Flowers for the Dead

by Barbara Copperthwaite

Genres: Suspense; Domestic Thrillers

Synopsis

After a devastating car crash wipes out her family, Laura struggles to get her life together. Grieving, she becomes forgetful. She doesn't remember how money got into her purse, or buying that pint of milk...

Adam is the perfect boyfriend. He cooks meals. He does the housework. He looks after Laura's every need. He knows everything about her. But Laura has never met Adam. And she knows nothing about him.

What turned him into a monster who stalks his victims? How did he become warped from a sensitive boy who adored the fairy tales his gran read to him? And what is he trying to say with the bouquets he sends?

Release date: September 16, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Breathing, feet and bassline pound together as one as Julie reaches the end of the cul-de-sac and jogs onto the scrubland. The music is already loud but ‘Lost & Not Found’ is her favourite Chase & Status tune, so she fumbles for the volume and pushes it up further, even as she urges her legs to go faster, making her jet-black ponytail bob up and down like crazy.

Running is the one thing she can always rely on to relax and invigorate her, although over the last few months she has completely abandoned it. She has needed all her energy to hold onto her sanity instead. This is her first day back running, and although she doesn’t want to push herself too hard she finds the sense of freedom exhilarating.

It has been a couple of weeks now since anything weird has happened, so clearly the antidepressants are working. Things hadn’t been the same ever since Julie had been under threat of redundancy at work. The stress of it all had really affected her. She had been tense, angry and forgetful, walking into a room to do the ironing to find it had already been done, but having no memory of it; discovering she had already bought more milk when she would have sworn she had run out. Little things, but they had got to her.

The final straw had come when she had started crying on the train home after a particularly hard day in the office. No, not crying; that implied a few scattered tears she might have been able to hide behind her long hair extensions. This had been a full-on sob-fest, complete with runny nose, which she had been helpless to stop. Mortifying. The worst thing had been her fellow commuters staring resolutely anywhere but at her, praying silently that she would pull herself together.

The good thing about hitting rock bottom was that it had forced Julie to seek help. She had immediately been signed off work for a month, given medication and put on the waiting list for counselling. At her GP’s suggestion she had also gone away on an impromptu holiday, booking it on a whim late one night and jetting off first thing the very next morning for a fortnight on the Greek island of Kos.

There was a slight setback when she had come home yesterday to a load of nettles some idiot had dumped on her porch. Hysteria had bubbled beneath the surface for a moment, as flowers and plants had been a big theme of her forgetfulness for some odd reason. Just as the doctor had taught her, though, she had slowed her breathing, concentrating on it hard until the irrational fear passed.

It had been her doctor’s idea that she start running again, too – one of his best. Now, she allows herself to be lost in the pounding music, to free her body to move in time with the beat. This area of scrubland is full of hummocks and holes hidden beneath the long grass, so she has to take care as she runs, watching where she puts her feet. She doesn’t have to concentrate too hard though, knowing them almost off by heart, and she can’t help smiling; she feels lighter than she has in weeks. Already there is a glow of sweat on her dark skin.

As Julie pushes herself up the steep side of a bank, then flies over the top that abruptly levels out, she startles at a sudden movement. Her heart leaps up, thudding against her ribcage momentarily, then she swears in annoyance as she realises it was just a rabbit that was even more scared of her than she had been by it. She watches its pure white tail bobbing up and down then disappearing into heavy undergrowth at the side of the path.

A blur of movement at the corner of her eye. Julie has barely begun to turn her head when pain explodes across her windpipe and she is gasping, wheezing, struggling to gulp in rapid, shallow breaths. What the hell has happened?

Her arms windmill as she stumbles from side to side, clawing at her throat and turning desperately this way and that to fight the panic, to stop the terrible pain, to get oxygen into her lungs.

Thank God, thank God, there is a man standing behind her, perhaps he can help.

Her bulging brown eyes grow wider as she silently pleads with him, trying to convey the urgency. She can’t breathe. Not enough air is getting into her body, the rasping loud, the pain unimaginable against her flattened windpipe.

He simply stands still, taking in the sight, before finally realising he needs to act. He drops the large stick he was holding as if ready to throw for a dog and takes a step towards her.

‘Help me!’ Julie wants to say. ‘Please, help me.’

