Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall

by Shirley Wells

  Pervy Charlie’s mysterious prostitute had been found. She was known by the police and considered to be reasonably honest and she had vouched for Charlie.

  Thankfully, the relationship between Charlie and Louise was cooling. That was due mainly to the fact that Louise had no interest in anything. She was grieving for her daughter and nothing else registered with her. Despite that, she was showing a strength of character that surprised Jill. She would get over this. Perhaps spending so many years not knowing if Nikki was alive or dead made it easier.

  ‘I want him caught,’ she’d said to Jill. ‘I know it won’t bring Nikki back, but it will at least prevent any other mother having to go through this.’

  They’d staged a reconstruction, but, although many people had seen Nikki that fateful morning, no one had seen her meet up with anyone or get into a car . . .

  The pub’s door burst open and half a dozen laughing and slightly inebriated women came inside. A birthday celebration, Jill guessed, or a hen night. They were laughing as they thrust money at the girl entrusted with the night’s drinks fund.

  She became aware of one woman watching her and was surprised to recognize Ruth Asimacopoulos.

  ‘Excuse me, Dave.’

  She walked up to the bar. ‘Hello, Ruth, I didn’t recognize you for a minute. How are you?’

  ‘Hello, Jill. Of course, this is your local, isn’t it?’ She gestured to her companions. ‘We’re celebrating Mel’s birthday. Twenty-one today!’

  ‘I hope you have a good night.’

  ‘It’s already feeling like a long one,’ Ruth confided. ‘I’m old enough to be their mother. Mel lives next door to me so I offered to be taxi driver for the evening,’ she added as way of explanation.

  ‘Then I don’t envy you.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome to join us,’ Ruth offered. ‘The more the merrier.’

  Jill was touched by the invitation. ‘Thanks, Ruth, that’s really kind, but I’d better not.’

  The others were trying to attract Ruth’s attention. ‘Have a good evening,’ Jill said, leaving her.

  ‘I’m sure I know her,’ Finlay said, nodding at Ruth as Jill retook her seat. ‘Does she live in the village?’

  ‘No. She worked with Carol Blakely.’

  ‘Ah, yes, in the shop. I knew I’d seen her before.’

  He turned away, and gave Jill his full attention. ‘Another drink, darling girl?’

  ‘Please.’

  While he went to the bar to get their drinks, Jill was aware of Ruth glancing her way now and again. It made her uncomfortable. If Ruth had recognized Finlay, it would upset her to see the man who had once dated her employer buying drinks for another woman.

  A cloud of depression settled on her. For the police and the press, a murder was over as soon as the killer was caught. For those close to the victim, it was never over.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Sunday was hot. They had been promised the hottest day of the year, and Jill thought they must have it. Even the cats were inside. Jill was sitting in the garden, taking advantage of the shade of her old lilac tree, but even there it wasn’t particularly comfortable. She refused to move, though. When the sun shone, she felt obliged to make the most of it.

  She was trying to read a magazine, but the latest celebrity gossip didn’t interest her and she had no wish to lose half a stone in a fortnight. It was too hot to do anything more energetic, though. When the sun had lost some of its intensity, she would tidy up the garden. Until then, she was doing nothing.

  ‘Coo-ee!’

  ‘Round here!’ Jill called out, chuckling at the sound of Ella’s voice.

  Ella came into the garden and, as ever, was managing to look cool. How she did that, Jill had no idea.

  ‘I’ve brought those raffle tickets,’ Ella explained, sitting on the bench beside Jill. ‘What a scorcher. I like the heat as much as the next person, but this is a bit overpowering. Still, no point complaining. It’ll be no time at all before the roads are blocked by snow and we’re all complaining about frozen pipes.’

  Jill laughed at that. ‘Oh, don’t. It’s only August and I refuse to think about winter already. Mind you, it is hot. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘I’d love one.’

  ‘White wine?’

  ‘Sounds perfect. But don’t let me have more than one glass. The last time I left here, I got home and slept the day away.’

