Flowers for the Dead Read online

  Fairy tales still remained his ultimate escape though. Through these he learned almost everything he knew about love, because he had no examples around him save for Ada. When he was with his mother back at their house, he used them to float away from reality to a cocoon of safety. Sometimes, if he concentrated hard, he could almost feel that world within touching distance. If he could just discover how to reach out and break through he knew he could live there, safe and sound, happily ever after.

  Being read to by his gran was still so soothing too. He was too big to curl up on her lap, so instead he sat on the closest sofa, hugging a cushion as she recited from Tales of Myth and Faerie. Muscles he had not known were tense relaxed. His stomach stopped churning. The frozen feeling in his brain melted away.

  “You’re too old for baby stories,” his dad said one night, openly laughing.

  “Oh, well, there’s no harm,” replied Ada.

  She gave him a look and they both left the room. Adam sighed. Did they really imagine he couldn’t hear them talking in the hallway? He did not even have to move from his place on the sofa for their whispered exchange to reach him.

  “Don’t be so hard on him, he’s only young still,” Ada said.

  “He’s eleven, Mother, and growing up fast. At least he would be if you let him. He should be outside, playing football, getting into mischief, not hanging around with his gran, listening to fairy stories. No wonder the kid has no friends! He’s got to start being a man.”

  “You grew up fast, Son,” said Ada gently. “You always felt the need to be the man of the house for me because you didn’t have a father. It made me sad at the time because you had no childhood, but it was your choice. Don’t take your son’s childhood away. He isn’t like you; he isn’t ready to grow up yet. Let him be whoever he wants to be.”

  Fat chance of that, Adam thought bitterly. His dad wanted him to be more manly and tough, to be a replica of himself. His mother wanted to control his every thought and movement. Neither of them liked what they saw. He was a disappointment to everyone but his gran.

  He picked at a scab on his knuckle, only stopping when blood dribbled down his hand and he had to suck it away.

  Over the next few days though, his father seemed determined to make Adam his pet project. Adam could almost imagine him giving it a name: Operation Man Up, or some such. The boy was utterly miserable as he was dragged to a cricket match at Edgbaston, bored to tears by the bewildering ins and innings, outs and not-outs. Graeme did not understand his son – but now he tried hard to engage with him.

  The military man had no interest at all in flowers, but seized the opportunity to do some gardening with Adam. Digging was something his father could understand. It was practical, manly, hard work. When they were done, they leaned on their spades. Adam was panting, and the smell of sweat and freshly turned earth mingled together. His father was barely out of breath.

  “I need a permit for these guns,” Graeme joked about his biceps. It was the kind of banter that bonded men in the army – but was utterly wrong for Adam.

  “Tell you what,” his father enthused, “let me show you how to build up your muscles. You should do some press ups; that’s the thing. It’ll work the stomach too. Do them like this, see?” He got on the floor, demonstrating.

  Adam watched his dad do the move. Again and again and again. The ease with which he executed it was not inspirational it was depressing. He would never be half the man his dad was. He would let him down again, be a disappointment yet again.

  Still, he tried.

  “No, no, no. Not like that. Look at what I’m doing. See. It’s like this. See how my arms are under my shoulders and my back is completely straight. Now you try.”

  What Graeme thought was encouragement came across as criticism. “No, engage your stomach muscles too…”

  That night, arms aching, Adam managed to escape into his den. The one place where no one was meant to disturb him, his very own hidey-hole guaranteed by his gran.

  As he fiddled with a clock the door opened and his dad came in. Adam groaned inwardly, but decided to take a chance and ignore him. Perhaps then he would get the hint and go away. He picked up a cog with a pair of tweezers and manoeuvred it into place.

  “You’ve got really steady hands,” Graeme marvelled.

  Adam looked at his dad. He was serious. He actually looked impressed. The boy’s joy lit up his whole soul. Adam wanted to throw his aching arms around his father in gratitude, but knew that was not something Graeme would enjoy; it simply wasn’t appropriate. There was always a physical distance between father and son. No hugs, just claps on the back or soft punches to the shoulder.

  “You really love taking things apart, don’t you, son. Finding out what makes them work. You know, those are perfect skills for bomb disposal. We’ll see you in the forces in a couple of years, eh.”

  His dad clapped him on the back and wandered away, but Adam’s heart sank back to its usual place in the pit of his stomach. He did not want to be a bomb disposal expert. He did not want to join the army.

  Was that really the only way to get his dad’s approval?

  “Be a man,” he was always being told. He never quite measured up.

  What was a man, anyway? His gran was always talking about how a real man was a gentleman. She had very set ideas about how they should act, and ladies too. At least Adam knew he was a man in his gran’s eyes.

  For the next few days Adam continued to be tutored in the art of workouts by his well-meaning but ill-advised father. He was almost glad when it was time to return to Colchester and school. Almost but not quite, because with his father gone Adam was at the mercy of his mother.

