[May 2015. At an office in the centre of Newcastle upon Tyne]
“Flowers for a J Parsons?” came the cry from the deliveryman who’d just entered the busy office.

Almost everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look towards a small man whose desk was right at the far end of the office and almost hidden by six grey filing cabinets.

The man went bright red in the face.

“I…. I’m John Parsons.”

The office went silent as the delivery man walked to the far end and placed the flowers on John's desk.

John scrawled his signature on the clipboard that was thrust under his chin by the delivery man. The man left the still silent office with a little smile on his face. After all, it was not every day, that a man was given a bunch of 60 roses, and red ones as well. For someone regarded as almost invisible to the majority in the office this was going to get juicy in terms of speculation, innuendo and gossip.

As soon as the delivery man had disappeared, the silence ended. Furtive glances were made in his direction. John did his best to hide the embarrassment by hiding behind the roses.

Eventually, one person stood up and went to his desk, and after being unable to find a card in the bouquet, she asked,

"Well, John, aren't you going to tell us who sent you the flowers?" asked Spencer Mount, whose desk was nearest to that of sat John’s. Those were the first words he'd said to John in almost a year.

John knew all too well who had sent them. Someone he didn't even dare to think about, much less talk about in the office.

He stared into space thinking ‘If only I hadn’t…’

John didn't bother to answer his question.

“Can’t you see the poor boy is embarrassed…” said another colleague.

John sat frozen to his desk, unable to move or speak. The arrival of the flowers meant that his present life, such as it was, was well and truly over.

The silence in the office had attracted the attention of the Office Manager, a weasel eyed man named Ken McCall. He came out of his office and glared at everyone.

“What the heck is everyone doing? We need those customer accounts finalised and sent out by the end of the day.”

Gradually everyone got back to work. Everyone apart from John. He sat motionless, unable to take his eyes off the flowers. The manager came over to John's desk. As soon as he saw the flowers, a devilish smile spread over his face.

"So… pretty boy has a secret admirer. You must be very special then pretty boy, to warrant such a nice present. They look far too good for a loser like you. I know someone who would appreciate them a lot more than the nobody that you are."

Then, and as calm as a cucumber, Ken picked up the flowers and took them back to his office.

Everyone in the office watched him walk back towards his office. The smile on his face grew and grew so that by the time he closed the door behind him, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat on steroids.

John's embarrassing day wasn't over until he left the office along with everyone else. For once, they didn't rag him about his diminutive frame and very effeminate manners. Instead, they gave Ken McCall a dose of verbal's. Openly stealing the flowers that had been given to John was beyond the pale.

John ignored the chatter that went on around him. He’d learned to tune it out many years before. He headed for the first of two busses that would take him home for the weekend.

---

That was the last time that anyone saw or heard from John Parsons. For some reason, the CCTV on the busses he was supposed to take was out of action that day. There was a video of someone looking like him getting into a plain white Ford Transit van at the Metro Centre. That van was later recorded driving south on the A1 until it turned off near Catterick. After that, there were no further sightings. The numberplates that the van used were false. The real ones belonged to a bus that operated in East London. Every lead that was given to the Police turned into a dead end. It was as if John had simply vanished off the face of the earth.

Despite, a lot of searching and even appeals on TV, no further leads of any significance came to light. No one ever mentioned the delivery of flowers that had could well have been the catalyst that had triggered his disappearance.

Over time, the image of John Parsons, such as it was, faded from memory. The truth was that no one missed him. He was just a face that was quickly forgotten in the mass of information that bombarded people from all sides in this day and age.

The case remained open but… John was like several thousand people from all over the country who just vanished and very much didn't want to be found.

---

[August 2015. Gatwick Airport, West Sussex, UK]

“Fifty-three to control,” said the security officer.

“Control to Fifty-three. What is your problem.”

“There seems to be an abandoned BMW in the Departure’s Drop-Off zone.”

“I’ve got it on the screen,” said Control.

“I think we should get it towed ASAP. It has been there for almost twenty minutes.”

"I'll get the tow organised. In the meantime, I'll get onto the Police and run the plates. This isn't the first time that we've had a car left there because the owner was late for their flight."

"This one is brand new, though. Those other ones were mostly old clunkers.”

“Just keep the traffic moving around the obstruction. Control out.”

Twenty minutes later, the tow truck arrived and took the almost new BMW 1-Series away to the impound yard. It was going to cost the owner several hundred pounds to be re-united with their car.

