Flowers for the Dead (31 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

~ Scarlet Pimpernel ~

Assignation

EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO

Sharon Humphreys was not happy. She should have been ecstatic. Today was the first day of her week-long break from her job as a social worker. When the August morning had dawned bright and warm, Sharon had vowed to make the most of it. Grabbing her rucksack, she had stuffed it with her camera, a copy of
Anna Karenina
, and a little blanket to lie on, so that she could make the most of the sunshine.

Her destination had been Wimbledon Common, a vast area of heathland and woodland within spitting distance of the city of London, and a ten-minute drive from her home.

It was good to be outside instead of cooped up in a dreary office. As she walked, Sharon revelled in seeing pretty peacock butterflies and red admirals, their scarlet wings standing out among the green leaves and grass. What a treat to have a riot of colour before her, instead of the dreary palette of mushroom and cream paint that adorned the walls at work.

All this made her happy. Her unhappiness was caused by something else entirely.

She had walked past the common’s windmill and into a wooded section, and was about go through a gap in a hedge of brambles that led to a fox den she knew of. There she hoped she might see some late cubs if she was very quiet and very patient. Perhaps she would even get to indulge her hobby and take some photographs. But before she could step through she had noticed that behind her was a man of about her age, twenty-four, or possibly slightly older.

Thanks to her pastime of wildlife watching, Sharon was used to taking in a lot with just a quick look. This man was swarthy-skinned. It was hard to say from that glance what his background might be: a very tanned Caucasian, of more Mediterranean descent, or even Asian.

He was about five feet ten, give or take, and although his shoulders were not particularly broad his body made a very pronounced inverted triangle thanks to his slim hips. His hair was quite long on the top and brushed upwards. It was balanced with a very neatly trimmed beard which would be considered designer stubble if it were any shorter.

Something about the way he held himself made her revise her earlier estimate about his age; she now hazarded he was about thirty-two. White with a tan. And very aware of his appearance. That was not based on his hair, facial or otherwise. It was his clothes, too: Marl grey hooded jacket top, unzipped over his jeans of identical colour, and revealing a vest top of a deeper slate grey. Everything co-ordinated and carefully put together.

All this Sharon saw in a second. A second more, she had realised with a sinking heart that he was heading to the same destination as she. There was a bench reasonably near the den opening, and he was probably on his way to it. No doubt he would not be able to keep still and would disturb the fox family if she tried to get a shot.

“I won’t bother,” she thought, irritated. “I’ll sit down by the beech trees instead.”

So there she settled, choosing the spot for many reasons but not least because she might get a couple of decent snaps of a jay that was above her. If she were lucky, and the light stayed good. Besides, it was peaceful there and a suntrap, surrounded as it was by a natural windbreak thanks to the hedge and trees.

She lay back, camera in hand, but the jay disappeared with a flash of its white rump. The sun warmed her, making her feel sleepy. It was tempting to snooze, but as that thought occurred to her it was chased off by a second: she had not seen any movement anywhere. Great, the man must have gone straight through rather than sitting on the bench near the fox den, as she had assumed. She could take a look and maybe get some pictures after all.

Sharon sat up eagerly.

And realised he had actually positioned himself on the far side of the hedge gap, lying on the floor, resting up on his elbows. He had done it so that he could watch her.

Paranoid!
She laughed inwardly at herself.

Dismissing the thought, she jumped up, grabbed her backpack and decided to walk through to the fox den anyway. Marched past this guy without giving him a glance, gazed over towards the dark opening of the den for a minute, but could not see any signs of life. Disappointed, she walked out of the other side of the glade then stopped for a moment, undecided as to what to do.

“I’ll walk straight back onto the path again, and back round to the beech trees,” she decided silently. There she could make the most of the sunshine, ensuring she sat well away from the man so that she wouldn’t get paranoid that he was watching her. She would forget the photos, just read her book.

Sharon started the circuitous route back and had just stepped into the beech glade when she noticed the man walking towards her. Something about the slightly exaggerated way he looked surprised when he saw her made Sharon wary. She slowed down, trying to look casual herself, while attempting to see where he was heading.

Her heart gave a little thump. Because he had slowed down too. It was as though he no longer knew where to go because she did not. She was getting a stronger and stronger vibe that something was going on with this person.