  To kill time he would wander home slowly from school. Or rush out as soon as he had eaten, on the pretext of having to study at a friend’s house. Like he had any friends. Instead, he walked the streets as twilight fell, looking into rooms with their lights on, and watching normal life unfold in front of him.

  While standing outside, looking in at families, he imagined he was part of them. Felt himself lift up with the strength of his longing and join the laughter until he could believe he was basking in the warm glow of the electric lights, laughing with his brother and sister as they played a board game together, while Mum and Dad looked on.

  When he walked slowly home, his face was as serene as an angel’s. Blood drops on the pavement, running from the picked scab on his knuckle, proved he was all too human. But he held on to the contented feeling even when his mother got hold of him.

  In the darkness every sound seemed louder. Adam hated those hot, heavy noises, those wet gasps. They made him feel sick, but he was getting better and better at escaping reality.

  Suddenly his mum moaned in frustration and gave him a clip round his head.

  “Will you stop being distracted and get on with it?” she hissed. “Don’t you want to make me happy? Are you really that selfish? What have I done to deserve such a son, after everything I’ve done for you…”

  “I-I-I’m sorry,” he whispered back.

  He did what he had to do, but in his head he was in a fairy tale. He was the handsome prince with his big sword, slaying dragons that had his mother’s face. He loved the way they writhed in death.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ~ Nettle ~

  Cruelty

  PRESENT DAY

  Following Laura is a doddle. Thanks to her bright hair, she stands out on the crowded Tube. When she hops on an overland train at Liverpool Street, she does not even glance over her shoulder, and when she settles in a seat she starts reading on her tablet. That is the joy of modern technology, everyone is oblivious to the world around them; instead they are listening to music, posting on social media, reading books, watching programmes, all while on the go. Adam barely has to try to be subtle as he watches her.

  Only when she gets off does he take a moment to look around him – and is stunned. He is in Colchester, his old home. It’s a sign, it must be. She really is the one for
him.

  Fighting down the elation, he concentrates on tracking her as she walks. This part is always the hardest, but he knows how much distance to fall back in order to evade suspicion. When she goes through her front door, he holds back for a minute before getting closer and is gratified to discover that not only does she live in a ground floor flat, but that she has kindly put her full name under the doorbell.

  Armed with that knowledge he goes home for a few days and does some research. Despite the hot September weather outside, he is eager to be inside, glued to his computer. It does not take him long to get the lay out of her flat by typing the address into Google and finding the old details online from when it was up for sale.

  He leans closer to the screen, fascinated. It was once the ground floor of a house, but the property was converted into two flats some years ago (a few taps on the keyboard and Adam discovers it was actually in 1982). The floor plan comes in particularly handy, as do the exact measurements of the rooms. He studies them for some time after copying them onto his computer.

  By the look of it, there is a main front door that is shared by both flats, and opens into a porch with two proper front doors. Laura’s is on the right. Once through that, there is a long thin corridor that also acts as a hallway. Leading off from it on the right are two doors, one for the lounge, one for the kitchen. To the left of the hall are a built-in cupboard, which Adam assumes is shaped inside because the stairs up to the top flat would run above it, then the doors for the bedroom and bathroom. The kitchen can also be accessed from the large lounge, he notes.

  By checking Facebook he is able to discover a bit about Laura’s past as well. He’s interested to note that she used to be on the site a lot; there are lots of happy, smiling photos of her with family. He likes the fact she is wearing elegant but natural-looking make up in the snaps. He hates someone who lays the make up on with a trowel, but at the same time believes a woman should always make the effort. His gran, the shining example of ultimate womanhood and what it takes to be a lady, always wore a touch of mascara and a hint of blusher and colour on her lips because she said you never knew who might pop round. The thought of someone seeing her not ‘done’ was terrible to her.

  The Facebook updates from Laura suddenly stop four years ago. Around that time friends posted all kinds of messages offering their condolences. By piecing together the comments, Adam works out that there was some kind of car crash and Laura’s whole family was killed.

  His heart goes out to her. She is all alone, just like him. Perhaps one day they can sit and talk about what it is like to lose your family.

  “You’re not alone any more,” he whispers out loud, a finger gently stroking the cheek of her profile picture.

  ***

  Ever the dutiful friend, Mike tunes in to Crimewatch on the allotted day. As the theme tune starts up he is rolling a cigarette back and forth in his fingers, trying to put off the moment of lighting it. Daisy refused to hug him the night before, announcing that he was “all stinky with nasty smoke”, so he is feeling extra guilty about his habit. He never smokes in front of her, but she has the nose of a sniffer dog. He knows he ought to quit, that she is terrified of losing her one remaining parent, but with so much going on he needs something to help with the stress.

  Finally it is time for the reconstruction of Julie Louise Clayton’s last known movements to be shown. Mike puts the unlit fag down, takes a sip of tea instead, then a couple of custard cream biscuits – and almost chokes when he sees Simon.

