Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall

by Shirley Wells

  Chapter Nine

  Jill parked at the back of Forget-me-nots and then walked round to the front of the shop. It was almost six o’clock, but the Open sign was still showing so she walked inside.

  She was having a day at the races tomorrow, and had lots to do this evening, but she’d been driving past and had been surprised to see the shop still open. There were several people looking at the fresh flowers, a couple looking at silk flowers, a woman inspecting a display of vases, and a man trying to choose a greetings card from the stand.

  Jill hadn’t realized that Carol Blakely’s business was so lucrative, or that this shop was such a small part of it. Including Ruth and Cass, Carol had employed a staff of eighteen. Practically every hotel and town hall in Lancashire, it seemed to Jill, boasted contracts for flower arrangements with Carol. When the solicitors had done their bit, Ruth would be a wealthy woman.

  Seemingly oblivious to this fact, the woman was wrapping white roses for a young, suit-clad man.

  ‘Can I help?’ she asked Jill when the man had left.

  ‘Jill Kennedy,’ she reminded her. ‘I was hoping for a word about –’

  ‘Ah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you for a minute. Come through to the back.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jill followed her to the back room.

  ‘Can you give me a couple of minutes to help Cass with the rush?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Help yourself to tea or coffee,’ Ruth added as she headed back out front.

  Jill didn’t bother with coffee. Instead, she looked around the chilly room. Flowers sat in buckets of water, and despite the fact that the shop would soon be closing for the day, several tied bouquets awaited collection or delivery. The room at the side looked exactly the same apart from the empty space where the computer used to live. The monitor and printer sat forlornly with their cables dangling.

  Ruth returned and Jill was pleased to see her looking stronger, more able to cope. She was wearing a long, mauve skirt, a black waistcoat and lots of bracelets and necklaces. On Jill’s last visit, Ruth either hadn’t applied any make-up or it had been washed away by tears. Today her face was made-up and she looked more striking than ever.

  ‘We’ve been busy all day,’ she told Jill, taking a seat at the desk. ‘We’re always busy first thing with people on their way to work. It’s the same at lunchtimes, and just before hospital visiting times. We usually have a rush about now, with people leaving work to go home, but it’s been exceptional today.’

  Morbid curiosity, Jill suspected. People would have read about the murder and come for a closer look at Carol’s shop. However, she didn’t say so. They talked about the business for a couple of minutes until Jill got to the point of her visit.

  ‘I wondered if you’d had more time to think about things? We’re really trying to find out if Carol – Mrs Blakely – was romantically involved with anyone.’

  ‘I’ve already been asked the same thing, and no, I’m sure she wasn’t. She would have told me.’

  That’s what Jill had thought.

  ‘We know she saw Finlay Roberts a couple of times,’ Jill went on. ‘Did she tell you about that? I know you and Cass saw him when he came to the shop, but did she mention having a couple of evenings out with him?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’ Ruth played with a stray thread on her skirt. ‘We were close. If there was anything important, she would have told me.’

  ‘Phew!’ Cass came through to join them. ‘I’ve locked up,’ she said, and Ruth nodded.

  ‘That’s it for another day then.’

  ‘Cass,’ Jill began, ‘do you remember Carol mentioning a date with Finlay Roberts?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She laughed about it. Don’t you remember, Ruth? She said she must be mad because she was going out with a customer just because he was handsome and he made her laugh. She said he could be an axe-murderer for all she –’ Cass put a hand to her mouth, horrified at what she’d said. ‘Sorry, but that’s what she said. Those exact words.’

  ‘And that was all?’ Jill asked.

  ‘As far as I can remember, yes.’

  ‘What about when you saw him in the shop?’ Jill pressed on. ‘What happened then? How did they seem together?’

  ‘It were mad, weren’t it, Ruth?’ Cass smiled at the memory. ‘Carol were a quiet person, not shy, not in the least, but a bit reserved. A private person. He were different again. At one stage, he were dancing around the shop with a red rose between his teeth. Then he put it in Carol’s hair and danced her around, didn’t he, Ruth?’

  ‘He did, yes. Gosh, I’d forgotten that.’

