Alex didn’t answer.
‘I take it that your answer is yes.’ He paused for a moment.
Alex said nothing.
‘All right. I’ll say this just once, Mr Sheppard. Do not mention this conversation to anyone. If there’s the slightest indication that you have made contact with the police or any other law enforcement agency, you will see your wife again. You will see her but you won’t recognize her. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You cruel bastard.’
‘Good. Well, that’s settled, then.’
Alex swallowed hard, trying to suppress the bile rising in his throat. His mind was racing. It had been the plan for him to tell the man in Oxford that the rose had been stolen and that a hybridizing formula now existed, that the rose could be cloned. Should he wait or tell this man now? He took a deep breath. ‘There’s one small problem,’ he said.
‘Problem?’
‘We don’t have the rose,’ Alex said. ‘What’s more, I haven’t a sodding clue where it is or who took it. So let Kate go. There’s no point in keeping her any more.’
The man laughed. His cynicism was undisguised.
‘It’s the goddamned truth,’ Alex snapped.
‘What do you take me for, Sheppard – a fucking hillbilly? You have the balls to tell me that somebody just walked into your garden, dug up the rose, and made off with it?’
‘I’m telling you, I don’t have it. I’m not lying,’ he shouted.
‘Bullshit! This conversation is over. You sign those papers this morning. That’s all.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t have the bloody rose!’
‘Well, you’d better damn well get it!’ the man shouted back.
Before Alex could say anything further, the line was dead.
When Alex arrived in Oxford it was beginning to drizzle. A damp greyness cloaked the city, muffling the sound of the crawling traffic and omnipresent pneumatic drilling. Umbrellas crowded the busy streets as the rush-hour jostle showed no signs of waning. Alex had left The Parsonage well before nine, allowing plenty of time to get to Oxford. Luckily, he found a two-hour parking space within easy walking distance of the address he had been given. He checked the directions again, to make sure, and replaced the paper in his pocket.
After no more than a five-minute walk he arrived at his destination, a honey-coloured old stone building on Beaumont Street, across from the new quarters of the Ashmolean Museum. Alex knew the museum well. He had visited it many times. He stood for a moment and contemplated the facade of the elegant building. How ironic, he thought. The museum was first established to house curiosities collected by seventeenth-century botanist, plant hunter and gardener, John Tradescant the Elder, and here he was about to sign away the rights to the botanical discovery of the century. He turned away and walked up the steps into the four-storey Georgian building in front of him. Running his eyes down the directory in the dimly lit lobby, he determined that Suite 36 was occupied by Alexander Lithgow, Solicitor. That figured, he thought, as he got into the self-operated lift. On the third floor, he followed the fading numbered arrows on the wall to number 36. He knocked sharply on the frosted glass window, turned the dented brass doorknob and entered.
The outer office was almost Dickensian. Stacks of books and bulging folders and papers were piled with seeming abandon on desks, in chairs and on the floor. On the wall to his left, a quartet of yellowing diplomas was displayed, unquestionably a fixture of many years. The clock on another wall showed 9.55.
A man appeared from a door in the back. For a moment Alex was taken aback. The man was not at all what Alex was expecting. He was over six feet tall, with military-style cropped hair and a square jaw. His face was evenly tanned, eyes concealed behind tinted sunglasses. He was wearing a loose-fitting black suit and a black shirt, open at the collar. In one hand he held a manila folder.
‘Alexander Lithgow?’ Alex inquired.
‘No, he’s not here right now,’ the man said in a brusque manner.
For whatever reason Alex had taken him for an American but the man had an English accent. ‘Who are you, then?’ he asked.
‘Never mind. I take it you’re Alex Sheppard.’
‘I am.’
The man gestured to the large partner’s desk that half-filled the space. ‘Sit down,’ he said.
Alex dragged a wooden chair out from beside the desk, sat down and folded his arms. The man seated himself on the opposite side of the desk facing Alex. He placed the folder on the desk and opened it to reveal a thin sheaf of papers. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket, took out a pen and slid it across the desk to Alex.
Alex watched in silence.
‘All right,’ he said, placing his hands palm down each side of the open folder. ‘This is a sales agreement. A legal document, that transfers ownership of the rose presently in your possession to another party. It’s not necessary for you to read it, just sign on the line on the last page, where it’s marked with an X, and write in today’s date. Do the same on the two copies underneath.’ He turned the folder around and slid it across to Alex.
‘If I sign, when do I get Kate back?’
‘Sorry. I’m not here to answer questions. My job is just to make sure you sign these papers.’ He started to tap his fingers on the desktop.
Alex stared at the man for a moment, then looked down at the pen in front of him.
‘Well, come on.’
‘It’s not going to work. You’re wasting your time. I tried to tell your friend, but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We don’t have the rose. It’s been stolen.’
Alex expected surprise to register on the man’s face, but it didn’t. His look of exasperation turned into one of anger, instead. Because of the tinted glasses, Alex couldn’t see the expression in his eyes but knew they were boring into his. The man’s lips tightened and with an index finger resting on either side of his glasses, he adjusted them, unnecessarily.
Still nothing was said.
He pushed the folder a few inches closer to Alex. ‘Just sign the papers, dammit.’
Alex picked up the pen. ‘Is Ira Wolff behind all this?’
The man ignored his question.
‘You know bloody well what’s going on, don’t you? You know all about my wife.’
The man nodded towards the folder. ‘Sign it,’ he snapped.
‘If I do, when do I get her back?’
The man’s fist moved with frightening speed as it crashed down on the top of the desk. ‘Sign the fuckin’ paper,’ he yelled.
Alex signed and dated the original and two copies, closed the folder and shoved it roughly across the desk. It was the only thing he could do. He stood up, almost knocking over the chair. ‘You bastards.’ His voice was breaking, his fists clenched so tight they hurt. ‘You’ll never get away with this.’
The man stood and spun around the desk. Before Alex could raise his fists, the man was up against him, his two hands grasping Alex’s jacket lapels. With a fierce jerk he pulled Alex close to him, so close that Alex could see his eyes reflected in the man’s glasses. ‘Get this straight,’ he said, drawing a long breath. ‘I’m not going to repeat myself. You want your wife back in one piece – you have that rose ready for delivery in forty-eight hours. You got it? Forty-eight hours, that’s two days from now.’ On the ‘now’, the man released his grip and pushed Alex away so hard that he stumbled back and crashed into the door.
‘Now, get the hell out of here,’ the man shouted.
Alex recovered and glared back, sizing up his chances in a fight. Deciding they were not good, he turned, opened the door and walked out, slamming it behind him as hard as he could.
Chapter Nineteen
