Kennedy 03 - Where Petals Fall

by Shirley Wells

  ‘If I were you,’ Max said, ‘I’d keep him on a lead up here. There are a lot of sheep around and, if a farmer catches him chasing them, your dog could be shot.’

  ‘Oh, don’t! He does chase them,’ she admitted. ‘In fact, he chases anything. Yesterday, it was two young hooligans racing down here on cycles. One of them stopped and threw a big stone at Benji. It frightened him, and he came racing back to me. Horrid boy, wasn’t he, Benji?’ she cooed, stroking the dog’s ears. ‘And they were both going too fast,’ she went on.

  ‘Where did this happen?’ Max asked. ‘Up here?’

  She nodded.

  ‘When you say young lads,’ he asked, ‘what sort of age are we talking?’

  ‘At a guess, I’d say they were around thirteen or fourteen. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just curious.’ Carol Blakely hadn’t been murdered by two young teenagers.

  ‘Actually, I think I might have recognized them,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘They could well have been the Barlow boys. Live on the estate,’ she explained tartly, ‘on benefits.’ Her eyes lit suddenly. ‘The police are up at the quarry, aren’t they? I couldn’t do my usual walk because it’s all sealed off. Do you think they did something wrong? They were racing away as if the devil himself was after them.’

  Or hurrying to the nearest phone box.

  ‘Could you tell me everything you remember about the boys?’ Max showed her his ID. ‘Did you see anyone else? Did you spot anything out of the ordinary? Do you think they could have seen something that might have frightened them?’

  ‘Now then,’ she said, her face animated and all trials with her dog forgotten. ‘Let me think. Oh, my name’s Annie, by the way. Annie Burton, number four, The Mews, Kelton Bridge.’

  Max smiled, and nodded encouragingly. Why the hell hadn’t he gone straight home? Perhaps, after all, he would buy another packet of cigarettes. Just the one.

  Chapter Five

  Jill sat at the back of the incident room. There used to be comfortable chairs and tables, but they had disappeared and everyone present had to perch on blue, creaking plastic chairs. Perhaps it aided concentration, or would have if the room weren’t so stuffy. Max had opened a window, but closed it again ten minutes later, presumably because he didn’t feel up to competing with traffic noise.

  There were about thirty officers in the room, and Jill recognized very few of them. Staff came and went more quickly these days.

  The first job for Max had been to update most of them on The Undertaker. Not Jill. She remembered every detail of that particular case.

  On the board were large photographs of the dead girls – Chloe Jennings, Zoe Smith, Anna Freeman, Julie Brookes and, the new addition, Carol Blakely.

  ‘Right,’ Max was saying, ‘we have the same MO here. Carol Blakely was killed from behind. Her trachea was cut so she couldn’t have cried out and her carotid arteries were severed so she would have died quickly. We don’t know where she was killed, but we know her body must have been taken to the quarry shortly afterwards. Her body was then wrapped in a . . .’

  Max hesitated, Jill noticed. Carol’s body had been wrapped in a white sheet. Fact. But did they refer to it as a shroud, a winding sheet, or her burial clothes?

  ‘In a large white sheet,’ Max continued. ‘Her wedding ring had been removed and threaded on a piece of redribbon that was tied around her waist. So we work on three possibilities. First, that Eddie Marshall is still alive. We reckoned that Marshall chose his victims after there had been pieces about them in the local rag. A couple of weeks ago, there was an article about Carol Blakely doing the flowers for some celebrity wedding or other.’

  ‘Whose wedding was that?’ a female officer piped up.

  ‘Someone I’d never heard of,’ Max said with his usual disdain for celebrities. ‘So,’ he went on, ‘if we assume he’s still alive, we delve into his past. I want every family member and friend of his questioned. Not that he was well endowed with either. He might contact his ex-wife, though. Check it out. We also need to check out people he worked with, cellmates and the like. Think of any aliases he might use.’ He looked around him. ‘Jack, Derek and Sarah, I’ll leave that to you.’

  During the discussion that followed, Jill gazed at the victims’ photos. There was something different about Carol Blakely’s, but she couldn’t say what it was exactly. It might just be that it was a more recent picture.

