by Adam Croft
A couple of minutes later, Caroline heard the car pull up on the drive, so she headed into the kitchen to wait for Mark.
‘That’s an old one,’ he said, gesturing at her dress as he walked in. ‘Haven’t seen that one for a while.’
‘Oh. I thought you liked it,’ Caroline replied.
Mark paused for a moment. ‘I do. You know I do.’
It sounded to her as if he’d said that to placate her rather than because he actually meant it. She watched as he put the carrier bag down on the table and started to take packages of food out. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, can do.’
‘Wine?’
‘I’ll have a beer if there’s one in the fridge.’
‘I opened some wine. The nice one.’
Mark looked at her. ‘You mean the expensive one.’
‘If you like. Who cares? I thought we might be able to make a nice night of it. It’s been a while.’
Mark raised one corner of his mouth in a sympathetic smile. ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s a good idea. I like it. I like the wine. It’s fine. I like the dress. Love the dress. Bloody love the dress.’
Caroline laughed. ‘Shut up and dish up.’
Once the food was finished and the dishes cleared away, Caroline sat down next to Mark on the sofa in the living room, a little closer than usual. More often than not they sat on completely different sofas, but tonight she’d pulled up close, draping one leg over his as she nestled her head into his shoulder.
There was nothing much on TV — a few comedy panel shows, but that didn’t matter. Winding down was the main thing.
She didn’t know when, but she must have dozed off for a bit, as she woke with a start when Mark switched off the TV and shuffled in his seat.
‘Alright?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. We heading up?’ she replied, sensing that he hadn’t even realised she’d fallen asleep.
Mark leaned in towards her. ‘Unless you were planning on doing it down here.’
She kissed him, feeling his hands on her. It’d been so long. Before Christmas. Before the—
‘What’s wrong?’ Mark asked.
‘Nothing. Let’s go upstairs.’
‘You were pulling away from me.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You were.’
‘No, I wasn’t. It’s just…’
‘It’s alright. I get it. I’m no use in that department now.’
‘That’s not true! Look, this is hard for both of us. We knew it would be.’
Mark nodded. ‘Mmmm. Okay. Well I’m off to bed.’
30
On any other morning, a leisurely walk around one of Britain’s most loved and best-known gardens would’ve sounded like a great idea, but Caroline barely had the energy to get out of bed. She looked at the icy blue sky through the window and considered that the bitterly cold morning might at least help wake her up.
The black roses she saw at Amie Tanner’s house had played on her mind ever since she’d spotted them. When Amie had said she’d always presumed her mother or husband was sending them after her father’s death, but that they had always denied this, Caroline noticed a look on Amie’s face that perturbed her. It was as if Amie herself was confused by the situation, but still grateful for the memory of her dad.
Coupled with Amie’s father having worked at Barnsdale Gardens in the years leading up to his death, it seemed a logical place to visit for potential information. And, if nothing else, it might help clear her mind.
She’d arranged to meet Jon Brocklebank, the Head Gardener, who’d agreed to have a chat with her. She’d already discovered from her own research that Barnsdale had been created by Geoff Hamilton, a former presenter of the television programme Gardeners’ World, and that Barnsdale had been the official Gardeners’ World garden for many years, until Hamilton’s death.
She was pleased to find Jon waiting for her at the ticket office, smiling and ageless in only the way someone who spends their life outdoors can look. Although she didn’t know the first thing about gardening, she’d been sorely tempted on many occasions to jack the job in and take to the soil. She couldn’t deny there was a certain romance about it.
‘Blimey. Quite a big site, isn’t it?’ Caroline said as Jon took her on a short guided tour.
‘Yep, eight acres. We’ve actually managed to pack thirty-eight gardens in here, would you believe.’
‘Wow. I struggle keeping up with my tiny garden. I can’t imagine having to look after something like this. Especially considering its history. Must be quite daunting.’
‘Ah, I’m used to it. I see you’ve been doing your research, though.’
‘Naturally,’ Caroline replied, smiling. ‘Geoff Hamilton. I remember him from the telly.’
‘Yes, he was very popular. One of his protégés is a presenter on Gardeners’ World now, actually. Adam Frost.’
‘Never heard of him. I guess that means you’re next in line for the telly job, then, does it?’
Jon smiled and chuckled. ‘I’m not sure that rule’s set in stone, if I’m honest with you. But anyway, how can I help?’
Caroline took a deep breath, feeling the chill morning air coating her lungs. ‘Well, it’s about roses. A rose called Black Baccara, to be specific.’
‘Okay. I hope you’re not going to ask if you can see one, because I might have to ask you to come back in a few months,’ Jon said, smiling.
Caroline chuckled. ‘No, not quite. Although that does lead me on nicely to what I wanted to ask. I mean, I know roses bloom in summer, but there must be a way of having them bloom in winter. I’m thinking Valentine’s Day, things like that. You see them in cut displays all year round. How do they do that?’
‘Well, they’d either be imported from abroad where the flowers are already in bloom, or they’d be “forced”, as it’s known in the horticultural world.’
‘What does that mean?’ Caroline asked.
