The Blue Rose (24 page)

‘Where is he?' Alex asked, subconsciously measuring the distance to the Alfa.

‘Up there behind them old sheds, mate. We keep him there when there's blokes like you around. Most of the time – and at night – he gets the run of the place.' He grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and started to walk away. ‘Ain't had a burglary yet,' he added with a cocky laugh.

Kingston stood up from the bench, letting Emma's map flutter to the ground. ‘Sheds,' he said to Alex. ‘Emma didn't put any sheds on the map.' He pulled on his earlobe – a sure sign that he was on to something. ‘Come on,' he said, picking up the piece of paper.

Alex followed Kingston at a jog across the yard, between the narrow gap separating the old blackened barns. Reaching the end, they came up against a high chain-link fence. On the other side was a paddock about thirty feet wide and running the full length of the sheds in the back. Weeds and tufts of grass covered most of the fenced-in area.

‘Well – I'll – be – damned!' Kingston said, articulating each word. ‘There she is. Incredible!' He was pointing to a wooden planter box in the corner of the paddock next to the padlocked gates. It was large, close to three feet high and about the same measurement in width and depth.

‘There's still quite a few blooms on her,' said Alex.

‘Those will be new.' Kingston shook his head. ‘Even more amazing. Not only blue but
remontant
.'

‘
Remontant?
'

‘It means repeat flowering. Most old roses flower only once a season. I'd assumed that would be true of Sapphire.'

Even from where they stood, staring open-mouthed through the chain-link fence, the rose exuded an ethereal aura. But there was something distinctly unsettling about its perfection. The brilliance of its sapphire blossoms stood out, as if luminous, against the dark foliage and blur of scarlet thorns. Now, with the full knowledge of its savage and lethal secret, it seemed imbued with heightened provocation – a beauty even more awesome, more unworldly than before. Alex shivered and looked away.

When he turned to face the paddock again, he gasped and took two steps backwards. Tyson was hurtling towards them with the force of a runaway locomotive. Together, they jumped back reflexively as the Rottweiler crashed into the fence, shoulder high, in front of them. Alex swore later that he saw the chain links move nine inches, the impact was so great. The fence flexed, as if about to give way, then catapulted the hapless Tyson through the air. Hitting the ground in a rolling black and brown dust-ball he finally came to a whimpering rest, about twenty feet from Alex and Kingston.

‘Serves you bloody right,' Alex muttered.

‘Let's take a couple of pictures, Alex.'

Alex nodded, still trying to take it all in. A few minutes ago, sitting on the bench, he had experienced a gut-wrenching sense of fear when it appeared that they were not going to find the rose after all. His thoughts had instantly turned to Kate, and the gnawing dread of what Wolff 's men might do if they arrived to find that there was no blue rose at Compton's. Now, suddenly, it was all reversed – Kingston's hunch had paid off. Euphoria like nothing he had ever known surged through him. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was trembling.

‘Alex,' Kingston prompted.

Alex, still thinking about Kate, didn't respond. He simply took out the camera and removed the lens cap. Then, using the telephoto lens, he took several shots of the rose and a couple of Tyson for good measure. The dog obligingly bared his shiny teeth. Then Alex put the Nikon carefully back into the case.

Pressing down the Velcro tabs on the case, Alex thought about Emma and how she would react when confronted with his and Kingston's deception and the disclosure about the rose's homicidal past. He pictured her, teapot in hand, as Kingston stripped away his mask, telling her in all seriousness that the rose out in the paddock was not only blue but had also killed four people. She'd think that they had both just escaped from the loony bin. He started to chuckle.

‘What do you find so bloody amusing?' Kingston asked, turning away from the fence, starting to walk towards the office.

‘I was trying to picture Emma's face when you tell her that the rose is a serial killer,' Alex said, following him. ‘Would you like me to take a snapshot of her reaction?'

‘Don't be facetious. We're not going to tell her. At least, not yet.'

‘Lawrence, you can't be serious. We must at least warn her not to let anybody touch it.'

‘Not for the moment, Alex.'

‘Why not, for God's sake? That damned rose is a time bomb!'

‘I hear what you're saying, but let me explain. First, we know that Compton's not coming back from his holiday until tonight. Between now and then it's unlikely that anybody will go near it. Plus, it's a weekend, too. If it weren't safely under lock and key, I might feel differently. But if we tell Emma, the first thing she'll certainly do is tell Compton all about it later tonight or first thing tomorrow. I want to save that little surprise for us. Plus, she might call the police. We are, after all, impostors.'

