Flowers for the Dead (24 page)

Ryan does the introductions. It is clear from the pity that flashes in Yvonne’s eyes that Ryan has told her all about his emotionally broken ex. As if Laura didn’t feel foolish enough already.

“You really haven’t been sending flowers, have you,” states Laura.

Ryan shakes his head. “No. Look, what’s going on?” He looks genuinely concerned.

Even after he has heard, Ryan is none the wiser. “Wish I could help you,” he says. “Look, I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s heard anything about who might be doing this. You know what a small place Colchester is, I’m sure someone knows someone who knows someone.”

“I’d really appreciate that,” Laura says.

***

Miles away, Adam is listening in to the whole thing via Laura’s mobile – thanks to his high-tech know-how he can use it as a microphone. He is confused. Laura seems to be scared suddenly by what he is doing.

Every Saturday he has given her flowers to commemorate the day he first saw her: that wonderful day in Covent Garden, when the sun lit up her deep red hair and made her pale skin and freckles glow with vitality. Usually he lays the flowers on her doorstep because he likes the idea of them being the very first thing she sees as she walks towards her front door. After a hard day at work, it must be cheering to see something so beautiful. Today he had decided to do something a little different though, to celebrate them reaching their three month ‘anniversary’.

It seems to have backfired spectacularly.

It’s just like it always seems to go. He tries to make these women happy but in the end everything he does seems to make them sad. They are silly, hysterical creatures.

Annoyance eats at him further when he watches the locks being changed. If anything they are even easier to pick than the last lot, and he is furious with Laura’s relatives for not putting in a bit of time and effort to research the best to use. He would happily advise Laura if she is feeling insecure, but instead of coming to him she has turned elsewhere.

After everything he has done for her, he is still not her first port of call.

He puts on Antonio Vivaldi’s
Gloria in D Major
. The voice spirals sweetly up into the darkening clouds outside, piercing them until a chink of light appears. The same happens with Adam’s soul. The piece always makes him think of the soaring feeling of being in love. His anger soothes, and by 11pm he is creating another beautiful bouquet of flowers to cheer Laura up and let her know he is watching over her, keeping her safe. That he is her guardian angel and has very special plans for her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

~ Yellow Rose ~

Joy

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

For the first time in his life, Adam was happy. Now officially an adult, he was free from the scrutiny of Social Services and the lawyers, and had no family or friends to check up on him. He luxuriated in his solitude.

The six months under the watchful eye of the lawyers and accountants had not been wasted though. Adam had absorbed all the advice on managing money, handling the stocks and shares he now owned, and so on. He felt confident that he could run things alone; he had always been a mature young man in some ways.

He chose not to get a job. Life was already so full, thanks to all his hobbies, running his investments, and maintaining the house and gardens - he got rid of the staff his mother had taken on. He did not need to communicate with anyone unless he chose to, instead living through his computer.

On the rare occasion that he found himself wanting a bit of social interaction, he would visit one of the many cafes in Moseley, or sometimes even a cosy pub, and soak in the conversations going on around him.

At last he was in charge of his body, not his mother, and he took his fitness regime to a new level. He loved exercise not for vanity’s sake but for the sense of control it gave him. He liked to be able to push his body and feel it respond, to build up muscle groups the way he desired.

More time was also devoted to Adam’s study of the arts, a new passion he was developing. From paintings to sculpture, modern to renaissance and beyond, he loved it all as a way of conveying so much without words. Music was the ultimate non-verbal form of expression for him, though – although nothing would ever replace his beloved flowers. He started going to concerts, and also had a discreet sound system fitted so that he could listen to music no matter what room he was in as he moved around the house.

There was a part of him that was troubled though. Adam’s happiness had come at a price. He had now killed three people. It was not something the eighteen-year-old was proud of, despite his satisfaction at pulling off the perfect crime. His hand had been forced, though; it was not that he wanted to be a murderer it was that he had had no choice.

Winter turned to spring, the cherry trees in the garden blossoming. It made him think of Lisa more and more, her body hidden away under her very own cherry tree. White cherry tree blossom means deception, which seemed right for her: even nature was condemning her for the way she had led him on only to hurt him. But he had forgiven her.

