The Vow

Chapter Four

When I pick it up, the bouquet is heavy enough that it takes both hands to carry it inside, as it occurs to me fleetingly that Matt might have sent it. Pushing the front door closed with one foot, I carry it along the hallway to the kitchen.

Switching on the light, I place the bouquet on one of the worktops, taking in the densely packed white lilies and tulips, intermingled with deep red velvet roses – expensive, hot house varieties, with lavish layers of elaborate wrapping concealing the bag of water encasing the stems. Peeling off the envelope that’s been attached, I imagine an apology – or an explanation, then my mind races. Maybe it’s a surprise and Matt’s already here waiting for me. Filled with hope, I call out. ‘Matt? Honey? Are you there?’

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 about Matt being a father figure in Jess’s life?’

‘That’s hardly likely. Dominic – my ex-husband – left me for someone else. Ever since, he’s had little time for Jess. He’s still in her life, but only sparingly.’ There’s bitterness in my voice, but there’s no point in hiding the truth. Everything is on Dominic’s terms, his daughter’s needs have always come second to his own.

She looks thoughtful. ‘Do Matt and your daughter get on?’

Her question takes me by surprise. ‘They’ve always got on fine – when she’s here. At the moment, she’s away at uni. Matt’s more significant in her life than her father is. She’s excited about our wedding – all Jess wants is for me to be happy.’

‘And there’s no ex on Matt’s side who might be jealous?’

I shake my head. ‘He hasn’t been married before. His last relationship became difficult, but it ended a long time ago. Mandy, his ex, has moved on now. He was on his own for quite a while, until he met me.’

‘How long have you two known each other?’

‘Getting on for a couple of years.’

Surprise flickers across her face. ‘So fairly recent.’

‘When you meet the right person, you know, don’t you?’

But she doesn’t respond. ‘It’s still possible that there’s an innocent explanation and he’ll turn up. It could be a case of cold feet. However unlikely that might seem, you’d be surprised how often it happens. Taking time out before the biggest decision of your life isn’t so implausible.’

‘What about the flowers?’ As my gaze shifts towards the bloodstained floor, my shiver is involuntary. ‘There’s nothing innocent about the blood.’

‘No.’ Pausing, a frown crosses her face. ‘I don’t suppose there was anything to identify where they came from, was there?’

I shake my head. ‘But there wouldn’t be, would there? Not if you were delivering flowers with a message like that.’

‘Most likely not.’

I look at her. ‘You think the threat was directed at me, don’t you? Not Matt?’

‘It was obviously directed at one of you.’ She pauses. ‘Do you or your neighbours have CCTV?’

I shake my head. ‘Not as far as I know.’ In a quiet lane that doesn’t go anywhere, you don’t expect to need it.

‘We’ll ask your neighbours in case anyone saw them being dropped off. Someone may have noticed. In the meantime …’ Her eyes flicker away briefly. ‘Be careful. Keep your doors locked, that sort of thing. And if you see anyone hanging around, don’t hesitate to call us.’

Her words do little to allay my fear. Whoever left the flowers is still out there. Closing the door behind her, I lock it, then slide the bolt across, wishing the police would arrange for someone to watch the house – or at least call back later. What if the person who left the flowers decides to come back?

Chapter Five

By the end of the day, the ground has shifted beneath my feet. I’ve always trusted Matt implicitly, would have trusted him with my life, but I no longer know what to think. As darkness falls, all I can rely on are the facts. Matt lied when he told me he was taking a client from the States for dinner; a client his boss knows nothing about. How many other lies are there I don’t know about? But I’m holding on to hope, that there might be a reason; any explanation other than the most obvious one, that he lied. Matt could have been on his way home, after dinner, when someone attacked him and took his phone. Or worse, but I can’t bring myself to go there.

But he still lied. The brightness of the moon casts the garden in a dim glow and I shiver, despite what’s happened, suddenly missing him desperately. Missing Jess too, craving the comfort and reassurance her presence brings. I’ve always felt safe here, but now, I’m imagining eyes watching me from the shadows, my every move known, Matt’s too. Was that how it started? Were we watched?

I try to imagine Matt in a hotel somewhere, working through a personal crisis of some kind, except somehow I know he isn’t. He would have sent a message to tell me where he was, which can only mean that wherever he is, he can’t. Had it been a warning yesterday, when he called me? Was he trying to tell me something? The most innocuous of phrases his only way of alerting me to the fact that something was wrong? Knowing I’d be able to check with David about the client dinner, that it wouldn’t take much for me to work out he was lying. Knowing that when he and I never lie to each other, it would be reason enough for me to ask why?

