Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall

by Shirley Wells

  ‘Shall we all have a coffee?’ Jill suggested, eyeing two empty mugs on the counter. ‘This must be a very difficult time for you both.’

  ‘It is,’ Ruth Asimacopoulos said. ‘And yes, coffee. Cass, put the kettle on, love.’ To Max and Jill, she added in a whisper, ‘She’s better if she keeps herself busy.’

  Ruth and Cass seemed very distressed considering their employer supposedly had no time for people . . .

  They walked into a large back room and the four of them were soon sitting at a small wooden table, one that wasusually used for arranging bouquets. Each of them had a coffee in front of them. The slogan on Max’s mug, appropriately enough, read I’m Boss. Carol’s mug presumably. The one on Jill’s said Over the Hill.

  ‘What can you tell us about Mrs Blakely?’ Max began when suitable sympathies had been expressed.

  ‘She was the kindest woman imaginable,’ Ruth said quietly. ‘Always ready for a laugh, always a generous, thoughtful employer, never forgot my birthday – never.’

  This last comment had Ruth blowing her nose loudly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘but I can’t accept that she’s gone. She had her whole life in front of her. It was such a shock when Mr Blakely phoned me this morning. I’ve been in Spain on holiday,’ she explained, ‘and I didn’t get home until gone eleven last night because the plane was almost six hours late. I got up for work as normal this morning and I couldn’t believe it when Mr Blakely phoned me with the news. I still can’t take it in.’

  So the tan was from Spain. Jill hoped she came back from her own holiday in Spain the same colour . . .

  ‘Do you know Mr Blakely well?’ Jill asked.

  ‘No.’ Ruth grimaced. ‘He’s been to the shop a few times, but I couldn’t say I know him well. I can only go on what Carol told me about him. And even she didn’t speak too badly of him. She hated living with him, and had asked him for a divorce, but she didn’t badmouth him.’

  Jill frowned. ‘Carol asked her husband for a divorce? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. He wasn’t happy about it, I can tell you that. From what Carol let slip, he wanted a good financial settlement. His own business – he’s an architect, you know – isn’t doing very well. He’s into saving the planet, which is all well and good, but it’s too expensive for most people. So Carol wasn’t happy about his demands. She saw her solicitor about it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. She wanted a divorce but, understandably, she didn’t want him living a life of luxury on the strength ofher hard work. She changed her will at the same time, I gather. It was out of date. I think there were still bequests to her late sisters in it. I don’t know the details though.’

  ‘When was this?’ Max asked.

  ‘About a month ago.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Max murmured.

  ‘It were on my birthday.’ This was the first time Cass had spoken. ‘She bought me this –’ The girl showed them a silver dolphin hanging from a chain around her neck. ‘She bought me this for me birthday and took me and Ruth out for lunch to celebrate. She sent us on ahead – remember, Ruth? – and said she had to see her solicitor to sign her will.’

  ‘Yes, that was it,’ Ruth confirmed.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Jill said gently, nodding at the silver dolphin. ‘And when was your birthday, Cass?’

  ‘Ninth of June. It were a Friday and she let me go home after we’d had lunch. She were like that.’ More sniffling followed this statement.

  Less than a month after signing that will, Carol was murdered.

  ‘Which firm of solicitors did she use?’ Max asked.

  ‘She saw the young girl, name of Susan, at Godfrey’s.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I know them. Thanks.’

  ‘Was there anyone else in her life?’ Jill took a sip of – well, she hadn’t yet decided if it was coffee or tea. It tasted awful, she knew that much. ‘You said she and her husband weren’t getting along too well. Was she seeing someone else, I wonder?’

  ‘She did have a couple of dates with someone,’ Cass told her, ‘but it were only in fun. Lovely-looking he were, too. Came from Bacup or somewhere.’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone.’ Ruth was shaking her head.

  ‘Yes, you know who I mean. It were that fortnight I should have been off, remember? I was supposed to be going on holiday to Majorca,’ she explained for Jill and Max’s benefit, ‘but Sally, the mate I were going with, caught chicken pox so we cancelled at the last minute. Wegot our money back OK.’ She looked at Ruth. ‘You must remember that.’

