She waited for him to go on.
“A car that vanishes. A dozen roses that come from nowhere. We need answers Julie.”
She said, “We seem to have reached a stop with the car.”
“All right. Let’s think about the roses, then. Someone sends you a dozen red roses. As a woman, how do you react?”
“I’m pleased. Most probably it’s Valentine’s Day and I have an admirer.”
He said, “It isn’t and you don’t.”
“Thanks,” she said acidly. “I really needed that.”
“Don’t take it personally. We’re hypothesizing. The murder was October the eighteenth, not February the fourteenth. Was there anything special about the date? Her birthday?”
Julie went to the file again. “She was born on April the twelfth.”
“No help there. Red roses are a token of love, am I right? Even a slob like me knows that’s the language of the flowers.”
“They can be a way of saying sorry,” Julie suggested.
“I don’t see how that helps us.”
“I’m just considering other possibilities.”
He didn’t sound grateful. “What do we know for sure? Every florist in the city and in all the towns around was checked to see if they made a delivery of roses, and we drew a blank. It’s likely that someone bought them in a shop without leaving a name and took them to the house in person.”
“And it’s safe to assume it was someone she knew,” added Julie. “She wouldn’t have let a stranger into the house so late.”
“Agreed. Let’s go through her visitors. Mountjoy is the obvious man, going on a date, but he didn’t bring the roses, or claims he didn’t. He doesn’t remember seeing any in the flat. Billington bought flowers, but for another woman.”
“And they weren’t roses.”
“And G.B. claims he didn’t call at all.”
“Julie said, “Why would anyone want to lie about giving her a bunch of red roses? Surely the killer isn’t the person who gave her the flowers. It’s someone else.”
“Why?”
“It must be. Surely. Someone made jealous by them.”
Diamond pondered this briefly, then said, “You could be wrong there. Let’s assume for a moment that nobody is lying.”
“The flowers were already in the flat?”
“No. We already established that they weren’t delivered by a florist and Mountjoy didn’t see any when he visited. I think we must face the possibility that the killer was the bringer of the roses.”
“Why?”
“We couldn’t trace them back to any shop. There’s no record of any transaction, no memory of anyone remotely like our suspects buying roses that day. What does that mean? Probably that the person who took the roses to the house went to some trouble to conceal his identity. Maybe he bought them in some other town, too far away to trace.”
“That would mean he had murder in mind before he bought the flowers.”
Diamond held up a finger in confirmation. “You’re with me now. A premeditated murder.”
It was plain from Julie’s puzzled expression that she wasn’t totally with him. “Are you saying that someone bought red roses and took them to the house meaning to commit murder? Why? What would be the point?”
“To make a point.”
“You’ve lost me altogether now,” she told him.
“Instead of a token of love, the roses were a token of revenge that Britt understood.” He appealed to her visual imagination. “Think of the scene-the cut rosebuds stuffed into her mouth. That’s indicative of something else besides murderous intent. The flowers meant something, Julie.”
“You mean they were symbolic?”
“They had some significance known to the victim and the killer. Maybe there had been a gift of roses at some point in the past, when there was love and trust that the killer now felt was betrayed.”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s ugly,” said Diamond, “but it does make sense. We’ve always assumed that the killer found the flowers at the scene and took them to be a gift from a lover and couldn’t resist mutilating them and desecrating the body with them. I’m suggesting that they were always intended to be part of the murder scene. The killer went to some lengths to buy the flowers at some place miles away from Bath. It was a premeditated killing, not some sudden outbreak of violence. If I’m right, Britt Strand wasn’t killed because of something that happened that evening, but as a coldly planned act.”
Julie absorbed this. “Because of something that happened previously? Is that what you’re saying?”
He gave a nod. “We’ve given most of our attention to the evening of the murder and the people we know were in Larkhall that night: Mountjoy, Billington and G.B., each of them attracted to Britt and willing to admit it. But there are two others who pointedly claim their affairs with the lady were over.”
“Jake Pinkerton and Marcus Martin.”
“Yes. They become rather more interesting now.”
“But if they weren’t at the scene-”
“Do they have alibis?”
She hesitated.
Diamond reached for his hat. “Let’s start with Marcus Martin.”
Chapter Twenty-three
It was a good thing Julie suggested phoning Marcus Martin first. His housekeeper passed on the information that he wasn’t at home that afternoon; he was attending a funeral.
Instead of uttering appropriate words of condolence, Diamond ranted down the phone, “Hell’s bells, what next? Where’s it taking place?”
Clearly the housekeeper judged that this loudmouth shouldn’t be let anywhere near a funeral. “Mr. Martin should be home early this evening.”
“I can’t wait that long. Which cemetery?”
“I’m sorry, it wouldn’t be convenient.”
“Convenience doesn’t come into it, madam. You’re speaking to the police.”
“Oh.” Followed by a silence. Then: “I believe it’s a turning off the Lower Bristol Road.”
“Haycombe Cemetery?”
“No. The Last Post.”
“Would you say that again, ma’am?”
“The Last Post. I’m sure that’s what it’s known as.”
“Never heard of it,” muttered Diamond. “Is this a pub near the cemetery, or what?”
She said, “It’s the name of the place. Haven’t you seen the papers? The funeral is for Horatio.”
“Horatio who?”
“Horatio the show jumper. I thought everyone in the country remembered Horatio at the Olympics, even though he’s been retired a few years now. He was put to sleep the day before yesterday after a tragic accident hunting with the Beaufort.”
“A horse? A funeral for a horse?”
“Horatio was a champion, an exceptional horse. Almost a national treasure. The phone has hardly stopped ringing. He is being laid to rest at three-thirty.”
In the car he refrained from airing his opinions on horse funerals. Instead, he asked Julie what impressions she’d formed of Marcus Martin, which was a transparent way of refreshing his own memory, because she had a remarkable recall for the salient information.
She said, “He’s a type certain women get taken in by. The posh accent, the lord of the manor stuff.”
“You’d stay well clear, would you?”
From the way she paused before answering, she didn’t like having it made personal. “Well, yes.”
“You think Britt was taken in?”
“No way, knowing what we do about her.”
“Too bad we’ve only got his version of the affair.”
She nodded. “And what an unlikely version.”
“Explain.”
“He said their relationship was ’short and to the point,’ as if it was purely physical, like going with a prostitute.”
“Could have been just his way of thinking.”
“Like ‘Three wild and steamy weeks’-after which he went on to say that they ‘drifted apart’-which sounded like a contradiction. You remarked on it at the time, and his answer wasn’t convincing.”