6.The Alcatraz Rose (5 page)

“After Terry McGuire’s death in the accident, Fiona and Molly’s friendship became closer, to the point where Molly was like an aunt to Letty and often took care of her.”

“What kind of work did they do—the men?” Andrew asked.

“They were both drivers, delivering for McLendon’s, the car parts people.”

“Any police records?”

“Terry McGuire had had some minor brushes with the law as a teenager but nothing since, and Richie was clean.”

“What about income? Accident insurance?”

“Molly said the accident was entirely Terry’s fault. Too many drinks, rainy night, excessive speed—you know the story. I recall her saying that, at one time, both Terry and Richie were making decent money, with lots of overtime. As for income, Molly had a suspicion that Fiona might have inherited some money when her mother died. Fiona had never spoken of it, though. Until Letty was born, Fiona worked part time, in the local supermarket, as I recall.”

“What about Fiona’s father?”

“He died soon after she was born.” Emma looked up to the ceiling. “That was way back in the late fifties, I believe.”

“Sorry to keep asking so many questions. It’s an incurable habit, I’m afraid,” Kingston said with a little smile.

She smiled back. “So I’m told. I don’t mind one bit, actually. It helps me remember. Besides, if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be living up to your
reputation.” She paused, her smile vanishing, then continued with a trace of policespeak creeping into her voice. “Anyway, after that, we followed standard procedure: checking phone records, bills, the post, computers, e-mails, et cetera; talked to the immediate neighbors, her doctor, tradespeople and delivery persons, the beauty shop she frequented, her bank, shopkeepers, the fish-and-chips shop where she was a regular—always haddock and chips with mushy peas—the train station, bus and taxi drivers—and on and on.”

She paused for breath, then continued in a more pensive tone. “The sad part is that Fiona didn’t appear to have many friends, or even acquaintances, for that matter. She was a homebody, and with the exception of the Collinses she knew her neighbors only on a nodding basis. I got the impression that she preferred it that way. Some people are just like that.” She shrugged. “Others have reasons for that kind of behavior that they’d prefer not to discuss. In rare situations, maybe it’s something that they want to hide, but we found nothing whatsoever in her background to suggest that was the case with her.”

“Did you conduct most of the interviews?”

“I did. Not that there were that many. Though, in the beginning, Endersby was hands-on, running the show. Don’t misunderstand me. He was all along. He’s a damned good policeman. It was very much his case but, for the best part, I was—shall we say—chief cook and bottle washer.”

A brief pause followed, then Andrew joined in. “What about the Missing Persons Bureau? Letty said that had gone nowhere.”

Emma shook her head. “They’re always among the first to be informed. But if you mean have we heard anything from them since, the answer’s no. At least, up to the time I left the force. You might want to check, though.” She looked over at Kingston. “Have you ever been there? The bureau?”

“I haven’t.”

“It’s in Hampshire, at Bramshill, a five-hundred-year-old redbrick manor house. Couple of hundred acres, I believe. You strike me as being someone who would love it. The grounds are gorgeous, and it’s got a library that’s located in the oldest part of the rambling building, with a winding staircase and hidden rooms. All very Agatha Christie.”

“Sounds a bit like Bletchley Park, where the Enigma code breakers were sequestered. I wonder why government offices and headquarters
often end up in places of historical interest. Chicksands, the Defence Intelligence Centre, in Bedfordshire, is another one. It’s on the grounds of a twelfth-century Gilbertine priory, for heaven’s sake. A beautiful place, if you can turn a blind eye to the barbed-wire fencing and camouflaged guards toting nasty-looking weapons.”

“I’ve never thought too much about it, but you’re right.”

“Probably rent ’em on the cheap,” Andrew chipped in.

Kingston leaned back and glanced at his watch. “I have one last question. Were you able to look at Fiona McGuire’s personal belongings, what she left behind at the house: photographs, letters, documents, her computer, CDs, e-mails, and the like?”