But nothing will come but the desperate sound of her breathing. Her lungs burn with effort, legs wobbly and weakening as she fights the urge to sink to her knees.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it better,’ he says, as though in reply to her silent plea. ‘I’ve got you, I’ve always got you. I’ll make it all go away.’

His voice is soft, soothing, and even in her panic she feels better.

Yes, yes, help me! Quickly…

‘I’ll make it all better,’ he croons. Takes another step, wrapping one arm around her as tight as a vice so that her own arms are trapped by her sides, unable to flutter around her neck trying to help pull in air.

Holding his body flush against hers, he presses against her gently but forcefully, like a lover. His hands twist into her long, dark ponytail and pull, exposing her throat, angling her face up towards his so that he gazes down at her.

Julie has no real strength left now. Fingers twitch, trying to hold onto the life slipping from her grasp. Her heart pounds as if hammering to get out and be allowed to breathe by itself. Mouth gaping, working ceaselessly. Eyes huge as a deer’s as they gaze up at the stranger, pleading silently for help even as her sight blurs and darkens at the edges.

Even as she fades, Julie becomes hyperaware. Somehow, knowing that these are her final moments, her mind and body work together to gather up every last sensation, stretching out what little life is left. The stranger’s hands moving down her ponytail; the subtle bounce as his fingers let go of the curl at the end. The softness of his skin as he slowly caresses her cheek, along her jawline, then down to her neck. The citrus-sharp smell of his body wash.

All the time, his eyes never leave hers. It is a comfort.

Julie’s legs sag but the stranger is prepared, holding her against him as she swoons. Still she struggles for breath though, even as her noises become weaker, her chest barely trembling.

‘It’s time, my love,’ the man soothes. ‘But don’t worry. I’m here. I won’t leave you, ever.’

She realises then. Realises that he is not a stranger; that she has seen him before, many times, just on the edge of her vision, just at her fall into dreams. Her arms spasm against her sides, but she has nothing left to fight with.

Help me, she pleads silently. But this time she is not asking him.

Fingers caress her neck in feather-light strokes. One more beat of her heart. He seals his mouth over hers and kisses her goodbye. Her mouth sags helplessly open against his, fighting for air, any air she can get, body jerking. A strong hand stretches around her neck, thumb gently pressing on a vein. With a groan of passion he squeezes her already crushed throat.

Julie is still staring into the man’s eyes as she makes her last exhalation.

Adam breathes in deeply, savouring Julie’s final breath. He can taste her in his mouth, feel her entering his lungs, then dispersing into his bloodstream until she is pumped around his entire body. Still he holds her against him, relishing the magical moment of death. Finally, he lays her body reverentially on the ground.

There is one more thing he has to do now. He knows he has to be quick, but it is important to do this right too. After all, this is all for Julie, not him. She had been unhappy and like an injured animal he had had no choice but to put her out of her misery. That is how much he loves her.

He takes his scalpel from a jacket pocket and nods to himself as he prepares to get to work. He feels good: invigorated, relaxed, a rush like he is flying. He is free, knowing that he is doing the right thing. As the blade bites into flesh and blood blossoms, he starts humming to himself: Chase & Status’s ‘Lost & Not Found’.

All Adam ever wanted was to make Julie happy. Now, finally, he has. Soon he will be able to go home and tend to his garden; he has been away for far too long.

There was a floorboard that gave a creak he knew off by heart. Whenever he heard it his heart jumped up painfully and pounded so that he could hear it in his ears, a rushing sound that felt like his head might explode. Even in his sleep he could recognise the sound, eyes flying open. He heard it just then, and instantly tried to make himself very still, tried to pretend to be sleeping, squeezed his eyes tight shut and tried to find the hiding place in his head where, if he concentrated really, really, really hard, he could almost shut out the noise and what it meant.

It is one of those glorious early spring days that make people feel glad to be alive. The sun is shining, cold but bright, and in every direction there are signs of the landscape coming back to life: trees heavy with sticky buds, green shoots poking through soft brown mud, daffodils swaying in the gentle breeze.