  Unless Jill was mistaken, Cass was another who had fallen for Finlay’s roguish charm.

  ‘Then,’ Cass rushed on, ‘saying that red suited her, he bought a length of red ribbon – you know, the sort we use for the bouquets? – and tied that in her hair.’

  ‘Red ribbon?’ Jill could feel her heart hammering against her ribcage.

  ‘Yes.’ Cass laughed. ‘He bought the whole roll, in fact.’

  ‘Oh? Have you got some here? Can you show me a piece?’

  ‘Of course we have.’ Ruth got to her feet. ‘Is it important?’ she asked, heading for the shop.

  ‘Who knows?’ Jill said lightly.

  The ribbon that had been tied around Carol’s waist had been checked at the lab, but they’d found nothing that might help. All they could say was that it was a common ribbon that could be bought almost anywhere. They’d found no fibres, no clues . . .

  Ruth returned to the back room with four rolls of red ribbon.

  ‘I can’t remember which sort he bought,’ she said. ‘I have it in my mind it was this one.’ She handed the roll of two-inch wide ribbon to Jill. ‘Although it may have been this one,’ she added, handing over another, slightly narrower roll.

  Jill knew that the ribbon tied around Carol’s waist had been half an inch wide.

  ‘May I take samples of each of these?’ she asked.

  ‘As much as you want.’ Ruth reached for the scissors. ‘Is this important?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jill said, surprised at how heavy her heart felt.

  She liked Finlay Roberts. She enjoyed his sense of fun, his refusal to take life seriously. Added to which, she didn’t want to think she might be living next door to a killer.

  ‘It was definitely this colour?’ she asked, her throat dry.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Do you sell any other sizes?’

  ‘No,’ Ruth told her. ‘Just these four widths.’

  Ruth carefully cut six-inch strips from each of the rolls, put them in a small, white paper bag and handed it over.

  ‘Thanks.’ Jill put it in her handbag. ‘Finlay Roberts and Carol – did they seem close, do you think? Could it be possible that they’d known each for a long time?’

  ‘No,’ Ruth scoffed. ‘They hadn’t met before. They were like a pair of school kids really. As Cass said, Carol was quiet and reserved normally, but he made her laugh. He was behaving like a clown. They were just having a bit of fun.’

  Just having a bit of fun . . .

  They were strangers, or so everyone believed. Carol had never met Finlay Roberts until he walked into her shop one day. So what took him there? Was it really that he needed flowers for his mother and his sister? Or did he have a more sinister motive?

  Chapter Ten

  DC Simpson didn’t feel up to the job. It was his first week back at work after a holiday in Rhodes where he and four mates had tried to drink the island dry. It was his first week back in Harrington, too.

  It wasn’t his first encounter with DCI Trentham, though. In fact, Trentham was one of the reasons he’d requested a transfer to London three years ago. An ex-wife being the other reason.

  The Green Man was opposite headquarters, and after a long day Johnny felt in need of a drink and a laugh with his new colleagues. What he wasn’t in need of was Trentham’s company. Johnny had read the local rag’s shocking headline a
nd he knew someone would come in for some stick from Trentham. He guessed he’d be top of Trentham’s list, too.

  Four years ago, he’d made an innocent enough comment to a reporter and Trentham had been furious . . .

  ‘Sit down,’ Trentham said now and, unable to think of a plausible excuse not to, Johnny sat. It didn’t do to argue with Trentham.

  These days, people said one couldn’t wish for a better boss. It was even rumoured that he’d got a thing going with Jill Kennedy, the psychologist, but Johnny struggled to believe that. She was a looker, in a casual sort of way. She had a great bum and good legs. At least, he thought she had. He’d only seen her in jeans. She could have done a lot better for herself than Trentham, though . . .

  The Green Man was enjoying a brisk trade, althoughthere were more standing outside than in. Those outside were smoking. A large television dominated the far corner of the room, but no one was looking at it and the volume was switched off. There was no music. For all that, it was noisy. Drinkers at the bar had to talk loudly to make themselves heard over the door that was constantly banging as smokers either went out for a smoke or returned.

