The Blue Rose (21 page)

Before Kingston could answer, Mrs Cooke moistened her lips, nervously and said, ‘Are you suggesting that a rose could have been responsible for my husband's death?'

‘It does sound a bit far-fetched, I grant you,' said Kingston, ‘but you have to remember that many plants are toxic. Even a foxglove could kill you. A potato, if you ingest enough of the green parts. Rhubarb leaves, too. This particular rose is a mutation of some kind. So it's plausible that if the plant it was crossed with had toxic parts, so could it.'

Mrs Cooke looked pale and flustered. ‘Oh dear,' she said. ‘Oh dear.'

‘What is it, Mrs Cooke?' Alex asked. ‘Are you okay?'

She got up and walked over to the sideboard, placing her hands on it, as if for support, her face to the wall. When she finally spoke – still with her back to them – it was as if the words had been waiting for a long time to be uttered. Now they came freely.

‘Over the years, there were accidents in the garden,' she said. ‘Oh, you know, things like Jeffrey cutting himself, a gardener falling off a ladder and ending up in hospital for a week, cuts and scratches – that sort of thing.'

Abruptly, she turned to them, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. ‘But considering what you've just said, I think, perhaps, that you should know about the two deaths,' she blurted.

Alex stared at her in disbelief. ‘Two deaths?'

‘My God!' Kingston uttered.

Kneading her hands, she nodded. ‘Yes – the first occurred some time after Jeffrey died.'

‘What happened?' Alex asked, leaning forward on the edge of his chair, fearful of what she was about to say.

‘Well,' said Mrs Cooke, ‘we used to have a part-time gardener called Doakes – Walter Doakes. Jeffrey hired him – oh, must have been over fifteen years ago. Knew everything there was to know about gardening. A fine-looking man.' She sighed.

‘A couple of years after Jeffrey died, I happened upon Doakes in the garden one afternoon. He was stretched out on a bench. At first I thought he was taking a nap. But it wasn't like him to do that, so I called his name. He just lay there, very still, his face turned away from me. Then I started to get worried. I walked over and shook his arm. His shirt was damp to the touch and cold. When he moved suddenly, it made me jump. Then he turned his face towards me and I knew he was sick. His usually ruddy face was an awful greyish colour and his skin was all sweaty. He mumbled something about a doctor, then his arm flopped down lifelessly off his lap and hit the ground. I didn't wait any longer. I rushed up to the house and called for an ambulance. Then I got a wool blanket and a glass of water and went back down to be with him until the ambulance arrived. I forget which hospital they took him to – maybe they never told me at the time. But somebody called, two days later – his sister, I believe it was – and told me that he had died. She said they didn't know what the cause of death was. About two years ago, she died too. Liz at the post office said it was cancer. There was an obituary in the local paper. Euphemia, her name was. Euphemia Doakes.' She screwed up her face. ‘Fancy calling a child Euphemia!'

‘Jesus!' Alex muttered.

‘It all fits,' said Kingston.

Mrs Cooke shook her head slowly. ‘Poor old Doakes,' she muttered.

‘You mentioned two deaths. Who was the other person? Surely you didn't mean Euphemia.' Alex tried not to show his anxiety.

‘Oh, yes. It was a young boy. He was a friend of our neighbours' lad, Mark. Nicholas was his name. It was tragic. He and Mark were staying at The Parsonage while our neighbours and the other boy's parents were at some business function up north somewhere. I'd volunteered to take care of them overnight. The boys were about seven years old at the time. The two had been playing in the garden all afternoon – Cowboys and Indians, that kind of stuff. That evening, Nicholas started to complain about feeling sick. I took his temperature. It was high, but not enough to cause alarm. So I put him to bed and thought no more of it. The next morning he was much worse. I remember being frightened by his condition, poor lad. I got him dressed, told Mark to get up and get dressed too, and put them both in the car. I drove to the hospital in Bath and took him to the emergency room. They examined him right away and he was admitted. Immediately, I called Mark's mum and dad at the conference and they told Nicholas's parents what had happened. Within hours, they were at the hospital with their son.'

She let out a long sigh, as if she didn't want to continue. Alex was about to offer words of comfort when she brushed a hand lightly across one eye and said, ‘I think you already know the ending to the story.'

Kingston broke the silence. ‘The boy died,' he said solemnly.

‘Yes, he did. And for all these years, I've had a gnawing suspicion that the deaths were linked in some way, and now, it seems, you may have stumbled on proof of it.'

‘It's certainly starting to look that way,' said Alex. ‘When did the young boy die? Do you remember what year it was?'

‘Not exactly. It must be well over three years ago now, I would imagine. Although it could be more.'