‘Essentially, forcing the plants into flower by tricking them into thinking it’s a different time of year. It’s all about controlling warmth, adding artificial light and so on. It’s much more scientific than that, but those are the basics.’
‘I see. And would that be done locally?’
‘It could be, but probably not. Most cut flowers in the UK tend to come from Holland. There are producers in the UK who force roses on for shows and events, but I don’t know if it’s year-round. And, in any case, I presume you’re specifically referring to Black Bacarra?’
‘Ideally, yes. The long and short of it is we need to find out where someone might have sourced them to get them into a vase in Rutland in February. Each February, in fact.’
Jon cocked his head slightly and raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it’s possible someone could be growing their own if it’s on a small scale. It’s expensive and hard work to set up. You’d need sodium lighting and all sorts of heating apparatus. But that would be the least traceable way of doing it, presuming this is connected with some sort of crime. Otherwise, I’m almost certain there’ll be commercial nurseries online who’d be happy to supply. Sorry — it’s not really my area of expertise.’
‘No, no that’s great,’ Caroline said, admiring the beauty of her surroundings. ‘This is extraordinary,’ she said.
‘Ah, this is the Geoff Hamilton Winter Border. Named after the great man himself. He designed it specifically for winter interest, and it was redeveloped a few years ago.’
‘Wow. I didn’t realise there was that much you could do with a garden in winter.’
‘Oh, always. It’s not all about cut flowers,’ Jon replied, smiling.
‘No, indeed.’
‘So, is there anything else I can help you with at all?’
‘There is one thing,’ Caroline said, her voice low. ‘But you’ll have to promise never to breathe a word to any of my colleagues.’
‘Erm. Okay. How can I help?’ Jon gave Caroline an awkward look as she leaned in conspiratorially.
‘How do I become a member?’
31
A few minutes after Caroline arrived at the station, she had convened the morning briefing. She updated the team on what she’d learnt at Barnsdale.
‘In short, we’re probably best off contacting commercial growers and online retailers who stock Black Bacarra for a list of anyone who’s bought them over the past few years. If they’re local to us or a familiar name, we’ve got a lead. It might be nothing. But something about it doesn’t quite sit right. She knows it’s not her mum or husband sending the flowers each year. And it’s clearly not her dad. It might go nowhere, but it won’t take up much time finding out.’
‘Apart from the amount of time it takes the companies to get back to us,’ Dexter said.
‘That’s fine. That’s not on our timesheets. We’ve got plenty to be getting on with in the meantime. Which reminds me. We’ve had a few bits back. Perhaps most crucial are the preliminary DNA and forensics results as well as the post-mortem report, which, as expected after waiting around for a couple of days, have all come in at once. On the plus side, it does help us build up a picture of what happened to Martin Forbes.
‘The post-mortem is strangely conclusive and inconclusive at the same time. It states there were signs of hypothermia, but that it probably wasn’t the cold itself that killed him. Their conclusion on that front is that it’s likely he bled out from the head wound and haemorrhaged following damage to his cranium. That’s the skull, Dexter,’ she said, listening as a rumble of laughter rolled through the room. ‘Having said that, they note the cold would’ve made his heart pump harder and faster, accelerating his blood loss. Likewise, the blood loss would’ve had a similar effect both on itself and in lowering his body temperature. Basically, with the two combined, he stood no chance. As for the head wound, we’re looking at blunt force. Forensics think it was probably a baseball bat or similar. Now, it’s not easy to conceal a baseball bat, so it’s likely our killer took Martin by surprise. There aren’t any signs of a struggle — no skin under the fingernails or anything — but there’s evidence the killer tried to strangle him, although that wasn’t the cause of death. Reading between the lines, I think the head trauma knocked Martin out, the killer either believed the strangulation had worked because Martin’s breathing and heartbeat had got so shallow as to be undetectable, or they simply realised there was no need because he was bleeding profusely and was clearly on his way out.’
‘But there wasn’t a huge amount of blood found at the scene, right?’ Sara asked.
‘Correct. There was some on the wall he’d been propped up against, but that’s probably from direct contact with the wound. All signs seem to indicate he was dead before he was put there. Now, there was extremely heavy rain on the night Martin died, from about eight-thirty until midnight, when the temperature dropped sharply. Anything out in the open would have easily been washed away by the time we turned up. But Martin’s body was under an arch in the viaduct, and actually stayed pretty dry. We’d expect to find forensic evidence or blood spillage if there was any, so we can only conclude that there probably wasn’t. That means he’s been killed, then transported there. Odd, seeing as it was barely yards from his running route anyway. Could just be coincidence. But the next question has to be where was he killed? As I see it, there are two possibilities. First, that he was killed on or near his running route, then transported to the viaduct, which is also extremely near his running route. Or, alternatively, that he was taken from his route, transported elsewhere, killed, then brought back. The riskiest option, but you can see why someone might choose it if they thought it’d reduce the likelihood of forensic evidence being found at the scene. Both pose us major issues. If it’s option one, it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack. We’re talking open, public roads, evidence washed away by heavy rain, the passing of time — I could go on. If it’s option two, the kill spot could’ve been anywhere. But there will be forensic evidence still out there. The location of the murder. The vehicle he was transported in. We know that area’s not exactly rife with CCTV to say the least, so we’re limited as to what we can do to generate leads. I’m thinking of a public appeal. Has a friend been behaving out of sorts, did your uncle pop out for a couple of hours, have you seen your neighbour rinsing blood out of a Ford Mondeo — that sort of thing. Any thoughts?’
