Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall

by Shirley Wells

  Will hadn’t had the stomach for it so he’d switched it off. The second video had been much the same from the few minutes he’d forced himself to watch. He’d planned to throw them in the skip, but then that bloke had walked in on him. What was his name? Will couldn’t remember. Some big shot architect. Whoever he was, he’d reckoned he knew someone who would pay good money for them.

  ‘These aren’t porn,’ Will had told him, disgusted. ‘They’re sick!’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ the bloke had said with a knowing wink. ‘Leave it to me. Here, you have a couple of hundred quid for your trouble and I’ll sell them to my friend. Forget you ever saw them.’

  Will had pocketed the money and forgotten about them. Until now.

  Now, he could hear the screams for mercy as clearly as if the women were in the room with him.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was just after two o’clock the following afternoon when DS Fletcher entered Max’s study bearing two mugs of tea.

  ‘Anything?’ Max asked.

  Fletch had been interviewing Roberts for the last two hours.

  Fletch shook his head and handed Max a steaming mug. ‘You OK, guv?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Someone’s making us look like bloody incompetents and, Christ knows, we’re more than capable of doing that without outside interference.’ He took a swig of tea. ‘Thanks,’ he added belatedly.

  He got out of his chair, the mug cradled in his hands, and stood with his back to the window facing Fletch. ‘What a bloody mess!’

  God, his patience was being tried today. He’d felt sure they’d had a breakthrough with the ribbon samples Jill had brought in from Forget-me-nots, but no, they didn’t match the length tied around Carol Blakely’s waist. They weren’t even the same shade of red.

  ‘We’re a bloody laughing stock,’ he fumed.

  ‘We’ll get there in the end,’ Fletch said.

  Not at this rate they wouldn’t. He took a swallow of his tea. ‘So what about Roberts? Anything new at all?’

  ‘We don’t have much to go on, guv.’

  ‘We’ve got sod all to go on, Fletch.’

  ‘Yeah, but it is suspicious. He meets Carol Blakely twice, then she’s dead. He buys red ribbon from her shop –’

  ‘Not the red ribbon, though.’ Max ran frustrated fingers through his hair. ‘God knows.’ He drained his cup. ‘Let’s have another go at him. Oh, and Fletch, don’t let me forget parents’ evening.’

  ‘Tonight, is it?’

  ‘It is. It’ll be a complete waste of my time and theirs, but I promised I’d go.’

  ‘You don’t know that, guv. They’re good kids. Bright, too.’

  ‘That’s what I always think until I see their teachers struggling to come up with something positive to say about them. Thank God Harry can play football . . .’

  Roberts didn’t look concerned to find himself sitting opposite Max again. Quite the reverse in fact. He was enjoying every minute of this. Jill had said he was a man who liked to be the centre of attention. What had she called him? Drop-dead gorgeous? The scruffy, unshaven look must be in, Max decided grimly. Roberts was wearing the oldest, tattiest pair of jeans imaginable. There were no holes in them, yet, but they were worn paper-thin. His T-shirt had once been red, but was now multicoloured with various stains.

  ‘Right,’ Max said, when the preliminaries had been dealt with, ‘we’re going to start from the beginning and, this time, I’d appreciate the truth. Tell me again about your relationship with Carol Blakely.’

  ‘I’ve told you, my man, I saw her twice. No, make that four times in total. The first time, I went to her shop to buy flowers for my mother.’

  ‘Who lives where?’

  ‘She travels – the circus, you know – but she’s currently in Devon,’ Roberts replied easily. ‘So I chose the sort of flowers I wanted, with Carol’s help, and arranged for the same sort of thing to be delivered to my mother.’

  ‘As far as I was aware,’ Fletch put in, ‘Carol Blakely didn’t serve in her shop.’

  ‘True,’ Roberts said, grinning, ‘but she walked in while I was dealing with the young girl and I asked for heropinion. It was the girl – young and blonde – who told me she owned the business.’

  ‘Go on,’ Max said.