  ‘Second possibility,’ Max said grimly. ‘Eddie Marshall wasn’t our man.’

  Jill scoffed inwardly at that. He was their man, she’d stake her life on it.

  As they discussed that possibility, she thought of Edward Marshall and the way he’d enjoyed killing those women. Each murder had been carried out with a grand theatrical flourish, right down to the coins on their eyes and –

  Oh, for God’s sake! That was it.

  ‘Thirdly,’ Max began.

  ‘We’ve got a copycat!’ Jill declared.

  ‘Yes, quite,’ he agreed, surprised by the interruption.

  ‘No, I mean we really have.’ She got to her feet and walked to the front of the room to stand by the photographs. ‘I assumed she had pennies put on her eyes,’ she scolded Max. That was her fault, she supposed. She’d merely asked him if coins had been put on the victim’seyes. ‘Now look. Spot the difference between the first four and the last photograph.’

  A sea of blank faces stared back at her.

  ‘Edward Marshall was possibly suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder,’ she said, trying to enlighten them. ‘When he discovered his wife was deceiving him by taking the contraceptive pill, he beat her up and landed himself behind bars. From then on, he had a vocation. His victims were chosen carefully and the murders planned to the last detail. He thought he was doing the world a favour.’

  Someone sniggered at that.

  ‘It’s what he believed,’ she said. ‘There are many people who think that the country’s in a mess and that society has lost its sense of right and wrong. Eddie assumed those people would be grateful to him. He hated the idea of women’s lib. Women, he thought, should know their place.’

  ‘Good man,’ a young officer said, and a few titters were heard from the males in the room.

  ‘So Eddie was ridding the world of career women,’ Jill continued when everyone had quietened down. ‘As far as he was concerned, he was doing society a favour. There was no remorse. The bodies were laid out like that, not as a sign of respect, but because that’s how things should be done. Eddie,’ she added, ‘was born a century too late.’

  ‘And your point is?’ Max asked impatiently.

  ‘My point is that Eddie Marshall put old pennies on the victims’ eyes. Carol Blakely had two-pence pieces put on hers. Old pennies were around in the days when morals were high. Women raised their children and knew their place. Two-pence pieces are a product of today’s society where women are supposedly equal. They wouldn’t have been good enough for Marshall.’

  She could tell she was making no sense. Their faces had glazed with a resigned look of more mumbo-jumbo . . .

  ‘One penny or ten, it’s the same MO,’ someone insisted.

  ‘No. Marshall enjoyed arranging their bodies, enjoyed making them look perfect for our cameras,’ she pressed on. ‘Carol Blakely is different. She had to be killed for some reason, but she’s been laid out with dignity. This killer didn’t share Marshall’s sense of enjoyment, his idea of theatre.’

  The expressions staring back at her had changed from blank to sceptical.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, gazing at the photo of Carol Blakely, ‘there’s definitely respect here. Marshall enjoyed his killings. Our man is a more reluctant killer.’

  ‘Maybe he was disturbed,’ someone suggested, ‘and didn’t have time to play to the cameras.’

  ‘Those pennies,’ Jill insisted, ‘would have been obtained in readiness.’

  ‘I don’t believe a copycat could get the MO right,’ Max said. ‘So many details weren’t released –’<
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  ‘It’s a copycat,’ Jill said quietly, but firmly, as she returned to her plastic chair.

  ‘And if it is?’ Max asked briskly, looking around expectantly.

  ‘Check out people Marshall might have talked to,’ Val suggested. ‘Perhaps he bragged about the killings.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Jill said. ‘He was far too controlled for that. It’s possible, but doubtful.’

  ‘Check out people involved in the first murders,’ Fletch put in. ‘Victims’ family and friends – someone might have talked . . .’

  ‘Right,’ Max agreed. ‘Oh, and there might be witnesses.’ He grimaced at the gasp of interest. ‘Someone saw two young lads up at the quarry on the day in question. There’s a woman, name of Annie Burton, who walks her dog up by the quarry every day and she saw two lads. She said they were going downhill hell for leather. It’s possible they might have seen something. Or it’s possible they were responsible for making that phone call. You can go and talk to her, Fletch,’ Max suggested, lips twitching slightly. ‘And you may be some time,’ he warned drily.