Emma nodded. “You’re right to ask. Often, these things can provide clues or further insights into a person’s lifestyle—friendships, habits, and even secrets that open up new lines of investigation, but in her case we found nothing whatsoever. We turned the place upside down. As I remember there were some photos in a shoe box and a couple of albums. Most were old, but Molly was able to identify most of the people in them. But there wasn’t a single one that appeared unusual or out of place, nothing to warrant following up. As you might expect, there were no letters per se.” She leaned back and sighed. “Sadly, people no longer write letters. Handwriting, too, that’s another casualty of the technological age. You should see some of the rubbish we get from young people. Unintelligible.” She paused and shook her head, pursing her lips. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fly off the handle like that. Getting back to your question, she did have a laptop. We had our computer forensics chaps search the hard drive, but again, nothing raised any red flags. We went through every e-mail, of course, but they were of no help.”

“What about books?”

“Books?”

“Well, what I mean is that often you can tell quite a lot about people by what they read, particularly nonfiction.”

Emma smiled. “You mean if they have the
Communist Manifesto
or
How to Make an Atom Bomb in your Kitchen
on the shelf for all to see? Pressed flowers?”

“You never know,” Kingston said, smiling back, recalling an experience involving a highly poisonous flower.

“Now that you mention it . . . I do recall a small bookcase in the living room. One of our young chaps, a bookish type, took a quick shufti at them, joking that there were no first editions. Anyway, it may be moot, because I honestly can’t recall what happened to them—if they were given to Letty’s foster parents, the library, or simply thrown in the rubbish bin.”

“I’d still be curious,” Kingston said.

The phone rang before Emma could respond. She excused herself and headed for the kitchen to answer it. She walked slowly, with a pronounced limp, which Kingston hadn’t noticed when he’d first arrived. A result of the accident that had caused her to leave the force, he presumed.

While she was gone, Andrew got up and stretched, looking out the window, while Kingston thought about their conversation so far, encouraged with the way it was going. When Emma returned he would ask her about the specifics of when and where she planned to meet and talk with Letty. And, even though he knew the answer, he’d ask what she thought the chances were of it working. Would she really be able to persuade Letty to give up tormenting herself and accept the painful truth: that unless new evidence presented itself, her search was in vain. For what it was worth, more for curiosity’s sake, he would ask if she had any thoughts outside the scope of the official investigation, if she could and would be willing to speculate about the case in general. As he was thinking on it, she returned.

“Sorry about that,” she said, easing herself slowly into her chair. “Where were we?”

“I was thinking about your meeting with Letty. Have you decided how you want to set it up? Where and when?”

“At her home, I would think. Wherever is most comfortable for her—and alone, of course. As for when, I can do it almost anytime. I’ll let her choose. Whoever dreamed up the phrase ‘luxury of time’ obviously never experienced it.” She sighed. “Sometimes it’s anything but a damned luxury.”

“After police work every day, I can well imagine.”

Kingston was about to get up, sensing that they’d reached a conclusion, when Emma spoke again. “There’s something I want to give you.”

Kingston said nothing, thinking it was perhaps a jar of homemade marmalade, scones, something like that. She got up slowly and limped to a carved bureau against a wall on the other side of the room.

She returned holding a large manila envelope, sat, and placed it on the coffee table. “You don’t have to open it now. I’m going to tell you what’s in it.”

Kingston frowned. “Mysterious.”

“When DI Endersby called to tell me about your inquiry and your coming here, I made some notes about the case. It wasn’t that organized, but I found it good therapy of sorts. It gave me something constructive to do on rainy days, other than watching
Footballers’ Wives
and reruns of
The Big Fat Quiz of the Year
. I no longer have access to the files, of course, but, as I explained, it wasn’t that complicated. There weren’t hundreds of contacts and interviews, as with some cases. So this envelope contains a summary, if you will, of what I can remember of the case. Names and places are reasonably accurate, but the time frame may be a bit off in places.”

