In a development so lurid it would make even the most jaded crime novelist blush, a suspected gang leader met his maker yesterday in a floral frenzy at Gatwick Airport. The victim, known only as 'Petals' to his underworld associates, was allegedly dispatched via a bouquet of calla lilies and chrysanthemums, which, it transpires, contained a rather more lethal payload than mere pollen. The UK counter-terror monitor, ever vigilant for signs of botanical barbarism, has been placed on high alert.
One imagines the security briefing: 'Be on the lookout for any ficus with a furtive demeanour, any suspiciously seditious shrubbery.' This is Gonzo journalism, folks. This is the world we inhabit, where a simple 'I love you' can be a prelude to a bullet, where a florist's shop becomes an armoury, and where the most dangerous thing at an airport is not the baggage claim but the bloody bouquet.
The audacity, the sheer horticultural hutzpah of it all, is breathtaking. The police, of course, are baffled. They've cordoned off the flower stall, a scene of carnage that smells suspiciously of lavender and gunpowder.
I can only assume the killer was a graduate of the 'School of Hard Cabbage', a place where they teach you that the best place to hide a weapon is in plain sight, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bow. The victim, a man known for his iron grip on the city's drug trade, was apparently on his way to a 'meeting of minds' when he was intercepted by this bouquet of doom. One can only imagine the last thing he saw: a cascade of petals, a flash of green, and then the long, dark night.
The counter-terror monitor's involvement suggests a level of sophistication that goes beyond your run-of-the-mill gangland rub-out. Could this be the work of international cartels? Russian oligarchs?
Or merely a disgruntled florist with a grudge? We may never know. But one thing is certain: the flower industry will never be the same.
I, for one, will be eyeing my next boutonniere with a degree of suspicion previously reserved for politicians and used car salesmen. This is Barnaby 'Biff' Thistlethwaite, reporting from the front line of the absurd. Remember: in a world gone mad, the flowers are not your friends.
