Blood Red Roses

by S. J. Coles

  “It’s just—”

  “Just what?”

  Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering the kisses that felt odd, the something shifting in the bright blue of Kim’s eyes when he was caught off-guard…the nagging feeling that he was falling too far, too fast and that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. “It just seems too good to be true.”

  Ella’s face softened. “I’ll let you in on a secret, bruv,” she said, putting the bowl in the fridge. “Something I learned the hard way. Sometimes ‘too good to be true’ is just finding something that will make you happy but being too scared to let it.”

  Rick shook his head and finished the beer. A text flashed on his screen.

  Hey. How’s it going?

  “Ring him back,” Ella said. “You don’t have to deny yourself something good just cos life’s messy right now. And let’s face it, when is life ever not messy?”

  “There’s money-problems, career-worries messy…then there’s murder-in-your-flat messy.”

  Ella’s only response was a rueful look.

  Rick picked up the phone, his chest tight. He wanted to hear Kim’s voice. He wanted to hear him tell him that everything was going to be okay, because if Kim said it, he’d be able to believe it.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Aren’t we going to see Mum?”

  “You’ve got time for a phone call first. Go on. I’ll get my coat.”

  The front door clicked closed behind her, and he rang Kim back. He was cool, calm, sympathetic. He asked questions and listened to everything Rick said. He told him it sounded like Stanhope knew what she was doing. Something eased in Rick’s chest. When he hung up, as predicted, he felt better and manage to stop himself over-analysing why.

  * * * *

  “You know what you should do?” Ella said as they rode the escalator down to Canning Town station.

  “What’s that?” Rick said, a little warily.

  “You should take Kim to that wedding.”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “I’m not being daft,” his sister insisted. “What better way to at least put that side of things to bed? Excuse the pun.”

  Rick didn’t return her smile. “Bringing a guy as my date to Cecily Swanson’s wedding will put nothing to bed but my career.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Rick remembered his last conversation with Cecily and sighed. “I do know that.”

  “Well, I know I’ve said it before, but maybe there’s more to life than this career.” Rick set his jaw, but she continued before he could respond. “I’m just saying… The new apartments, being in the black, not worrying about money—that’s all great, bruv. Really, really great. Don’t think I’m not grateful. Of course I am—more than I can ever show you. But missing out on Valentine’s Day with the first promising relationship you’ve had in years? You have to at least ask yourself if it’s worth it.”

  Rick opened his mouth to retort but the Tube train rushing into the station cut off his chance. By the time they’d found seats in the crowded carriage, the heat had left him, leaving a cold certainty behind.

  “I’m going to pay the next two months’ fees today,” he said softly. “And that’s just off my advance. Maybe the job isn’t what’s most important. But being able to look after each other is.”

  Ella pursed her lips but her face was now serious, showing that she agreed, even if she didn’t want to.

  Their mother managed a smile for them when they were shown to her chair in the corner of the vast, lime-green living space of the care home. The room reeked of potpourri and disinfectant and was too brightly lit. A couple of residents nodded at the card table, a forgotten game of gin rummy between them. Another three were sat staring at large TV in the corner, tuned to some holiday programme with the volume turned low. Rick managed a smile of his own for his mother, even though his stomach hardened to see how much she seemed to have aged, even in the last few weeks.

  One of the carers brought a vase for the roses he’d brought, and their mother ran a shaking hand over their silken petals with a dreamy smile on her face.

  “A special hybrid my boss’ wife grows,” Rick said softly. “They’re supposed to last longer than normal ones. They smell stronger too.”

  The old woman blinked slowly at the arrangement and didn’t answer.

  Ella talked brightly, telling her about Rick’s big-shot job, the menu at the cafe, about how excited she was to show her around their new apartments, even though they both knew she would never see them. She stared at her daughter like she was trying to remember why she was important.