  Jill went to the kitchen and took a bottle of chilled wine from the fridge. She filled two of the biggest wine glasses she possessed, returned the bottle to the fridge, and carried the drinks outside.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ella took the glass from her. ‘I called at Louise’s house on my way here,’ she added, ‘but I couldn’t get her to hear. I hope she’s all right.’

  ‘She’s away for the weekend at her sister’s,’ Jill said.

  ‘That’s good.’ Ella nodded approvingly. ‘Her sister’s good for her. High-handed,’ she added with a smile, ‘but that’s probably what she needs.’ The smile faded. ‘It’ll be so difficult for her. I can’t begin to imagine how she’ll cope. But people do. Somehow.’

  ‘They do,’ Jill agreed, ‘and she’s coping a lot better than I thought. I just hope it lasts.’

  ‘So sad for the village, too,’ Ella murmured. ‘I know Nikki left, and I know most locals didn’t have a good word for her, but she was still considered one of their own.’

  How right she was. The villagers stuck together and it had sent the whole community into shock. There was a sense of hopelessness about the village. People wanted to do something, but there was nothing they could do. Nothing would bring Nikki back.

  ‘Terry and Beverley Yates,’ Jill said. ‘Do you know them, Ella?’

  ‘Yes. They lived up Haver Road for a couple of years. The house on the end that the Williamses have now.’

  Jill knew the house she meant, and Dorothy and Pete Williams.

  ‘What were they like?’ she asked.

  ‘OK, I suppose. Terry was all right, but I can’t say I really took to Beverley.’

  ‘Really?’

  Jill didn’t know either of the Yateses well, but it was Terry she hadn’t taken to. She’d found Beverley to be friendly enough.

  ‘Mm. My Tom broke his leg, daft fool, and it was Terry who drove me to visit him. Nice chap, Terry. Couldn’t do enough to help. Lovely children they had, too. Twins, you know.’

  ‘Adam and Cherie.’ Jill nodded.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Terry Yates once had a bit of a fling with Carol Blakely,’ Jill explained.

  ‘Ah.’ Ella considered that for a moment. ‘Don’t take this as gospel, Jill, it’s just the impression I got, but I think a lot of men would have looked elsewhere if they’d been married to Beverley. The children were everything to her. In fact, she was quite possessive about them. Terry must have felt excluded. When a wife has no interest in him, and when he’s not allowed near his children – yes, I think a lot of men would stray.’

  Ella was shrewd and perceptive, and Jill respected her judgement. She recalled Beverley Yates’s voice on her ex-husband’s answer machine. It had been the voice of a woman keeping her children away from their father. Was that because the children didn’t want to see the father who’d abandoned them? Or was it because she was naturally possessive of them?

  ‘You’re looking tired,’ Ella noted.

  ‘I need a holiday.’ Jill smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve only just started full-time work again and already I’m thinking of holidays.’

  ‘Not long till Spain,’ Ella pointed out.

  ‘If we go. And it’s looking more and more unlikely.’

  Bees were buzzing around the tall foxgloves and that was the only sound until a car came along the road and pulled on to her drive.

  ‘I’d better see who that is,’ Jill murmured.

  Before she’d reached the cottage though, Max was already walking round the side, a cigarette in his hand.

  ‘God, it’s hot!’ H
e threw his cigarette butt on to the border. ‘Hello, Ella. How’s life with you?’

  ‘It’s good, thanks, Max. You?’

  ‘Not bad.’ As the bench was occupied, he grabbed the plastic seat and sat on that. He looked at their glasses. ‘I’ll get my own, shall I?’

  Jill handed him their glasses. ‘Bring us a refill, Max.’

  ‘No,’ Ella protested. ‘I’ll be getting along, Jill.’

  ‘Don’t go on my account,’ Max said. ‘I can only stop long enough to drink a glass of wine.’

  ‘A small one then,’ Ella said, settling herself down again.

  Max was soon back.

  ‘Have you been working?’ Ella asked him curiously.

  ‘Some would call it working, Ella. Others would call it wasting time. I’m inclined to fall into the latter camp.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  In other words, there had been no breakthrough, nothing new. Jill saw her holiday slipping further and further away.