He found himself remembering fondly the way strands of her hair had fluttered in the breeze, scintillating in the sunlight. The beautiful colours that had surrounded her as she moved. Her lovely lips. He deeply regretted the way things had gone between them.

At first, her parents had been everywhere, on television, newspapers and magazines, appealing for information. But the world had quickly moved on and forgotten about the missing girl. Adam would never forget though. As the second anniversary of her disappearance had rolled around, there had been a couple of paragraphs in a handful of newspapers, but that was all.

Sometimes he felt that she was with him. Somehow she was inside him, keeping him company as he slowly redecorated the house, undoing all his mother’s work. The lonely boy did not question how, he simply accepted and embraced his only friend in the world, a girl whom he had murdered. It was she who subtly suggested to him that he track down an original copy of the
Language of Flowers
. A physically tiny volume, which was translated from the French original and published in 1852, it was credited with standardising floriography.

Holding the slim Victorian book in his hands, Adam was filled with the sort of reverence others might feel for an ancient copy of the bible. This was the book that had ultimately allowed him to communicate with the world for years. The messages he and his gran had swapped had been a lifesaver for him, stopping him from going mad.

He learned that the language of flowers had helped others express messages and emotions for thousands of years, and through countless countries throughout Europe and Asia. It was woven through ancient mythologies and folklore, and even within William Shakespeare’s sonnets and plays. Even in modern times, when much of the symbolism had been lost, people were still drawn to flowers at key times, from weddings to funerals.

Nuances that Adam had not been aware of were brought to his attention. It was not only the flowers themselves that spoke volumes; the position of the bloom within the bouquet could be key, or even the number of them used. Suddenly the stumbling sentences he had been trying to create with his gran became fluent.

He often read the preface to
The Language of Flowers
, despite knowing it off by heart, because he found it so apt.

“When Nature laughs out in all the triumph of Spring, it may be said, without a metaphor, that, in her thousand varieties of flowers, we see the sweetest of her smiles; that, through them, we comprehend the exultation of her joys; and that, by them, she wafts her songs of thanksgiving to the heaven above her, which repays her tribute of gratitude with looks of love.

“Yes, flowers have their language. Theirs is an oratory that speaks in perfumed silence, and there is tenderness, and passion, and even the light-heartedness of mirth, in the variegated beauty of their vocabulary. To the poetical mind, they are not mute to each other; to the pious, they are not mute to their Creator; and ours shall be the office, in this little volume to translate their pleasing language, and to show that no spoken word can approach to the delicacy of sentiment to be inferred from a flower seasonably offered; that the softest impressions may be thus conveyed without offence, and even profound grief alleviated, at a moment when the most tuneful voice would grate harshly on the ear, and when the stricken soul can be soothed only by unbroken silence.”

The sweetest of her smiles… the exultation of her joys… an oratory that speaks in perfumed silence… when the stricken soul can be soothed only by unbroken silence. Those words leapt out at him, soothing his own tortured soul, which so struggled to communicate. Flowers conveyed so much more than Adam ever could through clumsy words.

***

PRESENT

It is scary knowing there is someone out there watching her every move, but Laura feels safe with her new locks. Whoever it is must have somehow got a key for the old locks; it is the only explanation for the way they have been coming and going without breaking in.

“Try getting in now, sucker,” she thinks, smirking at the thought of him being thwarted – she is ninety-nine per cent certain her stalker is a man.

She sleeps soundly, and can see no sign of disturbance when she gets up the following morning. She is almost skipping on her way to work because she feels so relieved knowing that her home is locked down.

Before she goes to bed that night, Laura goes round her flat and takes snaps on her phone camera. She wants a record of what it looks like before she goes to sleep, and another when she wakes, as she is still uncertain how much of what is happening is in her head.

Afterwards, she lies in bed. But she doesn’t want to go to sleep. Just in case she does something mad during her slumber. Just in case someone breaks in.

Hours pass and she lies there, ears straining to hear any sound, jumping if a cat meows outside. Nothing happens, but with each passing second her nerves grow for no reason at all, and she knows she is working herself up when there is no need. She is safe now. More minutes pass.

