Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall (16 page)
‘Oh, hello, mister.’ He was so surprised to see Max that he just stared at him. ‘Cool,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t know you coppers came to the same places as normal people.’
Jill gave a hoot of laughter at that, saying in a whisper, ‘Ssh, he’s in disguise. He’s pretending to be a normal person for the day.’
‘Enjoying the school holidays?’ Max asked him, and Darren shrugged.
‘There’s nothing to do.’
Max supposed there was little difference for Darren between term-time and holidays as he rarely attended school anyway.
‘Where’s your bike?’
‘Scrapped,’ he said, his eyes alight. ‘I’m having a new one.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, me dad’s had a windfall.’
‘That’s nice then,’ Max said, wondering what sort of windfall Dave Walsh had had. One thing was certain, it wouldn’t be an honest one.
‘Yeah. See you, mister.’ And Darren trotted off.
‘Come on, then,’ Jill said, standing up. ‘You’ll never pass for a normal person so we may as well have another hour or so with Finlay.’
By the following afternoon, Max was, very reluctantly, having to agree with his boss.
Phil Meredith, dressed for the occasion, had expected to be telling the media that Finlay Roberts had been charged with the murder of Carol Blakely. Instead, he was scowling at everything that moved. Other than heavy rain lashing against the office window, Max was the only thing moving so he was getting the brunt of it.
‘You’ve got to let him go,’ Meredith said. ‘Bloody hell, Max, you’ve had –’ He broke off to check his watch and do the calculation. ‘Thirty-two hours! What have you got?
Nothing!’
‘We’ve got the file –’
‘Pah! Probably everyone in Rossendale has the same file.
You know damn well what it’s like. People see murders on the TV news and accept it. As soon as there’s a local murder, everything’s different. People go into shock. The ghouls come out. Suddenly everyone’s interested. Everyone claims to have known the victim and everyone –’
‘Not everyone has taken photos of the victim before they’re killed,’ Max pointed out.
‘You can’t hang a man for that!’
‘True. He went out with Carol twice, though. He bought red ribbon –’
‘And every length sold by that shop has been checked,’ Meredith snapped. ‘The ribbon the shop sells is completely different to that used by the killer.’
Meredith was right, Max knew it. He also knew that Roberts was too clever to buy red ribbon from his victim.
Nothing altered his gut feeling, though. Roberts was guilty and, come hell or high water, Max would prove it.
‘We’re trying to check out his family,’ Max told him, ‘and that’s not easy. His mother and sister, we’ve found.
They’ve just moved on –’
‘Bloody travellers!’
‘Quite, but we’re having trouble tracing his father.’
‘The man he hasn’t seen since he was six years old? Oh, great work, Max. Bloody hell, he’ll have a lot to tell you, won’t he?’
‘Jill thinks he’s worth talking to.’
‘Jill would!’ Max wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he didn’t ask and Phil didn’t elaborate. Instead, he tapped on a folder that was sitting on his desk. ‘How many sightings have there been of Eddie Marshall today, hm?’
‘A few,’ Max admitted, ‘but that means nothing. He’s dead. I’m sure of it.’
‘No, Max. Jill is sure of it. What if she’s wrong, hm? She cocked up on Valentine’s case, perhaps she’s done it again.
You need more officers looking into that. If he’s still alive, we’ll be a bloody laughing stock. Heads will roll, believe me.’
Max believed him.
Meredith nodded at the door. ‘Get out. And let Roberts go!’
‘Right.’
As Max walked back to his own office, he decided that Roberts could stay exactly where he was for the next couple of hours.
He was at the top of the stairs, about to descend, when Grace came racing round the corner. She stopped when she saw him, and gathered her breath.
‘You’re
really
not going to like this, Max.’
He never liked it when she called him Max. It always signalled bad news.
‘Go on.’
‘A woman out walking with her dog has found a body.