‘We should check with the hospital in Bath, Alex,' Kingston said.

Alex nodded.

Mrs Cooke looked drained and close to tears. ‘I'm sorry. I suppose I should have told you all this when you bought the house. At the time, I didn't think it was important – it was all in the past.'

‘It wouldn't have made any difference at the time anyway, Mrs Cooke,' Alex said, in an effort to make her feel more comfortable.

‘So all of this had to do with this particular rose then? The one that my husband created.'

‘That seems to be the case,' Kingston replied. ‘It's certainly starting to look that way.'

Alex stood, taking her hand and holding it between his. ‘Well, we've taken far too much of your time already, Mrs Cooke. Again, I can't tell you how saddened we are about Graham's passing. Promise me you'll call if you need anything.'

‘I will. Thank you, Alex. You tell that Kate of yours I'd really like to see her again,' she said, letting go of his hand. She turned towards Kingston. ‘It was very nice to make your acquaintance, doctor. It's such a shame the circumstances had to be so unpleasant.'

‘Yes, these are, indeed, sad times,' Kingston said, his voice heavy with solace. ‘You've been more than kind and very helpful. Alex and I greatly appreciate your frankness and hospitality.' He gave her a formal handshake and a comforting smile. ‘Oh, and if, by chance, you come across that journal, perhaps you'll let us know.'

‘I will, doctor.'

On the front porch, Mrs Cooke took considerable time shaking hands again with them both. Clearly she would have liked them to stay longer. Finally, Alex and Kingston stepped outside and walked down the crazy-paved path to their car.

Kingston started the engine, shifted into first and let out the clutch. As they drove off, he glanced at Mrs Cooke in the rear view mirror, now a diminutive figure waving goodbye. He rolled down the window and waved back.

‘I can tell you one thing,' he said, turning to Alex. ‘Whoever did nick the rose is going to be in for one hell of a surprise if it nicks them.'

Kate had hoped – anticipated, in fact – that having signed the agreement she would have been set free by now. But there was still no sign of her abductors. They had been very careful not to show their faces in all the time she had been imprisoned.

Food and other necessities were passed through the narrowly opened, quickly closed door. This happened at staggered times, often while she slept. Mercifully, they had been considerate in providing her with books, magazines and other small treats. One evening she awoke to find a small box of Black Magic chocolates by the door. She spent most of the time reading, thinking about Alex and the house or fantasizing about what she would do when the nightmare was over.

Sometimes she tricked her mind into playing out imaginary scenarios – most cast in the future, when she would be back with Alex at The Parsonage, when this wretched nightmare would be a distant memory. She always emerged from these daydreams vowing to be more attentive, more understanding, more loving when things returned to normal. She was beginning to forget what normal was like. Or whether there really was such a state.

More and more her beloved garden played a major role in these fantasies. She pictured the roses starting to fade. By now most of the old varieties doubtlessly would have finished blooming. In their place asters, Japanese anemones, chrysanthemums and other autumnal flowers would take over. Hydrangeas, too. She remembered seeing those huge mop-headed shrubs in some of the photos Mrs Cooke had shown them. It was Kate's plan to dry a lot of those when the blooms were almost spent.

She summoned a reproachful smile. Perhaps she should have listened to Alex when he had suggested destroying the blue rose. She recalled her apprehension and prophecies when they first found the rose, how it might adversely change their life, how it could imperil their marriage. Not even in her worst dreams had she envisioned anything like the present horror. While she tried hard not to dwell on her miserable situation, she could not avoid speculating on how it would play out.

She wondered how Asp was doing. Dear little Asp. She would forever cherish the memory of the day he came into their lives in Bath, over a year ago. It could easily have been yesterday. It was a Saturday, she remembered, and Alex had disappeared early that morning without waking her. When she got up and went down to the kitchen there was a note on the table:
I'll be back around noon. Stick a bottle of champers in the fridge. XXX Alex.
Shortly before twelve she heard Alex's Alfa pull into the drive and the customary toot of the horn. She looked out of the window, watching as he got out of the car and headed for the front door. He was carrying a shallow wicker basket.

Entering the kitchen, he was all smiles. ‘Here, Kate,' he said, handing her the basket as if it were filled with new-laid eggs.

As she took it from him she thought she saw something move under the plaid cloth that concealed its contents. She gave Alex a quizzical look and slowly pulled the cloth aside.

Curled in a tight ball was a tiny puppy. As she gently caressed its velvety fur, it stretched, yawned, and started licking her finger. Then the tears started to roll slowly down her cheeks.

‘What do you think?' Alex asked, grinning ear to ear. ‘It's a boy, by the way.'

‘I don't know what to say, Alex,' she said, wiping her eyes. ‘He's lovely. Does he have a name?'

