There’s the Cookes, their lawyer, your lawyer, Tanaka, Wolff – anybody who works for Wolff.’
‘But Wolff wouldn’t have taken both the rose and Kate. It wouldn’t make sense.’
‘I agree,’ said Kingston. ‘Unless he took it as added insurance.’ He leaned forward, swirling the melting ice in his glass. ‘I really don’t know what to think, Alex. Nothing makes sense.’
Alex downed the rest of his cognac in one gulp. His face was ashen, his eyes red and swollen. ‘What an awful sodding mess,’ he sighed.
Kingston stopped pacing and sat down, his eyes fixed on Alex’s. ‘If – and I grant you it could be a big if – they really will release Kate on Wednesday when you’ve signed–’
The phone started to ring, stopping Kingston mid-sentence.
Alex picked it up.
‘Yes, this is Alex. Oh, hello, Jill. That was quick.’
Alex’s face paled, like the sun going behind a cloud.
‘My God! You’re sure?’ He waited a few seconds. ‘How many were there? I see. Well, it’s not the answer we were looking for, but thanks, Jill. I may come and see you later in the week. Would that be okay? Fine.’
He placed the phone down, slowly.
‘What did she say?’ asked Kingston.
‘Apparently they all died. It seems that with Vicky’s death, the funeral and everything, the drip system was never set up.’
‘Jesus, what rotten luck,’ said Kingston. ‘Now we do have to find the missing rose.’
Chapter Seventeen
Gather therefore the rose, whilst yet is prime.
Edmund Spenser
Kate’s heartbeat had finally slowed to a normal rate. She was still trembling but the initial shock of the assault had subsided. It was replaced by anger, the need to strike back, the urge to escape. Constantly moving her jaw and lips had no effect on loosening the duct tape stretched tightly across her mouth. If anything it increased the chafing. Attempting to remove the goggles strapped to her head proved equally futile.
In her maddeningly helpless state, Kate’s mind replayed, over and over, the events since she had left Nell’s house. Who were these men? Were they the ones who took the rose? If so, why had they taken her too? It had to be something to do with Sapphire – but what?
The screeching of tyres locked on the road, loud blaring of the Jeep’s horn and swearing from the driver jolted Kate back to the present. She sensed they had narrowly avoided a collision. She nestled into the corner of the seat and closed her eyes but couldn’t sleep. For the first time in her life she was experiencing terror. Not only from what had happened but the dread of what might happen. The goose-flesh of fear on her arms and neck would not go away.
At last she heard the engine die and the handbrake being yanked on. The driver got out and closed the door. She heard his retreating footsteps, then, save for the occasional pinging of the Jeep’s exhaust pipe and muffler as it cooled, all was quiet. A minute or so later, she heard the two men talking nearby but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then she heard the door near to her open. A strong hand gripped her arm just above the elbow. Hauled roughly out of the car, she found her footing on the loose gravel. Birds were twittering noisily. Lots of them. In the distance there was a faint droning of a tractor or harvester. Closer by, a dog barked sporadically.
With a man on either side gripping her arms, they walked along the path. Soon, they came to a halt. She heard a key being inserted into a lock, followed by the creak of a door opening. After the sweetness of the smells outside, the pungent smoky odour inside made her stomach heave. Last night’s embers must be still smouldering in the fireplace. Now, with just one of the men guiding her, they were walking on carpet. Her arm brushed against a wall – a hallway, she guessed. She stumbled as her toe bumped into something. ‘Stairs,’ the man said, helping her to recover. At the top of the stairs they came to a halt. She heard another key turn in a lock, then the slide of a bolt. No more than three steps into the room, they stopped again and the man released her arm. Her heart was thumping. The room was cold and smelled musty. The chafing of the cord had lacerated her wrists and the duct tape had made her face sore and itching where it was pulling against her skin. In the pitch-black darkness, she felt very frightened and vulnerable.
She felt the man behind her loosening and then removing the cord that bound her wrists. Next, he was removing the tape from the goggles. Strands of her hair were stuck to the tape. It was painfully slow. At least he didn’t just rip the tape off. It gave her a glimmer of hope that from now on she might be treated with leniency.
When the goggles came off, Kate expected to be blinded by bright light. She wasn’t. As the room came slowly into focus she saw why. Heavy velvet curtains covered the windows. The room was in semi-darkness. From behind, the man removed the duct tape gently from her mouth. Before she could utter a word or get a good look at him he had slipped silently from the room, closing the door behind him. The bolt slid shut.
Kate gently rubbed her sore wrists and touched her cheeks with the tips of her fingers. Her face was very tender. She breathed deeply through her mouth. Her ribcage ached as her lungs sucked in the stale air. Her eyes were now fully adjusted to the meagre light. Glancing around the shadowy room, she could make out a double bed, a large wardrobe and sundry pieces of other dark furniture. Close to her, on her right, a small table stood between two upholstered chairs. On it was a tray containing a teapot, a white mug, milk and sugar and a plate with biscuits. For a fleeting moment she felt oddly touched by the gesture, then quickly reminded herself of the gravity of her situation. The tea tasted good and she quickly devoured all eight biscuits. She walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Outside, it was starting to get dark and she could see little. Certainly there were no lights to indicate other houses or buildings nearby. Apparently her ‘prison’ had been chosen for its isolated location. For a while she sat on the bed assessing her plight. Soon, however, drowsiness overcame her. After all she had been subjected to, her body could take no more. Her eyelids drooped and she lay back on the bed. Within seconds she was asleep.
Alex let out a low moan. His temples were throbbing. He ran his tongue around his lips. They were parched and cracked like a dry riverbed. The blurry green numbers on the clock radio read 10:14.
Then it all came crashing back: the devastating call about Kate from the American, the rose being stolen, the cognac, his falling asleep on the sofa. He couldn’t recall having eaten anything, just drinking more brandy. No wonder he felt so bloody awful. Pulling back the sheets, he slowly got out of bed, put on his dressing gown and slippers, and padded along the hallway and downstairs to the kitchen.
The empty bottle of Remy-Martin on the kitchen counter confirmed his worst suspicions: it had been half full yesterday.
He checked the living room – no Kingston. ‘Christ, I hope he didn’t attempt to drive home last night,’ he muttered. Opening the front door to retrieve
Consumed with anguish about Kate, he tried hard to put himself in her position, wondering where she was, how she was being treated. Mindlessly, he filled the electric kettle, flicked on the switch and walked over to the kitchen table. He sat down and stared blankly at the rolled-up newspaper. He thought back to what Kingston had said, about calling the police. He shook his head slowly. ‘God, I just can’t do it,’ he said under his breath.
He jumped at the sound of loud knocking on the front door.
‘Sod it,’ he muttered. ‘I must have locked him out. We do have a bloody doorbell, Kingston,’ he shouted, walking to the door.
Instead of Kingston, two strangers stood facing him.
Beyond them, a nondescript beige car sat alongside the TR4. The older and taller of the two men was well turned-out, in a conservative navy suit and regimental-striped tie. He had a receding hairline, sad china-blue eyes heavily wrinkled at the corners and a trim grey moustache. Late fifties, Alex guessed. He could have passed for