The body of the young black woman will never come back to life again though. Detective Sergeant Michael Bishop pushes his hands deeper into the pockets of his white paper SOCO onesie and sighs, his breath pluming in front of him in a little cloud that makes him think wistfully of smoking a cigarette. He likes to smoke one when he leaves a crime scene as a sort of reward for seeing yet another terrible image he will never forget. But thanks to various blackmail techniques employed by his surprisingly devious seven-year-old daughter, Daisy, he is trying to quit. He is not happy about it.

The scene before him will definitely not be putting a smile on his face. The victim lying in front of him might have been pretty once. Not any more. Not after what the killer has done to her face.

‘Julie Louise Clayton, thirty-two. She lived alone in one of the houses a few streets away in Dragonfly Lane,’ reports a uniformed constable. ‘The body was found an hour ago, at 8 a.m., by a dog walker.’

Mike looks over at the sixty-something woman standing with her pug dog in her arms, soothing the oblivious creature like a baby while it eagerly sniffs the air and wriggles to get down. She needs the comfort of cuddling it, though, despite it smearing mud over her pink Regatta jacket. She looks grey and terrified, and even from this distance he can see she is shaking.

He would like to go over to talk to her, but this is not his crime scene. He is merely an observer.

Mike had been chatting to his pal, Detective Chief Inspector Simon Phillips, who heads up Reading CID, when this call had come in. Invited to come along and see his new force – possibly – in action, Mike had jumped at the chance. Now though he feels like a spare part, and jiggles up and down a bit to keep warm, the paper suit rustling gently.

‘Any initial thoughts, Doc?’ Simon asks of the pathologist, who is bustling around.

Dr Samantha Holliday is a short woman in her mid-thirties, who clearly escapes her cold, clinical day job in the warmth of cakes in the evening. The ice blonde nods briskly in reply to Simon’s question, but does not say a word, looking pointedly at Mike, who is listening in.

Mike is not easily missed; he looks like a bear that has decided to give being human a go. The thirty-four-year-old is over six foot three, broad and well built, but with what his daughter calls a ‘cuddly cushion’ belly. The only part of him that is not covered in dark brown hair is his balding head, which seems to be staging some kind of protest against the rest of his body.

‘Dr Sam Holliday, meet DS Mike Bishop. He’s thinking about transferring to us from the land of the orange tan,’ Simon beams. ‘The only way isn’t Essex for you, eh, Mike?’

Cheesy jokes are a speciality of Simon’s, and Mike gives a forced laugh. He isn’t sure about this move from Colchester in Essex to the Berkshire town of Reading. He could do with a fresh start after a tough couple of years, but would it be too much of an upheaval for his little girl?

‘Good to meet you, Mike,’ says Sam, and the pair shake hands, Mike’s hairy paw completely enclosing the pathologist’s mitt. His hand goes straight back into his pocket immediately afterwards, out of habit: it stops the temptation to touch things at crime scenes.

‘Right, well,’ Sam continues briskly, ‘obviously, don’t quote me on any of this until I’ve got the body back and done a full autopsy, but it seems straightforward enough.’

Straightforward is not a word Mike would apply to this carefully posed scene.

The woman has been laid out, eyes closed, with her arms across her chest in the traditional pose of a corpse at peace. Her Lycra running clothes are still in place, completely undisturbed. A bunch of daffodils rests on her solar plexus, and more surround her body like a flower aura. It would seem loving, if not for the fact that the killer has left her face a mask of blood and gore by cutting at it until her teeth are exposed in a permanent grin.

‘From the bruising to her neck it’s clear she was strangled. The killer seemed to know exactly where to exert pressure for a quick, efficient kill, so if he hasn’t done this before I’d be bloody amazed. She was hit with something first, across the throat. Something long. I’d hazard either some kind of bat or even that branch over there.’

Sam points and Michael notices the two-foot-long branch on the ground nearby with a little evidence number beside it. He looks at Sam again and she shrugs.

‘It’s a reach at the moment but it seems to fit the bill, so I asked for it to be bagged,’ she explains.

‘Good old Doc Holliday is rarely wrong. You have an instinct for death, don’t you, Doc, eh?’ guffaws Simon, rolling up onto his toes then back down.

