newspaper for two days. He switched on the small LCD TV that sat on a shelf in the bookcase and went back to the sofa, looking for the remote, which he finally located under one of the pillows. He thumbed in the number for BBC London and sat back while a dark-haired lady with unlikely white teeth and penciled eyebrows droned through the weather report. He got up and went to the bureau, taking out a box of writing paper that also contained the pen he used exclusively for letter writing, a green and black marbled Waterman’s he’d had for thirty years.
“And now for news from other parts of the country—”
Kingston went back to the sofa, put the box beside him, fluffed up the pillow, got comfortable, and turned his attention to the news.
“Police in Wiltshire are investigating the death this morning, at his home in Upper Woodford, Wiltshire, of Adrian Walsh, chairman and former managing director of AW Construction Ltd., a commercial construction company, headquartered in Farnborough. Firemen responding to a blaze at his estate found Walsh’s body, with a gunshot wound to the head. Police have yet to determine whether his death was a result of foul play or a suicide. Damage to the house is estimated in the region of two million pounds. Investigations are continuing. And now let’s go to Audrey Wilkins at—”
“Well I’ll be damned,” Kingston muttered.
EIGHT
K ingston couldn’t recall who said it but he still remembered the quote: “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”
He hoped it wasn’t coming to that but the coincidences kept coming. No arguing that point. Whether or not they were connected to Stewart was another matter.
It was near noon and Kingston was in the kitchen preparing brunch—nearly always a fry-up on Sundays, if he was alone. As he sliced two pieces of bread to toast, waiting for the bacon to cook crispy, he was wondering how he could find out more about Walsh’s death. The Woodfords would be under the jurisdiction of the Hampshire Constabulary and he knew they wouldn’t divulge information to a stranger, least of all one inquiring about a suspicious death and fire. The only other source he could think of was Inspector Carmichael in Ringwood. Kingston was going to call him anyway, about getting access to the garden at Swallowfield. While he was at it, a casual enquiry about Walsh’s death shouldn’t come across as unreasonable, considering that it was now common knowledge. On the downside, it would be sure to raise a few questions, the first being, Why do you want to know and why are you interested in Walsh? Then Kingston would have to go into a long song and dance about his trip to the Woodfords based on a flimsy lead provided by a longhaired chap he had met at a garden club. Next he would have to explain the tenuous Walsh-Stewart connection and how Walsh might be implicated in Stewart’s disappearance. He could hear Carmichael’s reaction now: “Yes, Doctor—and if pigs could fly!” Kingston would call him anyway.
Meantime, he would start looking into Adrian Walsh’s background. He knew it was a fishing expedition and the chances of something turning up that might connect to Stewart’s disappearance were unlikely. From all accounts, Walsh was well known in the construction industry. Add to that his standing in the horticultural world and it shouldn’t be difficult to find out more about him. It was sometimes amazing what an Internet search could reveal.
He flipped the two fried eggs and slipped them onto the plate alongside the bacon, fried tomatoes, and mushrooms. The toast popped up at just the right moment and Kingston took it all to the pine kitchen table, sat down and, without thinking, reached for The Times . If only briefly, he needed to give his mind a rest from the succession of unexplained events, ambiguities, and now a possible homicide, since Stewart went missing. Sipping his fresh-squeezed orange juice, he smoothed out The
“And now for news from other parts of the country—”
Kingston went back to the sofa, put the box beside him, fluffed up the pillow, got comfortable, and turned his attention to the news.
“Police in Wiltshire are investigating the death this morning, at his home in Upper Woodford, Wiltshire, of Adrian Walsh, chairman and former managing director of AW Construction Ltd., a commercial construction company, headquartered in Farnborough. Firemen responding to a blaze at his estate found Walsh’s body, with a gunshot wound to the head. Police have yet to determine whether his death was a result of foul play or a suicide. Damage to the house is estimated in the region of two million pounds. Investigations are continuing. And now let’s go to Audrey Wilkins at—”
“Well I’ll be damned,” Kingston muttered.
EIGHT
K ingston couldn’t recall who said it but he still remembered the quote: “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”
He hoped it wasn’t coming to that but the coincidences kept coming. No arguing that point. Whether or not they were connected to Stewart was another matter.
It was near noon and Kingston was in the kitchen preparing brunch—nearly always a fry-up on Sundays, if he was alone. As he sliced two pieces of bread to toast, waiting for the bacon to cook crispy, he was wondering how he could find out more about Walsh’s death. The Woodfords would be under the jurisdiction of the Hampshire Constabulary and he knew they wouldn’t divulge information to a stranger, least of all one inquiring about a suspicious death and fire. The only other source he could think of was Inspector Carmichael in Ringwood. Kingston was going to call him anyway, about getting access to the garden at Swallowfield. While he was at it, a casual enquiry about Walsh’s death shouldn’t come across as unreasonable, considering that it was now common knowledge. On the downside, it would be sure to raise a few questions, the first being, Why do you want to know and why are you interested in Walsh? Then Kingston would have to go into a long song and dance about his trip to the Woodfords based on a flimsy lead provided by a longhaired chap he had met at a garden club. Next he would have to explain the tenuous Walsh-Stewart connection and how Walsh might be implicated in Stewart’s disappearance. He could hear Carmichael’s reaction now: “Yes, Doctor—and if pigs could fly!” Kingston would call him anyway.
Meantime, he would start looking into Adrian Walsh’s background. He knew it was a fishing expedition and the chances of something turning up that might connect to Stewart’s disappearance were unlikely. From all accounts, Walsh was well known in the construction industry. Add to that his standing in the horticultural world and it shouldn’t be difficult to find out more about him. It was sometimes amazing what an Internet search could reveal.
He flipped the two fried eggs and slipped them onto the plate alongside the bacon, fried tomatoes, and mushrooms. The toast popped up at just the right moment and Kingston took it all to the pine kitchen table, sat down and, without thinking, reached for The Times . If only briefly, he needed to give his mind a rest from the succession of unexplained events, ambiguities, and now a possible homicide, since Stewart went missing. Sipping his fresh-squeezed orange juice, he smoothed out The
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