Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall

by Shirley Wells

  WHERE PETALS FALL

  Book 3 in the Jill Kennedy and DCI Max Trentham series

  Shirley Wells

  Also by Shirley Wells

  Into the Shadows

  A Darker Side

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Constable,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009

  First US edition published by SohoConstable,

  an imprint of Soho Press, 2009

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  www.sohopress.com

  Copyright © Shirley Wells 2009

  The right of Shirley Wells to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition

  that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,

  hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover

  other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication

  Data is available from the British Library

  UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-•••-•

  US ISBN: 978-1-56947-•••-•

  US Library of Congress number: 20070•••••

  Printed and bound in the EU

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  To Kate, Joe and Elle

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter One

  Jake was thoroughly pissed off.

  It was getting on for six o’clock and his ear was still smarting from the weight of his dad’s hand connecting with it that morning. Dave Walsh, a big, fat, loud-mouthed bloke, wasn’t even his dad. A stepdad, Jake decided resentfully, had no right to lift a finger to him.

  ‘Sod him!’ Jake muttered to himself for the tenth time that day.

  His younger brother, Darren, pedalling speedily ahead of him, shouted over his shoulder, ‘Get a move on, Jake. I’m starving!’

  Darren was always starving. Jake was hungry, too, but he was in no mood to sit down to fish and chips opposite Fat Dave. It was always fish and chips on Saturdays. Wednesdays, too. On Mondays they had McDonald’s and on Tuesdays they had KFC. Sometimes, on Sundays, his mam got off her arse to shove a chicken in the oven and chips in the pan.

  Stuff ’em. Jake was happier up here, cycling round the disused quarry. With its sheer rock faces and meandering paths, it was a wild, unpredictable place that suited his mood. He pedalled faster to catch up with his brother, and then Darren stopped so abruptly that he cannoned into his back wheel.

  ‘What you doing?’ Jake snapped.

  ‘What’s that?’ Darren asked, pointing to something white a few yards off the dusty track.

  ‘How the hell should I know? An old coat, a bundle of rags – I don’t know!’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Darren suggested, already pushing off.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You never know, do ya?’

  Darren was gone and Jake, sighing, followed. Whenever they cycled up here, Darren always found some piece of crap. Last week, it had been a cigarette lighter that he’d wasted hours trying to fix.

  Jake’s ear was hurting because he’d gone off with his mates last night when he should have been baby-sitting. Jake, fourteen, didn’t see that his twelve-year-old brother needed baby-sitting, but that’s what he was doing now. Baby-sitting.

  For all that, he loved his brother. Fat Dave he hated, and his mother, the woman who willingly spent twenty-five quid on muck for her face and then let Darren go around with holes in his trainers, Jake could take or leave. Darren he loved. It was Darren who kept him at home. If it weren’t for him, Jake would have gone. He reckoned he could easily pass for sixteen and get himself a labouring job on a building site in Manchester. He’d prefer London, as he wanted to get as far away as possible from Lancashire, but Manchester would do for starters.

  Darren screamed, threw his bike to the ground and ran off. Jake guessed a dead animal was involved. Darren was soppy when it came to animals.

  Ignoring Darren for the moment, although he was aware of his brother being sick, he got off his bike and wheeled it over to the rags. Except it wasn’t rags.

  ‘Oh, no! No!’ he cried, dropping his bike and jumping back.

  He could have thrown up too. Instead, he picked up both bikes and wheeled them to where Darren was bent double.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he said urgently, the gruesome sight still dancing before his eyes and causing the burger he’d had earlier to gag in his throat.

  Darren didn’t need telling twice and they were soonracing down the hill. Even at top speed, the track seemed endless. The rocky path threatened to throw them out of their saddles. A black dog appeared from nowhere and began barking as it chased them. It was gaining on them. If they weren’t careful, the stupid animal would have them and their bikes in a tangled heap.

  ‘Sod off!’ Jake jammed on his brakes and skidded to a halt that sent up a shower of dust and grit. He picked up a large stone and hurled it at the rowdy dog. His shot was on target. The animal yelped and ran off with its tail curled between its back legs. Jake remounted and careered down the hill.

  When they stopped at the gate to leave the quarry area, Darren was sick again.

  ‘We’ll have to tell the coppers,’ he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  ‘We don’t tell them nothing.’

  ‘We’ll have to,’ Darren insisted, still breathless. ‘We don’t have to tell ’em who we are. We’ll use the phone box.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Jake snapped, closing the gate after them. He knew the police; they’d raided the house looking for stuff they said Fat Dave had nicked. They hadn’t found it, but Dave wouldn’t thank anyone who brought coppers sniffing round again, and Jake was sick of having his ear belted.