  Ella held back her tears until after they’d left. Rick paid the fees at the desk, made sure the admin team had their new addresses then put his arm round his sister. They trudged back towards the station in tearful silence.

  The hangover and previous late night finally overcame the potent mix of emotion and allowed him to fall asleep sometime after midnight. The faint smell of Kim that still lingered in his bedsheets didn’t hurt, either.

  * * * *

  He felt like he hadn’t slept at all when he climbed, equal parts drained and wired, into the passenger seat of Valerie Stanhope’s BMW at eight-thirty a.m. the following morning.

  Being back in the police interview room made his entire body tense, but Stanhope was as good as her word, answered all Nayar’s questions herself and repeated, with increasing severity, the lack of anything but circumstantial evidence against him. The detective watched Rick closely, even when Stanhope was talking. Then they went through the forensics, highlighting the fact that Rick’s DNA was on the knife and the victim’s clothing.

  “It was my client’s flat, detective,” Stanhope replied levelly. “And my client’s knife. It would be more incriminating if his DNA were absent.”

  “In which case,” Nayar said, equally levelly, turning papers in the file on the table with deliberate care. “I just have one more question.”

  “Which is?”

  Nayar frowned for a long moment at a piece of paper she’d selected from the file. DC Walsh glanced at it and his thin face shifted. Nayar carefully laid the paper in front of Rick. He was able to read Witness Statement—Renee Mercier, Cotton Street Wines before Stanhope snatched it away and skimmed it, her face showing nothing.

  “Ms Mercier has no recollection of Mr Bennett calling in to her shop on the night of the murder as he stated,” Nayar said. “She has also given us the surveillance footage from the night in question. Mr Bennett never appears.”

  “That’s impossible—”

  “Mr Bennett,” Stanhope cut him off and passed the paper back. “Sorry, Detective. Ms Mercier is mistaken.”

  “And the camera footage?”

  “Technology isn’t foolproof,” his lawyer said, her face set. Rick tried desperately to keep his own blank while his insides threatened to return his breakfast. “Humans even less so. Maybe the camera malfunctioned. Maybe the owner lost the footage or forgot to turn her cameras on that night and was too embarrassed to admit it.”

  “Unlikely, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? Hardly.”

  “Still, you have to admit it doesn’t look good.”

  “I was there,” Rick said. “Ask Cecily Swanson. She arranged—”

  “Mr Bennett,” Stanhope cut in again, voice even sharper. Rick reined himself in, clenching his jaw tight to stop the anger and confusion spilling out. “Now, DI Nayar,” Stanhope continued, leaning her elbows on the table, “we’ve answered all your questions and my client has given you his statement for the second time. Unless you have any real evidence against him, which you can’t have or you would have arrested him, I suggest he be allowed to leave and not be subjected to any further badgering.”

  Nayar’s jaw worked, and she gathered her papers with a heavy expression. Stanhope, taking that for an answer, stood. Rick did the same, a little unsteadily.

  “Just one thin
g before you go, Mr Bennett,” Nayar added as they reached the door. Stanhope strode away but Rick paused, uncertain. Nayar’s face had softened. “I’m guessing your lawyer isn’t allowing you to consider the option of pleading guilty. But in cases like this, it’s usually the best way to go.”

  “But I’m not guilty.”

  “It is still normal practice for your lawyer to lay out all the options for you. Ms Stanhope hasn’t, has she? Perhaps you should ask yourself why.”

  “Mr Bennett,” his lawyer called from down the corridor and he hurried after her, palms damp, head aching worse than before.

  The lawyer spent the drive to Harbour Tower telling him not to worry.

  “But why is that shop owner lying?” Rick said. “What possible reason—?”

  “The woman doesn’t remember or wasn’t on top of her security measures, and it’s come back to bite her. She’s lying so she doesn’t get into trouble.”

  “But—”

  “Mr Bennett,” Stanhope said firmly, pulling up outside the office building, “trust me on this. They’ve got nothing. It’s all going to be fine.”

