Blood Red Roses

by S. J. Coles

  “Everything to do with this deal is of significance to me…and my fiancé,” she added, a little heavily.

  “Of course,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. His fingers brushed against the key and his stomach clenched. He withdrew his hands again. “I’ll check your availability with Bryce.”

  “I’ll make myself available.” Her smile warmed. She glanced out of the wall of glass to where several members of staff were pretending very hard not to be watching. She turned a more secretive smile his way. “Any time.”

  “Thanks,” he said, managing to not break eye contact.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, holding out a red-bordered envelope. His name was handwritten in cursive script on the front. He withdrew the gilded card and kept his face neutral with some effort.

  “Cecily—”

  “I want you to be there, Rick. You’re a big part of what is going to make my marriage a success. You deserve to be involved.”

  He hoped his hesitancy could be interpreted as pleased surprise. “I have a plus one?” he said. Her smile didn’t flicker.

  “Only if you want one, of course. But I would like to meet your sister, very much.”

  He nodded and smiled understandingly. “Of course. I… We’d be honoured. Thank you.”

  She locked eyes with him for a moment then she nodded. “I’ll let you get back to it. Remember… If you need anything, anything at all, just ring.”

  “I will.”

  He watched her walk to the lifts with the admin staff glancing up and rapidly back down as she passed. When the lift door closed behind her, he sank back into his chair and stared at the wedding invitation, wondering if the gilded card could possibly be as heavy as it felt.

  His personal phone buzzed on the desk and he jumped.

  Hey, big shot. Where are we meeting?

  Rick noticed the time and cursed. He shoved the invitation into his bag and grabbed his coat, sending Ella the address as he left.

  Somehow the Uber got him to Poplar Court a good ten minutes before his sister. The uniformed doorman was expecting him and chatted amiably about where to find the nearest Tube station, park, deli and restaurants while he waited.

  Ella eventually arrived on foot, glancing round at the towering apartment buildings and busy access road with a bemused expression as she climbed the stairs and pushed open the glass front doors.

  “What are we doing here?” she asked in a low voice, glancing at the smiling doorman.

  “I’ve got something to show you.”

  She followed him into the lift, still frowning. Her expression flattened as they crossed a marble-tiled landing and watched in silence as he slipped a key into the lock of flat fifty-nine. She stepped into the high-ceilinged, open-plan space with her eyes wide. The wall of windows on one side overlooked the Thames. The London skyline rose up beyond the river, gilded silver by rain. There was a deep, dove-grey carpet under their feet. The walls were white, making the huge space bright and airy. A large chrome kitchen was set off to one side. A glass-sided staircase climbed the far wall to a mezzanine level with more wide windows and a chrome-and-marble en suite just visible through an open door.

  “Rick,” she breathed, turning in a slow circle, “what is this?”

  “You like it?”

  “You fucking kidding me? It’s amazing. Does it mean what I think it means?”

  “It does.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I shit you not.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s incredible.”

  “You think I should take it?”

  “Hell yeah,” she said. “It’s perfect. And so close to your work.”

  “It’s not for me,” he said, holding out the keys.

  She started at them like they might bite. “What?”

  “It’s yours, El.”

  She shook her head. “No, Rick. Don’t be stupid. You can’t—”

  “I want to.”

  She shook her head again, taking a step back. “It’s too much.”

  “It’s not.”

  “It is. Way too much. Besides, I can afford the old place on my own, just about, now that Mum’s fees are sorted for a while. You take this place. You’re the one—”

  “El,” he said, taking her hand and pressing the keys into it, “if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even be here.”

  “That’s crap.”

  “It isn’t. It was you working all hours and scrimping and saving that kept us going all this time. Without you, we’d be nowhere. Let me do this for you.”

  “It’s too much,” she said again, staring round the flat. “I can’t accept it.”

  “All the folks ever wanted for us was to have a decent home,” he insisted. “Now I have the chance to make that happen. Please let me do this for you…and for them.”

  She sniffed. When she went on, her voice was thick with unshed tears. “How can I live it up here with you going home every night to that shithole?”

  He smiled. “I won’t. I’ve signed the lease for number sixty as well.”

  She clutched the keys to her chest and let the tears fall.

  The last thing Rick did before returning to the office was head to his own flat across the hall and shove the key to his bottom office desk drawer into the back of a kitchen cupboard.

  * * * *

  The week wore on and he left the office later and later each day as the deadline for the merger approached. His bank balance dwindled as deposits were paid and more bills settled, but every night when he returned to No. 60 Poplar Court, whatever the late hour or his level of exhaustion, he felt like he was finally returning home and it made it all worthwhile.

  The few hours he got to sleep each night, he slept well.

  He expected to feel more than he did when Bulky Waste came to clear the Morden flat at Wednesday lunchtime. He had to be there to let them in or he would have gladly avoided it. But when his mother’s sagging sofa, stained coffee table and broken bookshelves were heaved into a skip by the sweating removal men, the only thing he felt was another weight lifting from his shoulders.

