Kennedy 01 - Into the Shadows

by Shirley Wells

  ‘Her name’s Becky’ He spoke in little more than a whisper.

  ‘She works in the baker’s, on the counter.’

  Not a job that would go down well with his father.

  ‘In the village? The shop with all the scrummy cream cakes in the window?’

  ‘Yes. Green’s.’

  Jill, always a sucker for freshly baked bread, often shopped there. Whenever she’d been inside, there had been two women serving behind the counter. One had to be in her fifties. Joan, was she? The other was probably about thirty.

  The shop’s van was often parked outside. A red van.

  Coincidence? It was a red van with ‘Green’s, Bakers of Distinction’ and a phone number printed on the sides.

  ‘Did you meet her at the shop?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Well, almost. She has a cigarette break and stands outside to smoke. We got talking one day’ He looked embarrassed.

  ‘That’s nice.’ Nice probably wasn’t how Jonathan True man would describe it. ‘Does she live in Kelton?’

  ‘No, she lives in Bacup. Her uncle owns the baker’s in Kelton, and she’s helping him out while she looks for another job.’

  ‘Oh? And what does she want to do?’

  ‘She hasn’t decided yet.’

  Jill pictured the two women in the baker’s. Both seemed highly unlikely candidates for Michael’s affections, but he had to be talking about the younger one.

  ‘She’s very attractive, isn’t she? Tall, too. And I really envy her long blonde hair’

  He blushed. ‘Yes, she is pretty.’

  One thing was clear at least, Alice Trueman would have disapproved of the relationship almost as much as the Reverend Jonathan Trueman. Almost.

  Jill hadn’t spoken to Becky, it was always the other woman who served her, but young Becky looked as if she ought to be taming Eminem. She’d swallow and spit out the likes of Michael without even noticing. Of course, she could be doing the girl a grave injustice. Perhaps she was just as sensitive and gentle as Michael. Jill doubted it.

  ‘She’s, erm, quite a bit older than me,’ he admitted.

  About twelve years, Jill guessed.

  ‘She’s thirty’

  Spot on.

  ‘Really? Well, that seems a lot now, but the gap always appears smaller as you get older. Some friends of mine have been happily married for more than ten years now and they share the same age gap. Karen is twelve years older than Peter.’

  ‘We’re only friends,’ Michael said and, again, he sounded wistful.

  ‘Does she get out and about? Do the deliveries? I think I’ve seen the van about.’

  ‘No.’ His expression was guarded. ‘She just serves in the shop.’

  Rabble chose that moment to wander inside and while Michael leaned out of his chair to make a fuss of her, Jill wondered if he’d got as far as kissing Becky. She doubted it. Perhaps that was no bad thing, but he desperately needed a friend.

  Predictably, as Rabble was being fussed, Tojo jumped off Michael’s lap and wandered off to the kitchen.

  ‘She’s very fickle,’ Jill explained.

  Michael was stroking Rabble with a hand that was shaking violently. Had talk of a red van brought that on?

  “I don’t know what to do,’ he burst out. He looked to Jill as if she might have all the answers.

  No hope of that. She didn’t have the questions let alone the answers.

  ‘You talk,’ Jill said urgently. ‘If you know anything about your mother’s murder, and I believe you do, you have to talk.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘So sorry’

  ‘Don’t be hard on yourself, Michael. You’ve lost your mother and I’m sure you were very close. Everyone expects you to grieve; everybody knows the pain you’re in. You don’t have to wear a brave face all the time, you know.’

  “I don’t know what to do,’ he said again, his voice thick with anguish.

  She knelt on the floor in front of him.

  ‘Talk, Michael,’ she urged him. ‘You have to talk - for your sake and everyone else’s. You’ve enough to deal with without bottling that up. You can talk to anyone - another vicar, the police, your GP, your father, me - but you need to talk.’

  He seemed to recoil when she suggested talking to his father, but perhaps it was the idea of talking to anyone. For the moment, he was choosing to keep things to himself.