  He tried his best not to think about all the wary looks that followed him to his office or about the fact that his phone didn’t ring and no one came by all day. Fortunately, his emails, continuance forms and the amount of research data still waiting to be worked through were plentiful. Plentiful enough so he could tell himself it was his workload and not a reluctance to return home that kept him at his desk well past his usual finish time.

  Darkness had fallen and the admin pool was almost empty by the time Cecily appeared. She came round the desk, drew him to his feet and pulled him into a hug. Rick stiffened then made himself put his arms round her.

  “I’m so sorry, Rick,” she murmured in his ear, then stepped away and appeared to gather herself. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You don’t need to be sorry.”

  “Of course I do. Naturally, this is all just some horrible coincidence. But the fact that we’re the only link between that man and you means you—”

  “Cecily, it’s fine,” he said, trying to sound like he believed it. “The police will find out it was nothing to do with me or Swanson and Gerrard.”

  “Oh I know that,” she said, managing a ghost of her former brilliant smile. “Valerie filled us in. She’s confident this will all be over soon. I’m just so sorry it happened at all.”

  Rick managed a smile. “Me too.”

  Cecily kissed him on the cheek, surrounding him briefly with the overly sweet, floral smells of roses and jasmine.

  “You’re a survivor, Rick,” she said, her hands on his elbows. “And so am I. We’ll get through this together. Now go home. I need you in early tomorrow. The merger’s in less than two weeks. We’ve got a lot to get done before then. Oh,” she turned at the door, “do you know who you’re bringing to the wedding yet?”

  Rick prayed his hesitation wasn’t obvious. “Ella. My sister.”

  Cecily smiled. “Perfect. I’ll put her name on the list. Good night, Rick.”

  * * * *

  The run up to Valentine’s Day was unlike anything Rick had ever known. The majority of the time was swallowed by long hours buried in paperwork and mounting deadlines, running between endless streams of meetings, pushing his abilities and energy levels to their limit. Constantly battling with a grim layer of worry as the murder investigation continued did not help improve his mood. The merger was due the day before the wedding, and everyone in his department was running round with a kind of manic energy. Tempers were frayed. The faint sense of mistrust the other JAs had exuded towards him from the beginning had become more distinct, like they were now finding it much harder to play nice.

  Even his first real payday didn’t do much to alleviate things, though it did allow him to furnish his flat, prepay more care home fees and clear the last payday loans lingering from his years after dropping out of uni.

  Despite his lack of a celebratory mood, Rick ordered a chauffeured car to take him, Ella and their mother to one of her favourite open gardens for the afternoon the Sunday before the wedding. He was rewarded by a flicker of recognition in the back of their mother’s faded eyes, but by the time they were dropping her back at the home, she was fractious and anxious and the in-house doctor advised they leave it a while before trying to take her out anywhere again.

  The only thing that made it all bearable was the few precious hours he was able to snatch with Kim. Seeing him usually meant missing out on what little sleep he had time for, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Out of bed, Kim was inquisitive, reassuring, listened intently to everything Rick said—consequential or not—and generated a feeling of stability that Rick was able to hold onto, even in the most tumultuous or arduous progress meetings.

  And in bed, well… Rick was far from virginal, but never before had someone seemed to match his needs so perfectly. Rick wasn’t fussy when it came to sex. Anything that involved another willing body generally satisfied him. But, naturally, he was a giver, and Kim didn’t seem to be able to get enough of taking. It became tough to go anywhere public. They seemed unable to spend more than an hour together before the ice blue of Kim’s eyes would darken, his tone would lower and his smile would become suggestive. And Rick was never able to resist. Public toilets, alleys, even once behind some bushes in Regent’s Park—Kim never seemed to be able to wait to get him home, and Rick was powerless to resist.