Finally he walked past her. But she could see him looking sidelong at her out of the side of his sunglasses, pretending that he wasn’t looking at her at all.

Perhaps he wanted to chat her up? Well, she was not in the mood, she had made that pretty clear from the bristling glare she had thrown his way. Sharon had never been the kind of person to leave anyone in doubt about what she was thinking or feeling – and generally she was thinking: “Bugger off and leave me alone.” She had always preferred the company of animals to people.

Still, now they both knew where they stood, she knew he would not be so thick-skinned as to approach her again. She was now safe to sit in the sunshine in peace.

Almost one minute later, he wandered by again, ostensibly studying his phone as if waiting for someone. Again she could see him looking at her, though; not much got past Sharon’s sharp eyes, which was one of the reasons she tended to have a low opinion of the human race. She glared at him openly this time, until he walked on by and once more disappeared into the gap in the thick brambles and holly.

Even when he had disappeared, she glared at the gap, daring him to return. After a couple of minutes she decided the man had got the message and decided not to return to chat her up after all. She pulled out her book, a battered copy of Tolstoy’s romantic classic, so well read that the spine was curved and the top of the pages curled from over-use. Among the words she quickly lost herself.

Two minutes later something made her feel uneasy.

She looked up. A few feet up from the gap the hedgerow thinned again slightly. Not much, but enough for her to make out a silhouette through it. The man was standing there, his hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead.

Perhaps he is not staring at me. Perhaps he is staring at the fox den…
She thought it, but it did not reassure her. She took her sunglasses off, the better to see through the dark branches.

“Could you stop staring at me please?” she called, voice clear and authoritative.

He did not move, did not flinch.

“For goodness sake,” she huffed. Picked her things up and stropped away, too furious to be fearful.

Anxiety hit only once the adrenaline had worn off a couple of hundred yards later. She pulled out her mobile and dialled her mum several times, but there was no answer. She wound up leaving a chirpy message.

“Just calling for a chat, nothing important,” she said. “Speak later.”

There was no sign of the man though, and Sharon was determined to enjoy her day off, because knowing the great British weather it was bound to be raining tomorrow.

Finally, after walking for fifteen minutes, she found another nice quiet suntrap to sit: an almost perfect circle of grass scattered with daisies and buttercups. She sat on a fallen trunk and simply basked in the summer heat. She was really hot in her black cut-off jeans and brightly striped t-shirt, but every now and again the breeze blew with a chill that was enough to raise small goose bumps on her skin. Still she stayed where she was because it was so peaceful being surrounded by trees and birdsong. She congratulated herself on finding it.

Adjusting her position, she found a comfy spot by straddling the log and lying back against it. The only thing to disturb her was something tickling her foot gently. She tapped it, trying to dislodge whatever it was but she quickly realised she would have to move and scratch it properly. The source of irritation was a greenfly crawling over her skin. She put a finger in front of it, and once it had laboured onto her digit she carefully transferred it onto a stem of grass.

Instead of lying back down, Sharon leaned forward, resting her book in between her legs on the logs and slumping over it. Her pink hair formed a curtain around her, so she felt completely private. The only sound beside birdsong was of some children screaming with joy as they chased one another somewhere in the middle distance, but she quickly blocked the noise out and lost herself in her novel again.

She didn’t realise that Adam was walking up behind her. She didn’t realise anything was wrong. She looked so at peace that Adam wanted the moment to last forever, and to rid Sharon of the pain that made her so sad and angry that she refused to accept love.

He had only been courting her for four weeks. But when he had suffered her open aggression and then been led to this private spot, he had realised how desperate she was for him to help her. She needed to be put out of her misery and released into happiness.

Wuthering Heights, Romeo and Juliet, Anna Karenina
, and countless other stories had all shown him the way – in death lay an end to torment and the start of the true perfection of love. Death was a place where no one could ever tear love apart. Despite this knowledge, killing those he loved pained Adam.

But isn’t true love about sacrifice? If you love someone, you set them free…even if it hurts you to do so.

With a heavy heart he knew the time had come once again to act. He grabbed Sharon from behind, right hand slipping over her mouth and pinching her nose closed, left arm wrapping around her body to pin her arms in place and pull her against his chest.