By the river in Rawtenstall. PC Woods was the first officer on the scene. Fletch is on his way there now, but it seems likely that Carol Blakely’s killer has struck again.’
‘What? No. No, it can’t be.’ It couldn’t be. Carol Blakely’s killer was in this building under lock and key.
If it
was
the work of Carol’s killer, that body had been there since before eight o’clock yesterday morning.
‘Come on then,’ he said, already striding towards the exit and expecting Grace to follow.
The rain was bouncing off the tarmac and they got soaked running the short distance from the building to Max’s car. Thunder was rumbling in the distance.
The traffic was evil. The entire town planning department should be shot, Max decided, as he weaved in and out of traffic. Of course, the rain didn’t help. People seemed to take great pleasure in driving like morons at the first spot.
They were soon out of Harrington, skirting Burnley and driving down into Rawtenstall. When Max parked the car as close to the river as he could get, the rain was heavier than ever. Any evidence would be washed away in no time. The area had been sealed off and he dodged through the inevitable crowd of onlookers.
Surprisingly, Aiden, the pathologist, or the Grim Reaper as Max preferred to call him, was bending over a body some distance away. Fletch was talking to PC Woods and Max strode over to them. Grace trotted along behind him, trying to avoid the puddles.
‘Well?’ Max demanded of Fletch.
‘I’ve only just got here myself, guv, but it seems a Mrs Talbot was walking her dog along here – she does that twice every day apparently, morning and afternoon – and her dog found the body. It wasn’t particularly well hidden, though.
You can see, it’s half under the hedge. She called 999.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Her husband came and took her home,’ PC Woods explained. ‘She’s in a bit of a state.’
If she walked along here every day, why didn’t the dog find it yesterday? It must have been here yesterday. It must. Perhaps she walked along here
most
days . . .
Max grabbed the young constable’s notebook and read the ridiculously brief notes he’d taken.
‘Did she walk this route yesterday?’ Max asked him.
‘Yes. Every day without fail, she said.’
‘So why isn’t that in your notes?’ Max thrust the book back at him. ‘What else?’
‘It’s a young woman, body wrapped in a shroud, red ribbon round her waist –’
Sod it!
‘Keep the crowd back,’ he snapped, taking his frustration out on Fletch.
People – ghouls, Phil Meredith would call them – had seen the cars and were eager for a closer look.
Max strode along the side of the river. Long, wet grass brushed against his trousers and his legs were soon cold and wet.
‘Aiden,’ he said, ‘how come you’re here?’
The pathologist straightened up. ‘I was almost here, on the doorstep as it were, so I thought I’d come for a look.’
‘And?’ All Max could see was a sodden sheet wrapped around a body. He peered round Aiden. ‘Oh, no!’
Shock had him taking a step back and turning away. He had to steel himself to look again.
Red ribbon had been tied around the waist. A well-worn wedding ring had been threaded through it . . .
‘You OK?’ Aiden asked curiously.
‘Yes, fine.’ But he was far from OK.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ It was a good few years since Max had passed out at the sight of a dead body, and he wasn’t about to do it now. Not even at the sight of this one. ‘Yes, I’m fine. So what can you tell me?’
That evening, Jill ordered a takeaway and, while she ate it, she scribbled notes on a pad. She liked to call them spider diagrams, but really, they were lots of ‘what if?’ scenarios, which might link up. As yet, however, they were making no sense at all.
For instance, what if Finlay Roberts had known Carol Blakely from way back? She didn’t think he had, but it was a possibility. What if blackmail was involved? What if Carol had been about to expose him as a fraud? But that was unlikely. Some believed in the tarot, some didn’t. It was the same with horoscopes. Jill’s mother, for instance, wouldn’t leave the house until she’d read her horoscope and prepared herself for the day ahead.
What if Vince Blakely was involved?
She pushed her notepad aside and reminded herself, yet again, that she wasn’t a detective. It was her job to deliver a profile. That wasn’t easy, though. It never was with a copycat.