  ‘A week later, I went to the shop again to choose flowers for my sister. She’d just had a baby, which is why my mother was in Devon. She had a beautiful little girl.’

  ‘Why choose that particular shop?’ Max asked. ‘You live in Kelton Bridge so why bother driving in to Harrington?’

  ‘I didn’t. I was already in Harrington, having a look round, when I remembered my dear old mum. The second time, for my sister’s flowers, I drove there on purpose. I thought maybe Carol might be there again. She was. It was then that I asked her if she fancied a bite to eat that evening.’

  ‘You work on the internet all day,’ Max pointed out. ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to click on the Interflora site that first time?’

  ‘Of course it would,’ Roberts agreed, legs stretched in front of him and feet crossed nonchalantly at the ankles. ‘But as I said, I was already in Harrington when I remembered my mum. If I’d come home, I might have forgotten.’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ Max said drily. ‘What was so interesting about Carol Blakely? Why did you want to take her out?’

  He smiled at that, a slow, knowing smile. ‘She was very easy on the eye. I enjoyed making her laugh. I’d rather have company than eat alone.’

  ‘Yes, but why Mrs Blakely?’

  ‘The main reason? I fancied her and wanted to get her into my bed.’

  ‘Why are you staying in Kelton Bridge?’ Max asked, changing tack.

  ‘I remember coming to the area as a child and thought I’d come back.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Oh, around. I’ve had a month in the East Midlands, Derby to be precise, and before that, I was in London.’ He smiled at Max, and it was a smile Max didn’t like. ‘I’m suremy lovely neighbour, the gorgeous Jill, has already told you that.’

  Smug bastard.

  ‘Why Kelton Bridge? The nightlife in the village doesn’t compare to Derby or London.’

  Roberts laughed. ‘Too true, but I fancied a change of pace. And hey, there aren’t too many places to let for a three-month period.’

  Max gazed back at him unsmiling.

  ‘What did you buy from Mrs Blakely’s shop?’ Fletch asked.

  Roberts’s gaze didn’t leave Max’s face as he answered. ‘Two bouquets of flowers. Correction. Two orders for bouquets to be Interflora’d. That was it.’

  ‘You were dancing around the shop with a red rose between your teeth,’ Fletch reminded him. ‘Didn’t you pay for that?’

  ‘No. I put it back in the container.’ He grinned at Max. ‘You’re not hoping to get me on a shoplifting charge, are you?’

  ‘The red ribbon you tied in Carol Blakely’s hair,’ Max said, ignoring that. ‘Did you pay for that?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’ The grin didn’t waver. ‘Carol wasn’t sure how much it cost – as you say, she wasn’t used to serving in the shop – so I bought the whole roll.’

  ‘And threaded it through Mrs Blakely’s hair,’ Max murmured. ‘How much of the roll did you use?’

  Roberts spread out his hands to indicate a length of a couple of feet.

  ‘What did you do with the rest of it?’ Fletch asked.

  ‘I shoved it in my pocket.’ Roberts shrugged. ‘I probably threw it away when I got home. To be honest, I really can’t remember. It might still be there.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to have a look for it,’ Max suggested, adding a grim, ‘when you get home.’

  ‘I will if you think it will help.’

  Max leaned back in his seat. He, too, could look relaxed when he chose. He wasn’t relaxed, far from it. Nothingwould give him greater pleasure than throttling Roberts with his bare hands.

  ‘What did the two of you t
alk about on your dates?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, the weather, her work, my work, her husband, my mother, my sister, her sisters, the food, Harrington, Kelton Bridge, the price of lamb, politics, music, films, books –’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Max murmured. ‘What did she say about her husband?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Try,’ Max said, and it was an order, not a request.

  Roberts let out his breath as if the effort of thinking was proving too great. ‘When I asked about boyfriends – yes, I knew she was married, but a good-looking girl like that, well, it stood to reason – she told me her husband had put her off men for life.’

  ‘Really? And why was that?’