Turning on my laptop, I bring up my Facebook page, then switch to Matt’s, scrutinising his photos and posts, checking to see who’s liked them. He isn’t a great user of social media, though he comments and shares posts from time to time. But there’s nothing recent. The last time was several days ago.

Getting up, I go through to the sitting room. It’s a room we rarely use, with a single window that looks onto the lane. Two velvet sofas are arranged in an ‘L’ shape facing the fireplace, above which there’s an abstract painting of Matt’s, with a simple neutral rug on the wooden floor. Glancing around, I don’t know what I’m looking for, but there has to be a clue, somewhere in this house, as to what’s happened. Searching through the small pile of magazines on the coffee table, nothing is out of place. From there, I open the antique pine cupboard, filled as I knew it would be with photos and Jess’s old school books.

Rifling through everything, I grow increasingly more frantic, apart from the painting, finding no trace of anything that belongs to Matt. It’s the same everywhere I look, the only clues in the room that Matt lives here at all are the new sofas, the sanded floors, the muted shades of Farrow and Ball on the walls.

Normally, I wouldn’t dream of going through Matt’s things, but nothing is normal any more. Going upstairs, I open the wardrobe, beginning with his jackets, then moving to his jeans and trousers. All of them neatly folded; I pull them out, checking each pocket. Finding them empty, I go through drawers, removing t-shirts and underwear, my frustration growing, until the last drawer is empty. I slump onto the floor. Surrounded by his clothes, I pick up one of his sweaters, burying my face in it, inhaling his familiar scent, as despair fills me.

When at last I get up, I cast my eyes around the room, looking for the backpack he takes to work. But then I remember that when he left here yesterday, he was carrying it. Making a mental note to ask David if he’s noticed it in Matt’s office, I keep searching the remaining cupboards, moving to the desk in our tiny study, the spare bedroom, even taking a quick glance around Jess’s room and the bathroom, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but it’s the same everywhere I look. Nothing is out of place. All I have is his unfamiliar words and the memory of a scent.

*

I’ve always believed our closeness is tangible; that if anything happened to one of us, the other would somehow know. But that night, as I lie in bed, I’m numb. Troubled not just by the uncertainty. It’s the knowledge that Matt and I aren’t what I thought we were.

I cling on to the hope that there could still be a reasonable explanation for all of this. But there’s no way to normalise the bouquet of flowers. As I think of them, the stench of the blood comes back to me, my head filling with the worst scenarios as I imagine where it might have come from. After that, sleep is impossible. Instead, fear looms from every direction, a cloak of darkness suffocating me.

*

Another night passes when I hear nothing, until the next morning, when I get a call from PC Page. As she speaks, I’m forced to confront a far more sinister reality.

‘We ran some tests on the sample of blood from the bouquet. It was human. Type B positive.’ She hesitates. ‘I’m sorry to ask you this, but do you happen to know Matt’s blood type?’

For a moment I can’t speak. Nausea rises in my throat, unthinkable images filling my head.

‘Ms Reid? Are you alright? We really need to know.’

‘I don’t know.’ Sickened at the thought that someone had somehow got hold of Matt’s blood, I try to pull myself together, remind myself that as yet, we don’t know.

‘Is he registered with a doctor’s practice locally?’

‘Yes … we both are – with the one in Steyning. Why?’ But as she speaks, I realise the police must try to rule out the likelihood that it’s Matt’s blood, before they can consider the shocking possibility that it might be.

‘They should be able to tell us. Don’t worry – we’ll find the number. I take it you’ve still heard nothing from him?’

‘No. I’ve kept trying to call and left messages for him. I’ve even looked on Facebook to see if he’s posted anything, but he hasn’t.’

PC Page is quiet for a moment. ‘Can you send me a link to his profile? And in the meantime, can you contact any friends he’s likely to have been in touch with? See if anyone’s heard from him or noticed anything out of character. Might he have been in touch with your daughter?’

I shake my head. ‘He hasn’t. And I spoke to his best man. Pete. And our wedding planner. Neither of them have heard from him, either.’ Feeling nauseous again as I ask. ‘Will you let me know when you find out – about the blood type?’ But I’m already reasoning that even if it turns out to be the same as Matt’s, it still won’t prove it was his.