What did she know? That, unlike Edward Marshall, this killer didn’t have an audience. This killer was more reluctant and treated the dead with more respect. Ironically, they could have been looking for an undertaker. This killer had wanted Carol Blakely dead. It wasn’t a random act. Unlike Edward Marshall’s victims, this had nothing to do with the fact that she was a childless career woman. No, this killer stood to benefit from her death.
But why, if he’d wanted her dead, did he go to such lengths to make them think it was Edward Marshall’swork? To throw them off the scent? To confuse the issue? He had certainly done that.
Sam wandered inside and jumped up on to the table. Jill picked him up and put him on the floor. ‘Paws off!’
She’d made the mistake of ordering chicken and it was Sam’s favourite. He could smell it from miles away. She realized that he’d come in from outside and was dry. Sure enough, the rain had finally stopped.
With her meal finished, she grabbed her jacket and locked up the cottage. Perhaps some fresh air would clear her mind. Awalk round the village always cheered her. She loved the place and the people, and had never felt so at home as she did in Kelton Bridge. It had taken a while, and people still thought of her as the ‘newcomer’, but they had a warmth and an openness that appealed.
She walked very slowly past the manor. It was ludicrous to even think about buying the place. On the other hand, it probably wouldn’t be up for sale again.
And what about Lilac Cottage? She’d had a lot of work done on the cottage since she’d moved in including a loft extension, new roof, new windows and doors and the ground-floor extension which was supposed to be her study but which was currently being used for storage. She didn’t really want to sell up.
She saw Olive Prendergast, retired postmistress and local gossip, walking ahead of her, but didn’t hurry to catch her up. Olive was the exception to the rule, and the word ‘warmth’ didn’t figure in her vocabulary. Any chat with Olive involved the obligatory character assassination of several Kelton Bridge residents. Jenny had taken over from Olive in the post office, and the village had breathed a relieved sigh. Jill had no secrets, nothing to hide, but it was a delight to use the post office and know that the entire village wouldn’t be told she’d posted a present for her niece’s birthday or collected a form to buy more Premium Bonds.
She walked past the post office and the church to the Weaver’s Retreat. Judging by the cars parked there, Ianwas doing a good trade. She carried on. The air was lighter now and everywhere smelled clean and fresh after the downpour.
She was heading for home, but then decided to call on Louise. It would be refreshing to forget Carol Blakely’s murder for an hour or so. She walked up the path, rang the doorbell and had the shock of her life when Grace answered the door.
‘What on earth are you doing here? Is everything all right? Louise?’
‘You’d better come in,’ Grace said, answering none of her questions.
Heart in her mouth, Jill followed her into Louise’s familiar lounge. Except this evening, nothing was familiar about it. For one thing, Max was standing in the middle of the room. The expression on his face made her stomach clench.
Louise had been sitting on the sofa, head in her hands, but, when she saw Jill, she rushed forward, threw her arms around her and howled. It was the sound a wounded animal might make. A sound that would stay with Jill always.
Jill instinctively held her close as she howled.
A couple of months ago, she’d visited when Louise and Nikki had been in the midst of a blazing row. Nikki’s language had been foul and Louise had yelled at her, ‘Drugs? You don’t know you can control it. You can’t! You’ll end up dead!’ The memory made her want to scream. Surely Louise’s words hadn’t come true . . .
It was a full five minutes before her friend stopped sobbing. In all that time, no one had said or done anything. Max had stood by the window with an awful, unreadable expression on his face. Grace had simply stood and watched Louise, now and again putting a soothing hand on her shoulder and giving it a squeeze.
‘My little girl,’ Louise wailed. ‘They’ve taken my little girl, Jill.’
Jill looked at Max, needing answers to a dozen questions, but all she received was an almost imperceptibleshake of his head. It was enough to tell her that Louise’s little girl was dead.
