Free EG03 - The Water Lily Cross by Anthony Eglin Page A

in over his head and wanted out. If so and Stewart wanted off the team, his partners or associates might find themselves in a sticky situation. One way of dealing with this turn of events—a little extreme, granted—would be for them to hold Stewart against his will until they could sort it out or until he came round to their way of thinking. In either case the guilty parties would know that when Stewart didn’t show up after a few days, it would become a missing-persons case and the police would be looking for them, too.
    He finished the scampi but not the chips. Leaving a few on the plate somehow made him feel a little less guilty, though he knew he was kidding himself. Reaching in his pocket for his wallet, another thought occurred to him. How did the thief know he had the tape? And, come to think of it, how did the Patrick bloke know that Kingston had shot the footage? He must have got the information from Henley Air. Their name was on the helicopter. Where else would he have got it? He must have called New Eden, too. Otherwise how would he have known Martin’s name? Kingston made a note to call Martin and then Henley to ask whether anyone had been making inquiries and to talk about picking up his car.
    Leaving a larger-than-called-for tip, Kingston left the Antelope and walked back through the drizzle to Cadogan Square, glad he’d thought to tuck a folding umbrella in his jacket pocket.
    His answerphone displayed two messages. The first was from Chris Norton at Henley Air, wanting to know if the coming Monday would be okay for Kingston to reschedule and reassuring Kingston that his TR4 was safely locked in one of the hangers. The second message was from a pleasant-sounding Detective Inspector Carmichael, Ringwood police station, leaving a number and asking for Kingston to return his call. Kingston’s first thought—hope, really—was that maybe there was a break in Stewart’s case. He picked up the phone, dialed the number, and was put through immediately.
    “Yes, Doctor, thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I’m working on the Stewart Halliday case,” Carmichael said, all businesslike.
    Kingston, hoping for positive news, didn’t interrupt.
    “Becky Halliday tells me that you were once an associate of her husband and it was you who found his message. She told me all about it. Clever of you, by the way.”
    “Thanks. I did, yes,” Kingston replied, wondering why it had taken them so long to call him.
    “A bit unusual, his using cryptic messages, wouldn’t you say? Why was that, do you think?”
    “The only explanation I could come up with, was that he wanted only me to read the messages. To tell me what he stumbled on.”
    “Why not just pick up the phone and tell you?”
    “I asked myself the same question. I can only assume that he did it in an awful hurry. At the last minute.”
    “A premonition of some kind?”
    “That’s what I concluded.”
    “This discovery of his—I mean the notion that some kind of water plant can desalinate seawater—is this on the up and up? Is it possible?”
    “Becky told you then?”
    “She did, yes.”
    Damn! Kingston muttered under his breath. He’d forgotten to impress upon Becky not to tell anyone about the desalination discovery, after she had suggested telling the police about it. He knew from past experience, with the discovery of the blue rose those many years ago, what a Pandora’s box that would open. The minute the media got wind of such an unprecedented scientific breakthrough the news would become global, overnight. It would be splashed across the front pages of newspapers, magazines and the Internet; trumpeted on TV and radio news programs, and dissected on every current affairs and talk show. The repercussions could be formidable, not the least of which would be the media frenzy that would descend on The Willows. Becky would become a hostage in her own home, and her life would become even more intolerable. That alone was reason enough for him