  ‘So, Johnny,’ Trentham began, ‘how does it feel to be back at Harrington?’

  ‘It’s good.’ It could be a hell of a lot better, though.

  ‘Tell me, why did you leave?’

  Johnny took a swallow of beer. No way was he giving Trentham the satisfaction of thinking the transfer to London had been down to him.

  ‘Divorce, sir,’ he replied. ‘My ex was giving me grief and I wanted out.’

  ‘Ah. I didn’t know that. I’m sorry. And did it work out in the end?’

  Blimey, Trentham looked quite concerned.

  ‘It did, sir. Thanks.’

  ‘Good.’

  Silence settled on them as Trentham watched a couple of officers flirting at the bar.

  ‘You were suspended from duty for a while, weren’t you?’ Trentham said, switching his attention back to Johnny. ‘Remind me what that was about.’

  Like he didn’t know.

  Johnny decided that the best way to defend himself was to attack. ‘I know what you’re thinking, sir.’

  ‘Oh? And what am I thinking, Johnny?’ Trentham asked.

  ‘You’re thinking that someone on the team has been blabbing to the papers, and you’re thinking it might have been me.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m thinking exactly that.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t. Why the hell would I?’

  ‘Why the hell would anyone?’ Trentham countered.

  He had a point. Why would someone speak to the press? What was there to be gained?

  ‘I’m serious,’ Trentham said as he didn’t answer. ‘Why would someone do that, Johnny?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It might be someone on the team who had a grudge against Trentham, he supposed but, as yet, he’d met no one who qualified. Unlike Johnny, everyone thought the sun shone out of Trentham’s arse. ‘It could be someone wanting to protect the killer. But probably not,’ he added quickly, spotting the scoffing expression on Trentham’s face. ‘Or it could be the killer out for a bit of publicity. You know? Enjoying his moment of glory. If it was the killer, though, that would make you think that The Undertaker was still alive. I mean, if it’s a copycat, he wouldn’t want to give The Undertaker all the glory, would he?’

  ‘Mm,’ Trentham murmured.

  ‘Or money,’ Johnny ran on. ‘Perhaps the paper offered a good sum for the story.’

  Trentham shook his head in despair at that. ‘To do that, they’d have to know there was a story.’

  Trentham’s phone rang, and Johnny quickly downed his pint. ‘Time I was off, sir,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Unless there’s anything else?’

  ‘Yes, there is. Hang on a minute.’ He hit the button to answer his phone.

  Johnny gestured to his glass to indicate he was getting another, then thought he’d better point at Trentham’s too. Bugger it. Now he had to buy the bloke a pint.

  ‘Hiya,’ Johnny heard him say. ‘You’re kidding me . . .’

  When Johnny returned to their table with the drinks, Trentham was ending his call.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the drink from Johnny. ‘OK, so what I want you to do is find out who talked to the local rag. OK? All that moron of an editor, Bill May, can say is that it was an anonymous phone message left when the offices were closed. Make some inquiries.’

  ‘OK.’ Did that mean Trentham believed him? ‘Any suggestions, sir?’

  Trentham thought for a moment. ‘First off, all phone messages to the paper are taped. They’re now claimingthey can’t find the tape. Find the damn thing. Talk to the girl who sorts out the messages. Talk to everyone on the paper’s payroll. Check the phone records. Just do whatever it takes. And put plenty of pressure on Bill May. He’d sell his grandmother for a story.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Johnny was whistling when he finally left the pub. He’d soon get to the bottom of this. It was just what he needed, an opportunity to shine. His promotion was long overdue.

  Chapter Eleven

  Will Draper wasn’t watching the television. He was vaguely aware that it was on, but he wasn’t paying attention.

  His daughter, Lisa, wasn’t either. She was busy applying a bright blue colour to her chewed fingernails.

  ‘Couldn’t you find a more disgusting colour?’ he asked, pulling a face.

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ Shaking her head, Lisa smiled that despairing smile of hers.

  ‘Your dad showing his age again?’ he guessed, and, still smiling, she nodded.