‘Of course. Do you have Matt’s best man’s contact details? And the wedding planner?’

‘They’re on my phone. Can you hold on?’ Finding Pete’s number, then Lara’s, I write them down, then repeat them back to PC Page.

‘Thank you. In the meantime, as I said before, you need to be careful. There’s someone out there who got hold of a pint of human blood.’ PC Page’s voice is grim. ‘Unless we can rule it out as some kind of sick joke, we can’t take any risks. If you see anything even remotely out of place, please call us.’

Her words remind me of the woman in Brighton. You’re not safe. Someone’s watching you. You’re in danger. Then I realise that I haven’t even told her.

‘There’s something else I should have mentioned, but at the time, it seemed too unbelievable. It happened the day that Matt disappeared. I was walking through the Lanes, when a woman stopped me. She told me I was being watched. Then she told me Matt wasn’t who I thought he was and that I was in danger. It was strange. I’d never met her before but she was most insistent.’

There’s a brief silence. ‘You’ve no idea who she was?’

‘I’d never seen her before.’ I hesitate, then blurt it out. ‘But now, I can’t help thinking, what if she’s right?’

*

With Matt missing, nowhere feels safe. Even as I walk down my garden, I imagine someone hidden, watching me. I try to work, but it’s impossible to concentrate. Both Cath and Lara call me, brief conversations which end abruptly because I have no news, nor can I think about anything else. Eventually, when I call Matt’s boss, David, he sounds flustered.

‘I wish I could help you, Amy. To be honest, he’s taken quite a few days off recently and it’s left me in rather an awkward position.’

As he speaks, a chill runs through me. He took some time off to look at wedding venues, but that was months ago. ‘But that was a while ago – when we were booking our wedding. The only days he hasn’t been in, he’s had client meetings.’

David’s silent for a moment. ‘I think you’ll find it’s been more than that. Maybe I’m exaggerating – I’ll have to check.’ He sighs. ‘The point is, I need him in the office. The project he’s been overseeing is with one of our biggest clients. So far, I’ve fobbed them off, but I can’t for much longer. If he doesn’t turn up soon, I need someone to take over from him.’

Far from reassuring me, the conversation leaves me floundering. Matt has always been meticulous, reliable. It’s only been a couple of days – David’s being unreasonable. ‘I’m sure there’s a good reason. There has to be. Matt’s good at his job.’ Clutching my phone, I remember what PC Page said to me. ‘How has he seemed to you? Has he said anything that’s out of character? It’s just that the police were asking.’

‘They’ve already asked me the same questions. Over the last month, we haven’t seen much of each other. I was in Dubai last week, and Matt’s either been here in the office or occasionally in London, managing this project. He’s seemed the same as usual, Amy. He’s mentioned your wedding once or twice – he said nothing to indicate he wasn’t looking forward to it. I certainly wasn’t aware of anything wrong.’

My hands grip my phone. ‘Have you told the police all of this? They asked me if he might be having second thoughts.’

‘I can’t imagine that’s the case.’ David’s voice is softer.

Hot tears are pouring down my cheeks. ‘Can you please tell the police that? I need them to know how out of character this is.’

‘I will.’ David pauses. ‘Try not to worry, Amy. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Let’s hope he turns up soon – for both our sakes.’

‘Yes.’ Wiping my face, I remember Matt’s backpack. ‘Have you checked inside his office? I wondered if he might have left his backpack there.’

‘I looked after speaking to the police. It isn’t here, I’m afraid.’

‘What about his car?’ I’m desperate for any clues that might shed light on what’s happened. ‘Have you noticed if it’s still parked outside?’

‘It isn’t. He must have picked it up that evening at some point. When I came in yesterday, it had gone.’ He sounds regretful. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Amy – I have to go. I’m already running late for a meeting. Let’s hope he turns up very soon.’

After the call, the rest of the morning passes interminably slowly. In an attempt to distract myself, I go to my polytunnel to begin planting seeds. It’s a task I usually love, imagining the soft colours of California poppies, bright sunflowers, the nasturtiums that always remind me of the south of France, all of which I’ll cut during summer months. But as I walk in, I see the wedding flowers I’ve been growing, large terracotta pots of white narcissi and hyacinths, their planting timed so that they’ll flower just before our wedding. Then I picture the bouquet I’m planning to make – simple, delicate, scented; another smaller one for Jess, as a lump lodges in my throat.