  ‘Well, yes, but I don’t remember Carol seeing anyone.’

  ‘You must remember that chap who came in. He was from Bacup or – no, it was Kelton Bridge,’ she remembered. ‘He’d just moved there. I think he were renting a cottage. I can’t remember his name. It were unusual,’ she said, chewing on her lip as she tried to remember. ‘Lovely-looking he were, though. I don’t know how many times she saw him, but he called at the shop twice to take her out. We laughed, don’t you remember, Ruth? Carol were always smartly dressed and he turned up in old jeans and a T-shirt that were covered in paint.’

  ‘Oh, him. He didn’t mean anything to her,’ Ruth scoffed.

  ‘Finlay Roberts?’ Jill asked in amazement.

  ‘That’s it,’ Cass said. ‘Finlay Roberts!’

  ‘He’s a neighbour of mine,’ Jill explained, recovering from the surprise.

  ‘It was nothing,’ Ruth said. ‘She saw him twice and that was that.’

  ‘Was there anyone else?’ Max asked. ‘Other friends? Other people she was close to?’

  ‘Not really,’ Ruth answered. ‘You know about her sisters? Brenda and Angie?’

  ‘Her husband told us about the accident. Tragic,’ Jill murmured.

  ‘God, it was,’ Ruth said with feeling. ‘I’d only been working here for three months. My divorce was going through at the time. Andreas, my husband, didn’t take it well and came over to England a couple of times. It was Carol who helped me cope with that. And then the accident happened, and Carol changed totally. She never did get over it. She was always saying she wished she’d died with them.’

  It was a warm day but this room, although ideal for keeping flowers fresh, and they were surrounded by buckets filled with every colour and variety of bloom imaginable, was chilly. And damp.

  The whole place had a sad atmosphere to it.

  Carol Blakely, despite claims to the contrary from her husband, had loved this shop and the people in it. In return, she had been loved.

  ‘This shop,’ Max said, gesturing at the front room, ‘is it doing OK?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Ruth answered immediately. ‘You’ll appreciate, though, that this is a very small part of the business. Having said that, most of the actual work is done here. You can see the order book. There are the weddings and funerals, of course, but the main business comes from the contracts with hotels and suchlike.’

  They followed her into a small side office where Max looked at the ‘order book’. All records were neatly stored on the computer.

  ‘Can you print out details of the jobs done – people placing the orders, that sort of thing – for, say, the last six months?’ Max asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Ruth was glad to be occupied.

  While the printer spewed out pages, Max explained that someone would call later to take the computer away.

  ‘We’ve got the laptop Mrs Blakely used at home,’ he said, ‘and we’ll need to check this one, too.’

  Ruth nodded. ‘That’s OK. So long as I’ve got copies of the orders, I’m better with a notebook anyway.’

  Until instructed otherwise, Ruth would see that Carol’s business ran as efficiently as ever.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Max told Ruth and Cass again, and Jill knew that he too had been touched by their sadness, ‘but I promise you we’ll find the person responsible.’ He handed Ruth a card. ‘If you think of anything else, call me, will you? You may remember someone with
an usual request, someone Mrs Blakely was meeting – anything.’

  Ruth looked doubtful, but she pocketed his card.

  Jill didn’t leave headquarters until seven that evening. She left Max there, digging into Vince Blakely’s affairs.

  On an impulse, instead of going home, she pulled into the Weaver’s Retreat’s car park. It was a long time since she’d put in a full day and it would be good to relax with a drink. She’d planned to do some writing this evening, but she was too tired.

  Once again, she asked herself if she was ready to return to work. Or even if there was a need to. The self-help books she penned provided her with what was just about a sufficient income. Still, it was too late for doubts. The decision had been made and there was no going back. Besides, people were right when they said she was wasting her qualifications. Thanks to her mum’s pushing, she’d worked hard as a youngster to escape the Liverpool council estate on which she’d been brought up. And really, she loved the work. A few last-minute doubts were normal.

  Yes, she’d made the right decision.