  ‘I’m going to phone ’em,’ Darren said firmly. ‘We’ve got to. It – it had its neck slashed.’ to. It – it had its neck ‘I’m not blind!’

  They rode past two phone boxes, but Darren stopped at one in Bacup and went inside.

  Jake yanked open the door in time to
hear Darren say, ‘Is that 999? Only we’ve found a dead body – wrapped up in a white sheet, it is. And it’s almost had its head chopped off.’ There was a pause. ‘It don’t matter who I am. It’s up at the quarry. Lee Quarry.’

  Jake snatched the phone from his brother’s hand and slammed it down on the receiver.

  ‘Come on,’ he hissed. ‘Forget we ever saw it!’

  Fat chance. Jake knew they would remember the hideous sight for the rest of their days.

  Chapter Two

  Sunday dawned bright and sunny, promising another hot day ahead, and Jill took her breakfast of coffee and fruit juice into the garden. If she’d had a decent night’s sleep, she might have fancied something to eat. But she hadn’t. And she didn’t.

  Her garden was a mass of colour, thanks mainly to the sprawling pink rhododendrons, but the grass needed cutting. She might do that later. Battling with the lawnmower might lessen her anger and loosen her tense muscles.

  Meanwhile, she sat on the old wooden bench, with her Sunday paper on the table in front of her. She’d finished her juice and had reached the travel supplement when she heard a slightly alarming sound. A car was travelling at speed along the lane. She could hear gravel flying up and hitting the metal.

  It came to a stop outside her cottage.

  Why, she thought irritably, did she suddenly feel nervous? It was only Max coming to apologize for standing her up last night. Not that he was big on apologies.

  A door slammed – viciously.

  So he was angry. So what? She was absolutely furious. Last night, after she’d got herself dressed up for a party, she’d finally discovered, from his mother-in-law of all people, that ‘something had cropped up’. She’d had no choice but to go to the party alone. When she’d returned home, soon after midnight, she’d tried his mobile and his landline again. He still wasn’t answering so she’d let off steam by having a good rant at his answer machine.

  What had she said? Oh, yes. ‘Just phoning to thank you for a delightful evening. Having had three tyres slashed, I raced back from Liverpool for that bloody party and spent the whole evening inventing excuses for your absence. Don’t let it worry you, though. After all, it takes thirty seconds to let someone know that some-thing better’s turned up. God forbid the mighty detective should waste thirty seconds of his life to phone us lesser mortals.’

  Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered how she’d gone on. ‘That’s typical of you,’ she’d yelled at his machine. ‘You drag me into your bed and that’s it. Forget I exist. You’ve always been the same.’ With a heartfelt ‘Bastard!’, she’d cut the connection and taken herself off to bed.

  Now, as Max came into view, she was finding it difficult to turn the pages of her newspaper. He marched, hands safely in the pockets of his trousers, across her lawn.

  ‘Hissy fit over, is it?’ he demanded, towering above her and blotting out the sun. ‘Good God, how old are you?’

  ‘Old enough to have learned some manners,’ she snapped back.

  ‘You might have guessed –’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to guess. You found time to call Kate, you could have called me.’

  ‘I could. You’re right and I’m sorry. Evil Max.’ He slapped his wrist. ‘OK? Forget about it now, can we?’

  ‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Forget about it. Well, no –’

  ‘Whoa! Hang on a minute. This blazing row you’re determined to have, will it be the ten-minute row or the full half-hour row? If it’s the latter, I’ll have to take a rain check. I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Ah. So the mighty detective’s still too busy.’

  ‘If you’re interested –’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  He glared at her for a few moments. ‘I’ll make my own coffee, shall I?’

  He began striding towards the cottage, calling over his shoulder, ‘Your manners are slipping, kiddo.’

  He was almost at her back door when he suddenly stopped, turned around, and began walking back to her.

  Once again, he stood in front of her. ‘Just for the record,’ he said quietly, ‘if my memory serves me correctly, and I’m damn sure it does, you dragged me into your bed.’

  Without waiting for her response, not that she was capable of giving him one, he turned on his heel and headed for the cottage.

  Jill was thankful for that. She put her hands to cheeks that were burning with embarrassment. Technically, he was right. They’d made love, for the first time since she’d walked out on him, in her bed, in her cottage. She pushed the memory aside and stared determinedly at her newspaper.

  How his mother-in-law put up with him, Jill would never know, but she did. Ever since his wife, Linda, had died, Kate had been there for him and the boys . . .

  He was soon crossing her lawn with two mugs of coffee in his hand.

