Read Online EG03 - The Water Lily Cross by Anthony Eglin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony Eglin
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Earl Grey with a slice of lemon. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he glanced over the headlines and took a quick look at the race cards for Sandown and Chepstow. The crossword came next, once tea was poured.
An hour and a half later, after two slices of toast and marmalade and ten solutions penciled in, Kingston was ready to face the day. First on the list was the call to Transmedia, to book a time to review the footage. He would look a right berk if, for some reason, the tape were blank.
The footage? He thought back to the phone call from Patrick. There was something not quite right about it. What was it? He tried reconstructing the conversation. He got to the end where Patrick had said “Excellent,” but nothing more. Then, suddenly, he knew what was missing. Why hadn’t he asked to see the tape, to pick it up for Martin? Now he knew that something was wrong.
Kingston dialed the number Martin had given him. Martin answered right away.
“Hello, Lawrence. Good to hear from you. That must have been one scary experience. Milly told me all about it. Are you all right?”
“I am now, sure. As a matter of fact I’m taking another shot at it in the next few days.”
Martin either missed or ignored Kingston’s dubious choice of words. “You know, Lawrence, if you’d rather, we can always hire a photographer. I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
“It’s not a problem, Martin. Like I told Milly, lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.”
Martin chuckled. “Yes, she told me your little joke.”
“How is she feeling by the way?”
“Fine—as far as I’m aware.”
“Your chap Patrick who called earlier this morning said she was out sick.”
“Patrick?”
“Yes. He said you wanted to know if we shot any footage on Friday.”
An unusually long pause followed, then Martin said, “There’s no one named Patrick working here, Lawrence.”
SIX
K ingston got off the number 10 bus at the Latymer Court stop in Hammersmith. From there, according to the personable young woman at the studio who had given him directions earlier that morning, it was only a short walk to the studio. With the digital tape, a lightweight windbreaker, and a few other bits and pieces in a black leather bag slung from his shoulder, he set off to find 23 Ovesden Terrace.
He found the address with no trouble, but wasn’t prepared for a handsome three-story Victorian house. He had been expecting something more commercial for a recording studio—a storefront maybe. He checked his note to make sure he had the right address—then he spotted the discreet stainless-steel Transmedia Studios plaque on the brick wall to the right of the shiny black door. He pressed the doorbell below the plaque and waited.
As the door opened, he felt a slight tug at his shoulder. A young woman faced him, holding the door open. She put a hand up to her mouth as if she were about to scream, shock registered on her face. Then Kingston realized what had happened. His bag was gone. Turning, he saw a man racing down the empty street, the bag tucked under his arm. Kingston watched helplessly as the man disappeared round the corner. There was no earthly hope of catching up with the thief. The tape was gone.
Kingston went inside and called the police. Then, taking the advice of the duty policewoman, he took off down the street in the direction the man had fled. Chances were, she had said, that if the thief found nothing of value in the bag, then he would soon dump it. And she was right. About twenty yards from the corner, Kingston spotted his bag lying under some black-spotted roses behind an iron railing. Retrieving it, he saw that the shoulder strap was cleanly cut. A box cutter, he guessed, as he checked the contents. As he suspected, the tape was gone but everything else was intact.
Kingston walked back to Hammersmith Road and hopped on another number 10 bus headed for home. Sitting on the bus, thinking about the unlikely turn of events of the last
An hour and a half later, after two slices of toast and marmalade and ten solutions penciled in, Kingston was ready to face the day. First on the list was the call to Transmedia, to book a time to review the footage. He would look a right berk if, for some reason, the tape were blank.
The footage? He thought back to the phone call from Patrick. There was something not quite right about it. What was it? He tried reconstructing the conversation. He got to the end where Patrick had said “Excellent,” but nothing more. Then, suddenly, he knew what was missing. Why hadn’t he asked to see the tape, to pick it up for Martin? Now he knew that something was wrong.
Kingston dialed the number Martin had given him. Martin answered right away.
“Hello, Lawrence. Good to hear from you. That must have been one scary experience. Milly told me all about it. Are you all right?”
“I am now, sure. As a matter of fact I’m taking another shot at it in the next few days.”
Martin either missed or ignored Kingston’s dubious choice of words. “You know, Lawrence, if you’d rather, we can always hire a photographer. I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
“It’s not a problem, Martin. Like I told Milly, lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.”
Martin chuckled. “Yes, she told me your little joke.”
“How is she feeling by the way?”
“Fine—as far as I’m aware.”
“Your chap Patrick who called earlier this morning said she was out sick.”
“Patrick?”
“Yes. He said you wanted to know if we shot any footage on Friday.”
An unusually long pause followed, then Martin said, “There’s no one named Patrick working here, Lawrence.”
SIX
K ingston got off the number 10 bus at the Latymer Court stop in Hammersmith. From there, according to the personable young woman at the studio who had given him directions earlier that morning, it was only a short walk to the studio. With the digital tape, a lightweight windbreaker, and a few other bits and pieces in a black leather bag slung from his shoulder, he set off to find 23 Ovesden Terrace.
He found the address with no trouble, but wasn’t prepared for a handsome three-story Victorian house. He had been expecting something more commercial for a recording studio—a storefront maybe. He checked his note to make sure he had the right address—then he spotted the discreet stainless-steel Transmedia Studios plaque on the brick wall to the right of the shiny black door. He pressed the doorbell below the plaque and waited.
As the door opened, he felt a slight tug at his shoulder. A young woman faced him, holding the door open. She put a hand up to her mouth as if she were about to scream, shock registered on her face. Then Kingston realized what had happened. His bag was gone. Turning, he saw a man racing down the empty street, the bag tucked under his arm. Kingston watched helplessly as the man disappeared round the corner. There was no earthly hope of catching up with the thief. The tape was gone.
Kingston went inside and called the police. Then, taking the advice of the duty policewoman, he took off down the street in the direction the man had fled. Chances were, she had said, that if the thief found nothing of value in the bag, then he would soon dump it. And she was right. About twenty yards from the corner, Kingston spotted his bag lying under some black-spotted roses behind an iron railing. Retrieving it, he saw that the shoulder strap was cleanly cut. A box cutter, he guessed, as he checked the contents. As he suspected, the tape was gone but everything else was intact.
Kingston walked back to Hammersmith Road and hopped on another number 10 bus headed for home. Sitting on the bus, thinking about the unlikely turn of events of the last
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