  The Weaver’s Retreat was busy and she said a quick hello to several locals as she made her way to the bar.

  ‘Had a good day, Jill?’ Ian, the landlord, asked as he poured her a glass of lager.

  ‘Sorry? Oh, no. Well, I don’t know. Something came up and I had to give the races a miss. I gave my ticket to Bob.’ She glanced across at the blank television screen. ‘Can I put the telly on, Ian, and check the results?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ He handed her the remote control.

  As she was going through the results, Barry joined her.

  ‘Mine are still running,’ he grumbled.

  She grinned at him. ‘Still backing the outsiders?’

  ‘Not much point backing the favourites,’ he told her. ‘I can’t see any fun in putting on a pound to win a pound.’

  Jill couldn’t either, but Barry’s bets were bigger than he made out. It was nothing for him to lose five hundred pounds on a horse.

  ‘I had a second, a third and a non-runner.’ She scowled at the screen. ‘I almost backed The Typhoon, too. He was a good price.’

  ‘He was. Oh, well, I’d better be off. The day I’ve had, I can’t afford Ian’s prices. Be seeing you, Jill.’

  ‘See you, Barry. Better luck next time.’

  She returned the remote control to Ian. ‘A waste of time.’

  ‘What kept you away from the races then?’ he asked as he gave change to someone else.

  ‘Oh, something . . .’

  ‘Ah, police work. This murder?’

  ‘Mm,’ she agreed.

  ‘Do they have any idea who did it?’

  ‘It’s early days, Ian. Is it in tonight’s paper?’

  He ducked behind the bar for the Evening Telegraph and handed it to her. A photo of Carol Blakely dominated the front page and several more had been printed on page two.

  Jill skimmed the article and handed it back.

  ‘Did you know her, Ian?’

  ‘No. On the rare occasions I need to get flowers for something or someone, I stay local. I don’t know the husband either, although he’s a member at the golf club and I’ve seen him up there. That reminds me . . .’ He pointed at some raffle tickets. ‘Can I sell you a ticket?’

  ‘You usually do,’ she replied with amusement. If he hadn’t been a publican, Ian would have made a great salesman.

  With raffle tickets in her purse, Jill picked up her drink and moved away from the bar. She headed outside to see if anyone was taking advantage of the tables in the small garden at the back of the pub.

  Finlay Roberts was sitting at one, staring into an almost full pint of beer. It was rare to see him alone. Usually, he was surrounded by people, carrying on as if he were the life and soul of the party.

  ‘May I join you,’ she asked, ‘or would you prefer to be alone?’

  His face cleared, he rose to his feet and gave her a sweeping bow. ‘My darling girl, what a wonderful surprise!’

  Stunning-looking he was, but Jill suspected his over-the-top gestures would drive people mad in a short space of time.

  ‘You were looking thoughtful,’ she remarked as she sat opposite him. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Wonderful!’ The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘How’s your day been? You had a day at the races, I hear.’

  ‘Sadly not. I had to cancel. Police work,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, yes. The murder. It puts our burglaries into perspective, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does.’ Jill took a sip of her drink and waited for him to say more. Nothing was forthcoming, however. ‘I gather you knew her,’ she said at last.

  ‘Not really.’ He pushed his hair back from his face. ‘It was like this. I had flowers to order for my ma’s birthday so I went into her shop. Three days later, my sister had her baby so I went back. I had to reassure her that I wasn’t a stalker.’ He smiled at that. ‘She was a beautiful woman.’

  ‘So I gather.’ He was being surprisingly reticent. ‘It’s awful when something like this happens, isn’t it?’ she murmured. ‘Especially when you know the person involved.’

  ‘As I said, I didn’t really know her. We had a brief chat and a laugh, but that was it.’

  It wasn’t ‘it’. According to Ruth and Cass, he’d taken her out at least twice.

  ‘Hark at us,’ he said, smile firmly back in place. ‘It’s a beautiful evening and I’m sure you don’t want to talk work. Let me get you another drink.’

  Jill put her hand over her glass. ‘Not for me, Finlay. I only called in for a quick one. I’ve got the car.’