  The discussions went on until, finally, everyone dispersed, each with their own job to do.

  Jill hung back and looked more closely at the photographs.

  ‘I’m going to have another chat with the grieving widower,’ Max said when they were alone. ‘Coming along?’

  ‘May as well,’ Jill agreed.

  ‘There’s a lot of money involved here,’ he went on. ‘I thought it was just a florist’s shop in Harrington, but no. She owned, and we’re talking outright ownership, three shops. And that was just a small part of her business. We could be talking several million pounds.’

  Jill whistled at the sum involved. ‘It’s definitely worth having a long chat with her husband then. He gets it, does he?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, but I assume so.’

  ‘Hm. And it’s a copycat, Max. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘You can’t be sure,’ he insisted. ‘Old pennies versus two-pence pieces? You can’t take that seriously. As Kelly said, he might have been disturbed. If Marshall is alive, he’s done a good job of hiding for the last five years. Maybe he no longer has access to old coins.’

  He had a point, Jill knew that, but they were after a copycat. She was certain of it.

  Vince Blakely had his own architect’s practice and, when Max stopped the car on the driveway, Jill guessed he must have designed his own home. It was ultramodern with a grass-topped roof and an upper floor that looked to be wall-to-wall glass.

  ‘Very flash,’ she murmured.

  ‘One of these eco-friendly houses,’ Max said. ‘All solar panels and recycled paper insulation. Apparently, Blakely’s big on sustainable building.’

  The garden was beautiful, far more attractive than the house in Jill’s opinion. The house was too showy whereas the garden looked much loved, a place of tranquillity andthe perfect escape from everyday pressures. They walked to the front door and jangled the bell-pull. Presumably, doorbells used too much power for Mr Blakely’s liking.

  He answered the door, thanked them both for calling, ushered them into a lounge that had one complete wall in glass, and offered them seats on a long, curving leather sofa which, judging by the faint aroma, was almost new.

  When they’d offered condolences, Max asked him about his late wife.

  ‘Had she had problems? Did she mention anything unusual that might have happened? Did she seem worried about anything?’

  Vince Blakely shook his head. ‘No. She was happy. Not a care in the world.’

  Lucky woman, Jill thought, and the reminder that she was dead came as a jolt.

  A stunning display of scented flowers graced a long glass coffee table and it was difficult to remember that the person responsible – and it had to be Carol’s touch – had been brutally murdered.

  As Vince Blakely spoke of his wife’s happiness, he didn’t look like the grieving husband. Was he shocked? He seemed tired, but that was all. He was a good-looking man, and he was aware of it. His clothes, white shirt and black jeans, were not so much worn as displayed. Tall and clean-shaven, with his fair hair cut short, he looked younger than the forty Jill knew him to be.

  He was finding it difficult to sit still. Leather creaked as he stood up and, having walked a small circle, sat down again.

  ‘How was Mrs Blakely’s business doing?’ Max asked.

  ‘Very well,’ he answered immediately and Jill thought she detected a hint of bitterness. ‘It meant everything to her.’

  ‘It can be difficult to balance business and family life,’ Jill put in. ‘How did she manage that?’

  ‘We had no family. I mean, she only had me. When we first married, she wanted to get her business establishedbefore having children. Then she went off the whole idea of kids. She didn’t really have time for people, or for anything outside the business.’

  ‘She had no other family?’ Jill asked.

  ‘She had two sisters.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Their parents died within four years of each other, when the girls were in their twenties. Then, three years ago, there was an accident. Carol’s sisters were going on holiday to Ibiza and the taxi taking them to Manchester Airport collided head-on with a lorry. They were killed outright.’

  ‘How awful,’ Jill murmured. ‘How did Carol cope with that?’

  ‘Badly. She would have been with them, you see, but she had the chance to win a big contract so she pulled out at the last minute.’

  So she would have been racked by guilt. The survivor who had no right to survive. The woman who had put her business first.