The BMW sat unclaimed in the impound yard for a few days before the Police started to investigate. The DVLA [1] records showed that the owner lived in the nearby town of Crawley. It soon turned out that the owner was away on holiday and had been for almost two weeks so it could not have been him who took the car to the airport and left it there.

After consulting the videotapes from the airport, it became clear that the car had been stolen. The owner was a man in his early 60's, and the thief was clearly a lot younger.

On the off chance that the owner knew the thief, the Police showed photos of the person suspected of stealing the car to its owner.

“That’s my grandson, Davy Cartwright,” said newly returned from holiday owner.

Armed with the grandson's address, the Police conducted further enquiries. They failed to find the grandson, but there was plenty of evidence to support the theory that he'd left his bedsit in something of a hurry. What did surprise the officers was the presence of a large bouquet of red roses lying on his small table. There was no evidence of who had sent the flowers, and none of the local florists was able to help, so that was just another dead end. He’d not even given notice at his job as a plumber for the local council. One officer remarked that it was almost like the Marie Celeste.

Nothing on his social media accounts, gave any hint as to his whereabouts or even that he was thinking of disappearing. He'd arranged to go to watch the local football team, Crawley Town, play their first home match of the new season with a friend. This was something that they'd done many times before.

Davy lived within walking distance of the ground and would meet his friend at his place before they walked to the match. The friend had tried to call Davy on his phone when he didn't answer his doorbell. The Police had found the phone in his home. They soon discovered that the phone had been wiped clean of all data. That didn't bode well in the search for him.

At first, the Police assumed that Davy had gone to the airport in order to take a flight but his name was missing from all the passenger manifests.

After a lot more scanning of the CCTV from the Airport a lead was found. It showed Mr Cartwright buying a train ticket from a self-service machine and then taking a Southern Railway train to Portsmouth, where the trail ended.

Yet more inquiries revealed that no one by that name had taken a cross channel ferry that day or any day for the following week. They checked video from the ferries that went back and forth to the Isle of Wight. He was seen looking back towards the mainland as the ferry came close to the terminal at Ryde. After one image of him walking through the town on the Newport Road, the trail went cold despite the Police on the Island keeping their eyes open for him.

After two months, the Police decided to halt their investigations. Davy Cartwright, had like many others just dropped out of sight. Most of those who did that would eventually reappear in the future. A certain percentage of missing people just kept off the radar for many, many years. The facts of the case suggested that he'd left and just did not want to be found.

The case became another file to be added to the ever-growing pile of 'cold cases' that may or may not see a resolution in the coming years.

---

[Township of Boston, Georgia, USA – September 2015]

"Wayne, can you go to the store and pick up our order?"

"Sure thing Mom but can it wait until after the game? Georgia Tech is playing the 'Tar Heels', and Brad's brother is playing Linebacker for the Tech? He’s invited me over to watch on their new big screen.”

Wayne's Mom smiled. She was torn between being thankful for her son not being big enough, or as she put it, dumb enough to play any sort of Football and wishing that he was a bit more of a jock at school. That would have gotten rid of the bullying. It was only last week that his truck, a lovingly restored 1940 Ford pickup had been spray-painted with the words 'queer', 'pervert' and what was even worse, the use of the word 'rapist'.

The summer break had been one of one unmitigated disaster after another for her family. Her husband Al, was Engineering Officer on a Nuclear Sub. He was away on one of his regular 3-6 month deployments. She'd been on her own when it became known that her son was about to be charged with rape had emerged. It had taken money that they didn't have for their lawyer to get the allegations dismissed.

The Police dropped their investigation of him when Wayne produced a speeding ticket that he'd received on the outskirts of Atlanta when the offence was supposed to have occurred. But as with all rumours, once they had spread, they were never far from the surface. His son had been down to Atlanta to pick up a new mattress for his bed at the time. CCTV clearly showed him at the store and loading it onto his truck.

Their lawyer threatened to sue the girl who alleged that Wayne had raped her and made her pregnant to get a DNA test. The real culprit, Cole Wright, had eventually come forward and said, 'it was me'. He didn't get charged because his father just happened to be the Chief of Police. The phrase ‘Justice Matters’ was an alien concept in their part of the world.

“Sure, thing but, remember not to drink any of the shine that Brad's other brother brews up. Last time, you had a sore head for three days."

"Sure thing, Mom."

Wayne left the house and drove his truck the three or so miles to Brad’s home to watch the game.

After the game, Wayne headed for the local supermarket and picked up their family’s order. He never made it home.

The local Police Department found Wayne's truck at a Truckstop on I-85 the next day. There was no sign of Wayne. The grocery order was still in the front passenger well, and a large bunch of red roses was found still wrapped in cellophane on the bed of the truck.