‘Not yet.'

‘What made you–'

‘I thought a lot about what we discussed Wednesday evening, about selling the house and moving farther out. For some reason I couldn't imagine us living in the country without a dog. I was going to wait for your birthday but I decided not to hold off. I saw the ad two days ago and decided to go for it.' He smiled. ‘If you're not sure about taking on a new responsibility, he comes with return privileges, by the way.'

‘Oh, no, Alex, he's lovely. Let's keep him.'

He took the basket from Kate, put it on the floor, and picked up the puppy, holding its wet pink nose up close to his. ‘We've got to think of a name for you, young feller,' he said, gently lowering the puppy to the floor. They had watched it waddle unsteadily under the table where it proceeded to make a small puddle…

The quick creak of the door opening brought her back to the present. She turned just in time to see a small stack of magazines being placed on the floor. As quickly as it had opened, the door closed again, and she heard the bolt slide into place. She hoped that the selection was better than the last time. Most of them had been hunting, fishing and hotrod magazines.

She had thought long and hard about her abductors. Who were they? The only outsiders she could think of who knew about the rose were the American and Tanaka. Could it possibly be one of them? What did it matter, anyway?

She wondered if Alex had called the police. She knew that was very unlikely. Whoever had taken her would have found ways to dissuade Alex from doing so. She preferred not to think about it. She knew only too well that threatening bodily harm to the victim was the method most often used. It was very doubtful now that the police were going to come to her rescue. And, short of his somehow recovering Sapphire, she had come to the inescapable truth that Alex was powerless to help. He had signed the agreement, after all. In any case, he had no way of knowing where she was. Neither did she for that matter. It was impossible to imagine what must be going through his mind.

Thinking back to the blue rose, she recalled the cuttings Vicky had taken, but couldn't quite figure out their role in the equation. Surely the people trying to get their hands on the rose knew all about horticulture and wouldn't accept cuttings without the rose itself. She also knew enough about propagation from cuttings to know that the resulting plants ran true to form. Grown on their own roots, they would produce flowers identical to the parent. But this was no ordinary rose. It was a mutant. And who was to say that the cuttings would produce blue roses? In any case, it would be quite some time before the cuttings produced blossoms of any kind.

She had concluded by now that her only hope of escape rested with herself. And up to a couple of days ago, that eventuality had seemed remote. She now knew that these men were not amateurs. They were serious and thorough. They had rendered the farmhouse escape-proof and her room as secure as a prison cell. But two days ago she had discovered something they'd overlooked. It presented a slender chance of escape.

The muted sounds of screeching tyres and gunfire from the television downstairs filtered into the room, disturbing her train of thought. Not that she minded. The noise meant that she could safely get back to the job at hand. Her captors' reluctance to enter her room worked in her favour. Had they chosen to examine her minuscule bathroom they would undoubtedly have noticed that two-thirds of the wood moulding had been removed from the tiny fixed window above the toilet that served no function other than to provide light. She could only conclude that they'd somehow overlooked the window in their effort to make the room secure – the curtain was, after all, similar in colour to the wallpaper. There was one small problem however – she was not quite sure whether it was big enough for her to wriggle through. It was going to be close.

With just a little more scraping, Kate would be able to pop it out.

 

In the beamed living room of the farmhouse, her two abductors were in shirtsleeves. Billy, the taller and younger, was stretched out on the overstuffed sofa reading a paperback. His sallow face was pockmarked, suggesting a poor diet and lax habits. Marcus – balding and dressed all in black – stood by the window, talking on a cordless phone. His speech, though American, hinted of European origins.

‘No. She's fine,' said Marcus. ‘Sleeps and reads around the clock.' He looked up to the ceiling, eyeing the network of hairline cracks that spidered across the yellowing plaster like an aerial road map. ‘Of course we're feeding her.' He stared out of the window, listening to the caller. ‘Okay, so eleven thirty it is. Right, British Airways. Don't worry, I'll be there. I'll call to check that your flight's on time.' Another short pause. ‘Sheppard? No – he hasn't. Nothing unusual, except that professor guy has been staying with him. Billy's keeping an eye on them, don't worry.' Marcus yawned. ‘Sure, I will. Okay. See you soon. Yes, I'll tell him.'

He turned the phone off and walked to the small TV set. He switched it on manually – they'd not been able to find a remote. Billy figured the set was so old it never had one in the first place. Marcus settled into the large upholstered armchair, put his feet on the coffee table, and stared blankly at a programme on polar bears.

Billy looked up from his paperback. ‘Wolff's finally coming over, then,' he said, in a Texas drawl.