The team murmured their agreement, although they all knew a public appeal would likely open up a can of worms itself. Caroline could imagine the social media posts now: Why haven’t the police found the killer yet? Why are we doing their jobs for them? Isn’t that what we pay their wages for? Too busy prosecuting innocent motorists! It was one of the many reasons why Caroline kept off social media as a rule. It was futile trying to point out to a keyboard warrior that motoring offences — funnily enough — tended to be dealt with by road traffic units rather than murder investigation teams, and that was before she got round to mentioning that the fact they’d been prosecuted showed they weren’t all that innocent after all. Regardless, the potential benefits of a public appeal would far outweigh the eye-rolling caused by gobby Facebookers.
‘Just one other thing,’ Dexter said. ‘I checked up on the Russell Speakman investigation, to see what involvement police had at the time. I couldn’t find much, but the investigating officer was DCI Bob Barrington. I don’t know if he’ll remember it at all, but he might. He retired shortly after, so you never know.’
‘Nice one, Dex,’ Caroline replied. ‘Do we have contact details for him?’
‘Yep. He’s still local. Lives over in King’s Cliffe, apparently.’
‘Excellent. Be rude not to pop in and say hello, wouldn’t it?’
After the briefing had concluded, Caroline headed straight for the coffee machine in the kitchenette. A moment or two later, Sara joined her.
‘All okay?’ Sara asked. ‘You look a bit flustered.’
Caroline laughed. ‘I think I look like I’ve been marched round Barnsdale Gardens on a freezing cold morning after spending the last couple of months in bed.’
Sara smiled. ‘Actually, I was hoping I might be able to confide in you.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s about Aidan. He’s been down recently. You’ve probably noticed. I’d be willing to put money on it being a relationship breakup. There’s all the classic signs — looking annoyed after reading a text message, being a bit absent, clearly in a world of his own. He’s definitely been dumped by a woman. I’ve got a bit of an instinct for things like this.’
Caroline raised her eyebrows and murmured an awkward agreement. She didn’t have the heart to tell Sara how wrong her instincts were.
‘But I was thinking,’ Sara continued, ‘about possibly asking him out. I know it sounds ridiculous so soon after his relationship has broken up, but maybe it’s what he needs. In any case, I don’t really want to risk him finding someone else or getting back with his ex-girlfriend. Carpe diem, they say, don’t they? What do you think?’
Caroline shuffled awkwardly. ‘Uh. Well, I don’t know. I mean, it is very soon. And of course you don’t know if he’d be interested.’
‘No, but I won’t know for sure until I ask, will I? And I think I’ve noticed a few signs that he is.’
I don’t think you have, Caroline wanted to say. ‘How about... How about I have a word with him? Not directly, but on the quiet. Put out a few feelers. That way you’ll know if it’s worth pursuing.’
‘Would you? Oh, that’d be amazing. Thank you.’
Caroline forced a smile. ‘Don’t mention it. But Sara? Just... Just wait until then, okay? I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Just in case.’
‘Just in case,’ Sara said, winking. ‘Mum’s the word.’
32
It took Caroline the best part of half an hour to drive to King’s Cliffe, a small village just over the border in Northamptonshire. She’d heard of it, but had never visited before. It seemed pleasant enough — a mixture of old and new bu
ildings, most built in the local sandstone that made so much of the local area feel like home. It was a fairly compact village, but with lots of tight, winding roads which left Caroline feeling glad she had a sat-nav. She could have easily got lost amongst the narrow side-roads otherwise.
Eventually, she arrived at the home of former DCI Bob Barrington, the officer who’d been in charge of the brief investigation into Russell Speakman’s death. The truth was that any sudden or unexpected deaths outside of a hospital required police intervention of some sort, even if only to quickly determine all was fine and things could be handed over to the undertakers. In some cases, that involvement lasted a little longer.
Once pleasantries had been exchanged and coffee had been poured, they sat down in Barrington’s living room and Caroline explained the reason for her visit.
‘We’re investigating a case which we believe might have links to a job you worked on fifteen years ago,’ she said. ‘I think it’s one of those where there’s not enough to go on in either case, but put the two together…’
‘I see where you are,’ Barrington replied. ‘So how can I help?’
‘Do you remember investigating the death of a Russell Speakman in Oakham?’
A flicker of recognition crossed Barrington’s face. ‘Speakman. Yes, fell down the stairs, didn’t he? I remember it well. Something not right about that. You’re onto something. What’s the current case?’
‘A murder.’
‘Not that one over at the viaduct?’ Barrington asked, his head cocked.
‘That’s the one.’
