James Bond - 028 - Never Send Flowers Read online

  ‘It’s an honour. A very great honour, but you know that, if she sent you.’ At this point, Seymour had written that David appeared to be in some trance-like state. ‘Isis, mother of all things, lady of the elements, the beginning of all time. Sister-wife of Osiris. Speak . . . Speak through the oracles I have created for you.’

  Written baldly on the page, Seymour admitted that the words seemed to be the rather dramatic ravings of someone mentally disturbed. In his report, he wrote, ‘David’s voice seemed to change, echo, become distorted. It was the most frightening change I have ever witnessed in a human being. Even his face appeared to alter. I felt cold, while Sergeant Bowles later stated that he experienced the feeling of something terribly evil in the room with us.’

  ‘She speaks through the oracles. She says there are enough. That you will take charge of them.’ David March was utterly wrapped in this bizarre belief. ‘It is just as she told me. They have started to speak in a chorus.’

  The Superintendent added, ‘It seemed very important to him that we believed what he said. A matter of extreme significance, not in any legal or judiciary sense. This was a man proclaiming that he had done what was asked of him.’

  ‘Everything,’ March continued. ‘I did all that she asked. They were picked with great care. Fair-coloured white women. I showed them love, as Isis commanded, and each was sacrificed just as she told me, at the exact time and under the correct conditions. I promise you it was done according to her word, for she is the mother of life. She would speak only through the oracles. Through them she says you will take them from me.’

  ‘Good, David.’ Seymour realized that he was trembling. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They’re safe. I’ve kept them safe.’, nobody claimed responsibility.outhing

  ‘Then it’s time for us to see them.’

  The heads were in large jars – sealed carboys – floating in formaldehyde, turned pink from the blood which had flowed from the terrible ragged necks. The serrated skin flapped, creating an eerie sense of life. The carboys had been placed in some obvious order in the large refrigerator in David March’s kitchen: two were on a top shelf, one in the centre middle and two more on the lowest part.

  March even had a pair of great padlocks on the door of the thing, and the heads moved as he opened up, their hair lifting in the liquid, their dead eyes staring with half-surprise and half-terror, the pinkish stain below the horrible jagged necks rising and adding an almost supernatural glow in the confined light.

  ‘Talk to them,’ March said in a whisper which had about it a sense of wonder. ‘Are they not marvellous, the way they speak so softly?’

  Sergeant Bowles vomited, and there was a side note from the Superintendent saying that he suffered from nightmares for some time after.

  David March’s trial, while sensational, did not yield everything to the public. His plea of insanity was so strong, and supported by both the defence and prosecution, that only the bare facts came out. Certainly the Press reported hyped-up stories gleaned from the victims’ friends, and from bits and pieces they scavenged from the gardener and live-in cook at the March seniors’ house – but only after the verdict of guilty but insane was returned, and David had been sentenced to be ‘Detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure’ which is the British way of saying life plus ninety-nine years in an institution for the criminally insane.

  The trial was almost an anti-climax. It was the brutality of the murders, and the discovery of David March that overshadowed everything else. The picture was so strong in Bond’s mind that he shivered, looking up, surprised that he sat in this pleasing Swiss hotel, other guests’ laughter and talk going on around him. The long report had taken him almost half an hour to read, and, even though it was written baldly, without emotion, the Superintendent had somehow conveyed all the revulsion and shock. Seconds before, Bond had felt he was in that kitchen, with March and the refrigerator, looking at the hideous sight of the five heads floating in their clear, thick, glass carboys.

  Now he was staring straight into Flicka’s green eyes which seemed to pull him in, hypnotically, as though they were whirlpools drowning him. Then he shook himself free and saw that she was gazing at him as if his own sense of fear were being transmitted to her. The dread passed between them like static.

  ‘You see what I mean?’ She poured coffee for him. ‘Black?’ she asked.

  ‘With a little sugar.’ His own voice seemed to come from far away. The detective’s bland report had the power to stir, like the strength of some long-forgotten force which returned to influence mind and action. ‘And this is the victim’s brother?’ he asked, almost of himself.