  She needed it, too. Kelton Bridge was too sombre at the moment, and she wanted to escape . . .

  Everywhere smelled hot and parched, but at least the bees were enjoying themselves. A blackbird stabbed at the ground with his beak, but soon gave up. The earth was as hard as stone.

  They spoke of the weather, and places in Spain that Ella had visited, and then they discussed the rubbish being shown on TV and the state of the country . . .

  ‘Jill? Are you there?’

  The familiar voice silenced the three of them and they all turned to see Finlay Roberts striding across her lawn, half hidden by the huge bouquet of flowers in his arms.

  ‘Hello, Finlay.’

  ‘My darling girl!’ He thrust the flowers at her. ‘A small thank-you for being such a lovely neighbour.’

  ‘For me? Gosh, um, thank you. They’re beautiful, Finlay. Thanks.’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Ella agreed.

  ‘I’m leaving now,’ he said, ‘so goodbye Kelton Bridge and goodbye all of you.’

  He reached for Ella’s hand. ‘It’s been a privilege to know you,’ he said, bending to kiss her hand.

  Then he tried to shake Max’s hand, but Max was having none of it.

  ‘No hard feelings, I trust,’ Finlay said, smiling broadly.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Max muttered.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Ella wanted to know.

  ‘No idea,’ he answered easily.

  Jill found that difficult to believe. He must know where he was heading, or at least where he would be sleeping that evening.

  ‘It’ll be wherever the car takes me,’ he added.

  ‘Will you be back?’ Ella asked.

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Haven’t you consulted the cards?’ she asked him, and Jill had to chuckle at that.

  ‘Have a safe journey,’ she said, ‘wherever you end up.’

  ‘Thank you. Right, goodbye and good luck to you all!’

  Jill, Ella and Max were silent as they watched his retreating back. They remained silent until long after his car was out of earshot.

  ‘An interesting fellow,’ Ella mused, breaking that silence. ‘I can’t say I cared for him much, though.’

  ‘You and me both, Ella,’ Max agreed. ‘And why do I feel as if he’s escaped the net?’

  Jill had no answer to that, but she felt exactly the same.

  ‘I’ll go and put these in water,’ she said. ‘They really are beautiful, aren’t they?’

  There was no card with them, and they were wrapped in cellophane with a wide yellow ribbon. She wondered if they’d come from Carol Blakely’s shop.

  They were beautiful but, as she put them in her favourite container, a simple white jug, they didn’t give the pleasure they should. Perhaps she was being fanciful, but they seemed to be mocking her.

  When she returned to the garden, Max and Ella were still discussing Finlay Roberts.

  ‘An intelligent chap, mind,’ Ella was saying. ‘Certainly believed himself to be a cut above the rest of us.’

  ‘A game player,’ Jill said, agreeing with everything Ella had said. ‘He loved to play games. He was supposed to be giving me a tarot reading, but he never got round to it.’

  ‘What?’ Ella’s expression seriously questioned Jill’s sanity.

  ‘I don’t believe in any of that rubbish,’ Jill assured her, ‘but I was curious to see what he told me.’

  ‘A dangerous game,’ Ella warned.

  ‘Oh well, he’s gone now. I wonder who my next neighbour will be.’

  ‘According to Olive, it’s a young family. A mother and two children if I remember rightly. The father has just taken up a job abroad and, while he sorts out accommodation over there, they’re going to rent the cottage. Dubai, I think she said. Not that you can take much notice of Olive, old gossip that she is.’

  ‘Tsk. She speaks so highly of you, Ella,’ Jill put in, and they both laughed. Ella and Olive had been at loggerheads for years.

  Max left them soon afterwards, but it was good to sit and chew things over with Ella. The heat wasn’t quite as oppressive now, but it was still too hot to do anything other than be totally idle. Jill only wished her mind didn’t keep straying to Finlay Roberts. Like Max, she had the feeling she’d just seen a guilty man walk. Yet that was impossible. When Nikki was murdered, he had been safely under lock and key.

  Her mind kept returning to the murder victims’ photographs. From the start, something had been bugging her about those. But what?