Despite intensive investigations, no sign of Wayne was ever found. His Mom thought from the outset that the same people who had spray-painted the truck were behind the disappearance. She maintained that the local P-D was not putting every effort into finding her son. Without her husband around to help keep the pressure on, efforts to find her son were scaled down after less than a day. It might have been different, if Wayne was a minor but, since he'd turned eighteen, he was legally free to go wherever he wanted.

People would talk about her family behind their backs. No one was willing to come forward and say outright that it was a good thing that her son was gone. Such is life in a small town in rural Georgia.

When Wayne’s father returned from his tour of duty, he tried to get the case re-opened but to no avail. The general feeling of ‘good riddance’ towards his family caused them to move away before the end of the year.

[Dudley Avenue, Newhaven, Edinburgh – March 2016]

“Hi Dad,” said William Murchison as he answered his phone.

"Sorry, son. I won't be able to go with you to the match tonight."

William sighed. This wasn’t all that unusual.
“What is it this time? A tourist stubbed their toe climbing Arthur’s Seat?”

That was a standing joke between them. As a child, William had stubbed his toe doing that very same thing and had broken the little toe on his left foot.

“Just a dead body in ‘The Grassmarket’.”
“They are a dime a dozen these days, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but this one is different. It is your favourite MSP [1]. I’m afraid that he took a dive from a window of Madam Vicky’s.”

Madam Vicky’s was a well known ‘Gentlemen’s Club’ that was well known to have a brothel attached. The club was frequented by Edinburgh's male elite, including government ministers. The place was strictly off-limits to the Police on official investigations. This sort of incident was just too public to brush under the carpet.

William laughed. He knew of the place by reputation.

"I get you, Dad."

"Thanks, son. Enjoy the match."

Both of them were season ticket holders at Easter Road, the home of Hibernian or ‘Hibs’ for short.

“It should be an easy win for us. Alloa is not the toughest opposition we have faced this season."

His father laughed.
“Don’t take it for granted. A playoff place is at stake.”

“I know. See you after the match in the Guildford Arms?”

"Yeah. I should be finished, placating the political numpties down at Holyrood by then."

William’s father, Donald Murchison, was Procurator Fiscal for the city of Edinburgh. His duty that night was to supervise the investigation into the death of the MSP. He'd much rather be at the football match at Easter Road but… duty calls.

---

[the next morning at William’s home]

"Did William come home last night?" asked Donald to his wife Heather.

“I thought that I heard him come in just before eleven. Why?”

"I was supposed to meet him for a pint in the Guildford Arms after the match but, the First Minister wanted my report in person. As if a few hours would make any difference."

His wife tittered.
"Did Gregor finally get caught with his pants down?"

“Yeah, and that was his final act. The cobbles of the Grassmarket are really no place to meet your maker even for a philandering scumbag like him.”

“The city won’t be the same without him to brighten it up on an almost weekly basis.”

“There is no sound coming from William’s room,” said his mother.
“If he does not appear soon, he’ll be late for work… again.”

Her husband smiled and took the hint.
“I’ll give him a nudge.”

“Thanks, dear.”

He went upstairs in search of his son. After getting no response to a knock on the door to his bedroom, he went inside.

A shock of cold air greeted him. The bedroom window was wide open. William's bed hadn't been slept in. The investigator in him took over, and he came to the conclusion that his son was missing. His wallet and phone were on the table at the side of his bed. Then there was the huge bunch of red roses lying on the unused bed.

He backed out of the bedroom and went downstairs.

“Well? Is he moving yet?” asked his wife.

"William isn't there. Something's not right. His wallet and phone are on the bedside table, and his bedroom window is wide open."

“So?”

"There is a big bunch, and I mean very big… bunch of red roses lying on his bed. William would never buy roses even on St Valentine's day for the woman he was going to marry. He’s just not that sort of person, is he?”

His wife, Heather, had to agree with that.

“What are you going to do?”

"Call in the troops. I'm going to have to recuse myself, though."

His wife of almost thirty years came over and gave him a big hug.
“I understand but, please do your best to find our son. He's all we have got."

“I will do everything I can to find him. He’s not the sort of boy to go off like this.”

"He's hardly a boy, my dear. He's twenty-three."

Donald didn’t answer but gripped his wife tightly. He knew just how many people in the city went missing every year and just how few of them were found alive after a year. Donald had to keep that sort of information from his wife.

[to be continued]

[1] MSP = Member of the Scottish Parliament.