  ‘We were in Mario’s in Bacup, and she said that she and her husband – Michael?’

  ‘Vince,’ Max reminded him.

  ‘Ah, yes. Vince. My memory,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘She said they’d been there together and he’d caused a scene. He threatened her, I gather.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I got the impression he knocked her about a bit.’

  ‘What did she say to give you that impression?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Tell me again where you were on Friday the seventh of July and Saturday the eighth,’ Max snapped, adding a sarcastic, ‘if you can remember.’

  Carol Blakely had been murdered, as close as they knew, between the hours of nine and midnight. Her body had then been taken to the quarry in the early hours of Saturday morning.

  ‘I remember it well. I was at home.’

  ‘All the time? Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for that?’ Max asked.

  ‘Hardly. Unless the Invisible Man dropped in for a drink.’

  ‘Not even your lovely neighbour, the gorgeous Jill?’

  ‘Nope. I did see her briefly when she got back from Liverpool, but before that, no.’

  ‘So no one saw you on Friday night or Saturday morning?’ Max asked doubtfully.

  ‘I didn’t see a living, breathing soul.’

  Max needed a cigarette. And some air. He nodded at Fletch and terminated the interview.

  ‘The smug bastard’s doing my head in,’ he told Fletch as he closed the door behind them. ‘He can sit there and be smug on his own for an hour or so. Get us a brew, Fletch, while I nip outside for a smoke.’

  ‘Still smoking then, guv?’

  ‘Not really. I just fancied the odd one.’

  While Max was standing in the car park, he watched, bemused, as a man drove a Vauxhall Corsa into the car park, stopped the car, looked at the building and then drove away again. Less than a minute later, he was back. This time, he looked at the building, killed the engine, got out of the car and stood for long moments looking at the main entrance.

  There goes a man with a guilty conscience, Max thought, as he watched him mount the steps and enter the building.

  Finlay Roberts, on the other hand, didn’t appear to have a conscience. He was playing games with them. Max was certain he knew more than he was telling, but he was enjoying the diversion. Damn him.

  Thinking of guilty consciences had him reaching into his pocket for a biro and scrawling PE on his hand. His kids probably wouldn’t mind if he missed hearing how they were getting on, but a promise was a promise.

  He tossed his cigarette butt across the car park and went back inside.

  ‘Ah, this is Chief Inspector Trentham,’ Norah, today’s receptionist, announced.

  Standing in front of her was the man with the guilty conscience.

  ‘Did you want me?’ Max asked.

  ‘Mr Draper says he has information about the Carol Blakely murder,’ Norah explained.

  Max wasn’t hopeful, but at least the chap didn’t look like the usual crank.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  He took him to his office where Fletch was waiting with two cups of tea.

  ‘Would you like a tea or a coffee?’ Max asked.

  The man shook his head. What he wanted, Max suspected, his curiosity aroused, was out of the building in the quickest time possible.

  ‘This is DS Fletcher,’ Max said, nodding at Fletch and grabbing his cup of tea. ‘He’s working on the case. Please, take a seat.’

  The man sat on the edge of the seat, a thin line of perspiration on his top lip. He was about forty, Max supposed, with thinning hair.

  ‘You have some information that might help in our investigation, Mr Draper?’ Max asked, and he nodded.

  ‘About a year ago,’ he began, his voice shaking, ‘I was working – oh, I’m a builder, by the way. I was working on this building in Paradise Way. It was half a dozen flats.’

  Max’s curiosity was definitely aroused now. Edward Marshall had lived in a flat on the imaginatively named Paradise Way.

  ‘The flats were being knocked about and turned into office space. I was knocking an old chimney breast out when I found some video tapes.’

  Max tried not to raise his hopes too high, but it was bloody difficult.

  ‘In the chimney?’

  Mr Draper nodded. ‘They’d been hidden behind bricks. It hadn’t been used for years because the flats had gas fires, and when I pulled the bricks away, I found these tapes.’

  ‘What did you do with them?’ Max knew, he just knew he wasn’t about to receive a simple answer.