‘You need Charlie,’ Jill said, tears smarting in her eyes. ‘Let me call him.’
But Louise wouldn’t release her hold. The woman could barely stand and Jill was taking most of her weight.
‘Grace, call Charlie,’ Jill said quietly. ‘His number will be in Louise’s book by the phone.’
Jill still had no idea what had happened. She only knew that they needed Charlie.
Fortunately, his number was easily found and, although Grace didn’t go into details, the fact that a policewoman was asking for him must have motivated him into action because he was there in under fifteen minutes.
There was more howling as Louise told him that her little girl was dead. Charlie held her close, making soothing sounds to try and calm her.
Jill still needed answers.
‘Was there an accident?’ she asked Grace quietly. ‘An overdose?’
‘No.’
Grace, trained to deal with these cases, if one could ever be trained for such a situation, soon had Charlie and Louise sitting down. She spoke quietly and calmly to them.
Jill wanted a word with Max, but what words were there?
‘I have to go,’ he said quietly. ‘Grace will stay. What will you . . .’
She didn’t want him to go. In a sudden moment of panic she thought that, if he went, she wouldn’t be able to deal with it. But, of course, he had to go. Just as she had to deal with it.
‘I’ll stay with Louise for a while. Just until I know she can cope. Although with Charlie here . . .’ The truth was, she didn’t know what to do. Shock was setting in. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. ‘Can I call at your place – later?’
‘Of course. But get a taxi. Don’t drive.’
‘I’ll be OK.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Jill, get a bloody taxi!’ Each word was an angry snap.
‘OK.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and Jill wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, the fact that he’d snapped at her or the fact that Nikki was dead.
It was odd. He was like a stranger to her, and yet there was something familiar about that hard-edged expression. She’d seen it before. It looked for all the world like anger, and perhaps he was angry, but it ran a lot deeper than that.
‘Right, I’ll see you later,’ she said, and she had to turn away before she burst into tears.
Jill and Grace stayed until midnight, until Charlie and Louise made it clear they would rather be alone, until there was nothing more that could be said or done.
‘I’ll call round tomorrow,’ Jill said, giving Louise a hug and fighting back tears. ‘You’ve got my mobile number. Call me, any time, if you need me.’
The world outside was at complete variance with the four walls that had seen such scenes of grief. It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear and thousands of stars were visible.
‘As the boss has done his usual trick of abandoning me, I’d better call a taxi,’ Grace said, taking her phone from her pocket. ‘I don’t suppose you know the number offhand?’
Jill shook her head. ‘Walk back to my place, and I’ll give you a lift home.’
Max could say what he liked, but she had no intention of getting a taxi out to his place. It would involve making polite conversation with a stranger, and she couldn’t face that.
‘No, you’re all right,’ Grace said, tapping in the number for directory inquiries.
‘Really, it’s no trouble. I’m going to Max’s so it’ll be on my way.’
She still didn’t know why she was going to his place. All she knew was that she couldn’t bear to spend the night in an empty house.
‘Oh, OK. Thanks.’
Apart from the sound of Grace’s voice, calm and unmoved as she filled Jill in on the details of Nikki’s fate, Kelton Bridge was silent as they walked back to Jill’s cottage. Lights were on in Finlay Roberts’s cottage, but that wasn’t unusual. He often had lights on until one o’clock in the morning.
As they walked up Jill’s drive, the security light clicked on, bathing them in a welcome orange glow.
It took Jill less than five minutes to put food out for the cats, grab her key to Max’s house, and lock up the cottage.
Dropping Grace off didn’t take her out of her way and it was good to have company as she drove. Listening to Grace grumbling about the weather stopped her going to pieces.
‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow then,’ Grace said, getting out of the car.
‘Yes, I expect so. Goodnight, Grace.’
‘See you.’
Jill drove on to Max’s house through streets that were eerily quiet. Even Harrington town centre was almost empty.
