‘We’ve been through that, Alex. You don’t think for one minute that he’s going to admit to anything on the phone? It is stolen property you know. Anyway, about my idea.’
‘If this is one of your “creative ideas”, I’m not sure I want to hear it. This is not some kind of bloody commando operation! You don’t have camouflage outfits in that bag of yours, do you?’
Kingston looked mildly offended. ‘There’s no need to get stroppy, you know – it’s quite simple – a little devious perhaps, but not harmfully so. Here’s how it works…’
Chapter Twenty-three
The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
William Cullen Bryant
The loud slamming of a door woke Kate with a start. Shouting followed, voices raised in anger. An argument was going on downstairs. She slipped out of bed and groped her way around it, following the duvet, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Reaching the door, she placed an ear against the cold oak panel. She heard nothing. The argument must have ended. The only sound was the monotonous croaking of the frogs outside.
She was part way back towards the bed when she heard one of the men speak again. His voice was not quite loud enough for her to make out the words. She stood very still. In the past, if she had heard them at all, their voices were always muffled, impossible to understand. Tonight was different. They must be in the hallway. She tiptoed back to the door, placing her ear against it.
‘For Christ’s sake, shut up! I don’t want to hear any more about it.’ The voice was certainly American, though Kate detected an underlying accent. It sounded vaguely Italian.
‘I’ll give it a couple more days and I’m getting the fuck out of here.’
‘Tell that to Wolff.’ The Italian voice again.
A period of silence followed. Then she heard a creak on the staircase.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Jesus! Relax, Marcus. I was only going up to see how the little lady’s doing.’ His accent was very American, lazy-sounding, as if he could have been slightly drunk.
A shiver ran through her. She didn’t like the sound of it. ‘Get down here, you stupid son of a bitch,’ the man with the Italian accent shouted. He seemed to be the one in charge.
She pressed her ear even harder against the door. The stair creaked a couple more times. She hoped the other man was backing down and not coming up the stairs.
‘I decide who goes up there and when.’ His voice was angry and loud. ‘Me. Do you understand?’
If the other man answered, she didn’t hear it.
She thought they’d probably gone into one of the downstairs rooms when she heard them again.
‘How many fuckin’ times do we have to go over this, Billy? How many goddamned times do I have to repeat myself? All I know is that Ira has finally made a deal with this Sheppard guy. He’s not really–’ She couldn’t catch the next words. She figured that one of them was now in the hallway and the other was somewhere else because she was only hearing one side of the conversation.
‘Don’t keep asking me the same dumb question. I don’t fuckin’ know!’ He punched the words out. ‘They’re meeting at a place called Compton’s on Sunday. That’s all he told me. That’s all. He wants me to–’ She lost the end of the sentence.
A brief silence followed. Then the argument resumed, but less contentiously. It was now much harder to hear what they were saying. Kate could only pick up snatches of their conversation.
‘I don’t know, Ira didn’t say.’
Another silence.
‘Well, you tell Ira I’m getting pissed off. I’m just–’
A door slammed.
‘Okay – go ahead, then – you talk to him, you dumb shit. You’ve probably woken him up by now, anyway.’
The exchange suddenly gave way to the faint sound of music.
Then she heard a woman’s voice.
She realized someone had turned on a radio or the TV.
A door closed again. Then it went quiet.
She kept her ear pressed to the door for a few minutes more, in case they started talking again. But they didn’t.
The faintest sound of gunfire and explosions reached her room. They were obviously watching television.
She listened for another minute, then went back to bed. What a stroke of luck it had been, her eavesdropping at just that very moment. She lay there going back over what she’d heard. Who was this man Ira, she wondered? Was he Wolff or was Wolff another man? And what kind of deal had he made with Alex? The only possible deal she could think of was that Alex had somehow tracked down the blue rose, got it back, and was exchanging it for her release. That seemed a lot to ask. If Alex hadn’t got the rose back, then what was he trading?
She closed her eyes. Not to sleep, though. There would be no sleep tonight. What and where was Compton’s, she wondered? How long was it to Sunday? The questions swirled in her mind but for now she had to put them aside. She had to stay focused. She guessed daybreak was probably only another six hours or so away. By then she should have the window out.
A businesslike Rottweiler, gurgling ominously and baring shiny drooling teeth, greeted Alex and Kingston at the entrance to Compton and Sons. They stood respectfully in the dubious safety of the other side of the wooden gate, neither prepared to test the beast’s resolve.
‘Hang on a minute,’ a voice said from behind a nearby shed. ‘Let me get Tyson. He’s really a pussycat when he gets to know you.’
‘Which with any luck will be never,’ Alex said under his breath.
The words came from a husky young man with a florid face and lank, shoulder-length hair. He was wearing an old leather jerkin, ripped blue jeans and mud-spattered, black Wellington boots. He grabbed the dog’s metal- studded collar and yanked him to a sitting position. ‘Can I help you blokes? You can come in – he’s all right,’ he said, nodding at the dog.
Kingston slid the rusty bolt on the gate and opened it just wide enough to slip through. Alex stayed put. Kingston walked up to the young man and started to offer his hand. Upon noticing the brown muck that covered the man’s hands and forearms, he quickly withdrew it. Restrained, just out of striking distance, Tyson rumbled menacingly.
‘Good morning. My name’s Lawrence Kingston. That’s my photographer, Alex Sheppard,’ Kingston said, gesturing to the gate.
Alex nodded dutifully, the Nikon 35mm with 80-200mm zoom lens dangling convincingly on his chest. He felt ill at ease with the deception, just as he had when Kingston had first proposed the charade, or ‘ruse’, as he’d called it, on the drive down. He wondered why he’d ever agreed to do it. ‘This had better bloody work, Lawrence,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ the young man replied. ‘I’m Reggie.’
‘I’ve been assigned to do a magazine story on England’s famous rose growers,’ Kingston said, ladling on the Oxford accent. ‘We’ve been up to Albrighton and talked with David Austin – splendid fellow – and we’re seeing Peter Beales next week. We’d like to include a bit on Compton and Sons. Frightfully good publicity, you know.’
Tyson barked noisily. Alex jumped.
‘It would be, I’m sure. I’m afraid CC ain’t here right now, though.’ He gave the dog a threatening look and yanked its collar. ‘That would be Charlie Compton, the owner. Tell you what – why don’t you go over to the office there and talk to Emma – that’s his secretary. She does the books and that sort of thing. Tell her you just had a
