The silence adds to my already fraying nerves, the scent from the lilies cloying, the significance of red and white flowers not lost on me. Silence has a weight, I wanted to explain to the police later. If I could have felt what it contained, listened to its secrets, maybe it would have told me where Matt was.
Through the kitchen window, a sudden movement catches my eye. ‘Matt?’ Spinning round, I knock the bouquet, watching as it sways for a moment before falling sideways, then slipping slow motion to the floor.
As water leaks out onto the dark slate, I curse my clumsiness. Crouching down, as I go to pick it up, an alien scent reaches my nostrils, growing stronger, more abhorrent, as simultaneously I notice splatters of red on the white tulips. Recoiling, shock hits me as I realise. It isn’t water on the floor. The stems of the bouquet have been wrapped in blood.
*
‘I went for a walk. They were on my doorstep when I got home.’ My voice echoes in the silence of the kitchen. ‘I assumed they were from Matt – an apology or something.’
‘You’ve no idea who might have sent them?’ As she stares at the flowers, PC Page is smaller, younger than I’d imagined from talking to her on the phone. Slightly built, her straight fair hair doesn’t quite touch her shoulders.
‘No.’ Shivering, I stare at the blood still splattered across the floor. ‘This was with them.’ I pass her the card I’d found in the envelope. ‘There was no name on it.’
‘Do you recognise the handwriting?’ She picks up the card, frowning as she reads it. It has with sympathy for your loss printed in one corner and a message written across the centre.
Kill one man and you are a murderer.
‘No.’ I shake my head, then as the pungent odour of rust fills my nostrils again, fold my arms around myself. I’d started to clear up the blood before leaving it, realising the police should see it. Now that they have, I need to get rid of it. Going over to the sliding doors, I open them, letting the cold air flow in, trying to imagine the kind of sick bastard who sends flowers with their stems encased in a bag of blood.
‘This happened when?’ PC Page glances at my clothes.
‘About an hour ago. I had to change.’ I hesitate. ‘It was on my clothes.’ But it was the smell that was worst, filling my lungs, leaching through my clothes onto my skin. After calling the police, I’d rushed upstairs, ripping off my clothes and standing under the shower, scrubbing myself frenziedly, unable to get rid of it. ‘I’ve left my clothes soaking upstairs.’
‘We need to take a sample and run some tests.’ She nods towards the young PC accompanying her. As I watch him, he bends down to collect a sample of the blood.
I look at her, uncertain. ‘What kind of tests?’
‘We need to ascertain if it’s human or animal.’ As she speaks, I’m light-headed, not wanting to think about the origin of it. Then she looks at the flowers. ‘It used to be symbolic, didn’t it? Mixing red and white flowers? They mean blood and tears.’ She pauses. ‘Can you think of anyone who’d want to upset you? Or harm you, even?’
Unable to speak, I stare at her, horrified.
She goes on. ‘It doesn’t matter how long ago. Sometimes people store away grudges and let them fester. It could be a friend, work colleague, even a family member – and it can happen years later, but sometimes, all it takes is a single unrelated event to take the lid off and bring the whole lot to the surface.’
Her brown eyes appear thoughtful. When I got to know her better, it was what I liked about PC Page. The way she thinks. But in this instance, she’s wrong. I lead a peaceful life. As a herbalist, I work in synergy with nature; extract the magic contained in petals, bark, leaves, roots, seeds, with artistry, subtlety, alchemy. Working according to a healer’s code, my intention is only to do good, a philosophy that extends into my personal life. I shake my head. ‘I don’t have any close family. And I work alone. I’m a herbalist. My workshop is in my garden. I really can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt me.’ I watch her face to see if she believes me.
She hesitates. ‘It’s also possible someone’s using you to get at Matt. There could be something in his life you don’t know about. Even the most unlikely people can be pushed by extreme circumstances to behave completely out of character – I don’t mean Matt, necessarily, but maybe someone he knows. Or maybe someone from his past that he hasn’t told you about.’
‘If there was anyone like that, I’m sure I’d know.’ Shaking my head, I speak firmly, because she doesn’t know him like I do. ‘You have to trust me on this one.’
She glances around, her eyes lingering on a framed photo of Jess and me. ‘Is that your daughter?’
I nod. ‘Jess – she’s at uni – in Falmouth. It was taken when I was interviewed for a magazine a couple of years ago. They were writing a series of pieces about women running their own businesses and they wanted to feature a herbalist.’
She studies it for a moment. ‘Is Matt her father?’
I shake my head. ‘Her father and I divorced when she was five.’
Frowning slightly, she goes on. ‘Is there any chance your ex might have something against you and Matt being together? Or