  He also took full advantage of Rick’s newly kitted-out kitchen, whipping delicious and varied curries, salads, tagines, anything, even if they only had half an hour to spare. Thai, Indian, Moroccan, Mediterranean… He could do it all and always added extra spice just for Rick.

  Kim liked to talk as he cooked. He laughed, told stories about his travelling, about university, about ex-boyfriends and his ‘hippy’ parents, who he was close to but regularly exasperated by. He didn’t ask as many questions and allowed Rick to ask his own. In those moments, Rick felt like he was getting a glimpse behind the curtain. Why the curtain was there at all he didn’t let himself ask. He also didn’t ask why Kim never invited him over to his place.

  Rick only managed two hours of sleep the night before the merger. He was in his office by five a.m., going over the contract, merger terms and appendices, even though he now knew it all by heart. He stumbled, as he always did, at the brief paragraph dealing with the subsidiaries. He pursed his lips, checked to make sure he was still alone then unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew the envelope.

  He read the summary papers again, uncertainty snaking up his spine. He gazed at the pages of the contract laid out on his desk, all seventy-seven of them, the blocks of text broken only by the spaces for signatures that would be filled later that day. His jaw tightened. He thought of his new flat, the home he’d been able to give his sister and the care he could now easily afford for their mother. He thought of the lawyer and the support the company continued to give him as the murder investigation continued.

  He thought of the light in Kim’s eyes and the deep uncertainty he was harbouring over what would happen to that light if Kim ever found out the truth—found out that he’d lied to get where he was, found out that as much as he knew he belonged in this office, others would not agree.

  If he cast doubt over this merger, being fired would be the least of his worries.

  He returned the envelope to its hiding place then locked the drawer.

  By the time the representatives from EBR, a veritable phalanx of middle-aged, balding men with expressions ranging from expectant to resigned arrived, Rick was virtually dead on his feet, adrenaline and caffeine the only things keeping him upright. He was allowed a seat at the back of the conference room. Lloyd and Cecily Swanson were at the head of the table with the heads of EBR at the other end. The seventeen seats between them were taken up with lawyers, accountants and a few token shareholders.

  The two sides droned and feinted at each other, verbal strikes and parries, retreats
and advances, even though everyone knew that, by this point, it was all for show. A hush fell when the papers were signed. There was a breathless moment when Lloyd Swanson presented his hand to Terence Egerton, head of EBR, who waited just the right amount of time to make a show of being in control. But then he straightened his back, shook the offered hand and, finally, smiled. Swanson grinned in response and called for champagne.

  It was done.

  Rick, head pounding, eyes gritty, mouth sour, stared round the room, wondering why he didn’t feel as exuberant as everyone else.

  “Congratulations, Rick,” Cecily Swanson said, offering him a glass. He managed some sort of reply, which won a broad smile and took the glass but was wound too tightly to drink. Harry Gerrard-Hanson glared at them from across the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said then rejoined her father and fiancé.

  He slipped away as soon as it was acceptable to do so, his remaining strength leaving him in floods and made for home, unable to think about anything else but getting to his flat, closing the door on the outside world and dropping into bed.

  * * * *

  The next thing Rick was aware of, he was waking on Saturday, February fourteenth, with a deep, unexplained sense of foreboding. His new, mid-blue Hugo Boss suit hung from the wardrobe door. Ella was downstairs making their breakfast. Everything was as it should be, but Rick couldn’t shake the dread that kept him pinned to the bed.

  He forced himself to rise. He showered. He ate Ella’s very fine scrambled eggs and butter bread. He withstood her assurances that he should just try and enjoy the day. He dressed, not admitting to himself that he’d chosen the suit because the colour reminded him of Kim’s eyes, and knotted his dove-grey tie in front of the bathroom mirror. He stepped back and examined his reflection. The suit was tailored to his height and long limbs. The pale colours set off his dark skin and hair. He allowed himself a smile. Money might not be everything but, in that moment, he admitted that even on the worst of days it could make you feel good about yourself. Very good.