  ‘Read what the shrinks have to say. That’s the clincher, and it’s one of the reasons why Laura had to keep the business covered up.’

  He reached out, took a sip of coffee, then said, ‘I don’t think I need to even look at the conclusions of the shrinks.’ Bond had always remained dubious of the psychiatrists’ powers.

  ‘Let me guess at what they had to say,’ he smiled, trying to bring humour back into Flicka’s eyes. ‘I imagine that one of the first things they hit on was that David March had nursed an unheal eventually, the animals became disguise therethy interest in things occult since he was very young. Right?’

  She nodded. ‘The Egyptology had begun as a kind of hobby, harmless and instructive. As he grew, he started to believe that the real truths about the universe could be found only in ancient Egypt. His parents became concerned when they found he had built an altar, in the garden, to worship Isis when he was only sixteen.’

  ‘I’m not playing Sherlock Holmes,’ he gave a short, almost humourless laugh. ‘But my next guess is that the mother had a dominating personality. That her will was law in the March household, and that it was not only David who was affected by her, but also his sister, Laura – which is why this is important to us.’

  ‘Yes. Two of the psychiatrists spent a long time taking David back through childhood and his teens. Mrs March appeared to have been some kind of martinet. She was also a bit of a religious fanatic. Laura was only, what fifteen? sixteen? – when her brother was arrested, but the trauma went quite deep, because by then her mother had absolute control over her in matters religious. She, Mrs March, was a practising Christian, but took everything to extremes. Sundays in the March household were like stepping back to Victorian times. Church in the morning and evening, reading the Bible – or some other worthy book – in between: no games, nothing frivolous.’

  ‘I should imagine that young David told the same story to each of his victims,’ Bond mused.

  ‘Which story?’

  ‘That his father was old and ailing, and that his mother was dead. We know that’s what he told the second one – Bridget Bellamy.’

  ‘He admitted that. It seemed he really considered his mother dead.’

  ‘Makes sense. Did they help him at all – I mean at the institution?’

  ‘They diagnosed a complex series of symptoms. He seemed to be a very unhealthy mixture, a witch’s brew of all the worst kind of mental problems – manic depressive, psychotic, hysteric, psychopath. They controlled him with drugs for a while, but he was highly intelligent. Went through long periods – I mean months at a time – of appearing perfectly normal, likeable, friendly. Then, out of the blue the terrors would strike . . .’

  ‘There was a need to kill?’

  ‘That’s what was said. He tried to murder another inmate, and also attacked a nurse on one occasion. Nearly did her in.’

  ‘Mmmm. And, from all this, you think Laura was also affected?’

  ‘Don’t see how she could avoid it. One of the shrinks had a very long session with the father, and came to the conclusion that he was seriously unbalanced. The entire mating situation was fraught with dangers. A hyper-religious, super-dominant mother, and a weak, mentally unstable father. They produced one monster. It makes you wonder if they spawned two of them.’

  ‘Let’s say Laura March was unbalanced. She
’s the victim here, so, when we begin to examine her murder, we have to take her possible mental state into consideration.’ He gave another short laugh, heavy with irony. ‘Her colleagues must be going through all kinds of hell. Courts of Inquiry, investigations on those who did her PVs. Couldn’t happen to nicer people.’

  He looked up, and saw the fear still deep in Flicka’s eyes. Touching the bulky file on his knee, he said, ‘This thing’s really spooked you, hasn’t it?’

  ‘More than I can say. I was concerned up on the mountain, another metal doorto the thereat the crime scene. This story’s so horrible that I’m genuinely frightened. Damn it, James, in their wisdom, our respective services want us to go in there and carry out our own clandestine investigation. I’m even nervous of looking through Laura’s effects.’

  ‘The cops haven’t taken them away?’

  ‘As a favour to us, the room she had at the Victoria-Jungfrau in Interlaken has been left as they first found it.’

  ‘They’ve removed nothing?’

