‘
‘It means repeat flowering. Most old roses flower only once a season. I’d assumed that would be true of Sapphire.’
Even from where they stood, staring open-mouthed through the chain-link fence, the rose exuded an ethereal aura. But there was something distinctly unsettling about its perfection. The brilliance of its sapphire blossoms stood out, as if luminous, against the dark foliage and blur of scarlet thorns. Now, with the full knowledge of its savage and lethal secret, it seemed imbued with heightened provocation – a beauty even more awesome, more unworldly than before. Alex shivered and looked away.
When he turned to face the paddock again, he gasped and took two steps backwards. Tyson was hurtling towards them with the force of a runaway locomotive. Together, they jumped back reflexively as the Rottweiler crashed into the fence, shoulder high, in front of them. Alex swore later that he saw the chain links move nine inches, the impact was so great. The fence flexed, as if about to give way, then catapulted the hapless Tyson through the air. Hitting the ground in a rolling black and brown dust-ball he finally came to a whimpering rest, about twenty feet from Alex and Kingston.
‘Serves you bloody right,’ Alex muttered.
‘Let’s take a couple of pictures, Alex.’
Alex nodded, still trying to take it all in. A few minutes ago, sitting on the bench, he had experienced a gut- wrenching sense of fear when it appeared that they were not going to find the rose after all. His thoughts had instantly turned to Kate, and the gnawing dread of what Wolff ’s men might do if they arrived to find that there was no blue rose at Compton’s. Now, suddenly, it was all reversed – Kingston’s hunch had paid off. Euphoria like nothing he had ever known surged through him. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was trembling.
‘Alex,’ Kingston prompted.
Alex, still thinking about Kate, didn’t respond. He simply took out the camera and removed the lens cap. Then, using the telephoto lens, he took several shots of the rose and a couple of Tyson for good measure. The dog obligingly bared his shiny teeth. Then Alex put the Nikon carefully back into the case.
Pressing down the Velcro tabs on the case, Alex thought about Emma and how she would react when confronted with his and Kingston’s deception and the disclosure about the rose’s homicidal past. He pictured her, teapot in hand, as Kingston stripped away his mask, telling her in all seriousness that the rose out in the paddock was not only blue but had also killed four people. She’d think that they had both just escaped from the loony bin. He started to chuckle.
‘What do you find so bloody amusing?’ Kingston asked, turning away from the fence, starting to walk towards the office.
‘I was trying to picture Emma’s face when you tell her that the rose is a serial killer,’ Alex said, following him. ‘Would you like me to take a snapshot of her reaction?’
‘Don’t be facetious. We’re not going to tell her. At least, not yet.’
‘Lawrence, you can’t be serious. We must at least warn her not to let anybody touch it.’
‘Not for the moment, Alex.’
‘Why not, for God’s sake? That damned rose is a time bomb!’
‘I hear what you’re saying, but let me explain. First, we know that Compton’s not coming back from his holiday until tonight. Between now and then it’s unlikely that anybody will go near it. Plus, it’s a weekend, too. If it weren’t safely under lock and key, I might feel differently. But if we tell Emma, the first thing she’ll certainly do is tell Compton all about it later tonight or first thing tomorrow. I want to save that little surprise for us. Plus, she might call the police. We are, after all, impostors.’
Alex shrugged. ‘You make a good point.’
‘Let’s go and have a cup of Emma’s tea before we leave.’ He looked across at Alex. ‘Don’t you feel a trifle better now, Alex? Now that we’ve found the rose?’
Alex didn’t reply. The look on his face said it all.
It was four thirty in the afternoon when they finally left Compton’s. They were headed for Lewes where Kingston had booked rooms at the Cross Keys, a three star hotel in the centre of town.
Alex took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at Kingston, who was studying an Egon Ronay guidebook. ‘Lawrence,’ he said, ‘I take back everything I said the other day – you know, about your crossword puzzle theory, not believing you.’ He looked back at the road. ‘You were right after all. It was damned clever of you. And – well what I’m trying to say is, thanks.’
‘No need to thank me, old chap. Not right now anyway. Maybe tomorrow when you’ve got your arms around Kate, eh?’
‘God, I hope so,’ Alex sighed.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into the hotel car park. Alex yanked the handbrake on and was about to get out of the car. He turned to Kingston, frowning. ‘By the way, I forgot to ask you – how the hell did you know the name of the editor of
‘It was the truth, old chap. I’ve known her for a long while. As a matter of fact, I had lunch with her a couple of months ago.’
Alex shook his head. ‘I might have guessed,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-four
Roses fall, but the thorns remain.
Dutch proverb
The window was almost square and barely a dozen inches across. Using a small nail file, Kate had scraped and gouged away at the moulding to the point where most of it was stripped away. Luckily the wood was rotten in one corner, which had given her a head start. She had done most of the scraping in the early hours of the morning, careful to make as little noise as possible, flushing the debris down the toilet.
The window looked out on a barren patch of ground behind the house. Farther on, perhaps thirty paces away, edged by weeds and farm debris, stood an old wooden outbuilding. Just inside the open entry, Kate had earlier spotted an old bicycle leaning against a stack of wood. From the bathroom, looking through the dusty cobwebbed window, she hadn’t been able to tell whether the tyres had air in them or not. She prayed they did.
Kate sat on the toilet staring at the ceiling in the half dark. She had no idea of the time but guessed that at least four hours had passed since the television had been turned off downstairs. She had arbitrarily established that as somewhere between eleven and midnight. Assuming that to be reasonably accurate, she guessed the present time at between three and four in the morning. She decided not to wait any longer.
She slipped her nail file under the corner of the pane of glass and gently levered on it. She hoped that when it popped out it wouldn’t crack or shatter. That could be disastrous.
She pulled again, the palm of her other hand flat against the glass. It didn’t crack. But it didn’t budge, either.
As hard as Kate tried, the pane of glass wouldn’t come out. The edges were free of the moulding on all sides but many years of weathering and aging had apparently glued the glass to the putty on the outside.
‘Damn it,’ she whispered. ‘Damned glass.’
She scraped some more, stopping occasionally to listen for sounds in the house. Slipping the nail file under the corner where the rot gave her the most purchase she pulled back again. She realized that her fingers were perilously close to the edge of the glass. One slip and she could suffer a nasty gash. She had a temporary vision of her kidnappers following her bloody trail.
She paused, took a deep breath and pulled again, this time in a quick jerking motion. She thought she could see the pane bending.