  She was a good kid. Not so much a kid now, sadly. She was eighteen and had had a boyfriend for almost a year. Will was expecting to hear the sound of wedding bells or the patter of tiny feet any time soon. He hoped it was bells before feet, but you never knew these days.

  Jason, her young man, wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but he was OK.

  In any case, Will thought, brightening, Lisa had a mind of her own. She might not even be thinking of settling down. He hoped that was the case. He’d miss her desperately, far more than he would let her know. She was a good daughter and they’d managed well enough since her mother, Eileen, had died. It was ten years since they’d buried Eileen, and Will often wondered where the time had gone. Lisa had been a shy, vulnerable eight-year-old then. Now, she was working in Woollies and painting her nails blue.

  ‘Dad,’ she said, and Will thought he probably knew what was coming.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Why don’t you go out tonight? Just down the pub or something? The older you get, the more lonely you’ll be,’ she went on, warming to her well-worn theme now. ‘You need a woman in your life, someone special. Or, if not special, someone to go out with. Now, you won’t meet women on a building site, will you? And you won’t meet any stuck in front of the telly every night. You don’t go anywhere,’ she ended in despair.

  She was right, of course. After Eileen died, he’d stayed at home. With an eight-year-old to look after, he’d had no choice. As Lisa had grown, the habit was ingrained. It was a habit Will was quite happy with too.

  ‘And you think I’ll meet someone at the pub?’ he scoffed.

  ‘You might.’

  He wouldn’t. In any case, he didn’t want to meet anyone. He was happy as he was.

  The news came on and he ambled into the kitchen to make a mug of tea. He liked to watch the news with a cuppa.

  ‘Do you want a brew?’ he called out.

  ‘Sorry, Dad. I’ll be late if I don’t get a move on.’

  When Will carried his tea back to the sitting room, Lisa was on tiptoe in front of the mirror, lipstick in hand, pouting at her reflection. She looked stunning, Will thought, somewhat wistfully.

  He sat down with his mug of tea just as a woman’s face vanished from the screen.

  ‘Who was that?’ he asked, his heart thumping against his ribcage. ‘What’ve they been talking about, Lis?’


  ‘The murder,’ she told him. ‘That woman who was murdered, yeah? Well, they reckon the bloke who did that was the same bloke who killed some others five years ago. That was one of the women he killed back then.’

  ‘That chap Marshall?’

  ‘That’s him. Hey, you worked at the place he used to live, didn’t you?’ She grimaced. ‘That was right spooky.’ She grabbed her jacket and handbag. ‘Must dash, Dad!’

  A kiss on the cheek, a whiff of heady perfume, and she was gone.

  Will’s head was in a spin. He flicked through the other TV channels, but there was nothing. He was sweating, and in order to calm down, he took a series of slow, deep breaths.

  It wasn’t necessarily the woman from the video. If Lisa was right, the woman on the telly had been dead for five years. He’d only found that video a year ago. On the other hand, who was to say the video hadn’t been five years old? And who was to say it hadn’t belonged to that killer?

  He felt sick now.

  Even if it did belong to that madman, Will had done nothing wrong. He’d only found a few videos at a site he’d been working on and sold them on. Perhaps he should have gone to the police with them. But why would he have done that? The police wouldn’t have been interested in a few porn videos and that’s what Will had thought they were.

  In truth, he’d been so pleased to get some extra cash for Lisa’s driving lessons that he hadn’t thought too much about them. They’d been labelled, he remembered. The titles had consisted of just one word – girls’ names. One was ‘Chloe’. Guessing they’d been porn videos, he’d taken the video player to the site the next day to check them out. He hadn’t risked taking them home in case Lisa saw them.

  Six of them had been working on some flats, but Will had had time to himself to view the videos.

  The first one had shown a woman – maybe the woman he’d seen on TV, maybe not – being taunted with a knife. She’d been naked, standing with her hands tied behind her and her feet tied at the ankles. Someone wearing a black hood with eye-slits had been holding a knife to her face. First it was held against her lips, then it had been put against her ear. She’d been screaming for mercy. She’d pissed herself, Will remembered. Given the same circumstances, he’d have done the same. Then, the man had walked behind her and cut her throat.