  ‘It must have been a difficult time for you both,’ Jill said.

  He was a long time answering.

  ‘Look, I may as well tell you now. Our marriage was as good as over.’ He was on his feet again. ‘It’s hard to admit it now that she’s dead, but I was about to ask her for a divorce.’

  Which made her death very convenient indeed.

  ‘When we married,’ he rushed on, ‘I pictured children playing in the garden, a spaniel lying in front of the fire – you know the sort of thing. But Carol changed. She became ambitious and greedy.’

  ‘I see,’ Max murmured. ‘Was there anyone else involved? Was your wife seeing anyone? Were you?’

  ‘No. There was no one else for either of us,’ he said. ‘It was just that our marriage wasn’t working out.’

  ‘Did she have a wide circle of friends?’ Jill asked.

  ‘Not really. As I said, she didn’t have time for people. I suppose her closest friend would be the old Greek witch she employed at her shop.’ At Jill’s expectant expression, he added, ‘Name of Ruth Asimacopoulos. She started workat the shop just before the accident that killed Carol’s sisters. I can’t stand the cow, but I have to admit she was a great help at the time. Carol went to pieces and Asimacopoulos kept the business going. Oh, and there’s a young assistant there, too. Cass Jones. I phoned Ruth this morning to tell her the news, and I instructed her to keep the shop open and carry on as normal.’

  ‘We’re on our way to the shop to have a chat with them,’ Max said, rising to his feet. ‘By the way, does the name Edward Marshall mean anything to you?’

  Blakely’s expression was blank. ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Max said. ‘Right, thank you for that. Sorry to ask all these questions at such a difficult time, Mr Blakely, but as I’m sure you can appreciate, we need all the information we can get. We’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, if you think of anything, anything at all, call me.’

  ‘I will,’ Blakely promised. ‘And thank you.’

  Jill thought he was relieved to see the back of them.

  ‘Not the most warm-hearted of people,’ she remarked as they got back in Max’s car. ‘Not particularly distraught, either.’

  ‘No.’ Max started the car. ‘It doesn’t sound as if his wife was particularly warm-hearted, either.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be if I was married to him.’ She fast
ened her seatbelt. ‘Let’s go and see how the old Greek witch and her assistant felt about their employer.’

  The Blakelys lived on the edge of the town, but the florist’s shop, Forget-me-nots, was in the city centre. Late at night, it was a ten-minute drive. This morning, it took over half an hour to negotiate Harrington’s fiendish one-way system.

  There was a yard for deliveries at the back of a row of six shops and Max parked there. They walked to the front and saw that, despite what Vince Blakely had told them, the door was locked and a large sign told prospective customers that the shop was closed.

  ‘There’s a light on in the back.’ Max tapped on the glass.

  After a few moments, a woman, presumably the old Greek witch, came out and gestured to the Closed sign. Max pressed his ID against the glass and she very reluctantly opened the door.

  ‘Mrs Asim – Asim . . .’

  ‘Asimacopoulos,’ she helped him out. ‘Don’t worry, hardly anyone can pronounce it. Believe it or not, it’s quite common in Greece. I married a Greek,’ she explained. ‘Call me Ruth, it’ll be easier all round.’

  Ah, so she was English. Jill had thought that the only Greek thing about her was an enviable tan that looked as if it was courtesy of a foreign sun rather than a bottle. She was around the forty mark, Jill guessed, with long, curling dark hair. Tall and slim, she was a very striking woman. Not beautiful, but certainly striking, and there was nothing remotely witch-like about her.

  Some distance behind her was another girl, presumably Cass Jones, her assistant.

  ‘You can leave the Closed sign up,’ Max said. ‘We’re sorry to bother you both, but we need to ask you about your employer, Mrs Blakely.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You’d better come in.’ Ruth closed and locked the door behind them. ‘Sorry, but neither of us feels up to dealing with customers at the moment. Cass, love, the police want a word with us.’

  Cass was in her late teens or early twenties, tall and blonde. She walked towards them, her eyes red and moisture-filled, and a bundle of damp tissues in her hands.