She bucked and struggled for mere moments before Adam managed to slide his left thumb up onto her carotid artery. Squeezing that quickly shut off her blood supply along with the air supply to her brain. He had to move quickly to kiss her and breathe in her final exhalation.

No one had seen what happened – how could they when Sharon had so carefully chosen the private place? Adam gently laid out her body, caressing her vivid locks into place, then cast around for flowers. He had not brought any with him because this had been so unexpected; the urgency of Sharon’s need for rescue had only made itself apparent to him when he had tried to approach her to introduce himself.

Without a bouquet what should he do?

Afterwards, Sharon lay undisturbed for a long time. It was not until later that evening that a wildlife and conservation officer for Wimbledon and Putney Common came across her. Her book lay closed now, the bookmark in place, and around her head were daisies woven into a chain like a mini-wreath. Daisies plucked from the grass, for love, chastity, and innocence – the perfect flower for the occasion, Adam had felt.

The only thing that spoiled the peaceful scene was that her face was a bloody mask where her lips had been carefully cut away, leaving a grotesque mimic of a toothy grin on her face.

Adam had buried Sharon’s lips beneath some stock when he got home. “You will always be beautiful to me,” was the meaning. They flowered beside Alex’s mimosa, which he had chosen because it represented chastity, something that might have helped her avoid pain had she but exercised it.

Adam was starting to get used to living with his little harem of souls. Sometimes it made him laugh that he had so many lovers. Other times he felt lonelier than ever, and found himself agreeing with that saying that there is nothing so lonely as being in a crowd.

Six months after Sharon’s death he planted daffodils beside the stock, and nestled Julie Clayton’s Box of Smile beneath them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

~ Persimmona ~

Bury Me Amid Nature’s Beauty

PRESENT

There is something in the atmosphere of the CID office. A buzz of activity, the purposeful way people are walking across the room, the hum of business-like conversations. No one is eating, no one is slumped over their desk, doodling idly while they talk on the phone, no one has a glazed look as they stare at their computer. They exude energy.

Mike pulls his coat off and unwraps the scarf from his neck as he walks over to one of his colleagues, DC Nick Fleet. A good man to have on the team, Fleet has a mind as swift as his name implies but a nasal voice that makes Mike want to blow his nose, or possibly hang over a steaming bowl of Vicks with a towel over his head. Despite the bright future he almost certainly has ahead of him, the DC has also earned himself the nickname of Bum Fluff, thanks to his white blonde hair, which, purely because of the colour, looks a little wispy when he needs to have a shave.

“What’s going on? Something big happened?” Mike asks.

“Skeletal remains found in fields near Gosbecks Archaeological Park. And they don’t look Roman. In fact, we might have an ID already,” replies Bum Fluff.

Colchester is built on an old Roman garrison, famously razed to the ground by Boudicca, queen of the ancient British tribe of the Iceni, back in AD 60. She had then moved on to the bigger prize of destroying Londinium, now better known as London. Archaeological finds from that period are fairly common in Colchester, from pits of pottery to skeletons. In Gosbecks Park itself a Roman temple had been uncovered, along with the largest theatre discovered in Britain. Even the town’s pubs do not escape from history; there is one on the High Street where, if tourists asked, they could be shown down to the cellar to see a thick line of black in the earth – evidence of where an entire town had been scorched by the raging Queen intent on getting her revenge on the Italian conquerors.

So, annoyingly, every time remains are found the first question is always: “Modern or Roman?”

Mike’s second question is: “Can I get on the case?” He goes straight to June Goddard to ask. The moment he pokes his head around the door and opens his mouth…

“Before you start, there’s no point you getting involved in this one,” says the DCI. What is she, a mind reader? “You’ll probably leave Colchester long before we collar anyone for this. I don’t want you leaving open cases all over the place.”

Mike closes his mouth. Fair point. But he is going out of his mind with boredom.

“Can I at least have something more interesting than imaginary stalkers and shoplifters at the local supermarket?”

“No. Now bugger off and do your job,” she smiles sweetly.

Like a good though slightly resentful boy, Mike returns to his desk and does the only thing he can. Ponders the Laura Weir case. He has never heard anything like it; a kindly stranger coming and going at will, doing all sorts of wonderful things. This is not the way a typical stalker acts; in fact, it sounds too good to be true. Like something from
The Elves and The Shoemaker
, one of Daisies fairy tales.