  Soon the marks in the worn carpet and patches on the faded wallpaper were the only evidence that a family had grown, known dreams and watched them die between those walls.

  His first meeting with the reps from EBR was the next day. Cecily Swanson attended, as promised. He purposely didn’t mention the subsidiaries at any point and neither did anyone else. They agreed to a timeframe, exchanged research data and signed off on some preliminary numbers. Cecily saw the EBR delegates to the exit with a glittering smile, which turned heated when they were alone.

  “Great work, Rick.”

  He thanked her and escaped to his own office under the pretence of emailing progress reports.

  By the time Friday rolled round, he was both ragged with fatigue and tingling with anticipation. When the email came through from Cecily suggesting he finish early as a reward for all his hard work, he came the closest he ever had to genuinely liking her.

  No problem, Rick, you’ve earned it. Also, if you haven’t tried it yet, I highly recommend the wine merchant on Cotton Street. It’s on your way home. Drop in tonight and tell them I sent you. I’ve arranged a little something for your weekend.

  Cess

  Rick stared at the email for a long time, torn between excitement and wariness.

  That is very generous.

  Thank you.

  Rick

  You’re welcome. See you Monday.

  Cess x

  The ‘x’ at the end of her email sent a jolt through him, but he shut the computer down and grabbed his coat, shelving his concerns with a, by now, well-practised ease.

  He located the wine merchant and found, without surprise, that they were expecting him. The owner engaged him in an in-depth discussion of his tastes, punctuated with samples for him to try. He kept glancing at his watch, even as each sample, he had to admit, tasted better than the last. He knew nothin
g about wine but was able to fake the terminology from articles he’d memorised for the many networking parties he’d crashed over the years. In the end, the merchant presented him with a top-shelf pinot noir and a middle-shelf champagne, waving away his credit card, saying it had already been taken care of.

  Rick left, shaking his head, but pleased to be in possession of something half-decent to serve to Kim. He fell back into daydreaming. His new bed and some of his kitchen appliances had arrived the day before and the handyman had stopped by that afternoon to hang the wall racks for his guitars. He’d sent Kim the internet listing and address for the flat the second he’d signed the lease, ostensibly so Kim would know he’d left Morden, but really so he could show Kim just what he could afford now. He spent the whole journey home trying to decide if he was up for having Kim over to see it in person yet or if he wanted to wait until the rest of his furniture arrived.

  Still not allowing himself to acknowledge the sneaking desire to impress, he started drafting a text, inviting himself to Kim’s place instead, telling himself that if Kim saw the place now, he would only wonder why he didn’t own a load of fancy furniture already. The clamour of the early evening traffic, even the sirens of several police cars that whizzed past him as he crossed into Poplar, barely penetrated. He typed, enjoying the tingle in his fingers and toes as he imagined what Kim’s place might be like, and what the younger man might taste like after a few glasses of champagne.

  He’d deleted and re-phrased the text three times by the time he’d got his keys in the front door. He shook his head to himself. He was acting like a teenager again. But everything else was coming together just right. He might be working ten-hour days for a woman he would eventually have to let down, and he still couldn’t entirely stop thinking about the envelope in his desk drawer, but it finally felt like his life was coming together.

  He wanted to make dating Kim part of that life. He’d never felt the potential of something so early on in a relationship before, especially when he knew so little about the person. But when he thought of Kim’s light, easy manner and the way he treated Rick like an equal without appearing to even have to think about it, something that wasn’t just lust stirred under his belly.

  Of course, the striking, beautiful face, devilish smile and sleek, toned body didn’t hurt matters. He tantalised himself with the thought that tonight they might get to—

  Rick switched on his living room light and froze. The new sofa was positioned at right angles to his glass coffee table and smart TV. His boxes of vinyl were stacked against the far wall and his running shoes were by the front door. Everything was as he’d left it that morning, but something was…off. There was a chill in the air…and an odd smell.

  He moved forward, trying to identify what was causing unease to snake up his spine. A draught brushed against his face. He moved to the balcony door and found it was open a crack. He frowned. Had the handyman left it open? Why would he even open it on this freezing January day? He slid it shut, turning the key in the lock.

  The smell was stronger in the kitchen. He frowned. His breakfast plate was in the sink but he’d only had time for toast, so that didn’t explain the sickly-sweet, almost meaty, smell in the air. It was then he noticed his block of chefs’ knives was on its side, the knives spilling out onto the counter. He righted it and returned the knives to their slots. There were two missing. He turned, scanning the kitchen and froze.

  A pool of very red, thick liquid spread across the tiles behind the breakfast island. One of the knives lay next to it, the blade bejewelled with red droplets like rubies. He stepped closer, examining the spatters and smears on the tiles and up the side of the island. They resolved themselves into handprints, the skids of kicking heels, the splashes and spatters of a desperate struggle.