Alex shrugged. ‘You make a good point.'

‘Let's go and have a cup of Emma's tea before we leave.' He looked across at Alex. ‘Don't you feel a trifle better now, Alex? Now that we've found the rose?'

Alex didn't reply. The look on his face said it all.

 

It was four thirty in the afternoon when they finally left Compton's. They were headed for Lewes where Kingston had booked rooms at the Cross Keys, a three star hotel in the centre of town.

Alex took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at Kingston, who was studying an Egon Ronay guidebook. ‘Lawrence,' he said, ‘I take back everything I said the other day – you know, about your crossword puzzle theory, not believing you.' He looked back at the road. ‘You were right after all. It was damned clever of you. And – well what I'm trying to say is, thanks.'

‘No need to thank me, old chap. Not right now anyway. Maybe tomorrow when you've got your arms around Kate, eh?'

‘God, I hope so,' Alex sighed.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into the hotel car park. Alex yanked the handbrake on and was about to get out of the car. He turned to Kingston, frowning. ‘By the way, I forgot to ask you – how the hell did you know the name of the editor of
Gardens Illustrated
? For one horrible moment, I really thought we'd been rumbled.'

‘It was the truth, old chap. I've known her for a long while. As a matter of fact, I had lunch with her a couple of months ago.'

Alex shook his head. ‘I might have guessed,' he said.

The window was almost square and barely a dozen inches across. Using a small nail file, Kate had scraped and gouged away at the moulding to the point where most of it was stripped away. Luckily the wood was rotten in one corner, which had given her a head start. She had done most of the scraping in the early hours of the morning, careful to make as little noise as possible, flushing the debris down the toilet.

The window looked out on a barren patch of ground behind the house. Farther on, perhaps thirty paces away, edged by weeds and farm debris, stood an old wooden outbuilding. Just inside the open entry, Kate had earlier spotted an old bicycle leaning against a stack of wood. From the bathroom, looking through the dusty cobwebbed window, she hadn't been able to tell whether the tyres had air in them or not. She prayed they did.

Kate sat on the toilet staring at the ceiling in the half dark. She had no idea of the time but guessed that at least four hours had passed since the television had been turned off downstairs. She had arbitrarily established that as somewhere between eleven and midnight. Assuming that to be reasonably accurate, she guessed the present time at between three and four in the morning. She decided not to wait any longer.

She slipped her nail file under the corner of the pane of glass and gently levered on it. She hoped that when it popped out it wouldn't crack or shatter. That could be disastrous.

She pulled again, the palm of her other hand flat against the glass. It didn't crack. But it didn't budge, either.

As hard as Kate tried, the pane of glass wouldn't come out. The edges were free of the moulding on all sides but many years of weathering and aging had apparently glued the glass to the putty on the outside.

‘Damn it,' she whispered. ‘Damned glass.'

She scraped some more, stopping occasionally to listen for sounds in the house. Slipping the nail file under the corner where the rot gave her the most purchase she pulled back again. She realized that her fingers were perilously close to the edge of the glass. One slip and she could suffer a nasty gash. She had a temporary vision of her kidnappers following her bloody trail.

She paused, took a deep breath and pulled again, this time in a quick jerking motion. She thought she could see the pane bending.

‘Damn you! Come out,' she breathed. Still it stubbornly refused to budge. She had no choice but to break it, she decided. But she had nothing hard enough to hit it with. Even if she did, the sound of a windowpane shattering would wake the entire house.

Biting her lower lip, she slipped the tip of the file under the glass, this time only by barely an inch, to get maximum leverage. She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling with two hands on the slender file. Suddenly, with a crack, a corner of the pane broke off. The triangular piece of glass fell quietly on to the worn shag rug she had placed under the window for this purpose. She stopped for several seconds, straining once more for telltale sounds in the quiet of the house. She heard nothing. A draught of air blowing through the small opening caressed her face. It took another minute before she could jiggle the remaining glass free. Finally it came out in one piece. She placed it against the wall, inhaling the crisp early morning air. It had the distinct aroma of manure. But to her it was like expensive perfume.

She stepped on to the toilet and put one knee on the sill. As she was about to pull herself up to squeeze through, she detected a fleeting movement outside against the outbuilding. She strained in the darkness to see what it could be. A cool breeze now blew her hair lightly across her eyes. She saw nothing. Probably just the wind disturbing something, she reassured herself. A wind chime tinkled on the other side of the house. Otherwise it was quiet. ‘Here goes. It'll be a tight squeeze,' she said under her breath. She hoisted herself up – and suddenly froze.