  ‘Can’t you talk to Becky?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll have to go.’ He got to his feet, rubbed his handkerchief around his eyes, blew his nose on it, and returned it to his pocket. ‘Thank you for - Thanks, Jill. I’ll see you again.’

  Damn.

  ‘Make sure you do.’ She had to rush to the door to get there before he was gone. ‘And if you need to talk, I’m here. Day or night,’ she called out.

  He turned to wave as he walked down her path.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jill had given in and accepted Andy’s invitation to lunch.

  It was a means of escaping Michael’s problems, and a chance to forget about Valentine for a while.

  She had arranged to meet Andy at The Ram, midway between Todmorden and Burnley. Jill had been there before. It had the relaxed atmosphere of a pub coupled with the welcome addition of a varied menu and delicious food.

  ‘Have you had a chance to speak to Bob yet?’ Andy asked when they’d ordered.

  “I have and he’s coming out tomorrow afternoon to look the place over and give me a quote.’

  ‘He won’t let you down. It’ll be a fair price and he’ll do a good job.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘I’ll bet he’s glad to be doing the work, too. Mrs Blackman was forever getting him to price up the work, and she never got as far as having it done.’

  ‘She was getting on a bit, though,’ Jill pointed out.

  “I expect it was too much hassle.’

  ‘Yes, that’s one reason she moved down to Devon, I think. She wanted to be nearer her family - two of her daughters live down there now. There’s the money involved, too,’ he added with an amused shake of his head. ‘She and her late husband bought your cottage for eighteen hundred pounds and ‘

  Jill laughed at that.

  ‘It’s true,’ Andy went on. ‘She couldn’t believe it when I told her what it was worth. The thought of spending more than that on getting the roof fixed was too much for her.’

  Jill remembered being told much the same thing when Daisy and Len had given her and Bob a lift home from the church.

  Jill wanted the work done as soon as possible. Then, when she didn’t have to worry about loose tiles being torn off in the gales, or old windows falling out, she might be able to sit back and enjoy life in the village.

  Their food was put in front of them.

  ‘This looks delicious. I’m starving.’ Jill immediately began tucking in.

  “I have to eat out regularly or I’d starve,’ Andy admitted with amusement. “I expect I could cook if I put my mind to it, but I can never see the point. It’s a lot of fuss when there’s only one to cook for. Do you find that?’

  “I certainly do. I hate cooking and exist on stuff out of packets. If I can’t take something out of the freezer and slam it in the microwave, I’m not interested.’ She grinned at him. ‘You need a wife. Why haven’t you married?’

  ‘Why haven’t you?’ he retorted.

  “I have.’

  The laugh died on his face to be replaced by embarrassment and shock. “I had no idea. So you’re divorced?’

  ‘Widowed.’

  “I am so sorry.’

  ‘It was a while ago.’ She couldn’t deal with sympathy. If Chris hadn’t got himself shot, they would have been divorced by now. Sympathy seemed out of place given the circumstances. ‘Why haven’t you married?’

  ‘I’ve never met the right woman,’ he said at last. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Ever come close?’ she asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Hey, this is delicious.’ I
t was a long time since she’d had a traditional roast on a Sunday.

  ‘Isn’t it? It almost makes me wish I was still living with my mother,’ he said with a smile. ‘She always made a big thing of Sunday lunch - roast beef with all the trimmings followed by a mouth-watering apple pie and thick custard.’

  ‘Couldn’t you visit her on Sundays?’

  ‘Not really. Besides, now she lives on her own, she doesn’t bother.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He didn’t elaborate and Jill didn’t want to pry. This was supposed to be a relaxing lunch with a friend. She was still wary of getting too involved yet she did want to settle in the village and make friends.

  ‘I would like to,’ he said, confusing her.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Meet the right person,’ he said softly.