There are three options Mike considers as he doodles absently on a piece of paper. He finds himself jotting them down, then stares at the list. Does seeing them in black and white makes it easier to choose one? Not really.

Either Laura is making this crazy story up in order to get attention. Or she really believes that someone is breaking into her home, but it is all in her head; in which case she may well have mental health problems and need to be sectioned for her own safety. Or she is telling the truth. In which case she has a stalker.

The chair gives a creak of protest as Mike leans right back into it, as if trying to distance himself from that last sentence he has written. She can’t have a stalker. Surely. A close inspection of the door and windows had showed nothing has been forced. No marks around the locks, not so much as a scratch around frames. Laura is adamant no one but she now has keys for the place. Which means Mike has to bet on option two: she is mentally disturbed.

He shakes his head dismissively at the thought. Laura had looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes, pale skin almost translucent. Yet her gaze was steady, direct, and rational; there is iron in this young woman. The confident way she strode around the room, utterly frustrated, showed her strength too.

Maybe the lab can come up with something on the dress she had been given. He had logged it as evidence as soon as he had got back from her place yesterday. And he will keep an eye on her from now on, as he has little else to do.

***

Laura stares at the bouquet of flowers Adam has left on her dining table as a warning against her betrayal of him to the police. She tries to make her trembling legs walk towards them. After a couple of seconds she eventually succeeds.

She is scared…but not scared witless. She has a plan to deal with her stalker once and for all, something she has been thinking of ever since she saw Detective Sergeant Michael Bishop the day before.

Right now though, there is little she can do apart from bin the ‘bouquet’. It is a generous description, as what was left in her flat is a strange amalgamation of greenery, weeds, and all sorts of stuff chucked in for good measure. Laura only recognises two things: yellow roses and nettles.

“Why would anyone put those two together?” she mutters to herself, as she wraps her hand in a thick towel before picking them up. Being stung really would add insult to injury.

Despite the goose bumps of fear, she forces herself to sit calmly on the sofa, turn the television on and put her faith in her plan. She has already started to put things in motion; it has been a very busy day…yet she cannot stop from hugging herself for reassurance as the news comes on.

“…have not yet confirmed reports that the body is that of missing teenager Lisa Brookman, who disappeared sixteen years ago this year,” a news reader is saying. Laura grabs the remote and turns over just as a photograph flashes up of a pretty blonde with a wide, open smile.

Laura flicks through the television channels, finally settling on a re-run of
The Big Bang Theory
. She isn’t really watching though. Instead she is thinking about her suspicions, working through her plan.

She suspects she is being watched all the time, possibly even somehow in her own home. It seems the only logical explanation for certain things. Tempting as it is to tear the place apart looking for cameras and microphones, Laura has decided on another course of action.

Box clever, and act dumb.

She slaps a smile on her face, and laughs in all the right places during the programme, hoping whoever is watching her does not notice how white her knuckles have become as they grip the remote.

***

Adam swallows, forces his breathing to stay steady as he switches off the surveillance feed from Laura’s house, and leaps onto the internet instead. Had he really just seen a face from his past on Laura’s television?

His fingers fly over the keys of his laptop. All he can find are the briefest of articles on the breaking news of a body found in the woods near Gosbecks Archaeological Park, Colchester, some of which have speculated about a possible connection with Lisa Brookman.

Lisa, his first love. His first victim.

Perhaps it is not her. Perhaps it is a coincidence. Perhaps he is worrying needlessly.

His world is crashing down around his ears. First his argument with Laura, who he had had to give a severe telling off to; then his mother making a reappearance; and now… He has only been in Colchester for a couple of hours, but he knows he cannot stay. He must once more run to his haven in Moseley. He wishes his gran were there.

***

Mike is so bored. He is tying up a fairly straightforward fraud case, but aside from that there is nothing doing. It has only been a couple of days since he gave the lab Laura’s dress and clothes cover, and it will take weeks for forensics to get back to him. Now there is a murder to investigate it will be low on their list of priorities.

A couple of hours of paperwork, and Mike is finished. Deciding to make the most of not being busy, he saunters down to the canteen and luxuriates in the novelty of being able to eat a sausage sarnie without hurry – and without dropping ketchup down himself. The canteen uses his favourite Lincolnshire sausages, and he savours every mouthful of the herb-laden meat.