She leaps out of bed, decisive. Hurries to the kitchen and grabs a carving knife. Jumps back into bed with it and stuffs it under her pillow, hand gripping the handle ready to pull it out in a second if necessary. Then lies there again, unsleeping.

Laura has never noticed before how loud her alarm clock is. It is an old-fashioned mechanical one, with round bells on top, which Marcus had bought her when she started college to study nursery nursing. As she listens to the loud tick tock her thoughts drift on to how different life had been then.

Her parents had been so proud of her. Her plan had been to train up, get some work experience under her belt, then eventually open up her own nursery. She was a natural with children, and good with figures, so the business side of things would have come easily. How could she be anything else with her teacher parents’ genes?

She blinks slowly, eyes as gritty as sandpits as she thinks. Life would have been so good… Blink. Lids scraping over eyes. Blink. Pausing. Blink. Heavy. Blink. Dark…

With a jerk she wakes. Widens her eyes several times, trying to fight the sleep, the blurring of her vision, the sluggish desire taking over her body. She must not let it win. She must not sleep.

But of course she does, eventually.

Two hours later she wakes, grabs the knife and mobile, and pads around her flat. Now she is looking closely, studying the place for minute changes, she can see that the cushions on the sofa have been plumped, the rug straightened.

But the biggest change is not even remotely subtle. In the middle of the table is a bunch of bright flowers.

Okay, then. She was right, she has a stalker. There is no triumph to the thought, strangely there isn’t even fear, there is only a leaden acceptance. The new locks have made no difference: someone has been inside her flat while she slept.

A very tidy stalker, with a love of flowers. It is too insane to even contemplate.

Now Laura knows what she is up against though. She is not mad, this is not her imagination. She sets her mouth and makes the only logical decision available to her: she will go to the police now that she has proof.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

~ Mistletoe ~

I Surmount All Difficulties

“Look! In that picture the rug is a bit skewed, but there it’s straight,” Laura urges, flipping from one snap to the other.

“Right…” the desk sergeant says uncertainly.

“And the cushions. See?”

“Very nice. My wife bought some similar the other day.”

Laura glares at him. She called in sick to come here, because she wants things sorted as quickly as possible.

“I’m not showing off my décor,” she snaps. “Take this seriously! Someone is breaking into my flat when I’m out, even when I’m asleep.”

“And tidying up?”

“Yes! And leaving flowers. See, the flowers weren’t there last night when I took the photos. But by morning, voila!”

Sergeant Biggs has the air of someone who was born to be behind a desk. Affable, but not necessarily the sharpest knife in the drawer, he wears a bemused expression across his slightly ruddy face. He sports an impossible comb-over of wisps of hair that float gently every time he moves, giving the impression that he is under water. It is Laura who is feeling out of her depth right now though.

“Please, someone is breaking in. I’m scared,” she tries again.

“Was it a door or window they forced to gain entry?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” she replies slowly, suddenly realising how this is going to sound. “They seem to be letting themselves in. They come and go as they please, without trace.”

“Has anything been taken?”

“No, nothing.”

“Have any threats been made?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry then, but there doesn’t seem to be any evidence of an offence. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t plump the cushions yourself? You know, have a bit of a clean up on automatic pilot and it slips your mind.”

Oh for goodness sake. “Are you going to make a note of my complaint or not?” Laura barks.

Sergeant Biggs shakes his head, sending a halo of hair floating skyward momentarily, before settling magically back into place. “As I say, there doesn’t seem to be any offence to report. But if anything more serious happens, do let us know.”

Laura stalks out, furious and embarrassed. The police are professional enough not to guffaw loudly until she is well out of earshot, but even so, their laughter rings in her imagination.

Idiot, idiot, idiot! How is she going to get anyone to take her seriously?

***

SIX YEARS AGO

Adam had lived for eight years alone in his ivory tower. It had been wonderful, and at the grand old age of twenty-five he was finally starting to feel at ease with himself. Just lately he had even begun to think it would be nice to have someone to share his life with. His house was huge, after all, far too big for one person. Sometimes, lately, he felt that he was rattling round it rather than luxuriating in the space, as he had previously.