Kingston was puzzled. Why, if her mission were to convince Letty, once and for all, that the case was closed, probably for good, would she want to hand over such information? What was the purpose?

“Thank you, Emma, I appreciate that,” he said.

A trace of a smile appeared. “I can see you’re already wondering why I would go to that trouble.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Well, when Endersby told me about you and your interest in the McGuire case, I did a little bit of sleuthing of my own. I’m sure you know that your reputation’s hardly what you’d call a secret, Doctor—Lawrence. I gave up after wading through the first six paragraphs of your Wikipedia life story. What I’m getting at is this. It’s very clear, and speaks highly of you, that your interest in the case is centered on helping Letty straighten out her life by convincing her to give up trying to find out what happened to her mother. That said, I couldn’t help wondering if there wasn’t perhaps also a mild curiosity on your part, shall we say,
about specific details of the case and why it’s remained unsolved. If it might have criminal implications?” She smiled. “Am I wrong?

Kingston took his eyes off of Emma to glance at Andrew, who had been quietly listening and was looking amused.

“Not entirely,” he said, looking at Emma again. “It would be out of the ordinary for one to think otherwise, wouldn’t you say?”

“Maybe. But then I asked myself, if it hadn’t been for that close call you had up in Staffordshire, you might have given serious thought to promising Letty that you would conduct an independent inquiry. But I’m sure that other forces are at work here, urging you and reminding you not to become involved in such situations.”

Kingston could reply to this innocent-looking yet percipient policewoman only with a forced smile and a shrug.

Five minutes later, at Emma’s crimson front door, Kingston and Andrew said goodbye and walked up the street to his TR4. The fine weather was holding and the sun was still high in the sky and hot enough to cause an “ouch!” when Kingston gripped the chrome door handle. They took off their jackets and placed them behind the seats and got in the car.

“Okay, Andrew, now for some fun, something more relaxing,” he said, buckling his seat belt. “The head gardener is a friend of mine—”

“No surprise there,” interrupted Andrew.

“—and he’s expecting us. He’ll probably have a pot of tea waiting.”

“Tea?” Andrew was less than enthusiastic. “Maybe he’ll have beer in the fridge?”

“You’ll like him. One of the most genuine, good-natured, and inspiring men I’ve ever met.” He started the engine, glancing at Andrew. “There’s also a small matter we need to discuss. “I’ve promised to help him out with a bit of a mystery that concerns his own backyard.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “A mystery, eh? Why am I not shocked?”

“Here.” Kingston reached into his pocket and pulled out a photocopy of the newspaper clipping and handed it to Andrew. “Take a look.”

Andrew glanced at the clipping and frowned. He read the headline aloud—“Two-Hundred-Year-Old Extinct Rose Shows Up on
Alcatraz?”—then took a sideways look at Kingston. “This is the real reason we’re visiting your friend, isn’t it?”

“That’s not possible, Andrew. I received Clifford’s e-mail only this morning, and we’ve planned this for three days, now. It’s just an extraordinary coincidence, that’s all. In any case, everybody at Belmaris Castle will certainly know about it; the article mentions a homecoming ceremony for the rose having taken place. We would have come here, regardless. I want you to see the gardens. But read the rest of it.”

As Andrew went back to reading, Kingston smiled, then stabbed the accelerator a couple of times before driving off.

5

A
FTER READING THE
clipping yesterday morning, Kingston had spent an hour or so pondering its implications and scouring the Internet for additional information. There were a number of stories from both sides of the pond—a few providing additional local interest but nothing more. He soon realized that, generally, the media was using the original story by Chambers as the source. He’d purposely waited until now to tell Andrew, knowing that a mysterious back-from-extinction rose would elicit a long sigh, and could also have been a distraction at their meeting with Emma. He kept his eyes on the road while Andrew was reading.