  ‘I really do need to be off now,’ Ella said, getting to her feet. ‘Thanks for the wine and the good company.’

  ‘Thank you. I think I’ll sit here a little longer . . .’

  She couldn’t settle, though. Her mind was too busy.

  In the end, she went inside and switched on her computer. But it was the victims’ photos that bothered her, and she didn’t have copies of those on her machine.

  The photos of Edward Marshall’s victims were identical. Every detail was the same. Carol’s were different. So, in some way that she couldn’t pinpoint, were Nikki’s.

  Oh, no!

  What had her mum said? Why is it that two people can use exactly the same ingredients, the same utensils, do exactly the same things and end up with different results?

  Edward Marshall’s victims had been laid out with a sense of theatre. At the time, she’d thought he’d set them up like that for their cameras. Now, she knew it was for his own camera.

  Carol Blakely’s killer had done just the same as Marshall. He’d cut her throat with a short, sharp knife, he’d wrapped her naked body in a shroud, he’d removed her wedding ring and threaded it through the red ribbon tied around her waist, and he’d put coins on her closed eyes. Yet there was a stillness there, a touch of respect.

  Nikki’s killer had done the same, too. He’d cut her throat with a short, sharp knife, he’d wrapped her naked body in a shroud, he’d removed her grandmother’s wedding ring and threaded it through the red ribbon tied around her waist, and he’d put coins on her closed eyes. There was no stillness about Nikki in death, however. It had been a hasty job.

  Carol’s killer had acted calmly. Nikki’s killer had worked in a sense of panic.

  Max wasn’t going to like this, and Phil Meredith was going to like it even less, but Jill was beginning to think that Carol and Nikki had been killed by two different people . . .

  She was still debating the wisdom of telling Max her idea at eleven o’clock that night. Hang it, she may as well mention it. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t settle. She grabbed her phone and hit the button for his number. He answered on the third ring.

  ‘You’re not going to like this,’ she warned him.

  ‘Now what?’ He sounded wary already.

  ‘I think there’s a very strong possibility,’ she said carefully, ‘that we’re looking for two killers.’

  ‘What? Don’t talk bloody stupid, Jill!’ There was a pause as he considered it and dismissed it. ‘No. The murders are
identical. We’re pretty sure that the ribbon was cut from the same length. That sheet – shroud, whatever you call the bloody thing – it’s the same.’

  She’d known he wouldn’t like it.

  ‘You did say that Nikki put up a fight,’ she reminded him. ‘Carol didn’t.’

  ‘That’s the only difference,’ he said. ‘Nikki’s throat wasn’t cut as cleanly, and the killer, judging by the cuts on Nikki’s arms, had a struggle on his hands, but the same weapon was used. Nikki’s murder was bodged –’

  ‘Or done by someone less capable.’

  ‘No, Jill, it’s the same man. It has to be. It’s the same knife.’

  ‘So? Two people in this together could use the same weapon.’

  ‘No. It’s complete crap.’

  Perhaps he was right; perhaps it was complete crap. Murder wasn’t the same as making a cheesecake. Besides, Jill could make six cheesecakes and every one would look different. All the same, the thought refused to be banished. The more she thought of those photos, the more convinced she was.

  They were looking for two killers.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Late on Tuesday afternoon, Max walked into his office and saw that some thoughtful soul had left the evening paper for him. The press were having a field day with this case, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to read it. However, he glanced at the front page and was relieved to see they didn’t have anything new.

  Sadly, he didn’t either.

  He’d read thousands of witness statements over and over until his eyes could barely focus. He’d been through every report. Nothing leapt out at him.

  There were dozens of officers working on this case, dozens of good officers, and he knew they’d find something sooner or later. He only hoped it was sooner rather than later. At the moment, he was living in dread of hearing that another body had been found . . .

  Thinking of good officers, he left his office and went in search of Fletch.

  Grace was on the phone and managed to mouth, ‘He’s out, guv.’

  While waiting for her to end the call, he glanced through the paperwork that was piling up. His own desk was the same. What had happened to the great dream of computers giving them a paper-free world?