three-room office in London’s East End. From there, the trail led to a network of other shell companies implicated in the sting.

  The story went on to describe how the U.S. investigations started with suspicions and tips about a manufacturing company, ALM Partco in Scranton, Pennsylvania. ALM had registered the company in the Channel Islands in 1989. The subsequent circuitous search that followed led investigators on an international treasure hunt involving companies, financial institutions, law firms, and private individuals in six European and Asian countries.

  On the fourth page, Zander’s name came up in a list of people under investigation at the time. He and several other persons had been questioned by U.S., British, and Russian authorities but for reasons that were not quoted, had never been indicted. It was also stated that one of Zander’s companies based in England did business worldwide, specifically in Russia and former Soviet Republic countries. No wonder Zander and Conway-Anderson stayed under the radar, Kingston thought, as he waited for the pages to print.

  He turned off the printer, got up and stretched, pleased with his research, awed once again at the avalanche of information accessible through the Internet at the click of a mouse. Carmichael was certainly going to be impressed with this development. The equation was simple: Conway-Anderson owned the house and reservoir; Zander owned Conway-Anderson; Stewart had been working at the reservoir and was possibly being held captive at the house. Ergo: Zander was the individual they should be looking for, and in all probability, he was the man directly or indirectly responsible for Stewart’s kidnapping.

  Under gray skies, Kingston drove out of London headed for Fordingbridge. Merging onto the M4, gradually working his way over to the fast lane, he was trying to recall the number of times during the last several weeks that he had made the same journey to Hampshire: Becky, Alison Greer, Inspector Carmichael, the reservoir. Thinking back on them, the cavalcade of incidents, conversations, highs and mostly lows, were becoming blurred. But now, for the first time since that fateful day Stewart went missing, he had what appeared to be the makings of a huge break. Finding out about Zander was one thing, but knowing that he once had ties to organized crime made him even more suspect.

  For a change, he’d made good time from London. Motorway construction workers must be on holiday or strike, he mused. Crossing the top corner of the New Forest, he was approaching Fordingbridge. Five minutes and he would be there. This time, when he arrived at The Willows, he would be the bearer of positive news for a change.

  Except for the empty chair at the head of the table—a solemn reminder of Stewart’s absence—Becky’s dinner reminded Kingston of the old days at The Willows. Despite her assurance that it wouldn’t be fancy, he couldn’t help smiling when she entered the dining room carrying their main course: plates of roast local guinea fowl with port and orange sauce.

  Earlier that afternoon, in the garden, he had told her about Zander and the house, without mentioning Zander’s mob connections. The news had brought the expected reaction: an initial rush of elation that gradually turned to anxiety as she weighed the implications. For five minutes, with eloquent logic buffed with the occasional white lie, he tried to convince Becky that the news could only be seen as positive. He knew, though, by her sentient look and reticence, that despite his all his efforts, she was also weighing the downside. She’d known him too long.

  Kingston stayed overnight again, rising early to work in the garden, deadheading, pruning and tidying up. At lunchtime he brought in a bouquet of roses, arranging them in a vase and placing it on the kitchen table as a surprise for Becky, who had gone to the post office. Later that afternoon, after a hearty lunch of Cornish pasties and raspberries with clotted cream, Kingston left The Willows, to return to London.

  By eight thirty the next morning Kingston had showered, dressed, and finished his breakfast of cereal and yogurt while leafing through The Times. He’d also called Becky, thanking her again for the “simple” meal and lodging. A solid seven hours of sleep had been made more restful by the decision he’d made the previous night after a third glass of Côtes du Rhone: not only to tell Inspector Carmichael about Viktor Zander, but also to divulge everything he had learned about Stewart’s activities in the weeks and months prior to his disappearance.

  The night before, he had jotted down a summary of the events of his search and inquiries. He would have it on hand when he called Carmichael. It surprised him just how much explaining he would have to do.

  That raised yet another concern: With so much to divulge, Carmichael could rightly accuse Kingston of withholding critical information in the police investigation, not only into Stewart’s disappearance, but also of a homicide and, with Everard’s death, of a suspected homicide, too. Coming up with an acceptable explanation of why he hadn’t long ago told the police about his involvement presented a real problem. He couldn’t think why he hadn’t done so a lot earlier. It had been damned foolish of him. He was supposed to be helping the police, not withholding information. There was no rational answer; he would simply have to take his lumps if and when Carmichael chose to press the issue.

  The more Kingston thought about it, there was simply too much to discuss over the phone. Once the inspector heard what Kingston had to say, there would be no question that he would want Kingston to make an appearance at the station. Kingston wasn’t keen on the idea of driving down to the New Forest again, and even less enthusiastic about the confrontation that could leave him with a bloodied nose. But now he needed Carmichael in his corner because a plan had been swimming round in his head whereby he might be able to persuade the inspector to enlist Kingston’s help, physically. Be on the case officially.

  He picked up the phone and punched in the direct number that Carmichael had given him. While the phone was ringing, he was reminded that their last conversation had been weeks ago. It wouldn’t surprise him if Carmichael had forgotten about him. His apprehension was groundless. Carmichael was on the line immediately.

  “Doctor, an unexpected surprise. Nice to hear from you again.”

  Kingston didn’t wait to be asked why he was calling. He was wondering how long Carmichael’s affable demeanor would last once he learned what Kingston had been up to.

 
“I’ll come right to the point, Inspector. Since we last talked, I’ve been carrying on—well, I suppose you’d call it an investigation of sorts, trying to find Stewart Halliday.”

  “Yes, I remember you were close friends. How’s his wife doing? Rebecca. I haven’t spoken with her for some time. I wish I had encouraging news to report, something that would give her some hope. We’ve published appeals in just about every newspaper and TV news program in the country and gotten not one damned lead.”

  “Holding up remarkably well. She’s been staying with her daughter on and off but she’s back home now. As a matter of fact I just got back from visiting with her. She’s in a much more positive frame of mind.” Kingston was about to get to the point of his call when Carmichael interrupted.

  “Investigation of sorts, eh? That reminds me, you never got back to me after your visit to Walsh’s garden. Did you go there?”

  Kingston was surprised that Carmichael remembered the call, his being so overloaded at the time. “I did, and it proved worthwhile.” Kingston paused waiting for Carmichael’s response while he searched for the right words to launch into his “confession.”

  “So, why exactly are you calling, Doctor?”

  “I have a lot to tell you, not only concerning Stewart’s disappearance, but also about Adrian Walsh’s murder and the death of a City businessman named Miles Everard and—” He paused, debating whether he should tell Carmichael about Zander now or wait until he had a better sense of the inspector’s mood. He opted to hold off, for the moment, anyway.

  After a long pause Carmichael responded. “You have been busy,” he said.

  “I’ve every reason to believe the three are connected—but there’s more. Too much to discuss on the phone.”