John Gardner - Never send flowers

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,' Fredericka said quietly. `James, let's get out of here." He nodded, for there was a terrible, creepy feeling, as though the dead woman were in the room with them. If he had any faith in the supernatural, Bond might even have believed that the monster David March, and his sister, Laura, were both there, chuckling furtively from the small bed. For the second time that evening he felt the short hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Carefully folding the letter and slipping it into his pocket, Bond turned to face Fredericka. She was ashen, trembling, tears starting at her eyes, the marks of shock springing from her, as though she had suffered a wound. He wrapped his arms around her, knowing that he too was trembling.

`Yes, Fredericka. Things like this are enough to spook anyone. Let's go." He locked the door behind them, and they rode in silence down in the elevator to the reception desk where the stern Fraulein Bruch looked up without a smile.

`I'm afraid we can t deal with all of my cousin s effects tonight." His voice was back to normal: level and confident. `It's been a long day, so we're going to have to ask you to wait until tomorrow. I'll do it, myself, first thing in the morning.

Marietta Bruch allowed a brief look of irritation to cross her face before saying that she understood perfectly. Snapping her fingers for the porter, she instructed him to show Mr and Mrs Bond to their room.

There was one bedroom with a king-sized bed which had a reproduction Victorian head and foot black metal bars rising as though caging the two ends, and huge ornamental brass bedknobs, polished and gleaming. The spacious sitting-room had been remodelled, contrasting oddly with the bedroom. It contained a suite of black leather furniture, a businesslike desk, circular glass table, television and minibar refrigerator. Bond felt an involuntary chilling shudder as the tiny fridge brought David March's horrible cold storage vault vividly back to mind.

The large french windows, at the far end of the sitting-room, led to a long balcony which overlooked the front of the hotel. Fredericka had gone straight out on to it as soon as the porter had been tipped and shown out.

Bond followed, standing beside her, looking down on the steady parade of locals and tourists out on their after-dinner stroll in the well-lit streets, part of the ritual of any Swiss tourist resort.

By now the air had a chill to it, but they stood close together, in silence for a few moments, until he gently put an arm around her shoulders, leading her back into the room and guiding her to the long, black settee.

`There has to be a rational answer to this." He held the letter between two fingers and thumb of his right hand. `We are certain that David March died five years ago?" `Absolutely. There's no doubt." Colour had returned to her cheeks, but her voice still retained a trace of fear. `I've seen the death certificate a copy anyway-and..." `What did he die of?" `A brain tumour. Nothing to do with his mental state, which had really gone downhill by then.

David March became a walking, grunting vegetable in spite of the drugs. Three months before he died, the doctors noticed indications of severe headaches, and eye problems. They did all the usual things, X-rays, a CAT scan, the lot. The tumour was inoperable. He died in great discomfort, in spite of high-dosage painkillers." `And do we know if Laura saw him?" `No. None of his family ever visited him. For them, it was as though he had ceased to be." `Then there are three possibilities." He indicated the letter again. `This is either a plant, which seems quite likely-because the cops didn't remove it or Laura was writing to someone else, someone she thought of as a brother-lover; or, the last theory, that she was also unbalanced, which could mean it was a piece of mental fabrication on her part. First, I think, we have to make certain it really was written by her.

He crossed the room, picking up his briefcase, thumbing the security locks and opening it to reveal a laptop computer with a portable fax machine lying next to it. `How our trade has changed,' he laughed. `There was a time when n:\y briefcase was a lethal weapon, now the armoury is almost totally electronic." He did not add that the case, in fact, did contain a couple of concealed items that could be lethal if used properly.

After reorganizing the modular telephone plugs, and switching on the fax machine, he took a clean sheet of the hotel stationery, placed it on the glass tabletop and wrote a suitably cryptic message as a fax cover page. This he fed into the machine, dialling the safe fax number in London. The cover sheet went through, followed by the two pages they had removed from Laura March's room.

`By the morning we should have a simple fax back, on the hotel's machine. It'll simply say yes or no. If it's yes, then we have to work out what little Laura was up to fantasy or reality." `You only asked about the letter?" `I've asked them to identify the handwriting as Laura's, and to recheck the facts regarding David March's death.

We'll get some clues in the morning, and first thing I'm going to go through her room again. You stay here, the place has a bad effect on you.

She gave a dry little laugh. `You were completely unaffected by it, yes?" `No. You know I wasn't. We were both spooked." He went over to the little minibar fridge.

`Brandy? Vodka? Whisky? What d'you fancy?" `Brandy I think." He smiled at her, allowing his fingers to brush her shoulder after he had placed the glasses on the table. She still looked thoroughly shaken.

Bond poured from two miniature Remy Martins. He rotated his glass, watching the amber liquid as it swirled around. Then he took a sip.

`This should help relax both of us. We really should get as much rest as we can. Tomorrow's going to be a long day." She did not look at him, but nodded, as she put the glass to her lips.

`I'll use this couch, here. You take the bed." Still Fredericka did not reply, and after a while Bond said he would shower and leave her in peace. She was sitting, staring into space when he returned, having unpacked his garment bag, showered and slipped into the robe provided by the hotel.

She left the sitting-room, saying only that she would look in and see him before she went to bed.

Bond, feeling very restless, poured the last of the brandy into his glass and sat back to watch the CNN news. Half an hour later he barely heard the door to the bedroom open, and he just caught the whisper of clothing behind him. Looking around he saw Fredericka, framed in the doorway. She wore nothing but a filmy triangle of silk and lace, her hair gleamed, and the green eyes were wide open, so that he again felt she had the ability to drown him with a look.

`Ah, Fredericka's secret.

`Your secret, James." He rose and she came towards him, moulding her body to his, one hand reaching up, cradling the back of his head in her palm, fingers outstretched, pulling his lips on to her mouth.

`It's been a long time,' she whispered. `But I must have some comfort tonight. Please." The last word was not a plea, but something else which came from deep within her. Then, slowly she led him into the bedroom.