  The DCI is indeed wearing his shiny grey suit, which has a strange two-tone effect on the screen. He has combined it with a lemon shirt and mint green tie with lemon and pale pink stripes. Despite looking like a Neapolitan ice cream he manages to speak with gravitas and sincerity.

  “Julie Clayton was a young woman in the prime of her life. A journalist on a paper, she also took time out to mentor underprivileged children, and wrote and illustrated children’s stories in her spare time. This was a very talented young lady, whose own story was cut tragically short. Please don’t let her unsolved murder be the end though; if you have any information, I urge you to contact Reading CID.”

  Simon does not make any reference to possible links to other murders – they do not want that getting out and national hysteria being caused.

  The next day Mike calls Simon to congratulate him, and is told that within twenty-four hours of the BBC programme going out over three hundred people have contacted the police. Now it is a question of trawling through all the information.

  Like every copper, Mike knows that in over twenty-five years the show has been credited with helping to solve fifty-seven murders and countless other crimes, from the notorious kidnapping of Stephanie Slater to the capture of the M25 rapist. With such publicity, everyone feels confident that Julie’s murder will get the break it needs soon.

  ***

  EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO

  Sara was gazing at Graeme as though he was the most fascinating person in the world. Ever.

  He was boasting about a case he cracked recently, involving smuggling, while his wife hung on every word. Listening to him was clearly more interesting than wiping down the kitchen counter, but Adam could not help noticing she held the cloth ready, just in case.

  “So how did you catch him in the end?”

  “People always make mistakes. Always,” Graeme said. “Criminals always get cocky. Eventually they get complacent and make mistakes, even when they start out being careful. Even the clever ones can be caught out just because of boasting. That’s what happened this time; one of the gang started boasting to the wrong person about what they were getting away with. We were tipped off, and set up a sting operation. Now four men are behind bars for smuggling.”

  “Oh, you’re so clever. I never would have thought of that. But how you can deal with liars and criminals all day every day…” she shuddered.

  “But they only got caught because they were boasting?” Adam checked quietly.

  “What was that, honey?” urged Sara. “Speak up. Come on, we’ll never hear whether you have something interesting to say if you don’t pipe up.”

  “I was just saying…”

  “Still can’t hear you. Come on, you can do it.”

  As usual, his mother’s ‘encouragement’ shut Adam up. Things had not grown easier for him now that he was a teenager. He opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, but no words would come now.

  “Hmmm? Oh dear, won’t it come out?” She looked so sad as she said it that Graeme walked around the kitchen table and put his arm around her. She put her hand on his chest and gazed up at him.

  “Do you want a coffee?” she asked suddenly. “I know how much you love your coffee.”

  Graeme took her up on her offer and she started bustling round. “You know, I was reading about an amazing coffeemaker the other day. The review said it was the best on the market, was better than you get in most professional cafés. It looked gorgeous and they even do it in bright red, to match our plates and toaster.”

  Her husband tried to hide his snort of suspicion. “You sound like you’re leading up to something.”

  “Oh, you know me so well,” she smiled artfully.

  Adam realised why she had pretended to be so fascinated with Graeme’s work story: she was trying to worm her way into his good books so she could get what she wanted.

  “How much?” Graeme asked, dubious. When Sara said the price he really did snort this time. “How much?! No, no way, sorry, honey.”

  Sara pouted prettily. “I just want to make our home perfect. I never had that growing up. I know luxuries don’t matter to you because you had them all the time…”

  “We can’t afford to throw our money away on silliness. Instant coffee is fine.”

  One thing about Sara, she knew when to push and when to back away. This was a battle she would not win right now.

  She gave a disarming smile to her husband. “Well, drink your nasty instant coffee and tell me m
ore about the case. You know how much I love hearing.”

  “Better not. Let me tell you about one where the people have been court martialled now instead. That way no sensitive information risks getting out. Can’t be too careful.”

  He launched into a brief description of an attack on a woman. The man had been caught thanks to good old-fashioned military police work and DNA evidence.

  Adam listened with interest. It was not the detective work that grabbed him, it was the forensics. The science appealed to his logical brain. He was okay at sciences at school. Not that he really excelled at anything there, he found it too stressful being around people all the time; people who wanted nothing to do with him; people who tried to talk to him but he lacked the confidence to talk back. He was a serious boy for his age, older than his thirteen years in many ways, yet emotionally arrested in others. Even with the passing years, he found it no easier to articulate his thoughts and feelings to the outside world.

  He was a clever child though, and since his parents had bought him a computer his life had been transformed. Now he had a way to see the world and learn everything he could ever wish to know, and never have to speak to a soul. And the first thing he had learned? To hide his search history. He did not want his mother knowing anything about him. Shutting her out was now second nature to him, as automatic as breathing.

  As a child he had hero-worshipped his dad, but now he started to hate him almost as much as he did his mother. Not because Graeme did anything wrong. More because he didn’t do anything.

  He didn’t see what a monster he was married to.

  He didn’t protect his only child.

  He didn’t realise that catching stupid criminals did not mean that he was clever.