Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Three days later, Jill woke to the sound of rain lashing against her bedroom window. Pulling the curtain aside, she saw that the sky was a menacing grey and the rain was blowing horizontally from west to east. It must have been raining for most of the night if the huge puddles out in the lane were anything to go by.

By the time she’d showered, dressed, had breakfast and fed the cats, it had eased off enough to dash to her car without getting soaked. As she was doing this, she heard Finlay Roberts’s raised voice.

She stopped, and they spotted each other at the same moment.

‘Jill!’ He came striding over to her, seemingly oblivious to the rain. A man was walking behind him.

‘Jill, my darling girl,’ Finlay greeted her breathlessly, ‘is your phone working OK?’

‘Yes, it’s fine. Why?’

‘Mine isn’t.’ He turned to his companion, presumably a BT engineer judging by the van parked in the lane. ‘So if Jill’s is working, and you’ve checked the pole, the fault has to be in my cottage, right?’

‘So it would seem,’ the engineer agreed.

‘I have to go out,’ Finlay told Jill. ‘What do you think? I suppose it’s perfectly all right, but I don’t feel good about going out and leaving a stranger in the house. Not with these burglaries in the village.’ He addressed the engineer.

‘Will you mind having a key and locking up when you’ve finished?’

‘You could leave a key with me,’ Jill offered.

‘Would you mind?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Of course not. I’m not going anywhere today.’ She felt the weight of her bag on her arm. ‘Well, I was nipping up to the shop, but that can wait. I thought I’d take a day off work and give myself a long weekend. I only need some cat food so any time will do for that.’

She was amazed to hear the lies tripping off her tongue so easily, and equally amazed to discover how eager she was to snoop around his home.

‘You, my darling girl, are an angel.’ Finlay grinned at the engineer. ‘I know you’re completely trustworthy, but I’ll feel happier with Jill on hand, if you don’t mind. The village has had a spate of burglaries, you see, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen. I rent the cottage, as you know, and the owners wouldn’t be too pleased. If you forgot to lock up, it would put the responsibility on you. Are you sure you don’t mind, Jill?’

‘Positive. It’s no bother to me.’

‘I very much doubt if I’ll be back before six this evening.

When he’s gone, just pop the key through the letterbox, will you, darling girl?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘So does anyone mind if I shoot off now?’ Finlay asked.

‘It makes no odds to me,’ the engineer said.

‘Me neither.’

‘Excellent.’ He beamed at them both, then winked at the engineer. ‘Sorry I was a bit rude to you, but, as things have worked out, you’ll be glad of it. Jill here might even make you a cup of tea.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ Jill said, hardly daring to believe her luck.

‘The kettle’s already boiled, darling girl,’ he called, as he strode off. ‘I’ll get you the spare key, and then I’ll be off.’

The engineer followed him back to the cottage while Jill waited outside. Seconds later, she had a front door key in her hand.

‘Just pop it through the letterbox,’ Finlay said. ‘And thank you. I owe you a drink at the very least for this.’

‘It’s nothing. Really.’

‘Ah, but I still want to buy you a drink.’ She was treated to that roguish, rather attractive wink of his. ‘See you later!’

Jill watched, fascinated, as he jumped in his car, started the engine and, waving, drove off.

While the engineer busied himself unscrewing the phone socket on the kitchen wall, Jill hunted round for a mug to make him a tea, ‘white with three sugars’.

She still couldn’t quite believe that she was inside Finlay Roberts’s home yet, really, what was she hoping to learn?

Max had said that everything kept coming back to Finlay, and he was right. But what did they have? He’d taken Carol out on a couple of occasions. There was no crime in that. And he’d lied about being at home when Ralph Atkins’s house was burnt to the ground. Or had he?

He claimed later that he’d forgotten about nipping out to the filling station to fill up his car and buy a loaf of bread. That was easily done, she supposed. Really, they had nothing.

As Jill made small-talk with the engineer, she thought how absurd her excitement was. Finlay Roberts was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. If he
did
have something to hide, he wouldn’t leave it in the cottage for any Tom, Dick or Harry to stumble across.