  Jill’s fork, with a tender piece of beef on it, hovered midway between her plate and her mouth as she tried to figure out if she was being chatted up. What would her sister make of him? Married with kids, and beginning to believe there was something wrong with Jill, Prue would probably suggest she snap him up before someone else did.

  He was certainly husband material. Good-looking, a steady job that gave him a decent lifestyle … Perhaps, like her, he was ‘too picky’ as Prue was always saying.

  ‘Then I’m sure you will,’ she said briskly.

  ‘Marriage is a funny business, though,’ he went on. ‘You only have to look round Kelton to see that. There’s Tony and Liz for a start. I’m sure they’re madly in love but they spend half their time quarrelling.’

  ‘Do they? What about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, ‘but I suspect Liz’s drinking doesn’t help.’

  ‘Does she have a real problem?’

  ‘I’ve heard she has a bottle of vodka most days, and that’s before she goes out in the evening.’

  Jill grimaced.

  ‘And, of course, Tony’s into this keep fit lark,’ Andy went on.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be doing him much harm,’ Jill replied.

  “I see him running past my cottage most days.

  He’s in great shape for his age.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  Jill gained the impression he wasn’t too keen on Tony, either.

  ‘What about Jonathan and Alice Trueman? They had a good marriage, didn’t they?’

  “I imagine so, yes. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors, though?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Jon said you were there - with the police, I mean when Michael was being questioned. Are you working

  with them again?’

  ‘No. Well, not yet.’ But she would be. She had no choice.

  “I was visiting friends there/ she explained.

  ‘Will you help them catch the serial killer? They’re still no closer to catching him, are they?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard.’

  ‘Will you work on that again?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ There was no need to discuss it with him.

  ‘Liz - Tony’s wife - was saying that she was getting too scared to go out at night. I told her she’s safe enough. His victims have only been prostitutes, haven’t they?’

  ‘Are far as I know, yes.’

  ‘That’s what I told her. Silly for someone like her to worry’

  He didn’t say so, not in so many words, but he seemed to have the ‘only prostitutes so it didn’t matter’ attitude and Jill realized, sadly, that he’d just slipped in her estimation.

  Anne Levington, the sixteen-year-old who’d had such a terrible start in life, was more than ‘only a prostitute’.

  ‘Every woman should be on her guard,’ Jill said, putting down her knife and fork, her plate empty.

  There was no saying that his next victim would be a prostitute. People assumed that Valentine was mentally unstable, ‘a nutter’ as one police officer had described him, but in his own way, Valentine was clever. The murders were all planned to the last detail. He wasn’t careless or sloppy. Each murder was carried out with precision. And a killer, like anyone else in a different profession, developed and grew. Just as an office clerk would seek promotion, so a killer would get more and more ambitious.

  ‘Then we’ll have to hope they soon catch him.’ Andy smiled at her. ‘God, this is gloomy talk for a Sunday. Tell me about yourself. Where do you come from originally?

  I mean, I know you moved from Preston, but you don’t come from that area, do you?’

  ‘Liverpool,’ she told him, glad of the change of subject.

  ‘My parents and my sister and her family still live there.’

  ‘Older or younger sister?’

  ‘Younger. And married with kids, as my mum never fails to point out. What about you?’

  ‘There’s only my mother. She lives in Manchester and I don’t see much of her. Dessert?’ he asked and, laughing, she shook her head.

  “I couldn’t eat another thing. Coffee would be good, though.’

  Over coffee they talked of books, films and music they enjoyed and Jill was amazed to discover their tastes were similar.

  “I love the old black and white films,’ she told him.

  “Me, too. What about Casablanca? That’s probably my all time favourite.’

  ‘Mine, too. Oh, I weep every time. I only have to hear the music’

  Andy laughed. “I remember watching it with my mother.

  She used to cry long before they got to the end. What about more modern films?’

  Jill thought for a moment. ‘Sliding Doors, I just love. And The Fisher King.’

  ‘Ah, The Fisher King brings the odd tear to my eye, I must confess.’