  ‘That’s what they say. Of course who knows when you’re dealing with cops. The room’s been sealed. The hotel expects us, but, since reading this stuff, it’s the last thing I want to do.’ She paused, her hand going to her hair, once more raking it with splayed fingers. ‘James, couldn’t we stay here for the night? Put it off until morning?’ A weak smile briefly lighting her eyes, and her intentions quite positive. ‘It’s so nice here, no ghosts. We could comfort each other.’

  The pause lasted for almost thirty seconds.

  ‘We could just as well comfort each other in Interlaken, Flicka, if that’s what you have in mind.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘But it’s best to face things like this head on. You say the hotel’s expecting us. We should go. Really we should.’

  She looked away, then back at him with a wan smile, reaching across the low table, allowing the tips of her fingers to touch the back of his hand. Then she nodded gravely and slowly picked up her shoulder bag, ready to leave.

  As they pulled out of the car park, Bond caught a glimpse of another car’s headlights come on. It was one of those almost subliminal experiences: he was aware of the car starting up, and preparing to pull out, a few slots to their right and behind them. In the sodium lamps illuminating the car park he thought it was a red VW, but would not have put money on it. When they reached the turn-off back to route six, he thought he saw the same car again, too close for any comfort, though maybe too close to be a professional. While not dismissing the possibility of a tail, he put it on the back burner of his mind. No experienced watcher would use a red car, nor would he so blatantly call attention to himself by staying so near.

  Less than an hour later, they pulled up in front of the imposing Hotel Victoria-Jungfrau – a building which still retains the splendour of the British Victorian architectural influence on so many large Swiss hotels. There had been no sign of the red car once they had got fully under way.

  Inside, there was the usual gravity over the formal registration: a neat, unsmiling dark-haired under-manager, whose little plastic nameplate revealed her to be Marietta Bruch, watched them as though intent on taking their fingerprints. She then went through the passport routine before saying that she was so sorry about what she actually called ‘the untimely demise of your relative’. Then: ‘You have, I believe, papers from the police?’

  Flicka smiled, digging into her large shoulder bag, carefully keeping it below the level of the reception desk so that nobody could glimpse the pistol. ‘Yes, I have them, don’t I, darling?’ She beamed, giving Bond a quick, raised eyebrow.

  ‘Well, I gave them to you, but I’ve known things go missing from that handbag before now.’ He turned away, giving the porter a hint of a wink. The porter regarded him as though he had just ordered malt vinegar with Dover sole.

  She pulled out the official documents, passing them across to the redoubtable eventually, the animals became disguise thereFräulein Bruch who inspected them closely, as though looking for possible bacteria. ‘These seem to be in order,’ she finally pronounced. ‘Would you like to see first your cousin’s room, before you go to your own? Or do you wish to settle in?’

  It was all too obvious that the hotel wanted them to check Laura March’s room as soon as possible.

  ‘The police have already given permission for the room to be cleared once you have been through her items.’ Marietta Bruch gave them a bleak smile, behind which Bond detected the not unnatural desire of the hotel management to get the murdered girl’s effects out of the way, and have the room free to rent. ‘We have ample storage space for her cases, if you wish to make use . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Bond sounded decisive. ‘Yes, we understand, and I think it would be best if we looked through her things now. It will be easier for us also. And we will, of course, ask you to keep her cases until matters have been arranged.’

  Fräulein Bruch gave a sharp, official nod, then asked, ‘Mrs March’s husband? When she arrived this time, she said he was ill and wouldn’t be joining her. I hope it’s not serious. She said it wasn’t.’

  ‘Then she didn’t tell you the truth. Mrs March’s husband died several months ago,’ Bond lied.

  ‘Oh!’ Fräulein Bruch looked genuinely shocked for the first time. Then again, ‘Oh! They were such a devoted couple. Perhaps that’s why . . . ?’ The thought trailed off as she picked a key from the rack. ‘Perhaps you would like to come with me?’ She came around to their side of the reception desk, back on form, curtly instructing a porter to take Mr and Mrs Bond’s cases to 614. She put a great deal of stress on the Mrs Bond, as though clearly saying that she did not believe a word of it.