The engineer went into the sitting room to check the phone socket and Jill followed him. She was disappointed to see so few personal possessions, but she wasn’t really surprised. The cottage was rented, and the furniture belonged to the owners. Finlay was a traveller and, as such, he wouldn’t be a great one for possessions.

In the kitchen, the most basic of utensils and crockery filled the cupboards and drawers. A calendar hung from the wall but nothing had been written on it. An unopened letter from BT was propped against the bread bin. An empty red wine bottle had been rinsed out and was waiting to be put in the recycling bin.

In the sitting room, a couple of books on the tarot sat on the floral-print sofa. That struck Jill as odd. Why, if you were an expert, or expert enough to run your own internet business, would you need books on the subject? Jill had read up on it herself, but she was no wiser.

The remote control sat on top of the TV. A T-shirt, clearly one of Finlay’s judging by the way the seams at the arm were hanging together by a thread, was thrown over the back of an armchair. Well-worn flip-flops had been discarded in front of the fireplace. Come to think of it, Jill had only ever seen him in flip-flops. There was a low sideboard with three centre drawers and a door either side of them.

As soon as the engineer had gone, she’d look through that.

The phone rang several times, startling her each time, but it was only the engineer testing it and talking to a colleague at the exchange. Finally, he ended one call, and looked at Jill with a satisfied smile on his face.

‘As far as I can tell, everything’s working perfectly. It’s all this rain we’ve had. Water was getting on the wire where it enters the house. I’ve changed that, and I’ve changed the box in here, so that should have cured it.’ He gathered up his tools. ‘Fingers crossed, eh?’

‘Yes.’ Jill went to the window and picked up his empty tea mug. ‘Is that it then? I’ll just wash this mug and then lock up. Thanks very much,’ she added.

‘See you,’ he called as he was leaving.

She heard his van drive down the lane, then, feeling all kinds of a sneak, began opening cupboards and drawers.

Heart in mouth, she switched on Finlay’s computer and looked at that. She couldn’t download his emails, of course, but there were dozens in his Inbox and the Sent box. None were personal. Every one was connected to his business.

She headed upstairs and saw that his bedroom was as lacking in personal items as the rest of the cottage. Except for a framed photo on the small table by his bed. That was interesting. A small photo, about five by seven inches, it was black and white and showed two young people, girland boy, hand in hand at the water’s edge, with their backs to the camera. It was a beautiful photograph, taken at sunset, Jill suspected, and by an expert photographer. Could the boy be a young Finlay? She carried it to the window to examine it in a better light, but was none the wiser. If it was him, it had probably been taken twenty years ago.

Yet it must mean something to him. He had no personal possessions at all, yet he kept that photo by the side of his bed. Very interesting.

Turning over the frame, she saw that it was easy enough to take the photo from it for a better look. She thought the photographer’s name and address or a date might be shown. Instead, on the back of the photo, the initials TMD had been written in pencil.

Who was TMD? Teresa May Davis? Tracy Marie Dicken-son? Or perhaps it wasn’t who but what. To my darling?

It could be anything. She returned the photo to its frame and went downstairs.

After a quick look in the garage and at the bins, she decided it was time to lock up. There was nothing of interest, and certainly nothing to incriminate her slightly eccentric but basically likeable neighbour.

She had the key in her hand and was doing a last-minute check of the kitchen to make sure she’d left everything as she’d found it when, for no reason she could later understand, she slid her hand in the gap between the top of the fridge and the worktop. And found a red folder.

‘Oh, my –’

Inside were several photos of Carol Blakely. The photographer had caught her unawares as she’d been locking or unlocking her shop, walking to her car, or waiting to cross the road. There were also several newspaper cuttings. The uppermost one had the headline
Undertaker still alive.
Older cuttings were photocopies, and told of the crimes committed by Edward Marshall.

It wasn’t conclusive, she reminded herself. All the same, a cold shiver ran the length of her spine.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Max glanced up at the clock in the interview room and was surprised to see that they’d only been there an hour. It felt like a lifetime.

A search of Finlay Roberts’s cottage had found nothing more than the file Jill had told him about, the file containing photos of Carol Blakely and the newspaper cuttings.

Max had wanted to bring Roberts in on Friday, but he’d decided to wait until the forensic results were in.