It’s easy to write Simon off as a complete tit, but Mike knows he runs way deeper than the bad jokes and equally bad dress sense imply. Although he really does have a bewildering penchant for pastel shirts and ties: today he is sporting a pink and baby-blue golfing jumper which is normally only seen in sitcoms dating from the nineteen eighties. But the fact is, when Mike’s wife, Mags, had died suddenly of a brain aneurysm after slipping on ice and hitting her head, Simon had been great. You find out who your real friends are when things go horribly wrong in your life, Mike believes, and Simon had been there to listen, support and help organise practical stuff for him when Mike could barely string a sentence together. Mike would never, ever forget that.

‘The killer cut the lips off with something very sharp,’ Sam continues. ‘They appear to have been removed from the scene, probably as some kind of trophy…’

Mike lets his gaze drift away across the fields as she talks about the amount of blood caking the victim’s face, about it being impossible to tell right now if the injuries were inflicted before or after death. Mike will not be investigating this murder, so has no desire to listen to the gory details.

Still, his copper brain cannot help whirring.

This seems an odd place for an opportunistic murder. All right, so there is a bit of underbrush here and there to lurk in, but there clearly isn’t much footfall in the area. So either the killer is new to the game and has not managed to hone his skills, which include finding better places to get prey, or…

Or this was not opportunistic. He had not wanted any woman, he had wanted this woman, and knew that here was where to find her at this time of day.

So the murder is personal. Very personal.

The mutilation is clearly a message, as is the posing. What is the killer trying to say?

Personal can be a good thing. It means the chances of finding the perpetrator are high, while the risk of repeat offending is low.

But…

Then there is the openness of the place. On one side the scene is well hidden from view: the steep bank Mike has had to clamber to get here falls away only slightly on this side, but enough to obscure people from view when factoring in the bushes on the crown of the ridge. The other three sides are a different matter, though: a clear path runs right and left through the grass, straight and true, and it edges a vast flat field.

Mike shakes his head again, one hand finally appearing from his pockets to scratch his beard with a rasping sound, his wedding ring glinting in the spring sunshine. Anyone could have happened along and spotted the killer from miles away. He was either a complete fool or very, very confident and at ease – which increase the chances of him doing this again.

Given that he had taken the time to slash off his victim’s lips and lay her out funereally, Mike has a horrible feeling that Reading CID are not looking for an idiot.

After about ten minutes Simon is done. He wanders over and rests a hand on Mike’s shoulder. He would have put his arm round him in a fatherly fashion, as there is almost a twenty-year age difference between them, but Mike is too tall and it would be awkward for his pal, who is only five feet ten inches.

‘So… tempted to join us?’ Simon asks.

‘Tempted. But not convinced.’ Mike smiles. ‘Besides, you have a full complement of men, don’t you?’

‘I’ve jiggled enough budget to be able to afford one extra officer if I want. And I want you.’ Simon shrugs. ‘You’d be worth it. Come on, we’re mates, we work well together, it’s a way to get away from all those memories…’

Mike scratches his beard thoughtfully. ‘What if I don’t want to get away from those memories?’ he says finally.

‘Yes, right, of course.’ Simon looks down, embarrassed. He rallies in seconds though, seeming to reinflate until he is on the balls of his feet momentarily, as is his habit. ‘The offer is always open. I mean it. Come over to the dark side that is the south-west.’

With a chuckle, the pair shake hands and Mike starts to shamble off.

‘Hey, you!’ calls Simon suddenly.

Mike pauses, smiles in spite of himself and turns. ‘Would you like to boogaloo?’ they say in unison. It is utter nonsense, but one of Simon’s catchphrases.

‘See you soon, Simon,’ chuckles Mike.

Minutes later the detective gets into his car, pausing only to grab at the empty crisp packet that has made an escape bid from the footwell and is dancing in the air. After a long day of blood and being on his best behaviour, he swings himself into the driver’s seat with a sigh and pats himself absently, finally finding his cigarettes in the pocket of his faithful old mac. With a relieved but guilty smile he tugs the slim packet out and promises himself it will just be the one before he starts the three-hour drive home. What harm will one do?

Flipping the box open, his heart sinks…

There is a tube of cheery lime-green paper rolled up tight among the tubes of tobacco.

‘It can’t be,’ he mutters. But it is: a note from his daughter, written carefully.

‘Daddy, pleas do not smoke. If you do you will dye and not see me get marid to a hand some prinse one day.’