His house, his money, even his garden: what was the point without someone to share it all with? Things come and go, but love lasts forever.

It was a strange sensation to realise after so much time alone that perhaps he needed someone. No, not just needed, actively wanted. Adam decided that he should find a good woman and settle down with her. He knew that theoretically he was a good catch. He was not only relatively well off, but intelligent, enjoyed the finer things in life, and had a good body thanks to his constant works outs.

The only problem was that he knew nothing about love, except what his gran had taught him. It gave him a good grounding, but given that she had been dead for ten years he felt he needed a bit of a refresher.

He threw himself into his research with the vigour he applied to everything in life, from clock repairs to gardening. He was meticulous in his preparation, watching romantic classics such as
A Night To Remember, From Here To Eternity, Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
and more modern films from
The Bridges of Madison County
and
Stardust
to the less obvious
Gladiator
– Adam sobbed when Russell Crowe’s character died. Maximus had spent his life getting revenge for his wife and son’s murders and making the ultimate sacrifice by dying to be with them; was there any greater love than that?

Reading kept him busy too:
Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Bridget Jones’ Diary, Twilight, Anna Karenina.
As well as fiction, he got practical advice from a number of self-help books. Love songs provided some wonderful instruction too.

But at the end of it all, he was left rather confused. It seemed that the stories that were considered most romantic were where people died, or were awful to one another.

Eventually though, Adam created what he was certain was a formula that would make a relationship work. He must always put his wife first, must do thoughtful things for her, and must do whatever it took to make her happy even if sometimes that meant compromising his own happiness.

He thought he could manage that.

It was not without some nerves, though, that he decided to go speed dating. He had done his research and decided it was the best option for him, because then he would not be stuck making drawn out conversation with people he had nothing in common with. That way, he could move on quickly, and the chances of finding his dream girl in one night were greatly increased.

He only tried it once. It was a disaster. The pressure of having just a few minutes to connect with someone had brought his stutter back with a vengeance, which had massively undermined his confidence. He felt sick every time he thought of that night, of the pity in people’s eyes as his stammer had grown worse, of the way he had run out halfway through.

Internet dating was sure to be a success, though, he decided. He spent quite some time browsing women’s profiles, and then getting to know them via messages. It was not proving a huge success though, as most wanted to meet him quite quickly, and he was wary. They often bored of his conversations and stopped replying to his messages.

Cheryl did not give up on him, though. She had not been Adam’s first choice, by any stretch of the imagination, and her replies always seemed so vague, having little to do with what he had written. But at least she was willing to meet up with him, so it was with reasonably high hopes that he set off for the restaurant in Birmingham city centre. All the reviews of the Michelin-starred Indian cuisine were positive, and Cheryl had seemed impressed when he suggested they meet there.

As they sat at their table making polite small talk, Adam began to sense that the restaurant was the only thing that was impressing his date.

Cheryl was unconventionally pretty: sleepy, down-turned eyes, a slightly hooked nose, but the most perfect, rosebud mouth lit up with fuchsia lipstick. The sort of slim that comes from diet not exercise, her thins arms, on show in the sparkly lilac dress she wore, looked soft, as if he could sink his fingers into the flesh. The image made him think of Lisa, of how petal-soft her skin had been as he had strangled her.

He shook his head, momentarily confused about where he was. The restaurant’s bright décor took a moment to come back into focus. Cheryl was giving him a funny look. For the umpteenth time, Adam moved his cutlery as a nervous distraction, lining the knife and fork up exactly with the edge of the table. Realising, he forced his hands to still.

“So, um, so that’s a lovely watch,” he offered.
Always compliment
, he remembered; although actually he felt the timepiece was a little showy with its mother of pearl face and glittering crystals surrounding it.

“Oh! Thanks!” Cheryl sat up a bit straighter and looked at her left wrist as if she had never noticed the two-tone gold and stainless steel strap before. “Sekonda,” she added.

“Ah, S-Sekonda, they, umm, d-d-did you know they started out exclusively marketing Soviet watches. That ended with the break up of the USSR…which seems a little odd, as I-I would have thought it would have been easier from then on to get hold of the pieces.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” she said slowly. Then she smiled. “You weren’t joking when you said you loved all things clockwork… I’ll have to take the
time
to get to know you, eh?
Watch
this space!”

