‘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 natter with Reggie.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Kingston, thanking him.
Alex remained behind the safety of the gate, making sure the dog was well out of striking range before he deigned to enter.
Kingston waved at Alex to come in. ‘For God’s sake, Alex, it’s only a dog.’
‘A labrador’s a dog, Lawrence,’ said Alex, joining Kingston. ‘A spaniel, a retriever, a corgi, a chihuahua – they’re dogs. That bloody thing over there’s a killer if I ever saw one.’
As Reggie led him away, Tyson’s panting head was turned back, his bloodshot eyes locked on Alex and Kingston. Alex turned away from the sight with a shudder as he and Kingston headed across the gravel yard toward the office.
‘You’ve got some bloody nerve,’ said Alex. ‘I just hope to God they don’t find out right off the bat that we’re a couple of impostors.’
‘Stop worrying, Alex. I’ll tell them the truth when the time’s right.’
Emma was pert and petite. Seen close up, it was apparent that a good share of her spare time and spare change were spent on Estée Lauder, Clairol and the Body Shop.
She welcomed Alex and Kingston as though they’d just been washed up on her desert island, clearly overjoyed to have not just one but two men to flirt with. With a toothpaste smile, and a wiggle to straighten out her tight skirt, she stood up from her cluttered desk to greet them. She had kind eyes, Alex thought. For some reason, though, they looked older than the rest of her.
Kingston oozed charm and good breeding. Emma listened, wide-eyed, as he explained the reason for their unheralded visit. ‘Ooh! CC will definitely want to talk with you. He’s been on holiday in Florida for ten days. Supposed to get back tonight. We could do with the publicity. My goodness, Gardens Illustrated, of all things,’ she cooed. ‘Do you have a card I could leave for him?’
Kingston managed to wink at Alex while Emma was not looking. ‘Here,’ he said, handing her two cards. ‘I know it’s awfully short notice and all that but we’d like to interview him tomorrow, if possible.’ My God, Alex said to himself, in awe of Kingston’s thoroughness, he’s even printed up phony cards.
‘I would imagine he’ll be a bit tired after a long flight, but I’m sure he’ll want to see you – he’s a big fan of your magazine.’ Emma turned to face the wall. ‘See,’ she said, pointing with a cerise-tipped finger to a neat row of magazines on a nearby bookshelf. ‘Been getting it since it first came out. Really look forward to it, I do. Matter of fact, your editor sat next to CC at a Royal Horticultural Club do, only just recently. A very nice lady, he said she was.’
‘She is,’ Kingston replied.
‘You know her, then?’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘Can’t think of her name. Her picture’s always in the front of the magazine.’
Kingston looked casually about the room.
A hollow feeling suddenly materialized in the region of Alex’s midriff.
‘Know her quite well, actually, ‘Kingston said, with an ingratiating smile. ‘Rosie Atkins.’
‘That’s her,’ Emma said snapping her fingers.
Alex was dumbfounded. He looked at Kingston’s smug expression and shook his head. The nagging thoughts he’d had about their plan misfiring had now evaporated.
‘Look around all you want, boys. And if the workmen can’t answer your questions, you just come back and I’ll give it a go. Failing that, CC’ll be here tomorrow. I know he’d just love to meet you.’
Before they left, Emma sketched out a crude diagram of the grounds, handing it to Kingston. ‘You will come back before you leave, won’t you? I’ll make some tea,’ she said, with a tilt of her head, pursing her coral lips. Assuring her that they would, they thanked her and, with a renewed sense of purpose and confidence, walked out into the gravel yard. Alex was relieved to see that Tyson was nowhere in sight.