  Adrenaline bolted up his spine. He grabbed one of the remaining knives and hunted the flat, top to bottom, nerves tighter than wire, but the place was empty. He rang Ella. The phone rang and rang.

  “Pick up. Pick up.” It went to voicemail. He swore and tried again.

  “Hey,” she answered, sounding harried. “Kinda busy here.”

  Rick closed his eyes, relief choking him.

  “Rick? What’s up?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay. What’s wrong?”

  Rick backed out of the kitchen and sank onto the edge of the sofa, unable to tear his eyes from the gruesome scene in the kitchen.

  “Rick?”

  “You’re working late tonight, right?”

  “Yeah—”

  “Okay. I’ll send a car for you at closing, okay? Don’t walk home.”

  “Rick, you’re scaring me.”

  “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He started to dial nine-nine-nine with shaking hands when there was a loud banging on his front door. His heart climbed into his throat. Someone pressed the bell then banged again. Still shaking, he picked up the knife and moved towards the door.

  “Mr Bennett?” a gruff voice called through the woodwork. “Mr Bennett, open up. Police.”

  Rick hurried to open the door. It was only when the short, round police officer with a rain-specked overcoat and grim expression glanced at his hand that he remembered he was still holding the knife.

  Chapter Five

  “I told you already,” Rick said. The stale air of the police interview room was making him feel nauseous. His shoulders ached and his eyes stung. His throat was tight with thirst and his heart pounded with anxiety, but he fought hard to make sure none of it showed on his face. “I came home. I saw the blood. I was worried someone might still be in the flat…”

  “That’s why you had the knife?”

  “A knife,” Rick insisted. “Another one. I never touched the one on the floor.”

  “Your fingerprints are on it.”

  “It’s my knife.”

  Detective Nayar was in her late forties, stern-faced with greying hair cut severely short. Her eyes, blacker than obsidian, were sharp behind narrow-lensed glasses. Rick kept his hands in his lap rather than wrapped round the mug of instant coffee on the table so she could not see that they were trembling.

  She examined him for another long, quiet moment. Her constable, DC Walsh—a thin-faced, prematurely balding man with a sparse ginger beard—made conspicuous shorthand notes in his notepad, even when no one was speaking. Rick was beginning to suspect it was an intimidation technique. It was working.

  “The remains of Edgar Ropeman were found in the carpark directly under your balcony, Mr Bennett. A great deal of his blood and the knife that killed him were found in your kitchen.”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “That’s your final statement?”

  “It’s the truth.” Rick tightened his hands in his lap but kept his back straight. “I left work, I came home, I found the blood—”

  “Why didn’t you call the police, Mr Bennett?”

  “I was about to when your officer showed up.”

  “You rang your sister before the police?”

  “She lives in the same building. I was worried.”

  “You stated you got home at six-thirty p.m. Is that the time you usually arrive home?”

  “No. I normally get home later.”

  “Then why so early tonight?”

  “I took an early finish.”

  “How early?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know, exactly. Around half four?”

  “Why finish early today, specifically?”

  Rick shut his eyes, clutching onto the ends of his fraying temper. “My boss said I could.”

  “Your boss being Cecily Swanson of Swanson and Gerrard, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Nayar flicked through her notes. “The victim was, until recently, a junior analyst at Swanson and Gerrard. Did you know that?”

  Rick stared. It took several moments to find his voice. “No.”

  “Mr Ropeman, in fact, had your job. According to close
acquaintances, he was forced out. He was also about to file a wrongful dismissal suit.”

  Rick blinked. “I was told he resigned.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  She tapped her pen off the notebook for several long moments. “Swanson and Gerrard is, at most, a twenty-minute drive from your flat in Friday night traffic—”

  “I walk it.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “So it’s not more than a half-hour walk. How did it take you nearly two hours to get home, Mr Bennett?”

  “I already told him this,” Rick said wearily, nodding at the DC.

  “Please repeat it, for the tape.”

  Rick’s watch told him it was close to midnight. His eyes were gritty, the adrenaline was making his palms itch. He was startled by the realisation that all he wanted, right then, was to be back in his cramped bedroom in Morden with nothing more on his mind than his mother’s care home fees. “I went to a wine shop on Cotton Street after work—”

  “For over an hour?”

  “The owner was helping me choose something special.”

  “What for?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  She scribbled something on her pad. “So you were in the shop until…?”

  “I don’t know. Just after six? Ask them. They’ll tell you. And my office will tell you what time I left there. That will prove I couldn’t have been in my flat any sooner than I said. Now, please, detective. I really have told you everything. If you want to question me more or arrest me, I want a solicitor.”

  She glanced at the DC, stood and closed her notebook. Walsh got to his feet and followed her to the door. Another half hour dragged by. Rick paced the small room then sat again and finished the cold coffee. It tasted like plastic.

  Eventually, the door opened, and the detective returned, her face unreadable.

  “All right, Mr Bennett. You’re free to go. Though the crime scene team won’t release your flat until the morning. Have you got somewhere you can stay?”