  Laura March had opted for an obviously cheap and cheerful room. ‘It is not one of our luxury accommodations.’ Unterführer Bruch – as Bond now thought of her – broke the seals and turned the key in the lock. ‘She made the reservation at short notice, and said one of our cheaper rooms would be convenient.’

  Inside it was a basic hotel: a narrow bed with a side table and telephone, one built-in wardrobe, a chair, a small writing table, and a closet-sized bathroom into which were crammed all the usual conveniences.

  The under-manager nodded to them, said that when they were finished, if they came back to reception she would have them escorted to their room, which, ‘is one of our more luxurious suites’. The smile clicked on and off, fast as a neon sign, and she backed out.

  Bond did the bathroom, noting that there had not really been enough room for Laura to spread out her make-up and toiletries; she had just managed to get most of them into a mirrored cupboard above the hand basin. Her preference seemed to be Lancôme, and he noted a small plastic container of pills, medically prescribed with the address of a chemist in Knights-bridge on the label. The police had probably removed a couple for analysis. He slipped the whole container into his pocket and squeezed out to find Flicka going through the clothes hanging in the wardrobe.

  ‘Nothing remarkable.’ She flicked through the garments. ‘One basic black, for evenings, one white, one grey suit – that’s nice—’ peering at the label – ‘ah, Marks and Spencer. That is fairly cheap stuff, but good value, I think. Two pants suits, spare pair of jeans. Shoes. Nothing.’

  ‘Go through the pockets.’ It eventually, the animals became disguise there came out as an order.

  ‘No, James, you go through the pockets. I’ll deal with the accessories.’ There were three small drawers running down the right hand side of the wardrobe, and as Bond started to feel and fumble through any pockets in the hanging garments, Flicka began opening the drawers, the bottom one first, like any good burglar.

  ‘Nothing in any of the pockets.’ He completed the jeans as she opened the top drawer.

  ‘Mmmm.’ Flicka’s hands disappeared into lace and silk. ‘She was a good customer of Victoria’s Secret. Look, James. Pretty,’ lifting several pieces of highly feminine underwear for him to see.

  He nodded. ‘That mean anything to yo
u?’

  ‘That she was sexually active, or had been until she came here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Girls buy underwear like this for men to see and remove. I also make purchases from Victoria’s Secret, though it hasn’t done me any good recently.’

  ‘Then Laura could’ve been in the same boat.’

  ‘I think not. This stuff is . . . Well, it’s blatant, and it conforms to a pattern. She had a friend who liked certain things. I, on the other hand, just take a good guess. Still hasn’t done me much good.’

  ‘That could change, Flicka. Who knows what might happen in the good Swiss air.’ He had moved over to the small writing table and began to look through the hotel folder which contained brochures, stationery and . . . ‘Good grief. I can’t believe the cops didn’t find this.’ He pulled out two sheets of hotel writing paper folded in half. A letter, signed by Laura. She had large, bold handwriting. Very large, for she said little and managed to take up one and a half sheets of paper, with great loops and little circles used for dotting the ‘i’.

  ‘What is it?’ Flicka was at his shoulder. He could smell her scent and the delicious musk of her hair.

  Bond moved a fraction so that she could read the letter. There was no addressee, but Laura had written:

  David My Dearest,

  Well, as I told you, I have returned to our old favourite place. Nothing changes, the mountains are where they have always been. I also think of you all the time, but know that you are now dead as far as I am concerned. Yet you are everywhere here. Perhaps I should not have come, but I needed to be close to something we both shared.

  It has rained all day and I have mooned around the hotel, tried to read, looked out on the mountains which are invisible with the cloud. Tomorrow they say it will be fine, so I shall go to our favourite place.

  Oh God, David, my brother, my lover, I do not know what to do.

  As ever, my dear dead love,

  Your Laura.

  ‘Jesus,’ Flicka said quietly. ‘James, let’s get out of here.’