Roberts possessed very few clothes, but those he did own had been checked out for blood, saliva, anything. So far, and it was approaching midday on Monday, they’d found nothing.

Roberts had been picked up at eight o’clock that morning, and Max and Fletch had been grilling him since ten thirty. They were getting nowhere.

‘Interview terminated at 11.37 a.m.’ Max hit the button to stop the tapes and nodded at Fletch.

They both stood up and headed for the door.

‘We’ll be back,’ Max informed Roberts.

‘He’s a tough one,’ Fletch remarked as they headed down the corridor. ‘For a murder suspect, he’s playing it very cool.’

‘He’s a tosser,’ Max grumbled. ‘I’m bloody sure he’s guilty. It’s just a matter of proving it. We need to bring Jill in on it. Perhaps she can rattle him.’

Jill would be reluctant, he knew that. For one thing, she wasn’t sure he was guilty and, for another, he was her neighbour. It put her in a difficult situation. But that wastough. They were dealing with a murder investigation not a sodding tea party.

He left a message for Jill to find him a.s.a.p.

‘Did you hear about the Kelton Bridge break-in?’ Fletch asked.

‘Yes, I did.’ Some lowlife had broken into a recently opened shop in Kelton Bridge and helped themselves to DVD players, MP3 players, iPods and various other easy-to-shift items. Presumably, it was the same lowlife who’d been house-breaking in the village. ‘It seems like someone’s getting greedy, Fletch. Still, that’s not our problem. Our problem is currently sitting in the interview room.’

‘What else can we try on him, guv?’

‘God knows. We just keep on at him. We go over the same ground time and time again until he slips up. He has to be lying, so he’ll slip up eventually.’

Jill pushed open the double doors. ‘You wanted me?’ she asked, and he could see the wariness in her eyes.

‘Yes. We need you to have a go at Roberts.’

‘So you’re still getting nowhere with him?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘And what motive is he supposed to have?’ she asked instead.

They’d been over this at least a dozen times.

‘Who knows?’ Max replied impatiently. ‘Maybe she’d paid him for tarot readings and was planning to expose him as a fraud. Maybe they weren’t strangers. Maybe they had a past. Maybe he bore a grudge. Maybe she was blackmailing him or maybe –’

‘She was an alien from a distant planet,’ Jill suggested drily.

Max scowled at her. ‘When we get him to confess, then we’ll have the motive.’

‘Max, all you have are a few pictures of Carol, and he told you himself that he fancied his chances with her.’

‘We didn’t find a camera at his cottage,’ Max countered.

She sighed at that. ‘So what angle do you want me to take?’

‘Do your usual. Flit from one thing to the next and I’ll see if I get any ideas. Just do your best to rattle him.’

‘Come on, then,’ she said reluctantly.

‘Do you want me as well, guv?’ Fletch asked.

‘No. Keep digging into his past. I want his bank accounts checked and double checked. I want
everything
checked and double checked. OK?’

‘OK.’ Fletch went off, leaving Max and Jill to walk to the interview room.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Jill asked as they neared the door.

‘Just that file?’

‘Yes,’ Max admitted.

As soon as they stepped into the room, Roberts was on his feet, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘Jill, my darling girl.

What a welcome surprise.’

‘I’d hardly call it welcome, Finlay,’ she said quietly, sitting opposite him. ‘This is a very serious matter.’

‘Indeed,’ he agreed, ‘but it’s far nicer for me to have a pretty face opposite.’

‘Thank you. Now, perhaps you’d like to start by telling me about the file that officers found in your cottage. I gather it contained photographs of Carol as well as newspaper articles about her.’

‘That’s right,’ he replied easily. ‘I told you, Jill, I knew her. Not well, admittedly, but it brought it all home to me.

In the same circumstances, if you’d had a couple of evenings out with someone who was later murdered, wouldn’t you be interested?’

‘Interested isn’t the word that springs to mind, no. Who took the photos?’

‘Who? I did, of course.’

‘Oh? What sort of camera do you have?’

‘Ah!’ He laughed at that, and addressed Max. ‘You didn’t find a camera, did you? No, well, you wouldn’t. I bought one of those cheap, disposable efforts, the ones you can take to any high street developer. I’m no photographer.