  ‘A soft drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. Really.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. Soft drinks are the devil’s own brew.’

  She smiled, as was expected, but her mind was racing. Why hadn’t he said he’d taken her out? Possibly because he thought it was none of her business, she answered her own question. In a way, he was right. She wasn’t working with the police officially.

  She finished her drink. ‘Right, I’m off. Be seeing you, Finlay.’

  ‘See you later, darling girl!’

  Chapter Six

  Max forced open his eyes and focused on the alarm clock. Five forty-two. The knowledge that he could lie in bed for another hour was bliss. He closed his eyes and rolled over. All was quiet. There was nothing to keep him awake.

  Nothing except case notes, witness statements, photographs of murdered women, and memories of the day Edward Marshall drove over that cliff to his death. Possible death . . .

  It was Wednesday. Carol Blakely’s body had been found on Saturday evening, and they still had nothing concrete to work on.

  This morning, he intended to have a chat with Edward Marshall’s widow, assuming she was a widow. He could remember her well. She had straggling black hair, missing teeth and short skirts that would have looked great on an eighteen-year-old but, on her, were enough to turn the stomach. There was also a mean streak running all the way through her.

  He lay down and closed his eyes again, but it was a waste of time. He might as well get up and do something productive.

  Ten minutes later, he’d showered, shaved and dressed. All done without waking Harry and Ben, too. Even the dogs hadn’t stirred. Holly had crept on to his bed and made herself comfortable, and Fly was no doubt on the foot of Ben’s bed dreaming up fresh acts of mayhem.

  At least it was another beautiful morning which made being out of bed less painful. He stepped outsideto enjoy the peace, and the warmth of the early morning sun . . .

  Despite what Ruth Asimacopoulos had believed, Carol Blakely had changed her will to make ‘my best friend, Ruth’ the main beneficiary eighteen months ago. Until then, there had been generous bequests to her sisters and the rest would have gone to Vince Blakely. Ruth was right in that Carol had amended her will a month ago, but the only change was to add a bequest of ten thousand pounds to the local hospice . . .

  Looking around, it stru
ck Max just how tidy his garden was. Full of summer colour, too. Max could take no credit. His mother-in-law must have spent hours filling the borders with bedding plants. They’d obviously been there a while, too. He really should pay more attention.

  Sometimes, he thought it would be bliss to retire early and spend his days pottering in the garden. Reality soon kicked in, though, and he knew he would be bored rigid in no time. Today, however, was one of those days when pottering appealed.

  Alas.

  He went back inside and shouted up the stairs. ‘Come on, you two. Move it!’

  Ben and Harry were soon up and dressed for school. Once downstairs, they were pushing toast down their throats as if they hadn’t eaten for weeks.

  ‘Don’t forget it’s parents’ evening on Friday,’ Harry reminded him between mouthfuls.

  Ben pulled a face. ‘We don’t have to go, do we?’

  ‘Are we parents?’ Harry scoffed.

  ‘This Friday?’ Max asked in astonishment.

  ‘Yes.’ Harry wore his resigned expression and nodded at the notice, a bright sheet of A4, pinned to the fridge door.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Max promised.

  He’d forgotten all about it, but he would be there. It had to be a couple of years since he’d managed the last one, and there was nothing like hearing how academically challenged your kids were. Fortunately, Harry excelled on thesports field. Ben, three years younger than his brother, refused to excel at anything.

  ‘You’d better do some hard graft between now and Friday then,’ he added.

  The newspaper was pushed through the letterbox.

  ‘Fetch!’ Ben said, and Fly, part labrador, part collie, part psychopath, raced off to collect it. When the dog dropped it, unchewed, at Ben’s feet, even Max thought he deserved the piece of toast that Ben slipped him.

  ‘Hey, very impressive,’ Max said, surprised. He reached for the paper and unfolded it –

  ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘Dad!’

  Two hands shot out. Somehow managing to keep a few more furious expletives to himself, Max dug into his pockets and handed over two fifty-pence pieces for the swear box. Ben and Harry were saving for their holiday in Spain. At this rate, they’d be able to fly all their mates out and put them up in five-star hotels . . .