Even that pleasure cannot last forever though, and once he has licked his fingers clean he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He has an interview booked in later with a witness in a hit and run where someone was left with a broken leg; but he hates the thought of idling until then.

He glances out of the canteen window, which overlooks a set of traffic lights at a busy junction. It is not a cheery view. The weather is as miserable as he is, too. A persistent milky grey cloud cover has been in place for days now, fine rain hanging in the air and soaking everything but never doing anything interesting such as lashing it down.

Mike is not good at being lazy. There are plenty of bad guys out there, he should be busy catching some. Or should at least be allowed to go home so he can do nothing in comfort, and ideally with Daisy.

Wandering from the canteen, he finds himself hovering by the incident room that has been set up for the investigation into the skeletal remains discovered the morning before.

“Hey, Bum Fluff. How are things going?” Mike asks eagerly.

DC Nick Fleet raises an ice blonde eyebrow. “All right, Columbo,” he replies pointedly. Mike has the good grace to look slightly abashed. “You’re not involved in this, are you? Why the interest?”

“Boredom,” Mike confesses, rolling over an office chair to sit beside the constable. He sits down, leaning forward attentively. “Go on, make an old man happy and fill me in.”

“Old? You’re only thirty-four, aren’t you. Mind, you look older, maybe you should get yourself a toupee.”

“Ah, such is the skilful banter of a police station,” smiles Mike easily, leaning back and putting his feet on Bum Fluff’s desk to annoy him. “So…any developments or what?”

“Well, if you’re so desperate for entertainment: the body’s identity hasn’t been confirmed yet, but everyone is working on the supposition that it is Lisa Brookman. Bit of a no brainer really.”

Mike nods. He remembers when she went missing sixteen years earlier. He had only been eighteen then, fresh out of training, and hadn’t had any real involvement in the case beyond door knocks in the area to see if anyone had seen her. They hadn’t. The newspapers had been full of it for a few weeks back then – a pretty young white girl, photogenic, she was the stuff of their dreams, guaranteed to sell copies. Now they are going crazy again.

“I’ve seen the media reports,” Mike says. “What they don’t know they’re making up, of course, but they’re all ready talking as if it’s definitely her.”

“The skeletal remains are the right age and height; the family have supplied a DNA sample to confirm ID, and the lab are treating it as a priority. Everything’s moving as quickly as it can,” replies Nick.

Sometimes ‘as quickly as it can’ is frustratingly slow. It is a copper’s lot to spend their time waiting, waiting, waiting, then running round at full tilt when a breakthrough finally comes.

Lisa would never have been found were it not for a series of coincidences. A badger family had extended their sett, disturbing the skeleton and bringing it closer to the ground. A dog had then thought all its Christmases had come at once when it found a thigh bone to gnaw on. All that time she had been waiting in the ground herself, then, suddenly and randomly, a breakthrough. Such was life – and death.

“Any idea how she died?” asks Mike.

Bum Fluff shrugs. “No clue. There’s no flesh remaining, so we’ve no idea. No injuries show on the skeleton. Decomp fluid rotted most of her clothing, but because of the way she was folded into the hole, a bit of fabric survived. It had traces of seminal fluid on it.”

“The working theory is that she was raped and killed by her attacker?”

“Yeah. It’s possible she had consensual sex with someone who has no link to her death but…”

“But unlikely,” Mike finishes, nodding. He leans forward again, elbows resting on his knees. “Any DNA retrieved from it?”

“Got it running through all the databases right now,” the DC confirms.

A pause while the two men silently hope there is a hit on that. Otherwise, the DNA will only come in handy if and when they get a suspect. Mike catches himself – he is getting carried away. There is no ‘they’, he is nothing to do with the case. It does not stop him hoping the killer is caught though.

Suddenly he notices the time.

“Christ! I’ve got an interview to get to, better run,” he shouts, jumping up.

For the next couple of hours he is busy with the hit and run case. It is quickly wrapped up; the eyewitness is able to give a full description, including a partial registration number. The driver is soon languishing in a cell, deeply regretting the quickie that had made him late for work, which had made him hurry through the zebra crossing without slowing for the young lad whom he had assumed would be quick enough to move out of the way, and which had ultimately led to him leaving the scene of an accident with a screech of tyres.