  He went back up in Jill’s estimation. He loved The Fisher King, he must be OK.

  ‘Another coffee?’ he asked.

  “I can’t,’ she said, somewhat reluctantly she was surprised to discover. ‘I’ve got a stack of work that I really must do.’

  ‘OK. Perhaps we can do this again sometime?’

  ‘I’d like that. Thanks, Andy’

  As they walked outside to their cars, Andy’s hand rested in the small of her back. There was something almost possessive in the gesture, but it wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ she said, non-committal as she unlocked her car.

  She sat there for a few moments, watching as he slid behind the wheel of a gleaming red Lotus. She’d spent a pleasant couple of hours with him, she thought he found her attractive - so why couldn’t she be more enthusiastic about seeing him again?

  Pushing the question aside, she fired the engine and drove off. She thought of the work she needed to do, but she wasn’t in the mood. Ever since moving in, she’d been promising to unpack all her books and find homes for them. She’d bought another small bookcase in the week, one that just fitted on the landing, so perhaps she’d fill that up instead.

  When she pulled up at the cottage, she was in time to see Kate hurrying down her path to her car.

  ‘Kate!’ Jill jumped out of her car and ran to hug her.

  ‘What a lovely surprise. Why didn’t you call me?’

  “I should have,’ Kate said, laughing. “I wasn’t sure if your doorbell worked so I’ve been hammering on your door. I have the bruises to prove it.’

  ‘Yes, the doorbell works. I’ve been out to lunch with a friend.’ Jill dashed back to lock her car.

  ‘Male or female?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Male,’ Jill told her, ‘but he’s only a friend.’

  ‘Things must be looking up then,’ Kate said, but she couldn’t quite hide the quick flash of disappointment.

  Jill knew that Kate still hoped she and Max would get back together, no matter how many times Jill told her it wouldn’t happen.

  “I overdid the baking - again,’ Kate explained, changing the subject, ‘so I thought I’d have a ride out here and see if your fr
eezer had any space. It was a bit impulsive and I didn’t stop to think about your being out. I should have phoned.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Come in.’

  Jill unlocked the front door, pushed it open and froze at the sight of the small white envelope lying on the mat.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘That’ll be the milkman’s bill,’ Jill said quickly, picking up the envelope and putting it on the table. No point worrying Kate by telling her that some maniac was stalking her.

  ‘You have a milkman? How civilized. Now then, let me bring these things inside. There are a couple of cherry pies, and a fruit cake for the freezer and a sponge.’

  ‘You’re a gem,’ Jill told her, managing a smile.

  They chatted about Jill’s cottage, the weather and a dozen other things as they unloaded Kate’s car and filled up Jill’s freezer.

  ‘So how are the boys?’ Jill asked at last. She missed them so much.

  ‘Badgering Max to let them have a dog,’ Kate replied with amusement. ‘They’re making his life hell. Serves him right.’ She sighed. ‘He’s working too many hours, as usual, so they don’t see nearly enough of him.’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ Jill agreed.

  “I think I’ll have to get on their side,’ Kate said with a wry smile. ‘I’m not keen on dogs - too much hair and dirt about.’ She sighed as Rabble jumped into the cardboard box that had been emptied of pies. ‘I’m not keen on cats either,’ she said with a laugh, ‘but I think a dog might do Ben good. He’s not as outgoing as Harry. He still misses his mum. He misses you, too, Jill.’

  Not as much as she missed him, Jill suspected. He was one of those kids who was permanently sticky. You could scrub his hands twenty times a day, but he’d still be sticky.

  How she’d loved his sticky hugs, though.

  ‘You’ll end up taking the dog for walks,’ she pointed out, preferring not to comment on Ben’s problems.

  “I know.’ Kate was resigned to that. ‘But yes, the boys are fine. Harry’s fed up with school, although he’s happy enough on the sports field so no change there. He’s in the school football team, which is good going for a thirteenyear-old.

  Mind you, I expect that’ll involve me freezing to death on the sidelines.’