Marcus got up and walked toward the door. ‘Yes, he's on his way. I'm going pick him up at Heathrow tomorrow morning. Now that the agreement's signed, Ira wants to see the rose.'

‘I thought Ira told you Sheppard don't know where the rose is.'

‘He did. But Ira's convinced that Sheppard's playing “find the lady”. That it was really him who took it to another hiding place.'

‘What if Sheppard's not lying?'

‘Damned if I know. Let Ira worry about that. He tells me he's finished playing footsie with him – now it's hardball time. He's sure that Sheppard's gonna crack any day now. Meantime, Ira wants us to keep up the surveillance on Sheppard and the house. He thinks that sooner or later Sheppard'll get careless and lead us to the rose.'

‘You know Marcus, this is turning out to be a full-time job. I'd figured it for ten days at the most. I'm dying of boredom in this stinking place. The shitty weather. When are we going get the hell out of here?'

‘Jesus, Billy. You ask the dumbest questions. You couldn't have heard a goddamned word I've been saying. How do I know, for Chrissakes! Ask Wolff tomorrow. Ask him yourself!'

‘All right. All right.'

‘Oh, by the way, Ira said to thank you.'

‘For what?'

‘Doing a clean job of snatching the Sheppards' file. Made things a lot easier, he said. Filled in a lot of blanks.'

‘Weren't exactly what I would call challenging,' Billy drawled. ‘Any punk kid could have walked in there and stole the file.'

 

Kingston was up again at dawn. Since Kate's kidnapping he hadn't had a good night's sleep and it was beginning to take its toll. He let Asp out into the garden through the back door, then went to retrieve the morning newspaper from the front porch. Back in the house, he made a pot of tea.

He yawned and placed the folded newspaper and his favourite retractable pencil – the one with the pink eraser on the end of it – on the table beside him. He always used a pencil when tackling the
Times
crossword puzzle. Corrections were all too frequent. Exactly when he had first started doing them – when he first got hooked – he couldn't say. Spending the start of the day with a cup of tea and the puzzle was a ritual. Rarely, very rarely, was the pattern broken. But for the last several days it had been. And he was becoming increasingly worried. He simply could no longer concentrate.

Every hour of every day he was alone was spent thinking of the suffering that the blue rose had inflicted on so many lives. And the harder he tried to make sense of it all, the more unfathomable the riddles became. In his now frequent dreams they twisted and writhed like slippery serpents, one minute almost in his grasp, the next, morphing into new forms, coiling into grotesque shapes, always disappearing through closed doors.

With Alex's refusal to involve the police – and he could well understand Alex's fear of doing so – the burden now fell squarely on him to find a way to secure Kate's release and put her kidnappers behind bars. Unless he found the rose, none of this would happen. Worse, what would Wolff do to Kate if he didn't? He'd rather not think about that eventuality.

He glanced up at the kitchen clock. Six forty-five. In a few hours the forty-eight hour deadline would be up and they could expect another call from Wolff 's accomplice. God knows what horrors that would bring.

He reached for the folded
Times
and, without thinking, opened it to the crossword section, placing the rest of the paper aside. He stared at the tiny grid of black and white squares, pondering the thousands of them that had challenged his sense of logic and reasoning over so many years.

With a cryptic crossword, unlike a conventional crossword, one's bank of general knowledge is of little help; the solver must wrestle with construing the
clues
correctly to extract literal meaning from clever camouflage. What makes them so challenging and often frustrating, is that all the clues are couched in varying forms of disguised anagrams, cryptograms, phonetic puzzles, and cunning plays on words. Teasing out the answers is a job for an analytical, not a fact-filled mind.

He stared at the puzzle. Not reading but just staring. He thought back to the day he first saw the rose. How beautiful it was, how seductive. And now, in such a short time, what havoc it had wrought. A twisted trail of heartache and tragedy.

After all this time, after the hours of sifting through notes, creating timelines, analysing, reconstructing conversations, they were still no nearer to finding answers. He must have overlooked something – a subtle clue, a misspoken word. Or was he simply trying too hard, overlooking the obvious? Think of the enigma of the blue rose in the same way you would a cryptic clue. No, that would be absurd, he said to himself. But his mind was already in motion, stimulated and challenged by the very idea of it.

Methodically, he started with the ‘players'. He got a notepad and wrote down their names – one at the top of each successive page. This, in part, was similar to the exercise he and Alex had exhausted yesterday but he was determined to try again and keep trying, if needs be. There were nine names in all: himself, Kate and Alex, Vicky, Tanaka, Adell, Mrs Cooke, Graham and Wolff. Had he overlooked anybody? Not that he could think of. The police, perhaps? No, they were too busy looking for a killer to be interested in a stolen rose. Besides, they weren't even aware that Kate was missing.