Across the yard she saw the tiny glowing dot of a cigarette burning. For a matter of seconds it grew brighter, illuminating the man's face as he inhaled.

 

Alex had a restless night. When he awoke he was still fully dressed, the duvet crumpled around him. The copy of
Country Life
which he had been reading last night was still open by his pillow. He remembered picking it up and leafing through it for no other reason than to take his mind off the day at Compton's, finding the rose, and all the things that could possibly go wrong tomorrow.

The Cross Keys must have changed hands since the review Kingston had recited in the car. It fell pitifully short of the glowing description in the guidebook. The lingering aftermath of last night's indigestible dinner was still making itself heard sporadically from somewhere deep in his stomach. ‘Three stars, indeed,' he said under his breath, listening to the dying strains of Paul Simon's ‘Graceland' on the plastic clock radio. He closed his eyes, shifting on the mattress with more bumps in it than a sack of golf balls, listening to a lady with a Scottish accent giving the weather report for the south of England. It would be foggy in the early morning, she said, with sunny periods, turning to partly cloudy and breezy, with chances of scattered rain. ‘In other words, another typical English summer day,' he groaned. He showered in the meagre cubicle that should have won an interior design award for most economical use of space. To add further to his discomfort, the chattering and gurgling pipes offered only two choices of water temperature: scalding hot or frigid. Abandoning further thoughts of ablutions, he dressed in a black turtleneck, tan corduroy trousers and a fleece-lined windbreaker. Remembering the ‘breezy' part in the forecast, he stuffed a scarf in his jacket pocket for good measure. He looked himself up and down in a mirror screwed to the back of the wardrobe door. He was suitably dressed for anything the day might offer, he decided. He preferred not to examine his puffy eyes too closely.

 

Wolff woke to the acrid smell of stale wood smoke. It was one of the first things he'd noticed on his arrival at the farmhouse yesterday. More than one hundred years' worth of errant smoke had permeated every post, beam, plank and board of the old house.

He had to get some fresh air. What time was it anyway? He switched on the wobbly table lamp fashioned from a wine bottle and squinted at his watch. It was not quite five. At least he had managed to get some sleep. He dressed, put on a Seattle Mariners baseball cap, picked up his Marlboros and left the stuffy room, quietly closing the door behind him.

In the pre-dawn darkness, a breeze tousled the leaves of a graceful birch by the front door, making the sound of wavelets rippling on a pebble shore. Shielding his lighter from the wind, he lit a cigarette. Now and then, when the breeze slackened, he caught a whiff of fertilizer and other farm-like smells. He stood for a minute or so, enjoying the solitude. His eyes had now adjusted to the darkness and he could make out the shapes and silhouettes around him. For no reason, he walked to the side of the house. He started to think about the coming day and what it would be like when he finally got to see the rose that was to be his salvation. The dark mass of an outbuilding of some kind – a barn, probably – loomed to his left. The rustling of a nocturnal creature in the brush ahead of him momentarily interrupted his thoughts.

The wind had picked up. Between the corridor formed by the house and the barn it was kicking up dust and dry leaves in ankle-high eddies. Somewhere a door or window rattled on loose hinges. As he walked between the buildings, Wolff had to tilt his head down to prevent the dust from getting in his eyes. He ducked into the barn. Out of the wind, standing there, smoking the last of his cigarette, he noticed with indifference the curtains flapping in an open window on the first floor. Then he started back to the house. It took him three steps before he registered the implication of the open window.

Running into the house, he suddenly realized that he didn't know which room Marcus, Billy or Kate occupied. He started banging on every door he could find, shouting Marcus's name. Finally, Billy appeared in the hallway, pulling on jeans.

‘Billy, which room is the Sheppard woman in?'

‘The one on this side,' he said, pointing. ‘Upstairs,' he added, still half asleep and confused.

‘Shit! Just what I thought – the goddamned window's wide open.'

Marcus appeared at Wolff 's side. ‘What the fuck's goin' on?' he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

‘It looks like the Sheppard woman's escaped,' Wolff snapped. ‘You told me there was no way she could get out of that fucking room. Christ knows how much of a head start she's got. Marcus, you get the Jeep and drive up to the main road. Chances are she's on foot, so check out the fields as you go. If you don't find her, go straight to The Parsonage. I've got a feeling that's where she'll be headed. But she's obviously not gonna stay there for long, so you'd better hustle. On the way, check out every goddamned phone box you can find, too. First thing she's gonna do is call the police.' He turned back to Billy. ‘Come with me. We're gonna have to close up shop and get the hell out of here.