  ‘I’ve made you a fresh one,’ he said. ‘It might improve your temper.’

  ‘Don’t count on it.’

  He sat beside her on the bench and, as ever, she was aware of his slightest movement. Only the sounds of distant traffic, a few nearby birds, and a couple of bees buzzing around one of her foxgloves were a distraction. Then someone along the lane coaxed a lawnmower into life.

  ‘I take it a shag’s out of the question then?’ Max said at last.

  ‘It’s not funny, Max. You should have let me know.’

  ‘You’re right, and I’m sorry.’

  ‘And stop humouring me!’

  Damn it. She could feel the beginnings of a smile trying to break through.

  She lived next door to what was possibly the most gorgeous-looking bloke she had ever laid eyes on. So why didn’t Finlay Roberts get her pulse beating that bit quicker? Max was as tall as Finlay, but he was nowhere near as hand- some. His nose was too crooked, and there was a tiny scar beneath his right eye. Sometimes, his face had a gentleness to it, but more often than not, it was merely arrogant. His hair was greying, too. It was his eyes perhaps that did it for Jill. They were a deep blue and that piercing gaze of his made people believe he knew their every thought . . .

  ‘So how was the party?’ he asked.

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘Told you it would be. And how was your trip to Liverpool? Your mum and dad OK? Prue?’

  ‘They’re all fine, thanks.’

  ‘As I’d have more success getting blood from a stone, is it worth asking how you got your tyres slashed? I take it that happened at your folks’ place?’

  ‘It did. The little sod,’ she fumed. ‘I happened to glance out of the window, and there he was. No older than twelve. I gave chase, but he leapt over a wall. You know what River View is like.’

  ‘A rabbit warren,’ he said, nodding.

  How her parents could live amongst such undesirables, Jill had no idea, but there was no shifting them. ‘We’ve always lived here,’ Mum would say in astonishment if ever Jill broached the subject. ‘Whatever would we want to move for? It’s home.’

  Jill was thankful it was no longer her home.

  Thinking about it, apart from the man sitting next to her, and a hefty bill for three new tyres, all was right in her world. She lived in the Lancashire village of Kelton Bridge, and that had to be one of the most beautiful places on earth, she enjoyed her writing, she was returning to her old job with the police force in a fortnight, her parents and her sister were well and happy – ‘Last night,’ Max broke into her thoughts, ‘I did try to call you, but it all got a bit busy. I was up at Lee Quarry. A body was found up there.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She knew the disused quarry well. South of Bacup, the rugged landscape was an ideal place for walking and sheoften went up there to blow away the cobwebs. The only people one met were dog walkers or cyclists. It was very remote, and she could only remember it being in the news once. That was when a sheep had plunged sixty feet down a sheer drop. Fire crews from Bacup, Rawtenstall, Nelson and Preston had been called out and they’d used an inflatable raft to get the shee
p off a ledge and across the water at the bottom of the quarry. After all their efforts, the sheep had broken two legs and needed to be put down anyway.

  It was a beautiful, peaceful spot. Not the sort of place to find bodies.

  Max took a sip of his coffee. ‘A body wrapped in a white sheet.’

  ‘A sheet?’ She frowned. ‘What sort of sheet?’

  ‘How many sorts are there?’ he asked, exasperation creeping into his voice. ‘Some might call it a winding sheet. Others a shroud. I call it a soddin’ sheet. It was wrapped tightly around the body. Oh, and a length of bright red ribbon had been tied around her waist.’

  Jill’s heart took a brief pause. Déjà vu wasn’t a pleasant experience when it involved bodies wrapped in shrouds with lengths of red ribbon tied around their waists.

  ‘You’ll be telling me next that the victim was a woman who’d had her throat cut and whose wedding ring had been fastened to that piece of red ribbon.’

  Max took another swig of coffee.

  ‘I will,’ he agreed, and Jill stared at him in horror.

  ‘You’re not serious, Max.’

  ‘Oh, I’m deadly serious.’

  Five years ago, Jill had worked alongside Max as they had hunted a killer who had quickly been dubbed The Undertaker. His four victims had been married, childless career women in their late thirties. They had all had their throats cut and then their bodies had been wrapped in shrouds.

  Thanks mainly to Jill’s profile, however, they’d found the man responsible. Hadn’t they?

  ‘Has the body been identified?’ she asked.

  ‘Not officially, but the doctor recognized her. It’s a Carol Blakely. She was thirty-eight, and ran a successful florist’s in Harrington. Correction,’ he said drily, ‘she ran a successful floral design business, although what the difference is, God alone knows.’