the impossible. I would dearly love to have witnessed that. Oh, I had another thought, too, related to Mrs Cooke. I won’t saddle you with it now. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.’
Alex nodded.
Kingston got up from his chair, stretched and stifled a yawn with the back of his hand then headed through the door to the hallway, where he’d left his belongings. Alex flicked off the lights in the living room and helped Kingston take his bags upstairs.
On the landing, Kingston paused at the partially open door to his room and turned to Alex. ‘Thanks for asking me to stay, Alex,’ he said. ‘By the way – you do play tennis, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Not as often as I’d like, I’m afraid. But I’ll bet you played with Rod Laver in your day – eh?’
‘That’s extraordinary – how could you have known that?’
A few minutes after eight the following morning the two of them sat down at the kitchen table with pads and pens and – not for the first time – started to recreate a step-by-step replay of every single event and conversation that had occurred since Kate and Alex’s discovery of the rose. By noon two dozen sheets were filled with notes but they were no nearer to breaking the impasse.
The small French restaurant Kingston had chosen was in a back street of Cirencester. Soon after they were seated, Kingston launched into an animated conversation in French with the waiter. Most of it was lost to Alex but there was no question that Kingston knew his Provencal cuisine.
Kingston ordered a glass of wine, Alex settled for mineral water. Soon, Nicoise salads were placed in front of them and for the next ten minutes they ate and talked without further interruption.
Kingston dabbed his mouth with the cloth napkin. ‘So, as I was saying, Alex, I think we should pay Mrs Cooke another visit – as soon as possible. I have a feeling it could prove productive. You have to give her back the Major’s journals, anyway.’
‘Our condolences, too.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Maybe we should go this afternoon?’
‘I think we should.’
‘I’ll call her when we get back. I would imagine she’s at home most of the time.’
Kingston leaned back. ‘There’s another, more important reason a visit could prove worthwhile.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Since it’s likely that Mrs Cooke now has the missing journal, it would present the ideal opportunity to ask her about the Stanhope situation. To find out if she plans to go ahead with Graham’s claim. There’s even the long shot that we could get our hands on the missing journal.’
‘Now that she knows what it is, do you really think she’ll give it up? If she has it, that is.’
‘I doubt it, but we have to find out, don’t we? Is it possible that she didn’t know what Graham was up to?’
‘Unlikely, I would say,’ Alex replied, ‘but if she didn’t know, she must do by now. You know damned well the police will have been in touch with her, too. That being the case, they will have told her about Graham’s claim. They will also have shown her Stanhope’s letter – you can bet on it.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Kingston, taking a sip of wine and studying the wineglass. ‘There’s also the chance that the journal could have wound up in Stanhope’s possession.’
‘That’s a possibility.’
‘Yes, if we can get our hands on the missing journal – just borrow it for a while – we could prove to Wolff that, even if he gets the blue rose, he’ll have competition.’
‘Exactly.’
They broke off their conversation while the waiter served the main course, a steaming Bouillabaisse.
Alex broke off a piece of the warm crusty baguette. ‘I wonder how Wolff will react when we tell him about the formula – if we get it, that is.’
‘Not too favourably, one would imagine. Though I doubt for one minute that he’ll believe us.’
‘I don’t think I would either, frankly. All this code crap.’
‘Regardless, at some point we have to tell him.’
‘We have no way of contacting him, though.’
‘Did the man in Oxford say when they would be back in touch with you?’
‘That tight-lipped bastard? No, he didn’t. Just said we had forty-eight hours, that’s all.’
‘Obviously they have to, Alex. Somehow I don’t think they’ll just turn Kate loose – just like that.’
‘God only knows what they’ll do. As long as she’s not harmed, I don’t give a damn about anything else.’
Kingston said nothing, spooning up the last of his stew. Alex frowned. ‘I still wonder who would want to kill Graham.’
‘Hard to say, Alex, we don’t have many suspects.’
‘According to you, Wolff is capable of doing something like that, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose we can’t rule him out. But if he did, that would undoubtedly mean that he knew about Graham having the formula. Is that possible?’
Alex shook his head. ‘God knows. Anything’s possible,’ he mumbled. ‘Look, let’s not fool ourselves, we both know that Graham’s death is connected somehow to the blue rose. It has to be. For it to be anything else would seem to be out of the question at this point.’
Kingston let out a sigh. ‘You’re probably right. As much as I want to believe otherwise, it smacks of having everything to do with the blue rose.’
Alex toyed with his empty water glass, said nothing.
Kingston gestured to the waiter. ‘How about some dessert, Alex?’
‘Just coffee for me, thanks.’
Another ten minutes passed before they finally left the restaurant, stepping out on to a rain-blackened pavement shiny enough to reflect their shoes. ‘Well – back to the good old English summer,’ Alex said, putting up his collar. ‘The umbrella’s in the car, naturally.’
A sullen sky and whipping rain of a gusty afternoon storm instantly extinguished all further thoughts of sunny Provence.
Three nights had passed since Kate had been imprisoned. Thinking back, she was now certain that they had put something in the tea on that first day. Waking the next morning, she had had no idea how long she had slept. It just felt like a long time. Even then her eyes were heavy-lidded and she had a dull headache. Sitting on the bed in semi-darkness, it took some time before she even realized where she was. Then it all came rushing back.
Slants of dust-speckled light entering the room through gaps in the heavy velvet curtains were just enough for her to make out the room. A few pieces of cheap furniture were placed at intervals around the high-ceilinged space. In places, seams of the faded and stained Victorian print wallpaper had separated and ripped, revealing earlier layers. In the far corner, a pedestal sink with a rust-stained porcelain bowl and oxidized brass taps stood next to a partially open door. Through it, she could see the edge of a bathtub.
She ran a hand down one arm. It was tender and she could now see the discoloration, bruising from the struggle. Turning her head, even slowly, made her wince. For several moments, she closed her eyes to shut out the dreariness and the pain.
She got up from the bed on wobbly legs and made it to the door. It was sturdy and, of course, locked. She went back to the bed, lay down and stared at the ceiling. It was blotched with brown-edged water stains and much of the paint was cracked or peeling. It reminded her of a similar ceiling, in an old seaside cottage in Cornwall that she and Alex had rented several summers back. Thinking back fondly to those wonderful days, she started to cry, quietly at first, then in heaving sobs. Her emotions had finally caught up with the enormity of her situation. Turning her damp pillow over, she eventually lapsed back into a deep sleep.
Since that awful day, she had done nothing but sleep – she only seemed to be able to manage a few hours at a time – and spend the waking hours trying to figure out who might have kidnapped her and why. She just knew the rose was behind it all. She thought constantly about Alex. He must be going out of his mind with worry by now.
The routine had been the same every day, until today – Thursday. When she had woken, she leaned over and