I just point and shoot. As for digital, forget it.’

‘Who developed the film for you?’ she asked.

‘Asda in Rawtenstall. A good job they made of them, too.’ He addressed Max. ‘I haven’t got the receipt, but I’m sure they keep records.’

Max ignored him. Clever sod.

‘You surprise me,’ Jill said. ‘You maintain your own web-site for your business. Surely you use digital photos on that.’

‘Only ones that people have sent to me. Other than that, I don’t have a clue.’

‘What about past girlfriends?’ Jill asked, changing tack and taking Roberts, and Max for that matter, by surprise.

‘Jealous, darling girl?’

‘Just curious. Have you ever married?’

‘No.’

‘How old were you when you had your first girlfriend?’

she pressed on.

A lot of people accused psychologists of ascribing everything to sex and, now and again, Max was inclined to agree with them. Jill was renowned for it. However, unless he was mistaken, her question had touched on a nerve. The smile was still there, but Roberts had blinked at the question.

Could he be gay? Having an affair with Vince Blakely perhaps? But Blakely wasn’t gay, Max was sure of it.

Perhaps Roberts
wanted
an affair with him. Perhaps he was in love with him and wanted Carol out of the way so that he could chase Blakely. Could he have been having an affair with Ralph Atkins? Did Carol find out and try to blackmail him?

‘I can’t honestly remember,’ Roberts replied. ‘Sixteen, seventeen, I suppose.’

‘You can’t remember?’ Jill scoffed. ‘Oh, come on.

Everyone remembers their first love.’

‘I don’t.’

Max was intrigued. Something about this subject was definitely unnerving Roberts.

‘How about losing your virginity?’ Jill asked. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t remember that.’

‘I remember that,’ he replied, regaining his composure.

‘I was seventeen and we had sex under the pier at Weston-super-Mare. Her name was Maggie Shaw and she was nineteen at the time.’

‘How long did your affair with her last?’

‘We had sex twice. I soon realized she was the biggest slag on the planet.’

‘What did your mother think about that?’

‘My mother?’ The smile slid back into place. ‘I didn’t ask her.’

‘Are you close, you and your mother?’

‘We must be, mustn’t we? I wouldn’t have sent her flowers otherwise. They were expensive, too.’

He was speaking to Jill, but looking at Max, that smug smile in place. Roberts was playing games with them, Max was sure of it.

He was right about one thing; the flowers for his mother, as well as those for his sister, had been expensive. Max had seen the receipts. They hadn’t been extravagantly so, though. Max was forgetful, and lazy, so he often had to make a last-minute call to the florist’s for his mother-in-law’s birthday or some such event. He knew only too well how much a simple bouquet cost.

‘Pleased with them, was she?’ Jill asked.

‘Very.’

‘I suppose she wishes you’d married and had children,’ Jill murmured, sounding casual.

‘I suppose she does.’

‘So tell me again about the first time you saw Carol Blakely. I mean the first time you saw her, not the first time you met her.’

‘I’ve told you time and time again,’ he said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘I walked into the shop and was looking at flowers, wanting something special to be sent to my mother. Carol walked in, except I didn’t know who she was at the time, and because she was a bit of a looker, I tried to get into conversation with her by asking her opinion. She was very knowledgeable about flowers, you know. She hadstyle. She must have talked for a full five minutes on getting the colours right.’

‘And you’d never seen her before then?’

‘Of course not. My darling girl,’ he said patiently, ‘you don’t really think I killed her, do you?’

‘Chief Inspector Trentham thinks you did.’

‘Chief Inspector Trentham is damn certain you did,’ Max put in. ‘What’s more, I’ll prove it. There are two things you should know about me, Roberts. Firstly, I’m not a great lover of the rule book. Neanderthal, my boss calls me. I get my man by any means open to me. Secondly, and more important, I never give up. Never. Until you’re behind bars, I’ll be behind you every step of the way!’

Roberts didn’t even blink. The smile didn’t slip by so much as a millimetre.

