‘God, Lawrence. The man’s dead and you’re worrying about the journal? In any case Graham’s not stupid enough to have it just lying around the house. It would be locked up somewhere. You just can’t go around ransacking the bloody place. We have enough explaining to do as it is.’
‘Calm down, Alex,’ Kingston said, his eyes searching the room. ‘You never know – and I’m not going to
With an angry shake of his head, Alex left to find the phone.
The Coach and Horses, five miles outside Bath, proved as pleasantly hospitable inside as it was inviting on the outside. Sitting in the cosy comfort of the saloon bar with glasses of best bitter in front of them, they were both still reeling from the grisly shock of finding Graham’s body. Within minutes after Alex’s emergency phone call, the police had arrived at Manor Close and cordoned off the alley. An ambulance arrived a minute later. After being questioned at length by the sergeant in charge, giving him Mrs Cooke’s address, and tendering their respective addresses and phone numbers, Alex and Kingston were allowed to leave.
The wall clock behind the bar chimed six.
‘Poor chap,’ Kingston said, for about the third or fourth time, shaking his head and taking another draught of beer. ‘I wonder how his aunt’s taking it.’
‘Poor Graham is right. In spite of everything, I’d never have wished that on him.’
‘I wonder what happened? Beyond the obvious, of course,’ Kingston said.
With his index finger, Alex traced a question mark in the thin slick of beer on the polished oak table. ‘Who knows?’ he mumbled.
‘We were fortunate the sergeant believed our story.’
‘I know. For a while there I was certain we would be thrown in the paddy wagon and taken down to the station. Kate would have loved that. Coming home to find us both in the nick!’
‘You know, Alex, we may not be completely in the clear, yet.’ He paused, then said, ‘Well, you, that is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if the police ferret out a copy of Stanhope’s letter – which is highly likely – and put two and two together–’
‘I’m a prime bloody suspect.’
‘Of course. What better motive.’
Alex stared glumly into the foam on his beer. ‘I’m wondering if the police really did believe us. I’m surprised they didn’t ask us why we didn’t just leave the books under the porch, which would have been the obvious thing to do.’
‘Hard to say. At least we were able to show them the journals in the boot and we did tell them that they were important to Graham.’ He looked at Alex squarely. ‘If it turns out that Graham was murdered, they’ll certainly want to question us again.’ Kingston reached for his glass and took a gulp of beer. ‘But let’s not jump to conclusions that somebody bumped him off. Poor bugger could’ve simply had a heart attack.’
‘There’s always that possibility, I suppose.’ Alex cleared his throat and paused, as if preferring not having to utter the next words. ‘But let’s not kid ourselves, it’s far more likely that this has something to do with the rose,’ he said.
‘I have to agree,’ said Kingston, tipping back his head and swallowing the last of his beer. ‘That being the case, the most likely scenario is that someone was at the house before us and either got into a fight with Graham and accidentally killed him, or simply did him in.’
‘Yes, but why – and who?’
‘The only two people who come to mind are Wolff and Tanaka.’
‘But we have nothing whatsoever to connect them to Graham.’
‘I know. Even if they’ve been following your every single move there’s no way that they could have learned about Graham’s having the formula, is there?’
‘I can’t see how,’ Alex replied, with a shake of the head.
There was a brief silence between them as a noisy young couple sat down at the next table.
Alex scraped his chair, making a point of turning sideways to them. ‘I wonder what will happen about Graham’s claim to the rose, now? Do you think Mrs Cooke will pursue it?’
‘Hard to say. You’re going to have to ask her, I suppose. Either that or call Stanhope. In either case, the decent thing to do is to wait a few days.’
The chatter and laughter from the bar was growing louder as more customers started to arrive.
‘Kate should be home soon,’ Alex said, glancing at his watch.
‘You should give her a call.’ Kingston tapped his glass. ‘Want another?’ he asked.
‘No, this is it for me, thanks.’ Alex yawned. ‘God, I’m almost afraid to go home these days. There’s no knowing who’ll call next.’
Kingston shifted his position on the hard seat and crossed his legs. ‘I promised I’d tell you more about this Wolff fellow, Alex.’
‘The American rose grower.’
‘Right.’
‘Let’s have it, then,’ said Alex.
‘Well, soon after you got that first call, I phoned an acquaintance who now lives in California. Bob Jackson’s his name. He used to hold down a top management position with one of the largest garden supply companies in the States – on the West Coast. I asked Bob to do some sleuthing for me to see which companies – or individuals, for that matter – would have the wherewithal and also be the most likely to have interest, or the most to be gained, from acquiring a blue rose.
‘Well, Bob did a painstaking job. Not only contacted many of his old friends in the business but told me he spent countless hours on the Internet and in the library, poring over newspaper stories and trade magazine articles.’
‘And all roads led to Wolff, I take it?’
Kingston ignored the question. ‘That’s the good news,’ he said. ‘But you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you next because it’s pretty heavy stuff.’
‘You make it sound like a bad movie.’
‘It could well be. First, let me make a quick comment about the world in which this man Wolff operates – the world of commercial horticulture. We all know it’s all about nature, pretty flowers, beautiful gardens, seductive catalogues and nurseries – all that kind of stuff. But most of all, it’s about money. It’s a hard, tough, competitive business, where the big fish gobble up the little fish and the sharks devour the big fish. Believe me, Wolff is a shark. And right now, I wouldn’t mind betting that he’s circling The Parsonage waiting for the right moment to strike.’
‘Oh come on, Lawrence. This isn’t
‘Don’t dismiss this too lightly, Alex. Jackson’s letter and clippings contain tangible evidence of a near pathological personality. They paint a very damning picture of our Mr Ira Wolff.’
Kingston then proceeded to recount what Jackson had told him about Wolff ’s history of personal failures and dubious business enterprises.
It appeared that Wolff ’s ascendancy in the business world of horticulture started with his acquisition of Baker-Reynolds. Jackson had been unable to find any news stories or dig up any gossip about Wolff ’s activities prior to that time. It was as though, until he purchased Baker-Reynolds, Wolff hadn’t existed. A front-page
Comments and opinions from individuals within the industry, however, offered an opposing viewpoint. Among the contributors to Bob’s explosive package of information there was nearly a consensus that Wolff had indeed employed underhanded tactics to acquire the company. One industry insider wrote that it was the general opinion, within B-R’s top management at the time, that incriminating skeletons in the partnership’s family closet – some, of a highly prurient nature – led to the forced sale of the company. Another offered an opinion that to acquire the company Wolff had orchestrated a diabolical scheme – partly based on fact, partly contrived – whereby he could substantiate repeated acts of blatant insider trading, stock manipulation and other fiscal chicanery. Rumour had it