Lights were on at Max’s, but there was no sign of his car on the drive. The front door was unlocked.
‘Oh, Jill,’ Kate greeted her. ‘I’m so sorry, love. How’s Louise?’
Again, Jill found herself biting her lip to stop herself bursting into tears.
‘It’s difficult to tell. Charlie’s with her so she’ll be OK, but, oh, it’s hell. Nikki was everything to her.’
They chatted for an hour and then Kate, who usually stayed the night if Max was out late, decided it was time to head to her own flat.
Jill sat in the lounge with just a table lamp to light the room. At least she wasn’t alone. Holly, the faithful collie, was keeping her company – waiting for Max, more like – and the boys were fast asleep upstairs.
When two o’clock came, she knew she had to lie down. She locked up, left the light on in the lounge and went upstairs to the bedroom she had once shared with Max. It was exactly the same. Nothing had changed.
She knew sleep would be a long time coming, but it was a relief to lie down . . .
Although she didn’t know what had woken her, the room, once in darkness, now had the benefit of light from a street lamp outside. The curtains had been pulled back. And Max was there. He was sitting in the chair by the window, staring out, with a glass in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.
The memories rushed at her – Max’s drinking, their fighting, the nightmares she’d had when Rodney Hill hanged himself. On countless occasions, she’d woken in the middle of the night to see Max staring out into the darkness, a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, and that dark, hateful expression on his face.
Watching him now, she finally fathomed that expression. He
was
angry. Not with her, or with anyone in particular, but with himself. He was one of those old-fashioned types who was born to protect. Now, he felt he’d failed to protect Nikki and Louise. Just as he’d once felt he’d been unable to protect Jill from those nightmares.
‘It’s not your fault, Max.’
The sound of her voice startled him and he swung round to face her.
‘Of course it’s my fault. Who else’s is it, for God’s sake? If I’d done my job properly, Nikki would be fast asleep in her bed.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’ He drained his glass and immediately refilled it.
‘Can I have one?’ she asked.
‘What? Yes. Sorry.’ He walked over to her, handed her the full glass, sat on the bed beside her and took a swig from the bottle.
‘Drinking yourself into oblivion won’t help, Max.’
‘Oh, Christ! Don’t let’s start on that again!’
That’s exactly how it used to start, she realized. She’d make a comment about his drinking, he’d fire off an angry retort and they’d soon be hurling abuse at each other.
He was right; the last thing they needed was to go down that route again. They’d done that too many times in the past.
She grabbed a pillow and used it as a back rest. The whisky was neat, but she couldn’t be bothered to fetch water. Besides, she needed a stiff drink.
‘It really isn’t your fault, Max,’ she said again. ‘You can’t be a one-man vigilante. You can’t weed out people who might, just might, be capable of murder. It’s your job to see that justice is done and –’
‘Justice? God, that’s a laugh. I’ll get the lowlife responsible for this if it’s the last thing I do, but justice? How long will he get? Hm?’
She knew how he felt. Louise would have to spend the rest of her life without her little girl and the perpetrator would spend a few years in prison. Max was right; justice wouldn’t be done. It couldn’t be done.
‘So much for my hunches,’ he muttered. ‘While I’ve been wasting time fixating on Roberts, the real killer has destroyed a family.’
The whisky was burning Jill’s throat, but it was warming. Maybe if she drank enough, the horrors of the night would recede. She doubted it. She knew from experience that she would feel ill long before that happened.
‘Come and lie down,’ she said.
He did, but with great reluctance. Jill lay down beside him, rested her head on his shoulder and felt his anger in every tense muscle . . .
The next thing she knew, Max was leaning over her to kiss her forehead. He’d showered and changed.
‘I have to go,’ he said, adding a grim, ‘I’ve got an autopsy to attend.’
The horrors rushed back at her, and she sat up quickly and held him briefly.