Beneath is a crayon picture of her in a big dress and tiara; she is facing forwards, her feet are facing sideways like a ballerina in plié. Mike can almost see Daisy, tongue poking out from one side of her mouth, legs swinging backwards and forwards as she sits writing at the kitchen table.

Balls. He is tempted to screw the packet up and throw it away after that bit of emotional blackmail. He is tempted to screw the note up and throw that away, after the day he’s had. Instead he carefully rolls the paper up again, nestles it back in its place and pops the packet in his pocket, not prepared to make a decision either way yet.

Not about cigarettes, killers, or moving house.

Instead, he reaches into the glove compartment for a packet of crisps. The cheese and onion will help keep the nicotine cravings at bay… hopefully. He rips the packet open and savagely munches.

But as he reaches for the ignition key he starts to chuckle, a low rumble that soon has his cushion belly shaking.

‘How the heck did she manage it?’ he mutters to himself, amazed. ‘I thought I’d hidden those fags really well.’

That girl will make a great detective when she grows up.

The thing twenty-three-year-old Laura Weir has been dreading is happening. When ‘That Night’ first happened she had cried all the time. All the time. Her swollen eyes had hurt, her cheeks chapped red, her entire body aching from the tension. She had clung to it, welcomed it.

She had not wanted this stage to pass; she had wanted to keep everything raw and sharp. So she had welcomed the hurt, nestled up to the pain and suffering, caressed every shard-sharp memory of her family’s final cries of terror because it kept them alive somehow. Present.

If the pain fades, it means Laura is accepting their passing, and she cannot do that. She does not want to stop grieving. She does not want to forget. She does not want to move on.

Over time the hysterical grief has calmed, though. The hurt of loss is hurting less – and that hurts more than anything.

Sometimes she goes for entire days now where she doesn’t cry. She still does sometimes, of course, but it is more like once a week now. She even finds whole days slip by where she doesn’t think of them. The guilt eats away at her then. How dare she forget? How dare she move on when they can’t?

Adam snuggled onto his gran’s lap and her arms enfolded him, creating a cocoon in which he felt safe and protected. He laid his head against her shoulder happily, angling it slightly so that he could also see the book she was reading from.

‘Are your feet warm enough?’ checked Ada Bourne.

Adam wiggled his bare toes and nodded.

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she said doubtfully. Reached down the side of her chair and produced a pair of black socks. ‘Here, pop these on, or I’ll worry.’

Adam stared at the socks and shook his head, sudden tears springing in his hazel eyes.

‘Oh, oh, don’t cry! What colour do you want to wear?’ Ada checked.

‘Blue,’ said the four-year-old, smiling once again. In a world where he felt out of control most of the time, the child clung to what little regulation he could enforce. His socks had to match his underwear, otherwise he felt stressed.

He raced upstairs, pulled on socks – and slippers for good measure because he didn’t want Granny worrying – and ran back to the lounge, joyously snuggling into Gran’s lap once more.

‘Ready now?’ she smiled, and when he nodded she opened the A3-size tome of fairy tales. Her grandson automatically held one side knowing, because this was a frequent ritual of theirs, that it was too heavy for his gran to hold alone for long.

The Tales of Faerie and Myth was a magnificent book, the bright red cover, embossed with gold, only hinting at the magic inside. The flyleaf was marbled with flame-like colours, which Ada would gently smooth her fingers over before turning the page to reveal the real beauty. Each story began with a huge illuminated letter crowded with images, from birds, to woodland creatures, to ivy climbing up it, and the illustrations themselves were incredible: the bold, colourful style seemed to breathe life into every scene. One of Adam’s favourites was of a golden phoenix rising from the fire, each feather appearing to scintillate as it burst forth from the flames licking at it.

Sometimes, when Adam had been very good, his gran allowed him to turn a page himself. He would hold his breath and move oh so carefully, feeling the pride in Ada’s eyes as she watched him. The paper felt thick and stiff between his fingers, but he had been warned how old it was and that he must not tear it. Only when the page was in place and he had let go would he breathe out.

‘My mother used to read this book to me when I was a child. Imagine that!’ Granny would often tell him.