She chortled. Adam joined in after a beat. Jokes were not really his thing. When the laughter petered out, Cheryl complimented Adam’s real gold watch. He was particularly pleased.

“It’s an old Smith’s watch, The Imperial, from the late 1950s,” he said proudly. He did not like to boast, but he had bought it for next to nothing in a charity shop and fixed it himself. The English-made piece was very rare. Putting something together again and solving a problem was far more satisfying than the knowledge that his £10 investment was now worth about £600.

They chatted some more. Adam was not sure how well it was going, and sometimes it did feel forced, but he told himself it must be going better than it felt.

After an hour, Cheryl announced that she must leave.

“I have to be up very early for work,” she apologised. “It’s a 5am shift start tomorrow.”

“Oh, um… yes, well, it’s been lovely meeting you…”

“You too! Definitely. Must dash.”

“I-I’ll be in touch then…”

“I’ll contact you, eh? See you.”

With a swift peck on the cheek and swirl of her coat she was gone.

A few minutes later Adam walked slowly down Newhall Street, having paid the bill. He spotted a glitter of lilac, just a corner of material catching the light from a recessed stone shop doorway. Frowning, he cautiously approached. When he almost reached it, he pressed himself against the shop window, listening to a conversation.

“Go on,” Cheryl’s voice cajoled. “If you don’t join me the night will have been a complete waste of space.”

She paused, listening to a reply that Adam could not hear. Clearly she was on her phone. “You would not believe it, bab. I’m not listening to you next time – told you he’d be a dud, but you kept nagging me to message him. Uh-huh, well, you go out with him, then. Yeah, he wasn’t bad looking but it was like dating Wikipedia, he just kept spouting all these boring facts about watches and classical music and gardening. I know! He should date a ninety-year-old!”

She cackled viciously. He could still hear her as he hurried away in the opposite direction, tears stinging his eyes.

It was like his date with Lisa: a total disaster. Where the hell had he gone wrong? He kept trying and trying and trying. How many times was he expected to put himself out there only for people to reject him? Why was he so unlucky in love?

***

PRESENT

The jockey shorts are very tight and very white. Laura keeps her eyes clamped firmly on the man’s baby blues, and tries not to let them drift down. Not that the man seems bothered. He adjusts himself vaguely, continuing to look at her with an air of polite interest as she stands on his step while he leans against his open front door. She can feel the tropical heat of his home rushing out.

“So, yes, sorry to have, erm, disturbed you,” she struggles on, her breath clouding in front of her face in the cold. She licks her lips and tries again to gather her thoughts away from her neighbour’s generous package. It is gone one o’clock, but for whatever reason, he feels no desire to get dressed – not even though he has answered her knock on the door and it is cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.

“It’s that, well, I wondered if you’d seen any suspicious behaviour in the area recently? Cos my flat was broken into last night.”

After her disastrous time at the police station, Laura had allowed herself only a few moments to feel crest-fallen before deciding that if no one would help her then she must help herself. So she has been going up and down the street knocking on neighbours’ doors.

The man thinks for a moment, giving the leg of his underwear a surreptitious twang as he shakes his head. “Didn’t see or hear anything, love, sorry.”

“Okay. Well, if you could keep your eye out, that would be great. Only the police warned me that the thief might come back – you know, might be targeting the area.”

That perks the sleepy man up. He stops his adjustments and promises he will be on high alert from now on.

It has been the same story up and down the street. Laura’s nose is bright red and she can barely feel her toes because she has been knocking on doors in the icy weather for over an hour. All with no luck. Her stalker is a ghost, coming and going without anyone noticing.

After the reaction of the police she has not been going into details of what is happening to her, merely telling neighbours that her home has been broken into, and lying that police have issued a warning that the thief might target the area. Sadly though, most people are out at work during the day, and sleeping in the wee small hours; no one has seen anything. 

Still she continues to canvas the area. At the end of the day she is exhausted. She knows there is little chance of anyone catching this person. There has to be something she can do, though. She wracks her brain. Some weirdo who wants to make her cower down in terror will not beat her.