It wasn’t an idle threat. Max was sure he’d killed Carol, absolutely, one hundred per cent positive, and, if it took him till his dying breath, he’d damn well prove it.

‘Did you sleep with her?’ Jill asked.

‘No.’

‘Did you want to?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

‘Unlike Chief Inspector Trentham here, I’m no Neanderthal man. I don’t try and coax a woman into my bed on our first – or second – date. I like the thrill of the chase. And naturally, I thought I had plenty of time.’

‘What’s your father like?’

‘A total bastard. What’s yours like?’

‘A total bastard? Why’s that? Don’t you get on with him?’

‘I don’t see him. I haven’t seen him since I was six years old.’ He folded his arms and leaned on the table. ‘He walked out on us, you see. He forgot he had a wife and two kids, and he just walked out. Moved in with another woman.’

‘Was he part of the circus?’

‘No.’

‘Oh?’

‘My mother had left her family to marry him. We lived in a semi in Hounslow. It was when he abandoned us that she returned to her family – and the circus.’

‘You sound bitter.’

‘No.’

‘Why would someone put coins on a dead person’s eyes?’

Roberts didn’t even blink. ‘Who knows? I wouldn’t.’ He smiled in a way that said he was willing to make this easier for her. ‘I’d put a silver coin under their tongue. Given such payment, the ferryman, Charon, will take the person safely across the River Styx.’

‘Fascinating,’ Jill murmured. ‘Why do you sound so bitter about your father?’

‘I didn’t realize I did.’

‘How’s your business going?’

‘Very well, thanks.’

‘How long have you been doing it?’ Jill asked him.

‘Five years now.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I do pay my taxes, you know. You won’t get me on that one.’

‘Only five years? How did you make a living until then?

With the circus?’

‘Me?’ He seemed to find the idea amusing. ‘No, not with the circus. When I left school, I trained as a mechanic.

Dirty, filthy job. I managed a pub for a few months, worked as a waiter, then as a taxi driver. I’ve done a bit of farm work. Jack of all trades,’ he informed her. ‘Then the internet came along and I did a bit of buying and selling.

Antiques, that sort of stuff. I got into the tarot, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

‘How did you get into the tarot?’

‘I read about it.’

‘Who would want Carol Blakely dead?’

‘That’s what I’ve been wondering,’ he replied easily. ‘A nice girl like that. Young, pretty, clever – I can’t understand it.’

Jill did her usual flitting from one topic to the next for the next two hours and Max decided it was high time theyall had a break. They left Roberts awaiting a sandwich and a cup of tea.

‘Fancy nipping over the road for a sandwich?’ Max asked, and Jill nodded.

He was waiting for her to tell him that he’d got Roberts wrong, but she didn’t. She was thoughtful as they walked out of the building and crossed the road to the Coffee Pot.

She sat at one of the tables outside while he went inside for food and coffee.

‘Well?’ Max asked, as he put a tray on the table and sat beside her.

‘I think you might be on to something,’ she said, taking him by surprise.

Roberts had said nothing new to make her think that way. On the contrary, he’d been his usual, confident self.

‘Has anyone spoken to his family – his mother or his sister?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Max admitted. ‘We checked that flowers had been delivered to the right addresses, but – I don’t know. Why?’

‘Behind that smile, his eyes are as cold as ice.’ She blew on her coffee and took a sip. ‘There’s something calculating there. He’s not happy talking about his family, either.

It could be worth having a chat with them.’ She took a bite of her sandwich. ‘You need something, though, Max. All you’ve got is a –’

‘A hunch,’ he finished for her, knowing only too well that evidence was distinctly lacking. ‘A gut feeling.

Instinct. You can call it what you like, but I’d stake my life on his being guilty.’

‘But why would he want her dead?’

‘Beats me.’

She smiled at that, but it was a very brief one.

An elderly woman took up residence at the table next to them, and all conversation ceased.

It was the last day of July, and not a particularly pleasant one. The sky was leaden with cloud and the air washeavy. Max wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t have a thunderstorm before the day was over.

He was idly watching people, as was Jill, when he spotted a young lad striding past. The trainers were as worn and scruffy as ever.

‘Hello, Darren,’ he called out, and the lad stopped, a guilty expression on his face.