But he couldn’t. Surely she had always been as she was now: gentle voice, kind eyes framed with a lick of mascara, and a touch of blusher on her rosy cheeks. Her dove-grey hair cut so short that it would have looked severe were it not for the gentle wave in it. She moved with the grace of a dancer, but though her posture was still that of a much younger woman, arthritis was making her hands thicken at the joints. It was impossible for Adam to see her as she had been when she was four.

‘Which story would you like today?’ she asked now.

Adam pondered for a moment. ‘Snow White,’ he finally decided.

That was one of his favourites. He loved the description of the poisoned apple being bitten into, and the pretty girl falling into a deep sleep that only her true love could bring her out of with a kiss on her red, red lips.

It is the aftermath that normally catches people out, of course. They get too caught up in the moment, the build-up, and don’t bother giving a thought to what will happen after they have killed someone. But Adam is not like that. He always thinks. He is as precise as the clocks he likes to take apart and put back together; as logical as the computer systems he loves to lose himself in; but as passionate and complex as the classical music that so inspires him.

He is aware that it is his loving side that always leads him into these situations. Why can’t people understand that he is just trying to help? Why do they have to be so ungrateful? They never deserve all the attention he lavishes on them. They always let him down. It isn’t fair.

The anger courses through him again but it is controlled now, not the burning, pure white rage that sometimes takes over and tries to turn him into an avenging angel. He knows that true love is not about your own happiness; it is about putting someone else’s needs before your own, and that is what always dampens down the fire of rage and disappointment that sometimes threatens to consume.

All he wants is to be happy – and to make the person he loves happy, too. But things have not worked out well yet. He knows better than anyone what a transitory emotion happiness is. How elusive it is, and how quickly it slips away even if a person is lucky enough to find it.

The only time he seems to truly feel it is when he is staring into the eyes of the woman he loves.

If you love someone, set them free, the saying goes. That is exactly what he does. But he is tired of it. He longs to find someone he can really be with.

With a melancholy sigh, Adam carefully pulls out the plastic freezer bag that contains a bloody chunk of Julie’s face, and pops it onto the little steel table he likes to work at in his office. There is no clutter in here, just a dozen or so photographs of happier times on one wall, the cheerily coloured frames brightening up what is otherwise a large, sterile-looking room with stark-white walls.

Across the other side of the room is a bank of chest-height filing cabinets as well as drawers. Beside that is a wooden desk with an anglepoise lamp, and a magnifying glass set up to an arm-like device to hold it in place so that his hands are free while he peers through it to repair clocks. Adam loves the precision of taking things apart, understanding how they work, then putting them back together again.

But it is a low stainless steel cabinet on casters, to the left of the table, that busies Adam currently. He opens it up then reaches inside to pull out the equipment he needs for the task in hand: a scalpel-sharp X-Acto knife, thread, non-iodised salt and special oil to tan the flesh. The cabinet’s door is so highly polished that it acts as a mirror, showing Adam’s legs as he wanders across the room to select some music. Liebestraum No. 3, by Franz Liszt, fills the air. The piano’s swings from complexity to simplicity always bring a lump to Adam’s throat.

With everything in place, he finally gets to work. First, carefully removing the excess flesh from Julie’s lips until only the delicate skin remains – he likes to think of this as taking her jacket off her, undressing her – then starting the process of tanning. Being close to her again and being able to do something nice for her brings a comfort blanket of calm into which he snuggles. It spurs him on to make sure he does a good job, something she would be proud of.

Once the dermis has been treated to his satisfaction, he pulls out a clay model from a nearby drawer and compares it to the photographs on the walls.

Julie smiling. Julie crying. Julie looking wistful. Julie glancing over her shoulder. Julie sleeping peacefully…

But Adam is not looking at her expressions. He is staring intently only at her lips then back at the clay. He has lots of pictures of her, using them for the last fortnight to create the model of her mouth. Working ceaselessly since she decided to abandon him for some holiday without saying so much as a goodbye.

No. He pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath, forcing the bad thoughts down. When his hands have stopped shaking with anger, he twirls the mould around to check it from every angle. When his eyes start to ache from studying it so minutely, he knows he has done enough; it is an exact replica of Julie’s shy smile.

The light pouring in from the large window on his right is starting to fade. As night falls mist rises up to meet it, giving a soft-focus filter to his view of the large mature garden he so loves. The last of the snowdrops, which are starting to fade, are obscured from view, and only the yellow t