  Mr Draper cleared his throat and kept his gaze firmly on the laces in his black shoes. ‘They had names on the boxes,’ he said quietly. ‘One was Chloe, I remember. I assumed they were mucky videos. Porn, you know,’ he said at last. ‘I was curious,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve got a daughter, Lisa, so I wasn’t going to take them home in case she saw them.’

  Max was aware of Fletch fidgeting in his excitement.

  ‘So what did you do with them?’ Max asked for the second time.

  ‘I took our telly in with me the next day,’ he explained.

  ‘It’s one of those cheap, portable all-in-one things. My Lisa used to have it in her bedroom. Of course, it’s all DVDs now, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ Max agreed.

  ‘And anyway, they might not have been porn, might they? It seemed daft to throw them away without even looking at them.’

  He was silent for so long that Max had to prompt him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, clearing his throat again. ‘I was working on my own so, when I got to the flats, it was easy enough to rig up the telly and put one of the videos in.’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘And?’ Max prompted again. ‘Was it porn?’

  ‘Some might call it that,’ Mr Draper replied grimly. ‘I could only stomach about two minutes of it. It was awful. I swear that no one with a daughter of their own could watch it. Naturally, I assumed –’ He broke off and paused before continuing, ‘I assumed the woman was an actress, but now, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I couldn’t see the person doing it to her because he was wearing a black leather hood, but she was naked, tied up, and someone was holding a knife to her.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Then it was against her neck. Here.’ He drew a line across his neck with a shaking finger. ‘Whoever it was cut her throat. I assumed it was all fake – a fake knife, a bit ofclever camerawork, tomato sauce for blood – but it made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t eat for the rest of that day.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘I put another tape in the machine, just to see if it was more of the same,’ he went on, ‘and it was. It was disgusting. I can’t explain it.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Max said. ‘And what makes you think there’s a connection to our murder inquiry?’

  ‘I had the telly on last night,’ he explained, ‘and up flashed this picture of a woman, the woman from the tape. At least, I’m fairly sure it was her. So I asked Lisa, my daughter, you know, what they were talking about, and she said that the woman on the telly was one murdered by the same chap who did for Carol Blakely.�
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  ‘The videos,’ Max said. ‘What else was on them?’

  ‘Dunno. As I said, I couldn’t stomach it.’

  Max hardly dared ask for the third time, but he had to. ‘So what did you do with the tapes?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Mr Draper said. ‘I was about to switch off the telly – the second tape was still running – when this bloke came in and asked what I’d got. Laughed, he did. I told him that I’d found them, but that they weren’t porn – or not porn like people thought. He reckoned –’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He reckoned he could sell them.

  Told me I’d be surprised who’d be interested in stuff like that.’ The room was heavy with silence for a moment. Or it would have been without the scratching of Fletch’s pencil as it raced across the page.

  ‘He gave me two hundred quid and told me to forget I’d ever seen them,’ Mr Draper said at last. ‘I suppose – well, it doesn’t matter what I should have done, does it? I thought about the money, knew it would come in handy for my Lisa’s driving lessons, and grabbed it.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Max said, smiling to help ease the man’s conscience. ‘So this man – who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know his name,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think I ever heard it. I’m a brickie, so I just do as I’m told. He was incharge of the building works. When I say in charge, I mean he’d done all the plans. Some big shot architect chap.’

  Oh, thank you, God! Max could have rubbed his hands together in glee.

  ‘Anything else you can tell us?’ he asked.

  ‘No. That’s about it. Sorry. But you’ll be able to find out who he was. They’ll have records, I mean. They’ll know the architect who was in charge of the project.’

  They certainly would.

  ‘Here, this doesn’t have to go in the papers, does it?’ he asked anxiously. ‘The thing is, I wouldn’t want Lisa knowing that her dad had looked at – you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Max assured him, ‘and no, this will be treated in the strictest confidence.’ He got to his feet. ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Mr Draper. We’ll look into it.’